RIP Mike McGrady – aka one-part Penelope Ashe.
“It came after a night of reading ‘Valley of the Dolls,’ ” he later told Newsweek, “which I couldn’t put down because I was asleep.”
JOB
Fiction Saturday- For Webb
March 17, 2012 by at 8:01 am
(Remember Agrefena from the dream? Well she’s back!)
First Draft alternate beginning 2
Suddenly there was dim light and soft jazz illuminating the mahogany paneled lounge. Suited men and women sat talking business swirling ice and amber liquor in crystal tumblers. On center table, a blue art glass bowl mounded with snow cooling six vodka glasses.
Thomas looked up from the vodka at a Russian beauty so hot he feared the vodka would ignite as it passed her lips. Pulling a glass from the snow mound he downed it. “Your turn Agrafena.” He said pushing the glass upside down into the mound.
Smiling, she tossed her silky black hair back reached for a glass tilting it just enough so the viscous booze slid oyster-like over her lips—eyes closed—savoring as she swallowed. His eyes stroked the descent of her cleavage down the plunge of her black dress. Quickly the ascent of his glance met with her ice colored eyes as she pushed the empty glass upside down into the mound. “Good vodka.” She sighed in a viscous Russian accent.
“What should we drink to?” Thomas asked smiling. Looking upward she paused, licking her lips and smiling back, “My body. . .” she whispered dipping two fingers into the icy vodka and slipping them into her mouth “. . . let’s drink to my body.”
“My hand will not tremble.” He replied plucking a second glass from the ice. “Your body.” Lifting the glass he drank tossing his head back. Agrafena pulled a glass from the ice, raising it, “My body.” She said pouring the vodka slowly into her mouth. Her face was cool glowing ecstasy as she swallowed, and he fixed on her eyes. She drinks like porno. He thought. Her tongue made a slow orbit around the empty glass’s rim, and she pushed it into the snow. His heart began to race.
“Darling, I have bottle in room, why don’t we have drink up there?” She asked. “I’d love to.” He said choking a bit on the words. Cooly he stood, pulling a thick roll of bills from his pocket, he peeled off a hundred dollar bill laying it on the table. She looked up smiling taking his offered hand. She stood, and they walked across the room to the elevator. As they walked he noticed that every man in the bar was staring at her. This isn’t right . . . he thought, . . .my wife. But as she walked her curvy sway iced his scruple colder than the vodka.
They stepped into the open elevator, and the promise of ascent. The doors closed, and she bent pressing the sixth floor button. She rose turning, and kissed him deeply. His hands moved up her waist . . . “Not yet love, wait for room.” She whispered. The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into the hall in front of her room. She fumbled with the key while he kissed her neck.
Opening the door, she led him into the room his mouth still attached to her neck. She turned and they kissed. He ran his fingers up her bare arms. Her skin danced to his stroke, and he slipped the straps of her dress over her shoulders.
“Mmm, I like. . .” her eyes flashed approval, “. . . but what about drink?”
“Forget it.” He whispered into her ear.
“Darling, third drink makes me naughty girl.” She smiled pushing him away.
“Now go get ice in hall for drinks. Take bucket.”
She handed him the ice bucket and pushed him toward the door. “Go quickly! My need is great for you!”
He grabbed the bucket and stepped into the hall. He ran toward the ice machine at its end. Naughty? I can’t argue with naughty. He thought pushing the ice machine button over and over. “Come on . . . Come on . . . her desire is great!” He said impatiently. The bucket full he ran back to the room. Pausing at the door he composed himself, then stepped in. Agrafena was standing before him in a pool of ice blue light. She had removed her dress and wore only a black push-up bra and thong. In her hands were two empty glasses. “My God!” He gasped in his native Czech, stunned by her erotic symmetry. “What took you?” She said smiling placing the glasses on the table. She took the ice bucket from him, but as she did he seized her waist pulling her against him.
“Slowdown . . .slowdown, We have all night for the pleasure.” Agrafena said pushing him away. “Go in bathroom. Get towel. Take off shirt and tie. I will pour drinks.” Reluctantly releasing the death-grip on her waist he stepped into the bathroom. Looking into the mirror he removed his shirt and tie throwing them on the floor. Good thing I’ve been working out. He thought searching for flaws and the signs of age. Not bad . . . not bad at all. He removed his shoes and socks kicking them under the basin. He carefully arranged the towel over his shoulders concealing his naked torso, and stepped into the room.
Agrafena stood waiting holding a vodka on the rocks in each hand. “Finally love . . .” holding up the two glasses next to her ice colored eyes. She stepped up to Thomas handing him one. “What should we drink to? He asked taking the glass from her. “Your body.” She replied, toasting him while brushing her breasts against his naked torso. She downed her drink with no foreplay this time. Thomas followed and they set their empty glasses on the table. “Bitter . . .” he said “. . . not as good as in the bar.” He felt warm and reckless inside as he pulled her into him. Her skin glowed and was hot against his. He bent to kiss her lips. She stopped him with her hand. “No my love kiss my neck first. It drives me crazy.” She said in perfect Czech. Obeying he kissed her neck pulling her bra strap off her shoulder with his teeth. “Yes love just like that.” She moaned her approval again in Czech.
As he moved to the other shoulder he felt dizzy. He tried to mouth the other strap but could not. He straightened. “Vodka’s going to my head.” He slurred swaying trying to grab her bra strap with his hand. “I can’t . . .ge . . .get it.” Eyeing him coldly she pushed back. “She keeps moving. Must remove bra! I am not drunk, just dizzy. Give me a . . .just give me.” Suddenly, the room filled with fluorescent light as she took a full step away from him. Her expression clinical. “Not back! . . .not back!. . .no! . . . I mus . . . I mus . . . have it!” She smiled pulling her bra strap up over her shoulder. “Closure my darling.” She said in a thick Russian accent, and everything went blacker than her push-up bra.
Thomas opened his eyes. His head was burning pain. The angry fluorescent light hurt his eyes. He could not feel his lower body. His stinging eyes shifting rapidly side-to-side desperately trying to orient himself. He first found his hands. They were cold, wet, and the fingernails were blue. Waves of cold pain hit his consciousness. He was submerged in an ice bath in the tub. He struggled to sit up but could not. Looking down the water and ice were pink, and a large bloody gauze bandage was duct taped to his torso. The sharp ice bit into his skin. An intravenous tube was duct tapped to his arm. Fear and dread overcame him, and he begin to panic. He looked around desperately focusing on the chair. On the seat was a cell phone, a syringe, and a note duct taped to the back. It read.
Darling,
You are dying my love.
Sorry but business before pleasure.
You are donor match, so some doctor friends and I remove part of your liver.
It will be sold to rich client who needs transplant.
It is too bad, I would have been naughty girl for you . . .but instead I am naughty rich girl!
Love
Agrafena
P.S.
If you try to get up you will be dead before you walk out of bathroom.
Dial 911 on cell phone. You are in St. Elijah Hotel, sixth floor, first room.
If pain comes stick morphine syringe in tube and press. You won’t feel pain after.
Agrafena signed her name with his blood. Rage and frustration suddenly welled up within him. He fumbled for the cell phone with his numb hands. He tried to think what excuse he could tell his wife. “I didn’t even sleep with her and she took my liver!” NOOOOO! He screamed.
Thomas sat up in bed gasping in a sweat clutching his cell phone. The sun was just piercing the room. That dream again. Always at the end of a project. He thought swinging his feet on to the floor.
Fiction Friday
March 16, 2012 by at 5:29 pm
Kay Stone
It seems that a lot of football fans don’t know the story of the eleventh pick in this year’s upcoming NFL draft. It all has to do with the Kansas City Chiefs and the Seattle professional team whose name represents a mythical Native American bird of prey and started with the fact that the Chiefs and the Seattle team were in a complete statistical tie for their respective 2011 records. This tie included wins and losses, as well as every other tie breaking category including division record. So, the draft order was to be determined by a coin toss. Our diverting story, as originally broken by ESPN, centers around an unknown Seattle team sales representative named Allen Reynolds who was selected to represent his team during the coin toss in New York City.
“Don’t bother coming back if it’s tails,” the General Manager said, and Allen wasn’t sure if he was joking. Allen felt that the G.M. was a mercurial man who might fire him if he came back to Seattle with the twelfth pick instead of the eleventh. Allen calculated, correctly one would think, that the odds of coming home from New York with the eleventh pick at around 50%. Did that mean there was a 50% chance he would be out on the street? He wasn’t sure.
You might ask why Seattle sent Allen Reynolds to witness the coin toss. You can ask that, it is a fair question why such a prestigious organization would send the Luxury Box Liaison on such an important assignment. In his heart Allen thought knew why, he was expendable.
If you go to the team offices in Renton, Washington, you might see a poster reading, “Luck Favors the Prepared”. But, how can anyone prepare for a coin toss. Adding to the pressure was the fact that the team reserved a first-class seat on American Airlines, a Central Park view room at a five-star hotel called the Mandarin Oriental. They also provided a $2000 expense card for the one-day/two-night trip. They were expecting results. Allen wondered whether those Egyptian cotton sheets would become the burial linen of his career. This might be the sort of thing a man with an Anthropology degree worries about.
Anyway, the difference between pick eleven and pick twelve in the NFL draft was the difference between a black defensive end from Alabama and a white, overachieving, middle linebacker from Boston College. It was the difference between a pass rushing playoff team and an eight and eight disaster.
In his Central Park view room, Allen avoided the mini-bar because he wanted to return with $2000 intact. He pulled out a liter of Old Crow from his suitcase and lay down on his bed with a burger from Wendy’s and watched a rerun of Hack. He thought about having dinner at the Russian Tea Room. He always wanted to eat at the Russian Tea Room. Then he thought about losing the coin toss and also spending $300 on dinner. Maybe if he won the toss he could live like Diamond Jim. Allen took a wait and see approach. Part of him felt that maybe he should hold on to his luck, that he needed to stay pure potentiality. He flipped past the erotic channels. He would avoid self-abuse as reported later.
Allen turned on the hot water in the shower and turned the bathroom into a sauna. He thought about his power animal, the horned owl, and after an hour wondered when the Mandarin Oriental would send a security man to check out why he was using so much hot water. Nobody came. Apparently, when you are paying $1100 per night for a hotel room you could use all the hot water you wanted.
According to ESPN.COM, Allen stood naked in the hotel room and began flipping coins. He recorded the results of 1000 tosses and determined the odds really were close to 50/50. Except if he lost, then the results would be 0/100. Of course, if he won, then the odds would have been 100/0. Allen was 0, or he was 100. 0 seemed more likely. He wanted to bet against himself. Allen learned in college that the intervention of “God” wasn’t a consideration, as was the opinion of The New York Times.
Around 10PM, Allen felt hungry. He pulled on some pants and a zipped up a team coat. Slipping into some loafers he went downstairs to buy a cookie at an espresso stand he noticed in the lobby.
“You and I have a date with destiny”
She stood behind him at the espresso stand. “Kay Stone,” she said, extending her hand. She had a soft enveloping shake. She was about 50, with large breasts which came to sharp points in a Kansas City Chief V-neck. She was tan, with a wide plain face and moist brown eyes which were really more black than brown and looked like an abyss.
Allen wondered how this woman knew who he was.
“I like your socks,” she said. Allen wasn’t wearing socks.
“I have a pair just like them at home,” he replied and Kay laughed.
“So, you’ll be at the coin toss?” he asked.
“That’s right, ain’t it the life though. A night at The Oriental for thirty seconds work. How much is your meal voucher?”
“Two thousand,” Allen couldn’t help but look at Kay’s chest.
“Two thousand! I thought Mr. Hunt was generous. You better win that toss.”
Allen felt the dread come over him again. “I haven’t spent any yet. Frankly, I just want to get home.”
“Are you kidding, that’s a perk of the job. Loosen the tie a little bit kid, you’re in the big apple.”
“Actually, now that you mention it, I was thinking about having dinner at the Russian Tea Room tomorrow. You can join me if you want, I mean…” Allen couldn’t believe he had asked her to join him. She was twenty years older than he was. Who was this woman and why was she getting so personal. He wanted to go upstairs and finish the Old Crow and fall asleep in his clothes.
“The Russian Tea Room hasn’t been around for years, but that’s the right spirit. I could go for a drink. Why don’t you pull out that expense card and buy me a fancy drink. The bar here has quite a view.”
He tried not to look at her large breasts, but could feel their power piercing him like cosmic radiation. “Aren’t they closing soon” he mumbled. They. Her tits were closing soon, he thought.
“Closed! Are you fresh off the turnip truck. This is New York City.”
Kay was right. The view from the Lobby Lounge was excellent. They took a couch facing the window. The skyline lights helped Allen feel a little better. He knew he was wound a little too tight. He made people feel uneasy. Kay ordered a Side Car.
“House bourbon,” Allen told the waiter.
Kay shook her head. “You can do better than that,” she said.
“Okay…how about McCallum, twenty year old.”
“More like it,” Kay said as the waiter returned to the bar. “People give me a hard time because I order such old fashioned drinks.”
“Like Side Cars?”
“Like Side Cars, and Old Fashions. Ever had a Gimlet, it’s made with lime juice. Kay lightly touched Allen’s leg with every punctuation, He had to admit to himself that he was enjoying it.
Kay looked out at the city lights, “I just like old fashioned things. Like Gershwin, the view reminds me of Gershwin. Do you like old movies?”
“They’re kind of funny,” Allen replied. In reality he liked playing Halo.”So what do you do for The Chiefs?”
Kay sipped her drink, closing her eyes with delight, “just about everything. I’m one of Mr. Hunt’s personal assistants, kind of a Girl Friday.”
“So, you’re an Administrative Assistant?”
“In a way, men are always very comfortable with me. Say, do you think The Oriental has a man passing out towels in the men’s room?How much do you want to bet they have an old man who passes out towels in the restroom?”
Allen tasted his scotch. Yes, he was definitely enjoying himself. “I have no idea, do you want me to check?”
“Oh would you?” Kay asked, her hand resting a little longer near the top of Allen’s leg.
There was no old man or anyone else in the restroom. No matter, Allen had to go. When he came back, Kay watched him finish the scotch. “Do you want another?” he asked.
“One’s my limit, but why don’t we sit here for just a while, it’s so beautiful.”
As they sat admiring the view, Allen began to feel numb. He wondered if he was having a minor stroke. It was at that point that started to have trouble breathing and began to panic.”
“You don’t look so good,” Kay said. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I feel like I can’t breath,” Allen said.
Kay helped him to his feet. “You don’t look well at all, let’s get you upstairs.”
Strangely, Allen’s mind was completely lucid as he observed himself walking into the elevator with Kay’s help. He watched her press 25, not his floor. And observed himself being guided into room 2514, not his room. After observing her pull his clothes off, he watched her go into the bathroom.
What happened next has been confirmed by Jim Riley at ESPN. As she emerged from the light of the bathroom, he saw that Kay’s stomach was covered with pink scars which Allen recognized as the ritual scarring of The Tiv of Nigeria.
Kay lit a candle and chanted over Allen’s paralyzed body. A pestle and mortar was produced and she smeared red paint on his face. She then rubbed a small, wriggling lizard over his body as she convulsed herself inhumanly. It was at this time that Kay performed fellatio on Allen, and after he climaxed whispered in his hear “I stole your juju.” And then Allen passed out.
The next day, he was awoken by the maid. At first the plump Hispanic woman was startled. “Check out was twelve o’clock. I thought you were checked out.” Barely able to rise from bed, Allen covered himself with the sheet and checked the clock, it was 12:11. There was a black and white movie on TCM. Allen didn’t like old movies. Kay liked old movies. Kay. He wasn’t dreaming. The coin toss was at noon
The room was empty except for his clothes on the floor. His key card was missing, along with the change from the espresso stand. No time to call the NFL. He ran into the hallway and caught the elevator. League headquarters was two blocks away, he knew the location because it was the first place he stopped after coming into town. Just to be sure, just so he wouldn’t be late when the time came. Allen was thirty minutes late.
“Sorry Seattle, you lost the coin toss,” the Assistant Commissioner said with a smirk as Allen entered the conference room. “Had a long night?”
Allen heard laughing from behind him and saw Kay with a group of suits leaning against a table. Allen was zero. His chances of losing were 100%. In a window separating the large conference room from the hallway he saw his reflection. His face was still painted. “That woman!” he screamed, “that bitch drugged me and stole my juju. I demand a re-toss!”
Kay looked at Allen as cool as summer lemonade, “whatever gets you through the night sweetie.”
“Sorry Seattle. We only toss once,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “We’ve never tossed twice. It’s a coin toss, you have a fifty percent chance of winning or losing. Here’s a commemorative coin”
“In my case it’s a one-hundred percent chance of losing,” Allen said, and threw the coin to the floor on his way out.
“Sounds like a personal problem,” he heard Kay to the delight of her audience.
Epilogue:
As it turned out, Allen Reynolds wasn’t fired for losing the coin toss. In fact, he wasn’t fired at all. The General Manager was very disappointed. He said that he sent Allen as a reward for an outstanding year.
“You can’t control the toss of a coin. We wanted you to have a good time in New York City. Loosen your tie a bit. Live a little. You’re a young man. I don’t know what happened between you and Miss Stone. That’s your business. However, in the future we would like you to uphold the reputation of this organization.”
Allen felt as if he would never recover his juju again.
And that’s the story of the eleventh pick in the 2012 NFL draft.
In which the Pope cites a novel that takes place at a time near the end of the world
January 31, 2012 by at 7:28 am
…and various Churchmen and Catholic entities with short views on ecclesiology and long views on themselves shuffle their feet and clear their throats.
Take it away, Father Rutler!
They also serve who only stand and blog.
December 5, 2011 by at 10:22 am
Well, crap. In the time it’s taken me to whine about how I never have time to write anything, David Athey has gone and written another novel, Christopher. (Sharp Former Friends of Godsbody may recall my bit at the Image blog about his first effort, the lovely Danny Gospel. Oh, Andrew McNabb, we were writers once, and young. You were gonna start a press…) Anyway, head on over to Amazon and do a pre-order thingy if the mood strikes you. I haven’t seen a whit of this, but I do know the man can write. And just as I was writing this, I found out that he’s gone and started a website for Christian writers: Words, Church, and Mystics! Well, well, well.
Guest Post: A Platter of Live Turkey at Dinner!
December 1, 2011 by at 12:10 am
This guest post comes from my daughter, who turned eight yesterday (she shares the day with old Jack Lewis) and wrote this short story for a 2nd grade writing assignment. Warning: some turkey bodily functions are mentioned, and some violence of a graphic nature is depicted, although no turkeys were actually harmed in the making of this story.
Lucy and Charlie were looking out the window on Thanksgiving. They were waiting for their aunt, uncle, grandma, and grandpa to show up at their house. They were going to have a Thanksgiving dinner together.
When the grandparents got there, they all sat down at the table to prepare the Thanksgiving dinner. When they opened the platter to get the turkey, the turkey was alive!
The turkey ran around the kitchen and pooped in the pudding. Then it sat in the pumpkin pie and while it sat in the pumpkin pie it peed! Then it got up and barfed on the floor! Lucy got up, carefully to avoid the barf, and grabbed a knife and slashed the turkey right in the head! The turkey flopped right over and then its head fell off.
They went to the store and got another turkey, and that turkey didn’t cause any trouble.
Marion Montgomery, RIP
November 29, 2011 by at 9:49 am
His most famous work is the trilogy The Prophetic Poet and the Spirt of the Age, which includes ”Why Flannery O’Connor Stayed Home,” “Why Poe Drank Liquor,” and “Why Hawthorne Was Melancholy.” These and others can be found for the having here.
Well well well
August 10, 2011 by at 7:22 am
Matty boy’s up and at ‘em over at Dappled Things.
Take a look while we all await for the next issue to come out – our fingers, even now, eagerly flipping phantom pages….
Ars longa, caenum facile: Part II
The frisson between porn and lit continues…
On the face of it, this case pivots on a trivial legal distinction – to wit: “that simply viewing child porn on the Internet is not enough to prove its procurement or possession.”
But it has it’s roots in the deeply inhaled myth that pornography is just another art form – and as long as the perveyor is not directly harming another, well, we all know art has no affect on it’s audience, right?
Sed contra est, what one bloke from Rockford, Ill. has to say about it all:
Libertarians insist that these innocent fantasies do not lead to harm. After all, we know from a series of enlightened court rulings that the state has no interest in banning erotic novels if there are the slightest pretensions to literary merit – yes, an obvious reference to Lady Chatterley’s Lover. After all, moral questions can all be reduced to subjective value, can’t they?
Libertarians put the case directly. We should enjoy the freedom to read or watch anything we like so long as no one has been demonstrably harmed. So, if a father of two little girls becomes aware that his next-door neighbor is addicted to virtual pornography depicting the rape, torture, and murder of little girls, it is none of his business. If people feed their imagination on images of sexual violence – as, by the way, so many sex offenders predictably do – this has absolutely no bearing on what kind of people they are or on the crimes they might some day be willing to commit.
What say you all?