Contributor: Eric White

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Michael was sitting on the living room floor propped against his over-sized stuffed dog, Floppy. It was Saturday morning so he was able to watch cartoons if he twisted the antennae just right. The bowl of stale fruit-loops sat undisturbed next to him when there was a loud knock on the front door of the trailer.
Michael knew better than to answer the door. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. The visitor wasn’t going away.
Michael tiptoed to his father’s room. His dad was passed out on the floor with the belt still around his forearm.
Michael knew that it would be futile to attempt to wake his father. So he went back to the living room floor with Floppy and his stale fruit-loops. Just when he thought the visitors were gone there was a violent crash at the door, and all of a sudden three men stood in the door way. Two of them barged in and began tossing their stuff out the door, while the third man went into Michael’s father’s room yelling about the rent. They didn’t so much as glance at Michael.
Michael never made a sound. He clung to Floppy, and he watched the men throw away the little bit he and his father had. Eventually the men made their way over to Michael. One grabbed Floppy right out of Michael’s arms and tossed the dog outside into the mud. Michael ran to follow. He picked Floppy out of the mud in time to see his father’s unconscious body hurled from the doorway as well.
There was nothing to do, but watch with tears of confusion running down his face. Eventually, an ambulance came and took his dad away. During that time a woman in a nice pants suit appeared. She told Michael that she would make things better for him, and that she was going to make sure he was taken care of for now on.
The woman smelled like flowers, and Michael liked her right away. She took him by the hand and led him to the back seat of her car. After she took her place in the driver’s seat Michael had a terrible realization and began to cry at the top of his lungs.
The woman turned around and softly said, “I know you’ll miss your daddy, Michael, but this is the best thing for you. I promise.”
“No, it’s not that,” said Michael. “ I don’t care about him, but I left Floppy in the yard. Please, let me keep him. Please, please!”
The woman smiled warmly at Michael, then she went back for Floppy. She brushed some dirt off of him, and she secured the stuffed dog next to Michael in the backseat. They left the sad and empty trailer, and Michael never looked back.


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I am a current student at Full Sail University. My long term goal is to write for entertainment.

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Author: Eric White

Contributor: Malia Taylor

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Josh slammed the door to his truck, catching the tail of his shirt in it in the process. “Shit,” he muttered, quickly unlocking it and opening the door to release his shirt. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he neared the scuffed, wooden door. He could already hear the jukebox playing some old song by Journey, and smell the fried food and stale beer. Danny’s Pub was not a high-class joint by any stretch of the imagination, but it was where he’d first seen her. It’s where she hangs out, where he hoped she would be tonight. He cursed himself for taking so long to get ready – she usually went home before 11 o’clock and it was nearly that now, but he couldn’t show up looking like he’d just come from a construction site. Not tonight. Tonight was the night he would grow a pair and finally get her number.

The smells and sounds intensified as he entered the bar. As is customary, all eyes turned his way at the loud squeak of the old wooden door.

“Josh!” one of the regulars hollered before going back to his pool game. Josh nodded distractedly, eyes scanning the place. He focused on her usual table but there was a waitress in the way.

“Damn,” he muttered, gaining a strange look from a nearby barfly. Josh realized he was still standing in the middle of the entrance, looking like an idiot, so he casually sauntered over to the bar and ordered a drink.

“The usual, Tom.” Tom grunted and slid the mug of beer, which stopped just short of him on the sticky bar top. Josh took a long pull of the warm, cheap brew; trying hard not to think about the filthy rag he knew Tom used to wipe the glasses with. The tinkle of female laughter caught his ear and he turned. His heart thudded. There she was, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and she was sitting across from…Mike?

“That traitorous son of a--”

“Hey, Josh. Lookin’ good baby. Why so dressed up, you got a date?” a throaty voice said in his ear. He cringed.

“Oh, hi, Rhonda.” This could be trouble. Rhonda always picked a victim early in the night and then stuck like glue.

“Excuse me.” Josh made his escape to the men’s room. He shook his head. Mike, his buddy and co-worker had listened to him go on and on about her, witnessed multiple failed attempts to talk to her. No way was he gonna let that snake-in-the-grass get the girl. His girl. Josh washed his hands, giving himself a pep talk in the dingy mirror.

“Come on, you got this. Time to shit or get off the pot. ”

“You talkin’ to me, man?” a voice called from the stall.

“Uh, no. Sorry.”

When Josh emerged from the back of the bar, Mike was no longer at her table, he was sitting at the bar, looking pissed. Good, Josh thought, now I can make my move. Her beauty; her long, dark wavy hair, the way she wore a pair of Levi’s struck him again as he saw her standing at the juke box, swaying to the music she’d chosen. Josh started forward. The old wooden door creaked and all eyes except his turned toward it.

“Tito!”

Josh froze and looked at the newest patron. Shit, Tito? That asshole owed him $500. Josh knew it was only a matter of time before Tito saw him and split, again. Tito had been avoiding him for months and he needed that money, construction was slow and he had bills overdue. He dithered for a moment, wondering if he had time to confront Tito before she left for the night.

She sat back at her table, smiling and laughing and Josh forgot all about Tito and the $500 – hell, he would eat ramen noodles for the next two months. He believed this woman was the love of his life, or she would be if he could ever get her number. Something always seemed to get in the way but tonight was his night, dammit. He wasn’t leaving without her name and her digits.

Josh did a quick breath check, then put one foot in front of the other and focused on her dark eyes and full rosy lips. He was just thinking about how those lips might feel pressed against his and didn’t notice the end of the pool cue, as it swung back, wielded by a large, drunk biker.

“Ah, watch it, man!” Josh said, cradling his watering eye.

“Oops,” the biker sneered before turning back to his game.

Jesus, now he had to go over there half-blind. He shook it off, single-mindedly focused on her and what he would say…shit. In all the time he’d spent planning, he realized he’d never decided what he would actually say to her. Any old line wouldn’t do, not with someone like her. He mentally scrolled through his best lines, rejecting them all. Maybe he’d do it like they did in old movies, grab her up in his arms and kiss her. Kiss…he thought of his 7th grade math teacher’s formula for success-K.I.S.S. –Keep It Simple Stupid. He took a deep breath, sidestepped two drunken rednecks on the verge of a brawl, and stopped in front of her table.

“Hello, I’m Josh, and quite honestly ma’am, I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” She smiled up at him and sighed.
“Josh, I’m Rita. What took you so long? Have a seat.”
Rita looked past him at a man walking by as Josh sat in the chair next to her.

“Hey, cousin Tito!”

“Rita, hey.”

“Tito, you remember my friend Tracy, and this,” she paused with a shy smile, “this is Josh.” Tito swallowed hard and Josh grinned. Damn straight tonight was his night.


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Author: Malia Taylor

Contributor: Nicholas Slade

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I went into work to this circus that I’ve been at for over a year now. You see, I’m a kinker, or performer in circus talk, and I had pretty much done it all here. I’ve been a clown, a horseback rider, and even an acrobat. Our boss is Mr. Jerry Gorman, a veteran of the circus business. He’s as greedy as they come and a complete lunatic to boot. Always trying to be innovative, he’d ask me to do the craziest jobs. I never turned them down though, as they always seemed like a good challenge and luckily my skills always came in handy. Little did I know what he had cooked up for me that day when he called me into his office.

I walked in to see Mr. Gorman with a big smile on his face. He seemed very pleased with himself.

“Jean, I came up with a brilliant idea for tonight’s show,” he told me.

“And what’s that?”

“Bullfighting. The audience will love it. And you, my boy, shall be our matador.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Why not? You’ve never turned down a performance from me before.”

“None of those performances involved me being gored by a two ton animal.”

“Now, it doesn’t weight that much.”

“Ah, can it. Besides, I have absolutely no interest in harming a bull, it would completely go against my standards.”

“You don’t have to hurt it, just give the audience a good show.”

“My answer is no.”

He stared at me for a moment as I turned to walk out. “Hey, how’s your friend Rick doing? I know he’s such a hard worker here. You know, it would be a real shame if he, I don’t know, suddenly lost his job or something.”

I closed my eyes. “Damn.”

So there I was, standing in the center of the ring, wearing a ridiculous looking jacket, holding up a red cape made out of old scarves, and looking at a large, angry looking beast. “That’s it, I’m dead.” The bull charged at me with full force. I instinctively used my acrobatic skills to jump onto the bull’s back.

My friend Rick, who was acting as my assistant, followed me on horseback. “What are you doing?” he yelled out.

“I don’t know,” I yelled back.

“Why did you jump on it’s back?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

I looked down at the bull’s neck: it was covered in scars. This bull must have been through many fights in the past. With nothing left to lose, I tried talking to the bull. “Hey now, calm down, no one’s going to hurt you.” The bull looked up at me. Does this thing really understand me? I thought. “I promise, you’ll never have to fight again, now please stop.”

On cue, the beast stopped, throwing me to the ground. I looked up at the bull and it licked me with its large tongue. I guess I can add bull whispering to my list of skills. I stood up and patted the bull on the head. My boss ran into the ring. “What the hell is this,” he yelled. “I told you to fight this bull, now do it.”

I looked at the bull and, like it understood me, it proceeded to chase Mr. Gorman around the ring. “Help me,” he yelled.

Rick rode up next to me. “What’s going on?”

“Oh nothing, just doing what our boss asked, giving the audience a good show.”


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Nicholas Slade is a writer currently living in Florida. Originally from Mississippi, he moved to Florida in 2012 and is currently studying for his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing. He has previously been published in Farther Star Than These and Yesteryear Fiction.

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Author: Nicholas Slade

Contributor: April Winters

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I saw what took place the day four-year-old Katy Lynn Jamison disappeared. The sky a cloudless blue, spring had officially sprung on that still-crisp day. The little girl played alone in her front yard while the new babysitter and her boyfriend did who knew what inside the yellow house with the closed white door.
On the fateful day, I watched as the green car slowed and turned onto Katy Lynn’s street, just as it did every day around the same time. But on that day it crept past the child’s yard before turning into the garage two doors down. The man got out, left his garage door open, and walked to the end of the driveway. He looked long and hard up both sides of the street, but it being a weekday, everyone was either at work or school. No one was about – except Katy Lynn.
The man threw his cigarette onto the pavement, then turned and went back to his automobile. He pulled a box out of the back seat and put it up on the trunk. Reaching inside, he lifted out a black and white, wiggling puppy that joyfully licked the man’s face. The eager, full-of-life pup lured innocent, trusting Katy Lynn out of her front yard and into the man’s garage. She was never seen again.

In the years I’ve been rooted to this spot, I’ve observed much pain and suffering. It’s difficult to endure my existence as quiet observer when I see the horror humanity inflicts on its own kind. But when a child is harmed, I, too, feel grief. The day Katy Lynn’s father tacked the flyer about his missing daughter to my trunk then leaned against me and quietly wept, my leaves sagged around him and I mourned for his loss.


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April Winters hopes to help people forget their troubles through her stories, even if only for a little while. Her other works can be read at The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Short-Story.Me, The Short Humour Site, and here at Linguistic Erosion.

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Author: April Winters

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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They say opposites attract. Well, not in all situations. Sometimes people from diverse backgrounds are attracted to each other, only to find their differences leading to incompatibility. It’s like foods. Mashed potatoes and marinara sauce are great ingredients, but together they just don’t mix.

Kelly Johnson grew up in the Midwest on a farm. Yes, she was a farmer’s daughter, but she left that life behind for college in Boston. Kelly and some of her girlfriends were in the North End for lunch one Saturday.

“Oh Kelly, you have to try the pizza here, like nothing you ever had in Wisconsin” said her best friend Angela.

“I’m ready. We have the good cheese, just not the sauce. I guess the sauce makes all the difference” Kelly replied. The young waiter walked toward their table as the foursome looked up.

“Just like men” said Angela. The girls giggled.

“Posso aiutarvi belle signore. May I help you beautiful ladies?”

They all noticed Kelly locked on to the waiter’s eyes. Angela smiled and whispered to Susan. “I think Kelly just fell in love.”

“My friends tell me we have to try the pizza,” said Kelly. “What do you think?”

“Very good choice. We won ‘Best in Boston’ the last three years,” said Vincent.

“Well, then bring us the best one you have and a bottle of Chianti. And what is your name?”

“My name is Vincent. I’ll be back with your drinks presto, shortly.”

Susan and Angela answered together. “Thanks Vincent” and then looked at Kelly.

“What?” as she gave them a look.

“We saw you looking at him. No one like that in the heartland?”

Susan walked over to the jukebox and made a choice. The song filled the air. “When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s Amore.” The girls laughed while pointing to Kelly.

“All right. Let’s not get carried away. I think he’s nice, that’s all.”

“Yeah, nice. We know what that means.” The girls kidded Kelly for the next half hour as they ate. Eventually, they let her off the hook. “OK, Kelly we know you’re only discovering something they didn’t have back home, a genuine Italian boy.”

“Be nice or I’ll marry him just to spite you. And you’ll have bridesmaid dresses that look like that.” She pointed to the green, white and red Italian flag in the corner next to a soccer team picture.

Vincent put the check on the table, smiling at Kelly, and thanked them for their business. “una splendida giornata, Have a wonderful day.”

Kelly took the check, insisting she pay for everyone. “You opened my eyes to wonderful Italian food. Let me pay this time.” There was no argument from her friends, college students living on a budget. They didn’t even notice when Kelly wrote her name and phone number on the bill.

That night Vincent called Kelly. She suggested a night at the Faneuil Hall Marketplace across from the North End. They quickly got acquainted, this town boy and the preppy coed from the heartland. By the end of the night, they were walking hand in hand and talking about their next date.

Unknown to her friends, Kelly started seeing Vincent on weekends after he got off from work. She knew they were an odd couple, but it was a nice diversion from the grind of papers and lecture halls, something to get through sophomore year with. She had time to find a suitable husband next year. For now, she just wanted to have fun. It had been months of meeting him in Boston when Vincent arranged an alternative place for dinner.

He met Kelly at the Harvard Square red line stop. They walked past the Harvard Coop and the famous newsstand. “Where are we going?” she said.

“I know a place on Dunster Street, around the corner. You’ll like it.” They walked up to a large yellow house with a crest and signet ring surrounding a nettle.

“This isn’t a restaurant Vincent. It’s some sort of Frat house.” Kelly was puzzled.

“Actually, it’s a coed final club. This is where I live.” Vincent saw Kelly’s face change from confusion to adoration.

“You go to Harvard? You never told me you went to Harvard.”

“Well, I wanted to make sure you liked me for the right reasons, not because my family owned a restaurant in Boston.”

It wasn’t until the wedding after graduation that Vincent found out her family owned the company that supplied pizza dough to his parent’s restaurant.

“Oops,” Kelly said to Vincent when he found out.

They lived happily ever after.

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Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle eBook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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"You need help in your garden, Grandpa?"

Jack's only ten and eager to help so I have to say yes. He looks like Tom Sawyer. Sometimes I think his mother, my daughter, married Huckleberry Finn, when I look at my grandson. Yet she keeps telling me he looks like me. I seen no resemblance except for the red hair and the cowlicks. Years ago my hair was red. I still got the cowlicks.

"I heard you got moles and voles so I came over to help. When moles get hungry, Grandpa, they tunnel for worms. That's how they kill your roots and bulbs."

It sounds like his mother has been coaching him. She probably sent him over here so she can take a nap. Sometimes it's nice having them live nearby. Other times not so good. For all his good intentions, I know the boy can't help me with the moles and voles. He even brought his own shovel.

I've been dealing with these pests for months. I think I'll have to call in a professional. I'm just afraid the PETA people will show up some night and steal the traps. Or maybe picket my house. The wife might join 'em. She thinks the same way as her daughter. They recycle everything. Sometimes I think I might be the next to go in a bin.

My grandson is on a roll now. He tells me I should send "that stuff over there back to Monsanto. I'll dig up the moles and maybe some voles, too, Grandpa."

I had some weedkiller sitting around the garage for the longest time but I had no plans to try it on the moles and voles. His mother must have seen it when she was here the other day. She hates all chemicals and pesticides. I'm a little more tolerant. She probably told Jack to get on me about the weedkiller.

"You don't need anything from Monsanto, Grandpa. They made Agent Orange. It's not for gardens. It kills people."

I tell him I have weedkiller, not Agent Orange. I haven't heard anybody talking about Agent Orange for years. Bad stuff, but that was a long time ago.

Then, with eyes like stars, Jack announces, "Right now, Grandpa, there are kids in Viet Nam who can't smile like you and me. They're sick to death and they ain't gonna get any better, thanks to that Agent Orange stuff. I saw a program about it on television. Ask my mom. She saw it, too."

So I tell him, "Jack, you can start digging over here. Maybe you'll find a mole. I'll be right back. I'm gonna take the weedkiller back to the hardware store. Maybe they'll give me my money back. You work hard and we'll go to McDonald's. Just don't tell your mother. She doesn't like cheeseburgers and French Fries, either."


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Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Adam Mac

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Nguyen, known as Win, had lived in a small town on the outskirts of Halifax for nearly two years. He had work in the city, friends, and life was pretty good. His English, however, was still poor, he felt—native fluency being his standard. So, he took advantage of every opportunity to improve his English, and being a gregarious person, there were lots.

Early on, some of the locals sniggered. Win wasn't stupid, and he knew he was the butt of many silly jokes, but he didn't care. Over time, his persistence won over even the surliest, old postmaster Ferguson, and the burliest, Chief Taggert. A quick study, Win got to where he could verbally diagram sentences during conversations, and this impressed a few, then intimidated some more, and ultimately annoyed everyone. He kept on doing it but only in his head.

At the office, one of the favourite topics to bitch about was telemarketers. Hang-ups and call screening were the common solutions. Win used to be polite, but now he hung up, too. Tony had tried bullying, but it took a lot more effort than he'd imagined, so he gave up. Ian had just set up a business line with a pay-per-call service and was collecting 10 cents a minute for telemarketing calls. Shelagh, the English expert with a Master's from Dalhousie, exasperated at playing thesaurus, got the messianic idea that Win should practice on telemarketers.

It was genius! In the evening, Win set up a dummy online account with a luring marketing profile—a St. Mary's undergrad working two jobs—and waited … but not long.

"Good evening, is Mr. N-GOO-YEN there?"

"Call me Win."

"Thank you, Mr. Win. We understand you have an excellent credit rating, and you're just the type of individual that qualifies for our new platinum double plus card."

"You mean 'who?'"

"'Who?' I'm sorry sir, I don't follow."

"You said 'the type of individual that.' Shouldn't it be 'the type of individual who?'"

"Sure. If you like. But you do know what I meant, right?"

"With that ... uh, what's the word ... oh yeah, clarification. With that clarification, I get it. Can I phrase it that way?"

"Yes, you may Mr. Win, but—"

"Wouldn't 'subject to that clarification' sound better?"

"Absolutely sir, but I'd like to get back to the—"

"Excuse me, please. I have one more question. What does this 'double plus' mean?"

"It means the highest level."

"Excuse me. Just one more question, please. Wouldn't it be clearer—or is it 'more clear'?—“

"Either way, sir."

"—to say 'peak platinum' or 'pinnacle platinum' instead of 'platinum double plus'?"

"It's just a name, eh?"

"Ah, okay. So, is this card better than a Visa gold card? Or, an MNBA or MNFL card? And platinum, is that really the best card, because platinum isn't the most expensive—"

"Sir, I really don't know. But sir—uh, Mr. Win—I'm running out of time for this call, so if you don't mind I'd really like to get back to the reason I called."

"Yes. Yes. But could, uh, would you first give me some feedback? You see I'm practicing my English— my conversational English—and I'd appreciate— Hello?"


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Author: Adam Mac

Contibutor: Amanda Dolan


Look at her, sitting outside talking to another client. What does that even mean? I can’t even focus on my video game, because she’s on the patio laughing at his stupid jokes. I’m unsure why we’ve been here for the past week; this is the longest we’ve stayed in a place like this. I hate it. This isn't home. This is one of Nanny's many rooms.

We used to live in Calabasas. I had a playroom and toys that kept me busy while Nanny had work meetings with men. That little green room was my own personal space. Now, I stay in a new bed every few days. Nanny says we’re traveling to save money for a new house. She says the old house had too many problems, but I’m starting to think there’s more to the story than she’s telling me.

I trust Nanny; I do. I know she cares about me. After all, she told me she would buy me an Xbox for my birthday. That’s why I didn’t feel bad about her selling all of my Star Wars figures. She told me she needed the money to save for a new house with a bigger playroom.

On the bright side, Nanny told me school ended early this year. It’s weird, though; I see the school bus in the neighborhood every morning and afternoon. I’d be real pissed if I had to go to school during break, like they do. I always thought school ended in June. It’s March now, but I’ll take it. She told me not to tell anyone about the early break. I guess she doesn’t want me to make them jealous. This break has been really boring though. I’m sick of being left alone while Nanny goes on business dinners. I’m sick of getting locked out of the room each time she asks me to go get some ice on the third floor. I swear, I’ll knock a million times before she finally answers the door with her client.

This life is getting old. I’m 10. I shouldn’t be locked in a hotel room all day while Nanny cries on the phone to her mother. She cries all the time now. I used to think it was because she hurt her arms, because they’re always bleeding. I’ll ask her a few times a day about it. I don’t know why she’s scratching her arms so much. It’s usually when she’s in a bad mood.

“Nanny just has a rash,” she says. “I’m alright, Jimmy.”

I don’t know what to think anymore. I do know that I hate when she calls me Jimmy. My name is James.

Today, Nanny told me that she thinks she’ll make a lot of money. Maybe we will be switching hotels tonight. Anything is better than sleeping in the car again. The seats in that car anger me. They’re way too hard for my liking. Mom left the car for Nanny when she moved to London last year. She said she needed to get away. I miss her sometimes, but we’re both well aware that she’s a shitty mother. Anyway, a tow truck dragged the car away last week. Nanny said it’s because she parked in a wrong spot, but something tells me that’s not true. I hear the way the hotel lobby staff talks about her. She’s lying to me.

My mom may not be around, but I know my dad loves me. He’s probably missing me right now. He moved to Florida in a hurry. I don’t blame him—Mom sent him packing. She tried to keep me from him. She told me he couldn’t take care of me the way Nanny could. I believed that at first, but now I’m realizing how far from the truth that is. This hotel isn’t my home. These green-striped bed sheets would never be my first pick. Living out of my Star Wars suitcase pisses me off. I want my toys back. I want food that doesn’t pass through a fast food window. I can’t do this anymore. If that phone didn’t charge us every time we picked it up, I would call right now and tell him to come get me.

You know what? I don’t care. Nanny’s too busy giggling on the patio again. She wouldn’t notice the dollar charged on her account until she tries to checkout anyway. I think it’s worth a shot. I need to start living.

Let’s see what Dad can do.


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Amanda Dolan is a single mother from Pembroke Pines, FL. She is currently a studying Creative Writing for Entertainment at Full Sail University in Winter Park, FL.

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Author: Amanda Dolan

Contributor: Dustin Pinney

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All of it was in his head. Everything he’d ever seen, read, smelled, touched, tasted, heard, learned, remembered, forgotten, created, ignored, obsessed over, loved, loathed was there. All stuck in his head. Expanding, rubbing against the inside of his skull, it wanted out.

He tried to tell everyone. Speaking was useless. Writing any of it down didn’t work. Any kind of art failed miserably. His entire life was stuffed into his head and he couldn’t share it.

A migraine started thumping along his nervous system. The tiniest motion sent the world around him into a cyclone. That agony intensified to such a point that he was sure death was imminent.

The day came when finally his life wore through the bone, punctured his scalp and oozed through to the real world. As it flowed, the opening spread. Light, shadows, magic, chaos, love, hate, spilled out. He started screaming.

An essence of self at last emerged as a brilliant glow. It swelled to a solid blinding beam.

When his life had finally bled out of him, he sat empty in the quit, his scream frozen in place.

The only words spoken by the ones who found him were, “What a waste.”


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Dustin Pinney is back living and writing in a town just outside the city where he grew up. His other stories have been featured in the anthologies "31 More Nights of Halloween," "New Dawn Fades", and "Nickel City Nights" as well as a number of online venues. He also writes an awful lot about Doctor Who for Letusnerd.com.

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Author: Dustin Pinney

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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October 23^rd, 1976 (New Brunswick, NJ) - Tony finished his set at WRSU around 7pm. He would grab a quick dinner, then head over to the dorm for his gig as DJ to their party. Playing for college dances was better than being on the air; you don’t have much interaction when you’re alone in the radio booth. Here he could see coeds dancing and if he was lucky pick up a date.

“Are you the DJ?” said the house manager as he extended his hand.

“Hi, yes, I’m Tony, from the radio station. Good to meet you.”

“You too. I’m George. You can set up on that small stage; we use the dining area for dancing.”

“OK George. We’re going to start around 8?”

“8 is good Tony. The music will signal people to come down from their rooms. But you’re going until midnight, right?”

“Yes, usually, unless the crowd disappears.”

Most of the sororities and fraternities would be partying tonight, especially after the football team won. Tony knew everyone would be in a good mood. After setting up his equipment, records and speakers, he ran a sound test and found a comfortable stool. By 8 o’clock he was setting the mood with music from the early 70s. Sly and the Family Stone, The Hollies, Elton John and Three Dog Night. Just hits.

A brunette with frayed, bell-bottom jeans and a tie-dyed shirt came over to him. “You’re gonna play some Clapton, aren’t ya?”

“Derek and the Dominos or Cream?” said Tony.

“Do you have Layla?”

“You got it next.”

The girl smiled and skipped away as residents started to fill the room. It was a coed dorm, not part of the Greek system, so this was pleasant company, not the drunken frat boys around the corner. Within an hour, the dance floor was filled; beers were everywhere and the usual pairing off had begun.

“Wow. 9 o’clock and we already have couples leaving for the rooms upstairs. This might be an early night,” Tony said to himself. Then he saw her, a cheerleader still in uniform with some friends coming through the kitchen. He knew her name, Karen, but she didn’t know him. Back then all the guys knew the cheerleaders by name, even though they never met.

Tony knew what he had to do. K.C. and the Sunshine Band, Earth, Wind and Fire and The Doobie Brothers. Dance music will get her on the floor. As Get Down Tonight started, Tony pushed the volume up until it ended all normal conversations. Sure enough, Karen and her friends started to dance.

“Hmm. Her boyfriend’s not here. All the cheerleaders had boyfriends, maybe a lineman from the team. But they were probably partying at the football frat; surely Karen would be there if she wanted to be. Maybe he’ll show up here or she’ll leave.” Tony would just have to wait and see.

A coed came over to him with some chicken wings and French fries. She was pretty enough, but Tony was otherwise occupied. “You must be getting hungry; I made you a plate.”

“Oh, thanks” he said to the cute girl in a red Danskin and corduroy pants. As she walked away, she turned to smile at Tony. He gave her a wave and a more genuine smile, then his attention returned to Karen. But he didn’t see her.

“Damn.” Tony scanned the dance floor. “What if she stepped out? I should have talked to her.” Before long, it was 11:00pm and the crowd was thinning out, couples off for the night and singles leaving, only about 30 people left now. He lowered the volume of the music and made an announcement.

“You’ve been a great audience tonight. We’re going to wrap it up in about ten minutes.” Some mild disappointment from the crowd, so he decided to end the night with some power songs. Boogie Wonderland by Earth Wind and Fire, That’s the Way I Like It by KC and the Sunshine Band and Play That Funky Music White Boy by Wild Cherry. He turned the music up.

“Excuse me.” A lyrical voice called him, accompanied by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Karen. Suddenly his whole night was back in synch. She was smiling. “I love these songs. Too bad you have to stop.”

“I can stay a little longer. My name’s Tony.”

“I’m Karen.”

“Nice to meet you Karen. So you came right from the game?”

“Yeah, my girlfriends took me out to dinner for my birthday, then brought me here.”

Tony had a clue. “She should be with her boyfriend on her birthday. Maybe she broke up with him.”

“Well, happy birthday. Tell you what. I’ll play as long as you like.” Tony thought that was a smooth line.

“Oh, thank you” Karen said and gave him a little hug. She walked back to the dance floor with her friends. Tony watched her dance for the next hour. That cheerleading uniform was more than he could resist. He just hoped she would stick around after and talk to him. His head in the clouds, it was midnight before he realized.

“Well, that’s it folks. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Well, unless you live here.” Tony tried to make a joke, but it bombed. He started packing up the equipment. Karen walked over to him.

“Thank you so much. I was feeling a little down tonight. Will you be here long?”

Tony was hoping for the best. “No, I just have to secure this in that closet. The techs will bring it back to the station tomorrow. Do you need a ride home?”

“That would be nice” and she smiled. Tony wasn’t expecting this, but recovered quickly.

“I’ll take you. Just give me ten minutes.”

“OK. I’ll tell my friends goodbye.”

“Wow. She’s leaving her friends to be with me. I must have played the right notes tonight.”

Karen was quiet on their ride back to her dorm, but you could sense the conversation between them, going on in their heads.

Tony: I wish we were heading to my apartment instead of her dorm.

Karen: I wish he would ask me to his apartment instead of taking me home.

Tony: What do I say?

Karen: I wish he would say something, anything.

“So, you made my night a little brighter too Karen. I didn’t expect a pretty cheerleader to even notice me.”

Karen slid over to Tony’s side and held his hand. “You’re not so bad looking yourself. Did you think dating a cheerleader was out of your league?”

Tony’s life quickly passed through his brain. “She said dating a cheerleader!” It’s a dream come true, unless she is already with a player from the football team. It’s worse than having an affair. If he found out, he could punish you on a regular basis. You couldn’t just disappear, especially once they got your class schedule and address. Worse yet, he had 60 or 70 teammates you could run into, literally!

“Tell you the truth. No, I never considered it a possibility.” Tony hoped Karen would give him one more sign to proceed. At the stop sign in front of her dorm, she leaned over and kissed him. “My roommate went home for the weekend. Aren’t you going to come in?” and she closed the door and ran to the door.

That was the sign. Tony parked quickly and ran to catch up with her. They made love for the next hours, aided by some champagne she just happened to have in her fridge. Low lights and soft music from her stereo intensified the mood. Tony gave her a massage while he recovered, hoping the night would never end.

Then there was a knock on the door, a pounding! Karen looked at him, threw on her robe and went to look out the security hole to see who was there. Tony’s heart and imagination were racing to what could be an ignominious finish of a glorious night. He could make out some muffled sound from the door.

“Oh.” She turned to Tony. “It’s only my roommate; she forgot her house key.”

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Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle eBook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino