Search for Stories

Somewhere in the back streets of Yokosuka, a few blocks from the naval base, is the Hideaki karaoke bar. The neon sign above the doorway entrance has been missing since Typhoon Kirogi years before. But word of mouth has made Hideaki the place in Yokosuka for sailors on shore leave, at least any sailor with a keen ear for improvisation and the ability to count in 11/8. Because Hideaki is the world’s first Eric Dolphy memorial karaoke bar.


Diners are invited to bring their own ingredients and cook on the
Hideaki karaoke bar Teppanyaki grill.
(*Terms and Conditions apply)

There was a time when Augusta was treated with respect at work. Before the kids, before the career break, before the acrimonious divorce. Hubby had faked a pre-nup and the lawyers sucked up every dollar she had left in the custody battle. So he’s sitting pretty, watching share options as the NYSE breaches 10000, while Augusta is chasing short-term contract work. Worst part of life’s deal? She’d ended up being hired by her ex’s latest tech start-up, dumped with all the testing no-one wanted to do. Working with an all-male troop of just-out-of-teens acne-scarred know-alls who really didn’t.

The bar room conversation, concerning Serbian terrorists and the assassination of some Austro-Hungarian, had become tiresome. England’s problems were at home: militant suffragettes planting bombs all over the place, from St Paul’s Cathedral to the Bank of England and only a couple of weeks ago under the coronation chair in Westminster Abbey; what a distressing state of affairs. Raising the pewter tankard to his lips, Neville Fifehead breathes in the piney perfume of hops. This malty ochre nectar will surely get the legs turning again.

Erica had a penchant and a knack, for finding faults.

When school was in session, she took a particular glee in debriefing the researchers of University experiments in their post-experiment debriefing sessions. These experiments used the Psych class masses as their sample population (of which Erica was a member by way of minoring in it). Damn the IRB and its stipulations to hell!

“You’re using X as a proxy to measure Y, aren’t you?” she’d ask.

The lines on the Researcher’s face would tighten, “Did you feel that biased your results?”

“Oh definitely!”