56 comments

Contemporary Fiction Funny

Using a drug-dusted straw to snort the last line of an 8-ball of coke, drinking the last drop of vodka from the bottle, I tossed both in the trash. When my second marriage ended, I was heartbroken and half crazy. The months following, I excessively self-medicated, which rarely works well for anyone. Yet, for me it almost did.


It’s said you must hit rock bottom to find the road to recovery, and that was true for me. I had to pass through one of two doors. Through one, I was dying in a room due to my current lifestyle. Let’s call that Door Number One. Through the other, I was returning to what I loved and always wanted to do. We’ll call that Door Number Two.  Standing shakily, I walked unsteadily through Door Number Two. And there was music.    


Years before my second marriage to a painter/photographer ended, I’d stopped writing and playing music. The tiny music instruction business I ran on the Upper East Side of NYC had blossomed into an impressive cottage industry; with a schedule so overbooked I commissioned some other teachers to bear the load. I had no time to rehearse, write, or book gigs (none of which provided as good a return on my time as teaching). Successful people say time is money. Ironically, they neglect to mention making that money will leave little time for anything else.


After passing through that door, I grabbed a neck brace with a blues harmonica in place and slipped it on, then removed my Martin guitar from its case to sit atop my lap. It wasn’t tuned, but with a few twists and turns of the tuning pegs, it was in standard tuning. Experimenting with chords and riffs a progression caught my ear. Those sounds spoke to me, unlocking buried feelings. Hoarsely, I started singing to what I was playing, and this poured straight from my soul:


We talk about dead painters, discuss tomorrow’s news

It’s another night ending, and daylight’s shining through

So, I study your expression, sometimes your eyes won’t let me in

While you tell me another story about Picasso’s evil twin


Sometimes I think you’re Medusa, deadly snakes move all around your head

But you brush away the danger, through 1001 deaths you’ve lived

Maybe you’re Amelia Earhart, flying off into the night

With intuition as your co-pilot, you’re an artist borne in flight


Let me study your expression, ‘cause your eyes won’t let me in

And tell me more about the life of Picasso’s evil twin.

Who knows if you’ll paint like him, you understand the attitude

I hear you speaking clearly, and that’s not what most people do


So, put it in your pipe and smoke it, go home and read it in your tarot cards

Just when I thought kindred spirits, only slept buried in my backyard

It’s time for a philosophy lesson, tonight when you appear again

Please tell me another story and bring Picasso’s evil twin


Tell me; tell me one more story before the moon goes in

And sign all your paintings

With lots of love,

From Picasso’s evil twin


(Take a listen: https://youtu.be/8j6p1Jl_aqM)


I titled the tune saving me that night, “Picasso’s Evil Twin.” A dam had burst and I was reborn to perform and create anew. For weeks, song after song spilled from lips and fingertips like some melodic waterfall. I’d book an East Village sound studio to record the instrumental and vocal sections, and after a few sessions, the owner of that home studio announced he was off with his band to tour Japan, suggesting I could sublet the place while he was gone to cover his rent while away, and I could continue to record whenever I felt inspired.


Spring had ended, and the sticky summer of 1990 had begun. Farming out my remaining students to those commissioned, I sublet my uptown apartment and moved downtown to Greenwich Village, taking up residence in the studio, across the street from the NYC Chapter of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club. Most importantly, I had maintained sobriety. 


I renewed former exercise habits—jogging and calisthenics at daybreak— followed by a workout with free weights discovered in the studio. I maintained a strict diet. Meals consisted of grilled chicken or canned tuna (without mayonnaise), greens topped with unsweetened yogurt, and four Saltine crackers. I was losing the weight I’d gained as a lethargic addict and regaining muscle tone I was once proud of. Healthier than in years; I felt great. Like a rock star—no—a rock god! 


If you’re a rock god you’d best dress like one. No better places to adopt new fashions or accessorize than Greenwich Village boutiques. My body looked as it had in the 1970s. If you’ve got it—flaunt it. And flaunt it I did: skintight clothes exposing as much muscle and skin as the law allowed then accessorized with biker jewelry and other punked-out accouterments. I was sexy again, damn it, and I planned to bed every woman who could walk and a few who couldn’t. Why be picky when you can be well sated?


My blue jeans were stonewashed and snug, particularly the crotch. I opted to go commando-style with my bits and pieces bulging through the faded fabric, daring the dolls to grab them. Why? Because I was now too sexy for my pants. Sleeves and collars were cut to maximize the visibility of my sculpted biceps, abs, and pecs. Why? Because I was now too sexy for my shirts. Skull rings adorned my fingers, and chrome-plated chains around my wrists and dangled from my belt. Why? Because I was now too sexy for my own damn good, I guess.


With new surroundings, new lifestyle, new body, new clothes, comes new ideas. I was immersing myself in music, but I wasn’t able to write enough to fill the recording time now afforded. Since I lived in a center of the music universe and had a pretty cool sonic salon for the upcoming months, I’d scout new talent to produce and record. For female artists I opened the doors and permitted them—as long as I was at the board—to lay down tracks for free, even offering to shop the product to my record company contacts. What could go wrong with that? 


After morning exercise, recording afternoon to evening, I’d scarf down salads and crackers then later set out prowling like a vampire at night. I’d informed the bouncers at club doors I was a label scout, so most would allow me in without a cover charge. It’s good publicity for clubs to garner a reputation as a hotspot for new talent to be discovered; a win-win for all as well as a way to save my money.


Many of the places I trolled are defunct or departed now: CBGB & OMFUG, Bottom Line, Tramps, Limelight, Max’s, Mudd Club, Tunnel, Roxy, Coney Island High, Cat Club, Wetlands, Knitting Factory, Ritz, and Bitter End. Prey was easy and the hunt an adventure. After visiting my studio for the first session, we’d hang out and party after a second visit (they’d drink whatever—I drank so much club soda I probably have CO2 bubbles in my bloodstream), we’d go to dinner, return to try new ideas, and end up in the sack. Ba-Da-Bing-Ba-Da-Boom!


Once, you’d probably call me a nice guy. One who places women’s wants and needs above his. The gentleman women lament is no longer around; who treats them like a queen more precious than the world. But my resurrection—new lifestyle, body, clothes, and accessories—came bundled with a new attitude: No More Mr. Nice Guy!


I never believed tales of how women loved bad boys, but I learned fast. Most women I met then were struggling artists clawing to the top and had their agendas. Many were ruthless; using others as stepping stones. Lots were just downright self-centered, nasty, or evil little toadstools; the ones I found most satisfying to grind my ax of misogynistic revenge upon. After my second wife left, any relationships I fell into ended badly. Why play nice when you can play any way you want and get away with it?


One night at CBGB, after squashing a few cockroaches crawling on the bar, I prepared to leave when a band with a cheesy name that sounded like “fromage” hit the stage. The guys in the band sucked, but the slutty-looking singer had something. Remaining through their sloppy set I introduced myself, complimenting their performance, handing out my business card, and they asked me to join them for a drink. I suggested they set up an appointment to come record some songs for free. If we worked well together, we’d strike a deal. If not—part ways—they keep the demo. During our tête-à-tête, I intentionally paid little attention to their singer; Ashley.


Next day, after exercising, the phone rang. Ashley. After I’d left the group had a meeting, and she wanted to come by to talk. I told her to come around eight. Right on the dot, the bell rang. There, stood Ashley in a short-short blood-red crushed velvet dress matching her heavily painted lips and providing a cleavage-baring plunging neckline, stiletto heels with ripped black fishnets. With her was the un-tuned guitarist. They had an uncorked bottle of wine to drink while I sipped seltzer. 


They were married. José from Spain, working as a jewelry store engraver, she from a town in New Jersey, and spoke of how the voice was her “instrument” that she took great care of, that music’s her “life,” and she’d “do anything to make it in the business”. At her insistence, he’d learned guitar that year, filling in for her previous one. We listened to their horrible cassette tape demo, told them I’d do better then we scheduled a date. During the evening, hubby excused himself to go outdoors for a smoke. Though an ex-smoker, I said he could smoke inside, Ashley explained he wasn’t allowed to because it’d damage her “instrument.” Believe I rolled my eyes. 


The band line-up: husband on un-tuned guitar, a New Zealand drummer, bassist from God knows where who said nothing and Ashley on the mic. I helped them set up and they ran through a song they wanted to record so I could set levels. Percussive Kiwi and Silent Bass weren’t that bad when it was just them and Ashley. But José playing along, it all fell apart. Even though I’d tuned his guitar, he strummed with such a heavy hand it detuned immediately. Using my previous teaching experience, I tried to help out, but that only made him nervous, and he’d take cigarette breaks to calm down. During these breaks, Ashley apologized profusely for her husband’s lack of professionalism as the other band members sat around looking as bored as broccoli. Finally, a suggestion was floated: we’d get the bass/drum tracks down then let José take the tracks to practice with, and could return tomorrow to dub in what we couldn’t get today. Everyone agreed, and the rhythm section was recorded.


Let me tell you a bit about José. He was a nice enough fellow, but reminded me of a Chihuahua; small, wiry, nervous, fidgety. He had a Castilian lisp, chain-smoked, and though he suffered from stomach ulcers, drank his scotch straight, and dabbled with heroin (something Ashley shared with me during pillow talk), though still in the smoking and snorting stages. He was bisexual (another tidbit Ashley shared in post-coital chats). When José’s bisexuality came out of the closet he’s disowned and exiled by his family. I felt bad for him, but not so bad that I wouldn’t jump his wife’s bones at my earliest convenience. Oh, and as a musician he sucked.


The band had heard me playing the parts I tried to teach José, and while he was outside smoking, asked me to track them instead. When they returned for the next session, I had recorded it but said not a word. Neither did José. Since enough of the instrumentation was complete to work on the vocal tracks, I suggested that all but Ashley take off, so she could do her thing in a less pressured setting. The rhythm section, a.k.a. Kiwi and Silent Bass, couldn’t wait to leave. José protested, but Ashley wouldn’t hear of it, so he packed up his guitar, and with tail between legs sulked out the door.


Ashley always brought wine to my place to have a few glasses between takes and overdubs. We worked well and fast together that first night, in both the vocal booth, then in my loft bed afterward. First times may not always be the best, but they certainly are lots of fun. José called several times, but it went to voicemail because we were “recording.” After four in the morning, that’s what Ashley told him when she returned home. Don’t know what else she said, but it was the dawn of a series of recording dates that ended with us naked most nights.   


As lovers do, we traded notes. I don’t recall telling Ashley how I cowardly weaseled out of my first marriage by leaving letters exchanged with my future second wife in the open to be discovered. Whoops! Maybe I did share that tidbit during post-coital conversations because she pulled the same stunt on her husband with our secretly scribbled screeds. He kicked her out of the apartment leased in his name and she had nowhere to go. She called crying on a payphone from some West Village street, asking what she’s going to do. Like a fool, I invited, “Come to my place.” She did.


At first, it was okay. The home studio owner returned from Japan, and I had moved back to the Upper East Side. To continue with my music and producing others for a fee, I built my own home facility. José filed for divorce, and as Ashley didn’t have a job or any source of income, I supported us. My future third ex-wife wanted to chip in with expenses and had an idea: she’d work for me giving voice lessons at my teaching business, coaching or singing backup for my production clients. I agreed to the arrangement.


Ashley wrote new tunes to record, so more and more of my time was consumed by co-writing, producing, engineering, mixing, and playing the instruments on her tracks, and less time on mine. She was my shadow, and when I’d compose, she’d begin to sing her latest lyrics over what I was working and hijack the songs. Worst of all, she’d direct how I’d play; faster, slower, softer, or louder. Telling me to repeat or remove sections, among slews of other annoying instructions.


The final straw that broke the camel’s creative back began, “What if you used a different chord there?”


“What chord would you like?”


“Just a different one.”


“You want any chord other than what I’m playing?’


“No, I want the right one!”


“Then tell me the right chord you want to replace the wrong chord!”


“I don’t any chord names!!”


“I know the names of the chords, and there are none named ‘right’ or ‘wrong’!!”


“You know what I mean!!!”


“If I did, we wouldn’t be arguing!!!”


“I know what you’re really thinking!!!!”


“If you knew what I was thinking, you’d know it’s I hate hearing you know what I’m ‘really’ thinking!!!!” using air quotes as I shouted ‘really’.


“Yes, I do. You think you know about music because you studied it and that I know nothing about it because I didn’t, but there’s more to music than that!!!!!” she screamed.


“Share what about music I don’t know but you do!!!!!” my sarcastic words drip with acid.


“I don’t know—you tell me!!!!!!”


“If you don’t like my chords, why don’t you find chords you want to use?!?!?!?”


“I DON’T KNOW HOW TO PLAY ANY DAMN CHORDS!!!!!!!!”


“LEARN—MAYBE YOU’LL START COMPOSING YOUR OWN MUSIC AND STOP STEALING MINE. THEN I CAN GET BACK TO WRITING WHAT I WANT, WHEN I WANT, WITH CHORDS, WORDS, MELODIES, AND IDEAS I WANT INSTEAD OF ALWAYS DOING IT FOR YOU!!!!!!!!”


The discussion had escalated into an argument at a rate that neither cared to control. Ashley left the room with a shriek, and I sat there in silence, returned my guitar to its case, and never again played or wrote another new piece of music.


Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years. Once Ashley was in, there was no getting her out. Bedbugs had nothing on this woman when it came to being a pest. Our fights became louder and meaner. Contests of contention, arguments the only occasions we said more than empty words to each other, and each punctuated by her leaving for days.


We’d break up one day—be back together the next. On one of her returns, while making-up, the subject of marriage was broached. Who brought it up remains forgotten. The nuptial process moved quickly. For the previous year, we’d mostly argued and fought. It was a disastrous, unhealthy, toxic relationship. By the end, we’d become simply terrible to one another, and it was absolutely hopeless.


On February 14, 1994—Valentine’s Day—we got the license at City Hall. We were marrying for all the wrong reasons. I do remember that between getting the license and our vows, I tried to call it off, but she wouldn’t hear of it. This ignited more confrontations. Defeated and married by a county clerk, I tied the knot on February 24, 1994. On May 27, 1999, a judgment of divorce issued by the same county clerk’s office thankfully ended Ashley’s second and my third marriage. Beware the door you choose open.


May 23, 2021 18:38

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56 comments

Kelly Dennison
19:18 May 26, 2021

Impressive. I love the figurative doors as a metaphor for choosing the path before you. I took a listen! It's a cool, steady jam. That's a lot of talent...writing a story, incorporating lyrics from a song you've already written and performed. Man...that's just super neat! I don't know why, but I enjoy reading the moments when a character breaks...when they turn ugly. There's so much more to be seen about a person when they finally fracture enough to hit rock bottom. Nicely done! Also...I don't know if this was meant to be humoro...

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Stevie B
19:52 May 26, 2021

Thank you, Kelly, especially for traveling the extra mile to check out the actual recording of the song. Your words mean so much to me.

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Babika Goel
17:44 Jul 09, 2021

That was beautiful work. The lyrics of the song in between are cool. Seems you have a love for music or perhaps you have a band.

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Stevie B
17:51 Jul 09, 2021

Babika, thank you, and been blessedly and gainfully involved as a professional in the entertainment industry for more than a half-century.

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Babika Goel
18:15 Jul 09, 2021

Wow. Nice. Would google and hear your work. When you have musical style in your writings I'm sure your music must be awesome.

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Babika Goel
18:15 Jul 09, 2021

Wow. Nice. Would google and hear your work. When you have musical style in your writings I'm sure your music must be awesome.

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Stevie B
18:27 Jul 09, 2021

If you'd like to listen to the song in the story here it is: https://youtu.be/8j6p1Jl_aqM Please Like/Subscribe/Comment while you're there. Thank you.

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Babika Goel
18:40 Jul 09, 2021

Amazing music. Loved it. Subscribed, commented liked.

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Babika Goel
18:40 Jul 09, 2021

Amazing music. Loved it. Subscribed, commented liked.

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Stevie B
18:41 Jul 09, 2021

Thank you!

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Julian Race
16:11 Jul 06, 2021

Hi Stevie B, Another great story written from the heart. Loved the song also, sounds like something I would play on my own guitar. Do you have it published anywhere or can I listen to it somewhere? Wouldn't mind the chords also. I'm glad you liked my story The Fosse or the Fly. I will follow you as we seem to be reading each others work and I'm a musician too, played a lot in France but hey, that is another story. Regards, Julian

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Stevie B
17:29 Jul 06, 2021

Julian, you may take a listen here: https://youtu.be/8j6p1Jl_aqM. The chords are merely a standard I, Iv, V, vi progression which I recorded in the key of (so: G, C, D, Am chords). Thanks for your comment!

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Ruth Porritt
05:08 Jun 11, 2021

Hello Stevie B, I also enjoyed this story. I have gone to AA style recovery programs (for non-substance abuse issues) and I appreciate stories about how people, myself included, try to "fix" themselves. I can also relate to working on external stuff (exercise, diet, creative pursuits, relationships) and ignoring holes in my soul. :) Isn't it always easier to focus on the external? Last, but not least, I enjoyed the NYC description. (NYC is a magical city, to me, and I liked learning about what it was like to live there in the 90s.) Many...

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Stevie B
11:42 Jun 11, 2021

Thank you, Ruth. During a portion of my often, but very enjoyable misspent youth I found myself on both sides of the addiction desk. Obviously I'm referring to the side detailed in this story, but I also harbor a deep, dark secret (and please don't share this with anyone): for a short time I was a practicing NYC psychotherapist/hypnotherapist who mainly dealt with the cessation of addictive behavior. After a short stint I left that field to return to making an honest living in the arts. Go figure...

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Ruth Porritt
09:46 Jun 12, 2021

No worries, I know (from personal experience) that everyone has issues with addiction of some kind. Teachers, athletes, musicians, bank tellers, pastors, etc., everyone is addicted to something. Of course, I know that not everyone is addicted to drugs or alcohol, but I don't think anyone can judge someone for having a disease, just like no one can judge anyone for having cancer. What I do know is that everyone needs a supportive community (sometimes many different supportive communities) to recover from addiction. (Also, the ability to for...

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Joan Wright
22:56 Jun 10, 2021

Great story. I loved trying to figure out where the main character would end up. He remained true to character throughout. I liked how he was so easily taken over. Even after creating his whole new self. Great use of words.

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Stevie B
23:24 Jun 10, 2021

Joan, in my experience we all become our worst enemies when we're not being kind to one another.

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Marianna Mills
18:34 Jun 01, 2021

Nice job on the prompt, lovely smooth writing styles and so real. I always kept my Martin in "Open D" tuning, slide and blues. Never saw 8-ball typed out like that in referring to blow, usually just a "ball of blow" on the table. Oh well, my opinion, I miss my old Martin though had a lot of fun jammin with it banging out the tunes I wrote, I did love how you instilled your own songs in this story. Oh and the last line "Beware the door you choose open" should it not read "Beware of the door you choose?" Since as the audience we already k...

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Stevie B
18:48 Jun 01, 2021

Marianna, thanks for your comment and thanks for the heads up on the typo.

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Marianna Mills
19:44 Jun 01, 2021

no worries, I am far from perfect, lol. Feel free to read my stuff and comment back anytime, I am just experimenting with styles right now. getting in the mood to write something deeply gritty with a heat wave on the way, lol.

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Stevie B
19:51 Jun 01, 2021

I will-thanks!

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Ruth Ann Barnett
14:25 Jun 01, 2021

So, I study your expression, sometimes your eyes won’t let me in...such an amazing line which for me, speaks to some emotional maturity your main character has acquired through his adventures with his two previous wives. And yet, he almost slips back through the door into his dysfunctional life even though he clearly seems to know better. The road to recovery is precarious! Thanks for including the link to your song. Impressive!

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Stevie B
14:33 Jun 01, 2021

Thank you for your feedback and support, Ruthann.

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S. Closson
05:56 Jun 01, 2021

This story felt incredibly raw and authentic. While the main character has his fair share of flaws, they make him very interesting and add an edge to his wit that cuts deep. Very enjoyable. After I finished your story I went back to check out the song and I really dig it. Awesome work all around!

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Stevie B
12:20 Jun 01, 2021

Many thanks for the kind and encouraging words, my friend.

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Charlie Murphy
17:41 May 31, 2021

Great story! I think it would be better if you stretch some scenes out.

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Stevie B
19:15 May 31, 2021

To be honest Charlie this is actually an edit of the story as originally written story (which was over 6000 words) and had to be trimmed to confirm with Reedsy's 3000 word limit. That being said, I found it to be a wonderful strengthening exercise in writing skill to have to do so, and I so appreciate the opportunity, and challenge, Reedsy offers to all writers via these competition prompts which help build on our writing skills. Reedsy has become an invaluable tool to me in my work and I wish to, as we all should, to express gratitude for t...

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Charlie Murphy
19:30 May 31, 2021

Yes, I feel like my writing has improved by doing these challenges. I'm getting quicker too. Can I read your original story?

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Stevie B
20:04 May 31, 2021

It originally appeared in a different form as part of is trilogy I wrote about my 3 ex-wives in my latest novel which was titled "The Freak Fungal Family Tree", and may be read in it's entirety here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-dbs/entity/author/B092KGQZ5P?_encoding=UTF8&node=2656022011&offset=0&pageSize=12&searchAlias=stripbooks&sort=author-sidecar-rank&page=1&langFilter=default#formatSelectorHeader (and I do apologize to to wonderful people at Reedsy if sharing this URL is unappropriated, and if so I will promptly remove it from this rep...

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Richard Hawkins
23:59 May 29, 2021

I was once given the advice that you never trade up when you get divorce you always get something worst. This story looks like living proof. Great story

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Stevie B
02:03 May 30, 2021

And sagely advice such as yours, Richard, is often ignored when a man does his thinking with any other body part other than his brain. I'm just saying...

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Ruth Smith
18:36 May 27, 2021

Great story. Loved the flow. Suggestion: Towards the end you wrote "On February 14, 1994—Valentine’s Day—we got the license ay City Hall. " You might want to change "ay" to "at".

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Stevie B
19:33 May 27, 2021

Great catch on the ay vs at, and thank you for that and your comment!

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Ruth Smith
12:14 May 28, 2021

No problem! Glad to help.

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Stevie B
19:50 Jun 01, 2021

Thanks again.

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:}} Silverstar
06:32 May 27, 2021

Felt very authentic! A nicely developed story, owed to your well-integrated descriptions in the world-building of your fictional piece 💕 which had a very intimate-like feel to it.

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Stevie B
11:43 May 27, 2021

Luisa, thank you very much. As to authenticity I must admit that most of what was written was true, but some names, and a few details, were changed in order to protect the innocent and avoid future lawsuits...

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:}} Silverstar
12:35 May 27, 2021

I see. The beauty of writing extends even into reality! Life-inspired stories have a certain depth to them, and I think it's grand to draw from existing experiences, especially if a moment or incident you've been through has impelled you to create something out of it! Keep up the great work!

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Stevie B
19:49 Jun 01, 2021

I agree, Luisa.

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Francis Daisy
23:25 May 26, 2021

Damn, your dialogue! Spot on terrific!

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Stevie B
23:45 May 26, 2021

Thank you very much for your support, Amy!

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Francis Daisy
00:41 May 27, 2021

Did not expect your voice to sound like it did. Isn't that always funny when you "hear" a narrator's voice in your head and then you watch the movie or play and it is completely different? But, that being said, the voice fits the character. It suits. Gravelly. Nice.

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Stevie B
11:49 May 27, 2021

Amy, my goal was to experiment with a multi-medium combination in order to create something more that just 3000 written words for a writing competition. So it's very rewarding to discover that you and other readers actually took the time to check out the actual song on YouTube. You all make it so worth while. Thank you!

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Karen Monroe
01:50 May 26, 2021

Great story about personal awareness and relationships…characters were well fleshed, whether naked or not

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Stevie B
02:39 May 26, 2021

Underneath our clothes we're all naked, after all. Thanks, Karen!

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Hana J
03:45 May 25, 2021

Thanks for the like on my story. Also, I could learn a lot from your dialogue, it seems I'm afraid to use all caps lol. SO HERE I GO, , ,

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Stevie B
10:53 May 25, 2021

Thank you, Hana, may the upper case letters be with you!

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Renata Paschoal
16:07 May 24, 2021

Loved the pace! Great ride!

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Stevie B
18:27 May 24, 2021

Renata, so glad you enjoyed reading this tale.

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Diwerne Subi
07:31 May 24, 2021

Nice work

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Stevie B
11:27 May 24, 2021

Thank you!

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Stevie B
18:42 May 23, 2021

FULL DISCLOSURE: I neither condone nor support the behavior of any of the characters in this tiny tawdry tale

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Karen Monroe
01:53 May 26, 2021

No fair…writing requires you to breathe your characters -flaws and all…condoning or supporting them will eventually limit the beauty of who they are

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Stevie B
02:42 May 26, 2021

Yet, an author does not have to like them. Especially when the resemblance to the author is a bit too close for comfort...

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Karen Monroe
01:59 May 28, 2021

Indeed, you’re right about that…and don’t all of our characters own a part of ourselves…

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Stevie B
11:30 May 28, 2021

Lock, stock, and barrel!

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