I bumped into Eleanor Roosevelt the other day outside the Apple store. It looked like she was carrying the new iPad. No surprise there – the lady has a knack for connecting with people and texts and emails are great tools for that.

Elly, how goes it? What’s your take on #metoo and #timesup?

The battle for the individual rights of women is one of long standing and none of us should countenance anything which undermines it.

Amen to that sister. But do you think women can sustain the movement?

A woman is like a tea bag – you can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.

But the personal attacks that some women have experienced…

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

You certainly demonstrated that a first lady could have great influence.

As for accomplishments, I just did what I had to do as things came along. 

Sure, I can see that but you risked a lot when you spoke out about injustice, civil rights and the plight of the poor.

Do what you feel in your heart to be right- for you’ll be criticized anyway. You’ll be damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.

Does it pain you to see what the political climate is now in America? 

Sometimes I wonder if we shall ever grow up in our politics and say definite things which mean something, or whether we shall always go on using generalities to which everyone can subscribe, and which mean very little. 

A lot of people are discouraged by our present polarization and want to opt out or disengage. 

Life must be lived and curiosity kept alive. One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life. 

How do you stay so upbeat? Everyone wants to be happy but we don’t know how to get there.

Happiness is not a goal; it is a by-product.

It seems like everyone wants their 15 minutes of fame now, to go viral on the internet, to be recognized for something, anything. Do you see the downside to it all?

I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalogue: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall.

Funny. I’ve got to run but what’s the biggest lesson you learned from your experience?

I think that somehow, we learn who we really are and then live with that decision.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

The beer-bike race is a campus tradition that takes place just prior to spring break, when the end of the year is in sight and the Houston weather is begging you to be outdoors. Just barely interested in my freshman courses, I was eager to participate as one of the riders representing our dorm.

The event had been around since the introduction of the Schlitz 16-ounce beer can in the 1950’s. Each team fielded ten drinkers and ten riders. The tops of the cans were cut out for increased speed, but drinking that much beer in a hurry takes practice, and our team worked at it in the weeks leading up to the race. Somebody was always pushing the envelope for a personal best time.

The spectacle began with a gunshot, heads were thrown back, and representatives each drained a can of beer. Then a teammate would ride full-throttle into the first of the 90 degree turns required to circumnavigate the campus.

At the end of each lap, burly teammates would stand ready to jerk the exhausted rider off the bike, another teammate chugged another beer, while a new rider jumped on for the next lap. And so it did continue, the spectators screaming for their favorites, and the crashes were part of the entertainment. I was the first rider on our squad, and I managed to finish the course with a small lead.

We had chosen a student to ride the last leg for all the right reasons. Robert was almost 7 feet tall and had been captain of the football team that played in the Sugar Bowl. He was also a Rhodes Scholar and a serious competitor.

He was pulling away from the pack and only fifty yards from winning the race when the front tire blew out and sent him sprawling across the asphalt. He was hurt, but not so badly that he couldn’t pick up the demolished bicycle and carry it with him as he hobbled for the finish line still in first place.

That was a proud moment for the team and a good enough excuse to party like it was 1961. There was a young new President in the White House, Ricky Nelson sang “Hello, Mary Lou,” I had a girlfriend visiting for the weekend, and only a few people knew at that point what was about to happen to the country, to the music, or to the tradition.

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

F I C T I O N  I bumped into Mark Twain the other day as he was coming out of Brooks Brothers. The white suit was so bright that I was temporarily blinded.

“Mark, I mean Sam? Is that you?”

The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

“It’s funny that you say that because some people just keep harping on this whole fake news thing.”

Get your facts first, then you can distort them as you please.

“Exactly, and there’s a whole lot of distortion going on these days. What some would call outright lies.”

The most outrageous lies that can be invented will find believers if a man only tells them with all his might.

“Well there’s a lot of that going around these days, especially among people elected to hold high office.”

Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it.

“Amen to that. Are you working on any new books? You still have a lot of fans/”

My books are like water; those of the great geniuses are wine. Fortunately everybody drinks water.

“And everybody likes a good Mark Twain yarn.”

I have been complimented many times and they always embarrass me; I always feel that they have not said enough.

“That’s witty. I wish I thought of that one.”

Repartee is something we think of twenty-four hours too late.

“True, but you seem to have a knack for the bon mots. How do you remember them?”

When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it happened or not.

“That’s one of the drawbacks of getting older I guess.”

Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.

“Say again?”

The more you explain it, the more I don’t understand it.

“I don’t know what to say.”

It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.

“This may be a foolish question then, but do you believe in the afterlife?”

Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company.

“I’ll drink to that, but I need to be going.”

All right, then, I’ll go to hell.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

To Helen Bach,
I’ve ended a long-term relationship and now I’m wondering how long should I feel guilty for leaving someone I used to love? When do I get to be happy?
Signed
Still Feeling Guilty for Wanting Happiness

Dear Still Feeling Guilty,

And feeling guilty is doing exactly what for you? The truth is we don’t always love forever. Hang out in guilt, finish rehashing the old arguments. Also, trust that time for mourning the loss is required. Then when you are ready, commit to your vision of what you choose next…Joy? Rewrite the story you’re telling of your life now that you’re free. Give yourself credit for moving toward happiness. Clarify in detail what you want, ‘cause you’re likely to get it. You need permission? Here it is: go – dance, sing! Life is short.

Helen

To Helen Bach,
I have been on a dating site for the “mature set” for a few months now and all the men I’m really attracted to are 10 years younger than me. Do you think it’s wrong to only date younger men and what do I do if one of these guys gets serious?
Signed
Stud Muffin Magnet

Dear Magnet,

Hello? Ok, ten years might be a slightly large gap, but do I really have to tell you to lap it up? Seriously, there is nothing wrong with it. You must be a woman… men have no problem dating younger women, or haven’t you noticed. Do you love some of the same music? Can you talk for hours or sit in silence with equal ease? Travel well together? Share books? Those are the questions. Age really doesn’t matter, it’s what you do with it.

Helen

Have a question for Helen? Don’t be shy, she’s very discrete. Go to the About Us page here and fill in the contact us email form. We’ll make sure Helen gets it.

F I C T I O N   Thursday 3:41 PM- This hasn’t been a great day for me as a writer. Nothing I’ve tried to say to myself or anybody who’ll listen makes any sense. It’s almost cocktail time, and I feel like the proverbial drinker with the writing problem.

I was almost at the point of giving up on the project when it dawned on me that maybe the perfect topic for this assignment could be a flagrant outpouring of just how much I don’t appreciate the opportunity. To satisfy my goal of 400 words will require a half hour in the notebook, then another half hour creating a transcription to the word processor, plus a half hour to check spelling and punctuation. Then I’ll probably put it away for a few hours and maybe come back for another look tomorrow. Do the math; writing doesn’t appear without time and effort.

I ask myself: what do I hope to get in return? There really aren’t any guarantees. Is it because I enjoy suffering the self-mutilation? Do I really think that a normal person would read this pathetic lament and care in the least about my self-inflicted misery? Come on now, if you’re having zero fun as you claim, and there is nobody but yourself holding a gun to your head demanding pages, help me out here, there must be something in it for you? Do you love the worthless feeling of not knowing what you want to say or how to say it? Is this a play for some kind of prize depicting un-enlightenment?

Before you attempt to weasel out of telling the truth using that “I don’t know” scam, try completing the following sentence: “I don’t know, but if I did know . . .” I’d say that it’s probably about wanting some kind of recognition for the effort I make and it appears that I’m not getting that satisfaction from the writing process itself.

I could conclude this rant the way I usually do by giving myself a pat on the back for not being tossed away, and then take my own advice to remember that it’s only fiction, it’s my chance to tell lies like a politician or a novelist. Some people might envy me the option to say whatever I want, remind me to be grateful that for now I am my own harshest critic, and that tomorrow is indeed another day.

Anne Animas lives, writes and hides out in Southern Colorado.

F I C T I O N   Excerpted from the mystery novel Head Above Water.  You get used to things going bump in the night when you live aboard a boat. A fender works itself loose or the tide slaps an empty plastic bottle against the hull, and then you have to decide if it’s going to keep you up all night, or whether a pillow over your head might block out the noise. On this particular night, I knew that I was too keyed up to listen to any noise for very long. I was in a rearward cabin and from the sound of it, whatever was banging against the hull was right alongside the stern, just inches from my head. I pulled on my heavy terrycloth robe and well-worn boat shoes, and made my way up on deck. Grabbing a flashlight that I kept at the helm, I went out the port side door on to the walk-around deck, carefully moving to the foredeck where I kept a gaff pole to fish out the source of the noise. Moving back toward the stern I made a quick check of my portside fender lines, which were all intact. I aimed the beam of light toward the water line on the starboard side. If you’re expecting an old soft drink bottle or an empty plastic oil container, you don’t quite know what to make of a smooth round shape. It was like nothing that I had ever seen floating in a marina, and believe me, you see an extraordinary variety of disgusting objects floating on the water where there are boats and people. Holding the gaff pole in my right hand, I aimed the flashlight with my left hand and leaned over the teak capped railing, trying to get a better look at what was keeping me awake. I pulled upward with the gaff and rotated the orb until I realized that whatever it was, it was looking back at me.

“Jesus H. Christ,” I shouted to no one as I backed up with a start. The gaff pole hung up on the railing and the flashlight went skittering down the narrow deckway. My heart was fibrillating at an alarming rate as I realized that the thing banging against my hull was someone’s head bobbing just above the waterline. A very dead person, who nonetheless had stared back at me as though I could save him. And in a way, I would.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.