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by Tara Seibel

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The Non-Fiction Theater of the Truly Mundane
proudly presents:


by Ted Kane

The public library of a medium-sized Southern California beach city


Patron (middle-aged, male)
Librarian (slightly younger, male)

Librarian is seated at reference desk center stage, appearing to be busy but perhaps is not, it's hard to tell; meanwhile, snoring is audible coming from the direction of the stacks. Librarian walks in the direction of the snoring and comes upon Middle-aged Library Patron, slumped over a book in a chair and stands over him.

Librarian: Hello?

Library Patron: (looks up making sputtering noises, such as one is wont to do upon awakening)

Librarian: Hi. We do need you to stay awake while you are in the library.

Patron: (indignant) I'm awake.

Librarian: Yes, you are awake now. But just now you were asleep.

Patron: No, I wasn't.

Librarian: Yes, you were. I heard you snoring.

Patron: You're hearing things.

Librarian: Yes. I'm hearing you snore.

Patron: You're hearing things.

Librarian: If I have to come back and talk to you about this again, I will have to ask you to leave.

(Librarian returns to reference desk)


Loud snoring is heard from behind the curtain.

Urban Reflections
by Rick Brown

The Non-Fiction Theater of the Truly Mundane
proudly presents:


by Rick Brown

The beer and spirits department of an upscale gourmet food market. Shelves of liquor in rows run at a 45-degree angle to the room’s walls. Several beer coolers are set against these walls. A cash register sets on a glass display case stage right. An attractive young woman dressed in the store’s button down shirt and khaki pants is standing behind the glass counter. Beneath her shirt’s market logo is a nametag that reads “Sam”. The room is lit with fluorescent light both from the ceiling and the beer coolers.

Rick enters stage left and immediately strolls up to Sam.

Rick – Hi Sam! How are you?

Sam – I’m fine thanks.

Rick – I’ll have a small bottle of the Belvedere vodka. Thanks for the recommendation. It’s good stuff, especially in a martini!

Sam (smiling) – I wouldn’t steer you wrong.

Rick pays for the bottle and exits stage left.

A few moments elapse when Rick again walks in, this time with a more confused air.

Rick – Do you have any bottled limejuice?

Sam escorts him over to a shelf in the corner of the room.

Sam – All we have is this Key Lime stuff. And, of course the sweetened kind. But that’s not very good.

Rick – Yeah. It’s pretty terrible.

Sam glides back to behind the glass counter.

Rick is perplexed as he tries to decide, then turns with an air of epiphany and begins to walk past Sam.

Rick (turning to Sam) – I’ve decided to squeeze a couple real ones.

Sam (giggling) – That sounds like FUN!


Sam – herself
Rick – himself
2 Limes – real ones

Special Edition
by Tara Seibel

My Refrigerator Art
C. Mehrl Bennett

Cowtown Suicide
Morris Jackson


Perhaps - Remember.
Remember what?
Aside from rambling thoughts
Confusion rampant like
A dreamy if languid fog.

Fragments like a broken bowl
Containing bits of wisdom
And fractured moments
Made of faded snap shots
Left hidden in the back of
An old paperback.

I have forgotten more
Than I had known
And remember less than
A tiny sum
Of where I've been or
Who I've seen.

by Dennis Toth

by jessy kendall, andrew topel & john m. bennett

by Sue Lense

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Bringin’ Sexy Back
Easton town Center
Columbus, Ohio

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Gold Circle

by Rick Brown

Despite the fact it was the tail end of the 1960’s, I never did any recreational drugs in high school. I drank a tiny bit but not enough to mention really. Even at college I was pretty upright all the time. Attending a small Lutheran university in the middle of the Midwest did not present the opportunity much. Although after I did begin smoking marijuana I occasionally bought it from seminary students at the Lutheran Seminary. At the time it seemed appropriately ironic given my divorce from all things Lutheran. And by this time it was the 70’s…an era arguably much harder to explain to those who didn’t experience it…more difficult than the 60’s perhaps.

Back then it seemed like everyone smoked pot…bankers, college students, cops…even so called “straight people”. It felt as if we were trying to get the angst (and it was mostly angst) of the 1960’s behind us by throwing caution to the wind and experimenting. The so-called “Establishment” couldn’t be trusted to tell the truth after all the lies of the previous decade. And grass was cheap! Fifteen bucks could purchase a four-finger bag (the depth of the herb in the baggie) of “Mexican” pot that would get you high enough to feel somewhat euphoric and giggly…unlike today’s pot which can leave you sitting on the couch drooling on yourself wondering why Radiohead goes so well with NFL football. Or so I have read in a magazine. Thus began my “making up for lost time” era.

Whether I smoked an exorbitant amount of marijuana is open for debate. Those who frown on it would say a lot. Stoners might have called me an amateur. I’m not here to lecture anyone or make a value judgment. A little experimentation without being overtly reckless is probably a good thing in my mind. I did give it up for good finally. I had a very good reason to quit…give it up entirely…although it uh…hmm...escapes me at the moment. Funny, I can vividly recall the first time I smoked it but cannot for the life of me remember the last. But…it don’t matter MAN!! (Before there was “dude”…there was “man”.)

So one day I just finish smoking a doobie of this Mexican and my wife Yvonne says to me, “I’m going shopping at Gold Circle. Wanna come along?” For those of you too young to remember, Gold Circle was a decent discount store that later became what is now Kohl’s. A single story store with clothing, household items, etc. Not particularly interesting. But when you’re stoned just about anything mundane can seem interesting…sometimes exciting even. I said “sure”.

It being a warm late spring day I was in a t-shirt and cutoff shorts and Yvonne wore cutoffs as well with a bright yellow tube top. A tube top was a stretchy piece of material that was worn over the breasts not unlike a rubber band around some items you were trying to keep together. It was worn sans bra. No self-respecting woman in 1977 wore a bra. At the time she had her blond hair very, long and straight…almost waist length. It was her neo-hippie “make up for lost time” phase as well. Although her parents might just say I was a bad influence on her…still might. I don’t care. She looked mighty fine to me.

We’re meandering around the store when I wander off to look at something across the way…doesn’t matter what because I probably forgot 5 minutes after I looked at it anyway. Then I see the long blond hair, the bright yellow tube top and frayed cutoffs and begin following at a safe husbandly distance. Five…maybe ten minutes pass…it’s hard to tell when you’re high…and I’m getting a little anxious to go home and drink a cup of hot coffee while eating a bowl of ice cream. Still she continues looking at frocks and such hanging on a rack instead of sensing my cravings! This makes me more and more frustrated. I must experience the sensual extreme polarities of hot and cold soon! Can’t she realize that? What’s wrong with her anyway? This is when I get into the stereotypical husband mood of shortness at which I excel!!

Finally I grab an elbow, whirl her around, look her directly in the eyes and say, “Are you gonna BUY something or are you gonna fuck around ALL DAY?!”

The usual annoyed wifely “whatever” look I should have gotten was replaced by one of shock mixed with a bit of bemusement.

It was NOT Yvonne! It was a different woman with long blond hair, frayed cutoffs and bright yellow tube top!! My face flushed red like a tomato and the sounds coming out of my mouth were only amping up my turmoil.

“UHHHH…BWAA!!! BLAH Sorry!! Bwaph – uh – duh duh!!

My brain failed me as well. I could not for the life of me get it engaged. And I knew saying “My, you certainly look great in that bright yellow tube top” was NOT going to help matters. After what seemed like my 50th attempt at “Sorry.” I began a manic search for the woman I came in with.

Once I found Yvonne I was no better at explaining to her why we needed to leave Gold Circle…hell…the STATE…as soon as possible.


“BWAH! DUH-DAH! UHHHHH…Hubbubububub.”

I told Yvonne my story later over a cup of hot coffee and a bowl of ice cream.

Frank Sinatra once sang, “Regrets…I have a few…but too few to mention.” But I have one regret I’m willing to share with you now.

I regret tube tops ever went out of style.



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Issue 1 - January 2002