© Scott Millin - All Rights Reserved

The Tuesday Night Club

March 18, 2015

They wormed their way out of their dwellings, just after dark. Their Urge to gather was great, and they descended on motorcycles and in rusty junkers, high-rollers, and mini-vans. They carried an excess of baggage and stored their Daily Bread and Drops of Poison in their cluttered minds. These Creatures were worn and weary from journeys littered with potholes, pratfalls, and pileups. They were void of compass and direction, and as they tried to leave it all behind they brought everything with them. 

 

The road to the Tuesday Night Club was a hard one.

 

They gathered around the wooden slab in an act of Atonement and Confederacy. Some clamored for a foothold, while others smoked or drummed their fingers in nervous rhythms. Their shadowed eyes failed to linger, for what they saw in others had already been seen in their own daily Reflections. These Souls focused and refocused on their coffee cups and on the nothingness of the wood paneled walls.

 

The members of the Tuesday Night Club fought to make peace.

 

When the bell tolled it tolled for them, in Unity and Anonymity. They took measured Steps in common suffering, and they sought Tradition and Redemption. They were Powerless, but tossed fear to Hell and themselves upon the Altar. They carried and they leveraged one another. They clammored to Keep Going and to Stop. They came Clean. 

 

Then they disbanded.

 

The members of the Tuesday Night Club were Survivors.

 

 

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