Dancing at the El Moro

It is all boarded up now, sin and all.

Filled with passion, lust and abandon,

I once danced at the El Moro.

Any sanity or reason far off

No one knew me here, just a white gringo pig

Or so they called me when

I once danced at the El Moro.

Bejeweled women all flimsy and nice,

Hustles left and right, seen through

Some azure created by shots of straight Jack.

I once danced at the El Moro.

  I wanted to risk all in a messy place.

Bold and crazy, I forgot I was old.

I once danced at the El Moro.

There are fences and spaces in life though.

Those with scowls on their faces looked at me.

Disdain and looks of hate, I did not belong there.

I once danced at the El Moro.

I did not care. Then I heard a sermon from somewhere.

They like me had no souls, just waiting for hell.

There were still places I wanted to go.

All boarded up now, sin and all.

I once danced at the El Moro.

The Pale District by David Young

Vancouver is many things at once, an international city, the California of Canada, the sophistication of the Brits, a commerce center, a frontier town with only Anchorage to its North. Distinct Districts like Yaletown, Gastown, Chinatown, Commercial Street, Granville Island and the West End are all places tourists know well, each a jewel in itself. There is another Vancouver though, the Pale District. The Pale District is unseen except to those that live there. While not found on a map, it still holds the city together. It exists between the glitz of the downtown core and its hard edges winding back and forth through the old East Side where the business core once existed. The district always draws my camera and today was no exception. I sat in front of a small café with my coffee making last minute camera adjustments. The sun of the morning began to warm me and reveal the pale muted colors of old buildings, which gives the district its name. A steady stream of workers heading into the city who would cook meals, clean buildings and stack shelves walked by me. I knew it would be a great day for wandering and pictures. The Pale District is full transition. Shop and restaurant owners holding off the press of bigger competition with what uniqueness they can muster. People pulling themselves up from the desperation of heroin alley to the East, immigrants finding their way in a new country, service workers who keep the city going, people who have fallen from the ranks of the greater city and those with great dreams destined for its glitz. The Pale District is full of old buildings that have withstood change, worn and waiting for new purpose. Graffiti and posters with messages only known here. Every walk in the Pale District is unique. The only constants are the dignity of the people, the buildings that stand their ground and above all, the hope of the next day.

The Dirty Apron by Kathleen Young

                                                                                                   

It is 8AM. I am standing in front of The Dirty Apron Cooking School in Vancouver, BC. Tucked inside an elegant building in the Cross Town district it houses a bustling delicatessen and large well-known culinary school. Through the windows, I see huge grills, gleaming industrial ovens and beautifully laid out cooking stations. A total of six have signed up for class. A couple arrives late, parking their Harley’s, apologizing, pulling off leather gloves and stashing helmets. They prove to have the best culinary skills in the class. A young newlywed couple, Sophie and John are there. In contrast to her excitement, he looks as if he would like to be anywhere but here. Another couple, both attorneys, begin challenging each other on proper ways of setting up. And there is me, not entirely new to cooking classes but eager to learn.

Listed as a 7 hour Italian “Mama Mia” class our instructor, Chef Takashi, hands out plans for the day. He asks us a few questions on our experience. No doubt evaluating how much of his participation will be required. In the end, he requests an assistant from the kitchen to help…not a complete vote of confidence!
From scratch each student will prepare:
Ravioli/with arugula goat cheese filling topped with Walnut and Sage Butter. Grilled Lamb Sirloin with Herb Ricotta Gnocchi and Chanterelle Crème Sauce. Lemon Panna Cotta with Candied Lemon Zest
Hours pass. Chef Takashi pivots around our workstations encouraging, persuasive, and patient. At some point, my brain freezes with all the details. Multitasking becomes merely a theory. Garlic burns and I start over. The chanterelle crème sauce has broken and looks...odd. Turning around I see two ingredients that did not make it into the sauce. Smiling, Chef tells me “I have seen worse!” And so goes the rest of the day. I am tired, shoulders ache and hair on my arm has somehow singed. However, in the end, sitting with the group, enjoying the results it dawns that I could not be happier.

So here are some suggestions and thoughts from this experience and past classes. Make sure you research and It is a fully hands on cooking class not a demonstration (unless that is what you want). It is your knife you want hitting the board. Speaking of knives, if you have not taken a knife skills class it is a good idea. As the class moves along easy to spot who has and has not taken one. Go to class solo. It is painful to watch a spouse or partner struggle though a long day of cooking when they would rather be anywhere else (That is why they made golf clubs). No need to fake it. It is fine to bark out your amateur cooking status and ask for help. Regardless of how much you think you know there will always be those more experienced. And it is not the TV series “Cut Throat Kitchen.” Dress comfortably. Wear something that goes well with food. When class is over, leave. These Chef instructors are usually facing another 12 hours of work at their restaurants. Finally, laugh and eat your mistakes Kathleen Young

Editors Notes: Kathleen moved to the desert full time five years ago. She lives in a valley of sun near the White Tank Mountains. Kathleen had a 25-year career as an employment recruiter in Seattle. Prior to that, she was a banker in Montana, and international flight attendant for TWA based in New York.

Back of The House by Kathleen Young

The heat of the desert faded into darkness as we savord our last bites at Davey's Hideaway in Palm Springs. As we left and walked around to the back to get our car, I took this photo. It reminded me that everything good about our experiences at a restaurant happen first in the back of the house.

George Orwell wrote in "Down and Out in Paris and London" about working as a dishwasher in fine dining restaurants. He said the front was merely a stage where the performances of staff and cuisine art played out. The real cast was in the back where food stock was taken in, the creating, cutting, dicing and prep work took form. How well the cast got along and regarded the owner always flowed out through the wait staff. Such it is with all great dining places. You never see the entire act but only experience the wealth of the results.

When things really click at a place the staff almost becomes family often staying to the virtual end of a restaurant's existence. This is true at Davey's. There always seems to be a rumor of the place selling or closing for good. Still, Susie continues to wait on our table telling us stories from the 20 years she has been there, Daniel continues to play "99 Miles from LA" on the piano and the velet Jeseph rising from his chair to find our car. He asks us to come back.

Kathleen Young

Places in Between

There are many places in between,often overlooked in the frantic pace we live. These places may be a scene that catches our eye, the shimmer of light on pavement, the opportunity to stop and reflect, to read and learn, to share small thoughts with others or simply observe the ordinary in life. Places in between are more about the way things really are in life than our start and finishes to the day. They can offer bountiful rewards if we stop to enjoy them. Please enjoy the movie and slide slow below.

Photographs by David Young
Music by Dan-O at DanoSongs.com

The Tenement

JOHN AND JAY

SEARCHING FOR INDIAN YELLOW

I wondered what subject to paint. Frustration moved my brush sprawling colors across a canvas. Imagination filled my mind; the colors took me to a new place. I have learned a painter should consider color first, with the subject being only a second thought. Color changes our emotions before detail. No two people see or are impacted by colors the same way. Yellow, Red, and blue are the primary colors. An infinite number of other colors result by mixing these colors. There are differences even in primary colors resulting from pigment, location of manufacture, and technique. Some are difficult to find. One such color is Indian Yellow, first made in India near Calcutta. A florescence, muddy earthiness and vividness all exist in this color. I have searched long hours for Indian Yellow Paint, often to find empty slots under its name on the rack. Indian Yellow and a brush will certainly create a great painting you think. However, in real life, you almost never see Indian Yellow in its pure form. When fortunate enough to find this paint, most artists end up mixing it with other colors to create the desired effect. Seldom does one color make an artful result. I will continue to mix the colors of the world to make the life I want and imagine.

Paintings: David Young www.studiofour.com © 2013
Music: “Jasmine Flower” by Worldly Underscores www.JewelBeat.com
 

 

Facts and quotes about the primary colors

Yellow – the oldest pigment discovered by humans is yellow ochre, drawn from an earthen substance. Emotions and thoughts created by Yellow are knowledge, sunshine, maturity and health. Yellow is a favorite color of advertising. Only the comic book character Green Lantern is afraid of Yellow.

“I like it but it’s yellow, and I’m like, I didn’t want yellow for my engagement ring!!” Paris Hilton

Red – when patients come out of a coma, Red is the first color they recognize. Red is a giant of a color full of passion and symbolism. It will dominate a painting even when not a main color. Sin, guilt, passion, blood, courage and anger are all emotions symbolized by Red. It is derived from iron oxide, which the planet Mars has in abundance, thus the Red Planet.

“When in doubt, wear Red.” Bill Blass

Blue – having a wandering and restless soul, at times have made me feel Blue but also served up wonderful life experiences. Sadness, fidelity and sincerity are all linked with the color Blue. English ships of the 1800s flew a blue flag when their captain died. Egyptians revered Blue water as purity of a female and the Blue sky as male passion. Blue is derived from Azurite, a natural mineral.

“I sure lost my musical direction in Hollywood. My songs were the same conveyor belt mass production, just as most of my movies were. Tonight I am going to wear something not quite correct for evening wear, My Blue suede shoes.” Elvis

FACES

The street is an every changing canvas for the photographer. The camera loves faces and the renderings they cast off both real and imagined. Faces define us, a person in a sea of humanity. They are the outward appearance of who we are and can be; proud, frightful, fierce, strong, wise, trustworthy and not. We hope our face will bring us fame, to have value and standing, and we never want to lose face. We concentrate endlessly on our faces; spend huge amounts of money on cosmetics, lifts, enhancements to make them better. It is little wonder that faces adorn street art to draw our attention. Sometimes just for art itself, more often to promote a social cause, political agenda, sell a product or build a presence. Iconic faces find their way to the mix as well as those wanting to become iconic. Like all faces, the time and city wear on the crisp image adding lines, creases, blemishes and tears that give new art to us as in real life.

Photographs by: David Young of Studio Four Magazine ©

Music: “Trying” by Vocal Cool 2 www.jewelbeat.com

 

The Painters

They had learned to stop along the road of life. How to move gently, savor the differences, and see luxuries all around them...

 

The Desert

The desert stretches your mind, letting you look at the soul of things and your own....

Type of Graffiti

TAGS - Graffiti artists street name

 

 

STICKERS - Graffiti placed on stickers then attached to walls

 



 

 

THROW UPS - Quick graffiti often done by artists on run. Little definition.

 

 

 

PIECE - More eloborated graffiti artists street name renditions

 

 

 

WILDSTYLE - Interlocking connecting points often only able to be read by other graffiti artists

 

 

 

BLOCKBUSTER/ROLLER - Large pieces almost always done in block shapes with two colors

 











"Reflections on a Flowery Couch"

Graffiti Wash

My camera could not stay away from graffiti. The art of the street, it often conveyed social messages, cultural changes, territorial tags, or just artistic renderings. The colors, patterns and effect on the city were addicting. Graffiti is both revered and fought over. Makers of graffiti move fast trying to stay ahead of law enforcement. Cities create tip lines and rewards to stop it. Still it persists and multiplies. Since marquee artists like Ty Towmbly moved the art from street to canvas to gallery, art advocates have tried to legitimize graffiti art. What I came to enjoy the most about Graffiti was the outfall from the attempts by property owners and sometimes artists to eradicate it. Property owners usually painted it over, the technique called “Graffiti Wash.” It resulted in colors different from the original walls. Other Graffiti artists seeing these efforts often added swatches of another color, a technique called “Blockbuster” or “Roller.” Graffiti Wash, Blockbusters and Rollers are enjoyments when found and provided me inspiration for photography and painting. Please enjoy the slide show below on this art.

Photographs Paintings by: David Young ©  
Music: "Sunspark"

Dan-O at http://danosongs.com

"Note on a Back Wall"

"A Poem Left Alone"



BOSTON

I met my wife in the wilds of Montana. She was from the East and I the West. She introduced me to the East and her hometown Boston. For a westerner, the swirl of buldings, and transportation are adicting. It was the people though and her family that made the experience rich for me.

Photographs by David Young
Music "Forgive Me Great Spirit" by:

Dan-O at http://danosongs.com

 



"Between Red Planets"

"Lost Stars in Meteo Shower


 

A PASSING DESERT STORM The stretch of the desert road to our home was different today. Bright sunshine bathes the road most days, but today dark clouds filled the sky, the rain nurturing the desert as the desert does me. The clouds reminded me of the past; the years spent in Seattle. I never thought I would end up in the desert. There were small seeds during those years, a vacation in Death Valley, where I sat on the porch of Furnace Creek Inn hearing nothing but the quiet of the desert and my thoughts. That small seed and adventure brought me here to live. In the city, careers, buildings, traffic, people all fill voids. The desert is not like that. The vastness, solitude and it’s unchanged nature bring you back to yourself and then the real journey begins. Kathleen Young

The Unfinished Work of Peter Dann By David Young Peter’s fingers moved gently over his laptop like a painter’s brush on canvas. Manuscripts of short stories filled his small apartment, piled everyplace like friends who stayed long after their wit, and freshness were gone. Peter paused looking at his watch, 1 am. He took another sip of wine; the window reflected his image and revealed the tiredness on his face. He pushed back his hair; the streaks gray. He shook his head. When he turned off the lamp, a soft light entered the room. The full moon, “wow” he thought to himself as he gazed at its glory. It looked down at earth behind streaks of clouds like shelves that held the books of life; it already read. He stepped back accidentally knocking off a pile of manuscripts. The papers scattered every which way on the floor. Peter mused that the moon would not have these stories to read and somehow hoped the characters in the pages might find their own endings. There it was all his efforts since getting his English degree and the hopes of his professors who said he had great talent. It yielded only his job at the bookstore and lots of time to write. Maybe, there was still hope. Peter left the papers on the floor and went to bed.   A gray blanket of clouds hung over the city by the time he reached the bookstore, another Seattle day. He caught a glimpse of Emily Baker’s spirited step as she headed toward her job at the Radio Station. Warm thoughts filled his mind. He always kept special art books for her and sometimes gave her a few pages from one of his stories to read. Peter liked her slenderness and long black hair. He hoped she would visit the bookstore again soon. Sarah was already there barricaded by books in a dark corner to the rear. The blue of the computer screen reflected upon her face, it gave her a cold look. She spent hours there. Everything about her read “do not disturb my little life.” The customers got the hint and stayed away. Besides Peter knew good writing and could always find a book for them. Peter was well read. It was part of the writing craft. Sarah’s x husband Joe started the business. Problem was he found more romance with the women customers than the books on the shelf. The divorce changed Sarah. Peter did the best he could to bring warmness to the place, adding articles, pictures of writers and small art at the end of shelves and corners of the store. Customers commented how it was an “oasis in the city, a retreat for the soul.” Peter wished it was for him.   He pulled two stories out of his shoulder bag, both half completed. Peter thought to himself, maybe today he could finish something between rushes of customers. He could almost hear the characters cry out for help, “Rescue me Peter from the conflicts and situations you put me in. I want to be on the shelves with the other books.”   Down the street at KVKI 590 Radio, Keller Bush the marketing director was on a tear. You could always hear him before you saw him. Tall dark with a mustache and combed back hair, he looked good in the station brochure but was a shallow man who had depended for years on the talent of young creative people. They were hired and left quicker than the candy in the lunchroom vending machine.   KVKI was a 24hr talk and human interest format. It had to be fed with a continuous flow of fresh material. Emily like all new hires was greeted initially with the “savior of the station” status for the fresh ideas she brought. Her claims to fame “saving the greens spaces of Seattle” and “The plight of the Old” about long-time residents of the central district displaced by gentrification were three years ago. She only kept her job now by doing production support. Other creative types with unbendable egos were simply fired as they ran dry of new ideas.   By the time she joined the meeting, Keller was already pacing back and forth in front of the group. “We have got to come up with brand new material for the August rating season. I can’t tell you how critical this is,” Keller said raising his hands as if pleading to be saved.   Emily knew Keller as big at the station as he was, had little more security there than anyone else. Keller stepped back, dropping his hands to his side and gave a stern look to the production staff, “we all know there will be consequences if we don’t meet expectations.”   Emily wondered, why did she ever change from an art major to marketing but answered herself; she needed a job and still did, at least until she could escape. The Keller mayhem died down by the afternoon; the creative staff retreated to their cubicle to sweat out the next idea. You could almost touch the tension that hung over the office. Emily leaned back in the chair and reached for her valise and saw Peter’s story. She took it out and read it. Like all his stories, it had good romance and hooks that kept you turning the page. Problem was there was never an ending, just great starts, scenes, characters, images that set the mind free to wander but never a destination. Emily grabbed the valise and walked out for a break.   A few minutes later she was riffling through art section at the book store, books she had looked at many times. Peter saw her and approached her with a book on Gauguin. She turned, “Peter; the Truck Drivers Wife is a great story but how does it end?” Peter looked at her with a puzzled face, all the characters still walking around in his mind trying to sort things out.   She caught his soft brown eyes, “Well?” Peter paused and then said, “Well the truth is that I am not really sure.” Emily reached out and took the Gauguin book, “Peter, ever thought about running away like Gauguin did, believe me this would be a good day for it. You even look a little like Gauguin.” Then she caught herself, feeling sheepish and said, “in a modern way of course.” Peter grinned, “It’s the artistic torture coming out.” Emily showed Peter a small sketch she had done, “what do you think of this, artist to artist so to speak?   “Like that one Emily. With the right color, it could be a nice painting” Emily raised it angling it in his direction and brushing away her long black hair, “Really?” Her eyes brightened and danced around a wonderful nose. Peter thought of her as beautiful as the women Picasso painted.   Time and experience had taught him not to get too close though, a writer with no finished work or for that matter, future was indeed a very short story when it came to romance. Emily looked again at the sketch. She treasured his comments. Her world was filled full of people who lived on deadlines, whale size egos and plots to destroy each other. No one cared about art.   She stopped herself and looked at Peter glancing at his story half stuffed into her valise. Suddenly, the idea hit her, “Peter does the thought of being famous interest you?”   Peter shrugged his shoulders, “will I created a lot of characters who want to be famous.” Emily pulled out the story and scratched a few notes on the first page. Turning toward Peter, “will you meet me tomorrow morning at the station before work; there is someone I want you to meet.” The next morning Keller was downing his third cup of coffee tapping his pencil on the desk. The phone rang as Emily walked in. Keller ignored it, “so Emily. What is this all about and who is your guest?”   “Well Keller, I would like you to meet Peter Dann, who works at the bookstore down the street.” Peter reached his hand out to shake Keller’s. Keller leaned back in the chair half completing the shake, “yeah I know the bookstore, never been there, but I know where it is.”   Emily sensing Keller’s impatience spun out her idea. Keller raised his hands behind his head and leaned further back in his chair. Emily leaned forward summing all the creative talent she thought long gone. “You see Keller; everyone wants to be a writer, why not ask for listeners to help Peter complete his stories?” Peter can read the start a story each day. The listeners could send in their ideas, and Peter would choose the finish he likes best. The contest would conclude by Peter reading the completed story on the air the final day of the contest. The ratings could soar.”   Keller thought for a moment then said, “It’s way out there, but I like the buzz, let’s try it. We will call it The Unfinished Work of Peter Dann. Is that OK with you Peter? We will arrange for compensation for your work, an appearance fee. We will pre-record your segment. You can have as many attempts as needed to get the reading right.”   Peter’s face reflected the surprise of it all and thought about saying no but the story characters in his head all shouted out “yes.” They sensed rescue on the horizon. “OK, let's do it.”   The small recording booth surprised Peter, on the other side of the glass in a dual booth was Brent Rod the daytime host. He looked more worn that Peter imagined, wrappers of snacks from the station vending machine littered his desk. He seemed so big when you heard him over the air but so small in his little booth. A station assistant opened the door and handed Peter a copy of his first story and ask if he was ready. The story lines were double spaced. A time line along the side and the station logo on top. It was still warm from the printer. Peter felt a rush as if he had finally published something. The producer gave Brent the record sign. “Hello from KVKI 590, we have been promising you a great contest, and here it is. In the studio is Peter Dann, say hello Peter. Peter hesitated but somehow managed “Glad to be with you Brent.” You see fans; Peter is a writer. A writer of great promise but he has a problem. He starts great stories but cannot get them finished. That’s where you come in fans. Maybe you always wanted to be a writer. Well here is your chance; I am going to have Peter read you the start of a new story each day over the next week. Then you can email, text or mail in your ideas about how the story should end. Peter will review these, choose the best ending. It will be read over the air on August 31st and the winner will get $1,000 plus a weekend in Vancouver, BC. Plus you will have a contributing by line for the story. Here is your chance to be famous, maybe even start a writing career of your own.” The director pointed to Peter giving him the ready signal. Brent paused as the fake applause and cheers were piped in. “Right after the commercial I will have Peter read the start to the first story.” Peter could hear the commercial play through the earphones. He glanced over at Emily in the studio office; she smiled. It gave Peter warmth. The director motions “three, two, one” to Brent. “We are back after that short break with our writer Peter Dann. Are you ready to read the first story?” Peter said “yes, it's called “Blind Revenge.” “Go ahead Peter, read it to us.” Peter saw Brent open another package of snacks after he turned off the mike. It made him nervous, but he moved ahead, soon the characters he created helped him become calm. “Blind Revenge…..Money, lots of money flowed to Paul Robert’s, a middle man who brought funding to ideas. Success that purchased a Jaguar, $500 suits, a huge network of contacts, influence and a Mistress. Jennifer his socialite thin wife stood out in a crowd of high society blonds with her black hair. She moved through that jungle with the savvy of a cougar. The trail of clues that Paul left; receipts, poor excuses, a hint of perfume, late nights. It was a trail a blind woman could follow. Jennifer's learned tolerance paid for by coldness and distance. An unspoken bargain, he wanted suitable social status with a gorgeous wife. She wanted a new foundation after a crumbled first marriage. There were still slices of Paul' charm and lots of money that tied their relationship. Her New York roots played well in Seattle where people thought they were in a big city but were not. It would have been easy for her to have an affair with one of Paul’s friends. They were like dogs who would sin in a minute given a chance, but they had no class. Paul had class but no conscience. But then there were other possibilities for tenderness.”   The director gave the cut sign. Brian gave the thumbs up, “Wow Peter, what a great start to this story. Love, betrayal and Seattle what more could you ask for. Now listeners, it’s up to you to help Peter finish this story, send us your emails with your ideas to KVKI. Remember, Peter will be reading other stories this week so you can choose the one you want to complete, just have your entry in by August 31st.”   Over the next few weeks, the station was overwhelmed with contest entries. Brent walked through the station like a peacock. Emily had a larger office and assistant to handle the flow. The contest gave Peter and Emily many chances to meet. Warmth grew between the two. Things also changed at the bookstore. It was not long before listeners figured out where the bookstore was. Sarah was miffed when customers ask if this was Peter’s Bookstore. She would reply curtly, “No; I am the owner.” Peter besieged by customers giving their entries to him directly or telling him how the story should end shortened his hours of work. More time for writing, he loved it but challenges grew. Boxes of entries now flooded the apartment. It looked like a paper war zone. Each entry he read opened new ideas in Peter’s head. Sometimes, he could not even match the entry to a story, panic set in. There was only one week before the contest ended. His characters needed more time to find conclusions in their paper lives.   A gentle knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, it was Emily. “I thought you might need some company this evening, if all your characters don’t mind me being here?” Peter smiled; he reached out his hand and drew Emily near. She glanced up to him, “I have been thinking that you might want to start a new story, one that with warm ending.” For once, Peter did not have to pen any words, he simply drew Emily even closer. His touch explored the woman he craved but not dared to think of having. They fell into bed like a heroine and hero after a long quest to find each other.   Morning sun filled the room; Peter sorted through more stacks of entries. Emily still lay asleep, like a dream character he wrote well enough to come alive. “Emily, wake up, I think there is a good finish here for Blind Revenge. The errant husband finally comes to his senses, but too late; Jennifer has left him for Alicia.” I have also found a good ending for “The Flower Shop.” They can give each other a strength in the cold world of readers.   “Peter, can we talk again about what Gaugin did? Going to some island or remote place where you can write, and I could paint.”   Peter looked to the clock, “I have to get to the bookstore for the rest of my notes and finish these stories. The show is at 1pm.” He pulled on his pants and brushed his hair back. “I will see you there.” Brent Rod was ratting off the spot adds “the finest in automobiles can be found at Phil Smart Mercedes, and now for the news.” The studio fell silent as the feed from national news began to play in the background. “Ready Peter, this is the big day.”   Peter nodded as he gathered the story pages. He glanced across the studio and saw Emily standing with Keller and a man in a black suit. He recognized him from the station brochure. He was John Roberts the CEO. Keller and Roberts were talking and motioning toward the recording booth Peter was in. Emily had a look of concern in her face as she turned away from the group’s conversation to look at Peter.   Brent motioned toward Peter with his hands as if to say; you're on the air, “Well fans this is what you have been waiting for, the conclusion to our contest, The Unfinished Work of Peter Dann. Peter, which entry did you choose?”   Peter looked at Brent, “I liked Faye West’s finish to the Blind Revenge story. Here is how it goes.” Peter read the story's conclusion.   As the canned applause was piped in, Brent already had Faye West on the air congratulating her and telling her about the great prizes she won. Peter gathered his story papers. He reached for a pencil and wrote a note on a piece of paper. He folded it neatly into a square and walked out of recording booth. Keller rapidly approached with a big smile on his face and Emily at his side.   Keller reached out his hand to Peter, “What a great job, the ratings went over the top. You probably saw me talking to John Roberts. The ratings are over the top. We want to make your program a regular show in our line up. I am authorized to offer you a contract and substantial compensation. Meet me at the station tomorrow at 10am and we can review the details.   Peter looked at Keller and nodded but did not say anything. He pressed the note he had written into Emily’s hand and gave her a warm smile as he walked out of the studio.   The next morning, Sarah walked through the door of the bookstore as she did every morning. She overheard two passersbys say “there it is Peter Dann’s bookstore, you know the radio story reader.” Sarah frowned as she walked by Peter’s desk tossing a memo on it that read “now that the radio show is over, there is a substantial amount of work that needs to be done.” At the bottom were the words. "PLEASE SEE ME."   Down the street at the radio station, Keller nervously reviewed the contract for services drawn up for Peter, then the confirmation from the HR department giving Emily a raise and new title “Program Development Specialist.” He looked at the clock, 9:30 and thought “Where is she?” Peter heard a familiar knock at his apartment door. He opened it. Emily was there, holding up his note. She smiled and said, “I have this note here from a successful writer who says he wants to start a new story, a love story. Is it you Peter?” She stepped aside so Peter could see her suit cases. “You know; I have some fresh canvas packed that needs painting.” Emily held up two airline tickets, “I think these are the tickets you wanted me to get.”   Peter reached out and kissed her, then opened the door wider revealing his suit case. “I am sure we can find lots of new adventures for that story.”   Peter took a last look at the unfinished manuscripts on the floor and boxes of entries. A moment of hesitation filled his thoughts, and then he realized his characters would be fine. It was time for them to find their own lives as it was for him. He turned toward Emily taking her hand and shut the door behind him.
	STUIDO FOUR MAGAZINE ©