Bill's Bilge

THAT LITTLE TALK - flash fiction

2008-07-11T20:03:00.000-05:00

The many areas in which I lack anything resembling demostrated competence includes writing flash (short) fiction. I've manged to crank out a few that come in under 1000 words. One of them, "I'll Always Love You" has just seen the light of day at USADeepSouth.

http://usads.ms11.net/fullerton2.html

The story now before you, however, is my first attempt at the oft challenged but seldom mastered 100 word barrier. As always, your comments, whether they be brickbats or bouquets, will be appreciated.

Bayou Bill

==

THAT LITTLE TALK
by Bill Fullerton

“I guess it’s time we had that little talk.”

His father’s voice was teasing. But Mark knew the talk would be about the summer job he hadn’t started. Maybe he could change the subject. “Oh, I already know all about that stuff. The stork brings the babies and leaves them under a cabbage leaf.”

“So that’s how it’s done. And I always thought Doc Miles brought them in his little black bag.”

“He does. But first he has to go by the cabbage patch and pick out a fresh one.”

“I see. Now when do you start work?”

Bum Back Bilge Call

2008-06-11T15:50:00.001-05:00

Greetings, World.

Had surgery yesterday to correct a bad disc that was pinching the sciatic nerve to my right leg. It all ended with both patient and doctor doing well. In fact, the sawbones was so proud of his work, he let me go home instead of overnighting in the hosptial.

Between the after-effects of general anesthesia and some pain pills, I entered slumber-land very early. Slept well, despite waking for a couple potty breaks, which, thanks to the after-effects of a damn catheter, were a bit of a pain. But that too shall pass, so to speak.

Today the back's sore where they did all the slicing and dicing, and the leg still hurts, but a lot less. With any luck, the pain levels should drop over the next few days.

Morning chores took a bit longer than usual, of course. Feeding the two dogs being a logistics challenge that required sitting in a chair to get the bowls down to dog level (NO bending allowed). Rest assured all three of us broke our fasts.

I'm still learning how to get around with this patch on my back. But there are plenty of pain pills and I have some audio books so staying inside (hit a record 102 here in Austin yesterday) is not the worst of all possible fates.

There's one thing I just gotta, gotta, gotta share with y'all.

A young gas passer came into my room to give me the usual pre-op talk. His name: Dr. Sturgeon. After he left, it occured to me that if he was a surgeon and a life-long celibate, he'd be:

(drom-roll)

The virgin, surgeon, Sturgeon.

(rim-shot)

Hey it's my blog and my back. :)

Bayou Bill

WORKERS WRITE: Tales From The Clinic

2008-05-16T18:25:00.003-05:00

WORKERS WRITE

Tales From The Clinic

Anthology - Paperback
184 pages
$8.00 U.S.
ISSN: 1556-715X

The Dark Marks by Cortney Davis
Third Shift by Amy Simonson
Drawing Blood by David Yost
Your Test Is Positive by Lisa Rutledge
Last of the Richardsons by Peggy Duffy
You Lose a Few by Anna Sykora
A Voice in the Room by River Adams
Tests and Measurements by Dory Adams
There Are No Poems at Hospital Management Meetings by Cortney Davis
Melon by Lewis K. Schrager
Near-Death Experience by Bruce Hillman
The Call of the Rain Crow by John Sparks
The Notebook by Carol Scott-Conner
The Thirteenth Floor by Davi Walders

The Kiss by Bill Fullerton
(an excerpt)

“In other national news, a Defense Department spokesman said 18,000 of the 31,000 US troops ordered into Cambodia by President Nixon have been withdrawn.”

Gwen Kaplan gave her bangs one last touch. Before this summer, news about the war in Vietnam had been background noise to her life. She cared, but had been hearing about the war since junior high. Now things were different. Now she knew someone who had fought over there, and been wounded.

“Investigations are continuing into the killing of protesters at Kent State and Jackson State universities. Authorities are discounting recent allegations by Mississippi officials that both incidents were started by snipers firing from student dorms.”

Two weeks ago, the south was just a blur to her. Now that was also different. Now she also knew someone from the south. The same one who’d been wounded in Vietnam. Her hair would do, she decided, and put the brush into her purse.

Blue Cubicle Press http://www.bluecubiclepress.com/index.htm
has just release, Workers Write! Tales from the Clinic, which includes, The Kiss, a story by your modest scribe (that's me.)

This is a very good thing for this "yet to be published" inchoate novelist, since, The Kiss, is a short story version of chapter one from my first novel, A Brief Affair. Now all I need is for some far-sighted editor, publisher, or agent to pick up a copy of, Workers Write! That's not much to ask for, is it?

So here's the deal; for only eight dollars you can get an anthology of tales with a medical theme that includes a short story of mine, The Kiss, a semi-autobiographical account of a more-or-less actual event.

What a bargain!

While copies will be available at more discerning bookstores, to order online just click on this link and pull out your credit card.

http://www.bluecubiclepress.com/books.htm

Beaming Bayou Bill

WE DANCED TO RAY CHARLES: synopsis & prologue

2008-03-25T13:52:00.000-05:00

Due to uncertainity over what constitutes "published" in this age of the internet, only the synopsis, prologue, and first two chapters of this novel can be posted on an "open" blog.

Anyone interested in reading more after plowing through this should e-mail me at bemildered@yahoo.com for the link, username, and password to the "protected" blog.

Bayou Bill

SYNOPSIS

Moral choices are seldom as simple as the one faced by MARK CAHILL in the summer of 1968, but it was the dangerous simplicity of a razor’s edge. On one side were an exotic beauty, the chance for political office, and the approval of most people in his small southern hometown.

On the other side were his beliefs, self-respect, and life-long friends, one of whom he now loved but knew he could never have. Set against the backdrop of racial tension and social change, We Danced to Ray Charles is a story of love, hate, temptation and loss.

Mark’s problems begin at a spring keg party on the levee of the Mississippi River. That night he and AMY MARSHALL, his oldest friend, kiss. Mark falls in love, but is convinced Any didn’t since, “guys like me don’t stand a chance with girl’s like her.”

Then the petite, exotic, BEBE BOUDREAUX, makes a very pragmatic decision to move in on Mark. She’s rejected him for years because, “he’s just too damn nice,” but arranges to accidentally bump into him at a dance in Pinefield. By the time they leave, she’s agreed to what becomes the first in a series of ever more intimate dates.

While Mark is delighted and surprised by this turn of events, there’s more to his wanting her than just hormones. He’s always felt like a perennial runner-up. As he explains to a friend, dating Bebe is like winning a blue ribbon; it says he’s a winner. And he hopes being with Bebe will help him forget how he feels about the unattainable Amy.

What Mark won't admit to anyone is how dating Bebe also helps him deal with a long-standing self-loathing over his fear of DARRELL RAY SIMS, Bebe’s long time, back-street lover. While in junior high, Sims humiliated him during a football game. Since then, Mark has been afraid of Sims and ashamed of his fear. That Bebe would go out with Sims and a lot of other guys while rejecting him just re-enforced this feeling.

However, Bebe’s unexpected change of attitude forces Mark to face some serious complications. For one thing, she’s a racist. So are a lot of other people he knows. But he and his friends are not, and it’s getting harder for him to overlook her type of blatant racism. It’s even tougher to ignore her father, who has taken over the local Klan.

That’s a particularly awkward situation since one of Mark’s other close friends is WILLIE CARTER. His father is Pinefield’s leading black minister and head of the area’s civil rights movement.

Mark, Amy, and Willie were born a few weeks apart and grew up together. Along with laconic latecomer BOB HEMPHILL, who Bebe once publicly insulted, they are a close-knit group. Even for Mark, who can rationalize almost anything, balancing his values and old friendships with dating Bebe is a tricky act.

There are other complications. When Bebe begins dating Mark, Darrell Ray Sims, who has always felt a class-based contempt for the “candy-assed, city kid,” turns to Klan activities in an effort to impress her. Many of these acts relate to a “Peeping Tom” trial the Klan supported sheriff hopes will insure his re-election by embarrassing Willie’s family and impeding the voter’s registration drive.

But for Mark, the worst complication is the physical attraction he continues to feel for Amy, the homecoming queen and campus beauty who he’s sure can never be more than his friend. When he sees and feels her tall, slim, nude body the moonlit night they go skinny-dipping, it leaves him numb, speechless, and feeling hopeless.

Amy is facing her own complication. While unsure how she feels about her life-long best friend, she’s positive Bebe is evil and would be terrible for Mark. Amy wonders if she’s trying to break them up because she cares for Mark, hates Bebe, or is there more to her motives? But as she confides to her sister and cousin, it doesn’t matter how she feels about Mark. He’s so nuts about Bebe he didn’t even react to her body brushing against his the night they went skinny-dipping.

For Bebe, it’s a much less complicated situation. A Cajun, she’s a relative newcomer to the clannish town and wants Mark for financial security and social respectability. If hooking him antagonizes Amy, the long-time rival she despises, so much the better.

Another friend summed up the situation this way for Mark:

After knowing Amy all your life, you go and fall for her just when Bebe drops in on the act. You didn’t ask for advice, but in my opinion you should tell Bebe to hit the road and then take your best shot with Amy. But you won’t do that. You’re too hung up on Bebe and too afraid of losing Amy. Besides, we both know you’re a nice guy who was born to compromise.

The problem is you could end up losing ‘em both, plus a bunch of friends and, what the hell, toss in your self-respect just for good measure. So I feel sorry for you. No shit, I do. ‘Cause unless you change your ways, something tells me you’re in for a very interesting summer.

==

PROLOGUE

Headlights off, three large cars glide through the muggy Louisiana night like nocturnal birds of prey. Each front door brandishes an angry, ornate star and the words Kisatche Parish Sheriff’s Department.

From the dark cab of his pick-up truck, Jack Boudreaux and his second-in-command, Delmar Bullock, watch with approval as the cars turn right onto a dead-end road with no lights and no name in a nowhere place called Sandtown.

On one side of the street, abandoned cars, a basketball goal with no net, and a weed-choked baseball field occupy an otherwise vacant lot.

A row of small frame houses, perched as if ready to flee at the slightest noise, face the lot. All are tidy but patched and weatherworn. Short fences outline bare-dirt front yards.

The quiet procession halts in front of the last house. No dogs bark as uniformed white men get out. One circles behind the dark house. The others set up around the front and sides.

A tall, nervous man wearing western boots and a cowboy hat steps up on the porch. After a last glance around, he hitches up his pants and pulls a pearl-handled, .44-caliber revolver from its hand-tooled holster. He yanks the screen door open and begins banging on the wooden, hollow-core front door. With his first blow, red lights start flashing on top of the cars.

“Open up! This is the Sheriff. Come on out, Amos. We know you’re in there.”

From inside comes the sound of frightened whispers and scurrying feet. The tall man hits the door even harder. The sound echoes in the damp night air. “This is Sheriff Tobias. Get on out here. We gotta talk.”

“I’m comin’. Jes let me get my pants on.” There are more loud whispers. Someone peers out from behind the curtains of a front window. Then the door opens a few inches and a middle-aged, black face with old, wary eyes looks out.

“What ya wanna talk about, Sheriff? I ain’t done nothin’.”

“Don’t give me that shit, boy. Get out here or I’m gonna bust in and drag you out.”

“You don’t hafta do that. My Momma’s in here. You already done scared her ‘bout half to death.” The door swings inward and a short, wiry man wearing khaki work pants and a white t-shirt steps out. ”What y’all doing here dis time of night, Sheriff?”

“Shut up, nigger!” The white man holsters his pistol, then reaches behind his lanky frame and produces a set of handcuffs. “You’re coming with me.”

The black man steps back. His face shows surprise and fear. “How come? I told you I ain’t done nothin’.”

“And I told you to shut up. Now turn around and put your hands behind your back. I’m taking you to Pinefield, to jail.”

After a momentary hesitation, the voice of white authority overwhelms any outrage or bewilderment. The man named Amos does as ordered and the cuffs snap into place.

The Sheriff spins him back around, steps away, pulls out his revolver and uses it to motion for another white man to join them. Then he glares at his prisoner. “You’re a goddamn pervert. You know that, boy? We got an eyewitness who saw you looking into the bathroom window of a white, widow-lady named Myrtis Oglesby. Amos Little, you’re under arrest as a Peeping Tom.”

“A what? Sheriff, I ain’t been looking into no white woman’s window.” The prisoner turns from the Sheriff to the deputy, as if searching for support. “Least of all no dried-up, crazy old white woman like Mrs. Myrtis.”

Bathed in the rhythmic, flashing glare of red lights, the sweeping motion of the Sheriff’s right hand resembles something from a flickering silent movie as his fist, and the revolver it holds, smash into the side of the prisoner’s head. A scream comes from inside the house. He staggers in a macabre, jake-leg dance of insensibility, then drops to his knees.

Sheriff Odell Tobias leans close and hisses. “Nigger, you’re talking about my wife’s aunt. Now it looks like we’re gonna have to add a charge of resisting arrest.”

Another deputy joins the first. They pull the prisoner to his feet, drag him off the porch, and shove him into the back of the lead car. There’s a ragged volley of closing doors.

With sirens on and lights still flashing, the three large cars with the words Kisatche Parish Sheriff’s Department and an angry, ornate star on each front door swing around and leave. As they drive past the pick-up truck, everyone but the prisoner waves at the two men sitting inside.

Thin red streaks emerge from the dark cab, arc through the still night and land with small bursts of glowing embers. Headlights come on and the truck moves down the now deserted street. It stops across from the last house, the one with the front door still open. Inside, a black widow-lady named Bernice Little is alone and crying for her son.

The men get out, lift an X-shaped object from the bed of the truck, and carry it into the vacant lot. A small flame soon spreads up from the base of a wooden cross. They wait to make sure the cross is burning properly. Once assured it’s another Klan job well done, they head back towards Pinefield, and home.

THE DANCERS - chap one

2008-03-24T07:36:00.001-05:00

This is the opening chapter of my second novel, We Danced To Ray Charles. In it the novel's bad girl begins to weave her seductive web around our poor hero. This version reflects changes suggested by Robert Flynn. As always, any input would be greatly appreciated.

Bayou Bill

THE DANCERS
by Bill Fullerton

It was another turbulent evening in the spring of ’68. Student protests raged from the Sorbonne to Berkeley. Civil rights demonstrations and anti-war rallies were turning violent. Martin Luther King was dead; Bobby Kennedy would be soon. Hundreds of other Americans were dying each week in South Vietnam. Soldiers patrolled the streets of Saigon, Paris, and Washington. Soviet troops prepared to invade Prague. And in a nowhere place in Louisiana called Sandtown, an innocent black man was beaten and arrested.

But in nearby Pinefield, everything was perfect. At least, that’s what Mark Cahill kept telling himself. Bebe Boudreaux’s head rested on his chest as they moved in languid harmony to sound of Ray Charles singing, “You Don’t Know Me.” The petite, perfect form he'd always wanted was in his arms, molded against his body. It made for a perfect moment, in a perfect place, in a perfect world—at least it should have been perfect.

He almost hadn’t come. After three years in college, a Junior League, End-of-School, dance held little appeal. Still, he needed to keep connected with his hometown friends and remind them he still existed. That might be very important in a few years. So when his mother, a Junior League member, strongly suggested he stop by and check on things, he agreed.

Arriving late, he paused just inside the front door to shake hands and mingle. Thick cigarette smoke couldn’t mask the musty smell of the old American Legion hall. The Junior League had done its best to spruce up the place. Balloons, banners, and other decorations were everywhere but couldn’t hide all the World War II era posters and dated fixtures.

Black-and-white photographs of serious looking men in funny looking hats like those soda jerks wore filled the far wall. All were former post commanders. Among them were his father and grandfather. Fading pictures of American Legion and Women's Auxiliary activities completed the décor.

Aretha Franklin’s demand for “Respect” segued into the Rolling Stones frustrated search for "Satisfaction.” The sea of sweaty dancers paused, then broke into another spasm of jerking legs, flailing arms, and twisting bodies.

As Mark watched from the sidelines, congratulating himself on not being out among them, someone tapped his shoulder. He turned and saw Bebe Boudreaux smiling up at him. He'd last seen her during Christmas break. As usual, she looked great. Now, as he gazed down at that delicate face with the big, liquid-brown eyes that commanded your attention, he felt sure she never looked better.

As they spoke, Ray Charles began singing “I Can’t Stop Loving You.” Mark hesitated, then asked her to dance. To his surprise, she agreed. The next song was, “Crying Time” another slow Ray Charles country ballad. Bebe made no effort to extract herself from his arms, and they kept dancing. Without leaning away, she gazed up at him through long, thick lashes. "Ah didn't remember you being such a good dancer.”

Mark wondered when Bebe’s new “Gone With the Wind” drawl had replaced her soft Cajun lilt. Her unexpected compliment pleased him, though he couldn’t recall the last time last they danced. “Ray Charles always inspires me. Besides, you’re just saying that because I haven’t stomped on your toes, yet."

"No, really, it's true." Her familiar, sexy, little grin broadened into an all-encompassing smile. "You must have been practicing a lot down at LSU."

He felt his face flush and hoped she hadn’t noticed. "Only the juke-joint shuffle and the Cajun two-step.”

"Really? The Cajun two-step? Now you're talking about my people, cher.” She cocked her head and stared into his eyes. “You'll have to show me your technique sometime."

"If you've got the nerve, I've got the time.” What looked like a pleased expression crossed Bebe’s face before she laid her head back on his chest.

Mark forced himself to breathe. It wasn’t easy. Everything about Bebe, even her new accent and perfume, turned him on. He couldn’t figure the reason for her being so nice, but he liked it, a lot, and wondered where it might lead.

The song ended and they sat at a rickety folding table with some friends from high school, flirting, telling jokes, and catching up on gossip. Later, when everyone else got up for a fast song, Mark made no move to follow.

"I don't know about you, but I'm grateful we're sitting here and not working ourselves to death out there." Bebe stopped nodding to the beat long enough to give him a slow wink and say she agreed. To Mark, it seemed sexy beyond belief and convinced him to test the limits of her new and improved attitude.

He cleared his throat, then spoke in a voice he hoped sounded calm and casual. "Of course, the Cajun two-step and juke-joint shuffle don't take as much energy. Are you, uh, still interested in us looking into that situation?"

After a thoughtful sip of Tab, she tilted her head and gazed into his eyes. "What did you have in mind, Mark?"

For just a moment, he hesitated. "Well, I was thinking we might go down to Shep's in Mansura. It's a pretty long drive and I've never seen any real two-stepping going on there. Still, it's a first-class Cajun honky-tonk."

"That might be fun,” she said. “Shep's is one of my favorite places. When did you want to go?"

"Oh, I don’t know," he said, trying to act calm. “If tomorrow night’s too soon, what about next weekend? John Fred and The Playboy Band are supposed to be there both Friday and Saturday."

"Well, I’ve got to admit I'm getting a little tired of hearing, ‘Judy In Disguise.’ Ah mean it's been on every radio station around here just about forever.” She exaggerated the word, “forever,” and gave her head an amused shake which sent her long, dark hair into motion. “But other than that, the band's great and John Fred's really cute."

Not having an opinion on the cuteness of the state's current leading rock star, Mark just nodded. She seemed to be considering the alternatives. "Why don't we go next Saturday?”

The tension in his body began to ease. The age of miracles hadn’t passed. After all these years, he and Bebe were going on a date. While he tried to process this development, Bebe continued, "Ah really like Shep's better on Friday nights. To me, it's less crowded and friendlier. The problem is, Saturday mornings at the store can get really busy. Ah'd hate to try and handle a big rush after being down there Friday night."

Someone bucking for sainthood played a slow Ray Charles song "You Don’t Know Me” and they got up to dance. “Born To Lose” came next and they continued to move. Mark decided another Ray Charles fan must be running the stereo and silently blessed him.

As the song’s last melancholy notes faded away, Bebe said she had to go. "Ah really am sorry. But like Ah said, things can get really crazy at work on Saturday mornings, and according to that calendar over on the wall, tomorrow is Saturday."

Mark’s initial disappointment vanished in a flash of inspiration. “I should be calling it a night myself. Why don't I walk you to your car?"

"Ah'd like that. Just let me get my purse."

He watched as Bebe made her way toward the cloakroom. The sight of that celebrated Cajun derriere swaying in a seductive rhythm was always arousing. Over the last eight years, he'd witnessed that wonder of nature many times. Far too often after another rejection. This time he felt no mixed emotions. Tonight, she would be walking back to him.

Out on the floor, Penny Harrison and Ralph Lawson gyrated past him. Penny, a slender, pretty brunette, smiled and waved. Mark liked her, always had, and wondered if she and Amy were still fussing. Ralph, Penny’s long-time steady, pretended to be looking the other way. While Mark and Ralph were almost always civil to one another, their relations were, at best, tense. They’d almost gotten into it tonight. Ralph had made a crack about “niggers” and Mark responded with a joke at Ralph’s expense.

Little “Skeeter” Cummings, flashing her new engagement ring, danced by with Mark’s old football teammate, the aptly named, “Hoss” Driscoll. Back at the table, her question about Amy had caught him off-guard. But she didn’t seem to notice his reaction. Probably too excited about getting engaged to pay him much attention.

At the sight of Bebe coming back, all other thoughts vanished. Outside, they hurried past the swarms of June bugs circling the yellow porch lights, and stepped into the warm, muggy night. With the moon hidden by low clouds, the gloom in the gravel parking lot was almost tangible. The sounds of crickets and frogs had replaced the thump of rock music by the time they reached the 1966 Chevelle Super Sport Bebe’s father, Jack Boudreaux, had given her as a graduation present.

"Thanks for coming with me. Dark parking lots give me the creeps. Ah'm always afraid some crazy nig--, uh, nut might be waiting to, well, you know."

“No problem,” said Mark. He had noticed her double-clutching to keep from saying, “nigger,” but said nothing. Everyone knew he was “soft” on the race issue and that he and Amy were both life-long friends of Willie Carter, son of the town’s leading black preacher and civil rights leader. But he could recall Bebe, who had always been openly racist, ever trying to watch her language. Could she be getting better? God knows she couldn’t have gotten much worse.

She unlocked the door and then turned to face him. "By the way, what time did you want to pick me up?"

"Well, uh, what about six? If that's no good, name your poison."

"Six sounds great.” She reached up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Ah’m glad you were here tonight. You made it a lot more fun. And you saved me from dancing with Hoss and Ralph or, even worse, high school guys."

Before Mark could recover from the unexpected kiss, she slipped into her seat and closed the door. The big engine sprang into life with a deep, almost sensual, growl. She rolled down her window and gave him another smile. "Ah'm really looking forward to next Saturday."

Bebe fluttered her fingers in a goodbye gesture as she pulled away. The tires made a brief squeal as they hit the asphalt road. Mark watched the taillights vanish into the sultry night while touching the spot she’d kissed.

A warm breeze drifted past. With it came a faint scent of spring flowers and the succulent eroticism of approaching rain. It reminded him of another night and another girl. His hand dropped, his smile faded, and he whispered, “Ain’t life a bitch?”

It all seemed like a bad joke. The once unobtainable Bebe Boudreaux, the girl he had always wanted, now seemed interested in him. That would be great, except he’d just fallen in love with Amy, someone he could never have, someone he loved so much it hurt to even think her name.

Even the possibility of a well-financed run for state representative in the next elections couldn’t get Amy off his mind. Once, they both loved politics. He still did, and had always wanted to run for office. But after today’s meeting with local big shots, all he could think about was how, after what Vietnam did to her brother, she no longer cared.

Thank God he bumped into Bebe. What politics couldn’t do, she could, almost. With Bebe around, it’d been hard for thoughts of anyone else to slip in, but not impossible. And the moment she drove away, memories of that night with Amy had come flooding back along with a familiar, sick, hopeless, soul-shriveling sensation.

A swarm of hungry mosquitoes intruded on his thoughts. An absentminded attempt to wave them away failed and he headed for his car. He wanted to be alone, try to figure things out, not feed mosquitoes.

#

The tree-lined streets of Pinefield featured more gentle hills than traffic signs. Even in the downtown area there were few other cars passing the lighted storefronts. Mark ignored these icons of his youth as he tried to focus on Bebe and what happened at the dance. But his mind kept going back to Amy and to what happened.

The party had been his dumb idea. To be dumped by a guy you’ve dated for over a year is tough. To have him do it for another guy—devastating. That’s what happened to Amy, and Mark had never seen her so confused and depressed.

So the idea, the hope, had been that a casual beer-bust with friends would kick-start her back to life. It’d been easy to organize. LSU students consider partying a sacred obligation. Springtime parties on the nearby Mississippi River levee are illegal which makes them doubly popular.

Everyone else seemed to be having a great time, but Mark could tell Amy felt miserable. That’s why he kept checking on her and noticed when she drifted from the center of the party and then vanished into the late evening shadows. At first he thought it best to let her be alone. But an arrogant jerk with a long-standing case of the hot’s for Amy seemed ready to follow so Mark changed his mind.

Once away from the noise of the party, Mark heard a stifled, whimpering sound. He followed it to her hide-away behind a driftwood log.

They’d talked for days about the breakup and how rotten she felt. There was more to her mood, however, than just breaking up with a boyfriend, much more, and they also talked about that. By now he didn’t know what else to say. So he sat beside her on the dry, sun-hardened sediment left by the receding early spring high water and said nothing.

A fresh breeze came off the river and she shivered. He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. With a low, anguished wail, she buried her face against his chest and began soaking the front of his shirt with what seemed like an endless stream of tears.

When her sobs tapered off, she didn’t pull away and try to apologize. That’s what he’d expected. Instead, she continued to lie against him, silently sliding a fingertip across his soaked shirt. It felt good, very good, and he smiled

That’s when she lifted her face and looked at him. Even with all the crying, she was still beautiful. He’d never been “turned on” by Amy’s looks—neither had Amy. Maybe it was a trick of the mind to protect their friendship. Still, he understood why guys--.

The evaluation of Amy’s beauty came to a sudden stop as she slipped her hands behind his neck, pulled him close, and pressed her lips against his. The kiss was long and erotic and, for Mark at least, changed everything between them. No mental gymnastics could withstand the touch of her lips or the feel of her willowy body in his arms.

The moment Amy’s lips touched his, Mark fell totally, hopelessly in love with his best friend. What he didn’t know was how she felt. Their lips parted and he noticed a look of serenity, or something like that, on her tear-streaked face. But he sensed another, more subtle emotion. With a jolt of disbelief, he realized she was waiting for him to do something. The problem was he had no idea what that should be.

He tried to think, tried to be rational and decide what was best. Amy was wasted, hurt, vulnerable. He’d never taken advantage of a girl, and didn’t want to start with his best friend. But the memory of that kiss, and the way she now kept staring into his eyes, made thinking about anything other than kissing her again, and again, and again, impossible.

This time she didn’t have to pull his face to hers. At some point it occurred to him that Amy was one helluva good kisser. He envied the guys she’d dated.

The next time they parted, he started to say something about stopping. Maybe joke that he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could stand. Only it wouldn’t be a joke.

But Amy snuggled closer and pulled him back onto her mouth. As if on autopilot, his hand slipped under her sweatshirt. Amy shivered and tried to pull him closer. He took possession of one of her breasts, marveling at its firm, silky smoothness. The nipple was already hard. As if handling a sacred object, he rolled it between finger and thumb. Amy responded by breaking their kiss and emitting a low moan.

He took his time kissing her eyes, her cheek, her chin, letting his lips trail down to her neck. There was no resistance as he pushed the sweatshirt higher until her breasts came into view. They seemed to glow in the pale moonlight. A moment later his lips encircled one of her small, hard nipples. Amy gasped and tried to press herself deeper into his mouth.

Once again he told himself he should stop, but his hand seemed to move of its own will down her slim torso. As he fumbled with her zipper, Amy made no move to stop him.

In the most basic, physical sense, he wanted to this woman. And he knew she was his for the taking. But this was Amy, not just some woman. It was hurt, not love, behind her passion. And he wanted to make love with Amy, not screw her. Though sure this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and aching with need, he didn’t want to risk losing his best friend over what, considering his present condition, would be about a two-second burst of ecstasy.

With a resigned sigh, he gave up on the zipper. His lips released her breast and returned to her mouth.

Their tongues performed a lazy dance from one mouth to another. He pulled her sweatshirt down, covering breasts he’d probably seen for the last time. For a moment, he allowed his fingers to caress first one, then the other. He wanted to remember their texture, shape, and warmth.

The kissing became less intense but didn’t stop. He hated to break that last contact with her. Besides, they both needed to cool down before returning to--.

The irate blare of a car horn brought Mark back from the Mississippi levee to one of the few Pinefield intersections with a traffic light. A light he’d just run.

He waved in apology at the offended driver, realized they couldn't see the gesture, felt even dumber, and then headed out of town. If he couldn’t stop thinking about that night with Amy, he better get off the road.

An Evening With Bill and Pat Buckley

2008-03-09T17:58:00.008-05:00

It is very possible that had William F. Buckley, Jr. not come into my life in an Army hospital back in 1969, I might have no eyesight today. (see http://billsbilge.blogspot.com/2004/12/outstanding-column-by-william-f.html )

That column would later be reprinted in, The Governor Liseth, with the following postscript: *William Fullerton, Jr., was operated on by the famous New York surgeon Ramon Castroviejo in February, 1970. Seven weeks after the operation he was able to distinguish colors.”

What Bill did not add, would have considered extremly bad form to mention, was his being the one who arranged for me to meet his friend, Dr. Castroviejo, the world’s most renowned corneal transplant pioneer, in New York. In addition, Bill paid all expenses, and allowed my mother and me to stay in his NYC townhouse for several weeks immediately before and after my surgery while he and his family were overseas.

What follows is an 1100 word excerpt from my first novel, A Brief Affair. While based on an actual event in 1971, it is not a memoir but a work of fiction with the names of everyone but William and Patricia Buckley changed to protect the innocent, not to mention my scalp.

Bayou Bill

==

An Evening With Bill and Pat Buckley
(an excerpt from: A BRIEF AFFAIR)
by Bill Fullerton

"By the way, do you know what great event is coming up?"

Gwen looked at Mark in bewilderment. "Washington's Birthday?"

"Close, but no cigar. Actually, the great event in question is the birthday of two other outstanding citizens of the world. Namely, St. Patrick and me."

"That's right. Your birthday is St. Patrick's Day."

"Tis true, lassie. And a fine day for the Irish 'twill be," he said, with the first Irish brogue she’d ever heard tinged with a southern accent.

"William Buckley will be celebrating the glorious day with a party at his place. My innate honesty requires me to confess that he and his wife do this every year. It's just a coincidence that it's also my birthday.

"Anyway, remember how I left town early last November and couldn't take you to the get together for his magazine at the Tavern on the Green? Let me make up for that by taking you to dinner there and then going to the party at Bill's place."

"Are you serious? Go to a party at William Buckley's home?"

"Sure, anybody who's recently been groped by a congressman shouldn't have any problem with a bunch of card-carrying conservatives. Besides, I've been assured that everybody on the guest list has had their shots and with the possible exception of one or two writers, they're all supposed to be house broken."

With her heart saying go while her head screamed, run, Gwen tried to stall. "Who's going to be there?"

"Other than a few hangers-on like me, most of them will be people from his magazine. There are two I really want you to meet. When mother and I first came up here, they were super nice to us."

I'm not believing all this, thought Gwen. What would Mark come up with next—dinner with the Mayor at Gracie Mansion? Thanks to Mark taking her to the Mardi Gras ball in Washington, at least she had a decent party dress and wouldn't have to go back to the sales racks at Alexander's.

Two weeks later, a totally intimidated Gwen Kaplan, from Jewel Avenue in Flushing, Queens, walked into a Park Avenue townhouse for the first time in her life. She was a nervous wreck. As promised, before the party she and Mark went to Tavern on the Green for dinner. When they got up to leave, she suffered a total anxiety attack and slumped back into her chair. Shaking her head, she said there was no way she could go.

"Come on, chicken. No guts, no glory," said Mark as he took her trembling hand and pulled her back to her feet.

He cocked his head to one side and gazed with approval at the silver lame' pants suit she had settled upon after days of anguished indecision. "You look even better than usual, babe. We can't waste all that on dinner and a quick trip back to your dorm."

William Buckley was tall, attractive, and charming. Gwen decided he looked and sounded exactly like the cultured, intellectual she had seen on television. After introductions, he asked Mark about both his mother and his eyesight. Just then a tall, elegant, dark-haired woman with the looks and figure of a fashion model joined them. Patricia Buckley wore a pale green outfit which most definitely hadn't come from Alexander's. In comparison to her, Gwen felt like her mother’s old Dodge Polara parked next to a new Rolls Royce.

While talking with the Buckley’s, a smartly dressed, hyper-kinetic brunette came over and kissed Mark on the cheek. "There you are, love. Angie and I have been worried you might not be coming.” The voice sounded like a BBC broadcast, only with more class.

"How could I not show up with all these beautiful women around here," said Mark. He nodded toward Patricia, placed one arm around Gwen's waist and draped the other over the new arrival’s shoulders.

"And this must be Gwen," said the woman, extending her hand. "How are you, I'm Felicia Brice. I've been dying to meet you."

The Buckley’s excused themselves to greet some new guests. Taking Gwen and Mark in tow, Felicia led them across the crowded room. "You two made it in the nick of time," she whispered conspiratorially. "Poor Angie has been cornered by Bruce Atkins, an agonizing death much worse than any fate."

While Gwen had never heard of Bruce Atkins, she automatically sympathized with the unseen Angie. They were approaching a beautiful, blue-eyed, blonde wearing a dark green cocktail dress. She was listening politely to a short, intense looking, man in a plaid sports coat. If that's poor Angie, thought Gwen, the last thing she needs is my sympathy.

The Grace Kelly look-alike proved to be Angie Douglas. She gratefully accepted the rescue offered by the arrival of Felicia, Mark, and Gwen. Before the party was over, Gwen learned that Felicia was Buckley's administrative assistant while Angie served as his chief researcher. They had known Mark ever since his mother first brought him to New York for surgery. Back in those days, when he was still totally blind, Felicia and Angie served as an unofficial support group, especially for the distraught Leigh Cahill.

After his mother returned to Louisiana, Felicia and Angie took Mark under their protective wings. At first, they'd come visit him at the VA after work. Later, when his sight began to improve, they would meet him outside the hospital for dinner.

To Gwen's relief, it quickly became obvious that while both cared for Mark, neither was a rival for his affection. That was a good thing, she decided. Competing with Felicia's witty urbanity or Angie's charm and good looks would have been tough.

When the party started breaking up, Mark suggested they all go for coffee. Out on Fifth Avenue, they piled into a cab and, at Felicia's suggestion, went down to the Fireside Coffee Shop on 35th Street near where both she and Angie lived. By the end of the evening, Gwen felt she’d found two new friends and learned a lot more about Mark Cahill.

After dropping him off at the VA, she headed back to her dorm. As she walked up First Avenue, Gwen remembered feeling sorry for Mark when they first met. To her, he’d seemed like a poor, lonely guy a long way from home. Tonight, she'd learned that poor, lonesome Mark had been going out regularly with Felicia and Angie. There had also been some brief, veiled references to a Pam-Am stewardess.

Gwen wondered if she would have ever gotten involved with Mark had she known about his active social life. Probably not, she decided, grateful for her ignorance.

ANGIE'S ADVENTURES - short story

2008-02-22T22:47:00.001-06:00

Buford the Beagle

It feels like spring here in Austin town. This story is supposed to be funny, taking a jaundiced look at the perils of certain spring-time outdoor activities. Some may find the contents a bit risque and possibly in questionable taste. Others might decide it's trite and boring. Both could be right. Feel free to let me know what you think.

Bayou Bill

==

Angie's Adventures: a cautionary tale
by Bill Fullerton

You and your soul mate are alone in a sun-kissed pasture, entwined in a torrid lover’s knot. High times and hot sex fill the afternoon you and your lover spend on a serene hillside. The two of you make slow, sensual love in an intimate grotto tucked behind a tropical waterfall.

Hot, steaming, al fresco sex is a favorite fantasy for many folks. That’s why it’s a common subject in romance and erotic writing.

Great sex in the great outdoors can happen. But fiction writers seldom give the whole, unvarnished story of such encounters. It’s true that nature can be breathtakingly beautiful. But when it comes to sex, beds are best. Those of a contrary opinion are both wrong, and encouraged to consider the trials and tribulations of Angelina Eveready.

As is the case with many otherwise sane, normal people born and raised in the big city, Angie yearned for bucolic bliss. Her all-consuming fantasy was to make unbridled love with a rugged, yet sensitive, mountain man in the great out-of-doors. In her imagination, passion overwhelms them in some secluded mountain glade during a summer rainstorm, or they would make love while swimming nude in a tranquil lake, or the two of them frolic in an isolated meadow filled with songbirds and flowers.

So entrenched was this longing for splendor in the grass, after the fall semester of her freshman year, she defied her parents and transferred from Elitist Private University to that bastion of rural virtues, Wodehouse College.

When Angie arrived in January, the much praised WC campus proved to be cold, dreary, and disappointing. The weather was too miserable to do anything outside and there wasn’t much to do inside except study, sort through the male student body, and go to basketball games. To Angie, it seemed like spring had been cancelled due to boredom.

Then April arrived and signs of nature’s renewal began showing up everywhere. The sun became warmer, the days longer, and student apparel skimpier. All this renewed Angie’s primal longing to play nymph to some insatiable satyr in an elysian field of erotic delights.

It was her good fortune to possess those qualities most needed to fulfill her desires. She was a female and in love with the ideal of love. In other words, she was easy. It didn’t hurt that her earth-mother figure and exotic good looks attracted men ranging in age from pre-school to post-senility.

That fall’s crop of freshmen females had been a poor one, boasting few blue-ribbon keepers. This paucity of prime pulchritude and her own ample charms made Angie an instant, and much sought after, sensation.

After an extensive sampling of possible partners, Angie settled on Ernie. No doubt this choice struck some as odd. For while it’s true he was sort of handsome when viewed in a certain light, Ernie was not the rugged, mountain man type. Nor was he interested in becoming one. Having grown up in the rustic region surrounding the Wodehouse campus, he tended to take nature for granted. In his opinion, the best thing about the outdoors was coming indoors.

But though built on the long and lanky model and no woodsman, he was patient and smart. Those attributes played a vital role in the remarkable improvement in Angie’s academic fortunes.

To her credit, Angie was quick to reward this kindness. To her delight, Ernie’s slender frame was more than offset by two compensating factors. A member of the school’s cross-country track team; he possessed great stamina. And then there was his being, to quote a locker-room wag, “hung like a Missouri mule.” After becoming aware of both factors, Angie shifted her rewards program into overdrive.

None of that “rewarding” activity lessened her wish to experience pastoral passion, however. With her full lips, enticing cleavage, and almost total lack of anything even faintly resembling a sexual inhibition, Angie seldom had trouble coaxing men. Long before the first warm weekend of the year, the reluctant Ernie had been well and truly coaxed into obliging her.

When the great day arrived, Angie, being romantic, brought a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a copy of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Ernie, being practical, brought a plastic ground cloth, a blanket, and a first aide kit. He also brought his dog, an aging but still inquisitive beagle named, Buford.

The chosen spot was under a towering tree in an out-of-the-way rustic glen. Ernie busied himself smoothing a spot and spreading the ground cover and blanket. The moment these tasks were completed, he learned what Angie had been doing. Wearing nothing but a big smile, she jumped onto the blanket and pulled him down beside her.

Foreplay was not on the agenda. Ernie’s clothes seemed to vanish, followed moments later by his phenomenal phallus. But while neither participant had any idea where his clothes were, both knew the exact location of his magnificent manhood.

Even with his endurance and her desire, that first explosion of passion couldn’t last forever. When they started to recover, a jug of wine and a loaf of bread weren’t what Angie wanted. She wasn’t even interested in Ernie being beside her singing in the wilderness. What interested her was having him on his back with his prodigious protuberance well positioned while she sat on top, controlling the pace and teasing him with her breasts.

Thanks to her remarkable ability to coax men, she soon had everything she wanted. In a way, Angie was like Will Rogers except she never met a sexual position she didn’t like. But this one was special. It generated a wave of warm, tender emotions she felt compelled to share with her lover.

“Oh, hell yes! This is, uh, so in-credible. I mean, there’s so, uh, much of you. It’s, you know, uh, uh, like so…. Oh, oh yes, yes, yes, yes. Oh, god, yes!”

Words failed her before she could make any specific comments regarding the exquisite pressure Ernie’s erection was creating or how being able to look around at all the beauties of nature was adding to her pleasure. But he seemed to understand.

A large tree trunk blocked the view directly in front of her. But there were butterflies in the wildflowers to her left. A few feet away on the right, birds flew in and out of a large thicket. Ernie’s old dog was nearby, stretched out on its belly in a patch of sunlight, watching them and slowly wagging its tail. She wondered what the dog thought about all this. Was he bored or enjoying the show?

Making love like this was so good, so right. She cupped her breasts, kneading and rotating the heavy globes. Doing that always felt sexy, and like most guys, Ernie seemed fascinated. She noticed the dog’s tail was moving faster. Maybe they both were. The thought made her giggle.

She began a slow rocking motion back and forth, enjoying the, oh so fulfilling sensation. Making love outdoors was even better than she’d imagined. Feeling the sun and wind on your bare skin was such a turn-on. Everything was peaceful and sexy. The sounds of nature were accompanied by rhythmic sound of their lovemaking.

The more she thought about the scene, the hotter she got. It wasn’t long before she was leaning forward, hands on Ernie’s shoulders, her full breasts swaying back and forth, gently slapping against his face as he tried to capture one of the erect, elusive nipples with his lips.

Angie felt herself slipping into the moment, her body taking control as her mind became a swirl of sensory delights. Ernie latched onto one of her breasts. He sucked hard, taking in more and more flesh before releasing just enough to let him chew on the sensitive nipple.

On some subconscious level, Angie knew her hips were moving faster and faster, knew Ernie was meeting each downward stroke with a hard, upward thrust, knew she was on the brink of an outdoor orgasm for the ages.

That’s when something very cold, very wet, and totally unexpected pushed in between the cheeks of her exposed, and unsuspecting bottom. At the moment, she was halfway through what should have been the penultimate downward plunge. Instead of rushing on to blissful completion, her body braked to a halt. Defying all known laws of inertia, it reversed directions with such speed and force she pulled a lower back muscle. This went unnoticed at the time and does not appear to have impeded her subsequent movements.

The rapid reversal was accompanied by a spectacular sound. It bore a striking resemblance, in both its high frequency and even higher volume, to the nerve shattering screech emitted by well-tuned tornado alert sirens in the great state of Kansas.

With a speed that would have pleased an Olympic sprinter coming off the starting line, she was rushing away from the cold terror down below. The terror in question was just another one of nature’s marvels, in this case the cold, wet nose of Buford the beagle. Although she later became aware of the circumstances surrounding this incident, the news in no way mollified Angie.

We need to stop at this point and consider the situation. Ernie is naked and on his back with an empty mouth and an exposed erection in the initial stages of what has suddenly become a mid-air explosion. As with all men during such events, his mind has shutdown.

Buford, the nosey beagle who triggered this event, is wondering what happened to the source of all those strange sounds and tempting smells. Although possibly unfamiliar with either the band or the term, not unlike the bearded troubadours of ZZ Top, he’s just looking for some tush.

The miniscule portion of Angie’s cerebral cortex still in working order is wondering how to get even further away from whatever the hell that cold, wet, disgusting thing was that just assaulted her rear. This strong, instinctual desire to flee is about to present a very big problem.

Although no member of this dysfunctional ménage-au-trios is aware of the fact, a thick blanket of pine needles covers the ground around them. These needles helped cushion the earth’s surface for Angie and Ernie while providing a happy home for blood-sucking parasites such as ticks and redbugs.

As is often the case with pine needles when thus observed, these are all dead and have fallen from overhanging limbs. For needles to work as nature intended, they must have a direct connection to a tree limb. If limbs are to function properly, they need to be attached to a tree trunk. And it follows, as night doth the day, that trunks not securely attached to the ground cease supporting the life above them and become logs, firewood, or a building material.

As realtors are always quick to remind us, location is everything. The instigator of this crisis, Buford the beagle, is currently out of harm’s way. However, the heads of Ernie and Angie are positioned mere inches from a very thick, very hard, very immovable tree trunk. To be precise, it is the trunk of an otherwise unoffending (Pinus taeda), more commonly referred to as a loblolly pine.

Ernie’s head is more or less immobile. And since he’s still occupied firing away into the wild blue yonder, his brain remains completely inoperative. He is, therefore, relatively safe.

The same cannot be said for Angie or her head. The portion commonly referred to as her mouth is wide open and busy responding to the brain’s terror alert by screaming like a Hollywood B movie actress confronting a particularly gruesome monster. Along with the rest of Angie’s body, it is hurtling forward with mind-boggling speed.

Due to the extreme velocity of this motion, the distance between the top of her head and the tree trunk is diminishing at a rate any impartial observer would describe as, alarming. Some might even be moved to add, very. The laws of motion being what they are, the top of head “A” (Angie) is mere nanoseconds away from contacting the side of object “T”(guess) with a loud—

THUNK!

After-action damage assessment:

Angie:
1. Pulled muscle in lower back
2. Large contusion (bump) on head
3. Assorted teeth marks on left nipple
4. Spine in need of adjustment
5. Neck in need of adjustment
6. Numerous itchy redbug and tick bites
7. A tendency towards anxiety attacks when attempting the female superior position
8. A badly sprained wrist (note: This can only be indirectly attributed to the collision. The chief precipitating factor appears to have been her administering a “good one” to Ernie’s jaw.)

Ernie:
1. One loose tooth (it was a very “good one”)
2. A busted lip (see number one)
3. Numerous itchy redbug and tick bites
4. A chronic case of semen retention headache resulting from Angie terminating (with extreme prejudice) her rewards program

Buford:
1. A well-grounded fear of angry, large-breasted, naked, female-type humans
2. Chronic nightmares of one such human, with a big bump on her head and a large tree limb held in one hand, chasing him for miles

A SPECIAL PHOTO - short story

2008-02-10T23:21:00.000-06:00

I wrote this, along with another story, A Special Christmas Present, which can be found in the December archives, during the first months of the deployment of our soldiers to Afghanistan and Iraq. That now seems a long time ago. The easy, early victories are no more. Much of the initial enthusiasm has waned. But for those who serve and the ones who love them, the pain of separation continues.

This is for them.

Bayou Bill

==

A Special Photo
by Bill Fullerton

Sensual and seductive, she lay amid the rumpled sheets of the bed where we'd just made love, relaxed and at ease within the golden skin of her petite, perfect body. Not posing, not looking into the camera so much as through it, into the photographer, into me. Waiting with an expression of amused tolerance for me to finish and rejoin her. It was a special photo of a special lady.

I'm in the military doing the type of work that's supposed to be hush-hush. When people ask, I tell them I'm a security consultant specializing in on-site training. And, in a way, that is what I do. But that's about to be past tense. This is my last overseas tour of duty. In two weeks I'll be getting some time off, a promotion, and then become a headquarters man, a desk jockey, advising more than supervising the other, younger, guys who'll still be doing this type of work. After spending eleven months on this bitch of an assignment, most of it in the bush, that's starting to sound real good.

It's against regulations to get personal mail in the field. That's supposed to be collected when you go in for the monthly debriefing, delousing, and debauchery. Out here, it's just job related shit. That's the official line, anyway. But there are ways.

I was sitting alone in an early afternoon patch of shade outside my hut unable to take my eyes off the photo I'd just pulled from the envelope. It was almost a year since I'd last seen Holly Hightower, and maybe an hour or so since I last thought about her and about how we'd tried to cram a lifetime into one month. All that because my brother's girlfriend had an idea.

"Hey Logan, you remember Holly Hightower, don't you?" My kid brother, a high school senior, had just come in from football practice. He was leaning against the doorsill to the guest room in my parents' house. I'd just finished unpacking and was sitting on the side of the bed, lacing on my running shoes.

"Sure. She was behind me in school. Cute as hell, but there wasn't much of her. Dated this college guy, can't remember his name, all through high school. They looked so much alike it was spooky. Both were short, trim, good-looking. I think they got married right after she graduated. Why?"

"Well, she and that guy, his name's Bruce Dengler, they had a kid about a year ago. A few months later he split. And before you ask how I know all that, it's 'cause I'm dating her sister, Heather. Well, when I mentioned you were coming home for a month, she decided it'd do Holly a lot of good to get out of the house. So she wondered if you'd be willing to go on a double-date, you know, me and Heather, you and Holly."

I almost laughed. I'm a little old for double-dating. But Craig and I had always been close. So I decided it might be fun to tag along and check out his dating style, not to mention his girlfriend. And, okay, the idea of spending an evening with Holly Hightower had its appeal. That's why I agreed. Which proves, I guess, that sometimes it's better to be lucky than good.

On Saturday, Craig said Heather was spending the night with her big sister so we'd pick them both up at Holly's place. Heather turned out to be a younger, slightly taller version of her "big" sister. It was obvious why Craig was nuts about her and even I could tell she felt the same way about him.

As for Holly, she looked even better than I remembered. In part, because her face and figure had filled out a little. Unlike back in high school, she had boobs. Not big, but in perfect proportion to the rest of her slim body. When I said she looked great and mentioned her improved figure, she seemed pleased. "That's what having one of these will do for you," she said, jiggling the laughing baby she held in her arms.

But there was more to her improved looks than just a few extra pounds and inches. The Holly I'd known was a girl, a cute, quiet, super-nice cheerleader type. The Holly I'd just been re-introduced to was a woman, someone who'd been hurt but knew she could endure. I liked this new Holly more, a lot more.

The baby was named Hope, a tiny, blue-eyed, heart breaker with an uncanny resemblance to her mother and aunt. When I mentioned this, Heather said all the women in their family were runts and had names starting with the letter "H". The babysitter arrived and Holly gave her a quick orientation while I watched Craig and Heather playing with the baby.

Over supper at an Italian restaurant they all tried to catch me up on the local gossip at the same time. During a pause, I heard myself asking Holly about her separation. I started to apologize, but she smiled, laid her fingertips on the back of my hand, and said it was okay. At least I think she said it was okay. That gentle touch overloaded my circuits.

It seems she and her husband struggled for years to have a kid. Then when they hit the jackpot he started going weird. A few months later she learned he was having an affair with his fitness instructor. When Holly confronted him, he confessed, and then moved out.

There was no way we could all agree on the same music, so going dancing after dinner was out. Instead, we caught a movie and then, at Holly's suggestion, went back to her house. "That way I can send the babysitter home early and these children," she gestured at my brother and her sister sitting in the front seat, "can have some time alone."

We talked all the way back. She'd gotten a degree in education after putting her husband through law school. Now she was an elementary school teacher. "What can I tell you? I love kids."

At her place, Craig and Heather did as ordered and took the babysitter home. A few minutes later they came back but stayed out in the car to do their thing in private.

Inside, we old folks talked over coffee until the baby started fussing. I followed Holly into the dim blue light of the baby's room and watched as she checked out the situation. "Houston, we have a problem. The diaper must not have been on right 'cause we've got major leakage. And this nasty-nice baby hates messy."

After Hope had a new nightgown and diaper, Holly looked over at me. "Would you mind holding her while I change the bed? It's pretty soppy." I've handled my fair share of babies, even helped in a delivery, but this was different. The moment this baby looked up at me and grinned, I was hooked. By the time her momma had replaced the sheet and blanket, Hope was nestled on my chest and nodding off.

At first Holly just looked at the two of us with this odd smile. Then she leaned down and took Hope who stretched and yawned. No longer having a baby to comfort, I slipped outside to wait, and think. This feeling I had was unreal. It'd been years since I'd last seen Holly Hightower. There'd been many women in many places since then. But now I was falling for this one, hard.

Before I could get my tangled thoughts even semi-organized, the source of my confusion came out. Motioning for me to be quiet, she took my hand and led me away from the door. What she did next still amazes me. Just before we reached the living room, she stopped, turned around, and looked up at me. "Logan McClain, if you don't kiss me I'm going to slug you."

The funny thing is, I believed her. There wasn't the faintest hint of humor in her eyes or voice, just determination. Sure I was over a foot taller and outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. But I had no doubt she'd hit me if I didn't follow orders. Besides, it was one helluva a tempting assignment.

The kiss was more than just two pairs of lips pressing together. Our two bodies seemed to mold into one. Arms, legs, fingers, lips, tongues all became hopelessly, marvelously, intertwined. She made no attempt to pull away. That was fine with me. I didn't want us to ever stop. But then came the point where the sexual energy that kiss was generating became more than I could ignore.

With an effort, I forced myself to pull my lips away from hers and look down into those incredible blue eyes. "Holly, either let's go to the living room and let me calm down, or to your bedroom and make love. 'Cause you're just about to blow…."

My plea was cut short by her lips pressing against mine. This time, she was the one who pulled back. Taking my hand in hers, she looked into my eyes as if searching my soul. Then she smiled and began leading me back down the hall, away from the living room.

I don't recall much about that first time. Oh, I'll never forget undressing her. My fingers were trembling like some high school guy about to get laid for the first time. The sight of those small, enticing breasts coming into view, then the image of slim hips and the perfect contours of legs being revealed as her jeans slid to the floor, those memories will be etched on my mind forever.

The same goes for how right it felt when I picked her up and the way she molded into my arms as I carried her over to the bed. The moment we first lay together, that's also a strong memory, for when our nude bodies came together, all my fumbling nervousness ended. And later, when I entered her and heard her moan and felt her warmth surrounding me, I knew it was the most natural, the most perfect, thing I'd ever done.

But after that, I don't remember much. All I have is a blurred image of bodies meshing, generating a passion, an ecstasy so intense all sense of time and place was lost. Everything seemed to fuse into a new emotion, one that for me at least, felt a lot like love. So while it's a blurry memory, it's a great one.

We went into the thing, I guess you'd call it an affair, maybe a relationship, knowing it couldn't last. I'd be leaving soon for a year, going someplace I couldn't mention to do something I couldn't talk about. As for Holly, she and her husband were going to counseling, trying to work out some sort of reconciliation. The two of us were the proverbial ships passing in the night.

Maybe it was knowing we had no future together that made our lovemaking so uninhibited, passionate, and constant. Thanks to Holly having her own house, and with Craig and Heather running interference and babysitting, we made love on an almost daily, sometimes hourly, basis. But all the sexual activity, all the knowledge that our time together was running out, couldn't mask a growing attraction that was much more than just physical.

A week before I had to leave, we both knew it was time for "that" talk. After a late supper at the same Italian restaurant we'd gone to on our first night together, Holly began. "At the counseling session today, Bruce asked to come home. I hadn't figured on that. In my mind, it was all over and we were just going through the motions. But now," her voice trailed off.

Something told me she wasn't finished and to keep my mouth shut. "Logan, I don't think it'll work, Bruce and me, not now, not after, not after meeting you. There, I said it, okay? No pride at all. I love you, not Bruce—not like I did anyway. That's why it's not going to work. But damn it, Logan." Tears interrupted her.

We were sitting together in a back booth. I put an arm around her shoulders and felt her wilt against my chest. It was my turn to talk. "But you've got to give it a try, for the baby's sake and your own peace of mind."

She nodded and cried even harder. When the tears subsided, she apologized and went to the ladies room. I ordered two cups of espresso and tried to be grateful for the brief time I'd had with her and not bitter at what I was about to lose.

Holly came back and sat across the table from me. "Remember how I told you to kiss me or I was going to hit you?"

"I'll never forget."

"Well, this is going to be our last weekend together. If you don't spend every minute of it with me, I really will slug you."

"I believed you then, and do now. So how can I say no?"

She smiled. "But I want something to remember you by. So bring a camera, take all the pictures you want, you know, of me. Just let me take a few of you, for a keepsake."

"That's one heck of an offer coming from a shy, modest school marm."

"I am shy. And I'm modest. Just not around you. From the moment you first walked into the house with Craig I wanted you to take me to bed. And now, I want you to love me all weekend and do so I'll be able to feel what we did for days afterward. And when the ache is gone, I’ll look at the pictures and remember you and this last month, like I hope you'll do, when you look at the ones of me."

"I don't need pictures to remember you. But I'll take plenty. The thing is, where I'm going, what I'll be doing, it's not a good idea to have personal photos. So you keep 'em for me. I'll be back and, who knows, maybe take a few more."

That was the right thing to do. But for the last fifty weeks, I've wished I'd risked keeping one or two of the photos I took during that weekend.

Just before leaving, I gave her the address where she could send regular, censored mail. But I also handed her a special envelope to be used if she needed to send a personal message. I explained that delivery was chancy and unauthorized but that with luck I'd get it within a week, even in the bush.

And today, less than two weeks before heading home, that envelope arrived. Inside, were two photos and a letter. The reconciliation didn't work. Her husband had gone back to his jock girlfriend. This would be mailed, Holly wrote in a PS, while coming home from the lawyer's office after filing for divorce.

The two pictures were in protective lamination. One was the special photo, the nude I'd taken of Holly lying on the bed where, moments before, we'd just made love. On the back she'd written, "If you still want me, I'm waiting." The other was a close-up of her and the baby. Judging from Hope's size, it was a very recent shot. Both of them were blowing kisses at the camera. There was no ring on the third finger of Holly's left hand.

I went into the hut and scribbled a quick note. "I do want you, forever. So hold that pose. You won't be waiting long." Then I wrapped it around the two photos, stuck it all in a waterproof envelope, and gave the native who smuggled our mail a little something extra to make sure it was on the next plane out.

For the second time in less than a year, I'd given up that special photo of Holly. But this time, I didn't mind. In a few more days, I'd be reclaiming it—along with the special model.

WILLIE AND THE BRAIN - short story

2008-01-19T21:13:00.000-06:00

Those who are not fans of the late Sir P. G. Wodehouse might as well keep on truckin' down the old info highway. This story is my homage to the great "Plum" a master of light humor who wrote something like 100 novels. He is probably best known as the creator of the irredeemably dim and unflaggingly affable, Bertie Wooster, and his invincible valet, Jeeves.

This story is based on the Wodehouse analysis of the male-female relationship which he first propounded in his novel, Uneasy Money:

"At the age of eleven or thereabouts women acquire a poise and an ability to handle difficult situations which a man, if he is lucky, manages to achieve somewhere in the later seventies."

Bayou Bill

--

Willie and the Brain
by Bill Fullerton

"If only the good die young, that crew will live to a hundred.” This unflattering rumination came from one, William Jackson “Willie” Sinclair IV. The target of his jaundiced assessment was the Iota Fraternity test procurement committee. Its entire membership was currently passed out in a back room of the Iota house amid a sea of card, chips, and empty beer cans.

What prompted Willie’s unkind assessment was their failure to obtain any copies of his upcoming tests. This dereliction of duty meant he faced some serious book time.

Casual observers, unaware of the fortitude possessed by the scion of the Sinclair clan, might have expected him to quail at the prospect of real study. For it is true that not unlike the lily of the field, young Willie spun not, neither did he weave in the groves of academe. It is, therefore, to his credit that young Willie’s resolve was unshaken. This stouthearted attitude was due, in no small measure, to the proximity of a certain, Ms Edwina Toupes.

Known to her small but loyal band of friends and admirers as, “Etta,” she was an acknowledged campus brain. Willie’s surprising inclusion in her circle of acquaintances was due to his sincere appreciation for Ms Toupes' remarkable mental capabilities and her unfailing willingness to share that gift with him.

It is true, that he sometimes overheard certain Iota brothers making gross references to her grade point average far exceeding her bosom's measurement. But like most other thoughts, ones about her figure seldom troubled his mind. To him, the important point was not the modest number assigned to Etta's bosom, but the even more modest figure that now represented his own grade point average.

For Willie, Ms Toupes' attraction was spiritual and intellectual, not physical. It was an appeal not of the flesh but of the mind. In short, he knew no one was more capable than Etta of helping him overcome his very real academic shortcomings.

This profound appreciation of Ms Toupes' scholarly qualifications was commendable. But when it came to noticing the young lady's physical attributes, he was a total failure. For a worldly-wise Iota Assistant Rush Chairman, the oversight was surprising. It is true that even charitable observers described Etta as petite, even slender. However, those same individuals also noted with approval her large brown eyes, pert button of a nose, brilliant smile and long, rather shapely legs.

The condition of Etta’s legs was a combination of favorable genetics and her participation on the school's new women's track team. She mentioned this membership during their most recent extended social intercourse near the end of last semester.

Etta’s involvement with varsity athletics troubled Willie. As a key member of the football team, he held on point-after and field goal attempts, he knew how physically demanding sports could be.

He was also bothered by her recent adoption of "Ms" as her preferred title. This might be the ‘70’s, but Willie's views on social norms were of an old-world, antiquarian bent. However, he credited himself with being tolerant enough to overlook Etta's recent faddish excesses. This forbearance reflected both his cosmopolitan appreciation for the capriciousness of the female of the specie and his current academic imperatives. As a result, he had no problem curbing his natural instinct towards brotherly remonstration.

Willie felt justified in this decision. After all, Etta was an intelligent girl, in a bookish sort of way. Sooner or later, her basic good sense would overcome these impulsive gestures toward modernity. So it was with a clear conscience that he hopped in his car and exited the Iota house parking lot in search of Ms Etta.

The automobile in question was a dilapidated model rich in years. To the uninitiated, this might seem surprising. Willie was sole heir to the Sinclair family fortune, the limits of which had been perceived by few and then but dimly and at a great distance. But Willie considered, "The Heap," his fond name for the car, a thing of joy and satisfaction.

The Sinclair’s did not amass a rather large pile of liquid assets by being spendthrifts. The cautious use of money was preached to young Willie from his earliest days. The Sinclair’s were, as a rule, extremely frugal. Willie proved to be a glaring exception that made the rule.

The Heap was the chief, some would say only, evidence the sermons of his elders had not been totally in vain. Willie had it from a good authority, his mother, that its presence was all that kept his allowance checks rolling in. Now he guided The Heap in an unusual direction, toward that natural habitat of Ms Edwina Toupes, the school library.

Etta had just reached the library steps when Willie once again staged an entrance into her life. Since it was test week, this meeting came as no surprise. Willie had been staging these raids on her with tidal regularity since their freshman year in high school.

One unwanted by-product of her periodic attempts at academic resuscitation was the solitary “B” that kept her from having a perfect 4.00 average. But Etta had a remarkably sanguine attitude toward Willie’s reappearances.

Since their first meeting in ninth grade, she’d been fascinated by Willie Sinclair. In her opinion, he was a force of nature, but with a quiet charm most people overlooked. He also very good looking, which was nice, and possessed many things she lacked, such as money and self-confidence.

Over the years, Etta had come to realize she had things missing from Willie’s make-up. High on that list were common sense and self-discipline. However, time and self-awareness had not lessened her fascination with Willie. Therefore, she greeted him warmly. "Willie, what's a guy like you doing in a nice place like this?"

"Just trying to improve the image of this den of learning, Ms Toupes. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be off burning a bra or some such?” Willie couldn’t believe what he just said. It wasn't a very smart thing to say when about to ask for a favor. But most of all, in light of her endowment, or lack of the same, it was downright rude.

"Sorry about that, Etta. I didn't mean to get personal like, you know. I mean, politics is one thing but friendship is another, uh, don't you know." Willie squirmed. Apologies weren't his strong suit, few things were, and he’d hashed that one to the max.

As usual, Etta was a good scout. "It wouldn't do me any good to go to one those demonstrations. Training bras are flame proof.” Just like Etta to let a fellow off the hook, he thought, experiencing an intense feeling of gratitude.

Much to his relief, Etta picked up the conversational ball. "Willie, according to my sundial, it's test week. Now if I hadn’t known you since the ninth grade, I might think you're just here for some mindless social reason, like asking me to the big Iota Valentine’s Day dance. But I bet you're here on a more serious, a more scholarly mission. Why, I bet going to the dance hasn't even crossed your mind, especially with me. The only thing you’re concerned about is how you’re going to do on your tests. Am I right, Willie? When you think of me, you think of tests, not Valentine’s Day and dances, right?"

Willie was not the worlds' strongest debater. To him, logic was illogical. When it came to diplomacy and negotiation, he was strictly of the, "Take it or leave it," school. However, even he could see his present position was precarious. Never strong at thinking on his feet, or seated for that matter, he now had to take quick stock of the situation and make a command decision.

He’d already given Etta a good reason to be huffy with that dumb bra burning joke. And while she’d been remarkably decent about that screw-up, he sensed it would be a mistake to presume too much on her sense of humor, especially about that subject.

What’s more, there were signs she might be coming around to the belief his visits were due solely to his sagging grade point average. Of course, that wasn’t true, well, at least not entirely. The timing had been purely coincidental all these years. Still, it had been a lot of years. Some of the egghead types he noticed hanging around her might have started questioning his motives.

Then there was the dance. Until Etta brought it up, he’d been able to put thoughts of the Iota Valentine’s Day dance out of his mind. Not that the dance by itself was unpleasant, in fact, it was something he rather liked. It was just that thinking about it reminded him of, The Sin.

Cynthia “The Sin” Bliss possessed the type of beauty, both God-given and enhanced, that tends to stop traffic. She was a tall, tanned, long-legged, blue-eyed, blonde. The generous proportions of her eye-catching figure brought to mind the extreme curvature of an hourglass.

The Sin and Willie had been a number for the longest, maybe over a month. While not actually pinned, the word was out. Then suddenly, Willie was out with, The Sin.

The woman had, of course, been totally unreasonable. The beginning of the end occurred when she took exception to riding in, The Heap. Willie tried to explain the reasons behind his affection for the car, such as low maintenance and steady allowance. However, she was firm as only a homecoming queen can be. It was either her or, The Heap.

The Sin was a bit surprised when he took, The Heap. She was not dismayed, just surprised. Willie had begun to grow on her. Unlike most of her dates, he was a gentleman. And she liked the stories of his family's financial resources. But his decision convinced her the stories of his monetary estate were either exaggerated or he was one really weird car nut.

The truth was, in the end, Willie picked the full figure on his allowance check over that possessed by, The Sin. It had been two weeks since, the great divide, and Willie was just beginning to recover from its effects. Now Etta had brought all those painful memories rushing back.

Questions of the heart aside, he also had to face an immediate crises regarding questions on tests. Etta's remarks indicated to even his slow wit that the strategies of the past might prove less fruitful than usual in conjuring up her cooperation. A simple question like, "How's about a Coke?" somehow didn't seem to be an adequate opening gambit.

Light rarely illuminated the intellect of Willie Sinclair with any measurable brilliance. In this case, however, his bulb was approaching searchlight candlepower. "The Valentine’s Day dance!" he exclaimed, breaking a somewhat protracted silence.

Etta continued to gaze up at Willie as he was once again lost to thought. He'd invite good old Etta to the dance. It had never occurred to him to ask her to any social event. Not that he didn't respect, admire and even like her. He just never thought about her as a date.

But taking Etta to the dance would kill several birds with one, somewhat tiny, stone. She wasn’t, The Sin, but then who was? Still, she wasn't a bad looking girl, if you thought about it. In fact, you might even call her cute in a healthy, perky sort of way. And having a date for the Valentine’s Day dance would show The Sin that William Jackson Sinclair's social life didn’t end with the great divide.

Going to the dance with Etta would also spare him the agony of taking Priscilla Rogers, the family favorite for his hand in matrimony. Unfortunately, Priscilla was neither perky and smart like Etta nor beautiful and interesting like, The Sin. Priscilla was to Willie as Oakland was to the poet who proclaimed, "There’s no there, there".

And his asking Etta to the dance would prove he wasn’t just interested in her academically. That should relieve any suspicions she might be harboring concerning his intentions at this pivotal point on the academic calendar.

"Willie," it was Etta breaking the second extended period of silence. "You said something about the Iota Valentine’s Day dance?"

"Yes, of course I did, I mean, you reminded me, you know?" As usual, Willie was having some trouble getting into verbal gear. "What I’m trying to say is, Etta, we've been friends for ages and I guess you heard about me and, The Sin. Will, I don't want you to think that I'm just trying to pick you up on the rebound but, like I said, we've been good friends for ages and I don't have a date for the dance. So I wondered if you'd like to go, you know, with me, to the Iota Valentine’s Day dance?" With a sigh, Willie completed one the longest orations in his intercollegiate career.

Although her heart performed an impressive high-jump into her throat, Etta didn't blink an eye, "That might be fun. But it depends on how well you do on your tests. After all, you’ve got to keep your grades up to stay on the football team. In case you've forgotten, I'm not just a brain anymore. I'm a jock, kind of like you, in a way."

She grinned and gestured toward the library. "So shake a leg, big fella. Let’s get a move on. If I know you, we'll have to hustle up to catch up. But when the going gets tough, the tough get going. Ya know what I mean?"

The End

And the Ceiling Came Tumbling Down

2008-01-13T11:52:00.000-06:00

AND THE CEILING CAME TUMBLING DOWN
by Bill Fullerton

What follows is a more or less true story, honest.

For the first ten years of my life, I lived in the mail-order house built by my grandfather, a carpenter who died before I was born.

While I was but a wee, callow youth, maybe three, my father took it upon himself to put a new ceiling in the middle bedroom. When the project was finished, he posed his lovely wife and snot-nosed son on the bed under the new ceiling and proceeded to take a few celebratory snapshots.

Moments after he'd finished and taken the film from the camera, the adhesive holding the cork(?) tiles in place went on strike. At first, the process seemed like slow motion as the interlocked tiles began to sag, one following another. Then the entire ceiling decided to get in on the act and joined in gleefully yielding to the laws of gravity.

Falling tiles were everywhere. I can only image how my father felt, but I can promise you it was more than a bit traumatic for a three-year old, even with his mother sitting beside him on the bed amidst the tumbling tiles. That is to say, I tuned up and started to cry.

I'll never know which one started singing, but they were soon doing a pretty fair duet rendition of, "Joshua Fit The Battle of Jericho and the Walls Came Tumbling Down." Thanks to that song, instead of my world crashing down around me, I was in the middle of a great, and very messy, adventure, perfect for a three year old boy and for making good memories.

Joshua fit the battle of Jericho, Jericho, Jericho,
Joshua fit the battle of Jericho
and the walls came tumbling down.

You may talk about your king of Gideon,
you may talk about your man of Saul,
there's none like good old Joshua
at the battle of Jericho

Bayou Bill

THE OTHER BOWL GAME - a short, short story

2007-12-25T08:31:00.000-06:00

'Tis the season to be jolly, and watch football games, especially college bowl games. Every year more of them appear on our screens. With the media talent pool stretched thin, two seldom used TV sportscasters are given the assignment of covering the newest, least important, most obscure bowl game.

Bayou Bill

THE OTHER BOWL GAME
by Bill Fullerton

“Hello sports fans. This is Greg Gumball coming to you from fabled Waterproof Stadium in the heart of beautiful Dry Prong, Louisiana. This hallowed old structure is the picturesque setting for this year’s first annual No Hope Enterprises Motivational Bowl.

“Today’s football game will pit the always tough Fighting Snipes from the Sam Houston Institute of Technology, led by head coach Jimmy Bob White, against coach Thomas ‘Gimmie’ Moore and his formidable Jackalopes from Southern Oklahoma Baptist.

“Both teams come into the game with impressive records. Sam Houston was 6-5-1, including three wins against community junior colleges, while Southern Oklahoma went 7-5 against the point spread.

“We’ll be getting insightful analysis of today’s eagerly anticipated football game from our color commentator, the one-time special teams specialist and all-district honorable mention from Middlebrow High School, Allan Michael.”

“Thank you, Greg Gumball, and hello to football fans everywhere. This should be a real battle between teams with contrasting styles. The Jackalopes of Southern Oklahoma feature a ball-control offense built around the talents of team’s 5’4”, 145 pound, senior running back, Cedrick ‘Say What?’ Sullivan.

“Operating out of coach Gimmie Moore's famed Broken Bone formation, the diminutive Sullivan has pounded out almost six-hundred yards in four seasons with the Jackalopes. No doubt Say What? would have racked up even better stats had he not been wracked up by a series of painful, crippling injuries while running up the middle in his first three seasons.

“This year, he’s begun to improvise, running a lot of end sweeps. But these sweeps are so wide he goes out of bounds on almost every carry. Sometimes a really quick defensive back can catch him first, but Say What? has been running with a real sense of urgency this season.

“While the Jackalopes run, the Snipes fly. The offense is lead by quarterback Rod ‘The Reel Thing’ Coker, who passed for over 1200 yards this season. Unfortunately, about half of those yards came on interception returns. But when he's hot, he's hot.

“You know, Greg Gumball, everybody’s talking about Reel Thing's favorite target, split-end Tyrone, ‘Spear Catcher’ Jones. Although Jones isn’t blessed with blazing speed, he makes up for it by running erratic, broken pass routes, leaving defensive backs bewildered and out of position.”

“That's great, Allan Michael. It sounds like this football game's got all the makings for a great offensive shoot-out.”

“You could be right, Greg Gumball. But both teams have defensive units which could play significant roles in the outcome.

“The Sam Houston Institute of Technology Snipes have one of the biggest defensive lines I've ever seen. Anchored by 5'7" 353 pound nose tackle, Buford ‘The Blob’ Grossman, the Snipes' defensive linemen are simply awesome. But despite that incredible size, they're unusually slow.

“That combination should make it hard for the undersized Jackalope offensive linemen to execute any of their favorite weapons, such as: traps, influence blocks, and holding. And since the Snipes use either five or seven down linemen with outside linebackers who often act like defensive ends, the Jackalope's elusive running back Cedrick ‘Say What?’ Sullivan may spend a lot of time heading for the sidelines.

“Southern Oklahoma Baptist counters with a defensive unit that features some of the wildest linebackers in the business. The leader of the group is 6'2" 167 pound senior, Anthony ‘Nasty’ Nasturtium.

“I tell you, Greg Gumball, those guys are just plain mean. According to defensive coordinator Sam ‘The Body’ Breaker, they don't rely on any traditional defensive schemes. Instead, they just hang around and clobber anyone who happens to come nearby. In a recent game, they managed to cripple three members of the school’s marching band who hung around a bit too long after half-time, a couple near-sighted game officials, and a little old lady who’d made a wrong turn while trying to find the restroom.”

“Sounds to me, Allan Michael, like that could spell trouble for the Snipes' great pass receiver, Spear Catcher Jones.”

“That's right, Greg Gumball. Despite rumors to the contrary, Jackalope defenders aren't stupid. They do know the difference between playing tough defense, roughing the passer, personal fouls, and manslaughter. Now whether they care about those differences, well, who knows?”

“How's the kicking game, Allan Michael?”

“You know how it is, Greg Gumball, all kickers are a little strange. Well, so is the kicking game for both teams.”

“That's great, Allan Michael. Fans, we'll be right back for the kickoff after this pause for commercials, public-service announcements, station breaks, and dead air.”

~~ "We're off." ~~

“This dump’s falling apart, Gumball. Somebody fix that draft--I'm freezing my buns.”

“Me, too. Hey, what about some coffee over here?”

“Who picked these teams anyway, the humane society?”

“Nah, the bowl committee. They’re all former International Olympic Committee members. For them it was an easy choice. These were the only schools willing to pay the price needed to get an invitation. By the way, Cedrick Sullivan pronounces his first name SEED-rick, not SAID-rick.”

“Who gives a flying buffalo chip?”

“You do, if you don't want to go back to calling Middlebrow Junior High games. Hang loose, we're going back on the air.

~~ "Back on in three, two, one." ~~

“This is Greg Gumball along with, Allan Michaels. Welcome back to Waterproof Stadium and the first annual No Hope Enterprises Motivational Bowl. Any last second comments before the kickoff, Allan Michael?”

“Just this Greg Gumball. Fans should pay close attention to my main man, Southern Oklahoma Baptist running back SEED-rick ‘Say What’ Sullivan. If he starts turning up-field before running out of bounds, SEED-rick could have a real impact….“

A SPECIAL PRESENT: for your special someone

2007-12-20T20:30:00.000-06:00

The good folks at Eternal Press http://www.eternalpress.com.au/ have seen fit to release one of my short stories, A SPECIAL PRESENT, as a stand-alone stocking stuffer. It's a somewhat unconventional love story with a seasonal twist that asks the type of question many couples face during a time of war.

Becky may never see Matt again after he goes back to war. Once she's given herself to him, what else can she give?

How the two physically and emotionally bruised friends fall in love and Becky's answer to that question involves a pair of love scenes that would probably earn an "R" rating. The way they deal with the consequences of her answer, however, is the heart of the story.

Here's a "Suitable of General Audiences" excerpt.

Our shop-a-thon had cost me more than just maxed out credit cards. My back ached, my feet throbbed, and the rest of me felt tired, bloated, and crappy. To be fair, all that started long before I hit the mall. Being eight months pregnant can do that to a girl.

Make that an unmarried, pregnant girl. Of course, I’m no girl either, although it does seem like I stopped growing a lot sooner than the owner’s manual told my parent’s to expect. In her infinite wisdom, Mother Nature decided five-foot nothing was more than enough for Becky Miller to handle. So there’s not a whole lot of me to pack around a baby who keeps getting bigger by the hour and seems anxious to climb out and look around.

It’s not like I didn’t know better. This baby will be my second. My first, Kylie, is two going on twenty-five and can’t wait to play with her baby brother. Knowing better and doing what’s smart isn’t the same thing. At least it isn’t for me, not after falling in love with someone I may never see again.

A SPECIAL PRESENT is available as an e-publication in download form for $1.50 (told you it was cheap). The process is simple and quick--honest. For more information or to download the complete story, click on this link: http://www.eternalpress.com.au/

Bayou Bill