A Note from the Editor

On behalf of all the members of the Bumbastories staff, I would like to offer some explanation as to why this Bumbastories Sunday Magazine Section has had its name changed to Monday Magazine Section. As you may or may not be aware, this Bumbastories blog is titled Every Day Another Story. For a brief while we at Bumbastories believed ourselves capable of answering the daily writing challenge: every day another story. Quite rapidly, though, Every Day Another Story devolved into a de facto “story maybe every couple of days” kind of thing.

Then we arrived at the weekly Sunday Magazine format!

And we’re even late on that!

So, with an admission of our incorrigible sloth, and with a touch of realistic goal-setting, Bumbastories has pushed back the deadline yet another day and will now publish the Monday Magazine Section.

 

⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿THE MONDAY MAGAZINE SECTION⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿⦿

 

George Packard, retired schoolteacher and roving reporter for Bumbastories was back out there – roving the streets of Los Angeles on his bicycle. Looking for a scoop.

Exciting stuff, no?

George thought so too.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

 

George Packard, roving reporter, roved on….

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

 

How ’bout a song to move us along today? Click to hear Bumba playing Up a Lazy River or the umpteenth time. Bumba says he can’t help it. He uses the song to practice his chords.

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

And now for the thrilling continuation of the Ted Morris, Los Angeles Private Eye of the Raymoond Chandler ilk story.

 

Ted Morris picked up Angelina Despaigne from the Adelanto Federal Prison out past Victorville the day after Robert Kennedy got shot. It was a sad, sad time. For every one. Even the prison guards seemed to be in shell-shock.

Angelina Marquez walked quickly out of the big prison door and got into the car. She had tears in her eyes. Stiffly she sat next to Ted Morris in the car. She held her duffel bag on her lap.

“Drive, baby,” she spoke, looking straight out at the road ahead. She watched coldly as they passed through the prison gates, which were slowly opened for them after a quick inspection of Morris’ visitor’s pass and Angelina’s release papers.

Ted Morris, tough and hardened Los Angeles private eye, found himself crying too as he eased the low-riding black Chevy Impala onto Rte 395 and headed toward L.A. It was the emotion of Angelina’s release together with all the accumulated sorrow and held-back tears of the Kennedy assassination. The last chance had been shot down. It was the final nail in the national coffin. It was too hard a blow. As he drove he reached with his free hand down into his trousers’ pocket to get his handkerchief. He felt Angelina’s hand clutch his. He patted and then grasped her thin fingers with his big paw, as he carefully steadied the big Chevy on the road. Rte 395, long and straight and dusty lay ahead of them.

“At least you’re coming home,” he said, drying his eyes. “We’re all glad about that.”

“You’ll see'” he continued. “Francisco’s fixed you a party.”

“Ted Morris,” she began. “How do I thank you? Ever?”

“Hey, Angie, you know we made a deal.” He turned to look at her briefly. She was smiling as a tear ran down her cheek.

 

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

A Happy Monday and a Happy Week to All!

 

 

 

Advertisements