The September 2018 ARTPOST magazine contains amazing Slice Of Life stories and artwork from around the world.


ARTWORK by Jessica Moritz



The Birdhouse | Kai Hudson

Mayfly | Lindy Greaves

The Drink That Wouldn’t Say Hello | Karl Scarff

Henry Smith’s Seasonings | Peter J. Barbour

Finding Common Ground | Ellen Denton

Jessica Moritz – Featured Artist

Love for the City | Ryan Benson

A Daughter’s Regrets | Charita Gil

Fifteen Minutes | Christopher L. Malone

The Statue | Ashley N. Melucci

Straylee’s Bailiwick | Jim Strahle

Fifteen Minutes

Game shows are a travesty to mankind. Every single one of them. I should know, because I was on one for exactly four minutes and thirty-two seconds; enough time for the producers to eagerly pump me up as a blue collar working man to the rest of the audience, just so they could eagerly watch me fall flat on my face. It’s entertaining to pull the rug out from under a guy’s feet and watch him come crashing back down to Earth. When he lands, you can point and laugh, and tell yourself, “Yeah, he’s still one of us.” Comforting, isn’t it?

That’s how all those game shows are, though. The commercials try to make them out like it’s Plain Jane’s chance at the big time, the American Dream; tune in to find out if she’s the one to finally punch that golden ticket – that whole bit. And sure, we might tune in, but not to see if she makes it. The TV is on so we can watch her fatal flaw reveal itself in our living rooms as she commits to making that one mistake. We tune in to make sure the universe is still right and that no one is ever really a winner.

You’ve probably seen my episode, too. They’ve replayed it a couple of times, and who knows – some say I’m destined to be put on one of those “Most Outrageous Game Show Moments” type montages, because so classic was my moment, right? Of course, the game show to which I refer wasn’t actually on the air for all that long – just enough to make a big splash of notoriety and cause a storm of controversy before getting cancelled for the next big flop. I’m sure the show will be back on TV in a couple of years or so, when Hollywood runs out of ideas to recycle. They’ll probably spin it, too; make it fresh, get real creative and call it “The NEW I Cannot Tell a Lie!”


Henry Smith’s Seasonings


I remember the first time I met Henry Smith. It was outside an old factory in the summer of 1965. I was entering my senior year of high school. Hap Phillips, the coach of our summer baseball team, told me there was a job helping a client of his move into a new location. I think Coach Phillips was taking pity on me. He probably noted I was not playing with much enthusiasm even when I made a good play. The future was on my mind and my prospects seemed limited. It was my sister, mother, and I. We didn’t have much money, and I was headed for a transition, senior year of High School. It seemed like the end of the road at the time. I needed the money for college applications and such, and I didn’t mind the prospect of lifting and toting things. Anyway, I could be productive, and that was better than sitting at home or hanging out somewhere.

I’ve never liked public transportation, and I had to take the P&W trolley, a three block walk from my home in Penfield. The trolley took me to the 69th street terminal, and then I had to switch to the Media line to get to where I was going to work. It took about 40 minutes as long as the connections were good. The building Mr. Smith was moving into was a short walk from the trolley stop. Mr. Smith was at the front door when I arrived.

“You the boy Hap sent me?” Mr. Smith said.

“Yes, sir. My name is Joe,” I replied.



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