Some postwar decades have their own special saying:

I have a writer friend of mine.

Robert Stokes isn't on acid, but close. His writing hews close to that round sunglasses, smiley face, boogie van, Viet Nam era that I almost feel like I've entered a time machine.

I'm including a short story on the back end of Mayfield Eight Part 3 when it goes to print this December. Here's a teaser of the first page...

Gary Maclellan and Tanya reunite after his California construction job has ended... read on.


Written by Robert Stokes, edited by Tim Larsen.

By late Thursday afternoon, his mouth was dry, coated with fine dust and grit as he leaned his bike into the flat dirt road towards home. Tired, disgusted with everything, and fatigued, Gary McClellan wanted nothing more than just a cold beer, a cooling shower, and sleep. Even the sight of his petite dark-haired wife on their graying wood porch didn't seem to brighten his spirits.

Tanya McClellan heard Gary's pan-head rumbling outside, taking her by surprise. She wasn't expecting him back from that public housing project in Los Angeles for at least another two weeks.

"Why are you home now?" she asked, stopping short at the step, while he silently dismounted his bike and untied the knapsack behind the seat.

"The project ran out of funds, so they shit-canned all the crews," he replied, pausing to kiss her neck lightly before going inside. "Here's my pay, they still owe for one week..." he slapped an envelope on their kitchenette table. "Fuk it's hot" he griped, grabbing a beer from the fridge.

Tanya counted the cash, watching as he took off his shirt, and emptied the bottle in what seemed like seconds. He was filthy underneath.
"How many hours is this?" She counted two hundred and twenty.

"That's 63 hours for the week before, an all cash. Joey said it was better to pay under the table. We were wondering about that... it's overtime included" Drywalling wasn't exactly a specific skill, but $3.78 an hour isn't too bad, he thought. "We aren’t sure if we'll even get the last week's pay," he added, looking out the kitchen window. "Miles 'n' miles of miles of flat," he thought. His thirst somewhat quenched, he focused on his wife's sweet curves. "Help me get cleaned up," he grinned, pulling her towards the bathroom.

10454 Lomita Ave #B, Felton
United States