Howard sat at a table by the window, eating a breakfast of fried eggs, hash-browns, and toast. Two men, one fat, and the other thin, sat at a table near Howard and carried on a conversation everybody in the small diner could hear.

The fat man, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with Real Men Ride Harleys, leaned back in his chair and said to the thin man, “I have a million dollars.” Howard thought he detected a trace of smug satisfaction in the man’s voice.

“A million dollars,” the thin man exclaimed. “That’s really something. I wish I had a million dollars.” His voice quivered with awe, or, Howard thought, possibly admiration, but more likely envy of the fat man’s riches.

Howard glanced at the two men. The fat man smiled at Howard. He was enjoying crushing the thin man and was pleased to have someone watch him do it.

“I live in a big house on seven acres,” the fat man said, his voice bumping up a few decibels. “All paid for, too.” Again, the self-satisfied tone.

“I wish I had that much land,” the thin man said. He pushed some hash browns over his plate with his fork then put it down. “I’ll never own a house.”

“I’m a veteran, you know. The Marines,” the fat man crowed. He lifted his head and jutted out his chin, remembering the glory days when he was young and wore the uniform.

“I wish I was a veteran,” the thin man said, deflated by the successes of the man sitting opposite him.

Howard laughed out loud.

“Not to worry, fellas,” Howard said to them. “It comes out even in the end for all of us when we’re put in that box and dropped in a hole in the ground or our ashes are poured into a cheap urn and tossed in the back of a closet and forgotten.” Howard paused briefly then continued. “Or we could end up naked on a table in the dissection lab and have some smart-ass medical student say, “Who embalmed this guy? Look at the size of that boner.”

Howard laughed out loud again, left a generous tip by his plate, and walked out of the diner.

Robert P. Bishop lives in Tucson, AZ

She doesn’t have much pick-up but she gets everyone where they need to go. Round and round she goes, from the portico out front of the hotel down to the strip and back. Between the two vans, there’s a shuttle coming through every eight minutes.

You would think that would be enough to satisfy most guests. You never have to wait more than eight minutes to get underway. But people on vacation don’t seem to know how to relax. They board the shuttle van and make nervous chitchat for a few minutes and then get borderline belligerent if we don’t get moving right away. In a hurry to get down to the casino and lose their money, their sense of time, and in some cases, their minds.

“Just waiting for a few more guests before we head out. Want to give everyone a chance to get down to the strip.” What I really wanted to say is “Pipe down, asshole. We’ll get there when we get there.”

But semi-retired geezers can’t afford to be rude to the tourists. In our laughable three hours of training, they stressed to us how the shuttle drivers are just as representative of the hotel as the desk clerk or the concierge. “You’re the face of the hotel as much as any other employee,” were the exact words. If that’s true, the hotel is looking mighty tired.

We don’t earn tips like the airport shuttle drivers often do when they assist passengers with luggage. Just our ten bucks an hour and no real bennies to speak of. The choice of hefting heavy luggage or just doing the driving was easy for me. Why throw your back out for a few dollars in tips. I’ll just be polite and helpful to the guests and take my check.

I do have a reoccurring fantasy while I’m driving. I just keep driving past the strip and none of the passengers say anything. Mile after mile out into the desert I drive until you can no longer see the tall buildings or the bright lights at night. Finally I stop along a stretch of highway that is completely desolate. I open the door. “Okay folks, this is your stop. Remember, the shuttle runs every thirty days, so be sure you come back to this stop when you’re ready to return. Good luck and I hope everyone’s a winner.”

It’s not much, but this fantasy can keep a man happy for hour after hour of going round and round, and that means a lot when you’re semi-retired.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. You can also visit his author page here. His newest mystery novel, Rio Puerco Demise is available on Amazon here. His first mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon.

After seventy it was clear to me that there would no longer be such a thing as a “routine” checkup.

“Well now, hello there, Dr. Harold H. Stuart, MD? How are you, my esteemed personal physician and long-time friend?”

“Great, really great, thanks for asking. You look good, Jack. Let’s see, this chart says the last time you were in the office was August. Are you and the new girlfriend still playing golf?”

“All the time. She’s getting really good, drives the ball a few yards past me and putts like Lexi Thompson.”

“Sounds serious. Here, take off the jacket, please, and let me check your blood pressure.”

“Oh, sure. We’re not serious serious. It doesn’t really feel like love or anything. I’d say we have lots of fun being together, most of the time. Both of us are twice burned, you know. Wasn’t her first ex one of your patients?”

“Right. Benjamin Reed. Moved up to Denver, I think, after they split up. Your BP is 136 over 82, Jack- which is just about right for your age. Good to see you keeping the weight off.”

“Yeah, it’s a struggle, but I feel better when my jeans aren’t so tight in the waist.”

“Are you still taking the Prozac? And that’s it for your medications?”

“Yeah, just 25 milligrams once a day. “I don’t really feel the difference, but Janice says I’m a lot easier to be around when I take it. So I take it.”

“I hear that from a lot of patients. How did it go with the dermatologist? You saw Dr. Lee I believe?”

“Yeah. She’s good. There are some spots up here on the top of my head that she called “suspicious.” She did a biopsy and sent it off to the lab. I haven’t heard anything, so I guess no news is good news, don’t you think?”

“I have a note to return a call from her that came in today. Before you go, let me just take a quick look at your scalp. Well, there appears to be a little inflammation up here. Is it sensitive to the touch?”

“No, not too much. I notice it sometimes when I shampoo.”

“Okay, let me give Dr. Lee a call this afternoon and I’ll be in touch with you first thing tomorrow. Always good to see you, my friend. Stay well.”

And I’m supposed to sleep tonight?

Harpeth Rivers is a New Mexico transplant from all over who has written songs about isosceles triangles, played bass guitar in a band, and declared himself “Retro-eclectic.” His novel-in-progress is entitled Last Year.

Don’t know who came up with this list, so I just have to hope it’s in the public domain. It’s definitely in the funny domain.

1. When one door closes and another door opens, you are probably in prison.

2. To me, “drink responsibly” means don’t spill it.

3. Age 60 might be the new 40, but 9:00 pm is the new midnight.

4. It’s the start of a brand new day, and I’m off like a herd of turtles.

5. The older I get, the earlier it gets late.

6. When I say, “The other day,” I could be referring to any time between yesterday and 15 years ago.

7. I remember being able to get up without making sound effects.

8. I had my patience tested. I’m negative.

9. Remember, if you lose a sock in the dryer, it comes back as a Tupperware lid that doesn’t fit any of your containers.

10. If you’re sitting in public and a stranger takes the seat next to you, just stare straight ahead and say, “Did you bring the money?”

11. When you ask me what I am doing today, and I say “nothing,” it does not mean I am free. It means I am doing nothing.

12. I finally got eight hours of sleep. It took me three days, but whatever.

13. I run like the winded.

14. I hate when a couple argues in public, and I missed the beginning and don’t know whose side I’m on.

15. When someone asks what I did over the weekend, I squint and ask, “Why, what did you hear?”

16. When you do squats, are your knees supposed to sound like a goat chewing on an aluminum can stuffed with celery?

17. I don’t mean to interrupt people. I just randomly remember things and get really excited.

18. When I ask for directions, please don’t use words like “east.”

19. Don’t bother walking a mile in my shoes. That would be boring. Spend 30 seconds in my head. That’ll freak you right out.

20. Sometimes, someone unexpected comes into your life out of nowhere, makes your heart race, and changes you forever. We call those people cops.

21. My luck is like a bald guy who just won a comb.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

I fill my mouth with summer, lips purple from the juice of tart blueberries I pluck from the bushes. Just past the ripening tomatoes my mother bends down to harvest a perfect cantaloupe. The smell of green is heavy in muggy August air as we amble from our garden toward the modest split level we call home. I follow my mother through the screen door and into the kitchen, where the mustard yellow linoleum cools my small bare feet.

My mother places the melon in a fruit bowl and smooths black bangs off her serious face. Sensing movement outside the window she peers through the glass.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispers to them, to herself.

On tiptoe I can see above the sill and watch as two sandy-haired teenagers, maybe twins, sun-blessed and confident, stride across our yard and past our garden. On long legs they easily vault our split rail fence and land in the farmer’s field. They will ramble past the rooster, hens, and haystacks, past the old red barn to the creek, where clear cold water rushes over rocks like laughter from boys’ mouths.

My mother jolts into action and grabs her weapons: a basting brush from a drawer and a jar of Sue Bee Clover Honey from a cupboard, where it resides next to her bottle of nerve pills. Armed with brush and honey, my mother pushes hard against the whining screen door and marches outside. I follow this aproned warrior, two steps of mine to each one of hers. I follow her through our yard and past our garden to our fence, where we stop under the cloudless sky.

I sit cross-legged in the grass and watch my mother briskly paint the grey wooden slats with golden honey. She paints and paints until the honey is gone and the fence glistens in the sun. A sickly sweet scent rises in the afternoon heat.

My mother steps back to survey the work and breathes deeply, arms folded over her chest. Beads of sweat wander down her flushed cheeks. I stand up and tug on her thin cotton dress.

“Mom,” I say, “why did you put all that honey on our fence?”

Through a tight smile she tells me the sandy-haired boys will be sorry they ever cut through our yard. “When they come back,” she says, “those boys will stick to it like flies.”

Tess Kelly lives and writes in Portland, Oregon.