Virtual Night of Songs and Stories

​With much gratitude, we have presented the Guild's beloved musical performers, Amy Felker and Stuart Vining in a video each week while we have been unable to meet in person. Click on the links to enjoy the performances they have recorded for us during the pandemic. ​

View the Sep 13 video here.
View the Jul 19 video here.
View the Jul 12 video here. 
View the Jul 05 video here.
View the Jun 28 video here.
View the Jun 21 video here.
View the Jun 14 video here.
View the Jun 07 video here.
View the May 31 video here.
View the May 24 video here.
View the May 17 video here.
View the May 10 video here.
View the May 03 video here. 
View the Apr 26 video here. ​​

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April 2020 Night of Songs and Stories
Virtual Writing Challenge 

While the globe is coping with shutdowns and the postponement of large gatherings, we decided to try something different for the April 2020 Night of Songs and Stories. On this page we share pieces from seven Guild writers who rose to the challenge of a three-day deadline to write  a piece (300 words or fewer) using lyrics from "Stuck In The Middle With You" as inspiration.  

We are, as ever, greatly appreciative of the talented, supportive members and fans of the Rehoboth Beach Writers Guild—including and especially the talented and supportive Stuart Vining and Amy Felker. 

Listen to Stuart and Amy sing "Stuck in the Middle With You"  here. 

Amy Felker and Stuart Vining

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Stuck in the Middle with You
​Original Lyrics: Gerald Rafferty/Joe Egan

​Well, I don't know why I came here tonight,
I got the feeling that something ain't right,
I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair,
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs,
Clowns to the left of me,
Jokers to the right, here I am,
Stuck in the middle with you

Yes, I'm stuck in the middle with you,
And I'm wondering what it is I should do,
It's so hard to keep this smile from my face,
Losing control, yeah, I'm all over the place,
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you

Well, you started out with nothing,
And you're proud that you're a self-made man,
And your friends, they all come crawlin',
Slap you on the back and say,
"Please, please"

Trying to make some sense of it all,
But I can see that it makes no sense at all,
Is it cool to go to sleep on the floor,
'Cause I don't think that I can take anymore
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you

Well, you started out with nothing,
And you're proud that you're a self-made man,
And your friends, they all come crawlin',
Slap you on the back and say,
"Please, please"

Well, I don't know why I came here tonight,
I got the feeling that something ain't right,
I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair,
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs,
Clowns to the left of me,
Jokers to the right, here I am,
Stuck in the middle with you

Yes, I'm stuck in the middle with you,
Stuck in the middle with you, here I am stuck in the middle with you                                       ​

​Waiting
by Kathleen Martens

As a Catholic girl, my elementary school garb was a navy blue uniform, white blouse with Peter Pan collar, white socks, and Buster Brown shoes. I had a slim wardrobe heading off to public high school. My experience with fashion was my simple Sunday dress and too-tight, scuffed, low heels. 

I’d fogged-up the window displays with my yearnings at Morris Store, our hometown high-end boutique. I shopped the sales racks at Kmart, while my more affluent friends swept dresses, skirts, and tops into their arms to try-on in fashionable establishments.
 
I didn’t want to be seen in that box store’s clothing department. I immediately headed for the sports section and grabbed a can of tennis balls—my legitimizing cover story in case someone spotted me. Then I chose some less-than-luxurious clothes.
 
Where did I learn to be ashamed of my circumstances? I wasn’t superficial, didn’t covet my neighbor’s goods, but somehow by high school, the message had been conveyed.

“Kathleen, what are you doing here?” Three girls from my new high school waved to me with 45RPM records in hand.

“Hi.” Caught red-handed. I jumped, held up the tennis balls, surreptitiously dropped the clothing like I’d been stung, and headed for the register.

At home, I surprised Mom with my senseless purchase; she surprised me with a box of used clothes from my well-off cousin. I’d waited years for nice things to wear.

“Trust me, you appreciate things more if you have to wait,” Mom said.

I opened the box, rescued a hardly-worn, luxurious, baby blue, cashmere pearl-buttoned sweater, and swooned caressing the soft fabric.
 
I appreciate my childhood lack now that life’s lessons have taken hold.
 
Mom was right—when you’ve started out with nothing, and you finally get something, it’s so hard to keep the smile from your face.
​

Corona Virus Blues
by Walt Curran​

​Well, I don’t know why I came here tonight. Oh, wait. I didn’t. Come here, that is. I’m still at home in the SAME house, SAME room, SAME chair, pecking away at the SAME keys on the SAME, damn laptop because of this Corona Virus.

I got the feeling that something ain’t right. My wife is checking out Fireman Calendars and practicing throwing kitchen knives. She’s discovered a new website—"Household Poisons." She keeps asking me if I’m hungry.

And I’m wondering what it is I should do. I wanted a Corona Light beer, a Corona cigar and some rock/country music. Desperate, and lonely, I texted “Corona Light/cigar/MileyCyrus.” My fumble fingers and spell check did a terrible job. Corona/virus.

It’s all my fault. Sorry. 

Cause I don’t think that I can take anymore. Initially, six-foot social distancing worked fine. Now, by non-mutual agreement, my wife has overruled the Governor’s mandate and suggested three miles. She settled for me in the garage. A much safer distance. At least for me.

Trying to make some sense of it all, I’m beginning to understand the concept behind HATE crimes. It’s social mathematics. The Least Common Denominator (LCD) is “something of low intellectual content designed to appeal to a low-brow audience.” And it’s almost always associated with boredom. Enforced boredom is exponential in its “stupid” effect.

If one’s environs never change, a la quarantine, nothing can add to the mix to raise the LCD. I’m there now.

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am, a rising tide trying to lift all boats. But they’re tethered on a short mooring line. Corona virus is that mooring line and we are all in the same boat.

Yes, I’m stuck in the middle with you until you cut the line.                                                                                                 

Stuck in the Closet with Michael
​by Robert Fleming

Comedy Sketch
Laurie:  The lead in the movie Halloween
Mother: Laurie’s mother
Michael: The killer in the movie Halloween

Mother: Don’t go in the coat closet
Laurie: My coat?
Mother: Its Halloween
Laurie: (Opens closet) Mother, something’s moving 
Mother: Michael is visiting for Halloween
Laurie: (Screams)
Michael: Lonely in hell
Laurie: Michael?
Michael: Laurie, its Michael
Laurie: Watch Thing?
Michael: Laurie, come in the closet
Laurie: No, Forbidden Planet?
Michael: I don’t have my knife
Laurie: (Goes into the closet)
Michael: Show you my costume.
Laurie: O.K.
Michael: (Puts on his mask)
Laurie: Scary!  Boo!
Michael: Scream for me
Laurie: No, kiss me
Michael: OK (Michael and Laurie kiss; Laurie screams) The Thing?

(Lights outs; Lights on: Mother dusts around.  Michael and Laurie off stage, changing costumes
Lights off; Lights on: Michael is in a closet costume; Laurie is in tight blue bell-bottom jeans and a red halter top)

Laurie: What am I?
Mother: A babysitter. You kids have fun trick or treating.  Michael, your mother, only sugar-free candy for you.  (Michael ignores). Michael, promise me.
Michael: Yes, Ms. Strode, I promise sugar-free candy
Mother: Michael, Laurie back by 9 p.m. (Michael & Laurie ignore) Promise me.
Laurie & Michael: Yes, Ms. Strode, I promise, 9 p.m.
Mother: Michael you forgot. (Mother exits and returns with a knife, gives knife to Michael)
Michael: Thank you, Ms. Strode
Mother: Picture of you two.  (Mother walks to audience/aims camera, Michael/Laurie pose, Laurie takes the knife from Michael, Laurie holds the knife over Michael’s head, lights dim, as lights go out, hear Michael scream)              

​Fear of Failure
​by Mady W. Segal
​

I’m heading into the room where I have to defend my doctoral dissertation in front of five professors. I’m terrified they’re going to fail me. I go in, but no one is there yet. I’m too early. I go to the bathroom for the third time.

I return to the room. They’re all there. My committee chair spouts the spiel about the defense format. He sends me out of the room for them to talk among themselves. I’m outside the door for what seems like forever. I got the feeling that something ain't right.

I tell myself, “Well, you started out with nothing on the page. You love the novel you wrote for the degree. You can do something with it even if they fail you.” That gives me confidence.

One of the professors, but not my advisor, comes out and calls me into the room. I feel like I’m going to the electric chair. I sit where he tells me to go: the head of the table. I obey. But I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair.

I answer all their questions. I’m in such a daze that I’ll never remember what they were. But I’ll never forget the look they exchange during this. I feel nauseous. After an eternity, my advisor says, “We’ve heard enough. There’s no need to prolong this agony.”

Now I know I’m going to fail. I go back in the hall and cry.

Just a few minutes later, my advisor comes out and says, “Go in for the verdict”. Now I’m sure it’s the electric chair. He looks at my tear-stained face and says. “Go in now. Everyone wants to slap you on the back and say, ‘Great job. It’s publishable as a book.’”​ 
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​Sandwiched Between Generations
​by Patty Bennett​

​One “slice of bread” is our parents
The “other slice,” it is our kids
In the middle are you and me
Like peanut butter with lids.

My mother’s getting dinghy
My father’s diabetic
Your mother’s dying of cancer
Your dad needs a diuretic.

One daughter needs a car for school
The second, a remediation crew
Our grown son is ADHD
I’m stuck in the middle with you.

And then there are the grandkids
Please tell me that they’re well
Be the mother I was to you once
Does that not ring a bell?

The phone is ringing, it’s my mom
She needs a ride to the beauty shop
Oh, no, another special ring
Your dad’s mad you called him ‘Pop.’

Ringing. Ringing. More ringing. 
It’s she, our middle child
She needs a sitter for her pets
Two Pugs and a cat that’s wild.

Look here, her sister sent a text
She needs a sitter for the baby
If you take Granny, I’ll do Sue
And our decision will just maybe

Be the best one we can manage
Being pulled in nine directions
I don’t like being in the middle
There is no time for reflections.

There is no time for just us two
To do what WE want to do
Sandwiched between generations
Stuck in the middle with you.

​Is it Cool to go to
​Sleep on the Floor?
​by Kim Burnett

Seventeen of us in Aunt Margaret’s tiny house. Two weeks. The hottest month of 1965.
 
1950’s ranch, tossed on the mudflats outside Detroit after the war. Front room, eat-in kitchen, three bedrooms, one bathroom and a sliding glass door out the kitchen, which I thought exotic. 
 
It was a goodbye.
 
Three teenagers and eleven children younger than nine.
 
Mom and her two sisters. Aunt Sally was moving with her five children—ages 13 months to eight years—all the way to California.
 
Mom thought she would never see her sister again. 
 
We lined up for everything. At meals our barefoot bodies snaked through the kitchen and into the front room, waiting for bologna sandwiches or Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. A queue for baths. My aunt recalled, “It was as if we were doing dishes. One sister washed, one dried, and one put away.” 

We slept on the floor. Not enough pillows for all those heads, so you had one at bedtime, but it was gone by morning. The cousins fought constantly, made up dramatically, and wept inconsolably at goodbye.
 
The sisters talked until they were hoarse. Sometimes they laughed until they cried. Many mornings they were still talking and smoking when we woke. They were putting words in the bank, for the future.
 
They thought it was the last time they would be together. But the world wasn’t nearly as big as they feared, and there was more prosperity ahead than they imagined. We have, over the years, and often with tremendous effort, come together for ordinary moments, for moments of great joy and moments great sadness. 
 
The sisters taught us to show love by showing up.
 
Last summer my brother died, and everyone came. Four generations grieved, but also celebrated the best of a life. We talked until we were hoarse. We laughed until we cried.

​Clowns to the Left of Me,         Jokers to the Right
​by Kevin Fidgeon

​The circus is ending. The big top is coming down.  All the elephants are retired to a farm in Florida.  Three rings had been reduced to one and smiling clowns returned to the tiny car.

I remember the circus sideshows best of all from my youth, long gone. The performers were entertaining, fascinating and scary all at the same time. Where did they all go?  No idea where they live but I do know where they shop.

CLOWNS TO THE LEFT OF ME, JOKERS TO THE RIGHT, here I am in the middle of Walmart. The sideshow has begun and has my full attention—human pincushions with piercings over every conceivable part of their bodies; the Tatooed Lady, hard to find a piece of skin that has not been drawn upon; the Bearded Lady, looking for a bearded man; biggest man and woman in Aisle 4, checking out the 4X sizes for stretch pants and stylish sweat suits.

I'm standing on the line for money-gram, prepared to send some money to a family in Africa. It's a monthly ritual and the kindly older clerk is required to ask if I personally know the recipient. We both smile as I give my usual reply, "No, I love this family."

Surrounded by familiar faces and shapes, I spot my son-in-law in full anti-virus attire, buying shot gun shells.  No need to ask why, he loves and fears for his family.

Upon leaving, I realized that I've become a full fledged member of the Walmart sideshow, pleased and proud to have clowns to the left of me and jokers to the right, stuck in the middle.                                                                                                                  

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