Contributor: John Laneri

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Luigi’s is a small, romantic restaurant, featuring candlelight and good food. I live only a few blocks away in North Beach. And tonight, I’m meeting Maria.

While waiting, I order a bottle of wine, and soon, I see her step inside the door. She hurries to me. We embrace warmly, her body pressing mine. It's her way of saying that she's already feeling romantic.

Once seated, we catch up on the previous weeks, glad to be together. I tell her about my work collecting money for the family. She talks about her job at the bank. And soon, she begins to relate happy stories about her nieces and nephews, their schools and activities.

But then for no reason, I see her start fidgeting like a schoolgirl, her fingers rearranging the silverware – put the fork here, move the knife there. So, I begin to think that maybe she's not so interested, maybe she's troubled.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, concerned.

“I’m fine… just a number of confusing thoughts.”

"Like what?"

'Nothing important," she says, as her fingers return to the silverware.

Her words surprise me. She phoned only last night and said she wanted to see me – that she needed more romance. Now, I'm confused.

Nonetheless, Maria is a charming woman. Her hair is dark and her eyes bright. The rest of her is natural – soft face, modest stature, a good all round look.

She’s fourth-generation like me. And like most Italians, our families go back – a few marriages here, lots of cousins there. We didn’t really get to know each other until we discovered sex in the sixth grade.

I pour her some wine. “Drink more vino. It helps to mellow the mood."

She takes another sip and smiles, as her eyes regain their sparkle.

For the next hour, we make light chitchat while we work our way through the antipasto followed by an artichoke appetizer. Once we get to the pasta, she starts to talk about our times together – the weekends in the mountains, our days on the beach even my cousin’s wedding when we drank too much champagne and fell asleep in the bushes behind the church, our bodies curled into one.

Looking away, I watch the candlelight cast flickering shadows across our table. It’s supposed to be romantic, but for some reason, my thoughts keep turning to Maria.

I truly love her, and I don’t ever want to ever lose her. But, I also do not want to be married while my youth is still alive.

When we start on the veal, she says, "Being with you makes me so happy."

"And, I'm happy when I'm with you," I reply honestly. "I always am."

When we finish eating, I pour her more wine. She takes another sip then sighs deeply and slips off a shoe. We continue to bask while we finish the wine, our eyes directed to one another, her foot resting on my leg.

Soon, I see that look on her face – the one that tells me she’s beginning to have romantic thoughts.

“What are you thinking?” I ask quietly, hoping to move her along.

She sips the wine again, then says. "We rarely see each other. It's been weeks. Don’t you want to be with me everyday so we can share our lives together? I would like to start a family.”

“But, I’m too young to be married!" I say much too loudly. "We should wait another year... give our friendship more time to mature!”

Suddenly, her eyes flare, and before I can open my mouth, she gives my leg a shove and reaches for her purse. "We are already in our thirties. I'll be old and gray by the time you're ready for me."

Under the table, I feel her foot searching for the shoe. “It’s getting late," she says, "Will you walk me to the door, so I can catch a taxi?”

“But, tomorrow is a Sunday. We can still go to my apartment like we always do. Have good fun. Then in the morning, we can read the newspaper in bed and eat biscotti with strong coffee. Have more fun. I’ll even make your favorite cappuccino.”

“You have your own life," she says. "I can't take away your freedom unless you truly want me forever.”

Reluctantly, my eyes return to the candle. Deep inside, I know what she says is true. I've known it for years.

"We’ve waited far too long." she continues softly. "The romance has been wonderful, but it's time for us to make a serious commitment to each other or go our separate ways."

Ashamed of myself, I look into her eyes, knowing that I have wasted our years together. Then gently, I tell her of my love, my words spoken with the truth and sincerity that only comes from the heart.

“I have always loved you too,” she whispers quietly.

I extend my hand.

She smiles and accepts it. I kiss her finger tips. And then, we get up from the table and walk to the door, our eyes searching one another, wondering if our love is real or just the romance inspired by another Saturday at Luigi's.


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John's writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: John Laneri

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I arrived in Santa Fe by stagecoach, the trip marked by sweltering heat, constant breakdowns and potholes deep enough to swallow a man whole. All of which prompted me to rest up for a few days before continuing on to Texas where a job offer awaited me in Fort Worth.

Laura came into my life on the second day while I was having dinner at a local cafe. Our mutual attraction had been immediate.

In appearance, she was a pleasant looking woman with reddish-brown hair highlighted by a captivating smile. She was also the reason why I had extended my stay for another few days when I realized that I had never met a woman who enraptured me so completely.

Several days later, while waiting for her near the town square, I saw her hurry in front of a horse drawn wagon then step quickly in my direction. She appeared shaken, her blouse torn and her hair tossed about as if blown by a strong wind.

In her right hand, partially hidden between the folds of her skirt, I noticed a Colt forty-four revolver.

What are you doing with that thing?” I asked, as I stepped in front of her and reached to take it away.

She released the weapon then cautiously looked about saying, “I just shot a man.”

“Who... why?” I asked quickly, my surprise obvious.

“One of the local troublemakers.”

“Where....”

“One street over, in a side alley.”

I started her away. “Was he someone you knew?”

“No...” she replied, as we moved out of sight between two buildings. “He was some bully that's been annoying me for weeks, making suggestive remarks. A few minutes ago, he threatened me with a knife. He wanted to take me.”

She pointed to her torn blouse, tears filling her eyes. “I can still feel his dirty hands groping my body touching everything.”

“Is this his gun?” I asked, turning the thing over in my hand.

She paused to dry the tears then said, “He was too busy pawing my breasts to notice me take it. At first, he backed away, but then suddenly, he came toward me like a mad man and grabbed my hair. That's when I hammered the thing then pulled the trigger and shot him in the chest. You have to understand, I was fighting for my life.”

She turned away. “The smell of liquor on his breath still makes me sick.”

“We need to keep moving,” I indicated, as I nudged her further along.

Once safely in the shadows on another street, we stopped to catch a breath.

She glanced my way, “My heart's still pounding. I've never shot a man.”

“Take a moment to relax. You'll get over it.”

Once calmed, her eyes steadied on mine. “Yesterday, I mentioned that I wanted to ride with you.”

“I remember.”

“Now, I need to ride with you.”

“I told you that I don't travel with women. The trail through Texas is too dangerous. The Comanche are everywhere.”

“So they say.”

“You need to listen up and understand that white women are much desired by the Indians. The plains are teeming with raiding parties looking for trouble.”

She touched my hand, her tone softening. “I can't stay in this town after what's just happened. The man had friends that are just as mean and nasty as him. Take me with you. I'm easy to please.”

I reconsidered the dangers and said. “You'll need a horse.”

“We can easily buy a horse and put together enough provisions to last a few days – something to get us started.”

“Did anyone see you shoot him?”

She paused to think back. “I'm not sure. I remember one of his friends was across the street in front of the saloon.”

“Did he make a move toward you or indicate that he knew something had happened?”

“He looked to be asleep. I think he was too far away to see anything. The alley was out of his direct line of sight and no one was nearby to witness the shooting. And besides, gunshots are common in this town. I hear several everyday.”

I knew the odds of making a long journey through Indian territory with a woman would be difficult, but I had no choice if I was to keep Laura in my life as well as protect her from people that would eventually seek retribution for the loss of their friend.

Finally after several minutes, I relented, “We'll leave tonight when the air is cool and pray for the best.”

She hurried to me and threw her arms about my neck, pressing her body freely against mine. “I'm so grateful,” she whispered, as her lips went to mine, her warmth penetrating my core, melting my concerns.

Once on the trail, our days passed easily. For entertainment, we sang melodies and related stories of people and places we had known. At other times, I taught her how to watch for signs that would indicate the presence of Indians.

Our happiest times were the conversations we shared when we talked of our dreams for the future. At night, we slept under the stars, sharing our love, our bodies curled into one.

To us, the world had became a joy until that day a raiding party attacked and left me for dead, hopelessly pinned beneath a dead horse with an arrow in my back and my confidence broken.

To this day, I still remember laying in the dirt feeling the agony of loss cut through me like a ragged blade, as I watched a band of renegades ride her away, their shouts of jubilation sending chills along my spine.

From that moment on, I knew that I would never again see her or feel her or taste her sweetness, for I understood the way of the Comanche and the fate that was surely hers.


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John's writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: John Laneri

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Friends call me Rick. It's a nickname for Richard Harrison, art dealer, speculator and connoisseur of fine living.

My story began with Vickie, an attractive woman who visited my gallery one morning while I was preparing a exhibit for several local artists. At the time, I noticed her glance my way and maintain a moment of eye contact – a move that suggested we get acquainted.

The lady appeared early thirties and was stylishly dressed. I noted dark hair and a smile that seemed to project a mischievous yet confident attitude.

Intrigued, I suggested a nearby coffee shop. She accepted, and before long, we were splurging calories on two fresh mochas. For the next hour, we mostly talked art, but I did learn that she worked in sales, traveling throughout much of the country.

Over the next few days, we became regulars, so I invited her to my condo in an effort to get better acquainted.

That evening, as I was opening a bottle of wine, she arrived wearing a chic outfit punctuated by a revealing silk top.

We conversed briefly near the bar then she reached for her wine glass and started a casual sweep around my living room. I followed her, pointing to a painting that dominated the wall over my couch.

“You're looking at a Stanley Brown original that I recently acquired at an estate auction.”

“It's impressive,” she replied, “very impressive.”

We studied the painting for several minutes, enjoying its full effect, then I said, “It's by far my most favorite purchase.”

“I can understand why his landscapes are top dollar items. The colors are so vivid, ” she said, as she continued looking about, admiring my other pieces.

After a simple dinner on the balcony, we watched a colorful sunset fade into night then we opened a fresh bottle of wine, our eyes rarely leaving one another.

Soon, she began to quietly communicate her desires. Encouraged, I approached her and ran my hands across the shoulders of her silk blouse. “Your outfit is interesting. I like by the way it reveals your beauty.”

Smiling pleasantly, she pressed her body against mine, letting her warmth linger seductively. Then taking my wine glass, she refreshed it and eased onto the couch, saying, “Wine too has a pleasant way of releasing beauty.”

With that said, I downed the remains in my wine glass, set it aside and headed to the couch. Once there, I reached for her feeling in return an eager, passionate response that lasted only minutes until everything around me slowly began to turn hazy. At first, I tried to ignore the sensation, but then my head began to spin.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

I tried to reply, but suddenly, my world dropped into a confusing matrix, filled with twists and turns, distorted colors, crazy smiles – all infusing my senses at once.

The following day, I awoke on the floor and subsequently ended up in the hospital. I later learned that I had been drugged with a substance that produces marked sedation when mixed with alcohol. It's effect, the doctor indicated, was similar to a so called, date rape drug.

Naturally, I laughed that off wondering -- why me?

Later that afternoon, I had my answer when I returned home and found an empty wall in place of my Stanley Brown original along with several other items of significant value.

The police investigator, a pleasant appearing, self-assured woman, listened quietly while I related my story.

“I'll have the forensic people check for prints,” she said evenly. “But, the lady had plenty of time to clean the scene, so it's unlikely we'll learn much.”

Still confused, I asked, “Why didn't she just steal the painting during the day while I was at work?”

The investigator smiled compassionately, her manner easy and relaxed. “By inviting her to dinner, you allowed her to sidestep your alarm system. Based on the drug she administered, consider the theft a sophisticated variation of date rape. It's common with financially secure men. Expensive watches, cash, credit cards, firearms, you name it. Gone in an instant. I suspect your friend has already moved to another city to find a new target.”

To my thinking, her take on the incident seemed about as reasonable as any.

Nonetheless, something intriguing happened while I was walking her to the door. Maybe it was the softness of her features or the sincerity of her manner that drew me to her, but I immediately liked her.

In no time, we were conversing like old friends.

That night, we had dinner at a quiet restaurant. The following night we attended a showing for a new artist, and before long we were inseparable, our hearts drawn to one another in a passionate, whirlwind romance which incidentally still continues today.

For us, that chance encounter was the ember that ignited our lives, thanks in part to the loss of my Stanley Brown original.

Now, her time is spent running the gallery as well as our home while I continue to work the markets buying and selling other pieces of art.

As to my Stanley Brown, it's yet to resurface even after ten years. If it did, I would let it pass simply because I already have the finest work of art ever created and her name is Suzy – my nickname for Susan Harrison, wife, mother and love of my life.


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John's writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: John Laneri

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It was another lazy summer day when I started toward Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, a place most Texans refer to as the finest establishment in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

As I neared her front gate, I noticed a bicycle parked against a picket fence. Curious, I stopped to check it out.

“Why Sheriff Carson, you look like a young boy admiring a new toy.”

Turning about, I saw Jillie coming my way, her red hair glowing in the sunlight. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I had ever known. I'd probably loved her since the first day we met some twenty years ago.

“I couldn’t resist the opportunity to look at a bicycle.”

She eased beside me and took my arm. “Then, take your time. We can look together.”

“These contraptions are interesting. I've been wanting to see how one works.”

She smiled easily, her voice purring like a kitten. “Is that all you wanted?”

Clearing my throat, I said, “ What I really wanted was some of your lemonade.”

She smiled, her green eyes sparkling playfully. “Some fellow drank all of the lemonade… said he pedaled that thing from Fort Worth.”

“But, that’s over fifty miles along wagon ruts and cow trails.”

“Claims he was thirsty.”

“What’s he doin’ now?”

She chuckled, her green eyes smiling with delight. “He’s splashing in my bathtub with one of the girls.”

I took a deep breath. “That’s mighty unsociable. I’ve spent most of my day thinkin’ about crawling into that tub with a glass of lemonade in one hand and you in the other.”

“We can splash together later,” she replied. “But that fellow represents money in my pocket.”

I had to appreciate her point of view, so I returned my attention to the bicycle and realized that I was admiring a world renowned, Saint Louis Flier.

I pulled it away from the fence. “Did you know this is one of the finest bicycles ever built? I read about it in a magazine.”

Jillie moved closer and ran a hand along the bars. ““This thing looks like a fun way to go places.”

I swung a leg over the seat and bounced up and down, my excitement growing. “Get on top. We’ll see if bicycle riding is worth the pedaling effort.”

She lifted her dress above her knees and settled on the handlebars. And, before long, we were moving toward the road, feeling a breeze blow in our faces.

Once at a comfortable speed, she glanced over her shoulder. “Where’re we going, Honey?”

“I was thinkin’ of peddlin’ in the direction of the river. It’s mostly downhill.”

I rumbled over a series of wagon ruts, feeling the bicycle jostle about. But, once it settled down, I increased my speed.

“Don’t go too fast,” she said, tugging her dress higher. “I don’t want a broken leg for having fun.”

“You needn’t worry. Bicycle riding is easier than I figured.”

Soon, my boots were pumping furiously – moving us from one side of the road to the other. At the bottom of the hill, we started into the woods, bouncing along a narrow footpath that followed the river.

She glanced at me, concerned. “I hope you know how to control this thing. We’re going too fast.”

I brushed her hair from my face and continued on, pushing the bicycle for all it was worth. “Keep your eyes on the trail and, tell me what you see. I know what I’m doing.”

She pointed to the side, her finger moving wildly. “Follow that path to the right. It goes away from the river.”

“I’m trying, but this thing won’t turn.”

“Then you need to stop.”

“Stop…how do I stop?”

Moments later, I was sitting in water up to my neck, spittin’ out a nasty mouthful of river and looking around for my hat. That’s when, I noticed Jillie glaring in my direction.

“One thing for sure,” she said, as she came to her feet and took a step. “You’ve ruined a perfectly good dress.” She took another step and slipped, her head plunging below the water. Struggling, she tried to stand. “And, you certainly don’t know how to entertain a lady. My hair is ruined too.”

Feeling responsible, I went to her, took her in my arms and carried her to shore, feeling my boots slog through the water. “Accidents happen, but we did get our splash together.”

I tried a smile, hoping to calm her mood.

She ignored it and looked away. “For your information, falling into the river is not the same as splashing in my bathtub. Don’t you know anything?”

“Probably not,” I said, as I eased her to the ground in the tall grass and settled nearby unsure of what to say.

For some time, I left her alone and simply reclined in the weeds, feeling the warmth of the sun cover me like a friend. By then, I was laughing to myself and enjoying the moment.

Finally, I turned to her. ”I do know one thing.”

“And what's that?” she asked, her voice on edge.

“I know you, and that’s plenty important.”

She remained quiet for some time. Then, she turned to me. “You always say the sweetest things. That's why I love you so much.”

“When I'm with you, I always speak from the heart.”

She rolled beside me and settled her head against my chest, her eyes going to mine. “Then, snuggle closer and kiss me like you mean it.”


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John's writing focuses on short stories and flash. Other publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: John Laneri

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Before Sharon came into my life, I rarely traveled to New York City. The place was too busy for a small town lawyer from Texas.

I first met her that afternoon at her firm's office where she represented legal council for one of my client’s business interests.

On entering her suite, I glanced about. The setting was impressive as were the impressionist paintings on the walls. From what I saw, I pictured Ms. Sharon Parker as a high priced, no nonsense woman who wore sensible shoes and trampled other lawyers for fun.

My first surprise came when I encountered an attractive woman wearing a fashionable suit accented with a white silk blouse and sexy, high heel pumps.

She rose from behind a large desk and extended a hand to greet me, her bright eyes and dark hair projecting an alluring presence, one reminiscent of a fine wine.

“Thank you for coming. May I call you Greg?”

I indicated yes, as I removed my Stetson and set it in my lap.

She glanced at the hat, seemingly amused, then she reached for a portfolio of papers. “I’ve studied your client’s proposal. It’s interesting, but there are several points that need further clarification.”

Her approach seemed a bit formal for what I was proposing, so I said, “My client’s intentions are sincere. He’s an honest small town boy trying to make the deal work for both parties.”

“I’m sure he is, but lets dig a bit deeper, shall we?”

We continued to discuss our differences for several minutes. Then, she asked, “Do you come to New York often? ”

“Only for business.”

She seemed surprised. “It’s a wonderful city. You really should take a closer look.”

“Perhaps later,” I replied, feeling a bit annoyed by her motherly tone. ”But now, I think we should amend paragraph five of section three.”

She sighed and glanced in my direction. “Is that really what you want?”

By then, I was beginning to wonder what made the woman tick. I was merely requesting simple clarification of a minor point. It was something that could have easily been handled on the phone, but she had insisted that we meet face to face, so I ended up half way across the country, sitting in her office arguing trivia.

A phone call interrupted us. She answered it then turned away, her manner conveying disgust. After a lengthy conversation, during which she walked to the far side of the room, her hands gesturing heatedly, she returned to me, her face flushed.

“Is everything okay? I asked.

Ignoring me, she paused to gather herself. Then forcing a smile, she again reached for her papers saying, “I understand you're from Texas.”

“Yes ma'am, I practice out of a small town west of San Antonio.”

“Do you have a ranch like most people from Texas?”

Surprised by her comment, I chuckled to myself and replied, “I manage to graze about five hundred head of beef cattle. I also do some farming to keep the acreage in use.”

She looked at me quizzically. “I can't imagine living away from the romance of a big city. We have everything one ever needs.”

“I manage to get by. It's not so hard once you get use to the clear skies and clean air.”

“But, don't you miss the city lights, the hustle and bustle?” she asked, her voice skeptical.

“No ma'am. I like the quiet. It gives me time to enjoy the sunsets while I sip my wine and kick off my boots after a hard day's work.”

She smiled, as if she had won a point. “I thought cowboys only drank beer.”

“When we're hot and sweaty, a cold beer is mighty fine. But in the evenings, I prefer the wines from my vineyards.”

Surprised, she asked, “Cowboys make their own wine too?”

“Yes ma'am, I have about a fifty acres for vines and a winery for my fermentation vats and bottling plant.”

“I'm impressed,” she smiled, as she seemed to relax. “Very impressed. You're a busy man.”

In an attempt to redirect her thoughts, I asked, “Have you made a decision as to my client’s position regarding paragraph five? It would definitely allow both parties to profit handsomely.”

We continued to discuss our differences for awhile longer, but she remained distracted and hesitant to concede any points, saying only that she would gladly pass my suggestions on to her client, so I suggested that we take a another approach.

“Another approach?” she asked, her eyes questioning to mine.

“Yes Ma’am... our differences are minimal. So, let's finish discussing them while we have dinner and share a bottle of wine. Later, if you like, you can show me around the city. Maybe, we'll even catch a sunset.”

She studied me for a few moments then smiling pleasantly, she set her papers aside. “I favor the wines from France. But, I doubt we'll see a colorful sunset.”

“Whatever you like. But I have to admit, the Texas wines are worth a look. Life is best appreciated when the spirit inside is unlocked and allowed to roam free.”

She pushed away from her desk, her features beginning to brighten. “Then, let's do a Texas wine. I'm ready to roam free for a change.”

And, that’s how it went. We had our night on the town. We failed to see a sunset worth mentioning. And best of all, we discovered each other.

Truth be told, after we moved to the ranch, she began to enjoy life again, as the wines and the sunsets set her free, then drew us together, captured our spirits and allowed us to become one.


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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
Laura and I are in bed, listening to the sounds of classical music. We’ve made love once this morning, the intensity almost magical.

Ordinarily on a Wednesday, I would be at the country club working through a bucket of balls, enjoying the out of doors while I prepare for my afternoon round of golf.

After meeting Laura, I stopped playing golf.

It was a difficult decision at first, probably one of the hardest choices I've ever made. But, I soon realized that being with her brought the joy of intimacy back into my life.

She rolls close to me, her leg touching mine. “I love the way you indulge me.”

“Only because you're so amazing,” I reply smiling. “That's one of the reasons I love you.”

She laughs softly and settles her head into the pillow, her eyes turning to mine.” Did your wife like to be indulged?”

“Overly-indulged,” I reply quietly. “She spent everything... most of it on shopping. That's one of the reasons we divorced.”

Laura snuggles closer, her lips touching mine. “After we're married, you can indulge me by making love every minute of every day.”

“That would be a pleasure,” I reply, as I peck her lips with a simple kiss, wondering why she mentioned marriage.

Nonetheless, Laura is a wonderful person. She's only a few years younger than me. She’s petite, pleasantly attractive and very devoted to her children, who by the way, live charmed adult lives – thanks to her generosity.

She moves closer, and soon we come together with that same eagerness that began a few days after we met at a church social. At the time, she was busy ending a thirty year marriage to Charles, a wealthy but physically abusive man who drank heavily.

Since her divorce, we've lived together in her home, a large, comfortable house in the suburbs. She sees me as a loving, successful businessman with my own insurance agency. In turn, I satisfy her need for intimacy while enjoying both her sexual pleasures and a respectable part of her huge spousal support payment.

Rolling away, thoroughly spent, I leave her sprawled across the bed, basking in another mid-life afterglow, while I pad to the bathroom, wondering if I actually love the woman.

“Don’t take long,” she calls from the bedroom. “I want you again before I leave for the mall.”

Forcing myself not to hear the word, 'mall', I down another Viagra then run a comb through my hair, thankful for the wonders of modern medicine.

On returning to bed, I notice her eyes closed, so I quietly slip beside her and let my thoughts drift.

As always, they return to my prior love – the game of golf.

Deep in my heart, I continue to remember the friendships and the laughter, as well as the challenging pars and birdies – things that also brought joy and fulfillment to my life. For some reason, the sport continues to call me back, begging me to return to the pleasures I once knew.

Laura rolls against me, interrupting my thoughts. “I can’t wait to tell the children we're getting married. They’ll be so happy.”

Turning to her, I say, “Remember... if we get married, you lose your spousal support.”

“No, sweetheart,” she says softly, as she laps a leg over mine. “I'm saying, the children will be happy I have you.”

Turning to her, I ask, “What do you mean?”

“It's a tedious story,” she says, as she looks away, her eyes growing misty, “But Charles lost everything in the real estate market. He has nothing, and I mean, nothing.”

Suddenly, my heart skips several irregular beats. “Can he recover?”

“It's doubtful. He's under investigation for fraud. People close to him say, he's going to prison, maybe for the rest of his life.” She wipes a tear away then snuggles closer. “It was a shock at first when the monthly support stopped.”

“But, without the payments, you'll have to curtail your shopping habits and quit supporting your children, maybe even sell the house.”

“I'm not concerned about the money,” she continues comfortably. “I have you. Now, we can be married. I'd love to plan another large wedding.”

“A large wedding!” I almost shout, as I push her leg away, my thoughts swirling with contradictions.

Sure, the sex is great, but golf is great too. And, best of all, it's uncomplicated.

She looks at me, her features expressing concern. “Is something wrong, dear? Your face is so flushed. Are you having a heart attack?”

Ignoring her, I calmly call the club to schedule an tee time, then head for the door, relieved to finally accept the fact that golf, even with its frustrations and challenges, is... and always will be, my only true love


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: John Laneri

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Last night, my wife and I competed in a dance contest at the Grey Horse Pavilion. The event was one of those happy affairs in which we danced our hearts out before a panel of judges. The grand prize – now listen to this – was a whopping expense paid weekend to San Antonio along the River Walk.

Jane was eager, her manner alive with energy as the sound of music greeted our arrival. We hurried inside, knowing that Jake the fiddle man was already performing his magic – the strings of his violin vibrating the best foot stomping music in all of West Texas.

Once registered, we slid onto the dance floor and turned a couple of circles before settling into a slow waltz to draw us into harmony.

“Your cologne smells great,” I said, as I pulled her close and nuzzled her neck.

She chuckled softly, her face blushing a shade. “I wore it especially for you.”

“That's why I love you so much,” I said, as we executed a perfect quick step.

As we slid past the bandstand, I shouted, “Hey Jake, give us something lively. This little lady’s in the mood for some real foot stompin’ music.”

He replied with a nod and directed his band to step up the tempo.

From there, we started into a spirited routine, a two-step that took us around the dance floor – our feet moving as if they were tuned to the strings of his fiddle.

“You’ve always been a lively dancing man,” she said happily, her steps moving in rhythm with mine.

“Dancing just comes natural. I can almost feel the music fly from my feet.”

We started a spin and followed it with a skip step. The crowd applauded. Then we were into our favorite, a routine that featured a series of sensual bumps meant to show the love we have for each other.

Another applause. By then, the crowd was going wild.

Following a twirl with an emphasis on form, I felt her miss a step then smoothly right herself with a double to maintain the rhythm then we continued without a hitch, executing a series of perfect jump steps, as our bodies again became one.

“Your feet may be musical,” she whispered, as her eyes swept the dance floor. “But, they feel like lead weights when they land on my toes. Be careful, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Most women consider me the best dancing man in the county. So please consider my boots innocent of any mischief.” I gave her a another smile and started spin – a lively one that sent her skirt flowing to the side.

We circled the floor, but as we came out of a second spin she stumbled again, her eyes turning to mine in surprise.

“My feet are beginning to wonder about your boots – that really hurt. Are you trying to make me look bad?”

“Tell your feet to pay attention. My boots are wired to the music. And, they’re still planning to dance us straight to San Antonio.”

She followed me into a final series of crossovers then we finished with a twirl and a bow to the judges, our routine complete.

Afterward, we remained on the dance floor mingling with the other contestants while we discussed our mistakes. Once the judges made their decision, we were selected for the next stage of the competition.

Soon, I saw Jake reach for his fiddle. “Are you ready? We can win this thing if we give it our best shot.”

“I’ll try,” she said, as she held on to my arm took a cautious step.

We labored through another dance. By then, she could barely walk, and I knew we were finished.

The next day, I kept my distance because she was wearing a cast and hobbling on crutches, claiming of all things that I was to blame.

I tried to lift her spirits by saying something sweet. That's when she indicated I could go straight to hell.

When she settles down and her foot heals, I'm confident that we'll make it to San Antonio – that is, if she doesn’t break another bone, trying to keep up with the musical feet of the best dancing man in all of West Texas.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

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At this particular moment, I’m standing in the kitchen near the stove over a large pot of water, feeling my emotions reach the boiling point.

“That’s ridiculous,” I say to her a bit too passionately.

“What’s wrong with moving home and living with my mother,” she says, as her
eyes flare with anger. “She doesn’t yell at me when the pasta pot boils over.”

Maria’s a strong willed woman. It’s in her blood. She’s of Italian-American descent like me. And yes, we’re having an argument.

In truth, Maria’s a good person – short, bouncy and usually fun, except when we’re in the kitchen together. That’s when she turns into a different animal.

Me… I’m Mario, Maria’s husband – the most frustrated person in the world.

Today, I’m trying to teach her to cook. I’ve been at it for months, and she still doesn’t have a clue – not even close.

At first, after we were married, I thought she would learn to prepare a few simple things like pasta with a marinara sauce spiced with basil and a pinch of oregano for Sicilian flavor. I soon learned she had other ideas, so I continue to do all of the cooking.

Even now, when I work with her in our apartment, I watch her fumble around in the kitchen banging pots, trying to act interested. She still doesn't know how to make a cheese sandwich much less dip a scoop of ice cream from a container.

Maria doesn’t cook. She likes salads. And, she hates pasta, saying that it makes her hips too fat. I won’t even mention the one time we talked about doing a pizza in the oven.

“What’s so hard about cooking?” I say to her. “All Italian women know how to cook. Most of them keep something on the stove simmering just to make the house smell good. If it wasn’t for my mother – God Bless her heart – I’d be begging for good food.”

Maria merely shrugs and looks away. “Then move home with your mother.”

“She’ll drive me crazy,” I say in frustration.

In the past, I’ve tried telling Maria that pasta is good for the soul – that it strengthens the spirit for love. When I say these things, she only laughs, telling me there’s nothing wrong with her lovemaking – that she has plenty of spirit.

I think she misses the point.

Finally, I step beside her, feeling remorse for yelling then softly caress her shoulder, my lips making playful circles at the top of her blouse.

“When the pasta pot starts to boil over,” I say gently. “You need to remove some of the water. If it spills into your sauce, you have to start again.”

She turns to me and asks, “How do I know when the water is ready to boil over?”

“When the water begins to foam near the top of the pot, it’s ready to boil over. It’s just something you know deep inside. It's like knowing when your love juices are bubbling and ready to explode.”

She turns to me, and soon, a smile forms on her lips as a sparkle of light spreads across her face.

“I’m beginning to feel a few bubbles now,” she says.

“Then, keep stirring the water.”

“No, not those… I mean the playful bubbles.” She glances at me and giggles softly. “Do you mind kissing my other shoulder? It needs your attention too. I’m beginning to like cooking pasta.”

Our eyes meet. Then like magic, that special something again passes between us, and we return our attention to the water, confident in knowing that pasta truly is the food of love.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Dominique Episode - 4


Years ago, whenever I traveled to Italy on business, I generally found that coffee bars ranked high on my list of afternoon pleasures. It was an easy way to sit back, relax and watch the locals hurry past.

Thinking back, that's probably why I failed to notice her sitting at another table until the moment our eyes met.

Hers were brown with a hint of gold sparkling in the sunlight. Certain that I'd seen the eyes before, I looked again, my curiosity getting the best of me.

When she noticed me watching, she smiled pleasantly then looked away and reach for her coffee.

Intrigued, I continued to watch her, noting that like many women in Florence, she was dressed to perfection, wearing stylish heels and a fashionable outfit highlighted by a simple gold necklace.

Moments later, I caught her looking my way before quickly glancing to the side just as a hint of red colored her neck.

Certain that she had been watching me, I continued to wait, wondering if I'd get that second look. When she failed to confirm her interest, my thoughts drifted to an earlier relationship with a Parisian named Dominique, a love whose memory had haunted me for years.

When we initially met, our attraction had been immediate and so intense that we soon reached a level of passion that I thought impossible for two people to achieve. Much to my sorrow though, our relationship ended when she abruptly became engaged to another man for reasons I failed to understand.

Returning from my thoughts, I realized that the woman had moved away from her table. Searching around, wondering if I had missed her departure, I felt someone touch my shoulder.

“I hope you were looking for me.”

Turning about, I recognized the eyes, waiting for me to say something.

“I thought you had left,” I replied cautiously.

“May I join you?”

I indicated yes and watched her slide smoothly onto the chair beside me.

“You don't know who I am, do you?” she asked with a pleasant smile.

I had to look closely before suddenly saying, “Dominique!”

“The one and only.”

“You look different. Your hair is longer. Even the color is dark. I can't believe I didn't recognize you.”

“I've always wanted to be an Italian with shoulder length hair,” she said, as her fingers moved to brush the tips.

“I was just thinking of you, and I must say, you're more beautiful than I remembered, but why didn't you say something earlier? I was wondering how to approach you.”

“Do you still approach every woman you see?”

Laughing, I replied, “Actually no, but you did look familiar. I'm bashful when it comes to approaching women.”

“I know you better than that,” she remarked with a sly grin.

Changing the subject, I asked, “Why Italy? I thought you were planning to get married.”

“I did get married to Jacques but only for the sake of the family and at the insistence of my uncle. We lived together for a month before getting an annulment. We were both manipulated into a family business arrangement. It was horrid. Afterward, I moved to Italy, changed my looks and decided to make a new life for myself here in Florence.”

“I take it you succeeded.”

She smiled. “I have new friends, a steady job and a nice apartment.”

“But, you had a great life in Paris. The world was yours to take.”

She studied me for a moment. “You only saw the surface. As far as my uncle was concerned, I was merely a step-child repeatedly forced to do things that I knew were wrong. I should have left sooner.”

“I see that you are still wearing that gold necklace I gave you.”

She touched it, saying, “I'm never without it. I've thought of you so many times over the past five years. But, I was afraid to contact you. I didn't want to be hurt again.”

Later, we spent the evening together at a quiet restaurant where we continued to talk until the place closed.

Afterward, we strolled about the city savoring the flavor of history, but once our attraction began to experience its own reawakening, we retreated to her apartment where our desires ignited more explosively than either of us had remembered. It was as if we had rediscovered happiness and could not get enough to satisfy the joy we shared together.

For the next two weeks, we were seldom apart.

Three months later, after a back and forth romance between Europe and the States, we were married in Sienna where we remained for our honeymoon exploring the countryside and each other. Afterward, we returned to the states to begin a life together.

Now... some forty years later, I find myself on vacation, sitting at that same sidewalk cafe in Florence, recalling those earlier events and again admiring the woman beside me, who incidentally appears to be studying me with those same brown eyes while quietly trying to measure my thoughts.

She asks, “What were you just thinking?”

“I was thinking about how we met.”

“Like what specifically?”

“I was remembering the thrill I experienced when given another chance to reunite with the woman I fell in love with the moment we met.”

“I hope you were not disappointed.”

“By now, you already know the answer to that question.”

For a moment, I see that sparkle of gold reignite and light her features. It's one of the many ways she reminds me that our life together is filled with a sweetness that truly extends beyond words.


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Dominique Episode - 3


Whenever I travel overseas on business, I try to avoid Paris. While I thoroughly enjoy the city, being there always reminds me of Dominique.

We met initially at a party in New York and quickly began an intense relationship, or better said, a series of relationships that always ended just as our hearts were beginning to unite.

Several weeks ago, I had to be in Paris on business, so I stayed at the Ritz. At the time, I wondered if I'd ever see her again. It's not often that two people fall in love and feel as if they had known each other since the beginning of time.

Shortly after arrival that first day, while waiting for a taxi at the hotel, someone hurrying along the sidewalk accidentally bumped me. “Excusez-moi, m'sieur.”

Turning about and much to my surprise, I again came face to face with Dominique.

“Why Dominique.. Is that really you?”

“Mon Dieu, Eric... I never expected to see you again!” she said, as she embraced me warmly.

We must have remained together for several minutes, feeling old memories once again begin to surface.

Stepping back to look her over, I noticed that she was wearing the simple gold necklace I had given her the last time we were together; otherwise, she looked just as beautiful as I remembered.

“I like your necklace.”

“I'm never without it,” she replied softly.

“Do you have time for coffee?”

Taking my hand, she replied, “I would love to, but I was due at an important conference an hour ago. Can we meet later... perhaps at your hotel bar at ten o'clock?”

We again briefly embraced, and then she hurried away, leaving me with that same sense of pleasure I always experienced when we were together.

Later, after dinner, I headed to the bar where I ordered wine and waited until well past midnight. Finally, I signed my tab and went to bed unsure of why the she had failed to keep our rendezvous.

Around two am though, I heard a knock on the door.

It was Dominique.

“Can I come in?” she asked softly.

“Of course you can.”

She came to me and pressed her body warmly against mine. “I've missed you so very much. I still think of you every day.”

“And, I've missed you too. But, why so late? I thought you'd forgotten me.”

“Another business meeting,” she replied, as she kicked off her shoes and padded toward the bed where our passions ignited just as ravenously as in the past.

The following morning, we awoke in each other's arms thoroughly exhausted.

She whispered softly. “I've never been so aroused.”

“You continue to have a remarkable way of bringing out the best in me.”

Later, we showered together then ordered breakfast, and eventually, headed in separate directions. My agenda called for a sales meeting with a client. Her day focused on visiting several properties owned by her uncle.

That evening, we met for dinner.

“You selected an interesting place,” I said, looking about. “The oil paintings on the walls look old school.”

“They're part of my Uncle's collection. I try to come here often just to enjoy the beauty and quiet ambiance.” She smiled pleasantly. “It's also a perfect place for two lovers.”

While our dinner was a culinary masterpiece of French cuisine, it was overshadowed only by our attraction to one another.

Eventually, she touched my hand, letting her fingers intertwine mine. “Can we discuss something important?”

I indicated yes and ordered another bottle of wine then settled back, wondering what seemed to be so pressing. By then, I was again in love and mellow enough not to ask questions. When she had finished, I learned, much to my surprise, that she had recently become engaged to a business acquaintance, a man she had known for several months.

Surprised, I said, “I thought we had something special together, but I guess I was mistaken.”

She again touched my hand. “We do have something very special together. And, you have every right to be upset, but you do need to know that I love you with all my heart. I always will. Jacques is someone my uncle incests that I marry. I don't love him, but he's rich and well connected. You did, after all, turn me away the last time we were together.”

“You've made your point,” I replied, as I motioned to a waiter. “It's obvious that I need to bow out of your life. It's been fun while it lasted.”

“But, we have something together that few people ever experience. I don't want to lose you.”

“I can't be your silent lover – the person hidden away in another part of your life.”

“I don't want you to be merely my lover. I want more of you. Please say you want me forever.”

When the waiter came, I paid the check and indicated to Dominique that we needed to leave. Reluctantly, she followed. Once at the curb, I hailed a taxi. By then, my thoughts were spinning in multiple directions.

She took my arm, her green eyes directed to mine. “Don't you want me tonight? It's still early. I need to know that our hearts are still one.”

“Not tonight,” I replied as I waved at another taxi. “We'd be cheating Jacques.”

“Don't leave me like this,” she said pleading. “I only love you. Pleases don't be that way. We need to talk.”

Within seconds, I had bundled her into a taxi, handed the driver several Euro and turned away.

The following day, I returned to the States, unable to come to terms with with the flood of emotions drowning my senses. At the time, I hoped that Dominique would eventually become a distant memory, but knowing myself, I feared that she would always remain in my heart and torment me forever.


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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- -
Dominique Episode - 2


Moments after walking into the Ritz, I spotted Dominique seated at a table with a group of people, all of whom seemed to be enjoying themselves.

From what I could see, she appeared just as beautiful as I remembered. Only this time rather than a diamond about her neck, I noticed a emerald necklace in its place. As best I could tell, it appeared to be an exquisite piece, featuring a series of stones that blended perfectly with her Parisian flair.

At the time, I was in Paris on business, staying at the same hotel where she and I had once indulged in an explosive twenty-four hour weekend.

Back then, I actually thought that I had met someone special until I later learned that she had exploited our relationship and used me to unknowingly transport a cache of diamonds through customs at New York Kennedy.

Fortunately, I survived the ordeal with only a battered ego.

Finally, after waiting a few minutes, I noticed her move away from the table.

Approaching her, I said, “Dominique.”

She turned about, her features registering a brief moment of recognition before saying, “Oui Monsieur?”

Certain she recognized me, I continued, “It's been a long time.”

“And, you are?” she asked.

“You know who I am.”

“Perhaps, you're mistaking me for another person.”

Determined, I pressed on. “I've wondered if we'd ever meet again.”

She started to take a step away then stopped and turned to me. “It would be best to forget we ever happened.”

“True... but we did happen.”

She took another step then again stopped, her green eyes directed to mine. “I shouldn't have used you like I did.”

“No... you shouldn't have.”

Moments later, she hurried to me and threw her arms about my neck. “I've missed you so very much. Please forgive me,” she said, as her lips eagerly sought mine.

Before long, we were seated in a quiet place, unsure as to why our attraction remained so intense. Once the wine arrived, we spent the next hour talking about anything and everything.

Eventually, I asked, “Do you still work for your uncle?”

“I continue to oversee many of his business interests. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

She reached for her wine and took a small sip. “Please believe me when I say, he forced me to use you as a favor to him. After all, I am a member of his family.”

“Do you still smuggle precious stones for him?”

Surprised by my directness, she replied, “Never... You were the one and only time. He was in a bind, and he threatened me.”

“You do understand that I could have been imprisoned.”

She touched my hand, letting her fingers intertwine mine. “He manipulated me too... he always does. It's his way. What I did was awful, but saying I'm sorry is not enough. How can I make it up to you?”

“By answering an honest question about us.”

She again reached for her wine, letting the glass linger near her lips. “I take it that you want to know why we have such an intense attraction to one another.”

“That would be a good start. We seem to experience something very special whenever we're together.”

“To me, our feelings are real and the intensity almost frightening. Perhaps, we should move slowly.”

She did have a point, so I reached for a menu and changed the subject.

After dinner, we explored the streets of Paris, stopping at various places where we immersed ourselves in fine wines and colorful people. At one point, I even bought her a simple gold necklace at a small shop.

Later that night, we came together like never before. The experience, I have to say, was pure, uninhabited ecstasy. It was as if our spirits had once again reunited into one.

The following morning at breakfast, she settled across from me and reached for a croissant. “You're still quite a man.”

Smiling, I said, “And, you continue to bring out the best in me.”

She laughed pleasantly. “I've been thinking.”

“About what?”

“About us,” she replied, as she leaned closer and kissed my lips. “I don't ever want to be apart again. When your work here is finished, I want to go to New York with you.”

“I'd like that.”

She kissed me again and said, “Just being with you makes me so happy.”

For the remainder of the week, we were seldom apart, our passions constantly igniting at the slightest provocation. It was as if we could not get enough of one another to satisfy the lust we shared together.

On returning to the States, we hurried off the plane, eager to begin our life together. Once we reached baggage though, I soon discovered that my suitcase had disappeared somewhere in transit.

At first, Dominique seemed annoyed. I accepted her response as a normal reaction to travel fatigue. A week later, she grew more agitated, her manner leading me to wonder if she had again used me to carry something of value through customs. I confronted her. She tried to deflect the issue by using the word, 'love' for distraction. We argued, and that was it.

My luggage did eventually arrive after traveling to places unknown and eventually spending several months at a storage warehouse in Brooklyn. By then, Dominique had already returned to Paris.

In the end though, when I unpacked the suitcase, expecting to find several packets of high quality stones, I discovered that everything was exactly as it had been when I departed Paris.

To this day, I still miss the intense attraction we shared together. And, I truly regret letting my suspicions control my emotions, but knowing Dominique, I suspect that she simply moved on and resumed living life in her own spirited way.


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Dominique Episode - 1


I initially met Dominique at a party hosted by a business acquaintance. At the time, she was standing across the room conversing with a group of women, the sparkle in her eyes as brilliant as the diamond adorning her neck.

She was wearing designer pants, colorful heels and a stylish silk top, all of which made for a classy presentation. Once she looked my way, I tossed her one of my better smiles and watched her politely ignore it, so I waited.

Moments later, as I had hoped, she glanced back in my direction and acknowledged my presence with a slight tilt of her head, an indication to me that the door between us was beginning to inch open.

Soon, she again looked my way and smiled. And before I knew it, we were looking into each others eyes, our attraction immediate. For most of the next hour, we talked non-stop, pausing only long enough to wonder where we were going next.

Eventually, she said, “As much as I'd like to stay, I really need to leave. I'm due to meet friends at another party. Would you like to walk me to the door?”

Before parting, I suggested dinner. She smiled and asked, “Do you like Paris?”

“I've never been there, but it's on my bucket list.”

Six hours later, I was at thirty-five thousand feet, sitting in first class eating dinner, all on her platinum card. Naturally by then, I was beginning to wonder what I was getting myself into.

For starters, she checked us into the Ritz and headed straight to a suite on an upper floor. Once settled in, she kicked off her shoes, and then playfully signaled that it was time to consummate our friendship.

Later, we went to a bistro on the West Bank that appeared nondescript until we stepped inside and were immediately surrounded by old world elegance and fashionably dressed people, all talking at once.

“Interesting setting,” I remarked, looking about, my senses tuned to the smell of great wines.

She took my arm and directed me to a table. “Their collection is excellent. Feel free to indulge. I need to spend time with Charles while I'm here.”

“I hope Charles isn't your husband.”

She laughed quietly and pointed across the room. “Don't worry. He's my uncle and he's harmless.”

In appearance, her uncle was a smartly dressed, but shriveled, little man who was leaning heavily into a walker, as he slowly shuffled toward a table on the far side of the room.

She touched my arm. “I'll only be a minute.”

Her minute turned into an hour, during which I noticed Charles frequently glance my way as if he was critically passing judgment on my presence. Ignoring him, I ordered a bottle of Margaux and sat back to enjoy the place.

On returning, she settled in beside me and reached for my wine. “Oh, wonderful selection... you do know your wines.” She indicated across the room. “If you're wondering about Charles, he took me in as a child after my parents died. Now, I help him manage his affairs from time to time.”

From there, we dined at a four-star restaurant where we ate dinner as ravenously as we made love. Later, we strolled hand in hand along the streets of Paris, our steps taking us wherever we wanted. By then, I was mellow enough not to ask questions. Perhaps, I was even falling in love.

On returning to the hotel, we promptly resumed where we had left off that afternoon. The experience, I have to say, lasted until dawn and ended up being one for the books.

In all, that was my night in Paris – no Eiffel Tower, no Champs Elysees. Essentially, I spent twenty-four hours indulging food, wine and sex – not a bad combination unless you're into churches, museums and parks.

The next day, she left for Geneva indicating that she needed to attend a business meeting for her Uncle Charles. Feeling lost without her, I returned home late that afternoon. By then, I was exhausted but happy. And, most of all, I looked forward to seeing her again.

The following morning while unpacking, I found one of her make up purses in my suitcase and assumed that it had been left there by accident. Setting it aside, I made a mental note to take it to her when she returned from Europe. Later that evening, and for no particular reason, I opened it, my curiosity eventually getting the best of me.

At first, as my fingers roamed about through her various cosmetic items, I felt foolish until I suddenly spotted several nondescript packets tucked neatly into a side pocket of the purse. Looking closer, I soon realized that each packet contained cut diamonds, which I suspected were of high enough quality to necessitate letting some unsuspecting person like me carry through customs.

By the time she phoned to retrieve the purse, I was torn between confronting her or letting the matter pass. Emotionally, I wanted to believe that we actually shared something special.

We met for coffee. “How was Geneva?”

“Very lonely,” she replied, as she sighed deeply. “I missed being with you.” She touched my hand, letting her fingers linger warmly. “You're quite a man. I've never been so exhausted.”

“You have a remarkable way of bringing out the best in me.”

Smiling sweetly, she asked casually, “Did you remember to bring my make up purse?”

I handed it to her. “You should have told me.”

Her eyes turned to mine where they remained for many long moments until they slowly began to lose their luster. Turning away, she took the purse and looked inside, saying quietly, “You wouldn't have agreed.”

I started to reply, but she stood, kissed me softly then walked away, saying only, “Au revior mon amour".


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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- -
It was a Saturday night, and a group of us from the Double T were celebrating at the Dead Horse, a saloon on the outskirts of San Angelo. We had just ordered beers when a cute little lady wearing jeans and a red tank top started circling our table.

“I’m selling kisses for five dollars”, she said in a friendly voice.

I tossed her a smile. “Cowboys don’t kiss. It ain’t’ natural.”

“And, why not?” she asked, as she settled onto my lap and draped an arm about my neck. “I bet cowboys are good kissers.”

“We are, but we only kiss when we have good reason.”

She fluffed her hair and offered me another smile. “I’ve always liked rugged men with happy faces.” She paused to look me over, her eyes going from my curly hair to my freshly polished boots. “You're exactly my type.”

“That’s good enough for me,” I said, as I pulled five from my pocket and proceeded to lay a big one on her lips.

She sighed deeply, her softness pressing me close.

Coming up for air, I said, “Wow… that was great.”

“Was it your best ever?" she asked playfully.

“I need another kiss before sayin' for sure. But, you’re better than Mildred.”

Her eyes searched mine. “Who’s Mildred, your wife?”

“No ma’am,” I replied laughing. “I’m not married. Mildred’s my horse.”

She smiled politely, as if she had expected to hear something more lasting, then she came to her feet and headed toward Charlie, one of my friends from the ranch.

I settled back to work my beer, watching while she moved around the table, going from person to person presenting them her lips. By then, I was beginning see her in a different light, and I liked what I saw.

From time to time, I noticed her look my way, and soon, we were communicating something special between us. It was as if we had been friends forever and were ready for some serious re-acquainting.

Finally, she returned to my lap and quietly settled her head against my shoulder, her eyes going to mine. “I've never known a man like you. You make me feel so hot. I could kiss on you all night long.”

I sought her lips. She responded eagerly, the warmth of her caress overwhelming me with pleasure – that is, until the thud of boots stopped beside us.

“What the hell are you doing with my girl?”

Suddenly, she went flying off my lap like someone shot from a cannon. I came to my feet trying to explain her little game and found myself confronting fiery eyes and a bull neck. It wasn’t long before I was on the floor kissing a size twelve boot.

“Don’t hurt him, Big Jake…please. He's a good man. I was only selling play kisses.” She reached into her pocket and shoved a hand full of money toward him. “I’ve already turned twenty-five dollars – just what you wanted.”

He eased off the boot, and grabbed the money. “Twenty-five dollars! That ain’t enough. I told you to charge these yahoos ten bucks a head.” He returned to me. “The lady’s worth more. How much you got, cowboy?”

I mumbled something unintelligible.

He gave the boot another nudge and growled, “I asked you a question, and I don’t have time to stand around.”

“Probably about twenty,” I replied quickly, using the side of my mouth to talk.

“Then, hand it to her – you underpaid.”

I did as he asked and felt the boot ease away. Soon, I watched him stomp out the door with her in tow.

Feeling a bit dazed from the ruckus, I lifted my head and turned to my friends, “Why are you fellows grinning like that? She liked me.”

Charlie slapped his leg in laughter. “I've never seen a girl jump so high. I’m bettin’ you tasted like Mildred; otherwise, she’a stayed in your lap and finished that last kiss.”


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
I recently worked Montgomery Forest, a state wildlife preserve in East Texas. My intentions were to reappraise the site before opening it to the public.

As usual, most of my day was routine. Around five o'clock though, after an uneventful ten hours of following animal trails, I tucked my notebook away and turned for home. By then, I was ready to call it a day.

A few minutes later though, I heard movement in the brush. Curious, I stopped to take a closer look, wondering if the sounds were coming from the immature bobcat that had been tracking me for much of the day. I first noted its footprints near a creek earlier in the day.

After failing to see any activity, I continued on, remembering that Maggie expected me to attend a dinner party with her club group later that evening.

Suddenly, I spotted a snake about twenty yards ahead of me – its black body gleaming in the remaining sunlight. While snakes were common in the area, I rarely saw one in the open, especially one so large.

Quietly, I edged behind a tree and watched it pause and lift away from the ground before swinging its body from side to side as if searching.

Once I watched it coil in the shadows beside a tree, I began to wonder if it had produced the sounds that I had interpreted as a bobcat's. Some snakes, I knew, were skilled trackers – a thought that sent a series of shivers racing along my spine as that inevitable burst of adrenalin kicked into my system.

Logic suggested that I move past it without being seen so I decided to backtrack and circle rather than take my chances on a direct confrontation.

Soon, I was making my way along the side of a rocky hill that would take me toward the creek near my truck. Unexpectedly, the rocks were loose, and a few broke away under my feet. I looked toward the tree and saw the snake come away from the ground and turn sharply toward me.

Our eyes met.

In an instant, I was running, my arms and legs pumping frantically – fear taking control of my senses.

Finally, after what I thought was a safe distance, I looked back… no sign of the snake, so I eased into a slow jog and continued down the hill, wondering why I had acted so foolish. After all, I was a professional naturalist, a person comfortable with the out of doors.

Near the creek, I looked back to check my progress. That’s when I saw it again – all six feet of black, menacing snake moving like a demon, its body flying across the hilltop, charging directly toward me.

Certain that it was chasing me, I resumed running, my arms and legs charged with the terror coursing through my body. I chanced another look. To my surprise, it was closer, its body whipping back and forth, gaining steadily.

A moment later, I stumbled and fell, my momentum sending me rolling downhill and into the creek.

Spitting out a mouthful of water, I looked about and spotted it, watching from the bank, its eyes anticipating my next move. I took several steps to the side. It mimicked the move. I turned in the other direction. It followed, the tongue flicking back and forth.

Smart snake, I thought as I backed away and began wading toward the far side of the creek confident that once I had put the water behind me I’d be safe. I had to be smarter than a snake – at least that was my impression at the time.

It must have known what I had intended because it slipped into the water and continued in my direction, its sleek body speeding smoothly across the surface.

Turning away, I started a frenzied run up of the last hill toward my truck. Near the ridge, I looked back and saw it come roaring out of the water, again moving directly toward me.

Staggering on, I spotted my truck across an open plain and turned toward it, knowing that I was close to the end of my endurance.

Almost immediately, the snake was beside me, striking my pant leg – its body whipping back and forth, matching me stride for stride. Angling away, I took another deep breath, digging deep to grasp whatever energy I could muster.

Much to my surprise, it edged ahead of me then suddenly, it turned and coiled, it’s mouth poised.

I sidestepped to avoid the thrust, but my shoe caught a rock that sent me tumbling out of control. After that, it was on me, slithering across my shoulders and around my neck, its body wrapped around mine. I reached to fling it away. Then, coming to my feet, I sprinted the remaining few yards to the truck and threw myself inside, my nerves shot.

As I frantically dug into my pocket for the truck keys, I again spotted it in front of the truck. Strangely, I noticed it stop and look back in my direction. Once our eyes met, it lifted off the ground and presented me with what I can only describe as a look of satisfaction.

Ramming the gearshift into drive, I stomped the gas intent on getting my revenge. But for reasons that I cannot fully explain, I hit the brakes, skidded to a stop and waited until it had safely disappeared into the brush. Only then did I take a deep breath and head for home.

Maggie was not happy when I arrived late for her dinner party. But as I tried to explain, it’s not often one comes face to face with an aggressive snake.

Surprisingly, her dinner group was enthralled by my story.

Of course, I failed to mention that the snake had been a Black Racer, a non-poisonous species – one to be respected but not feared.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

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- -
Tyrone Freeman walked into my office on a Friday afternoon just as I was ready to leave with my wife, Carrie, who by the way works my front desk.

Right off, the man pissed me off. He was mid-thirties, loaded with jewelry, and arrogant as hell. From his manner, I suspected that he was living on the edge, perhaps even dealing drugs. I disliked him immediately.

“Hey dude, that's a cute chick you got working out front.”

“That 'chick' is my wife,” I replied, as I pointed to a chair, noting that my relationship didn't seem to faze him in the least.

After five minutes of rambling on about nice looking women, he went on to say, “Some girl accused me of rape... said if I didn't pay her five thousand, she'll file charges. Claims she has a doctor's report.”

“That could be a serious charge.”

“But, I'm innocent. Well... innocent enough.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He looked around the office. “Impressive place... probably cost some real scratch.” Turning back to me, he asked, “What kind of money you charge.”

In an effort to hear his story, I replied, “Whatever it takes to have a jury declare you innocent. That is – if I decide to take your case.”

“Money's not a problem. I have a big house and plenty of play money.”

“Then, tell me why you're... 'innocent enough'.”

From there, he went on to elaborate a typical account of boy meets girl in a bar, and then ultimately ends up being accused of rape – typical for meat heads like Tyrone.

Interrupting him, I asked, “Did you know the girl?”

Tyrone cleared his throat then said, “ I'd seen her around. But you have to believe me when I say, I'm innocent. She was all over me from the minute we met... couldn't wait. Personally, I like to go slow, build up the romance – know what I mean?”

“I don't care if you are innocent or guilty. My job, as an attorney, is to clear the matter before she changes her mind. Maybe, she's playing you for money, maybe not. Maybe she just wanted sex. Maybe you pissed her off. Maybe you really did rape her. But, you need to know that I run the show. And, if I decide to take your case, consider yourself a paying bystander that keeps his mouth shut.”

He pondered that point and said, “You're a heavy dude, but here's what I'll agree too.”

“Lay it out,” I replied, just as Carrie stuck her head in the door and asked if she could leave early. I indicated yes and turned back to Tyrone. “Now tell me, what you'll agree too.”

I noticed Tyrone glance over his shoulder and run Carrie's length before saying, “You can handle the show. But, I'll plan the strategy. I've got friends that'll vouch for my whereabouts on the night in question.”

“I don't work that way, but I'll give it some thought. What's the girl's name?”

“Shirleen Parker... she lives in the Longwood Apartments.”

He handed me a slip of paper with her details then stood to leave.

“Sit down,” I directed, pointing to the chair. “If I decide to take your case, you have papers to sign as well as put up a ten thousand dollar retainer for preliminary work.”

Tyrone exhaled a deep breath. “That's a steep number. I'll have to think it over before signing anything. Maybe, I need to talk to her, try convincing her it wasn't rape.”

“My professional advice is to stay away from her. If you're lucky, she'll still settle for five thousand. When done properly, consider it a bargain compared to the alternatives.”

The following morning, I asked an investigator to check out his story. After learning the facts, I decided not to get involved. The physician's report from a local ER indicated that the girl had displayed marked physical abuse including several superficial knife wounds as well as perineal trauma suggestive of a rape. It also stated that DNA samples were pending at a private laboratory.

In my opinion, Tyrone needed to be dealt with by a heavy handed prosecutor.

A few days later, Carrie mentioned that someone had rummaged through her desk during the night. I suggested that we keep closer tabs on security; however, that evening while I was working late, she frantically phoned and indicated that she had seen a prowler in our backyard.

“Lock the doors, and try to stay calm. I'll call the police then head your way. ”

Red lights were already parked in front of the house when I screeched to a stop against the curb.

When Carrie saw me she hurried my way, her blouse hanging in shreds. “It was that Tyrone person,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “He kicked in the door and threatened me with a knife. An officer killed him when he pulled a gun. They say he's a big-time drug dealer.”

I took her in my arms and held her for many minutes thankful that she had not been harmed.

Several days later, as my fury began to subside, I met with Shirleen Parker and suggested that she file a civil suit against Tyrone's remaining estate. With the doctor's report, and a potential DNA match, she might just have a case.

She agreed. We went to court, and she eventually received her five thousand with two additional zeros added to it for pain and suffering – less of course, my forty percent for the effort.

The best part of all, Carrie quickly put the incident behind her, and a few months later, we were cruising the Mediterranean and living it up – thanks to Tyrone's play money.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
Tyler Jackson first visited my office several years back complaining of headaches. Since then, I've treated him for various problems, none of which were serious. Generally, his complaints have been stress related, which I gathered went along with his work as the Chief of Customs in the Houston area.

One afternoon several months ago, after examining a rash on his arm, he asked, “Hey doc, would you be interested in doing examinations for the customs service?”

Tyler was a big man with a confident attitude and a lean fit body.

“What kind of exams? I asked curiously.

Scratching at the rash, he went on to indicate that the customs service periodically used physicians to perform physical examinations on arriving passengers. He specifically indicated that he would want me to examine people who were suspected of harboring undeclared items or substances within body cavities.

“Why me?” I asked. “I thought you had your own staff and facilities.

“We do, but they're strictly eight to five – union rules. Sometimes we need outside people, especially at night. The service pays extra good money, so it's worth you time. I thought of you because your office is close to the airport.”

The arrangement did seem reasonable, so I agreed. A few extra dollars here and there were always comforting.

Several weeks later, at two am in the morning, the phone rang. It was Tyler.

“Hey doc... Sorry to wake you but we have a couple of suspects that just arrived on a red-eye from Paris. We need your expertise.”

Intrigued, I quickly dressed and headed to the office.

Once there, I came face to face with Tyler as well as two other agents, one male the other female, both of whom were busy escorting a man and a woman along with their sleepy-eyed, three year old daughter into my waiting room.

Both suspects were cuffed. I noticed that the husband appeared calm, even a bit frightened, but the wife, an aggressive woman with a loud voice, needed to be dragged on her heels as she shouted profanities and threats toward each of us.

By then, I was glad that consulting for the customs service avoided routine office hours. The woman could have easily cleared out a waiting room full of patients.

Tyler moved beside me and pointed toward the couple. “These two are suspected of harboring a couple of five carat diamonds acquired in Paris. We've thoroughly searched their clothing and bags and ended up with nothing. Our source close to the scene indicated that a sale went down a few hours before the flight departed, so we're fairly certain they still have the stones.”

“I take it the sale was black market.”

“Correct... sales of this nature usually involve stolen goods. We've been watching them for some time and received word earlier tonight they were coming in.”

With that said, I directed everyone to the examination area then indicated to Tyler, “I'll start on the husband with an emphasis on orifices. If nothing is found, I'll get abdominal x-rays. I take it your female agent is here to chaperon the wife.”

“And, watch the girl too, even though she's been sleeping throughout most of the ordeal.”

I started with the husband. He was mid-forties, overweight and hypertensive. While he acted put out, the examination went smoothly. His wife on the other hand, an angry woman in her late thirties, began screaming and kicking the moment we walked her into the exam room. Fortunately, the female agent was able to control her thrashing long enough for me to complete a thorough, but exasperating examination which included a barefoot directed to the side of my head.

From my perspective though, the examinations and x-rays were negative.

While the woman was dressing, I joined up with Tyler who by then was scratching at another rash on his arm. “As best I can determine, both suspects are clean. Sorry... I know you wanted more. But, I can't find anything to justify your suspicions. And, by the way,” I added, as I pointed to his arm. “Your rash is most likely stress related.”

“I suspected the same,” he replied evenly. “But, that couple bothers me.”

“You think they're guilty.”

“Absolutely... but setbacks frequently point us in other directions.”

Turning to him, I asked, “What do you mean?”

He glanced at me and smiled. “Now, we know who has the diamonds.”

Thrown by his remark, I pointed to the child. “Do you want me to examine her too? She looks fairly sedated.”

He started for the door, saying “We're through for tonight. We need a court order to pursue her. Parental consent would be helpful, but it's a technicality they've clearly refused for obvious reasons.


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
Nate Carver stepped to the front door of Aunt Jillie's Boarding House, the finest establishment along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

Nate was a scruffy character from Oklahoma where a small town preacher wanted him for soiling his daughter's virtue. In fear of his life, he headed to Texas where he had been drifting from town to town looking for action.

At the moment, he wanted a girl.

Once inside her stately Victorian, he hesitated. He had never been to an establishment with fine furniture and window curtains. He ran his hand through his hair watching the grit fall to the floor while he considered the situation.

To his left, he saw several gentlemen eating fried chicken at a dining room table. In the opposite direction, he looked toward the parlor, a large room filled with red couches and comfortable chairs. For a instant, he experienced awe, the grandeur overwhelming him.

“Well I’ll be dang,” he said to no one in particular.

Jillie’s met him in the foyer. “Howdy, mister. You've come to the right place for eating, sparking and splashing.”

“I’m here to get me a woman,” he said, as he continued to look about – his eyes darting from room to room.

She looked him over. “Our girls go for fellows like you. Yes sir, they like the lanky, eye-catching types with a powerful presence.”

“Most ladies can’t resist my charms.”

“I bet you court the girls right smartly.”

“That I do,” he said, as he took a closer look at Jillie, his eyes lifting a bit. “You’re a mighty fine looking lady. I've always had a preference for red hair and green eyes.”

Smiling, Jillie fluffed the hair. “I’m proud you’re pleased.” Nudging his arm, she directed him toward the parlor and continued, “What kind of darling suits your taste?”

Nate's mouth stumbled a time or two then he replied, “I want the kind with two legs and real teeth. Of course, I take a likin’ to the ones with a little meat on their bones.”

Jillie smiled and pointed to one of her girls, “I’ve got Carole Marie from Abilene. She’s a lovely girl with a solid amount of heft. And best of all, her lips can get a fellow to screaming before he's had a chance to get his boots off.”

“Woo-e, she sounds right nice.”

Jillie waited while Nate turned in circles to look the other girls over, then she pointed across the room. “If, on the other hand, you have a hankerin’ for the extras, then Frances May is your little lady. She's the one wearing the spurs.”

Nate scratched at his whiskers. “I don’t know much about spurs.”

Jillie chuckled and said, “It takes a hearty person with powerful spunk to like spurs. We reserve 'em for real men like yourself, fellows with cast iron in their spirit.”

“My pappy always said my head was as solid as a block of wood. I guess that's close enough to cast iron.”

“I suspect it is,” Jillie replied, smiling. “What brings you to our little town?”

“I've been lookin' for a place where I can find work,” he replied, as he looked away to wink at Frances May.

“How about a splash in my tub... might get rid of some of that trail dust. The girls like to splash with smooth talking gents like you, and they're mighty good at playing around underwater.”

“A bath sounds mighty good... Now, hurry up. I'm about ready to explode in my pants.”

Directing him to the side, Jillie said, “As I’m sure you’re aware, my girls like to see real money before getting acquainted.”

“I got plenty of money,” he said quickly. “But, I ain't never paid for a woman.”

Jillie smiled softly. “Maybe so, but around here, fellows get the kind of experience only money can buy.”

Grumbling, Nate reached into his pocket to withdraw a crumpled wad of bills. “Right now, I got three dollars.”

Jillie indicated across the room. “Frances May, come meet this boy.”

Frances May scooted closer and took his hand. “I’m so good with spurs you'll be blindly in love by the time we're through.”

“I’ll try anything with you.”

Jillie snatched his money, saying, “Three dollars buys you Frances May with spurs and a splash.”

Sometime later, Frances May helped Nate back to the parlor, his hand covering his eye.

After sitting him in a chair, she said, “I didn't mean to poke you in the eye with my spur. You should be careful where you put your head.”

“But, we were only playin' around in the tub when you started running those spurs across my back.”

“Maybe so, but you''re not supposed to kiss my feet when I'm wearing spurs.”

“It just so happens your feet got in the way of my lips. But, I want my money back. I ain't gonna pay for getting poked in the eye.”

After listening to both sides of their argument, Jillie drifted their way and said to Nate, “We're here to please, so, here's what we'll do... First off, since you need work, I'll hire you paint my front porch starting tomorrow morning. And when you're done, Frances May will agree to pay you with a free poke – less the spurs, of course. How's that sound? Not many fellows get that kind of opportunity.”

Smiling brightly, Nate said, “Frances May for free! Why that sounds like the best job I ever heard of. I'll be here bright and early.”

As he walked out the door, Jillie turned to Frances May. “I'm starting to like that boy. He dumb enough to paint the rest of the house before he realizes that fellows always pay for women – one way or the other.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
Most Saturday mornings, I bypass the town cafe and head straight for breakfast at Aunt Jillie's Boarding House. It's a large Victorian known throughout Texas as the finest establishment in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

Once there, I always eat breakfast with Jillie, my best friend. She's an good looking, fun loving woman that folks call, 'Aunt Jillie'.

That day though, Lucinda, Jillie’s maid, stopped me in the foyer of her house, whispering, “Miss Jillie's too busy for pancakes.”

Surprised, I replied, “But, she always eats a stack of your pancakes on Saturdays… says it’s her favorite.”

“She's too flustered to eat,” Lucinda said. “All she’s been doing is flying around like a whirlwind. I’ve never seen her in such an excitement.”

Hearing a flurry of activity coming from the parlor, I turned about to see what the commotion was all about.

“Why Sheriff Carson!” Jillie said, in a startled voice. “You surprised me.” She paused to wipe the moisture from her cheeks then continued, “I've had a busy morning... got up at five o'clock.”

While Jillie was usually well groomed and fashionable, today a scarf covered her hair and a man’s shirt with long tails hung to her knees.

“You’re lookin' mighty casual this morning.”

She pecked my cheek with a kiss. “Lets have coffee. I'll tell you all about it.”

With my stomach growling for pancakes, I followed her through the dining room, toward the back of the house where we settled across from one another at a kitchen table.

“Why so busy?” I asked, as I poured some coffee.

“I’m getting the house ready for the Senator,” she replied, smiling brightly.

In the background, I noticed the aroma of a pot roast slowly cooking. Savoring the smell, I went on to say, “I take it, you’re referring to that fellow passin' through from the state capitol.”

“Can you imagine, a real senator staying at my house. There’s so much work to do.”

“You seem to be going to lots trouble just to please a senator.”

“If I treat him right, he’ll go back to the capitol and spread the word that my house is the finest in Texas.”

“Your house already is the finest in Texas.”

“But, I want the important people with lots of money to know that too.” She touched my arm. “He’s promised to pay me one hundred dollars.”

“One hundred dollars,” I said, surprised. “That’s a powerful amount of money for one of your girls.”

“He wants me,” she replied, happily. “I’m getting’ one hundred dollars for a night of pleasure as well as a pot roast dinner and a splash in my new bathtub.”

It took me a few moments to sort through her words. Finally, I said, “What I don’t understand is, how you plan to satisfy both the senator and me at eleven o’clock – our usual Saturday time.”

She removed the scarf from her hair and began adjusting several knots of ribbon hidden underneath. They were the kind women use to tie the hair into little balls close to the head. It's a grooming technique that most fellows know give ladies a terrible look.

Smiling, she continued. “I didn’t think you’d mind postponing our Saturday night, knowing it’s for one hundred dollars.”

While I generally enjoy the rich texture and reddish highlights in her hair, the curlers distracted from that pleasure. Forcing a smile, I asked, “What about that girl from Abilene, the one with the blue eyes. She gets fellows plenty excited.”

Jillie paused to adjust another curler. “She's too skinny for a distinguished gentleman, and besides, she likes to use spurs... can I get you a coffee refill?”

I rubbed my belly, my eyes still directed to the curlers. “I’ve had enough coffee. Some things tend to upset my insides something awful.”

Finally, she replaced the scarf saying, “I hope you’ll come by the house tonight and visit with the Senator.”

“I doubt the Senator will be much interested in me,” I replied, as I reached for my hat. “Actually, I'm thinkin’ of playin’ poker with some of the boys at the saloon. I need to win some money... seems my pocketbook is getting mighty thin. I'll need at least another twenty dollars so as not to go hungry before the end of the month.”

“Your official presence would make the house more comfortable for the Senator. You know how often fellows get out of hand when they get liquored.”

“One of my deputies can check by every hour or so.”

“Your official presence would mean so much to me,” she said, as her bare foot began creeping playfully up my leg. “What time can I expect you tonight?” she asked, her voice purring sweetly.

Setting the foot aside, I came to my feet saying, “I need to get going. Some of the boys are already tossin' horseshoes over by the livery stable. I might just win a few extra bucks to carry me over.”

In desperation, she finally said, “Would twenty dollars be enough money to buy your official presence?”

Laughing to myself, confident that a little deception works like magic, I stuffed the twenty into my pocket and headed for the door, knowing that if I played my hand right, the Senator would end up getting spurred, and I'd get Jillie as well as a splash in her bathtub and generous portion of pot roast for my evening meal.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as on a number of internet sites and in short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri