Dr. W. A. Frost's Ides of Revolution

Cory took a deep breath as he turned the corner, eyes tightly shut. Passersby likely stared with aloof confusion, but he didn’t care. This was the moment he’d dreamed of for almost fifteen years. Broadway, Nashville: the dream strip of country music nightclubs, southern apparel, moonshine, whiskey, and instruments. The gentle hum of twangy ballads tickled his ears, played by talented singers in the honky tonks along the street. It was now home. And as he opened his eyes, that dream was now reality. The street was bustling, even in midday. Tourists, buskers, musicians, and surely a few stars strolled past entranced in their own worlds they’d taken for granted. It took everything for Cory to get here- or rather it had cost him everything. Not that he minded. The move, to him, represented the beginning of the life he’d always dreamed he would lead: becoming the man he fantasized in his head. With his first steps, they were the first steps toward that goal. Walking slowly, he made his way ...

It was hot, sweltering actually: the hottest summer on record. All Jared wanted to do was get home and decompress after the bullshit day he had at the store. Twelve Karens all complaining about the heat inside the store, as if there was anything he could do about it. But, instead of doing what he desperately wished he could do (violent explicatives removed), all day long he had to bite his tongue and just “empathize” with the valued customers. For gods sake, Deborah Wyatt had come in three times and complained to managers about “why the a/c wasn’t working” and had to be removed by the police. The heat does crazy things to people, particularly the ones who you’d least expect to turn into some monster. Thankfully before he could turn into one himself, Jared punched in that time card and bolted; wishing the best of luck to his sour faced colleagues. Walking down State Street, he huffed at the humid air drowning his lungs. Thank god he’d swiped a Dove deodorant from the hygiene aisle befor...

“Just one more week, Mr. Winslow. The shop is slow, my boss reduced my hours. But I have enough coming in this next check to pay off some of the arrears…” David pleaded, his voice quivering. After several bad months, he was behind on rent for the very first time in his life. Was that enough to convince the landlord for some patience and leniency? Of course not. As he droned on about the lease and the state laws, David kept typing furiously on his laptop. All the stress of daily bills and daily life had taken it’s toll on his degree, and his grades had started to slip. What he needed was an injection of funds, and within the next few days. He hung up the cell phone, hit the submit button on his essay, and immediately starting hitting the job boards. His new Applicant Headshot proudly sat atop his impressive résumé filled with internships and volunteer work. A deep breath and he started searching. First listing: Receptionist Needed, part time, 7.25/hr. Definitely not enough to even cover...

“SOLD! For eight thousand five hundred to number 29, thank you so much ma'am, please see our associate afterward for your banking information.” The auction hall was buzzing. It was all over the news: locker 482 having it’s lock busted and the heavy iron door rolled up to reveal the long lost estate of the old school pro-surfer Ronnie “Riptide” Darensbourg. Ventura’s very own legend from the 70’s, Ronnie Riptide was a local hero who’d passed away in 1991. In fact, he’d been the hero for Francis Cragg since childhood. To Francis, the heartthrob represented everthing he wanted to be as a teenager in 1977: laid back, efforlessly cool, athletic, flirtatious, sexy… and notoriously “open minded” in the bedroom. To be queer back in the day was quite the scandal that was reserved only for the Hollywood stars and not for the everyday person. Under this strict social law, Francis couldn’t look at another guy, couldn’t even be suspected of being gay- but he could live vicariously through Ronni...

10:30 PM, Saturday, June 4 of 2022: Officer C. Wickham dispatched to 3247 North Park Avenue from North Police District of Indianapolis, Indiana for a suspected prostitution ring in the Northside. — “Officer, 10-35, please confirm, over.” Chuck rolled his eyes as he finished snorting the last of his cocaine for the final leg of his shift. 10-35, of course meaning a major crime in his immediate vicinity. Sighing, the cop clicked the button on his walkie-talkie, irritated as he choked out “10-4, what is the address of the crime?” He flushed the toilet, walking out of the stall, as the dispatcher fumbled over her words. “Uh… well… Uhm… It’s… Uhm…” Primping himself in the mirror, Chuck smirked at his handsome visage which had come in handy a myriad of times before. “Address is 3247 North Park Ave.” The officer acknowledged the dispatcher, knowing full well his obligation to intervene. He had been looking particularly sexy on this particular occasion to the restroom, and it had warrented an ...