The dinner hour show at our favorite bar is a single blues guitarist. Gordon picks, sings, and adds his own harmonica. A few songs into the set, Rick joins him, adding a bongo or some raindrops. What a difference. The main event band leader comes in the door as we talk about him. To the stage Joe goes with his harmonica. A support. A comrade. The sound takes another step up and onward. Live music fills my soul and eases pain from negative emotional events. I’m in a cosmic bowl of soup that emanates life, dreams, reality, and friendships.

Written in response to Charli Mills February 20, 2024, prompt at Carrot Ranch Literary: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about a cosmic egg soup. Is it something new on the menu or the deep horizon? Who is making the soup and why? Who will it feed and how will it change the story? Be inventive, imaginative, or playfully serious. Go where the prompt leads!