Mary looked askance at her husband. It was the second time this week that he had seen Veronica. "Darling!" she said, pouring a generous second half of the large gin and tonic into her often empty glass. "Darling" she said again. Mark looked rather tired this evening she thought. His collar was frayed. Oh dear, I meant to buy him some new ones but the day just flew by. She wondered if the financial crisis was contributing to his faded look. She wanted to cry out, "Oh for goodness sake! it's all in your imagination. Veronica took her own life you know that. I know her body wasn't found but the clothes were there; she took drugs: she was unbalanced." Mary didn't say anything. She was worried. Veronica. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a trifle too brassy this time. I shall have to speak to Maurice, she thought. She took a big swig of her drink. She decided to be rational. "Where?" she asked, "did you see her?" Mark looked at her. He had not touched his drink. "At the Gare du Nord."
"The Gare du Nord? I didn't know you'd been to Paris. When did you go?" "Yesterday". "Yesterday?" Her mind raced. He never used to be secretive. She swallowed some more gin. " I saw her, Mary." She felt woozy from the information and the drink. She had loved her daughter of course. all mothers love their children but she had not liked her, her way of life, the drugs, the commonness, the vulgarity, the dreadful language. And when she disappeared Mary had her husband back to herself. She was a one-man woman. The trouble was he was not a one-woman man. Oh god, he was so attractive she thought. She reached out to touch him and stumbled against the sofa, caught her foot in the rug and fell heavily. "For god's sake, can't you control your drinking?" She felt miserable. She looked at him. "Please Mark, don't be like that. I love you." He got up and left the room. She poured herself another gin. " I wish I were not here," she said to herself, but she was there and it was time for dinner which she had not prepared. Mark slammed the front door. She knew things were bad. She must do something.But what?
Monday, August 8, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
MARCHING ALONG
The sound brought it all back. Seeing her gaze off, knowing the symptoms of withdrawal Hillary said brightly, "Enid, let's go to see the parade," collecting her hat showing she wouldn't take no for an answer. Enid acquiesced though she didn't want to. Going out was difficult after what had happened. She shuddered recalling the man's hands clawing at her pantyhose, his alcoholic breath almost asphyxiating her, his vulgarity and commonness oppressing her. She had been completely exonerated by the police even though the man had bled a lot. She heard again his cry of pain, terror, surprise, an animal in a trap as he realized the tables had been turned against him. She thanked her grandmother for her fashion sense. Granny would have been amused that her old-fashioned yet stylish black velvet hat with the shady brim had been used to submit a man to the law. As he clawed at her, her hand reached up to her head and she drew out the amber-headed long hat pin that attached the hat to her luxuriant hair. Without thinking she grabbed hold of the pin and stabbed the man in the groin. He screamed and fell away shouting at her but she was merciless and kicked him as hard as she could in the testicles. The press labelled her a heroine. He was imprisoned for many years as he was an escapee. Boadicea strikes with amber hat pin, screamed a tabloid. Don't mess with Enid said another. All this was in her mind as they watched the largely amateur parade, patriotic for July 4 up in the small Maine town where she had gone to recuperate with Hillary. It was the fresh faced high school band marching along that brought it vividly back to her. They were playing a Souza march and that tune was coming from a window in the street that day when he grabbed her and thrust her into the deserted alley. What would Souza say to that she wondered?
She would write a story about it. Smiling, for the first time for weeks she said to Hilary."You know, I feel better. I shan't use a pin again but I shall wield a pen. She had made a step forward.
She would write a story about it. Smiling, for the first time for weeks she said to Hilary."You know, I feel better. I shan't use a pin again but I shall wield a pen. She had made a step forward.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
CINDERELLA
CINDERELLA
By George Holmes Copyright September 2010
I have always sympathized with the two ugly sisters. It must have been a great trial to come into a family where the new father was so greatly attached to his little daughter who sat at the hearth all the time. She apparently liked it and you can’t blame them when they saw how humble she was and then their mother had told them that she was really a servant and perhaps a changeling and anyway they needed a lady’s maid and why not keep it all in the family and save a salary. The sisters who were vain but not stupid took to the idea and it sort of worked out. Cinderella was a born charlady, a natural skivvy.
She had a most unhealthy relationship with her dad. He was quite good looking and well off but never could resist a pretty woman so when the mother of the two sisters set her sights on him he was ground meat, totally at her mercy with her perfumes and satins, her posh speech and little ways of tickling his fancy with her little shoes, pink bonnets and low cut dresses.
Cinderella was a bit of a prig. It is true she was quite nice to look at if you bothered to look under the grime that is but no one saw that and no one cared. She was strange you see. I mean she had friends who were mice. Mice! Do you know people who know mice? I for one don’t and have no wish to. The other sisters were not really ugly. No woman is. They are just beauty and taste challenged. These two were slaves to fashion but try as they may they had no style at all. Poor things. They were the ones that needed a helping hand, an Oprah or a Martha Stewart to guide them along but they did the best they could. Now Cinderella had this friend, a social worker she said though I suspect there was a hint of Lesbos there and she probably fancied our Cinders. The prince was a complete washout as a leader of his country and moreover had a playmate called Buttons who advised the prince to wear silk stockings, a little dove-gray jacket with flared collar and a Robn Hood hat. Well, it screamed gay. His peasants were starving, there were no jobs and he was swanning about with glass slippers Give us a break.
Of course the poor ugly ones for want of a better name had to live with what nature had given them. They were completely besotted with the prince and bought a subscription to his PR magazine that of course was a tissue of lies and innuendos from beginning to end. The also drank far too much wine. It was after a particularly boozy night that they decided to cut off their toes to get into the slipper. Can you imagine the mess? Poor things spent months in hospital and plastic surgery after that mad bout. And then the prince must have been obtuse not to notice the smell of Cinderella, ashes, mice and worse. But once she got that ring on her finger she was away. Her model was Eva Peron she said, she’d come from nothing and was first lady and now I am. So watch out.
She was corruption incarnate. Her first act was to ban mousetraps. The writing was on the wall I can tell you.
Oh boy you really know how to kill a good story don't you?
By George Holmes Copyright September 2010
I have always sympathized with the two ugly sisters. It must have been a great trial to come into a family where the new father was so greatly attached to his little daughter who sat at the hearth all the time. She apparently liked it and you can’t blame them when they saw how humble she was and then their mother had told them that she was really a servant and perhaps a changeling and anyway they needed a lady’s maid and why not keep it all in the family and save a salary. The sisters who were vain but not stupid took to the idea and it sort of worked out. Cinderella was a born charlady, a natural skivvy.
She had a most unhealthy relationship with her dad. He was quite good looking and well off but never could resist a pretty woman so when the mother of the two sisters set her sights on him he was ground meat, totally at her mercy with her perfumes and satins, her posh speech and little ways of tickling his fancy with her little shoes, pink bonnets and low cut dresses.
Cinderella was a bit of a prig. It is true she was quite nice to look at if you bothered to look under the grime that is but no one saw that and no one cared. She was strange you see. I mean she had friends who were mice. Mice! Do you know people who know mice? I for one don’t and have no wish to. The other sisters were not really ugly. No woman is. They are just beauty and taste challenged. These two were slaves to fashion but try as they may they had no style at all. Poor things. They were the ones that needed a helping hand, an Oprah or a Martha Stewart to guide them along but they did the best they could. Now Cinderella had this friend, a social worker she said though I suspect there was a hint of Lesbos there and she probably fancied our Cinders. The prince was a complete washout as a leader of his country and moreover had a playmate called Buttons who advised the prince to wear silk stockings, a little dove-gray jacket with flared collar and a Robn Hood hat. Well, it screamed gay. His peasants were starving, there were no jobs and he was swanning about with glass slippers Give us a break.
Of course the poor ugly ones for want of a better name had to live with what nature had given them. They were completely besotted with the prince and bought a subscription to his PR magazine that of course was a tissue of lies and innuendos from beginning to end. The also drank far too much wine. It was after a particularly boozy night that they decided to cut off their toes to get into the slipper. Can you imagine the mess? Poor things spent months in hospital and plastic surgery after that mad bout. And then the prince must have been obtuse not to notice the smell of Cinderella, ashes, mice and worse. But once she got that ring on her finger she was away. Her model was Eva Peron she said, she’d come from nothing and was first lady and now I am. So watch out.
She was corruption incarnate. Her first act was to ban mousetraps. The writing was on the wall I can tell you.
Oh boy you really know how to kill a good story don't you?
SURRENDER
SURRENDER
By George Holmes Sept 2010 copyright
Gleaming iridescent dragonflies, gold, crimson, blue and emerald swirled about her. She felt drowsy as though of hemlock I have drunk she thought remembering a distant lesson about Keats. She seemed numb but not unaware. She gave into her drowsy state, into that surrender to rest, to find that undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns. How proud Miss Tiddington would be of her, she thought. She had played Ophelia with Miss Tiddington giving her private lessons. She had loved poetry and romance. She let go her worries, her cares, her anxieties so often assuaged with pills; she abandoned them and suddenly was alive in the moment, carefree, light as she faded into the reality of the present, where the light was. In front of her, a door, old, studded, gnarled and heavy, the top rounded, a large metal ring for a handle. Slowly as if drawn by her own desires and perhaps something else she put out her hand and grasped the large cold iron ring. She gave a push, more unconscious than aware and slowly opened the door. It creaked and swung wide revealing a room suffused with soft amber and peach light. The room seemed to glow on its own and especially over the long dining table in the center; like the door it was made of wood and bespoke great age. And on the table she saw a groaning board of cakes and fruits, candies and sweets, custards and jellies, pies and puddings, biscuits, ladyfingers, macaroons, rich fruitcakes and petit fours. Huge platters of fruit invited. Peaches, oranges, lemons and limes, bananas, kiwis, salads of fruit, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, gooseberries, loganberries and black and red currants.
Where am I? She said out loud.
No one answered. Was she alone? Why was the table ready for a feast? Where were the guests? She looked down and saw to her astonishment she was wearing beautiful sandals and a long silk gown in shimmering colors. A golden mirror revealed her hair dressed in plaits and loops, woven with golden thread. She saw she was beautiful. Something she had never seen before. People won’t pity me now she thought.
How beautiful I am. But am I alone? Is there no one to see me?
Stretching out a jeweled hand to take a peach she was stopped by a sound, a sort of mew, half human sigh, half slither, half song. Looking up she saw at the head of the table a large caterpillar wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a green hat.
What is your name? commanded the caterpillar.
Puzzled, she shook her head. I don’t know. I have no name, she said.
No name? said the caterpillar. Then I shall call you No name and you shall be my servant and do as I say.
She moved forward in a daze, sliced the peach and placed it in front of the caterpillar.
Thank you, No name. That’s a good beginning. He smiled. Was it a smile? She shivered but she was not cold.
By George Holmes Sept 2010 copyright
Gleaming iridescent dragonflies, gold, crimson, blue and emerald swirled about her. She felt drowsy as though of hemlock I have drunk she thought remembering a distant lesson about Keats. She seemed numb but not unaware. She gave into her drowsy state, into that surrender to rest, to find that undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns. How proud Miss Tiddington would be of her, she thought. She had played Ophelia with Miss Tiddington giving her private lessons. She had loved poetry and romance. She let go her worries, her cares, her anxieties so often assuaged with pills; she abandoned them and suddenly was alive in the moment, carefree, light as she faded into the reality of the present, where the light was. In front of her, a door, old, studded, gnarled and heavy, the top rounded, a large metal ring for a handle. Slowly as if drawn by her own desires and perhaps something else she put out her hand and grasped the large cold iron ring. She gave a push, more unconscious than aware and slowly opened the door. It creaked and swung wide revealing a room suffused with soft amber and peach light. The room seemed to glow on its own and especially over the long dining table in the center; like the door it was made of wood and bespoke great age. And on the table she saw a groaning board of cakes and fruits, candies and sweets, custards and jellies, pies and puddings, biscuits, ladyfingers, macaroons, rich fruitcakes and petit fours. Huge platters of fruit invited. Peaches, oranges, lemons and limes, bananas, kiwis, salads of fruit, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, gooseberries, loganberries and black and red currants.
Where am I? She said out loud.
No one answered. Was she alone? Why was the table ready for a feast? Where were the guests? She looked down and saw to her astonishment she was wearing beautiful sandals and a long silk gown in shimmering colors. A golden mirror revealed her hair dressed in plaits and loops, woven with golden thread. She saw she was beautiful. Something she had never seen before. People won’t pity me now she thought.
How beautiful I am. But am I alone? Is there no one to see me?
Stretching out a jeweled hand to take a peach she was stopped by a sound, a sort of mew, half human sigh, half slither, half song. Looking up she saw at the head of the table a large caterpillar wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a green hat.
What is your name? commanded the caterpillar.
Puzzled, she shook her head. I don’t know. I have no name, she said.
No name? said the caterpillar. Then I shall call you No name and you shall be my servant and do as I say.
She moved forward in a daze, sliced the peach and placed it in front of the caterpillar.
Thank you, No name. That’s a good beginning. He smiled. Was it a smile? She shivered but she was not cold.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
STETSON
STETSON
By George Holmes copyright Sept 2010
Do you like me in this hat?
Very nice, dear.
You haven’t even looked. It cost $225.00.
What! What? Two hundred and fifty dollars! I suppose you charged it. What’s it made of? Vicuna? And what are those feathers on the band? I bet they’re from an endangered species. Anyway it’s a man’s hat.
That is the point, silly! I am a woman. You do concede that? I see from your sly nod you do. I am very feminine but I am exploring my masculine side and that is why I am wearing this Stetson hat. And the feathers are not from any bird, endangered or not, but they are faux feathers, made to look real.
You spent two hundred and fifty dollars on faux feathers? I think they saw you coming. They said here’s one who’ll swallow this fashion, hook line and sinker if I may move from birds to fish to express myself. Here’s one who’ll fork out 250.00. She probably has a complacent husband. You know we could have used that money to pay off the vet. That mynah bird you bought is costing us a packet at the vet. Over 500 dollars last time I looked and I’m getting fed up with the refrain, Bugger off, you old sod. The vicar’s wife was quite taken aback but said the bird was one of God’s creatures-just corrupted by humans. I felt that was a bit pointed but I said nothing. Don’t upset the church I say unless you want a hex put on you. I offered her a check and she was ever sho gracious. You could have used some of the mynah’s feathers and added them to one of my trilbys. Free.
Well, I think it’s smashing. And the policeman did too.
What policeman?
Well, I was looking in the mirror adjusting the brim of the hat when someone banged my wing. Well, actually I banged his wing but it was only a teensy weensy scrape on his new Lexus. He was a bit peeved but the policeman said we could settle it between ourselves if I agreed to pay 700 dollars to pay to repair the scratch. I had to go to the ATM. And I had to give the cop something; just a couple of hundred. Officer Pierce was grateful I had not made a fuss. He added that he’d be happy if his wife had a hat like this. I told him where to get one. He was ever so pleased. So you see it all worked out….. …You’re very silent..
My breath has been taken from me. As I calculate it, that hat cost $1,1150. That’s an expensive hat.
Oh I know, I shouldn’t have done it. But you have to concede it suits me. Give me a kiss and tell me I’m forgiven.
Oh all right. Fix the drinks.
By George Holmes copyright Sept 2010
Do you like me in this hat?
Very nice, dear.
You haven’t even looked. It cost $225.00.
What! What? Two hundred and fifty dollars! I suppose you charged it. What’s it made of? Vicuna? And what are those feathers on the band? I bet they’re from an endangered species. Anyway it’s a man’s hat.
That is the point, silly! I am a woman. You do concede that? I see from your sly nod you do. I am very feminine but I am exploring my masculine side and that is why I am wearing this Stetson hat. And the feathers are not from any bird, endangered or not, but they are faux feathers, made to look real.
You spent two hundred and fifty dollars on faux feathers? I think they saw you coming. They said here’s one who’ll swallow this fashion, hook line and sinker if I may move from birds to fish to express myself. Here’s one who’ll fork out 250.00. She probably has a complacent husband. You know we could have used that money to pay off the vet. That mynah bird you bought is costing us a packet at the vet. Over 500 dollars last time I looked and I’m getting fed up with the refrain, Bugger off, you old sod. The vicar’s wife was quite taken aback but said the bird was one of God’s creatures-just corrupted by humans. I felt that was a bit pointed but I said nothing. Don’t upset the church I say unless you want a hex put on you. I offered her a check and she was ever sho gracious. You could have used some of the mynah’s feathers and added them to one of my trilbys. Free.
Well, I think it’s smashing. And the policeman did too.
What policeman?
Well, I was looking in the mirror adjusting the brim of the hat when someone banged my wing. Well, actually I banged his wing but it was only a teensy weensy scrape on his new Lexus. He was a bit peeved but the policeman said we could settle it between ourselves if I agreed to pay 700 dollars to pay to repair the scratch. I had to go to the ATM. And I had to give the cop something; just a couple of hundred. Officer Pierce was grateful I had not made a fuss. He added that he’d be happy if his wife had a hat like this. I told him where to get one. He was ever so pleased. So you see it all worked out….. …You’re very silent..
My breath has been taken from me. As I calculate it, that hat cost $1,1150. That’s an expensive hat.
Oh I know, I shouldn’t have done it. But you have to concede it suits me. Give me a kiss and tell me I’m forgiven.
Oh all right. Fix the drinks.
Friday, May 28, 2010
REBIRTH
REBIRTH Friday, May 28, 2010
COPYRIGHT: George Holmes
“You know, Cyril, I am totally into New Age now. I have given up all that old stuff, religion and that, socialism, taking the Daily Worker. I live in the Now as Dr. Alundra said. We have to be reborn, he preached. Oh he was wearing a very well tailored suit. It fit him like a glove.”
Cyril looked at Maureen, with a rather cynical glance. He knew her from past whims and caprices, fads, diets and fashions and from her somewhat scatter-brained boyfriends. She was always a prey to a good suit. “Were his wingtips custom-made too?”
Still thinking of Dr. Alundra, she did not perceive his withering look and seemed impervious to sarcasm. Oh dear, he thought, she’s really into this one. Dr. Alundra eh? He’d have to research him a bit.
Maureen twirled around showing off her new silk pale green shift and her exquisite but totally impractical sandals. It was raining outside and they would be useless.
“Reborn or not, Maureen, how about some more of the bubbly?”
“Oh Cyril, you know my weakness. I’m not giving up everything. Certainly not champagne! And I’d rather die than be separated from my Manolos. They cost a fortune. Dr. Alundra said we must be reborn all the time. Not just once but all the time, total transformation, every month or week or day,” she burbled on, intoxicated not only by the champagne but by her new found philosophy.
“I’m even changing my name. What do you think of that?” she flung at him.
“Changing it to what?” he asked, somewhat curious at this new approach.
“I’m changing Maureen to Doreen.”
“Very subtle,” said Cyril.
She glared at him.
COPYRIGHT: George Holmes
“You know, Cyril, I am totally into New Age now. I have given up all that old stuff, religion and that, socialism, taking the Daily Worker. I live in the Now as Dr. Alundra said. We have to be reborn, he preached. Oh he was wearing a very well tailored suit. It fit him like a glove.”
Cyril looked at Maureen, with a rather cynical glance. He knew her from past whims and caprices, fads, diets and fashions and from her somewhat scatter-brained boyfriends. She was always a prey to a good suit. “Were his wingtips custom-made too?”
Still thinking of Dr. Alundra, she did not perceive his withering look and seemed impervious to sarcasm. Oh dear, he thought, she’s really into this one. Dr. Alundra eh? He’d have to research him a bit.
Maureen twirled around showing off her new silk pale green shift and her exquisite but totally impractical sandals. It was raining outside and they would be useless.
“Reborn or not, Maureen, how about some more of the bubbly?”
“Oh Cyril, you know my weakness. I’m not giving up everything. Certainly not champagne! And I’d rather die than be separated from my Manolos. They cost a fortune. Dr. Alundra said we must be reborn all the time. Not just once but all the time, total transformation, every month or week or day,” she burbled on, intoxicated not only by the champagne but by her new found philosophy.
“I’m even changing my name. What do you think of that?” she flung at him.
“Changing it to what?” he asked, somewhat curious at this new approach.
“I’m changing Maureen to Doreen.”
“Very subtle,” said Cyril.
She glared at him.
BABY
BABIES (May 28 2010)
COPYRIGHT: GEORGE HOLMES
She finally landed a job as a cleaner in the Middlesex hospital. When they asked her for references, she gave Eric’s name and address saying he was a mechanic at Burnham’s garage. That was true and she would persuade Eric to put in a good word for her especially she knew he was the father of Doreen Fletcher’s baby who had been born with Down syndrome. She also knew that Eric had forced himself on mentally handicapped Doreen who had died in childbirth but who had confided in her during those last desperate weeks. She was always sympathetic to tragedy, other people’s that is. Doreen had found an old dog eared school notebook after Doreen died and in it she had written Eric’s name hundreds of times, and marked the pages with very incriminating evidence should it come to that. Yes, Eric could be relied on to vouch for her she smiled to herself. She also knew the hospital was desperate to find cleaners. No one wanted to do menial work nowadays. They were above such things preferring the dole to cleaning. She loved being a cleaner; especially in the hospital at night where she could wander at will when people were asleep and the nursing staff at a minimum. She loved the old men’s ward with its wheezing, snoring and groaning inhabitants but above all she loved the nursery. That always drew her. Those little new lives, some premature, guarded and cosseted so closely. She loved those new beings, full of promise and hope and expectations and yet as Marcy knew so well, so soft and fragile, so helpless and vulnerable.
COPYRIGHT: GEORGE HOLMES
She finally landed a job as a cleaner in the Middlesex hospital. When they asked her for references, she gave Eric’s name and address saying he was a mechanic at Burnham’s garage. That was true and she would persuade Eric to put in a good word for her especially she knew he was the father of Doreen Fletcher’s baby who had been born with Down syndrome. She also knew that Eric had forced himself on mentally handicapped Doreen who had died in childbirth but who had confided in her during those last desperate weeks. She was always sympathetic to tragedy, other people’s that is. Doreen had found an old dog eared school notebook after Doreen died and in it she had written Eric’s name hundreds of times, and marked the pages with very incriminating evidence should it come to that. Yes, Eric could be relied on to vouch for her she smiled to herself. She also knew the hospital was desperate to find cleaners. No one wanted to do menial work nowadays. They were above such things preferring the dole to cleaning. She loved being a cleaner; especially in the hospital at night where she could wander at will when people were asleep and the nursing staff at a minimum. She loved the old men’s ward with its wheezing, snoring and groaning inhabitants but above all she loved the nursery. That always drew her. Those little new lives, some premature, guarded and cosseted so closely. She loved those new beings, full of promise and hope and expectations and yet as Marcy knew so well, so soft and fragile, so helpless and vulnerable.
Friday, April 9, 2010
CIRCUS
CIRCUS
Copyright; George Holmes April 9 2010
--You know you really make me laugh, Erica. Well, laugh and weep at the same time. You are the center of your own little world-oh I know it’s not little to you. You think your life is a constant soap opera, that everyone wants to know what’s going to happen next. But, let me tell you, no one is interested; you have an exaggerated sense of your own importance. No one wants to know about the tawdry life of your wretched conniving mother, the pitiful efforts of your drunken father. Is it any wonder you crave attention all the time with your hysterical behavior, by wearing clothes only seen in a circus and a hairstyle reminiscent of the nineteen forties. Your husband walked out; your children are in foster care. You are forty-five. Isn’t it time you grew up?
--Have you finished demolishing my life, Clarice?
--Oh no I haven’t even started. Let me see. Have you…..have you…eeeerrrrr Oh fuck what’s the line?
--OK OK everyone take five everyone except you, Angie. Angie, this scene is the crucial one of the play. Clarice holds the secret to making this clunking play work but it’s only going to happen if you know your fucking lines. This is the last time. Next week, dear Angie, you’ll be back to walk-ons. And one other thought, in case you are thinking of that bottle of gin in the dressing room, we open tomorrow.”
Copyright; George Holmes April 9 2010
--You know you really make me laugh, Erica. Well, laugh and weep at the same time. You are the center of your own little world-oh I know it’s not little to you. You think your life is a constant soap opera, that everyone wants to know what’s going to happen next. But, let me tell you, no one is interested; you have an exaggerated sense of your own importance. No one wants to know about the tawdry life of your wretched conniving mother, the pitiful efforts of your drunken father. Is it any wonder you crave attention all the time with your hysterical behavior, by wearing clothes only seen in a circus and a hairstyle reminiscent of the nineteen forties. Your husband walked out; your children are in foster care. You are forty-five. Isn’t it time you grew up?
--Have you finished demolishing my life, Clarice?
--Oh no I haven’t even started. Let me see. Have you…..have you…eeeerrrrr Oh fuck what’s the line?
--OK OK everyone take five everyone except you, Angie. Angie, this scene is the crucial one of the play. Clarice holds the secret to making this clunking play work but it’s only going to happen if you know your fucking lines. This is the last time. Next week, dear Angie, you’ll be back to walk-ons. And one other thought, in case you are thinking of that bottle of gin in the dressing room, we open tomorrow.”
Sunday, March 21, 2010
FIDELITY
FIDELITY:
BY George Holmes 3/20/10
They’d been married twenty-two years. Then she was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer. The progress of the illness was rapid. Nurses came and went, the doctor shook his head. Jack did not know what to do. Marie lay there in bed, often in a daze and gazed at him as if she was not quite sure who he was. What was the protocol? What does one do? He’d never been in a situation like this. She was his only wife. She slipped away peacefully one afternoon, Nurse Harrison announcing to the ward sister that Mrs. Weatherby had just died.
He was down in the lower fields attending to a hedge that had been broken by two of his cows that were sick. Cows are large and can be destructive when nervous or ill. His cell phone rang. He let it ring a couple of times.
--Yes, Jack Weatherby.
--Oh Mr. Weatherby, Sister McIntyre here. I have sad news. Mrs. Weatherby passed away half an hour ago. Nurse Harrison who was with her said she smiled as she faded from us and then stopped breathing.
He couldn’t speak but gripped the phone. Suddenly a chasm opened in front of him. All that fidelity, that devotion, that love of twenty-two years suddenly had nowhere to go. It all fell helpless into a vast abyss. It had no direction. Whereas once it had a purpose and a goal, now it did not know where to go and seemed to evaporate, an inchoate unformed mist which disappeared..
--I’ll come to the hospital.
The sister having made calls like this before said
--It’s all right Mr. Weatherby. Your mother and your son are here. Come in when you can.
She knew he was having difficulties adjusting, knowing what to say. Death is always a first for many people. For her, it was a working event and she had been in the informing situation often.
--Thank you Sister.
He stood there. He shut off the phone. He picked up his tools and continued to work on the hedge.
The dead can wait for they have limitless time ,but the living are short of it and demand attention.
BY George Holmes 3/20/10
They’d been married twenty-two years. Then she was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer. The progress of the illness was rapid. Nurses came and went, the doctor shook his head. Jack did not know what to do. Marie lay there in bed, often in a daze and gazed at him as if she was not quite sure who he was. What was the protocol? What does one do? He’d never been in a situation like this. She was his only wife. She slipped away peacefully one afternoon, Nurse Harrison announcing to the ward sister that Mrs. Weatherby had just died.
He was down in the lower fields attending to a hedge that had been broken by two of his cows that were sick. Cows are large and can be destructive when nervous or ill. His cell phone rang. He let it ring a couple of times.
--Yes, Jack Weatherby.
--Oh Mr. Weatherby, Sister McIntyre here. I have sad news. Mrs. Weatherby passed away half an hour ago. Nurse Harrison who was with her said she smiled as she faded from us and then stopped breathing.
He couldn’t speak but gripped the phone. Suddenly a chasm opened in front of him. All that fidelity, that devotion, that love of twenty-two years suddenly had nowhere to go. It all fell helpless into a vast abyss. It had no direction. Whereas once it had a purpose and a goal, now it did not know where to go and seemed to evaporate, an inchoate unformed mist which disappeared..
--I’ll come to the hospital.
The sister having made calls like this before said
--It’s all right Mr. Weatherby. Your mother and your son are here. Come in when you can.
She knew he was having difficulties adjusting, knowing what to say. Death is always a first for many people. For her, it was a working event and she had been in the informing situation often.
--Thank you Sister.
He stood there. He shut off the phone. He picked up his tools and continued to work on the hedge.
The dead can wait for they have limitless time ,but the living are short of it and demand attention.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
FIRE
FIRE
Copyright. George Holmes 3/14/10
You know how unhappy I’ve been in that job, Sybil. I like the people, well, most of them, but not that Michael. He’d like to be boss. But the work, oh the work, has been so boring, filing and then flogging that magazine over the phone. I mean, who in their right mind, wants to buy something called NIGHT NURSES, THEIR LOVES AND LIVES. Well, would you Sybil?
--Well, I don’t know…but to get to the point, why don’t you just leave, Peggy?
Leave? I can’t do that. Let them fire me and then I’ll leave but I need the job. Anyway they’re not firing, they’re hiring. NIGHT NURSES L & L is going on TV. Everyone wants to read it and see it. There’s no underestimating the gullibility of the public is there? They’ve lined up Daphne Larue as head nurse. I hear Meryl Streep is slated for Matron, the one who’s having an affair with the head surgeon, Boris Mellors. The plots are more complicated than HOUSE. There’s even a comics version in the works and demand is high for that. Not surprising in a country where many are practically illiterate.
--Well, Peggy, why don’t you take a leave of absence?
What and let that Michael take over? He’s gay you know. Oh yes, very charming and a clever clogs but you can’t trust them can you? I heard him the other day on the phone and I quote “ Oh you’re a real doll, Eric.” I mean, really, calling another man a doll.
--Well, look, I don’t think that’s actually too bad. After all, Peggy, I think you’re a doll, said Sybil.
For once in her life, Peggy was speechless.
Copyright. George Holmes 3/14/10
You know how unhappy I’ve been in that job, Sybil. I like the people, well, most of them, but not that Michael. He’d like to be boss. But the work, oh the work, has been so boring, filing and then flogging that magazine over the phone. I mean, who in their right mind, wants to buy something called NIGHT NURSES, THEIR LOVES AND LIVES. Well, would you Sybil?
--Well, I don’t know…but to get to the point, why don’t you just leave, Peggy?
Leave? I can’t do that. Let them fire me and then I’ll leave but I need the job. Anyway they’re not firing, they’re hiring. NIGHT NURSES L & L is going on TV. Everyone wants to read it and see it. There’s no underestimating the gullibility of the public is there? They’ve lined up Daphne Larue as head nurse. I hear Meryl Streep is slated for Matron, the one who’s having an affair with the head surgeon, Boris Mellors. The plots are more complicated than HOUSE. There’s even a comics version in the works and demand is high for that. Not surprising in a country where many are practically illiterate.
--Well, Peggy, why don’t you take a leave of absence?
What and let that Michael take over? He’s gay you know. Oh yes, very charming and a clever clogs but you can’t trust them can you? I heard him the other day on the phone and I quote “ Oh you’re a real doll, Eric.” I mean, really, calling another man a doll.
--Well, look, I don’t think that’s actually too bad. After all, Peggy, I think you’re a doll, said Sybil.
For once in her life, Peggy was speechless.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
ORGAN
ORGAN by George Holmes COPYRIGHT Feb 28 2010
What do you mean?
I’ve found a new way to make money.
Tell me. I’m rather skeptical of your schemes. I remember the last time you wanted to import Zambian goats to make mohair sweaters to sell back to the Zambians. Not very practical as they don’t wear sweaters there, mohair or not. It’s too hot.
Well, yes, I agree on that. It was not the best plan in the world.
Well, the goats certainly kept the grass cropped. And they finally made a very good stew. So what is this new plan?
Organs.
Organs? You must be more specific. Musical organs, barrel organs, sexual organs, human organs?
Oh didn’t I say? Human.
No, you didn’t. Well, what about them? You’re not proposing selling off parts of yourself to the highest bidder are you?
Oh no. Not parts of me. Parts of you.
Are you completely mad?
No, not at all. Have you noticed something? The door has no handle. The room is sound proof and I have chloroform and gun. You're a gold mine.
What do you mean?
I’ve found a new way to make money.
Tell me. I’m rather skeptical of your schemes. I remember the last time you wanted to import Zambian goats to make mohair sweaters to sell back to the Zambians. Not very practical as they don’t wear sweaters there, mohair or not. It’s too hot.
Well, yes, I agree on that. It was not the best plan in the world.
Well, the goats certainly kept the grass cropped. And they finally made a very good stew. So what is this new plan?
Organs.
Organs? You must be more specific. Musical organs, barrel organs, sexual organs, human organs?
Oh didn’t I say? Human.
No, you didn’t. Well, what about them? You’re not proposing selling off parts of yourself to the highest bidder are you?
Oh no. Not parts of me. Parts of you.
Are you completely mad?
No, not at all. Have you noticed something? The door has no handle. The room is sound proof and I have chloroform and gun. You're a gold mine.
FRIDAY
FRIDAY by George Holmes. Copyright. Feb 28 2010
Hello?
Oh it’s you Bella…oh Bella, you promised. You said you would definitely go as my date. I can’t go alone. I’ve told them I’m coming with my lady friend. You! Why can’t you come…You have to take the dog to the vet! Look, if you don’t mind my saying so, you spend far too much money and time on Billy. What kind of name is that for a dog? Billy? After Billy Bigelow in Carousel! Well, what can I say… I know it’s not my business but honestly don’t you think a diamond dog collar is way over the top with people starving in Africa…Oh dear. Whom can I get to go with me? What? Your mother? Is she free? Does she have a long frock? It’s black tie. Look, isn’t she just a shade too old? Well of course I know that. Age doesn’t matter. People shinning up Everest in their nineties. It’s just that, well, didn’t she have a teensy-weensy problem with the drink and being arrested for causing a scene at Sardis, and then the rehab in that convent. She almost took the veil. She’s so impulsive; a bit like you really. Like mother, like daughter. I mean what’s it going to look like, me turning up with a lady friend at least twice my age…Oh alright, ask her, I’ll hold on…what did she say? Yes? Oh good. She’ll have her hair done and I’m to pick her up at 6.00pm. Now, don’t let me down Bella. I can’t have anything go wrong with my bid for tenure. You make me so nervous…
Hello?
Oh it’s you Bella…oh Bella, you promised. You said you would definitely go as my date. I can’t go alone. I’ve told them I’m coming with my lady friend. You! Why can’t you come…You have to take the dog to the vet! Look, if you don’t mind my saying so, you spend far too much money and time on Billy. What kind of name is that for a dog? Billy? After Billy Bigelow in Carousel! Well, what can I say… I know it’s not my business but honestly don’t you think a diamond dog collar is way over the top with people starving in Africa…Oh dear. Whom can I get to go with me? What? Your mother? Is she free? Does she have a long frock? It’s black tie. Look, isn’t she just a shade too old? Well of course I know that. Age doesn’t matter. People shinning up Everest in their nineties. It’s just that, well, didn’t she have a teensy-weensy problem with the drink and being arrested for causing a scene at Sardis, and then the rehab in that convent. She almost took the veil. She’s so impulsive; a bit like you really. Like mother, like daughter. I mean what’s it going to look like, me turning up with a lady friend at least twice my age…Oh alright, ask her, I’ll hold on…what did she say? Yes? Oh good. She’ll have her hair done and I’m to pick her up at 6.00pm. Now, don’t let me down Bella. I can’t have anything go wrong with my bid for tenure. You make me so nervous…
Saturday, February 27, 2010
SNOW DAY
SNOW DAY by George Holmes Copyright. Feb.27 2010
Suddenly he has a sense of freedom. School was canceled. He didn’t have to teach. A snow day. He feels liberated, almost giddy. He decides on the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He loves it, the beauty of the objects, the great spaces, even the crowds do not displease him today. He hires an audio guide. He likes to listen to the voice of Philippe de Montebello. A voice to swoon to he thinks and smiles. Today he concentrates on a large apotheosis scene. How great he thinks to become a god, beautifully formed, muscled, tumbling blond hair, dark eyes alive, exhilarated. Who was the model for this god he wonders? Did the painter have a special affection for him? It is painted with amorous care, lush and rich with reds and golds, blues and whites. Did the model pose like that? Swirling draperies over his loins, a diadem on that magnificent head? He looks at the painting for a long time, absorbed in his thoughts, soothed by that balmy voice, seduced almost, enraptured like St Theresa in ecstasy. Suddenly an irrational force of anger sweeps over him. He feels overpowered, almost out of control. He wants to slash the painting, destroy that thoughtless arrogance so cruelly spread out in front of him .He catches his breath. He knows that he will never be like that god, snow day or not. He will never be surrounded by such beauty, never feel that exhilaration except at second hand. He curses the fates that took away his mother the day he was born and gave him that twisted spine, that hump.
Suddenly he has a sense of freedom. School was canceled. He didn’t have to teach. A snow day. He feels liberated, almost giddy. He decides on the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He loves it, the beauty of the objects, the great spaces, even the crowds do not displease him today. He hires an audio guide. He likes to listen to the voice of Philippe de Montebello. A voice to swoon to he thinks and smiles. Today he concentrates on a large apotheosis scene. How great he thinks to become a god, beautifully formed, muscled, tumbling blond hair, dark eyes alive, exhilarated. Who was the model for this god he wonders? Did the painter have a special affection for him? It is painted with amorous care, lush and rich with reds and golds, blues and whites. Did the model pose like that? Swirling draperies over his loins, a diadem on that magnificent head? He looks at the painting for a long time, absorbed in his thoughts, soothed by that balmy voice, seduced almost, enraptured like St Theresa in ecstasy. Suddenly an irrational force of anger sweeps over him. He feels overpowered, almost out of control. He wants to slash the painting, destroy that thoughtless arrogance so cruelly spread out in front of him .He catches his breath. He knows that he will never be like that god, snow day or not. He will never be surrounded by such beauty, never feel that exhilaration except at second hand. He curses the fates that took away his mother the day he was born and gave him that twisted spine, that hump.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Copyright:2/3/10
The four words were VANILLA, POLICE, TRAIN, and FORGIVENESS. From these words comes this story entitled. Initial story took two hours. Editing and revising took longer.It may well be tweaked more.....
QUEENS NEW YORK THE EIGHTIES
One.
>
He remembered that night so well, recalled thinking that cooking could be annoying when one did not have the essential ingredients.It seemed so important to say that. He always said afterward that nothing would have happened, they would still be a happy family if he hadn't run out of vanilla that night. He was so stubborn about it. It was vanilla cookies, his speciality or nowt. His native Yorkshire came out when pressed. They had been living in New York then. Both of his children were American born. Making vanilla cookies was his contribution to the kitchen world normally reigned over by his beautiful blond wife of eighteen years. He really loved her. It was a good marriage. He called to her, “Joan, ,oh damn, there’s no vanilla. What a bore, just when I was in the mood.”
Joan had said, “Never mind, I’ll just pop down to that little bodega. Juan and Juanita are sure to have some.” Juan knew their family, one of the first white ones to move into the up and coming area of Queens. Normally Joan took the car to Fairway or even over to New Jersey to do what she called “a big shopping”. She often said however, “We should patronize the local shops; support the neighborhood businesses. It’s our duty. Juan and his wife are so nice and I get to practice my Spanish. Besides, their shop is open almost twenty-four seven. Did you know there’s a new flower shop over on Walker Street that actually has orchids on sale. It’s so great to be part of a city on the move isn’t it? Better than stodgy London, so immersed in its past.”
They had bought at the best time when the market was on the turn. The house was a single room occupancy building that had been abandoned for at least a year but was solidly built. It had a double garage and a garden with a cherry tree. It had originally been a one family home at the turn of the twentieth century. The one terrific advantage was that the house has six showers, baths and toilets so when they reconverted it; they had a room and a bath each and a couple to spare.
Joan said, “Oh darling, you’d better stick to banking. I’ll be in charge in the kitchen. But don’t worry this time I’ll nip down to the shop.”
She put on a coat, kissed him lightly on the cheek. He remembered her perfume. It was 8.30 in the evening.
Two.
Their son Alexander recalled,“Dad continued mixing the other ingredients so they would be ready by the time Mom returned. He also opened a good bottle of cabernet sauvignon from California and had put the oven on low so that when she returned he could slosh in the vanilla and bake the cookies. He hoped to make about four dozen. It was only after finishing the first glass of wine that he called out to his son Bob, “What time did mum leave?”
“Around 8.30 I think, Dad. Don’t worry she’s only a few minutes late and the shop’s only at the end of the block. I bet she ran into someone she knew and has been gossiping. You know how she loves to talk recipes and homemaking.”
“Yes, but still,” his dad replied.
They were both startled by a loud ring of the front door bell.
“Who can that be? It’s rather late for visitors. Go upstairs, you two.” He looked at his two children. They obeyed him.
Although they felt safe in the neighborhood there had been one or two incidents in the past and so they had a drill ready in case anything unusual happened.
Picking up a large baseball bat he kept by the door, he saw through the frosted glass panel two figures standing there. The door has been one of the clinchers when they bought the house. It had a handsome stained glass transom which they loved. Cautiously he opened the door.
Two policemen stood there.
Three.
“Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes. Is everything alright?”
“Oh yes, Sir, we think so. It’s just that we found this wallet by the bodega down the road. It appears to belong to a Mrs. Joan Henderson at this address.”
“It’s my wife’s”
“Is she in, Sir?”
“Well no, she just went down to the shop around 8.30. To buy some vanilla, “ he added.
“Vanilla?”
“Well, yes, I’m baking cookies and we’d run out. Where is my wife?”
Well, that’s it, Sir. We don’t know. We know she was walking in that direction because we had a plain-clothes car down there watching the comings and goings at the bodega. There have been a few reports of suspicious activity and a neighborhood watch committee suggested to us that we might keep an eye on things. You haven’t heard about it?”
“Well, no. I’ve been away in London for a month on business and we could not attend the last meeting. Did you see anything suspicious? I assume my wife went to the shop.”
“We think she did, Sir. We noted her approach. She’s rather striking, Sir, being blonde. Our line of vision diagonally across the road from the shop was suddenly obstructed by a large gray van that drew up in front of the bodega cutting off our view. It’s not unusual as trucks do stop there for refreshments. The owners cater to truck drivers. The van drew up so we didn’t actually see her go into the shop. Our walkie talkie buzzed at that moment with a call about a train accident but others were dealing with it. When we looked again, the van had gone.
Now, you’re sure your wife did not return unbeknownst to you? Do you have a back door here? I see you are enjoying a bottle of wine and isn’t the house rather warm? Is the oven still on?”
John had stammered, “Yes, yes, sorry, I’ll turn it off. Look, what are you saying/. Where is my wife? She can’t just have disappeared. That’s impossible”
Officers Del Flores and Holmes said, “we are mystified too, Sir. We went into the shop just to check up on things. Juan and his wife had not seen a woman for about an hour or so. The last customer, who was just there had ordered two cokes to go. They had not seen him before. However they would recognize him if they saw him again.Juan and his wife had been in the back and apart from serving the van driver, there had been few customers that evening, it being rather cold. They did hear the driver’s companion shout out in a loud accented voice for him to hurry up. When we came out we spotted the wallet in the gutter.”
Four.
If only he’d had some vanilla that night, their lives would be the same as they were before. Now here he was faced with an eternal dilemma. Should we forgive those who have trespassed against us?
Or should we exact a tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye? John had pondered this question repeatedly after the verdict of guilty on all counts came in. The trial was not long as the evidence was overwhelming. The men were guilty through and through of murder in the first degree. The press had had a field day. Xenophobic feeling ran high. There was keen interest in the day appointed for the sentencing.
The two men who were driving the stolen van were illegal immigrants. The big burly one Stefan Kostas, had accosted Joan as she was by the shop. She was startled but smiled at him, thinking well of him as she always thought well of everyone. He had grabbed her and knocked her to the ground. She dropped her wallet that fell away from her. He had not noticed. She cried out but he struck her again and she fell against a piece of metal, the jagged end of a vandalized bus stop sign, stunning her and causing her head to bleed profusely. She passed out. This was deduced by the autopsy report. There was no noise as it all happened so quickly. The man panicked, picked her up and threw her in the van. The sliding door opened on the side by the shop so nothing could be seen. He shouted out to his companion to hurry up and they drove off. He did not tell his friend until they were on a secluded stretch of road by a wood. They took her out, found she was still breathing and proceeded to rape and kill her in cold blood. They hacked off her finger to get at her wedding ring and engagement rings they sold for $150.00. The rings were worth at least three thousand dollars. They left her mutilated body in a wood, climbed back into the van, bought alcohol, got drunk and passed out. A passing police car found them, checked out the number, noted it was stolen and arrested the two befuddled men. Their clothes were stained with blood. The men were amateur, stupid, had little or no education and spoke little English. One was married but had left his wife and two children. They were incompetent and inept. They were beyond the pale. They had broken the rules of society. They had got their stories muddled and one has blamed the other. Brutes of low intelligence, they had wept at the trial. It was painful to watch. The translator choked as he said, “She was so beautiful, so white, so fair haired, like an angel. We didn’t mean to harm her. We wanted her to be kind to us; she fought us, called us beasts. We are not beasts. We killed her. She had everything and we had nothing. We are sorry.”
The judge at the sentencing talked of the extreme punishment, an eye for an eye in this case. But he left a time for John to say whether he wanted the death sentence or life without parole. Could John take their lives as they had taken his beautiful wife’s life? He got up to speak.
THE END
:
The four words were VANILLA, POLICE, TRAIN, and FORGIVENESS. From these words comes this story entitled. Initial story took two hours. Editing and revising took longer.It may well be tweaked more.....
QUEENS NEW YORK THE EIGHTIES
One.
>
He remembered that night so well, recalled thinking that cooking could be annoying when one did not have the essential ingredients.It seemed so important to say that. He always said afterward that nothing would have happened, they would still be a happy family if he hadn't run out of vanilla that night. He was so stubborn about it. It was vanilla cookies, his speciality or nowt. His native Yorkshire came out when pressed. They had been living in New York then. Both of his children were American born. Making vanilla cookies was his contribution to the kitchen world normally reigned over by his beautiful blond wife of eighteen years. He really loved her. It was a good marriage. He called to her, “Joan, ,oh damn, there’s no vanilla. What a bore, just when I was in the mood.”
Joan had said, “Never mind, I’ll just pop down to that little bodega. Juan and Juanita are sure to have some.” Juan knew their family, one of the first white ones to move into the up and coming area of Queens. Normally Joan took the car to Fairway or even over to New Jersey to do what she called “a big shopping”. She often said however, “We should patronize the local shops; support the neighborhood businesses. It’s our duty. Juan and his wife are so nice and I get to practice my Spanish. Besides, their shop is open almost twenty-four seven. Did you know there’s a new flower shop over on Walker Street that actually has orchids on sale. It’s so great to be part of a city on the move isn’t it? Better than stodgy London, so immersed in its past.”
They had bought at the best time when the market was on the turn. The house was a single room occupancy building that had been abandoned for at least a year but was solidly built. It had a double garage and a garden with a cherry tree. It had originally been a one family home at the turn of the twentieth century. The one terrific advantage was that the house has six showers, baths and toilets so when they reconverted it; they had a room and a bath each and a couple to spare.
Joan said, “Oh darling, you’d better stick to banking. I’ll be in charge in the kitchen. But don’t worry this time I’ll nip down to the shop.”
She put on a coat, kissed him lightly on the cheek. He remembered her perfume. It was 8.30 in the evening.
Two.
Their son Alexander recalled,“Dad continued mixing the other ingredients so they would be ready by the time Mom returned. He also opened a good bottle of cabernet sauvignon from California and had put the oven on low so that when she returned he could slosh in the vanilla and bake the cookies. He hoped to make about four dozen. It was only after finishing the first glass of wine that he called out to his son Bob, “What time did mum leave?”
“Around 8.30 I think, Dad. Don’t worry she’s only a few minutes late and the shop’s only at the end of the block. I bet she ran into someone she knew and has been gossiping. You know how she loves to talk recipes and homemaking.”
“Yes, but still,” his dad replied.
They were both startled by a loud ring of the front door bell.
“Who can that be? It’s rather late for visitors. Go upstairs, you two.” He looked at his two children. They obeyed him.
Although they felt safe in the neighborhood there had been one or two incidents in the past and so they had a drill ready in case anything unusual happened.
Picking up a large baseball bat he kept by the door, he saw through the frosted glass panel two figures standing there. The door has been one of the clinchers when they bought the house. It had a handsome stained glass transom which they loved. Cautiously he opened the door.
Two policemen stood there.
Three.
“Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes. Is everything alright?”
“Oh yes, Sir, we think so. It’s just that we found this wallet by the bodega down the road. It appears to belong to a Mrs. Joan Henderson at this address.”
“It’s my wife’s”
“Is she in, Sir?”
“Well no, she just went down to the shop around 8.30. To buy some vanilla, “ he added.
“Vanilla?”
“Well, yes, I’m baking cookies and we’d run out. Where is my wife?”
Well, that’s it, Sir. We don’t know. We know she was walking in that direction because we had a plain-clothes car down there watching the comings and goings at the bodega. There have been a few reports of suspicious activity and a neighborhood watch committee suggested to us that we might keep an eye on things. You haven’t heard about it?”
“Well, no. I’ve been away in London for a month on business and we could not attend the last meeting. Did you see anything suspicious? I assume my wife went to the shop.”
“We think she did, Sir. We noted her approach. She’s rather striking, Sir, being blonde. Our line of vision diagonally across the road from the shop was suddenly obstructed by a large gray van that drew up in front of the bodega cutting off our view. It’s not unusual as trucks do stop there for refreshments. The owners cater to truck drivers. The van drew up so we didn’t actually see her go into the shop. Our walkie talkie buzzed at that moment with a call about a train accident but others were dealing with it. When we looked again, the van had gone.
Now, you’re sure your wife did not return unbeknownst to you? Do you have a back door here? I see you are enjoying a bottle of wine and isn’t the house rather warm? Is the oven still on?”
John had stammered, “Yes, yes, sorry, I’ll turn it off. Look, what are you saying/. Where is my wife? She can’t just have disappeared. That’s impossible”
Officers Del Flores and Holmes said, “we are mystified too, Sir. We went into the shop just to check up on things. Juan and his wife had not seen a woman for about an hour or so. The last customer, who was just there had ordered two cokes to go. They had not seen him before. However they would recognize him if they saw him again.Juan and his wife had been in the back and apart from serving the van driver, there had been few customers that evening, it being rather cold. They did hear the driver’s companion shout out in a loud accented voice for him to hurry up. When we came out we spotted the wallet in the gutter.”
Four.
If only he’d had some vanilla that night, their lives would be the same as they were before. Now here he was faced with an eternal dilemma. Should we forgive those who have trespassed against us?
Or should we exact a tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye? John had pondered this question repeatedly after the verdict of guilty on all counts came in. The trial was not long as the evidence was overwhelming. The men were guilty through and through of murder in the first degree. The press had had a field day. Xenophobic feeling ran high. There was keen interest in the day appointed for the sentencing.
The two men who were driving the stolen van were illegal immigrants. The big burly one Stefan Kostas, had accosted Joan as she was by the shop. She was startled but smiled at him, thinking well of him as she always thought well of everyone. He had grabbed her and knocked her to the ground. She dropped her wallet that fell away from her. He had not noticed. She cried out but he struck her again and she fell against a piece of metal, the jagged end of a vandalized bus stop sign, stunning her and causing her head to bleed profusely. She passed out. This was deduced by the autopsy report. There was no noise as it all happened so quickly. The man panicked, picked her up and threw her in the van. The sliding door opened on the side by the shop so nothing could be seen. He shouted out to his companion to hurry up and they drove off. He did not tell his friend until they were on a secluded stretch of road by a wood. They took her out, found she was still breathing and proceeded to rape and kill her in cold blood. They hacked off her finger to get at her wedding ring and engagement rings they sold for $150.00. The rings were worth at least three thousand dollars. They left her mutilated body in a wood, climbed back into the van, bought alcohol, got drunk and passed out. A passing police car found them, checked out the number, noted it was stolen and arrested the two befuddled men. Their clothes were stained with blood. The men were amateur, stupid, had little or no education and spoke little English. One was married but had left his wife and two children. They were incompetent and inept. They were beyond the pale. They had broken the rules of society. They had got their stories muddled and one has blamed the other. Brutes of low intelligence, they had wept at the trial. It was painful to watch. The translator choked as he said, “She was so beautiful, so white, so fair haired, like an angel. We didn’t mean to harm her. We wanted her to be kind to us; she fought us, called us beasts. We are not beasts. We killed her. She had everything and we had nothing. We are sorry.”
The judge at the sentencing talked of the extreme punishment, an eye for an eye in this case. But he left a time for John to say whether he wanted the death sentence or life without parole. Could John take their lives as they had taken his beautiful wife’s life? He got up to speak.
THE END
:
Monday, February 8, 2010
THREE FIFTY
Copyright. George Holmes. revised 2.8.10
Should I remain mum,
Button the lip?
Let the matter slide,
Say zip?
Give into rage?
Fear what he'd say?
Or should I speak up
And say, "Look, hey"
Does it really matter?
Loew's won't go bust
Losing three fifty
Though he lost my trust.
It happened once before.
I should have asked why.
Maybe he doesn't think
Nor use ear nor eye.
I should have got it then
When he didn't call or stop by.
I know the expression
Once bitten twice shy.
I was too polite.
I know it now, too late
To alter the course of inexorable fate.
I suppose to some it's clever
But can it really be that nifty
Pretending to be a senior
And saving three fifty?
The movie was THE HOURS.
He rattled on and on
I tried to get a word in
That was a bomb.
You'd think he'd write or call again
One buzz would be enough
A minimum gesture to come up to snuff,
To satisfy the ego, the conscience and the mind,
Then leave unpleasant people like me behind.
To clean the slate anew, one but rubs it with a sleeve
And all the awkward 'noyances just take their leave.
But we're left with a gap, a sad unspoken feeling.
Should we meet again, we'll talk without meaning,
Skate the surface, smile the smile, economize, be thrifty
But you know we'll both be thinking of the saving of three fifty.
Should I remain mum,
Button the lip?
Let the matter slide,
Say zip?
Give into rage?
Fear what he'd say?
Or should I speak up
And say, "Look, hey"
Does it really matter?
Loew's won't go bust
Losing three fifty
Though he lost my trust.
It happened once before.
I should have asked why.
Maybe he doesn't think
Nor use ear nor eye.
I should have got it then
When he didn't call or stop by.
I know the expression
Once bitten twice shy.
I was too polite.
I know it now, too late
To alter the course of inexorable fate.
I suppose to some it's clever
But can it really be that nifty
Pretending to be a senior
And saving three fifty?
The movie was THE HOURS.
He rattled on and on
I tried to get a word in
That was a bomb.
You'd think he'd write or call again
One buzz would be enough
A minimum gesture to come up to snuff,
To satisfy the ego, the conscience and the mind,
Then leave unpleasant people like me behind.
To clean the slate anew, one but rubs it with a sleeve
And all the awkward 'noyances just take their leave.
But we're left with a gap, a sad unspoken feeling.
Should we meet again, we'll talk without meaning,
Skate the surface, smile the smile, economize, be thrifty
But you know we'll both be thinking of the saving of three fifty.
HUMPTY DUMPTY
HUMPTY DUMPTY
By George Holmes (copyright)
At school we had a boy named Harrison. We were always called by our last names. I don’t know his first name but Harrison was fat, jolly, round in face and vivacious. We dubbed him Egg. Of course in the school play of ALICE IN WONDERLAND (where I played Alice-it was all boys), Egg was Humpty Dumpty and his fall off the wall was so convincing and realistic that the audience composed of his fellow students, already somewhat delirious at being able to miss lessons, persuaded Egg to do the fall twice.
The next year he was in charge of his house’s play. We had four houses at our school. I was in Walpole (as in Horace, a local) and we did THE MONKEY’S PAW by W.W. Jacobs. It was considered a success. Egg of Garrick house (as in David, also a local) was director, producer and chief actor in a drama THE MILK BOTTLE involving a crucial scene where the Inspector (Egg) solved the crime by finding a note sticking out of a milk bottle on the table on the stage. Unfortunately, the note somehow or other got pushed inside the bottle. My friend Rowse who was in the play with Egg said that Egg whispered to him out of the corner of his mouth: carry on as if nothing has happened. This proved difficult to do as the unraveling of the story involved reading the note. So the denouement was somewhat confusing to the audience as he tried to read the rolled up note inside the milk bottle, rather like a gypsy reading her crystal ball. The audience by this time was helpless with laughter, the noise of which was augmented by a fireplace pinned somewhat carelessly on to a curtain on stage left, falling down face forward on to the stage with a resounding crash. Egg’s house won the competition for the funniest drama ever seen and Egg was given a silver cup, not an eggcup I hasten to add.
Since that time Egg has become a famous politician, made even more celebrated by his marriage to Sadie Lavere, the movie actress. He often reminisces about his theatrical debut and credits it with giving him confidence in public speaking, (not to mention in public deception but I don’t say that). He’s a good egg..
Sunday, July 12, 2009
By George Holmes (copyright)
At school we had a boy named Harrison. We were always called by our last names. I don’t know his first name but Harrison was fat, jolly, round in face and vivacious. We dubbed him Egg. Of course in the school play of ALICE IN WONDERLAND (where I played Alice-it was all boys), Egg was Humpty Dumpty and his fall off the wall was so convincing and realistic that the audience composed of his fellow students, already somewhat delirious at being able to miss lessons, persuaded Egg to do the fall twice.
The next year he was in charge of his house’s play. We had four houses at our school. I was in Walpole (as in Horace, a local) and we did THE MONKEY’S PAW by W.W. Jacobs. It was considered a success. Egg of Garrick house (as in David, also a local) was director, producer and chief actor in a drama THE MILK BOTTLE involving a crucial scene where the Inspector (Egg) solved the crime by finding a note sticking out of a milk bottle on the table on the stage. Unfortunately, the note somehow or other got pushed inside the bottle. My friend Rowse who was in the play with Egg said that Egg whispered to him out of the corner of his mouth: carry on as if nothing has happened. This proved difficult to do as the unraveling of the story involved reading the note. So the denouement was somewhat confusing to the audience as he tried to read the rolled up note inside the milk bottle, rather like a gypsy reading her crystal ball. The audience by this time was helpless with laughter, the noise of which was augmented by a fireplace pinned somewhat carelessly on to a curtain on stage left, falling down face forward on to the stage with a resounding crash. Egg’s house won the competition for the funniest drama ever seen and Egg was given a silver cup, not an eggcup I hasten to add.
Since that time Egg has become a famous politician, made even more celebrated by his marriage to Sadie Lavere, the movie actress. He often reminisces about his theatrical debut and credits it with giving him confidence in public speaking, (not to mention in public deception but I don’t say that). He’s a good egg..
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Sunday, January 31, 2010
SUZANNE SOMERS
The word was THERAPY. From this emerged:
Copyright (FROM 10/21/09). SUZANNE SOMERS revised….
“I really think you ought to see a therapist, Gerald.”
Surveying her husband of twenty-two years, Flora sat back, sipping her Dubonnet and gin, which she claimed was the favorite tipple of HM.
“You can see what Dr. Van Krakauer did for me, darling. I was totally unaware that I had lesbian tendencies until Klaus (we are on familiar terms) winkled them out of me in a deep hypnosis session. He did wonders, making me see that my admiration for female movie stars was all right. Once I gave myself permission I went ahead with the club. In fact, although of course she does not know it, my motivation for starting the Suzanne Somers fan club and you know how successful that has been, was that I was drawn to Suzanne because I am lesbian. I don’t mean she is of course, I don’t mean that. It’s just that I am drawn to her and so I started the club.”
Gerald looked at her over his glasses. “You know I love you Flora but sometimes you are a very credulous person. The fact is we are a happy, heterosexual couple. You know that the success of our marriage has stemmed from the fact that neither of us has objected to spreading our wings if need be, if I may put it like that. However that does not mean that I have to go to Dr. Van Krakauer or anyone else. We’ve have a good marriage don't we? But since we’re on the subject, I too rather like Suzannne Somers. You don’t have to be Sherlock to guess why. Yes, right. They are large, aren’t they? She’s a lucky gal and I’m a lucky man.” He laughed provocatively at his full bosomed wife.
Flora however was not to be diverted though of course she automatically drew herself up in her new clinging angora sweater. Wow, thought Gerald, Pavlov’s dog.
Primly she said,
“Gerald, you are a prime candidate for therapy. However and I state this categorically, I cannot have you muscling in on my terrain. Suzanne Somers is off–limits. Do we understand each other?”
“ No problem, Flora dear! However I am just pointing I am a red-blooded man still in his prime at fifty and I think Suzanne would approve.” He puffed out his chest. “All right, all right, that’s the last time I mention her to you.” He smirked. “Anyway what about a refill? I bet HM occasionally has the other half.”
“Now remember,” said Gerald. “Don’t say anything about Mr. Hudson’s job. We don't want to cast a pall," he chuckled. Flora looked pained. “I shall not say anything at all. I shall be mute.”
“Well, that may be a first.”
“Oh shut up. By the way, what is Mr. Hudson’s job?”
“He’s an undertaker.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me.”
Arriving at the party they found the house a blaze of light. At the door the host Radcliffe Henderson who was in corporate law and made a packet, was there greeting the guests with his new trophy wife Euphemia from Istanbul who had been, it was said, a belly dancer in a nightclub when Radcliffe was there as consultant to a high priced antiquities Turkish firm. Gerald noted the rather penetrating look Flora gave Euphemia as she priced out her couture gown. He also noted that Euphemia pressed his hand for a fraction more than was usual. Probably a foreign thing he thought.
They moved into the party, which was spread over several rooms. Waiters proffered glasses of champagne. Smiling at the euphoria it induced Flora quickly downed one. Gerald whispered, “Don’t overdo it, Flora!” She pulled away from him. “Oh, for God’s sake, it’s a party, Gerald.” She went into the conservatory.
Gerald shrugged and turned into the dining room where he saw Hudson chatting to Radcliffe who’d obviously given up his greeting duties. Hudson, who was expounding on the funeral business, was tall, with a pale ascetic face. Goes with the job Gerald thought. Not easy to be suitably sad all the time..
”Oh yes, it’s big business,’ he was saying to Radcliffe who had turned to Gerald as he approached. “How’s the newspaper business, Gerald? Busy as usual I suppose?”
Sipping his scotch and soda, Gerald looked around at the spacious room which opened up on to the hallway. Suddenly he caught sight of Flora going up the stairs with Euphemia. Radcliffe noted it too, and laughed. “Oh gone upstairs for some girl talk I expect. You should see Euphemia’s boudoir.”
Gerald smiled a little nervously. He wishes Flora was not quite so open about her new tendencies. He liked things to be normal. He asked rather irrelevantly,
“How are the children, Radcliffe?
“Doing well. They live with Madge, my ex but we’re all friendly. They love Euphemia. She has a way with her doesn’t she?” He gave a rather knowing chuckle. Gerald and Hudson smiled politely. Boy, thought Gerald, what would Flora’s shrink make of all this. They had some food and mingled in the dining room Gerald wondered where on earth Flora was and moreover where was their hostess, the sultry Euphemia. He had not forgotten the lingering handshake or the musky perfume. Suddenly Hudson said,
“I’d better find Dolores. We’re on tomorrow. Five cremations. It’s the thing nowadays. Much tidier don’t you think? Dolores does all the details. A real partner in the death business! My first wife was a dead loss.” Radcliffe laughed. Gerald thought there was a similarity between lawyers and undertakers. Both knew where the bodies were buried. Radcliffe sent a maid upstairs to find Euphemia to tell her that some of her guests were leaving. In the hall, Hudson and Dolores were putting on their coats. Suddenly there was a cry from the top of the stairs. All eyes swept upwards to a radiant Euphemia who was descending in more perfume and talking simultaneously
“Darlings” she cried to Hudson and Dolores, “I am so happy you were able to come.” Gerald heard Euphemia whisper to Dolores, “We must have a get together, just us, for some girl talk.” And then turned her full attention to Hudson, “I want to hear all about your profession. We never know when we might need you.” She smiled enigmatically. “Well, I know how it is. We love parties, don’t we, Radcliffe?” Radcliffe beamed. She’s made sure of him Gerald thought but then caught his breath for behind Euphemia he saw Flora, her hair slightly mussed, her color high, and her smile exuding a shining as if she had received an annunciation. He had not seen her like this for years.
Her coat lightly slung over her shoulders she took his arm saying, “Let’s go home, I’ve something to say.” She smiled coquettishly.
Reaching home she said, “Get me a night cap will you, Gerald darling.”
He poured her a double. He thought it might be a good night.
“I’ve made a decision.”
He looked at her. “Yes?”
She beamed at him. "Because I love you I am giving you Suzanne Somers.”
For the first time in his life, Gerald felt out of his depth. Maybe a visit or two to Dr. Krakauer might not go amiss.
Copyright (FROM 10/21/09). SUZANNE SOMERS revised….
“I really think you ought to see a therapist, Gerald.”
Surveying her husband of twenty-two years, Flora sat back, sipping her Dubonnet and gin, which she claimed was the favorite tipple of HM.
“You can see what Dr. Van Krakauer did for me, darling. I was totally unaware that I had lesbian tendencies until Klaus (we are on familiar terms) winkled them out of me in a deep hypnosis session. He did wonders, making me see that my admiration for female movie stars was all right. Once I gave myself permission I went ahead with the club. In fact, although of course she does not know it, my motivation for starting the Suzanne Somers fan club and you know how successful that has been, was that I was drawn to Suzanne because I am lesbian. I don’t mean she is of course, I don’t mean that. It’s just that I am drawn to her and so I started the club.”
Gerald looked at her over his glasses. “You know I love you Flora but sometimes you are a very credulous person. The fact is we are a happy, heterosexual couple. You know that the success of our marriage has stemmed from the fact that neither of us has objected to spreading our wings if need be, if I may put it like that. However that does not mean that I have to go to Dr. Van Krakauer or anyone else. We’ve have a good marriage don't we? But since we’re on the subject, I too rather like Suzannne Somers. You don’t have to be Sherlock to guess why. Yes, right. They are large, aren’t they? She’s a lucky gal and I’m a lucky man.” He laughed provocatively at his full bosomed wife.
Flora however was not to be diverted though of course she automatically drew herself up in her new clinging angora sweater. Wow, thought Gerald, Pavlov’s dog.
Primly she said,
“Gerald, you are a prime candidate for therapy. However and I state this categorically, I cannot have you muscling in on my terrain. Suzanne Somers is off–limits. Do we understand each other?”
“ No problem, Flora dear! However I am just pointing I am a red-blooded man still in his prime at fifty and I think Suzanne would approve.” He puffed out his chest. “All right, all right, that’s the last time I mention her to you.” He smirked. “Anyway what about a refill? I bet HM occasionally has the other half.”
“Now remember,” said Gerald. “Don’t say anything about Mr. Hudson’s job. We don't want to cast a pall," he chuckled. Flora looked pained. “I shall not say anything at all. I shall be mute.”
“Well, that may be a first.”
“Oh shut up. By the way, what is Mr. Hudson’s job?”
“He’s an undertaker.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me.”
Arriving at the party they found the house a blaze of light. At the door the host Radcliffe Henderson who was in corporate law and made a packet, was there greeting the guests with his new trophy wife Euphemia from Istanbul who had been, it was said, a belly dancer in a nightclub when Radcliffe was there as consultant to a high priced antiquities Turkish firm. Gerald noted the rather penetrating look Flora gave Euphemia as she priced out her couture gown. He also noted that Euphemia pressed his hand for a fraction more than was usual. Probably a foreign thing he thought.
They moved into the party, which was spread over several rooms. Waiters proffered glasses of champagne. Smiling at the euphoria it induced Flora quickly downed one. Gerald whispered, “Don’t overdo it, Flora!” She pulled away from him. “Oh, for God’s sake, it’s a party, Gerald.” She went into the conservatory.
Gerald shrugged and turned into the dining room where he saw Hudson chatting to Radcliffe who’d obviously given up his greeting duties. Hudson, who was expounding on the funeral business, was tall, with a pale ascetic face. Goes with the job Gerald thought. Not easy to be suitably sad all the time..
”Oh yes, it’s big business,’ he was saying to Radcliffe who had turned to Gerald as he approached. “How’s the newspaper business, Gerald? Busy as usual I suppose?”
Sipping his scotch and soda, Gerald looked around at the spacious room which opened up on to the hallway. Suddenly he caught sight of Flora going up the stairs with Euphemia. Radcliffe noted it too, and laughed. “Oh gone upstairs for some girl talk I expect. You should see Euphemia’s boudoir.”
Gerald smiled a little nervously. He wishes Flora was not quite so open about her new tendencies. He liked things to be normal. He asked rather irrelevantly,
“How are the children, Radcliffe?
“Doing well. They live with Madge, my ex but we’re all friendly. They love Euphemia. She has a way with her doesn’t she?” He gave a rather knowing chuckle. Gerald and Hudson smiled politely. Boy, thought Gerald, what would Flora’s shrink make of all this. They had some food and mingled in the dining room Gerald wondered where on earth Flora was and moreover where was their hostess, the sultry Euphemia. He had not forgotten the lingering handshake or the musky perfume. Suddenly Hudson said,
“I’d better find Dolores. We’re on tomorrow. Five cremations. It’s the thing nowadays. Much tidier don’t you think? Dolores does all the details. A real partner in the death business! My first wife was a dead loss.” Radcliffe laughed. Gerald thought there was a similarity between lawyers and undertakers. Both knew where the bodies were buried. Radcliffe sent a maid upstairs to find Euphemia to tell her that some of her guests were leaving. In the hall, Hudson and Dolores were putting on their coats. Suddenly there was a cry from the top of the stairs. All eyes swept upwards to a radiant Euphemia who was descending in more perfume and talking simultaneously
“Darlings” she cried to Hudson and Dolores, “I am so happy you were able to come.” Gerald heard Euphemia whisper to Dolores, “We must have a get together, just us, for some girl talk.” And then turned her full attention to Hudson, “I want to hear all about your profession. We never know when we might need you.” She smiled enigmatically. “Well, I know how it is. We love parties, don’t we, Radcliffe?” Radcliffe beamed. She’s made sure of him Gerald thought but then caught his breath for behind Euphemia he saw Flora, her hair slightly mussed, her color high, and her smile exuding a shining as if she had received an annunciation. He had not seen her like this for years.
Her coat lightly slung over her shoulders she took his arm saying, “Let’s go home, I’ve something to say.” She smiled coquettishly.
Reaching home she said, “Get me a night cap will you, Gerald darling.”
He poured her a double. He thought it might be a good night.
“I’ve made a decision.”
He looked at her. “Yes?”
She beamed at him. "Because I love you I am giving you Suzanne Somers.”
For the first time in his life, Gerald felt out of his depth. Maybe a visit or two to Dr. Krakauer might not go amiss.
GIRALDUS of Wales
Giraldus
New York City, United States
Named after Giraldus Cambrensis (c1146-c1223), Gerald de Barri, Gerald of Wales, author of 16 books and one of the first travel writers
New York City, United States
Named after Giraldus Cambrensis (c1146-c1223), Gerald de Barri, Gerald of Wales, author of 16 books and one of the first travel writers
ENTER RUMOR FULL OF TONGUES
COPYRIGHT (FROM THIS AND THAT BLOG)
ENTER RUMOR.....
“She’s been in clover ever since Valentino’s birthday bash in Rome. That’s where she met Massimo and it turns out he’s a prince. Of course princes are a dime a dozen in Italy but nonetheless she was impressed. She told me, ‘we are in luv’. Well, the way she said it! I thought one word: disaster. He is handsome, I admit. Well-,” she paused “-formed”. Her look told all.
“ He has that sort of hair that Italians have: dark, wavy, framing his even face, always groomed. Why we English can’t manage that I don’t know. Our Anglo Saxon genes probably make our hair grow in tufts and clumps, all coiffed by Mrs. Squeers. Anyway as I said, Daphne is in clover about it and has been for months.” Miriam paused. I looked at her. ‘Well,” I said. What happened?”
She looked smug, “You may well ask. My dear, and this is between thee and me. He has been married three times and two of the wives disappeared in suspicious circumstances.”
“You’re making this up.” I said.
“Yes” she grinned, “I am but it could be true, couldn’t it?”
She smirked at me. We don’t need words, Miriam and I.
I rushed to post a blog: ‘Heard on the grapevine’. Oh, I do like meddling. No one ever knows it’s me. My blog name “Enter Rumor full of Tongues” is very popular. Such a hoot when someone tells me confidentially something I wrote.
Well, what else have I to do? It passes the time. Anyway I hate Daphne.
THE END
ENTER RUMOR.....
“She’s been in clover ever since Valentino’s birthday bash in Rome. That’s where she met Massimo and it turns out he’s a prince. Of course princes are a dime a dozen in Italy but nonetheless she was impressed. She told me, ‘we are in luv’. Well, the way she said it! I thought one word: disaster. He is handsome, I admit. Well-,” she paused “-formed”. Her look told all.
“ He has that sort of hair that Italians have: dark, wavy, framing his even face, always groomed. Why we English can’t manage that I don’t know. Our Anglo Saxon genes probably make our hair grow in tufts and clumps, all coiffed by Mrs. Squeers. Anyway as I said, Daphne is in clover about it and has been for months.” Miriam paused. I looked at her. ‘Well,” I said. What happened?”
She looked smug, “You may well ask. My dear, and this is between thee and me. He has been married three times and two of the wives disappeared in suspicious circumstances.”
“You’re making this up.” I said.
“Yes” she grinned, “I am but it could be true, couldn’t it?”
She smirked at me. We don’t need words, Miriam and I.
I rushed to post a blog: ‘Heard on the grapevine’. Oh, I do like meddling. No one ever knows it’s me. My blog name “Enter Rumor full of Tongues” is very popular. Such a hoot when someone tells me confidentially something I wrote.
Well, what else have I to do? It passes the time. Anyway I hate Daphne.
THE END
Monday, January 25, 2010
TELLING STORIES
Copyright.Writing experiment 1/20/10: Words suggested one after the other were AUTISM; JOBS; SHOWER; LOVE
“Do you know what Bill said about me, that guy with just a little learning which in his case is a dangerous thing? He said I was a prime candidate to be classified as autistic. He’s been reading about it! Or Asperger’s syndrome he added. He cited as examples my constant moving, my fanaticism about having details right, my going from subject to subject, my hopping and flitting he said. I just sat back knowing he was a windbag who eventually like bagpipes would run out of steam. He then said I had St.Vitus’ dance, a malady involving twitching. He didn’t think I knew about St.Vitus, a poor Christian child martyr killed under Diocletian in the late third or early fourth century. The technical name for the illness is chorea. It was thought that by praying to the child saint the illness would be cured. I suppose he must have twitched a lot during his martyrdom. Do you know what I said? I said Bollocks.”
Gordon was looking wonderingly at Jonathan who today seemed more than usually over-excited in their twelve years together. In mid-flight in his excitement, Jonathan continued. Gordon laughed. “ Was he cute?”
Jonathan paused frowningly. “Who?
“St. Vitus.”
Jonathan looked severe. “Don’t be frivolous about the saints. You never know when you might need them.”
“Sorry.” Gordon looked contrite but inside he was laughing. That’s why he loved Jonathan. He made him laugh. There should be more people like that. Life was not dull with Jonathan. He was a source of endless stories. Scherazade would have envied his capacity.
Jonathan continued; he had not been put off his stride.
“I told Bill as grandly as I could and you know how grand I can be, that I was aware of my condition, that I was quite happy about it and hoped that he would stop being my unpaid therapist as I did not need it.
However since then I have been thinking about what he said and I realize that I could have really spooked him after some recent experiences. I have come to the conclusion and listen carefully: I am a magnet for death.”
Gordon who as Mrs. Lovett said of Sweeney Todd liked a good story, sat mouth agape” “Death, “ he uttered, “What can you mean?”
“I’ll explain. I swept away from Bill and you know I can sweep and descended to the gym weight room, relieved to be away from his nosy eyes, if eyes can be nosy.
Apart from the occasional masculine grunt from budding Arnolds, who should be seeking jobs, the weight room is usually quiet. I was trying out unsuccessfully the new chest machine that has two semi-circular handles lying behind one. I got hold of one but the other eluded me until I felt it pushed into my flailing fist.
The person responsible for this assistance was a guy I had seen before at the gym and truth to tell, and this is to go no further, we had a little play around in the steam room some months ago. Like St. Augustine I do want to be chaste but not yet. Nothing much. Just an amusing dillydally, my dear. It never goes beyond that.”
Gordon tutted but smiled.
“Oh well you know, a young man’s fancy…..
Now this guy is different from the other either silent or too loud macho dummies. He has a direct, confident quality about him. Moreover his appearance is unusual because his angular lean face, long nose, black eyebrows and hair with a pair of gleaming eyes give him a Mephistophelean look. Striking. Good camera material. Probably SAG.
"Anyway after my workout I saw him again in the shower room. I smiled and he returned it. In the unusually full steam room I thought full house but found a seat on the far tiled bench and as I sat down, Mephistopheles plonked himself next to me. Silence reigned among the self-conscious young buffs in the pea soup steam, everyone a shadowy figure. Suddenly I feel fingers beating a light tattoo on the back of my left shoulder. It was Mephistopheles with his arm stretched out behind me. Well, I let it go on for a bit but then stood up and went outside to dry off. Mephistopheles, eyes agleam, soon emerged, as I knew he would.
I laughed and said, “I’m Jonathan.”
‘Oh hi, I’m Richard.””
“I’ve seen you before here. Do you live nearby?”
“ No, uptown but I have not been here for a couple of weeks. I’ve been lazy. You see mother died last Tuesday.”
This abrupt change in the light conversation was quite disturbing. After all he’d been drumming a tattoo on my naked shoulder a minute ago and now here we are talking of his mother, passed over at the age of 85.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “A difficult time for you.”
As I sympathized, another man overhearing our chat said, “Please accept my condolences. I sympathize. You see, my brother died two weeks ago.”
We digested this as he went off to get some water. I whispered to Richard: “His brother could not have been very old.”
When the other guy returned, I said, “How very sad for you and your family. Had he been ill for a long time?”
“He was forty-five. He suffered from years of depression. He committed suicide.”
This rather took our breath away. My mind raced. Was I in an Absurdist play? What does one say? Nothing lighthearted as that could be construed as flippant. After a small pause, I plunged in, rashly as it turned out. In the stroke of a sentence we had gone from vague erotic feelings to death. Entering the lists of this melancholy news competition, I said.
”This seems to be a bad time.” I said. “My friend Harold died last week, but he was 96.”
This did not have the desired effect. I saw right away I’d overplayed my hand in the pecking order of grief. Plus my English accent appeared suspicious. The British have the reputation for not taking serious things seriously enough. .
I left them to dress, reflecting that in the space of a couple of hours I was involved with a child martyr, two unfortunate deaths and a suicide.
Am I a magnet for these stories? Do I have the look of one who listens to gloom, attracting death? It was clinched when I ran into Gloria, gloomy at the best of times, who cornered me to say lugubriously she’d lost her grandmother to dementia. There was no riposte to that. Gloria doesn’t like competition when it comes to bad news.
I could put a major spoke in Bill’s wheel next time, but I fear he would feel I am a candidate for a revised Kraft-Ebbing edition: a real bag of nerves. What Bill doesn’t know is that actually I have nerves of steel. After all, I survived the blitz; as a student working in a hospital morgue I handed bodies over to the morticians and once had to burn an amputated leg. Oh. I forgot. I said to Mephistopheles emerging into the changing room to get a drink of water we should have a coffee. Sometime. “Yes, “ he said.
“I’ll give you my card”
“Do,” he said over his shoulder as he sallied back into the steam room. My remark was not too clever as he was wearing nothing. Where would he put the card? Conceal it in some orifice? I didn’t say that. But I could see that Richard was more intent on the momentary pleasures of the flesh, preferring Mr. Right now as opposed to Mr. Right, his dead mum quite out of the picture.”
Later on I continued my cogitations. Amidst all these things, sex in the shower, death in the steam room (sounds like a detective novel), St Vitus, St. Augustine, I thought there’s not one ounce of love in all this. Sad really. Nothing. Just the moment. The poor suicide, my old friend who finally kicked the bucket, Richard’s mum, did they have any love? Will Mephistophelean Richard, plunging back into the steamy soup for a quick grope, his five-day dead mum forgotten, will he find a gram of love?
No of course not. And why? Well, love doesn’t exist. I’ve not seen it. Infatuation, yes. Experienced that myself usually with people not entranced by me. Maybe better an ounce of pleasure than an age of regret and nothing. You can’t buy love as Vicki Carr once said but you can sure rent it for while. Gather ye rosebuds as Ronsard told us. Don’t forget, Gordon, I am a magnet for death. But, my dear friend, not yours or mine. Oh Gordon, how wonderful you are to listen to my nonsense. I have a secret to tell you. I love you, despite this public persona. Let’s have a toast to life and give death a run for his money.”
Gordon laughed loudly.
“Did you like that story?”
“Oh yes," said Gordon.
"Even if it isn’t true?”
"It’s true if you tell it.”
Jonathan smiled complacently. "I'll write it up for ROOM TO WRITE. Wait till tomorrow though. I’ve got another one about a naughty vicar.” He laughed.
THE END
“Do you know what Bill said about me, that guy with just a little learning which in his case is a dangerous thing? He said I was a prime candidate to be classified as autistic. He’s been reading about it! Or Asperger’s syndrome he added. He cited as examples my constant moving, my fanaticism about having details right, my going from subject to subject, my hopping and flitting he said. I just sat back knowing he was a windbag who eventually like bagpipes would run out of steam. He then said I had St.Vitus’ dance, a malady involving twitching. He didn’t think I knew about St.Vitus, a poor Christian child martyr killed under Diocletian in the late third or early fourth century. The technical name for the illness is chorea. It was thought that by praying to the child saint the illness would be cured. I suppose he must have twitched a lot during his martyrdom. Do you know what I said? I said Bollocks.”
Gordon was looking wonderingly at Jonathan who today seemed more than usually over-excited in their twelve years together. In mid-flight in his excitement, Jonathan continued. Gordon laughed. “ Was he cute?”
Jonathan paused frowningly. “Who?
“St. Vitus.”
Jonathan looked severe. “Don’t be frivolous about the saints. You never know when you might need them.”
“Sorry.” Gordon looked contrite but inside he was laughing. That’s why he loved Jonathan. He made him laugh. There should be more people like that. Life was not dull with Jonathan. He was a source of endless stories. Scherazade would have envied his capacity.
Jonathan continued; he had not been put off his stride.
“I told Bill as grandly as I could and you know how grand I can be, that I was aware of my condition, that I was quite happy about it and hoped that he would stop being my unpaid therapist as I did not need it.
However since then I have been thinking about what he said and I realize that I could have really spooked him after some recent experiences. I have come to the conclusion and listen carefully: I am a magnet for death.”
Gordon who as Mrs. Lovett said of Sweeney Todd liked a good story, sat mouth agape” “Death, “ he uttered, “What can you mean?”
“I’ll explain. I swept away from Bill and you know I can sweep and descended to the gym weight room, relieved to be away from his nosy eyes, if eyes can be nosy.
Apart from the occasional masculine grunt from budding Arnolds, who should be seeking jobs, the weight room is usually quiet. I was trying out unsuccessfully the new chest machine that has two semi-circular handles lying behind one. I got hold of one but the other eluded me until I felt it pushed into my flailing fist.
The person responsible for this assistance was a guy I had seen before at the gym and truth to tell, and this is to go no further, we had a little play around in the steam room some months ago. Like St. Augustine I do want to be chaste but not yet. Nothing much. Just an amusing dillydally, my dear. It never goes beyond that.”
Gordon tutted but smiled.
“Oh well you know, a young man’s fancy…..
Now this guy is different from the other either silent or too loud macho dummies. He has a direct, confident quality about him. Moreover his appearance is unusual because his angular lean face, long nose, black eyebrows and hair with a pair of gleaming eyes give him a Mephistophelean look. Striking. Good camera material. Probably SAG.
"Anyway after my workout I saw him again in the shower room. I smiled and he returned it. In the unusually full steam room I thought full house but found a seat on the far tiled bench and as I sat down, Mephistopheles plonked himself next to me. Silence reigned among the self-conscious young buffs in the pea soup steam, everyone a shadowy figure. Suddenly I feel fingers beating a light tattoo on the back of my left shoulder. It was Mephistopheles with his arm stretched out behind me. Well, I let it go on for a bit but then stood up and went outside to dry off. Mephistopheles, eyes agleam, soon emerged, as I knew he would.
I laughed and said, “I’m Jonathan.”
‘Oh hi, I’m Richard.””
“I’ve seen you before here. Do you live nearby?”
“ No, uptown but I have not been here for a couple of weeks. I’ve been lazy. You see mother died last Tuesday.”
This abrupt change in the light conversation was quite disturbing. After all he’d been drumming a tattoo on my naked shoulder a minute ago and now here we are talking of his mother, passed over at the age of 85.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “A difficult time for you.”
As I sympathized, another man overhearing our chat said, “Please accept my condolences. I sympathize. You see, my brother died two weeks ago.”
We digested this as he went off to get some water. I whispered to Richard: “His brother could not have been very old.”
When the other guy returned, I said, “How very sad for you and your family. Had he been ill for a long time?”
“He was forty-five. He suffered from years of depression. He committed suicide.”
This rather took our breath away. My mind raced. Was I in an Absurdist play? What does one say? Nothing lighthearted as that could be construed as flippant. After a small pause, I plunged in, rashly as it turned out. In the stroke of a sentence we had gone from vague erotic feelings to death. Entering the lists of this melancholy news competition, I said.
”This seems to be a bad time.” I said. “My friend Harold died last week, but he was 96.”
This did not have the desired effect. I saw right away I’d overplayed my hand in the pecking order of grief. Plus my English accent appeared suspicious. The British have the reputation for not taking serious things seriously enough. .
I left them to dress, reflecting that in the space of a couple of hours I was involved with a child martyr, two unfortunate deaths and a suicide.
Am I a magnet for these stories? Do I have the look of one who listens to gloom, attracting death? It was clinched when I ran into Gloria, gloomy at the best of times, who cornered me to say lugubriously she’d lost her grandmother to dementia. There was no riposte to that. Gloria doesn’t like competition when it comes to bad news.
I could put a major spoke in Bill’s wheel next time, but I fear he would feel I am a candidate for a revised Kraft-Ebbing edition: a real bag of nerves. What Bill doesn’t know is that actually I have nerves of steel. After all, I survived the blitz; as a student working in a hospital morgue I handed bodies over to the morticians and once had to burn an amputated leg. Oh. I forgot. I said to Mephistopheles emerging into the changing room to get a drink of water we should have a coffee. Sometime. “Yes, “ he said.
“I’ll give you my card”
“Do,” he said over his shoulder as he sallied back into the steam room. My remark was not too clever as he was wearing nothing. Where would he put the card? Conceal it in some orifice? I didn’t say that. But I could see that Richard was more intent on the momentary pleasures of the flesh, preferring Mr. Right now as opposed to Mr. Right, his dead mum quite out of the picture.”
Later on I continued my cogitations. Amidst all these things, sex in the shower, death in the steam room (sounds like a detective novel), St Vitus, St. Augustine, I thought there’s not one ounce of love in all this. Sad really. Nothing. Just the moment. The poor suicide, my old friend who finally kicked the bucket, Richard’s mum, did they have any love? Will Mephistophelean Richard, plunging back into the steamy soup for a quick grope, his five-day dead mum forgotten, will he find a gram of love?
No of course not. And why? Well, love doesn’t exist. I’ve not seen it. Infatuation, yes. Experienced that myself usually with people not entranced by me. Maybe better an ounce of pleasure than an age of regret and nothing. You can’t buy love as Vicki Carr once said but you can sure rent it for while. Gather ye rosebuds as Ronsard told us. Don’t forget, Gordon, I am a magnet for death. But, my dear friend, not yours or mine. Oh Gordon, how wonderful you are to listen to my nonsense. I have a secret to tell you. I love you, despite this public persona. Let’s have a toast to life and give death a run for his money.”
Gordon laughed loudly.
“Did you like that story?”
“Oh yes," said Gordon.
"Even if it isn’t true?”
"It’s true if you tell it.”
Jonathan smiled complacently. "I'll write it up for ROOM TO WRITE. Wait till tomorrow though. I’ve got another one about a naughty vicar.” He laughed.
THE END
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