Bill's Bilge

WE DANCED TO RAY CHARLES: synopsis & prologue

2010-04-13T20:52:00.000-05:00

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

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

Bayou Bill

SYNOPSIS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another friend summed up the situation this way for Mark:

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

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

==

PROLOGUE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A BRIEF AFFAIR, Chapter One, The Kiss

2010-03-17T02:36:00.000-05:00

This is chapter one of my much-revised first novel, A BRIEF AFFAIR. It's a semi-autobiographical, sort-of-a-memoir, fictionalized version of how a nice, engaged, Jewish nursing student from Queens got mixed up with a backsliding Baptist from Louisiana.

Any comments and/or suggestions would be appreciated.

==

A BRIEF AFFAIR

Chapter One
The Kiss

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

Gwen Kaplan gave her bangs one last touch. Before this summer, news about Vietnam had been little more than the background noise to her life. She cared—had worked at a student nurse run aide station during the Wall Street riots, and still wept at the weekly list of US fatalities on TV. But the war had never been personal. Now things were different. Now she knew someone who had fought over there, and been wounded.

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

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

“In local sports the Mets and Yankees both dropped Sunday double-head--.”

She turned off the radio, then got up and gave herself a last check in the long mirror her father had mounted behind the bedroom door. The short white uniform looked okay but, as usual, Gwen didn’t like anything else she saw. Despite visual evidence to the contrary, her self-image was still that of a pudgy schoolgirl with dull brown eyes, drab brown hair, and a sprinkling of freckles across an otherwise nice enough nose.

After dieting all winter, her figure was at the point where she could actually consider buying a bikini for trips to Rockaway and Jones Beach later this summer. Johnny would like that, a lot. She shook her head and glanced at the framed photo of Johnny DeAngelo. The face of her long-time boyfriend was frozen in a self-conscious smirk.

Of course, she’d end up with a more modest two-piece. That still marked a vast improvement over the dowdy, one-piece suits she’d always worn. But no matter how she might really look, what she saw in the mirror never seemed to improve. She sighed, grabbed her purse and suitcase, and headed for the living room.

“So you’re going to miss your cousin Sammy’s party this Wednesday, am I right, and not come home until Friday?” The sound of her mother’s hectoring voice made Gwen cringe.

They had fought all weekend about her decision to skip the bar mitzvah of a particularly unappealing cousin. Gwen felt a little guilty about not going. But staying away from her mother all week was too tempting. “That’s right, Mom. But I’ll call tonight from the dorm.” Not wanting to give her mother a chance to re-start the hostilities, she gave her a quick kiss and then hurried out the apartment.

It was a beautiful, almost balmy Monday morning in the borough of Queens. Birds were singing in leafy oak trees. Spring flowers bloomed in well-kept beds. Clean looking clouds floated in a blue sky lacking the usual load of pollution.

Mrs. Esther Katz and Mrs. Irene Goldman were in their accustomed spots on the front stoop. Deep into one of their non-stop morning dialogues, they appeared oblivious to all these marvels of urban nature. But when Gwen came out the front door, they smiled and interrupted their conversation.

"Morning, doll. Hi ya doing?" asked Mrs. Katz, who had known the newcomer all her life.

"You always look so nice in your pretty nurse's uniform,” gushed Mrs. Goldman. “So tell me, dear, do you still like working at the VA?"

"Yes ma'am," replied Gwen, in a brief, consolidated response to all their questions. Both women had well-deserved reputations for knowing practically everything about everyone who lived in the building. This included Gwen’s summer job as a nurse tech at the Manhattan Veteran’s hospital.

"Those old vets aren't giving you a hard time, are they?" Mrs. Katz gave her a knowing wink.

"You know they are, Esther," teased Mrs. Goldman. "I mean, as cute as she is, especially with those pretty legs of hers and the short skirts all the young girls wear these days."

Gwen felt her skin flush under the appraisal. To cover her embarrassment, she set down the suitcase and began rummaging around in her roomy purse, making sure she had some of the new thirty-cent subway tokens and exact change for the bus.

"Now, Mrs. Goldman, you’ve got to remember, I'm working on an ophthalmology ward. Most of the patients are pretty old and have such bad eyesight they couldn’t tell if I was even wearing a skirt, much less notice its length." A protective instinct told her not to mention the ward’s new patient, the young, wounded Vietnam vet from the south named Mark Cahill.

The ladies laughed and began warning her about dirty old men. The discovery of both tokens and change reprieved Gwen. Giving her tormenters a smile, she said good-bye, picked up her suitcase, then hurried down the steps and across the street to the bus stop.

In Gwen’s opinion, getting on a city bus during rush hour was a form of hand-to-hand combat. People in front and back would be pushing and shoving while you battled to hang onto the handrail and whatever you were carrying plus your tokens or exact change.

Doing all this with a suitcase in one hand and a purse on your shoulder, while trying to keep your white uniform clean and the hem of its short skirt in place, made the experience even more interesting. Sometimes it didn't all work.

Today she was taking the early morning Q65A bus, however, which meant things were easier. To her delight she grabbed an empty window seat near the front. Depositing the small, battered suitcase on the floor, she sat, tugged at the hem of her skirt and strategically positioned her large purse on her lap.

After checking her watch, she pulled out a paperback copy of The French Lieutenant's Woman and prepared to endure another long Monday bus ride from her working-class neighborhood in Flushing to the subway station in upper-crust Forest Hills where she’d transfer to the F train for the even longer ride into Manhattan.

Mondays were busy on the ward. It was after lunch before Gwen had time to begin rubbing a medicated ointment onto Mark's upper torso. The idea was to treat a mild rash, a side effect of the cortisone he took following his recent corneal transplant. For the past two weeks she’s used her best massage techniques to carefully apply the thick, topical medication.

Today’s treatment was to be the last one. To her surprise, she felt some vague, mixed emotions at the prospect of no more back rubs.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, while spreading the creamy ointment over Mark’s back.

“Okay, I guess.” There was a distant, mechanical, almost truculent tone to his voice.

“Is something bothering you?”

The question seemed to annoy him. “No, nothing.”

“Don’t tell me nothing,” she insisted, while still working on his back. “I’ve never seen you this moody. Something must be wrong. Whatever it is, I’d like to know--I really would, but only if you feel like talking.”

After a long pause, Mark began speaking in a low voice. “I met a guy down in the canteen this morning. Turns out, he was with the armored unit working with us the day I got hit. According to him, there was a second KIA. I knew a guy named Tony Doughty got wasted. The last thing I remember seeing was his body being tossed around by the blast. That was bad enough. He was new, a cherry, and in my squad. I felt responsible for him. Now I find out someone else got killed and I’ve got no idea who the hell it was.”

She didn’t interrupt, letting him talk through his emotions. The muscles in his back tensed, then began to ease. A few minutes later, he looked at her and winked. “Thanks. Guess I needed that.”

Something told her the subject of the unknown dead soldier was closed. "Glad I could help.” She smiled and recapped the bottle of ointment. “It looks like that rash is gone.”

"Well, to tell the truth, I kind of hate to see it go.” He rolled over, sat on the edge of his bed, and reached for his pajama top. "I've grown pretty fond of these back rubs."

She washed her hands while trying to think of something to say. "Actually, you can have a back rub anytime you want. It's standard nursing procedure. It, uh, helps prevent bed sores."

Inwardly, she cringed at her lame remark. No patient as active as Mark Cahill was ever going to get bedsores.

"I'll be sure to remember that," he said, while buttoning the short-sleeved top. "Changing the subject from the fascinating world of bed sores and rashes, when you get a chance, could you help me snag a new pair of pajamas? I managed to get that stuff all over these."

“No problem. Let me put all this away and I’ll meet you at the linen room in a couple of minutes.”

In the nurse’s station, Gwen replaced the bottle of ointment, then pulled Mark's chart and dutifully recorded the treatment. After checking with Mrs. Anding, the ward’s head nurse, she got the key and headed for the linen room.

It was located off the main hall in a quiet cul-de-sac which contained several other small rooms used for storing cleaning equipment and other non-medical supplies. When she arrived, Mark was leaning against the door.

She smiled. "Sorry it took so long. Mrs. Anding was on the phone.”

“No problem. I've just been hanging around admiring this scene of old world culture and charm."

She laughed and unlocked the door. Inside, she switched on the overhead light and they began looking for a pair of extra large pajamas.

The VA issued two types of pajamas. Most patients wore the traditional style which came in a choice of either faded or washed-out green. Mark preferred ones called convalescents. They were dark blue and made of heavier material which allowed him to walk around without a robe.

The trouble was virtually every pair they found was old and had no label. They lucked out and quickly came across some bottoms in reasonably good shape with a label saying they were his size. Finding a matching shirt proved much tougher. While Gwen hunted, Mark tried on whatever she handed him.

After more searching, she came across one which she was sure would fit. From her kneeling position she looked up and laughed. "You're not an easy man to satisfy, you know.” She stood and pressed the garment against his bare chest. "But maybe I've got just what you need."

It was a very brief triumph. "As the granddaughter of a tailor, I’m certain it would fit. But now I notice it’s missing a button.” With a sigh, she lowered her hands and began folding the shirt.

When Mark said nothing, she continued, “But remember I told you about my friend, Ann? Well, she’s working on another ward. I'll take this one over there and see if they have one like it, but with buttons."

"Oh, don't worry about it," he said. There was an odd expression on his face.

"I don’t mind. It's about time for my break anyway."

With the help of her friend, Gwen’s mission accomplished. She returned to her ward, checked back in at the nursing station, and then headed for Mark’s room. After handing over her prize, she said, "I'd offer to close the curtains so you could change. But you've already put on the bottoms, so if it's all right, I'll wait to see if this fits."

"No problem," said Mark, who was standing in the middle of the room, putting on the top. To her surprise, he began struggling with the simple task of buttoning the shirt. Trembling fingers gave mute testimony to his growing frustration.

At first, Gwen hesitated to offer any help, afraid the gesture might hurt his feelings. But she was unable to just stand by and do nothing. "Can I help?"

He answered without looking at her. "Man and boy, I've been dressing myself for over twenty years. But, yes ma'am, if you don't mind, it looks like I could use a helping hand."

She came over and took the offending button from his fingers. His voice had been relatively calm. But standing next to him, she could feel his entire body shaking in frustration.

"It's these damn cataract glasses," he said. “They make doing some things pretty tough.” When she finished, he mumbled a thank you, then flopped back onto his bed.

It wasn't uncommon for her to spend a few minutes on slow afternoons talking to Mark. She liked him and liked hearing his smooth, southern accent. Not that he didn’t listen. Under his gentle questioning, she’d told him about herself, including Johnny. Her long-time boyfriend and now fiancé’ had dropped out of high school, washed out of the Navy, and was having trouble keeping a decent job. It could be very frustrating, she admitted, but she assured Mark she still loved Johnny and that once his situation was resolved, they’d get married.

Now, something told her Mark was the one who needed to talk. He’d just finished another long weekend alone on the ward, learned of yet another buddy’s death, and now the limitations of his vision had just been brought home to him.

She turned his bedside chair around and sat down facing him. "Mind if I stay for a minute and rest my feet?"

He seemed startled by the request. Looking in her direction, he responded, "If I ever start to mind that, then I really will be in trouble.” While he’d replied with a joke and a grin, to her, the humor sounded strained and the smile looked forced.

"Things like what just happened, do they bother you a lot?” Normally, she wouldn’t have been so direct. But she sensed that if she didn’t move quickly, he might try to rationalize away the incident and once again hide his emotions with humor.

"Just two times," Mark said, sitting up in bed, "daytime and nighttime.” As their conversation deepened, he told her what it was like to be totally blind for nearly a year and how he struggled to cope with his limitations and frustrations.

“The way I figure it, life is kind of like a poker game. You can’t control the cards you’re dealt, but you can control how you play your hand. In other words, you can either make the best of a situation or crawl away and wait to die.”

After a moment of indecision, she decided to risk asking the question that had always bothered her. “Do you mind telling me why you joined the Army? You had to know it meant going to Viet Nam.”

“Well, the war was out-of-style, very uncool, and I was in kind of a slump, so what else was I supposed to do? Besides, it was the only war around and I wanted to do my Ernest Hemingway thing. You know, check out what war was like.”

Gwen sensed they were circling a much bigger issue. Hoping she wasn’t making things worse, she said, “Mark, it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, but I’d really like to know what happened when you got hurt.”

“No problem. It was last summer. The guy in front of me stepped on a booby trap. I caught the blast from the waist up and couldn’t see a thing. About a month later, I was flown to an Army hospital in Texas. The doctors there removed one eye and said I’d never see out of the other. And if it hadn’t been for a lot of luck, they might have been right,” he said in conclusion.

The brief story was almost too much for Gwen to handle. Hoping to change the mood, she asked, “Does the government pay for all this?”

“They didn’t at first. The Army said I’d never see again and so the VA had me ticketed for a blind rehab center. But now they’re paying and letting me stay here while I heal up.”

“So how long have you been up here?”

“Since January. I’ve gotten home a couple of times. Short visits. In fact, that’s where I was when a certain nursing student named Gwen Kaplan began her summer job.”

Mark was sitting on the edge of his bed, feet propped on the lowered railing, elbows resting on knees. His voice was so low and soothing, Gwen had to scoot closer and lean forward to hear.

He paused in the middle of a sentence, apparently having noticed something around her eyebrows. In a casual tone, he said, "Close your eyes a second.”

Assuming he wanted to remove whatever he’d just spotted, she obeyed—and was stunned to feel Mark's lips press gently against hers. An intoxicating erotic energy took possession of her body. No hands touched her, but she couldn’t move. As if in a dream, she responded to the unexpected kiss.

The tip of his tongue met no resistance as it slipped between her lips. Once inside, it made slow sensuous love to her mouth, caressing and coaxing her into returning its touch. She felt powerless to resist. All she could do, all she wanted to do, was savor the feel of Mark Cahill's mouth against hers.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days later, she couldn't be sure, he broke the kiss and leaned back. Gwen opened her eyes and saw him looking straight at her. What he’d done wasn’t right, she was certain of that. But what was she supposed to do now? After all, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and she’d loved the kiss.

From somewhere deep inside her jumbled brain came a memory of instructors saying to reject the act, not the patient. Now all she could think to say was, "I like you, Mr. Cahill."

He responded in his trademark soft southern voice. "I like you, too, Miss Kaplan."

Unable to think of anything else to do, she struggled to her feet and somehow managed to reach the foot of Mark's bed on legs which threatened to collapse. "And Miss Kaplan,” she paused at the sound of Mark’s voice and looked back, “someday I'm going to kiss every inch of your body."

Still shaken by the kiss, she couldn’t believe this guy had just told her something so blatantly sexual. Things like that weren’t supposed to happen to nice Jewish girls from Queens, especially when they were engaged.

With her head spinning, she mumbled good-bye and made her way out of room 24. In the empty, neon-lighted corridor, she sagged against the wall. Her addled mind raced with unanswered questions triggered by that unexpected kiss.

How had it happened? She wasn't sure.

Had she, somehow, encouraged him? No way.

Should she tell her head nurse, Mrs. Anding, or Johnny? Definitely not. Mrs. Anding was too professional to approve and Johnny too insecure to ever understand.

What should she do the next time? She didn't know.

Would there be a next time? Possibly? Probably?

She glanced back at the door to Mark’s room. Hopefully?

#

"You're not an easy man to satisfy, you know," she'd said, with her soft, inviting, brown eyes gazing up at him from under those long, dark lashes. “But maybe I’ve got just what you need.”

With that, she’d stood and pressed a pajama top against his chest. When her fingertips touched his bare skin, it’d been a struggle to keep standing.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Mark kept replaying that scene, hearing those words. He went over and looked at himself in the mirror above the room's sink. With the thick, milk-bottle glasses he had to wear, the sprinkling of tiny powder burns around his eyes and the small scar on his left cheek, his face just wasn't the sort to tempt an engaged girl to flirt, especially a nice one like Gwen Kaplan.

And yet, back in the linen room, even before she touched his chest, he'd felt something happening between them. He stepped over to the window and stared across the street at the Bellevue nurses dorm and wondered which room was hers. Had she been standing a step closer than necessary? Had she been giving him a sexy look? Was it possible that she'd been flirting? Or was he just wanting to believe a cute girl like her could be attracted to him?

It’d been two years since he’d last felt anything like the emotions which swept over him, first then and later in his room as she buttoned the pajama top, fussed with the collar, and smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles. Looking into her eyes, feeling that touch, remembering those words, his palms had begun to sweat.

Of course, she probably hadn't been flirting. After all, she was studying to be a nurse. Assisting patients was part of her job. That included everything from coming to the rescue when they couldn't even button their damn pajamas to getting them talking about past traumas.

On the other hand, when he kissed her, she didn't jerk away or protest. That's what he'd expected. That’s why he’d hesitated too long in the linen room. They were, after all, practically strangers, and she was engaged, and what he’d said hadn’t just been a line, he really did like her. After a last, thoughtful look at the dorm, he turned and headed back to his bed.

But it had been a good kiss. And when she responded, it became a very good kiss. Very good, hell, it’d been outstanding. There’d been no mistaking the invitation in her moist, pliant lips, an invitation he'd gladly accepted. Nor was there any mistake about his wanting a chance to do it again.

The kiss startled her, he could tell. Of course, that line of his just before she left had probably been a total turn-off. Still, wasn’t there just a hint of a smile on her lips as she said goodbye and left? With his lousy vision, he couldn't be sure.

For all he knew, she might consider this sort of thing just another hazard of the job. Maybe she'd tolerated the kiss because she didn't want to hurt the feelings of a half-blind vet a long way from home.

Maybe. But something in her lips said that wasn't the case. Lying back on his bed, he could still smell her perfume and feel the sweet pressure of her mouth on his. It was a nice memory.

Gwen Kaplan had triggered a feeling he once doubted he’d ever have again. In a way, that was scary. Feeling nothing didn’t hurt. So her being engaged was a good thing, probably. He wondered if this might be the start of something interesting. That seemed very doubtful, but it was a nice thought.

Mark reached over to the nightstand and turned on his small radio. “In other national news, critics of the war in Vietnam are calling for renewed demonstrations over the government’s failure to immediately pull all US troops out of Cambo….”

The radio went silent. Mark released the on/off switch and stared out the window. Lights were still on in several dorm rooms across the street. It’d been a long time coming, he thought. But thanks to Gwen Kaplan, he now had something else to think about, and to sleep on.

Saints and Sinners

2010-02-08T07:33:00.008-06:00

WYNTON MARSALIS: The Spirit of New Orleans

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XWvklvtqoco

The New Orleans Saints
2010 Super Bowl Champions!

(It took 43 years, but the age of miracles has not passed)

Now for a quick eyeball update.

To be honest, things could be better. I'm down to barely seeing the big E on an eye chart (20/400) and there's a yellow tint to everything. A month or so ago, the doc gave me a 50/50 chance the vision would stabilize and a one-in-ten chance it would get better. Sad to say, it appears I've come up on the short end of those odds.

If things keep on keeping on, I'll have one final operation to fix the retina. This time they'll use oil instead of a bubble to keep the retina in place while it heals. Even if that operation works, odds are it'll the cornea so I'd have to have another one of those. All that could take a long, long time and the odds are way against it all working.

Other than that, things are okay with me. We have two new dogs, something called Tibetian Terriers. A litter of them showedf up at the local animal shelter. We took a borther and sister, someone esle took the other two. The vet says the little cuddle-bugs are over a year old. Must be an interesting sotry behind them but it beats me. Our other dog, Lola, the sort of a German Shepard, gets along great with them.

Keep on keeping on, y'all

HELP HAITI

2010-01-14T19:27:00.008-06:00

50,000 DEAD / 3,000,000 HOMELESS

(Red Cross esti.)

click link to

HELP HAITI

THE OTHER BOWL GAME - a short, short story

2009-12-30T08:31:00.000-06:00

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

Bayou Bill

THE OTHER BOWL GAME
by Bill Fullerton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~ "We're off." ~~

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

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

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

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

“Who gives a flying buffalo chip?”

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

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

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

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

A SPECIAL PRESENT: for your special someone

2009-11-21T08:30:00.002-06:00

A SPECIAL PRESENT

Bill Fullerton

I was halfway between Sears and flat broke, sitting alone in the mall’s noisy food-court, eating a tasteless salad, and wondering why I let my mother con me into getting dressed and driving into town with her to go shopping the day after Thanksgiving, the busiest shopping day of the year.

She was right, of course. My mother is always right. And to prove the point, I had somehow managed to finish all my Christmas shopping. That’s good, because I could be a little busy in a few weeks.

Today’s shopping cost me more than just max’ed out credit cards. My feet hurt, my back ached, I felt tired, bloated and miserable. Of course, I felt that way long before hitting the mall. Being eight months pregnant can do that to a girl.

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

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

The new baby’s daddy, Matt Hampton, never knew I was in love with him. And I wasn’t, not at first. We’d known each other forever. Of course, everybody knows everybody else out where we live. In high school, we fooled around a little, but didn’t date. A couple years after graduation, I got married instead of going back to college while he dropped out and joined the service.

Last December, I showed up at my parents’ house with Kylie, and a black eye. Stuart, my rich, good-looking, socio-path husband, gave me both.

A few days later, Matt came limping home with his left leg in a cast. Something very bad happened wherever he’d been doing whatever it was he did. Kylie and I went over to visit him the next day.

A lot of girls have had a crush on Matt. He was an all-everything jock with a boyish smile and a teasing attitude that was just a little cocky. The Matt I saw that day was still blonde and good-looking, but he was no boy. His skin wasn’t tan so much as a hard, weathered brown. There were tiny creases around the corners of his eyes. And sometimes those familiar blue-eyes had this funny, distant look. Most of all, the cockiness was gone, replaced by a quiet self-confidence.

In other words, he was a man—and I wanted him.

The next afternoon, I went back, without Kylie. We were alone, and soon making love.

"Becky Miller, you have the most delectable boobies.” He interrupted a very thorough job of nuzzling my breasts to say that, and was now smiling at me. My sweater and bra were off; my jeans and panties were about to follow. We were on the carpet in the living room. A few small logs burned in the nearby fireplace. The lights on the big Christmas tree were turned on. Just like me.

I stroked his short, blonde hair and grinned. "Don’t give me that, crap. I'm an original member of the Itty Bitty Titty Club.”

"Size don't mean diddly. I’ve always told you that." Matt used the tip of his tongue to emphasize the point. "Quality means a lot more that quantity. Believe me, lady, yours are first-rate. In fact, while these prime samples of female flesh may not be the biggest, they are, without doubt, still the finest pair I've ever had the pleasure of enjoying."

I don’t mind having small breasts. In fact, I prefer mine to the big udders most guys seem to go nuts over. That’s just as well. Even after having Kylie, there was little change in mine. At most, they went from hard-fried eggs to a couple sunny-side up. Matt’s gentle teasing and compliments reminded me how sweet he could be, and how much I wanted him.

"If that’s what you think, then there’s more than just your leg that needs attention. Lay back and let’s see if I can give you an early Christmas present."

When it ended, I was content, tingling all over, and stretched out on his chest. It was a good place to be. I could feel his heartbeat slowing while my body moved to the rhythm of his breathing.

Matt broke the silence. “To me you look a lot more like a cute elf than old Santa Claus. But I sure do like your Christmas presents and the way you deliver ‘em.”

After that we were together almost every day. Since his parents both worked, most of the time at his home, although we go out on dates. I’m sure everybody in town figured they knew what was going on between us. After all, everyone in our town knows everyone else and what their fellow citizens are doing. But I never heard of anyone so much as raising an eyebrow, much less objecting. That included our parents. In fact, I think that, like everyone else, they approved.

Still, Matt and I knew it was just a brief affair, nothing more. He would return to the service, I’d go back to college. No strings attached. That’s the way it always had been between us.

Then I fell in love with him. It’d been coming on for some time, but I wouldn’t admit what I was feeling. Sure Matt and I had changed. But we hadn’t changed that much, had we? There’d been no chemistry between us back in high school, so why now? I kept telling myself that what I felt was a combination of friendship, sympathy, and sex, not love.

All that ended the night he beat-up Stuart, my husband who had beaten me up—twice. It happened the week after the divorce papers were filed. We were at a club with some friends. Matt still had his cast on, so we were just listening to the band.

Stuart came over to our booth and started carrying on. Matt never moved, just told Stuart, who was almost leaning on him to get closer to me, that he should leave. When Stuart ignored him and kept yelling at me, Matt hit him several times, real fast, just how and where I’m not sure. Stuart let out this funny, gurgling noise and sank to his knees beside our table.

Matt put a hand on Stuart’s shoulder and must have done something, because I saw Stuart grimace. Then Matt pulled him close and asked, in this dead-calm voice, if he was ever going to bother me again. Stuart’s a big guy, and believe me, he’s strong. But I could see fear in his eyes as he mumbled, no.

From then on, I was hooked. All my life, I’d felt in total control around men. It’s not my looks. I’m short, flat-chested, and no great beauty. But guys seldom seem to notice. I like to think it’s my eyes, and smile, and personality. Maybe those do play a part, but most of it is my being a total flirt, and having a nice butt.

Everything changed when Stuart beat me up. After the second time, when he started for Kylie’s room before I got him to turn back on me, I would feel this twinge of fear and uncertainty around men I didn’t know. But the fear vanished whenever I was with Matt. Then I was my old self, feeling in control, safe, complete. I’d always liked Matt, now I loved him. My problem was how to convince him he loved me.

Then he told me he wasn’t just going back to the service, but back to wherever he was when he got wounded. He felt responsible for the deaths of two friends. “I trusted someone who betrayed us. My friends are dead. He’s still there.”

I thought I was going to have a breakdown. This wasn’t fair. What scared me most was the absolute certainty he didn’t give a damn whether he lived or died, just so long as he killed that other person first. The only thing that gave him any second thoughts was my reminder that he was an only child. I begged him to think of what his death would mean to his family.

But I knew he wouldn’t budge.

After Christmas, he went back to the service to spend a few months getting his leg in shape and preparing to return to his old assignment. Meanwhile, I re-entered college and considered my very limited options.

In April, he came home on leave prior to going back to wherever that other guy was. I met him with a big smile, and a body that was all his and free of any trace of birth control pills. If the next few weeks were the last I would ever have with him, maybe I would have his child. If his parents, who I dearly loved, lost their son, they might at least have his grandchild. Maybe that would ease their grief, our grief.

Now, eight months later, Matt may be dead or alive, I don’t know. But I’ve got his child, his son. “Matt Hampton, Jr.,” I whispered the name, smiling at the sound. Then I heard myself continuing, “…only child of the late Matt Hampton,” and began to cry.

“This seat taken?” I didn’t look up, just shook my head and kept searching for a napkin.

Someone pulled out the chair next to me and sat down. “Is the food here that bad, or are you just sad to see me?”

Who the hell was this idiot? I turned, and was staring at someone who looked just like, Matt Hampton. For maybe the first time in my life, I was speechless. Just breathing was hard enough. Before I could think of something to say, he leaned over and kissed me. It was soft and gentle, and seemed to last forever, which was way too short for me.

Nothing made sense. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “Glad to see you, too, Miss Miller.”

Then it registered. “You’re alive!” I threw my arms around his neck, buried my face against his chest, and really began crying.

I didn’t want to look up. The face I saw might not be Matt’s. This could all be a dream. But I recognized his hard body, his special smell, and his gentle touch as he stroked my hair.

When I worked up the courage to look, all I could say was, “Really, what happened?”

“I quit.”

“You can’t just quit—can you?”

“My mission was accomplished. My time was about up. I told the bosses I had personal business to attend to, and quit.”

“Am I that personal business?”

“Damn straight. I got a message a few weeks ago from old Dad. Don’t ask how. Anyway, he filled me in on what you did and how things have been, well, developing since I left. He said you were way too good for me, and that while there may have been a few bastards in our family, they were all self-made men, not accidents of birth.”

“He shouldn’t have done that. This was no accident,” I touched my belly. “I don’t want you here because you feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t. I’m just—“ The smile left his face. To my amazement, Matt looked away, but not before I saw a tear roll down his cheek. After a moment, he wiped a hand down his face, turned back, and gestured toward my protruding middle. “You love me, that much?”

I nodded.

He swallowed. “Becky, before leaving, I fought falling in love with you. It wasn’t easy, but I wasn’t sure I’d make it back. Nearly didn’t.” He almost looked embarrassed. “Anyway, Dad didn’t let me know about you and the baby until after I finished. He was right to wait. Because since then, I swear, you and the baby, and Kylie, and just life itself, that’s all I can think about. So I had to get out. I want life now, not more death. And it’s because of you, because I love you. Oh, God, how I love you. Becky, will you please marry me?”

I nodded and we were hugging and I was crying again all the while grinning like I’d won the lottery. In a way, I had. We kissed. It made the first one seem like a chaste peck on the cheek. When we came up for air, I patted my very big belly. “I’m afraid it won’t be much of a honeymoon.”

“That’s okay. I’m counting on having a long life to make up for lost time. When’s the baby due?”

“Well, if your son will wait that long, around Christmas.”

“A boy baby, at Christmas.” He seemed pleased with the prospect. “And we’re not even Jewish.”

“You’re an idiot. But I do love you.”

“And I love you, too. Remember last year, when we first made love and I said I liked your presents and the way you delivered them? Well, I still do.” He reached out and laid the palm of his hand on my belly. “It’s just that I never counted on such a special Christmas present.”

I began to cry again, and pressed his hand against my belly. The baby picked that moment to kick. Matt grinned, stood up, and began helping me out of my chair. “I think that was a not-too-subtle hint from our son that we better get moving on this marrying business. Where’s the nearest jewelry store? We need to buy some rings.”

Bill Fullerton has been a newspaper columnist, government paper-pusher, oilfield roustabout, and served in Vietnam.

His short stories have appeared in: Rose and Thorn, New Works, Review, DeadMule, Chick Flicks, Nibbler, and Muscadine Lines. Long Story Short named one of his short stories, Story of the Month.

LSS also ran an excerpt of his second novel, We Danced to Ray Charles, a coming-of-age love story that was a semi-finalist (work-in-progress) for the Faulkner Award, and a finalist in the Santa Fe Writer’s Project contest.

YOU MUST REMEMBER THIS - excerpt

2009-08-12T07:45:00.000-05:00

For the last few weeks I’ve been enmeshed in the re-writing of my second novel, We Danced to Ray Charles. The night the story’s two life-long friends, Amy and Mark, first kiss is a key moment. In the book’s current version. The scene occurs about half-way through as a flashback/dream told from Amy’s perspective.

What I’m thinking about doing is adding Mark’s version of the same scene to the opening chapter. That’s what I’ll be posted today. In a few days, I’ll post the scene in which Amy recalls that evening. A third and final post related to the event, will detail what happens when they chance to return to that spot.

For those faint of heart and/or weak of stomach, they don't go, "All the way." Maybe they should. Maybe it's too detailed or not detailed enough. Maybe the whole idea is weak. Your feedback, whether it be brickbats or bouquets, hallelujahs or hand-grenades, posted here or sent by email, is needed and will be appreciated.

Bayou Bill

==

You Must Remember This

An excerpt from Chapter One of, We Danced to Ray Charles

by Bill Fullerton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So the idea, the hope, was that after a couple weeks of mourning and talking his ear off on the phone, a casual beer-bust with friends would kick-start her back to life. And while everyone else seemed to be having a great time, he could tell she was miserable.

That’s why he kept checking on her and noticed when she drifted away from the center of the party and then vanished into the late evening shadows. At first he thought it best to let her be alone. But he changed his mind when a tall, arrogant jerk with a long-standing case of the hots for Amy seemed ready to follow.

In the breeze off the river, he heard a faint, whimpering noise like an injured animal might make. He followed it to her hide-away behind a driftwood log.

They’d talked and talked about what happened and why she felt so damn depressed. There was more to her mood than just breaking up with a boyfriend, much more. But by now he didn’t know what else to say. So he just sat beside her and said nothing.

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

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

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

His evaluation of Amy’s beauty came to a sudden stop when she slipped her hands behind his neck, pulled his face to hers, and began to kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him.

Later, he wondered if that was when he fell in love with her. Did that first touch of her lips, her tongue, and the warmth of her mouth against his melt whatever barrier had stood between their friendship and love? He’d never know. What he did know was that by the time their lips parted, something in him had changed, forever.

There was a look of serenity, or something like that, on her tear-streaked face. But he sensed another, more subtle emotion. With a jolt of disbelief, he realized she was waiting for him to do something. The problem was he had no idea what that should be.

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

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

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

Before he could get started, Amy snuggled closer and pulled him back down onto her mouth. Though unsure if he’d fallen in love with Amy during their first kiss, what now followed made that a very moot point.

As if on autopilot, his hand slipped under her sweatshirt. Amy shivered and tried to pull him closer. He took possession of her breast, savoring its firm, silky smoothness. The nipple was already hard, as if waiting for him. As he gently rolled it between finger and thumb, Amy broke their kiss and moaned.

He took his time kissing her eyes, her cheek, her chin, letting his lips trail down to her neck. There was no resistance when he pushed the sweatshirt higher, exposing her small, perfect breasts to the pale moonlight. A moment later his lips encircled one of her nipples. Amy gasped and tried to press herself deeper into his mouth.

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

More than anything in his life, he wanted to make love with Amy Marshall. And he knew if he didn’t stop now, that would happen. Only it wouldn’t be love, it’d be screwing. And though aching with desire and need, he didn’t want to do that to his best friend. And he didn’t want to risk losing his best friend over what, considering his present condition, would probably be a two-second burst of ecstasy.

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

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

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

The irate blare of a car horn brought Mark back from the Mississippi levee to one of the few Pinefield intersections with a traffic light. A light he’d just run. He waved in apology at the offended driver, and headed out of town. If he was going to let himself think about that night with Amy, he better get off the road.

WHAT SUMMER MEANS TO ME - flash fiction

2009-07-19T00:15:00.000-05:00

What Summer Means To Me
by Bill Fullerton

Summer means no school.

Summer means having to mow your yard instead of going fishing or swimming. And to make matters worse, my tightwad father don't hardly pay me a thing for all that work. He claims riding around on a John Deere for a couple of hours isn't some kind of cruel and unusual punishment. And he also says he won't pay me time-and-a-half for hazardous duty. Someday I’m going to turn him in to the Federal Wage and Hour people like that ad I saw on TV said to do.

Summer means fishing with the other guys, whenever I can sneak off that danged John Deere. Most of the time I go fishing with just Freddie and Mike, but sometimes Mike's kid brother Jerry tags along. He's a real pest, if you know what I mean.

Jerry is an okay kid I guess, but like I said, he can be a real pest. Like when he scares all the fish by kicking the bait bucket or when he falls into the pond, accidentally on purpose. To tell you the truth, his falling in the pond is not that bad a deal. You see then we all have a good excuse to jump in, clothes and all, to save him.

Then when we get home and our Mom's start yelling about getting our clothes wet, we can tell them the gospel truth, that we were just trying to save poor little Jerry from drowning to death in the pond. Boy if they ever find out Jerry swims like a fish, they'll kill us all.

Summer means swimming. Sometimes we swim in the pool in Bob's backyard. That's okay except Bob's folks never want you to play King of the Hill on top of the diving board, or Bull-a-Gator tag in the pool. It also mean's having to be careful whenever you go into Bob's house so his Mom won't get mad at you for tracking in water or making some other mess.

Swimming in the pond is more fun. There's a rope swing and the bottom's not really that muddy. The only problem is nobody's parents wants them swimming in the pond on account of how they're afraid we'll all drown or something. So we always have to stop at the filling station and rinse all the mud off before we go home.

Summer means playing baseball, and playing baseball, and then playing some more baseball. Most of us don't really care for it that much, what with all the rules and coaches and umpires and all. But for some reason, our parents seem to get a kick out of the whole thing.

All summer long they keep coming to game after game after game. And about all they do is sit in lawn chairs and talk to one another while swatting at mosquitoes and sweating like a bunch of rushing racehorses. Maybe they keep coming because they enjoy yelling at the coaches and umpires. They also do a lot of that.

Summer means there's nothing to watch on TV except for reruns. There's also the Atlanta Braves and the Chicago Cubs, or even worse (if that's possible), golf. But personally, I'd rather watch the reruns.

My father took me with him one time when he went to play golf. There's only one word for that game, BORING! I mean, all that happens is a bunch of grown-ups hit a ball, ride after it a long ways, and then hit it again. It was fun getting to drive the golf cart, but when it comes to the game, who cares?

As for the Braves and the Cubs, well as the girls say, gag me with a spoon. The Cubs are all losers, except for Sammy Sosa, and the Braves are even worse.

Sometimes my father gets me to watch a real baseball game with him, like say the Dodgers against the Giants. That's not too bad. Dad's no pro, but he seems to know a thing or two about baseball. And it's kinda fun sitting with him, drinking Cokes and talking baseball, even if he does keep kidding around and calling the teams the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Giants.

But usually before the game is over, Mike or Freddie have come over, maybe with Bob and Jerry, and I tell Dad I want to go with them. Dad always says it's okay to leave, but sometimes it seems like he gets this funny, kinda sad look on his face.

Summer means no school.

The End

A FISH-EYED VIEW OF HUMANS AND SEX

2009-06-17T19:21:00.000-05:00

A few months after their wedding, two good friends of mine went fishing. They anchored in a shady spot for lunch and, being young and in love, one thing led to another. I've no idea about the fishing that day, but nine months later there was indisputable proof something was caught. The location for this amorous activity was Fool's Bayou. And no, I'm not making that up.

After hearing that story, I wondered how the bayou's various native life forms might have reacted to what was going on in the fishing rig. Here's one, not so likely, possibility.

Bayou Bill

==

A FISH-EYED VIEW OF HUMANS & SEX
by Bill Fullerton

Bronson the Big Mouth Bass stuck his head above the bayou surface and looked around. What the hell was going on? It was mid-day and too damn hot for any respectable fish to be feeding. Even the dumbest human must realize that. So why had those two in that fancy fishing rig slipped past the screen of willow branches and tied up against the trunk?

The event was so surprising, even Freddie the Frog and Pasquale the Possum had stopped bitching about how humans were the only animals not required to have alliterative names. From their usual spot on the limb of a nearby cypress, they silently studied this phenomenon.

No one ever said humans were smart. But Bronson hadn’t gotten where he was by taking them for granted. Maybe the humans were going to fish for crappie. But that didn’t seem likely. Even the dumb, if passionate, Paula the Perch, wouldn’t be nibbling in this heat, at least not on food.

Bronson was certain there could be no greater calling in life than to be a bass, especially a big bull bass. However, except for an occasional brief, and exhausting, leap out of water, being a bass meant your air-world viewing angles were limited. So he decided to slip over to the cypress and let Freddie and Pasquale fill in any action he might miss.

From his new vantage point among the cypress roots, he looked up at his two friends and asked for a report. “They’re like, you know, feeding,” said Pasquale. He’d spent time on a hippie commune and found the subject of human food very interesting.

“And drinking something in cans,” added Freddie. “It looks like beer. The big guy’s on his third. The little one with the floppy hat is still on number two.”

Even from his low angle, Bronson had seen all that and was not impressed. In his opinion, watching mold grow would have been more exciting. “Is that all? You two long-winded, worthless excuses for friends are supposed to--.”

His diatribe was interrupted by new activity on the boat. The smaller of the two humans had just removed the big floppy hat. With a shake of the head, a whole bunch of long dark hair came tumbling down. The longhaired human then turned and gave the big one a smile that, to Bronson, seemed to make the water even hotter.

There was no doubt, the one with longhair was most definitely a female-type human. And what a female. Even Bronson, who looked upon all air-breathers with a certain disdain, was impressed.

The female’s smile got even bigger when the big male moved up and sat beside her in the middle of the boat. No one at the cypress could believe what happened next. The humans began making like sucker fish, going mouth-to-mouth while the male messed with her top.

When their mouths finally parted, the female gave the male a look that made Bronson’s tail curl, and removed the top. The male seemed to like what came into view, especially two odd-looking bumps. At first he had his hands all over them. Then he leaned down and did something like the mouth-to-mouth thing, but on first one of them and then the other. Judging by the look on her face, the female seemed to enjoy all this.

“Psst. Hey, Bronson.” It was Pasquale.

“Yeah, what is it?” Not wanting to miss any of this odd behavior by humans, he hated to look away.

“You won’t believe what else that dude’s up to.”

“Wadda you mean?” This time Bronson’s curiosity got the better of him and he looked up. Pasquale was hanging by his tail. That wasn’t so unusual considering his specie. But on his face was a grin unlike any ever seen on a possum. His forepaws were busy doing something Bronson felt certain he didn’t want to know about.

“Pasquale, what in the name of Moby Dick are you talking about?”

The possum continued watching for a moment, then he glanced down. “Man, that dude is like some kid unwrapping a birthday present. Check it out.”

Bronson looked back. The female was standing while the male shucked off her pants. The boat rocked a bit. But she put her hands on his shoulders and they did more of that mouth-to-mouth action until things settled down.

There wasn’t a whole lot of the female, but what there was seemed to please the male. And Bronson had to admit, she did have a certain slender, symmetrical appeal.

It came as another surprise when she lowered herself in front of the male. After some more mouth-to-mouth, her head vanished from Bronson’s view. “What’s going on, you two? I can’t see a damn thing but that shit-eating grin on his face.”

“Well,” Freddie paused to clear his throat, a nervous habit endemic to his species, then started again. “Well, not much, really, she’s just doing something with her hands. No, wait. Now she’s holding this thing. I swear, it looks like an albino snake.”

Bronson sensed he was being given the business. “Bullshit.”

“No shit,” insisted Freddie. “She’s doing something to it with her hands and it’s gotten bigger. What the…? Okay, I’m not making this up, I promise. But she bent over just now, and that snake-looking thing, it seemed to slid right into her head.”

He looked down at Bronson. “You think this is like some Praying Mantis deal? You know, the female eating the male? Damn, I hope not. That’s one bug that creeps me out.”

“How the hell should I know? One less fisherman is fine by me—cuts pollution and the number of hooks. But what’s happening now?”

“Well, it doesn’t look like she’s having him for lunch, after all. I mean, she’s bobbing, her head up-and-down. And when she’s up, you can still see whatever it is, only now it looks all wet and shiny.”

None of this made any sense to Bronson, who prided himself on his knowledge of human behavior. In the bayou, it could make the difference between living another day and becoming a fillet. “Pasquale, is Freddie making this shit up?”

There was no answer. Bronson steeled himself and looked upward once more. Freddie was sprawled across the limb with his eyes bulging and his tongue hanging out. It would have been a pitiful sight under any circumstance, but it was especially so when the tongue in question belonged to a frog.

Bronson felt a bit embarrassed and looked over at Pasquale. The possum’s paws were moving even faster and his grin was, if possible, even bigger. “Pasquale, you pervert! What’s going on in the boat? I can’t see a thing except the male, and I’m tired of looking at his stupid grin.”

“Easy there, Brother Bass. It’s just like old Freddie told you. Mellow out and go with stroke, so to speak. Oh, yes.”

“Hey, you guys,” Freddie croaked. “Look, now.”

There was no question where they should look. Bronson turned toward the boat. The female was standing with her hands on the male’s shoulders. With slow, careful movements, she straddled him and then eased down over the snake, which by now was more pink than white. It soon vanished from sight and they were sitting face-to-face.

At first, all the humans did was more of the mouth-to-mouth stuff. When the boat became still, the female began making small, up-and-down movements. The boat again started rocking, but soon the female’s motions and those of the boat were in a sort of harmony.

“I don’t know what they’re doing,” said Freddie, “but I do like the show.”

Pasquale groaned his agreement.

Bronson had to admit the two in the boat looked like the happiest humans he’d ever seen out fishing. The female was leaning back and seemed to be looking for something up in the limbs of the willow tree. Her long hair swayed in rhythm with the other movements. Meanwhile, the male was doing a mouth-to-mouth type thing on one of her bumps.

“Hey there, you big bass. What’s happening?” The unexpected greeting startled Bronson. It was Paula the Perch, and she was looking great.

“Uh, hi, Paula, just trying to figure out what those humans on the boat are doing. Thought it might be important. I mean, you can’t learn too much about them.” Why did he feel like a fingerling watching all the action during spawning season?

A loud groan and a louder screech came from the boat. The male and female were holding each other close and shaking. But they didn’t seem to be in pain. In fact, they looked very happy.

Paula brushed up against him. “Oh, I know all about that. I was spawned in a lake near a college campus, remember? It’s the way humans, you know, do it.”

“Do, it?”

“Sure,” she languidly stroked his side with a pliant fin, “you know…it.”

“Oh, IT. Of course. So, what do you say about a little demonstration?”

“Since we’re not air-breathers, that’d be a real challenge, silly. But come with me and I’ll try to give you the idea.”

As they began to swim away, Freddie managed to ask, “Where you two going?”

“Off to do a little research on how humans do it,” said Bronson, before slipping beneath the surface and following Paula toward an especially cool, secluded nook.

“Fin-tastic,” said Pasquale. His paws now hung limply at his side. The grin on his face bore a surprising resemblance to that of the male on the boat. “That’s fin-tastic.”

ALIVE AND GOING HOME - short story

2009-05-25T23:43:00.000-05:00

Memorial Day is a time set aside for Americans to honor those members of the armed forces who lost their lives while serving our country. The following story is loosely based on some of the things that happened around me while I was in Vietnam. It's dedicated to Sandy, and Hassle, and Tony, and to all the others who won't be enjoying the day off with their families.

The painting is titled, Dustoff: Angels of Mercy by William Phillips. The name of the model in the photo is unknown. Heck, the car isn't even a Chevy. But then, I bet you didn't care either.

Bayou Bill

==

Alive and Going Home
by Bill Fullerton

The explosion sent twenty-four soldiers sprawling. Dust and acrid smoke filled the air along with the sound of men cursing and scrambling for better cover. There were no screams of pain.

As he hugged the ground, Sergeant Mike Floyd told himself there were better places to be and things to do. His first choice being in the back seat of his car with Mary Beth Riser.

He was tired of death; tired of trying to kill unknown men who were doing their best to kill him. He wanted peace, and life, and Mary Beth.

Today’s plan called for his recon platoon to leave the shelter of a jungle-like wood line and cross a large expanse of dry rice paddies to a village. The word was it might be a staging area for the Viet Cong or the North Vietnamese Army, maybe both. If everything went right, the infantry company and the troop of armored personnel carriers left back in the wood line would then move out and join them.

For the officer in charge of the operation, the plan had the advantage of protecting the men in his own company while risking a handful of troops. Vietnam was a numbers war. Should recon get shot up, the casualties wouldn’t be figured against his unit’s body count.

It was a scheme Mike and the other men of recon knew all too well. They were the eyes and ears of the battalion, experts at operating alone on intelligence gathering operations. Ambushes, snatches, tracking, manning listening posts at night and observation posts during the day were all considered good missions.

No one thought today's assignment, serving as scouts for a regular infantry company, was a good mission. They were now under the direct control of another unit's commanding officer. Whenever that happened, they became expendable.

Halfway to the village, everything started going wrong. A sudden, high-pitched shriek ended in a sickening explosion and a geyser of dirt, smoke, and death. Unable to tell where the fire was coming from, they dove for the only available cover. After that, it was a matter of praying they had put rice paddy dikes between themselves and a body bag.

The platoon began checking in. "What the hell was that? Where's the son-of-bitch? Is everybody all right?"

"Hardcore" Harding, the unit's platoon sergeant, yelled over from a nearby rice paddy. "That thing's gotta be a goddamn recoilless rifle, Lieutenant."

"Roger that, shit. You got any idea where the hell it's firing from?" Lieutenant Lester never stopped scanning the surrounding terrain.

"Can't be sure, sir. But they've probably got it set up on that hill over there on our right flank."

Mike forced himself to lift his head and look at the hill. There was a second explosion followed by an eruption of small arms fire from the village. But he’d seen a flash.

“I think Hardcore’s right, Lieutenant. I spotted something looked like a small back-blast. Probably about two-thirds the way up the hill, just left of that dead tree.”

Dale Lester studied the hill and then the surrounding terrain. His platoon, a group he and Hardcore had molded into a first class recon unit, was pinned down in the open. Meanwhile, Delta Company and the supporting armored personnel carriers were back in the safety of the wood line and didn't seem anxious to risk exposing themselves by providing fire support. "Looks like it’s command decision time, Bear.” Mike, whose size had earned him the nickname, wiped sweat and dirt off his face and nodded.

"If we stay put and call for help that recoilless rifle will pick us off," said Lester. “Heading towards that automatic weapons fire is out of the question. Going back’s not much better. So that leaves….

His words were cut off by another incoming round. Mike had an idea, but wished he hadn’t. “Lieutenant, my squad’s closest to the hill. What if the platoon lays down covering fire long enough for us to shag ass over there? If it’s just the weapons crew, odds are they’ll ‘di di’ when they see us coming.” What he didn’t need to say, what both he and the Lieutenant knew, was that if the crew didn’t leave and the position was defended, the squad could be in a world of hurt.

Lieutenant Lester glanced at Mike, then surveyed the situation. “Okay. Go get your squad moving. We’ll do our part here.” He looked away and began yelling orders to Hardcore.

Mike rose into a crouch and started running in a zigzag pattern toward first squad, his unit. The sound of another incoming round sent him diving back for cover. It exploded along the base of the dike being used by second squad, the squad of Sergeant Andy Andrews.

Redheaded, freckle-faced Anderson Andrews, Mike's friend and fellow squad leader, son of Mr. and Mrs. Carl P. Andrews, brother of Paul and Joyce, Kim Irving Andrew's husband, and father of their three month old daughter Kacey, was killed instantly when members of the North Vietnamese Army manning a recoilless rifle on Hill 87 scored a direct hit on his position.

Before Mike could get back to his feet “Hassle” Castle was rushing to Andy’s motionless form. The expert grenadier and Andy had joined the unit the same day. They were very tight.

Everyone knew to avoid the junctions of rice paddy dikes. They were prime spots for booby traps. Hassle knew better. But maybe all he could focus on was his friend’s body.

There was a small bang and a can filled with tiny steel pellets shot into the air, then exploded at chest height. It was hard to believe how many holes that "Bouncing Betty" drilled into Hassle's dark, wiry, young body.

The recoilless rifle fired one more round while Mike’s squad was racing to the base of the hill. After catching their breath, they formed a skirmish line and began moving up the steep hillside toward the unseen gun position. The heavy brush and small, low trees made it impossible to see more that a few feet ahead. It was a very hairy climb.

That may be why they got careless. The well camouflaged firing site was undefended and deserted. For the squad, the danger seemed over. They relaxed and instinctively moved closer to talk and check out the scene.

Mike was on the radio with Lieutenant Lester when he noticed what the men were doing. With an impatient gesture, he motioned for them to move away. “Don’t cluster fuck. Spread out and watch for….” He never finished his last command. There was an explosion. Tony Doughty a big, pug-nosed, good-natured guy from Tennessee—so new to the unit he still didn’t have a nickname had stepped on a booby-trap. His large body was now dancing in mid-air as a sheet of flame, laced with white streaks, raced toward Mike. It was the last thing he'd see clearly for months.

When the force of the explosion slammed into him, Mike struggled to stay on his feet. He’d heard other explosions and didn’t want to risk falling onto another booby-trap. Then his knees gave out and he crumpled to the ground.

After spitting out a mouthful of something, he made a quick, unsuccessful search for his rifle. Reaching for his canteen, he discovered his pistol still in its holster. Knowing he had the .38 Special made him feel better. It was common knowledge the VC seldom took prisoners and when they did, the captives were tortured to death.

He remembered to check his body for wounds. There was something warm and wet around his groin. The growing sense of panic passed when he discovered it was only urine, not blood.

The blast had caught him from the waist up. There were tiny pieces of metal and gravel in his arms, chest, and face. Raw powder burns covered his face and he couldn't see. But even with all those injuries, Mike knew he'd been lucky. He was alive.

The cries of wounded soldiers replaced the sound of exploding booby traps. In front of him, someone was moaning, "Crotch, crotch, crotch." Grabbing his canteen, Mike rinsed out his mouth and then started crawling toward the moans.

The casualties soon turned into statistics. Tony was dead. Three more, including Mike, would require a medevac. The immediate danger of an ambush was over. Now the wounded needed moving to a flat, open spot for quick loading onto the “dustoff” helicopters.

Somebody linked Mike up with "Cowboy" Thompson. The low-key, reliable fire team leader had gotten his right leg messed up. "Cowboy" could see, but couldn't walk. Mike could walk, but not see. The lame soldier and the blind soldier linked arms and prepared to help one another down the hill.

"Helluva way to spend the day ain't it, Bear?"

Mike’s mind flashed on an image of Mary Beth Riser stretched out nude and luscious on the back seat of his old Chevy. In his pocket was the letter she'd just sent—the one with the photo of her leaning against the side of his car and looking at the camera with that little smile she reserved for him.

He was blind, had lost two buddies and the new guy. But for the moment, shock, and being a survivor, overwhelmed feelings of remorse and loss. Those would come later. Now, he struggled to handle the reality that he was alive and going home, back to peace, and life, and Mary Beth.

"Damn straight, Cowboy. Guess we’ve both had better days. But it could be worse. We’re beat-up, but still standing. What you say we catch the next dustoff out of here and head for home?"

As the two men began walking away from their war, a ragged version of "Homeward Bound" floated over the scrub brush, dirt, and newly filled body bags.

Happy Birthday, William Claude

2009-04-09T07:04:00.001-05:00

W. C. FIELDS

No doubt you've made plans to celebrate this great day in due and ancient form. For as I'm sure you know, on this memorable day back in 1880, the great W.C. Fields, thinly disgused as William Claude Dukenfield, first trod upon life's stage while, no doubt, bitching about the location being too close to Philly (Darby PA).

To celibrate this great day, here are ten pearls of Fieldsian wisdom and a YouTube clip

I am an expert of electricity. My father occupied the chair of applied electricity at the state prison.

I am free of all prejudices. I hate every one equally.

I cook with wine, sometimes I even add it to the food.

I drink therefore I am.

A woman drove me to drink and I didn't even have the decency to thank her.

Ah, the patter of little feet around the house. There's nothing like having a midget for a butler.

I like children - fried.

Don't worry about your heart, it will last you as long as you live.

Drown in a cold vat of whiskey? Death, where is thy sting?

Hell, I never vote for anybody, I always vote against.

"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wE_2uqCc_K4&feature=related"

Bayou Bill

A WEEK IN THE STUDENT NURSES' DORM

2009-03-31T12:35:00.010-05:00

http://www.tinypineapple.com/

A WEEK IN THE STUDENT NURSES' DORM
by Bill Fullerton

In the winter of 1971, Gwen Kaplan, a junior nursing student at the Hunter/Bellevue School of Nursing, faced the prospect of no social life. It was a radical change from a few months earlier when she found herself coping with the physical, moral, and emotional problems involved with having two men in her life.

Since then her four-year romance with Johnny DeAngelo had come to a dramatic, non-negotiable end, and the new man in her life, Mark, had been out of town for weeks. Not knowing when he’d be coming back made things even worse.

With nothing else to occupy her time, Gwen began concentrating on her studies. Back in high school, she had been a brilliant, straight A, honor student. In college however, she’d decided her goal was to become a nurse, not an honor student and had done little more than coast. While her grades were okay, for the first time in her life she had gotten a C in a couple of courses.

The main challenge this semester was the much dreaded, Pharmacology course. “I’m not believing we’ve got over 300 drugs and all that other crap to memorize,” complained Ann. The outspoken black militant suffered few things quietly. She and Gwen were sitting with two other friends in a big, overheated lecture hall waiting for their Public Health instructor who, it being Monday, was late.

“I thought I might have a jump on a few, but hash, acid, and grass aren’t on the list,” said Sue. Everyone looked at her in surprise. It was the first thing the group’s token hippie had joked since a major break-up with her latest boyfriend.

“Keep the faith, child,” said Ann. “I understand the list does have some uppers and downers.”

The instructor scurried in and began hastily laying out his papers. Robin leaned over a whispered to Gwen. “Do you think he’ll say it today?”

“Probably,” said Gwen, who had just finished glancing over her notes from the last lecture.

“I’ll bet you a Coke he doesn’t,” said the blue-eyed, blonde feminist. Back during the second week of the semester, she’d noticed their instructor, who had a slight speech impediment, recited his favorite principle of public health nursing at practically every lecture.

“You’re on,” said Gwen. “But why do you think he won’t say it today?”

“It’s Monday,” answered Robin with an air of self-assurance. “He doesn’t say it on Mondays or when he’s late.”

“Now ladies,” said the thin, courtly black man, “as I’ve told you before, in public health nursing, clean-zee-ness is next to God-zee-ness.”

“Shit. Can’t count on any man. I’ll get you that Coke after supper,” grumbled Robin.

“Make it a Tab, if you please.”

That evening, Gwen paused to sip on her victory Tab while the other residents on her floor in the nurse’s dorm continued pulling off the hall’s old, faded, floral print, wallpaper. “Who started this, anyway?” asked Robin, busy yanking down a long sheet of industrial green paper.

“I don’t know, but I’m grateful,” said Ann. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the first day I laid eyes on this depressing crap.”

Gwen sat down her bottle and rejoined the pulling party. “Do you think we’ll get in trouble?”

“What are they going to do?” replied Sue, as she attacked a section of the wall with a furious intensity. “They can’t throw everyone on the floor out of school.”

A few minutes later, the last of the old wallpaper was gone. After stuffing the shredded remnants into several laundry carts, four intrepid nursing students slipped it past an unsuspecting Eagle Eye Eastland, guarding nurse of the reception area and then out of the dorm.

The next morning, those same four wallpaper smugglers faced cold winds, freezing rain mixed with snow and, even worse, their psychology clinical lab.

Bellevue Hospital is a long collection of buildings stretching for blocks along 1st Avenue. Their dorm and most of the classrooms were located at the south end of the complex. Many blocks away, way up in the northern most reaches, was the institution’s famous psych unit. That’s where they were now supposed to go for the clinical portion of Psychiatric Nursing.

“Look folks, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m taking the tunnel,” announced Gwen. They were huddled together in the dorm’s lobby, looking out the glass doors at the miserable weather. “There’s just no way I’m going to walk all the way to 30th Street in this stuff.”

“Well, there’s no way in hell I’m ever going back down in that creepy tunnel!” shot back Ann. This emphatic response surprised no one. Ever since she’d encountered something furry while walking alone in the tunnel, Ann had hated the place.

Everyone could sympathize with Ann’s hostile attitude. The tunnel in question was an underground corridor running the length of the hospital. Built years earlier, it let students and employees move around quickly while staying out of the weather. While convenient, it was dark, damp, spooky and had dim, mysterious recesses where small, unidentified objects could be heard moving about.

Robin patted her friend on the back. “Come on, Ann. I don’t like that place either, but it beats going out in this crappy weather. Maybe we can try memorizing a few more drugs on the way over. Just think of it as one horror replacing another.”

Ann stared out at the late winter storm, apparently trying to will it into a warm, sunny day. Failing that, she accepted her fate. “Okay, I’ll go. Just don’t anyone tell me when they spot a rat.”

Their pharmacology mid-term was scheduled for Friday. The night before the exam, everyone convened in her room for a final try at coming to grips with over 300 pharmacology terms. Robin acted as chief inquisitor. “Okay Sue, here’s a toughie. Give me the low down on E.P.S..”

“Oh, that’s easy,” smiled Sue. “E.P.S. stands for extra pyramidal syndrome. Its symptoms are: Parkinson like tremors, pill-rolling finger movements, a mask-like face, shuffling gait, and rigidity.”

Silence followed as Robin, Gwen, and Ann stared at her in amazement. “This is unreal,” said Robin. “Let’s try another. Let’s see, if you got E.P.S. then Thorazine should be a snap.”

There was a blank look on Sue’s face. “Come on girl,” prodded Ann, “every freak on the lower East Side knows about Thorazine.”

“Guess that proves I’m no freak,” replied Sue, with an embarrassed smile.

“How can you handle something as weird as E.P.S. and not know an everyday drug like Thorazine?” demanded Robin.

“Easy,” said Sue. “I dated a guy once who had all the E.P.S. symptoms.”

The unexpected sound of someone yelling came through the open window, halting their laughter. In one day, the weather had turned from late winter to early spring. Unfortunately, the dorm’s heating system hadn’t caught up with the new climatic reality. As a result, everyone had their windows open trying to cool off the overheated rooms.

Ann stuck her head out the window as an unseen student shouted, “Pharmacology sucks!”

Ann’s response was immediate and instinctive. “Screw Pharmacology!”

By now, Gwen, Robin, Sue and everyone else in the dorm were craning their heads out of windows. Others were soon echoing the first cries of frustration. Within seconds, the entire dorm was screaming in protest at the mindless memorization and constant academic pressure. After days of endless cramming, the dorm was experiencing a collective explosion of pent-up frustration.

Gwen looked across at the VA hospital and saw patients standing inside their sealed windows, waving and giving them the peace sign and black power salute. “Hey, Ann,” she shouted, “the vets are on our side.”

After a few minutes, the shouting began to taper off. Several floors below, a lone figure walked out into the dimly lighted, run-down courtyard which separated the dorm from 23rd Street. Although she was a long way off and the lighting was bad, everyone recognized Eagle Eyes Eastland.

The noise dropped several more decibels as Eagle Eyes removed her stiff, white, nurse’s cap. Then she looked up at the boisterous student nurses and proclaimed, “I’ve removed my cap, my symbol of dignity as a nurse, before talking to you because your behavior is undignified, unladylike, and unprofessional.

“Please try to restrain yourself, if not out of self-respect, then out of consideration for those few of you who may actually be trying to study.”

After one last, disapproving stare, she carefully replaced her cap and walked back into the dorm. Some die-hards began singing, “Ding-Dong the witch is dead,” but the energy which had fueled the spontaneous outburst had vanished. After a few more half-hearted shouts, heads began to disappear from the windows as everyone returned to mid-term cramming.

None of the students knew it, but they’d just seen the last stand of the old order. Next year, Eagle Eyes Eastland would have a new assignment with her place at the front desk taken by student workers. Their job would be to monitor the arrival of male visitors going to the previously sacrosanct upper floors of the student nurses dorm.

For the first time in school history, students would be able to have anyone they chose, including boyfriends, in their small, private, rooms.

By the end of Gwen’s senior year, hostility between students and those running the school mirrored that in colleges all over the country. No member of the administration would be invited to attend, much less participate in, the various graduation ceremonies marking the transition from student to nurse.

But this evening the students’ immediate concern was Pharmacology, not social or academic change. They’d be up all night cramming. As Gwen reached for her worn note cards, she allowed herself a brief moment to wonder what Mark was doing.

MOONLIGHT REVELATION

2009-03-24T00:45:00.005-05:00

Just in case some agent or editor happens by, looking for the next best-seller, this is taken from a scene in my secone novel, We Dance To Ray Charles.

MOONLIGHT REVELATION

by Bill Fullerton

Naked and a bit self-conscious, Mark stood waist-deep in the lake’s cool water, watching through the last ray’s of twilight as Amy began unsnapping her jeans. “Okay you clowns,” she yelled, “I don’t care how long we’ve known each other, y’all turn around till I get in the water."

It was an unnecessary gesture towards modesty. With clouds hiding the full moon, the only light came from the campfire she stood in front of while hesitantly undressing. All anyone could see was her silhouette.

The request triggered an irreverent round of boo's, whistles, and cries of, "Take it off. Take it off." A voice cut through the din. "Come on, Sis. Don't play shy just because you're the scrawniest person here."

"Walt Marshall, you'll pay for that!" Amy turned her back to them, shucked off the jeans, and began tugging at her sweatshirt. In Mark's opinion, that silhouette in the firelight looked anything but scrawny. Maybe it had been back in junior high, but not now. Scrawny girls didn't become homecoming queens and fraternity sweethearts. Still, count on Walt to come up with the perfect line to get his kid sister moving.

Once she joined them, there was a lot of horseplay, even a short-lived football game featuring an old sneaker Willie found on the shore, but very little swimming. During a lull in the action, Amy suggested Mark "toss" her, an acrobatic stunt that would involve him heaving her straight up out of the water. If done right, she'd have time to arch forward and re-enter in a controlled dive. They'd done this many times in the past, but never in the dark—much less while skinny-dipping.

"Are you sure?" Mark was both surprised and a little dubious.

"Of course, I'm sure." She moved so close he could see her familiar, teasing smile, and notice the top of her pale breasts just breaking the surface of the dark water. "Come on. It'll be fun."

When everyone else began urging them to give it a try, he agreed. "All right. But you guys aren't fooling me. All y'all want is to get my head under water."

He took Amy's hand and helped her move into position standing in front of him, facing away. The dark water lapped at her bare shoulders. When he asked, "You ready?" she nodded.

After positioning his hands on Amy’s waist, Mark exhaled to offset his body's natural buoyancy and then began pushing his way down toward a squatting position at her feet. To reach that goal, he had to use her body to help propel and guide his descent. As his hands slid over her hips and his body brushed against her skin, Mark found himself struggling to ignore the feel of that warm, silky, and very naked flesh.

Once in position, he tapped on her feet, the signal for her to rise up on tiptoe so he could cup a heel in each hand. When everything was in place, he shifted forward slightly and she leaned back against his shoulder, letting him know she was ready.

That's when Mark lost his struggle. The touch of her thighs on his chest, the smooth contour of her hip nestling against the side of his face, and the incredible sensation of her bottom resting lightly on his shoulder; it was all more than he could ignore. An excited churning began in his stomach and a dizzy confusion filled his skull. His mind wouldn't work. His body couldn't move.

Amy twitched her legs as a reminder she was ready, but he couldn't respond. It took oxygen deprivation to break the spell. Almost out of air, he began propelling her upward. But the long pause had gotten them out of synch. A knee buckled, a hand, or was it a foot, slipped and while only halfway out of the water, Amy began falling awkwardly back into the lake.

Once the choking and gasping ended, neither of them got any sympathy from the onlookers. "That has to be the most pathetic excuse for a toss I've ever seen," said Willie, his voice thick with feigned disgust.

"Yep, that was pretty sad, you two," agreed Frank.

"You two nothing, it was all his fault." Amy pointed an accusing finger at Mark. "He even looks guilty."

It'd become so dark she was the only one close enough to make out his expression. But Amy was wrong. The look on Mark's face had nothing to do with guilt. Its source was a storm of other emotions so strong and unsettling he could barely breath. It wasn't easy, but he managed to croak, "I'm innocent. And I must have swallowed at least half the lake."

Amy drifted closer and put a hand on his shoulder. "You poor thing." She leaned close, giving him a wink that belied her teasing tone. "Do you need help? What about some mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? I think Frank got a merit badge in first aide. Would you like for him to come help?"

"Nothing personal," said Frank, "but if I've got to give him mouth-to mouth, I say let nature take it's course."

This strong show of compassion continued until Walt broke in. "I can't stand it. I promised myself I wouldn't do this. But seeing what a shambles you and Mark made of things, I'm wondering if you want to try that overhand toss we used to do?"

The overhand was tougher to pull off. The thrower had to squat with his hands held shoulder high like a weight lifter about to thrust a barbell over his head. This made it harder for the person being tossed to keep their balance. But since the thrower could extend their arms straight up during the toss, if everything worked just right, the results could be a high and spectacular ascent.

Everyone but Mark agreed he was unfit for duty. After a feeble protest, he moved out of the way so Willie and Frank could get into position on either side of Amy.

The clouds that had promised, but again failed, to deliver any rain were breaking up. Bright moonlight now bathed the lake. This made it easy for Mark to watch as, after a good deal of talk and shuffling about, Walt disappeared beneath the surface. A moment later, Amy went soaring into the warm, night sky.

It was a high, absolutely perfect toss. The spray covering Willie, Frank, and Walt partially blocked their view. Mark was the only one who saw all of Amy's moonlight flight, and he was transfixed.

Whenever he remembered the event, it was in slow motion. The sight of her wet, nude, nymph-like body soaring gracefully above the lake was beautiful, and erotic, and devastating.

The emotions still battering him instantly coalesced into a total and all-consuming love for Amy Marshall. Since that levee party last spring when, both a little drunk, they began to kiss, he'd fought against being in love with her. Before tonight, he thought he might be winning. Now he knew better. He'd lost--big time.

But a guy like him didn't stand a chance with a beautiful girl like Amy. Making a move on her was doomed, and their life-long friendship would never be the same.

Mesmerized, he watched the graceful, moonlit form arch slowly and then begin heading back toward the lake. As it sliced through the smooth surface, Mark knew he was in trouble. He could have someone else, the girl he always thought he wanted. But now and forever he was in love with Amy Marshall, the girl who’d always been his friend, the girl he could never have.

Or could he?

THE PROPOSITION

2009-03-12T19:49:00.011-05:00

This very short story (1000 words) is adapted from a scene in my first novel, the still to be discovered and published, A BRIEF AFFAIR.

Bayou Bill

==

THE PROPOSITION
by Bill Fullerton

In Mark Malone’s considered opinion, things could be a helluva lot worse. It was a beautiful, early fall day in New York. He’d gotten out of the VA hospital and now sat in a coffee shop on Lexington Avenue staring across the table at Gwen Davis. The third-year nursing student at nearby Bellevue seemed to be talking about school. This is damn tough duty, he thought, but someone’s got to do it.

With just a touch of autumn crispness in the air, Gwen had on a long sleeved, burgundy turtleneck with a navy-blue vest and matching mini-skirt. Mark didn't know fashion, but knew what he liked, and he liked what he saw—a lot.

There was something special about her today, something he could sense, but not identify. Not only did Gwen look good, she seemed brighter, happier and, if possible, even more desirable.

Since they met back during the summer, she’d become a regular visitor to his room. Whenever possible, they'd leave the hospital. She’d always made it clear, however, that to keep both her family and Johnny, her long-time fiancé, happy, she needed to spend time home almost every weekend. This often resulted in serious schedule juggling.

Well, I hope she thinks it's worth the strain, he thought, while half-listening to Gwen's complaints. After days of hospital boredom, he liked going out with her and splurging on a good time, something she also seemed to enjoy.

Last week, she’d warned him a major exam in Medical-Surgical nursing was coming on Monday and she had to put in some serious book time. A special study group would meet Sunday night in the dorm. She promised to try and get back early enough so they could go out for a few hours.

While Mark admitted to being disappointed he said that, having battled higher education for three years before volunteering for Vietnam, he understood. To his relief, she’d managed to come back in time for them to catch the new Mel Brooks film. Now they were in a small booth at Milton’s Coffee Shop near her dorm eating hamburgers and talking.

"Are you listening to me?” She gave him a look of tolerant exasperation.

"Not really. I do believe you were in the middle of a major rant and rave about the idiocy of one of your teachers, but don't press me for details."

She nodded. "So if you weren't paying rapt attention to my every word, what were you doing?"

"To tell the truth, I was thinking how great you look today, and how I'm glad you got back in time for us to go out, and how much I wish you didn't have that damn test tomorrow."

"Why, thank you." Gwen seemed both pleased and surprised by the unexpected compliment. "I'm really sorry about the test. Believe me, I'd much rather be spending the evening with you than with a study group."

"I think that's what they call a back-handed compliment. But I'll take whatever compliments I can get."

They both laughed. "Who knows,” he said, “maybe it's a good thing you're busy. You look so good today, you might run the risk of me trying to seduce you."

Gwen’s enticing brown eyes studied him until, in a calm, almost matter-of-fact voice, she said, "Well, if you want to do something like that, you'll have to ask."

Mark sat dumbfounded. He had been joking, well, maybe half-joking. It was supposed to be one of those things you said to a girl to let her know you wanted to make love with her without having to come right out and say so.

According to the small town, southern script he’d always followed, the boy asked. The girl then ignored the remark, acted insulted, or smiled coyly while shaking her head, hinting that while not now, maybe someday.

For whatever reason, this girl hadn't followed that time-honored script. Instead, she’d all but dared him to proposition her.

Over the past few months they’d gotten into some heavy make-out sessions, but nothing more. After all, she was the proverbial nice Jewish girl from Queens, and engaged. Making out with a beat-up vet you liked and felt sorry for might be okay, but nothing more. Now this.

Wish I understood what the hell’s happening, he thought. But if this is how they do things up here in the big city, I'll try to go along with the program.

With Gwen’s gaze still boring into him, Mark stammered, "Sure. Well then, uh, so how about it? I mean, would you like to, you know, spend the night with me, some weekend?"

To his astonishment, he heard her say, "All right. But what were you thinking about in terms of when and where?"

It all seemed a bit unreal. After practically inviting him to ask, Gwen had said, yes, and now wanted to know when and where.

"As soon as possible, of course," he said, rushing his words. He paused, smiled at his own nervousness, then continued in a more normal voice. "But as I may have mentioned, I'm a stranger here myself. I've got no idea about the where part."

For just a moment, she seemed to analyze the situation. "Next weekend should be okay. Johnny's going out of town with his mother, so there’ll only be my parents to worry about. And I think my friend Sue once stayed in a hotel around here with one of her boyfriends."

"I’ll try to check on the hotel with her tonight. But for now, the Fundamentals of Medical-Surgical Nursing calls. If I don't get back to the dorm and hit the books, I'll be an ex-nursing student."

Mark took the hint, stood, and then watched as Gwen collected her purse and slid out of the booth, the movement revealing most of her long, shapely legs. It might still be a beautiful, early fall day in New York, but in his considered opinion, things had somehow just gotten a helluva lot better.

LEON BARMORE: the coach keeps on coaching

2009-03-06T08:36:00.007-06:00

Leon Barmore with my daughter Betsy and me after the game.

This is a feature I wrote for the current edition of the Morning Paper of Ruston, La. in exchange for publisher John Hays providing a press pass along with some extra tickets to the game. The target audience live in and around Ruston, the home of La. Tech University, and are familiar with the school's storied womens basketball program, The Lady Techsters, and former head coach, Leon Barmoer, the subject of this piece.

Bayou Bill

==

SATURDAY WITH LEON BARMORE
by Bill Fullerton

For just a moment, it seemed like old times. With 2:30 left in the game, Leon Barmore’s nationally ranked team had lost its best player and seen the University of Texas Lady Longhorns whittle a 16-point lead down to three. The Texas fans at UT’s Ewing Center were noisy and excited, sensing their team was on the brink of taking the lead. It was time for a time-out.

Trademark scowl in place, Barmore stepped into the huddle and spoke to the tired players with his familiar intensity. The man who had a 7-0 coaching record against the Lady Longhorns in their own gym, did not want to leave town with 7-1 record.

Then the moment passed. Barmore stepped out of the huddle and, Kim Mulkey, no longer his assistant at Louisiana Tech, but now head coach at Baylor University, took his place. Whatever they said must have worked. The fifth-ranked Lady Bears held off the Texas charge to record a hard-earned nine-point victory.

For long-time Lady Techster fans, the sight of Leon Barmore sitting passively on the bench with the other Baylor assistants while Mulkey squats in front of him directing on-court play is disconcerting. It’s as if Jerry Rice had starting throwing passes to Steve Young or Joe (not Hannah) Montana.

It just don’t seem right.

After all, this is THE Leon Barmore, the hall of fame member who served as head women’s basketball coach at Louisiana Tech from 1985 to 2002 -- retired with a .869 winning percentage, the best in women's basketball history -- led Tech to 20 straight winning seasons, including 13 with 30-plus wins -- coached the Lady Techsters to 20 consecutive NCAA Tournaments, nine Final Fours, five national championship games and the 1988 national title.

Now the same man sits on the Baylor bench, seldom standing or gesturing, apparently saying little, and remaining on the fringes of team huddles. That was the pattern Saturday afternoon until a second half scuffle for the ball had him jumping to his feet and yelling at the officials. Nobody picks on Barmore’s players. Then with 2:30 left in the game, he said something to the team during that fateful time-out.

After the game, Kim Mulkey moved through the throng outside the coaches lounge, looking every inch the harried head coach who, with the Big-12 tourney looming, had just lost her best player for the rest of the year. Moments later, Leon Barmore stepped out into the hallway with the relaxed, pleased look of someone who’d just finished an unusually good round of golf.

Barmore, who has been a basketball player or coach all his life, clearly missed the competition, but not the stress. Now he has the best of both worlds. “I’m having fun,” he said, “but I wouldn’t want to do this full-time. (Barmore’s contract runs from October to April).

The job lets him stay around the game he loves while doing sometime he excelled at, coaching, and he gets to socialize. Amid the post-game bustle, he bumped into former Texas head coach, Jody Conradt. The two long-time combatants, both with national titles to their credit, chatted companionably like two former neighbors who’d just met in a busy airport.

The man who dislikes flying has even learned the joys of chartered flights. “We go to the airport in Waco, and 55-minutes later, we’re in Lubbock.”

Talk of basketball and grandchildren stops when the mother of the Lady Bears’ point guard walks past. Barmore introduces her and asks if she’d mind taking a picture. Nothing would please her more. There are smiles, a flash, a round of thank-you’s and congratulations on her daughter’s play.

Leon Barmore has posed for many such photographs over the years. This time, his smile is that of a man who’s having fun, and an old coach who just saw his record against Texas on their home court go to 8-0.

THAT LITTLE TALK - flash fiction

2009-02-11T17:03:00.006-06:00

The many areas in which I lack anything resembling demostrated competence includes writing flash (short) fiction. I've manged to crank out a few that come in under 1000 words. The story now before you, however, is my first attempt at the oft challenged but seldom mastered 100 word barrier. As always, your comments, whether they be brickbats or bouquets, will be appreciated.

Bayou Bill

==

THAT LITTLE TALK
by Bill Fullerton

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

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

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

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

“I see. Now when do you start work?”

THAT'S THE SPIRIT - a seasonal short story

2008-12-19T23:59:00.007-06:00

What follows is the product of some modification to an adaptation. Make sense? Else where in this blog, intrepid readers will find, The Seducers. That was a 1600 word adaptation of a scene from my second novel, We Danced to Ray Charles.

When the challenge went out from Celina Summers http://shootthemuse.bravehost.com/ one of the regulars at Absolute Write http://absolutewrite.com/ to come up with a seasonal poem or story under 1000 words, I responded by "adjusting" the time frame from summer to winter and deleting about a third of the original story. A few other modifications were also made, but those were the two biggies.

The next toughest part was finding a new image. The face and pose of the model in the one that appears at the beginning of, The Seducers, is perfect. But she's wearing short short, in fact, very short shorts, and a halter top. Having, as I do, just a touch of OCD, that hot-weather ensemble struck me as strecthing the bounds, not only of reality, but even of verisimilitude. So I searched the great information highway until I found the one above.

Hope y'all approve.

As always, any comments, whether they be in the form of bouquets or brickbats, will be appreciated.

Bayou Bill

==

THAT’S THE SPIRIT
by Bill Fullerton

Velma Meeks sat enthroned at one end of the worn couch in her haphazardly furnished living room. In the far corner, a small, artificial Christmas tree flickered alone and unobserved.

She lit a fresh cigarette with her old one, made a token attempt at crushing the butt, then left the still smoldering stub in the overflowing ashtray. After a deep drag, she leaned back and blew out a long, contended stream of smoke. Smoking chores completed, she propped her bare feet on the crowded coffee table and waited for her friend to come back from the kitchen.

Waiting in silence, however, was not her style. The thirty-something bottled-blonde looked around at the empty doorway to the kitchen. "You know it's hard for me to believe you're this messed-up. You've always been so self-confident. Now, it's like you don't know whether to fish or cut bait."

Bebe Boudreaux, the petite object of many local male fantasies, came back from the tiny kitchen carrying a bottle of Tab. "It's not that bad, really. I've just got this feeling, call it a hunch, that something's not right and I don't know why or what to do about it."

She reclaimed her spot at the other end of the sofa. "The thing is, Mark and I went out a couple of times last weekend. One was a real date. The next day we did some Christmas shopping at the mall. Both times he seemed, well, sort of distracted. Like, it was nice to be with me, but no big deal, either."

"You think maybe he's just jealous and pouting because you went out with Darrell Ray the week before?"

Bebe shrugged and reached for her own cigarettes. "Could be. That's what I'd hoped for. This casual dating is getting old. But now I'm not sure. I mean he never even asked what I did while he was gone. At first, I figured somebody had told him about my dating Darrell Ray and, like you said, he was pouting. But now, I'm beginning to think he just doesn't care."

“I doubt it." Velma leaned forward and inspected the second coat of bright red polish she’d just applied to her toenails. "Maybe he's just trying to act cool."

The women smoked and pondered the situation in silence until Velma started rummaging through the clutter on the coffee table. "Have you seen my nail file?" She paused and looked over at Bebe. "You know, I just had a thought. You think it might be something that happened during the date?"

Bebe picked the file off the floor and handed it over. "Well, I might have carried on more than usual, you know, showing how much I'd missed him and all, doing a lot of the talking, trying to act like I was interested in that fancy ball. Other than that, nothing.”

“You told me his old buddy, Amy, was also there. The two of you aren’t exactly best friends. You think she might have put a move on him herself just to spite you?"

"Maybe. Who knows? With someone like Miss Society, anything, and I do mean, anything, is possible."

“Speaking of anything,” said Velma, “I take it you and Mark still haven't done the dirty deed?"

"No, not yet. The timing’s never felt right.” Bebe tried to act nonchalant. "You don’t think I went out with Darrell Ray just to make Mark jealous, do you?"

They both giggled. "Well, honey, maybe old Mark’s getting tired of waiting for some action. Look, even if that's not the main problem, I promise you, give him a little lovin' for Christmas and you’ll get his undivided attention."

Bebe grinned. "I would hope so."

"The trick is," continued Velma, "to act just a little confused and vulnerable afterward, like it was so incredible you’re all shook up. Say you never 'felt' like this before. It's a sneaky little way of suggesting that, even if there might have been one or two others, he's the best."

Down at the other end of the couch, Bebe pretended to take notes. "Act confused and say, 'felt.' Is that right, Professor Meeks?"

"You got it, girl. That way he'll get all full of himself and want to be your knight in shining armor and go around saving your honor—for himself, of course. Once he's your big, brave protector, you say something about Darrell Ray, and then start reeling old Mark in."

"Velma, you won't do. Does any guy ever have a chance around you?"

"Not if I have my way, honey. They never have and never will. Just ask my poor husband."

"So you think it's time I let Mr. Mark have that special present he’s been wanting?"

"A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. And just between you and me and the walls, some girls say it’s kinda fun."

Bebe laughed, then checked her watch and stood. "I've gotta scoot. But do you remember that joke you said you told Buddy, about how you were giving up sex because it was too messy, too much work, and the positions were ridiculous?"

"Oh, yeah. I had him going for a minute. You should've seen his face."

"Well, to tell you the truth, that's pretty much how I really do feel. I love everything leading up to it. You know, the flirting and the dates and making-out. And there are times when I do get a little turned-on and really want the guy. But most of the time, well, you know. Still, I suppose if it has to be done, it has to be done."

"That's the spirit.”

"Because I promise you," continued Bebe, in a voice that left no doubt about her sincerity, "there's no way in hell that damn Amy Marshall is going to keep me from marrying her best friend."

WHERE WERE YOU?

2008-11-10T10:51:00.004-06:00

Stump Speaking
Former La. Gov. Earl K. Long

This is a more-or-less faithful retelling of the great “Date Debate” that occurred during a race for the Louisiana House of Representatives back in the fall of 1951. However, due warning is hereby given that being as how the story involves politics in my home state, no claim is made, either explicit or implied, as to whether “more” or “less” predominates.

A much sharper looking version of this piece is currently appearing in USADeepSouth. http://www.usadeepsouth.com/ Check out the site. You'll find a lot of southern oriented writing including poetry, fiction, non-fiction, memoir, and some that sorta fits kinda in-between those categories somewhere or other.

Bayou Bill

==

WHERE WERE YOU?
by Bill Fullerton

It’s no secret that politics ranks second only to football as Louisiana’s favorite sport. This was especially true in the years after World War II when populist Democrat “Uncle” Earl Long seemed to move in and out of the Governor’s Mansion on a four-year rotation. With each parish (county) having at least one member of the House of Representative (Senate districts were, theoretically, based on population) there was a nice farm system for those who wanted into the game.

Two such men faced off in the second primary of the race for the house seat from bucolic Grant Parish that fall. W. T. “Brandy” McCain, who’d served in the house from 1940-48, wanted the job back. W. L. “Willard” Rambo, related to the politically powerful Long family by marriage, opposed him.

Back in those days, campaigning consisted of going door-to-door, showing up at any event where three or more voters might gather, the usual deal making, and a lot of “stump speaking.” The only available “mass media” in that rural area of north Louisiana was the local weekly paper, The Colfax Chronicle, which came out each Thursday. About a month before the election, at the bottom of the standard full-page ad extolling Willard Rambo’s candidacy, was a simple question: “Brandy McCain, where were you the night of…”followed by an otherwise insignificant date a few years previous.

The exact date used in the ad is lost to the ages, or the Chronicles’ archives. That’s okay because the exact date wasn’t important. The important thing was McCain having no idea what he’d been doing back then.

Next week, the Rambo ad concluded with a note asking McCain who he’d been with that night. By now, just about everyone in the parish was considering possible answers. After all, McCain had been in the state legislature back then. No telling what he’d been doing.

This put McCain in a bind. Any response would be a week late and might focus even more attention on the issue. For the rest of the campaign he tried, with uneven results, to deal with his inability to answer the weekly questions.

The next question, “Brandy McCain, just what were you doing on the night of…?” kept folks talking, not about the McCain campaign, but about what he might have done years earlier.

By election day, voters went to the polls still unsure where McCain had been that night, or what he’d been doing, or who he’d been doing it with, or why he wouldn’t say. Rambo won.

A few months later, the two men, who while not close friends, were long-time acquaintances, ran into one another at a watering hole on the road to Baton Rouge. After the usual exchange of family news, local gossip and talk about politics, McCain asked Rambo the obvious question, “Willard, what the hell was I doing that night? My wife’s still giving me funny looks.”

It’s reported, though not verified, that Rambo grinned, picked up the check, and said, “Brandy, if you don’t know, how the hell do you expect me to? I’ve no earthly idea. My wife thought those questions might stir things up a bit. As usual, Mary Alice was right.”

note: Since posting this piece, I've come across a Wikipedia article about Willard Rambo. It's well-done and informative. Here's the link: http://http//en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._L._Rambo

another note: An e-mail arrived yesterday from Jim Brown who served as Lousiana's Sec. of State, Insurance Commissioner, and member of the State Senate (not at the same time). To folks outside the state, he's probably best known as the father of CNN's Campbell Brown. He said he'd enjoyed this piece and asked if I'd add a link to his site. http://http//www.jimbrownla.com/blog/index.php I was, of course, just a tad puffed up by this notice and more than happy to oblige.

And the Ceiling Came Tumbling Down

2008-11-03T11:52:00.000-06:00

AND THE CEILING CAME TUMBLING DOWN
by Bill Fullerton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bayou Bill

THE WAY WE WEREN'T: a rumination

2008-09-22T15:30:00.000-05:00

Hayden Penettiere stars as Claire Bennet,

a high school cheerleader with self-healing powers,

in the TV series, Heroes.

Can it be that it was all so simple then
Or has time rewritten every line
If we had the chance to do it all again
Tell me - would we? could we?

Those lines by Marvin Hamlisch from, The Way We Were, got me to thinking about the past and some of the things I regret doing and others I wish I'd done. My ruminations lead to this.

THE WAY WE WEREN’T
by Bill Fullerton

While no BMOC, I enjoyed high school. Having gone to college the summer before my senior year on a special program, I knew high school was a sweet deal and did my best to savor every day of my senior year.

With an enrollment that always hovered around 300 (1-12) my school was so small I got to do things, such as play basketball and serve as photographer on the yearbook staff, which my very low skill level would have prohibited at a bigger place.

That’s not to say I don’t regret some of the things I did while there and kick myself over others I didn’t do. What follows is one of the latter.

You see, there was this short, cute, blonde cheerleader in my class who I’d had a crush on since, oh, the fourth grade. We were juniors when our parents received invitations to the inaugural ball for the state’s new governor. Hers couldn’t go; mine could and invited her to come with us. Us, in this case, included me.

The bottom line was I had something very much like a real date all lined up, finally, with my long-time heartthrob. And not just any date. It would involve a formal dance followed by a three-hour drive back home, at night, with my parents in the front seat and the two of us alone in the dark backseat. Oh, be still my beating heart.

Then came the proverbial hitch in the get-along. I beat on the bass drum in the school band. No problem with that, until bad weather postponed the winter concert to the night of the inaugural ball. The director said I had an obligation to the band and that since I’d missed a similar concert the year before (it wasn’t my fault, honest), if I was a no-show for this one, he’d toss me out of the band.

I did feel a bit guilty at the thought of skipping the concert, and I did like playing in the band. But I also wanted to "letter" in four different areas. My school gave letters for basketball, track, winning state in the yearly scholastic competition (we called it, Literary Rally) and for participating in band. No one had ever lettered in all four, and I was on track to do just that. But no band, no fourth letter.

So for all those reasons, I caved in to the band director’s pressure. If I ever had any hopes concerning the cute cheerleader, which is doubtful, they ceased to exist.

In hindsight, I’m certain skipping the concert and going to the ball with the cheerleader would have changed nothing. We were, and continue to be, good friends who still have our original spouses. But I've a strong hunch spending that evening with her, instead of a fool bass drum, would have been much more memorable and, for me at least, a lot more fun.

THE DANCERS - chap one

2008-07-24T07:36:00.000-05:00

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

Bayou Bill

THE DANCERS
by Bill Fullerton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bum Back Bilge Call

2008-06-11T15:50:00.003-05:00

Greetings, World.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(drum-roll)

The virgin, surgeon, Sturgeon.

(rim-shot)

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

Bayou Bill

New Fiction Blogs: Dr. Dave's Diagnosis (update)

2008-03-18T21:00:00.000-05:00

UPDATE
Feb 25 - March 13

Dr. Dave parachuted into the Short Story Library from North Stafforshire, England, a few weeks ago with the following introduction:

As a battered parachutee from two other forums where things turned personal and crap, why am I registering with another?

Because I like the Short Story Library style?
Because a quick trawl of the forum found no obvious bitching?
So, I take the risk and announce my descent into this site!

I am an old (54) retired psychiatrist with an enlarged and sickly heart and probably an inflated belief in my literary abilities. I have been blogging fiction for a few years, all available from, HAMBO CENTRAL. I enjoy reading what others produce and I hope that someone, somewhere, finds mine stimulating.

dave

PS Be gentle to old people.

With his erudition, wit and breezy style, he fit right in and immediately became a regular.

What follows is a compilation the good(?) doctor has produced of new fiction blogs. Those wishing to read more of his work are advised to check out: http://www.blogcatalog.com/user/davehambo/reviews and/or become of member of Short Story Library so you can read his entries on the SSL forum.

While comments here are always welcome, those wishing to contact Dr. Dave directly to discuss, fuss, or cuss any of his observations can e-mail him at: hambo@doctors.org.uk

These are the two latests lists of Dr. Dave's new fiction blog reviews.

Bayou Bill

==

FEB 28 - MARCH 6

This weeks total of new fiction blogs on blogcatalog is 27, again 7 within the last 24 hours to Friday evening. As in previous summaries I highlight the following, because;

http://science-fiction-fantasy.com/blog.
This I really like!! A really colourful attention grabbing blogface that introduces us to the authors published sci-fi novel for young adults. BUT it also contains a very enjoyable and informative series of articles/links about sci-fi and fantasy literature in general. Well worth a look. 5 stars

http://dieneighbour.blogspot.com/
"The Wonderful Demise of Benjamin Arnold Guppy. A tale of blackmail, turnip tossing, and the cold-blooded murder of an incredibly irritating old man." SAYS THE AUTHOR

I am not fully persuaded of blogs that promote already (print) published work, but this blog is a notable exception. The blog face is very attractive and contains multi-media items (music and text). The other blogs maintained by this author are also very visually engaging and informative.
(At the risk of insulting the reader, you can find the other blogs listed by clicking on the 'view profile' link towards the top of the blog linking from here and down a bit in middle of page)
Well worth a look for creative ideas and stimulation. Says Dave 5 stars

http://laurajanecassidy.blogspot.com/
A right in your face blog with interesting content.
(Very old readers like me may need to fit sunglasses before going there, but go and have a look!)
Says Dave with 5 stars

http://nickhayden.digitalnovelists.com/
"A Girl Called Snort is the story of a young woman with a pig's head. No young woman wants to spend her life with a snout on her face, and so she starts into the unknown to find a way to break the curse that afflicts her. So begins her odyssey through strange lands with unusual companions, where having a pig's head might be the least of her worries." SO SAYS THE AUTHOR

Says dave with 5 stars
A very engaging blogface shielding a very easy to read fiction voice that considers a most unusual subject. Well worth a visit for creative ideas on how to do fiction blogs AND for the content.

http://gbmjr2flashy.blogspot.com/
"Welcome to my blog! In short, this blog will be the new home of my latest writing obsession, flash fiction. All the stories that you will see here, are only two pages in length. This is due to the fact that I first write these down on one sheet of notebook paper, before transcribing to my laptop. So sit back and relax, while I take about three minutes out your busy day, to amuse your senses and tickle your fancy." SAYS THE AUTHOR

SAYS DAVE with 4 stars
I thought I recognised the dog from cedars mountain.
http://cedarmountainnewengland.blogspot.com/
to which I gave a 4 star rating way back on 24 Dec 2008 and have followed regularly since, and much enjoyed. So, the auguries for this collection of flash fiction are very good. I'll return to check up on you!!

KUTGW wherever you are

dave

--

MARCH 7-13

Evening both, herewith this weeks selected goody bag.

The commended fiction blogs from blogcatalog this week are;

http://afictionalworld.blogspot.com/
An attractive blogface with the promise of above average fiction writing. KUTGW
SAYS DAVE WITH 4 STARS
--BTW If you want to know anything about big trucks, her blog at
http://18wheelbeauties.blogspot.com/
seems a good place to start.

http://lingoslinger.wordpress.com/
An eclectic collection of quirky, provocative, edgy, hip fiction and poetry. Selina writes fluid prose that cuts like a knife and often takes the reader where others don't go. Themes such as sex, death, relationships, family, addiction, and life are rampant. SAYS THE AUTHOR
SAYS DAVE WITH 5 STARS

This young (?) lady has been publishing internet fiction for very nearly 4 years folks. A mixture of short, rant and poetry that is well worth a look, as you would expect for someone who has kept going that long. Bloody well done, ma'am.

http://souldiaries.blogdrive.com/
This blog is dedicated to creative writing as a hobby. It is a library of short stories if you will for my own records but most of all for the reading pleasure of those in need of soul searching. In this day and time when technology has brought the world to within minutes of each other and where money now drives the world and its inhabitants; its nice to sometimes read and reflect on the everyday things that go unnoticed. SAYS THE AUTHOR

This I very much like; a crisp clean and unfussy blogface leading to some excellent short/flash fiction. I have follow-up by google reader. SAYS DAVE WITH 5 STARS

http://www.heathengrounds.com/
This is one of the few that I really like. A very engaging and personal blogface containing some very good poetry and short fiction. SAYS DAVE WITH 5 STARS

http://bookopaedia.blogspot.com/
Crisp clean face (in more ways than I usually mean) with some excellent poems and shorts. Try Tony the Tinkle if nothing else. Well worth a visit. SAYS DAVE WITH 5 STARS

until next week

KUTGW

dave

==

Last month I decided that one of my projects for 2009 would be to monitor every new fiction blog listed on blogcatalog. (No, not every new posting on every blog, there's over 1000 such blogs anyway.) So, I skimmed every blog in place in mid-December 2008 (which is how I found SSL) and then checked once a week on the newbies.

Conclusions after the first month of my labours?

1) There is some utter rubbish out there, BUT some very good stuff as well.

2) The initial blog face is critical to engaging the reader, as is font size in us oldies.

3) I go for different takes on the world (being an ex-shrink) so more traditional stuff may float past me.

Thus, may I commend the following 'enemy' blogs as worth a look;

http://cedarmountainnewengland.blogspot.com/

http://nomesquefiction.wordpress.com/

http://fabulabrevis.com/

http://sickdays.wordpress.com/

I have posted numerous other self-opinionated POV's at;

http://www.blogcatalog.com/user/davehambo/reviews

dave

==

JAN 21-FEB 05

In view of the zillions of positive comments (OK maybe half a dozen) about my previous post concerning new fiction blogs on blogcatalog, I take the liberty of reviewing the recent batch from 21 Jan to 5 February 2009.

I should make very clear that I am only looking at English language blogs with short story emphasis. If you want comments specifically on novels, let me know.

http://heloiseryder.blogspot.com/
rather basic blogface but hides some interesting work, IMHO

http://stareintospace.com/
engaging blogface with interesting contributions, doing since late 2006

http://www.thewritertoday.com/
breezy and fresh blogface with lots of gizmos, content interesting

http://peculiarimpartations.blogspot.com/
huge acres found for writings on, How done?

http://flightsoffiction.wordpress.com/
crisp and clean blogface with interesting short fiction

http://moderndayhero.blogspot.com/
too many ads but nice resource

http://austenprose.wordpress.com/
for the Jane Austen nuts amongst us

http://www.kristen-bailey.com/blog
usofa online publishing

http://nickjkirincic.wordpress.com/
needs to be read by UsofA scribblers only
been going since May 2008

http://jamesbowler.blogspot.com/
our very own SSLF

http://jenniferswriting.blogspot.com/
Christian fiction in all eras. Up and doing since May 2006. 5 star IMHO

http://alphonsuspeck.wordpress.com/
weird and wonderful

Please let me know if this gen is helpful or not.

dave

==

FEB 06-12

Believe it or not, there have been 31 new fiction blogs entered onto blogcatalog in the 7 days from 06 February 2009 to 12 February 2009, incl.

To make clear, I have checked the English language blogs with short story emphasis, and found;

http://mycoreheart.blogspot.com/
very feminine blog by a young lady from the philipines. Lots of links and interactive face. Worth a look. 4 stars.

http://gypsyscarlett.wordpress.com/
attractive blogface content covers writing especially of victorian gothic novel. If this is your thing, well worth a look 4 stars. Doing since July 2008.

http://collaborativewriters.blogspot.com/
A collaborative fiction writing scheme. May be of use to newbies to writing

http://belletrinsic.blogspot.com/
very different blog face, 5 stars for that alone Too early for content, will check back

Also by same author, same comments as above;
http://lunaisdrabbles.blogspot.com/

http://clayrndarrow.blogspot.com/
different blog face, 4 stars. content too early to say, will checkback

http://all-inked.blogspot.com/
Attractive blog face with an interesting voice in the fiction contained. Good start.

I am doing this as an exercise for my own ends; if it's too boring or irrelevant, someone have the heart and guts to tell me so!

dave

==

FEB 13-20

The new fiction blog total for 13 Feb to 20 Feb 2009 inclusive is 29, quite similar to last week. Those worth a look, IMHO are;

http://fateforge.net/
A rather different blog front face that I enjoyed. Content (fantasy writing) not for me, but will be spot on for others.

http://author-jamesross.blogspot.com/
What a different blog front face!
The golf content left me stone cold, but I am a heathen.
Some will enjoy I am sure

http://alittlebitofprose.blogspot.com/
This has much promise as a serial story. Shortish excerpts for those struggling with time, an original voice coming from an engaging blog face. I will follow through google reader.

Maybe the font needs to be slightly bigger but use your 'view' then 'text size' buttons if, like me, the eyes are fading with age!

http://talesofminglemist.blogspot.com/
A very good start, IMHO. Clean and engaging blog face, narrative is different. Worth a look. This seems to be a fantasy world for kids with goblins etc, neat!

==

This weeks total of new fiction blogs on blogcatalog is 27, again 7 within the last 24 hours to Friday evening. As in previous summaries I highlight the following, because;

http://science-fiction-fantasy.com/blog.

This I really like!! A really colourful attention grabbing blogface that introduces us to the authors published sci-fi novel for young adults. BUT it also contains a very enjoyable and informative series of articles/links about sci-fi and fantasy literature in general. Well worth a look. 5 stars

http://dieneighbour.blogspot.com/

The Wonderful Demise of Benjamin Arnold Guppy. A tale of blackmail, turnip tossing, and the cold-blooded murder of an incredibly irritating old man Says the author

I am not fully persuaded of blogs that promote already (print) published work, but this blog is a notable exception. The blog face is very attractive and contains multi-media items (music and text). The other blogs maintained by this author are also very visually engaging and informative.
(At the risk of insulting the reader, you can find the other blogs listed by clicking on the 'view profile' link towards the top of the blog linking from here and down a bit in middle of page)
Well worth a look for creative ideas and stimulation.
Says Dave 5 stars

http://laurajanecassidy.blogspot.com/

A right in your face blog with interesting content.
(Very old readers like me may need to fit sunglasses before going there, but go and have a look!)
Says Dave with 5 stars

http://nickhayden.digitalnovelists.com/

A Girl Called Snort is the story of a young woman with a pig's head. No young woman wants to spend her life with a snout on her face, and so she starts into the unknown to find a way to break the curse that afflicts her. So begins her odyssey through strange lands with unusual companions, where having a pig's head might be the least of her worries. SO SAYS THE AUTHOR

Says dave with 5 stars
A very engaging blogface shielding a very easy to read fiction voice that considers a most unusual subject. Well worth a visit for creative ideas on how to do fiction blogs AND for the content.

http://gbmjr2flashy.blogspot.com/

Welcome to my blog! In short, this blog will be the new home of my latest writing obsession, flash fiction. All the stories that you will see here, are only two pages in length. This is due to the fact that I first write these down on one sheet of notebook paper, before transcribing to my laptop. So sit back and relax, while I take about three minutes out your busy day, to amuse your senses and tickle your fancy. SAYS THE AUTHOR

SAYS DAVE with 4 stars
I thought I recognised the dog from cedars mountain.
http://cedarmountainnewengland.blogspot.com/
to which I gave a 4 star rating way back on 24 Dec 2008 and have followed regularly since, and much enjoyed. So, the auguries for this collection of flash fiction are very good. I'll return to check up on you!!

GENERAL COMMENT BY DR DAVEI seem to be highlighting about 5 new blogs each week, out of around 30 listed by the author themselves at blogcatalog as being 'fiction'. Am I being too selective?
This weeks categories by me, (and I ain't saying which in those I have not already highlighted) total;
adult or religious themes 4 (I avoid such for fear of retribution)
personal biography 2
no link available 4
self promotion of one's own work published elsewhere 3
totally average or utter b*%%*£>s 4 (2 in each FWIW)
about novels not shorter fiction formats 2
not in English language 3
which with the 5 detailed above makes 27 (the numbers add up!)

I shall monitor this every week and see what flowers!

KUTGW wherever you are

dave

--

Feb. 21-27

Here's the list of new fiction blogs for 21 February to 27 February 2009:

http://petsandauthors.blogspot.com/
Golden retriever interviews authors' pets (yep that's what the author says in her intro).
It's different in aim and content!

Well worth a look for ideas. Says dave with 4 stars

http://waltershumate.net/
This is a very interactive site with an attractive face, most interesting content, both short stories and serial novel by chapters.

Must have a look. Says dave with 5 stars

ELSEWHERE

http://webfictionguide.com/
This was passed to me by a 'friend' in Australia (thanks Naomi) and is a very interactive site, mostly for longer fiction, that links to zillions of participating blog sites. I have visited a few and there are some good presentation ideas on show. I will do a more detailed explore in the coming weeks and highlight any that grab me.

This list is very sparse compared to previous weeks, mainly because quite a lot of the new blogs are what I would call 'self promo blogs', folk pushing their own work published elsewhere, mostly in print of first novels. Also quite a few serial novels in hard to read blog-faces and type fonts; lesson for all there. Finally five not in English, one of which is textspeak and way beyond an OfaBOF.

Best

dave

--

PS The comments after each link are mine. For more blog bloviation, go to Dr. Dave's blogcatalog.com review page http://www.blogcatalog.com/user/davehambo/reviews.

END

An Evening With Bill and Pat Buckley

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

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

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

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

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

Bayou Bill

==

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANGIE'S ADVENTURES - short story

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

Buford the Beagle

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

Bayou Bill

==

Angie's Adventures: a cautionary tale
by Bill Fullerton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THUNK!

After-action damage assessment:

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

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

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

Are You Ready For Christmas?

2007-12-10T10:50:00.000-06:00

For a certain class of male, any form of shopping is a chore. Make that Christmas shopping and it becomes a severe challenge best avoided by the faint of heart. And if the prime directive is to produce a present is for the man's wife, it becomes a mission of near-Sisyphian impossibilty.

Newt Harlan, a classic Texas story-teller and writing buddy, has faced just such a challenge and survived, more or less intact. Here is his after-action report.

Bayou Bill

==

Are You Ready For Christmas?
by Newt Harlan

Well it’s that time of year again. This is the time of year when folks wishing to make neutral conversation can ask you about something besides the weather, so everywhere you go you hear the happy question, “Are you ready for Christmas?” The waitress at the café, the bank teller, the post office clerk, the grocery checker, this is the question you hear almost everywhere this time of year.

Personally, I’d rather they’d just stick to asking about the weather because my answer is, as usual, “NO”. I’m not ready for Christmas. I’m also not ready for Winter Holiday, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Ramadan or whatever it is that we’re supposed to be calling whatever it is that we’re supposed to be celebrating at this time of year, this year. It was so much simpler when it used to be just Christmas because back then I only had one thing to be not ready for.

For the record, I’m a Christian. I believe in Christmas. I’m not a Scrooge or a Grinch, but the fact remains, I’m NOT ready for Christmas. -- I haven’t even bought the first gift nor do I have an inkling of what I plan to buy for said gifts.

Really, it’s not so bad as it sounds. There are a bunch of gifts ready to go under the tree for the kids, grandkids and great grandkids. My wife pretty much takes care of that, so all I have to do is offer suggestions on boy stuff and sign my name on the nametags and cards. She even takes care of the signing part, if I’m not around. The big problem is that my wife doesn’t buy the Christmas presents to my wife from me, and that’s the main reason I’m not ready for Christmas.

It’s really not my fault. For years, back when my daughters were youngsters, it became a holiday tradition for the three of them and I to go buy my wife’s presents and I got spoiled. The girls knew the correct sizes and many times their mama dropped hints about what she particularly wanted or needed.

In our small town everybody knew everybody, there were no crowds and people all had the Christmas spirit. We’d just make our rounds to a couple of dry goods stores, maybe one of the drugstores and a variety store or two and our Christmas shopping was done.

Well, that all changed. It seems like it was overnight, but it really has been a lot of years. My girls all grew up, got married, scattered and had their own families to worry about shopping for. Worse, our small town grew up or rather got swallowed up by the growth of our Houston neighbor.

The stores where the girls and I had done our shopping all disappeared, replaced by a mall and a bunch of big box stores. All the people who knew everyone else were replaced by multitudes who didn’t know anyone, much less care---forget the Christmas spirit, just get in the thundering herd and claw your way to the finish line.

Add to all the above, I am not a shopper; I’m a buyer. I know what I want and I go get it and get back in my truck and leave, or even better I get someone to get it for me. Plus I don’t do crowds, plus I’m a procrastinator.

After our girls abandoned the nest Miss Edie got some really neat gifts from me. One year she got a really nice 4-gallon stainless steel pot for me her to cook gumbo and chili in.

Then there was that beautiful genuine rabbit fur vest that she wore almost every day, well at least once or twice, well at least once. (It wasn’t my fault all the hair was falling out.)

The next Christmas I gave her a really high tech vacuum cleaner and 3 or 4 “Clappers” to control lights and appliances and not just one, but three “Chia Pets”.

Oh, and I almost forgot the year I got her the 12 place settings of genuine Melamac dinnerware complete with serving bowls, gravy boat and platters, and the year she got a set of high dollar stainless steel flatware along with a portable mixer.

I think the year I surprised her most was the year I got the bargain on a gorgeous hand-embroidered, monogrammed bath set (I really didn’t think it was all that important that our family initials weren’t RQZ.).

Finally, one year the girls, probably in an effort to prevent a divorce, suggested that I just give them the money and they would handle my shopping for their mama.

Hallelujah!

That has worked great now for the past 15 or so years. My wife gets gifts that she enjoys and I am relieved of the shopping chores -- just here’s my money and/or credit card and a day or two later, all I have to do is sign the name tags, no muss, no fuss, no problem. Then when we open presents at Christmas, it’s like I get twice as many gifts, my own plus I get to see what I bought for my wife.

I know you’re asking since my daughters handle my shopping, why am I not ready for Christmas? -- Well, here it is getting close to Christmas and my daughters haven’t made contact about the shopping thing. You can bet if they don’t come around soon, I sure as hell ain’t gonna fight them crazy people out there shopping. At this stage of the game, I’m seriously thinking about a nice houseplant and maybe nice pair of new house shoes…

Epilogue: All is well. My number two daughter just came by and the gift situation is handled. Whew! Merry Christmas everybody.

BAR FIGHT & REVELATION - short story

2007-11-30T15:16:00.000-06:00

This short (2000 word) story is based on a chapter from my second novel, "We Danced to Ray Charles." Any thoughts on how it might be improved would be appreciated.

Bayou Bill

==

Bar Fight & Revelation
By Bill Fullerton

A weary Seeburg Select-O-Matic jukebox crouched beside the front door of The Rebel Yell. The tenth playing that evening of “Please Come Home For Christmas” was just ending. Across the room, Sam, the joint’s cheerless owner, held court behind a short bar with several worn stools. Strings of Christmas lights acknowledged the season and provided most of the illumination. An old, printed sign taped to the cash register proclaimed, “You’re white today because your ancestors practiced segregation.”

This same lighting scheme extended into a large dance area lined with plastic covered booths and small, scarred tables. The place had a pervasive odor of beer, cigarette smoke, hair tonic, cheap aftershave, and testosterone.

Clay Hopkins stood next to the jukebox until he spotted Wheeler Sims sitting at a front booth. The Rhodes brothers were with him. So was Renee. With those eyes you could get lost in and an ass to die for, she was the best looking girl he’d ever dated, much less made love to.

Abby once called her a manipulative bitch and, just for good measure, white trash. As usual, she’d been right. Renee was also a racist, so were a lot of other people Clay knew. He wasn’t, but had lusted for her since junior high. Years of futility ended last summer when they began dating, and then making love. But all that ended last week, a lifetime ago.

The jukebox screeched in protest as he pushed it away from the wall. The needle settled back into a grove with Tammy Wynette spelling out, D-I-V-O-R-C-E. She reached R before he found the power cord and yanked hard. Lights went out and it ground into silence.

A chorus of loud complaints erupted. People turned to see what happened. Then, like a scene from an old western, everything got quiet.

Behind the bar, Sam reached for his blackjack. “Easy Sam.” Clay held up a hand. “Stay where you are and I’ll be out of here in a second.

“Wheeler, you need to come outside. I’ll be waiting by your truck. There some things we need to settle. You know what. If you’re not there in a few minutes, I’ll leave a reminder on that bird-shit yellow paint-job about when I’ll be back. So you might as well come on.”

Clay plugged the jukebox back in and left. Wheeler, along with Renee and the Rhodes brothers plus most of the bar’s other patrons, soon followed. They milled around in the frosty southern air while he made a show of checking out the situation.

In a loud, cocky voice, he asked, “Okay, I’m here. What’s all this shit about?”

“You started the church fire that killed Abby and Ike.” It was a statement, not a question.

A tiny smirk flashed across Wheeler’s face. Then he put on a show of indignation. “Bull shit.”

The men stared at one another, until Wheeler looked over at the two men standing beside Clay’s old Ford. “What you doing here, Hoss? Trying to keep Hopkin’s junker running?”

The hulking mechanic pointed at the three Rhodes brothers standing near Wheeler. “Thought I’d come along to make sure this is a fair fight, a one-on-one deal, and your little buddies stay out of things.”

The undersized brothers, who preferred doing their brand of fighting in dark, crowded bars, showed no interest in an outdoor encounter with Hoss Driscoll. They smirked, but made no reply.

“What about you, Hemphill?” said Wheeler. “You want a part of this?”

“Not me,” said Bob. He used his thumb to gesture at Clay. “I’m just here to make sure he doesn’t kill you. You’re not worth an involuntary manslaughter charge.”

The casual tone seemed to unsettle Wheeler. But he recovered and turned to the large crowd clustered behind him. “Well, I guess Hopkins ain’t gonna be happy until I kick his sorry candy-ass across this parking lot. So let’s get it over with.” He punctuated his final words by making a big production out of turning back around to face Clay. What he saw seemed to surprise him.

Across the small, neon-lighted space, Clay stood shirtless. A second summer spent wrestling with heavy, green, plank-road lumber had put some impressive muscles on his arms and upper body. The chubby junior high football player the two-year older Wheeler had once beaten and humiliated now looked more than a match for his former tormentor.

The spotless cowboy hat came off in a big, sweeping motion. Then he smiled at Renee. “Would you mind holding this for a minute? I’m not gonna take my shirt off. Candy-ass might get all hot and bothered at the sight.” The crowd guffawed. Renee returned his smile and accepted the hat.
With the formalities over, Wheeler turned back, then moved forward, all the while talking loud and grinning. Without warning, he brought a vicious left up from the hip.

Clay was expecting some sort of sucker punch and dodged, but he'd forgotten Wheeler was a lefty. The side of his head exploded with pain as the punch bounced off his ear. He countered with a short left to the eye and a hard, straight right to the jaw.

Wheeler shook his head, then pressed in with a flurry of quick headshots. Some landed, most missed. Then a sharp jab shook Clay and left his mouth bleeding. It seemed to wake him up. Before, he’d been fighting more in grief than anger. Now a lifetime worth of rage took over.

Wheeler took two hard shots to the body, and stepped away. He paused to rub at his swelling eye, then grinned and came on like a right-hander, throwing a left-right combination. While Clay was no fighter, thanks to his Golden Gloves father, he knew how to box. He parried most of the blows, then countered with a jab that bloodied Wheeler’s nose and followed that with a hard right to the gut. There was a satisfying grunt of pain as air exploded from a gaping mouth.

Wheeler’s breath now came in short, ragged gasps. He moved in again but with caution, like a wounded animal. All his bluster was gone. Clay half-expected him to make a rush and try to wrestle him down. But after feinting with a right, Wheeler unleashed a savage left. It was a haymaker, a desperate attempt at a knockout.

The feint was good, but he telegraphed the big punch. Once again Clay bobbed but felt the sting of knuckles banging off his already throbbing ear.

The punch left Wheeler off balance and vulnerable. A right slammed into his mouth. Blood and spittle flew from busted lips. Eyes snapped open wide in pain. A left rocked his head. He tried to recover, to defend himself. But a right hammered him just below the heart. He grunted, doubled over, and stumbled backward before sinking to his knees.

With hands propped on thighs, Wheeler Sims knelt, gasping for breath and stared at the ground. A string of bloody drool trailed from his swollen lips to the oil-stained gravel between his knees.

Clay rubbed his throbbing ear, touched his busted lip, and then studied his cut, aching knuckles. Finished with his self-exam, he walked over and stood in front of the man who had killed Abby and Ike. “You did it, didn’t you?”

Wheeler looked up and tried to glare at his opponent. He spit a glob of blood onto the ground between Clay’s boots. “What the fuck you talking about, candy-ass?”

“You must be proud of being stupid.” Clay’s voice was unemotional, almost resigned. “But, maybe you’re counting on me being a nice guy. You know, the kind who always plays by the rules and would never hit a defenseless man. But just between you and me, I wouldn’t count on that any more.”

Clay’s fist smashed into the unprotected face looking up at him. There was a crunch of breaking cartilage. Blood spewed from a shattered nose. Wheeler’s head jerked back. His body twisted and he crashed to the ground.

A Rhodes brother made a move to come and help, but Hoss motioned him back. Wheeler struggled to roll over, then got to his hands and knees.

Clay stepped closer and spoke in a low, patient voice. “Now let’s try that again. But this time, it’ll just be between you and me. You did it, didn’t you? You torched that church.”

There was a pause, then a nod. Wheeler’s lips were split and swollen, his voice a bit garbled. “But I swear no one was inside. And I’m, I’m sorry about your girl. But why in hell did she and that nigger go running in there?”

Clay’s reaction was immediate, instinctive, and brutal. He stepped forward and kicked his beaten opponent in the ribs. The work boot’s steel toe landed with a sickening thud and the sound of something cracking. Wheeler tumbled onto his side, screaming in pain, and tried to curl into a protective ball. This time, Hoss had to take two steps forward to intimidate the Rhodes brothers.

Clay knelt on one knee and studied his long-time rival. “Can you hear me?”

There was a soft moan, then, “Yeah.”

“Let me tell you something, Sims. Abby Marshall wasn’t just my girl, she was my best friend, my fiancée. I’d loved her all my life but was too dumb to see that, then too afraid of losing her to admit it, besides, there was Bebe. When I finally manage to figure things out, you killed her.

“We were heading home to tell everyone Abby and I were engaged. Ike was with us. Realizing we were in love, that was his doing. Then we saw the fire, and thought Ike’s folks were inside. Rev. Carter’s got a bum leg. They were out of the car and racing toward the church door the moment I reached the parking lot. It fell in before I could get there.”

Clay looked over to where Renee stood, hands in her hip pockets, watching. Someone else had the cowboy hat. Maybe it clashed with her designer jeans and that fitted western shirt with all its unused snaps. There was a look of surprise on her perfect oval face, but also a familiar, subtle invitation in her bedroom eyes.

That’s when he understood why Wheeler had burned the church. But Clay then knew, that beyond any hope of forgiveness, he was also responsible for the deaths of Abby and Ike. He shook his head in disgust and looked back at Sims. “And you, you poor, stupid, son-of-a-bitch, you killed her trying to impress Renee, because she’d dropped you and started dating me?”

Wheeler nodded.

“Well, what do you know?” Clay looked almost amused. “After all these years, you and I have something in common. We’ve both made fools of ourselves, not to mention killers, because of her.”

Clay shifted and spit some blood on the ground. “Now about that guy you killed. His name was Ike Carter, and he was another one of my best friends. In fact, he and Abby, the three of us, we’d been friends all our lives. But then you killed ‘em trying to impress Renee. And I want you to get this straight, Sims, I want you to understand, Ike Carter was black, but he wasn’t a nigger. Is that clear?”

Wheeler nodded, then flinched as Clay reached towards him, only to flick a brown oak leaf off his shoulder.

With the leaf disposed of, Clay continued. “Now, listen close. Maybe I shouldn’t have busted up your ribs. But you'll heal, my friends won't. So I figure you still owe me for two lives. That doesn’t count what you owe the Carter’s and Marshall’s and a lot of other decent folks, not to mention your Maker. That’s all between you and them.”

For a moment, Clay studied the man at his feet. “I’m going away for a while, but I will be back. And if I hear that you or any of your crowd has hurt any of my friends or called anybody I know a nigger, I’ll hunt you down and, unless you kill me first, I’ll leave you a cripple. Do you believe me?”

“I believe you.”

“That’s good. Just remember, you didn’t kill all my friends. I’ve still got a few left. And I know a whole bunch of people around here. So you be good now, ‘cause just like Santa Claus, I’ll know if you’ve been nice. And if Renee has decided she'll be your Christmas present, you don’t need any more enemies.”

Twenty-five Great Southern Novels

2007-11-24T22:00:00.000-06:00

Twenty-five Great Southern Novels

The main problem with southern literature is the difficulty, some would say impossibility, of coming up with a precise definition. What follows isn’t a list of the “best” southern novels of all time. I’ll gladly leave that challenge to English majors, MFA students, and Ph.d candidates. This is just my subjective, personal, opinionated, ill-informed and no doubt biased list of twenty-five novels that are among the very best.

Also included--at no additional charge--you’ll find a list of three great southern short story writers.

Quibbles: Yes, I semi- cheated by listing the Snopes Trilogy for William Faulkner. Win a Nobel prize and I’ll include three of your best novels. (It was only “semi” because the novels were re-released as a single volume)

If not including Huckleberry Finn offends you, add it to your own list. I cogitated over that call but decided it was an American novel, not southern.

None of Erskine Caldwell’s best-selling novels are on my list because neither Tobacco Road nor God’s Little Acre are among the “best” works of southern literature.

Feel free to comment on, or just plain denounce, my lame list.

And now, appearing in no particular order, twenty-five of the best examples of southern literature.

Bayou Bill

NOVELS

To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee

Their Eyes Were Watching God, Zora Neale Hurston

Gone With the Wind, Margaret Mitchell

Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison

The Last Gentleman, Walker Percy

All the King's Men, Robert Penn Warren

The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, Ernest Gaines

Other Voices, Other Rooms, Truman Capote

Prince of Tides, Pat Conroy

The Awakening, Kate Chopin

A Death in the Family, James Agee

The Color Purple, Alice Walker

Cold Mountain, Charles Frazier

Deliverance, James Dickey

Leaving Cheyenne, Larry McMurtry

Suttree, Cormac McCarthy

Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All, Allan Gurganus

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers

A Long and Happy Life, Reynolds Price

The Confessions of Nat Turner, William Styron

Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole

The Snopes Trilogy, William Faulkner

Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe

The Optimist's Daughter, Eudora Welty

The Violent Bear It Away, Flannery O'Connor

SHORT STORIES

A Curtain of Green, Eudora Welty

The Complete Stories, Flannery O’Connor

Uncle Remus Stories, Joel Chandler Harris

FOR WHOM THE GOOD TOLLS - flash fiction

2007-11-13T19:35:00.000-06:00

Short Story Library recently lowered its standards enough to allow a 100-word piece of my micro-fiction foolishness, For Whom To Good Tolls, http://shortstory.us.com/2008/11/for-whom-the-good-tolls-by-bill-fullerton/ to appear among its otherwise first-rate offerings.

If you get a chance, go check out the entire site at: http://shortstory.us.com/

And in conclusion, let me say that I hereby apologize to the spirit of Ernest Hemingway, wherever it may roam, and to his many other admirers.

Bayou Bill

The Great Mailbox Massacre

2007-11-08T11:55:00.000-06:00

The scene of, The Great Mailbox Massacre

So let me tell you, it's like this: I'm sitting at the 'puter last night, fiddlin' with software and connections for my new camera when a very suspicious BOOM came, well, booming in from the street in front of the Bayou Bungalow. Being a good citizen, and curious, I step out the front door. Though it's post-daylight savings time dark, I make out a car parked in the spot traditionally occupied by my across the street neighbor's brick mailbox and its well-tended attached flower beds.

Wishing my friend the fomer LAPD motorcycle cop was there to lend his expertise, I checked that the driver, the car's lone occupant, was okay. She stopped trying to re-start her chariot and back it off the what had once been a brick mailbox and its well-tended attached flower beds, long enough to say she was fine and almost home and that she'd had a glass of wine before heading home but that her home was right down the street and she didn't want anyone called because she didn't want a DUI and beside, she was almost home.

I agreed it was a tough way to start the weekend but told her she'd need an accident report for her insurance, and called 911.

The local firefolks showed up first, then the constabulary. I gave my name, addy and phone number, then retreated past my undamaged brick mailbox, which, by the way, lacks the attached flower beds, into the shelter of my abode.

Today, new camera in hand, I inspected and photographed the battered bricks and dispoiled flower beds along with their well-tended flowers.

There can be no better way to this tale than by paraphrasing Bob Dylan:

The moral of this story, the moral of the song, is simply that a car should never be where one does not belong. So if you see your neighbor struggling, help her with the load, and don't go mistaking paradise for that mailbox across the road.

Buckley & Fullerton Endorse Obama

2007-10-31T20:41:00.000-05:00

Christopher Buckley

I admit without the least hesitation, obfuscation or evasion that the heading for this post, while technically correct, is a mind-bending example of self-indulgent hubris on my part. That said, unless you can come up with another way for me to get my name included with those of Christopher Buckley and Barack Obama, cut me some slack. Okay?

I've never met the junior US Senator from Illinois, but have met Christopher Buckley (aka: William F. Buckley's son) a time or two. The first, and for me the most memorable, meeting being over a pool table out on Long Island where we went over some of the finer points of the grand game. That was way back in the days when he was still a teenager and I was a beat-up 'Nam vet.

Today, I'm still a beat-up 'Nam vet while Christopher has gone on to carve out a rep for himself as a journalist, novelist, and writer of essays, see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Buckley

On Tina Brown's new web site, THE DAILY BEAST, http://www.thedailybeast.com/ (recommended, as in, highly) he discussed in the erudite, insightful, and entertaining essay I've posted below why, though the son of conservatism's most famous intellectual icon, he will vote for Barack Obama.

Lacking Buckley's eruditon, insight, and entertaining style, I'll just say: Me, too.

I wonder if the Obama camp has gotten the news about this (fill in the blank) double-endorsement?

(Bayou) Bill Fullerton

note: Since the release of, Sorry Dad, I'm Voting For Obama, Christopher Buckley has resigned from the National Review. For more about the post-article fall-out, go to, Sorry Dad, I Was Fired at THE DAILY BEAST, http://www.thedailybeast.com/

--first published 10/31/08

THE BELLE OF CATAWBA STREET

2007-10-30T08:02:00.001-05:00

Inspired by Mel Brooks making fun of Nazis in, The Producers, I decided to try something similar with 500 words of flash fiction based, I'm sad to say, on a real-life event.

This insult to good taste and English letters is part of the Absolute Write Flash Fiction Carnival: http://tinianow.blogspot.com/2007/10/its-carnival-time-again.html

Be sure to visit, read, and comment on the other stories:

Madness of Allies: a Will and Diana Adventure by bunnygirl from Writings

Enter Creepy Calliope Music by Kate Boddie from Finding Boddie: a Simple Way to Snort Your Breakfast

The Hunter by Virginia Lee from Virginia Lee: I Ain't Dead Yet!

Mary's Day Out by Maria Leland from So, You Majored in Creative Writing; Now What?

Rewrite the Universe by Samuel Tinianow from So, You Majored in Creative Writing; Now What?

Bayou Bill

==

THE BELLE OF CATAWBA STREET
by Bill Fullerton

Belle, short for Beelzebub, was the small-to-medium sized by-product of a brief but turbulent liaison between a vicious Rhodesian Ridgeback and a brutal Catahoula Cur hog dog. Her distinguishing features included powerful shoulders, a ridge of bristle-like hair along her spine, dark mottled fur, one milky-white “glass” eye, a paranoid disposition, and an all-consuming desire to protect her human family.

On the night in question, her family was out when two cousins named Jerome and Moose began digging a hole in the front yard, the first step toward leaving a warning from the local Klan in the form of a burning cross. Inside her pen in the backyard, an outraged Belle had heard the noise and was frantically digging her own hole. Nobody messed around with her family’s house.

The cross had just gone up when the men spotted a dark, snarling projectile hurtling their way. Moose grabbed the post-hole digger they’d used and began doing his best to hold off the mad menace while Jerome hurried to set the cross on fire.

Sporadic cries of pain made it clear Moose was having uneven success in avoiding Belle’s teeth. Once the cross began burning, he fought a desperate holding action as Jerome led the retreat back to their truck.

Reaching that sanctuary, Jerome jumped in, cranked the engine, opened the passenger door, and then waited, with some impatience, as his associate lurched backwards into the cab while trying to deny Belle any more samples of his flesh. Once inside, Moose yanked in the protective digger. This sent the handles smashing into the windshield. He ignored Jerome’s angry protests and focused on slamming the door shut before Belle could follow him into the crowded cab.

Headlights began approaching. While still upset about his busted windshield, Jerome stopped complaining and gunned the engine.

It flooded and died.

They had the good luck to be facing downhill. Jerome yelled at his Belle-scarred companion to get out and push. At the moment, however, Belle was doing her best to scramble in through the still open passenger window. This prompted a counter-proposal that Jerome get the hell out and push himself. To his credit, he grasped this logic and complied. As the oncoming headlights got nearer, the truck began inching downhill.

That’s when Belle became aware of the new and very vulnerable target of opportunity standing outside the open driver’s door. She raced around the truck and pounced on Jerome’s unprotected left leg. He responded with a short but sincere string of obscenities, jumped back behind the wheel, and yanked the door shut, just missing Belle’s open jaws and bared teeth.

With remarkable agility for someone suffering from several fresh leg wounds, he shifted into low and released the clutch. The motor backfired, then caught. As they raced away, the burning cross seemed to give them a slow parting bow that ended with it toppling over onto the well-kept lawn.

Left behind among the exhaust fumes and shreds of denim, a small-to-medium sized, mixed-breed dog watched the retreating taillights and bayed in savage triumph.

WAITING IN THE RAIN

2007-10-19T20:21:00.001-05:00

A cautionary piece of flash fiction to celebrate this joyous season,

joyous, that is, for certain of those amon us, but not for all.

Bayou Bill

==

WAITING IN THE RAIN
by Bill Fullerton

The cold winter rain told a sad story, and I was listening.

I'm a good listener; always have been. Especially here inside the cemetery—just sitting and listening to the rain, hearing the story, and waiting for Melinda.

We don’t have nice winter weather, just rain. The only thing it’s good for is hunting, mostly for deer. But I don't hunt—not anymore.

Winter became my favorite season because of Melinda. I was driving home after wasting an entire Saturday morning down in the bottoms trying to get that big buck just about everybody, including me, had seen at one time or another.

A car, it was an old raggedy-ass Plymouth Fury, was pulled over on the shoulder of the Barnwell road just about in the middle of nowhere. A woman was out in the rain trying to change a flat. I stopped to help.

That's when I met Melinda. She was going somewhere to see somebody who was some sort of kin. For the life of me I don't remember where or who. What I do remember is that even in a tan raincoat, Melinda, she said her name was Melinda Carter, was about the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. She had these big brown eyes, long, wet eyelashes and a cute little nose. I noticed it because there was a raindrop right on the tip. And even though her lips were a little blue with the cold, her smile could start a forest fire.

I told her to wait in my truck but she stayed out in the rain, holding an umbrella over me, while I changed the flat. That’s when we got to talking. She lived a couple of hours away and was a senior in college. I told her I'd just graduated and was teaching English at the local high school.

With all the rain and mud, it took awhile to change that tire. And I’ll admit, I wasn’t in a big hurry. I didn’t want her to just drive out of my life. But I’m no ladies man and couldn’t figure out what to do. After I’d put everything away and slammed the trunk shut, she insisted I get in the car with her and share some hot coffee she’d brought along.

The rain had stopped by then. She’d taken off her raincoat and pitched it into the back seat. Even in a bulky sweater and jeans, you could tell she had a nice, cuddly figure. So being a gentleman and all, I tossed my gear into my new pickup and crawled into the passenger seat of her old Plymouth.

God, but that was good coffee. Black with a little sugar and still nice and hot. We talked and finished off the coffee. And then while she was putting things away, it started to rain again. We both stared at the rain through the car’s fogged-up windows. Then we looked at one another. And just as I reached out for her, she slid over beside me.

We made love to the sound of the rain drumming against the car. It all seemed so natural, so right. Her body was so smooth and warm. And when she looked up at me, watching while I tore off my clothes, I thought I’d burst. She pulled me down into her as our two bodies became one.

A few weeks later, when I asked her to marry me, she said yes. After that, rainy winter days were always special for us. And now, well, it’s just a reminder of the weather that day I killed her.

It was overcast and raining. I'd been hunting all day and she’d come to pick me up. But I was late. So she put on her old tan raincoat and walked into the bottoms heading for my deer stand where, just for a second, I thought I saw that big buck and then, and then, that's when I killed her.

Now I come out here and listen to the rain tell the story and wait for Melinda. I keep the motor running so the cab will be warm when she comes. And she always comes. We sit together here inside my old truck and talk and listen. And then she wraps me in her arms and whispers in my ear and we make love. That’s when it’s almost like it used to be. But later, when it starts getting dark and she has to go, that’s when we both start to cry.

But she's late today, or maybe I got here early. I'm not sure. Time doesn't mean much anymore. The thing is, I'm getting a little sleepy. So I'll keep the motor running, but maybe close my eyes—just for a minute, though. 'Cause Melinda and I will be together soon, like we always should be. Only it'll be here in the cemetery, inside my truck, in the winter rain.

FIRST KISS

2007-09-24T16:28:00.000-05:00

There has to be a first time, a beginning, an alpha moment for everything. This flash fiction (950 word) short story is adapted from a scene in my sort-of-a-memoir first novel, A BRIEF AFFAIR, about how a nice Jewish girl from Queens ended up getting stuck, for the last 34 years, with a beat-up vet from Louisiana.

This is my part in the AbsoluteWrite http://absolutewrite.com/ Flash Fiction Carnival. For more information, see: http://www.benjaminsolah.com/blog/?p=435

Any other comments, suggestions, and/or passing thoughts will also be much appreciated.

Bayou Bill

==

FIRST KISS
by Bill Fullerton

On slow afternoons, Gwen Kaplan could sometimes take a break from her summer job as a nurse tech and stop by the new patient’s room. She liked the young vet, knew he must be lonely, loved listening to his southern accent, and felt comfortable around him. When he flirted, it was more a teasing compliment than a pass—maybe because he knew she was engaged. And he seemed to respect her being halfway through nursing school.

Today, however, she felt he might really need to talk. After spending another weekend alone on the ward, he’d learned of a buddy’s death in Vietnam, and just now had struggled buttoning the pajama top she’d brought him due, he said, to the distortion caused by his thick, cataract glasses.

"Mind if I stay for a minute and rest my feet?"

Mark Cahill seemed startled by the request. "If I ever mind that, then I really will be in trouble.”

The humor was familiar, she thought, turning the bedside chair toward him and sitting, but it sounded strained and his smile looked forced. "Things like what just happened, do they bother you?” Of course, they did. She knew that and didn’t like being so direct. But she sensed he might be ready to open up a bit, and didn’t want to lose the opportunity.

"Just two times—daytime and nighttime. No, really, I can usually laugh ‘em off, but not always.” For the first time he began talking about being totally blind for nearly a year and how, even with some eyesight now restored, he still struggled with its limitations and the resulting frustrations.

After a moment of indecision, she decided to risk asking the question that had always bothered her. “Do you mind telling me why you joined the Army? You had to know it meant going to Vietnam.”

“Well, the war was out-of-style, very uncool, and I was in kind of a slump, so what else was I supposed to do? Besides, it was the only war around and I wanted to do my Ernest Hemingway thing. You know, check out what war was like.”

Gwen sensed they were circling a much bigger issue. Hoping she wasn’t making things worse, she said, “Mark, it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, but I’d really like to know what happened when you got hurt.”

“No problem. My recon unit was on patrol just before dawn. The guy in front of me stepped on a booby trap. I caught the blast from the waist up and couldn’t see a thing. About a month later, I was flown to an Army hospital in Texas. The doctors there removed one eye and said odds were I’d never see out of the other. And if I hadn’t gotten a chance to see the top eye doc here in New York, they might have been right.”

“So how long have you been here?”

“Since January. I’ve gone home a couple times. That’s where I was when a certain long-legged Bellevue nursing student named Gwen Kaplan began her summer job here at the VA.”

Mark was sitting on the edge of his bed, feet propped on the lowered railing, elbows resting on knees. His voice was so low and soothing, Gwen had to scoot closer and lean forward to hear.

He paused in the middle of a sentence, apparently having noticed something around her eyebrows. In a casual tone, he said, "Close your eyes a second.”

Assuming he wanted to remove whatever he’d just spotted, she obeyed—and was stunned to feel Mark's lips press gently against hers. An intoxicating erotic energy took possession of her body. No hands touched her, but she couldn’t move. As if in a dream, she responded to the unexpected kiss.

The tip of his tongue met no resistance as it slipped between her lips. Once inside, it made slow sensuous love to her mouth, caressing and coaxing her into returning its touch. She felt powerless to resist. All she could do, all she wanted to do, was savor the feel of Mark Cahill's mouth against hers.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days later, she couldn't be sure, he broke the kiss and leaned back. Gwen opened her eyes and saw him looking straight at her. What he’d done wasn’t right, she was certain of that. But what was she supposed to do now? After all, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and she’d loved the kiss.

From somewhere deep inside her jumbled brain came a memory of instructors saying to reject the act, not the patient. Now all she could think to say was, "I like you, Mr. Cahill."

He responded in his trademark soft southern voice. "I like you, too, Miss Kaplan."

Unable to think of anything else to do, she struggled to her feet and somehow managed to reach the foot of Mark's bed on legs which threatened to collapse. "And Miss Kaplan,” she paused at the sound of Mark’s voice and looked back, “someday I'm going to kiss every inch of your body."

Still shaken by the kiss, she couldn’t believe this guy had just told her something so blatantly sexual. Things like that weren’t supposed to happen to nice Jewish girls from Queens, especially when they were engaged.

With her head spinning, she mumbled good-bye and made her way out of room 24. In the empty, neon-lighted corridor, she sagged against the wall. Her addled mind raced with unanswered questions triggered by that unexpected kiss.

How had it happened? She wasn't sure.

Had she, somehow, encouraged him? No way.

Should she tell her fiancé? Definitely not. Johnny was way too insecure. Why worry him?

What should she do the next time? She didn't know.

Would there be a next time? Possibly? Probably?

She glanced back at the door to Mark’s room. Hopefully?

Blue Cubicle Press and me, whee!

2007-09-16T11:17:00.000-05:00

Blue Cubicle Press and me, whee!

Blue Cubicle Press http://www.bluecubiclepress.com/index.htm is best known for its unique literary journal, The First Line, which the BCP describes as the longest running, fully independent journal of 100 pages or less published in North Texas every three months, The First Line has become the literary equivalent of low-budget film that is absent on award night but has a great cult following

Check out the September issue of The Writer for a profile of TFL in their Literary Spotlight.

Among the Blue Cubicle’s other imprints is Workers Write!, an annual literary journal -- theme-oriented collections of the best stories from the workplace. The first issue, Workers Write! Tales from the Cubicle is still on sale.

Their second issue, Workers Write! Tales from the Classroom, is also available as is the most recent issue, Workers Write! Tales from the Cash Register. They can all be purchased at: http://www.bluecubiclepress.com/books.htm

Now for the really big news:

Next April, Blue Cubicle will release, Workers Write! Tales from the Clinic, which will include, The Kiss, a story by, ta-dah, me!

For more information about Blue Cubicle and their imprints, visit their Web site at: http://www.bluecubiclepress.com/index.htm

The news was doubly good for this "yet to be published" inchoate novelist, since the story in question. The Kiss, is the short story version of chapter one from my first novel, A Brief Affair. Now all I need is for some far-sighted editor, publisher, or agent to pick up a copy of, Workers Write! Tales from the Clinic, and be impressed with my contribution.

That’s not much to ask/hope/beg/pray for, is it?

A SPECIAL PHOTO - short story

2007-09-09T23:21:00.000-05:00

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

This is for them.

Bayou Bill

==

A Special Photo
by Bill Fullerton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll never forget."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COLD BEER AND GREASY FRIES - chap two

2007-08-17T01:19:00.000-05:00

This is chapter two of my second novel, We Danced to Ray Charles. The protag tries to figure out life, women and himself. What follows reflects changes suggested by Robert Flynn. As always, any input would be greatly appreciated. Reading the two previous posts: Prologue and The Dancers is advised.

Bayou Bill

==

COLD BEER AND GREASY FRIES
by Bill Fullerton

The main cemetery in Pinefield was a large, landscaped, park-like area. The grandfather Mark had loved so much was there. So was the grandmother he never knew and even some great-grandparents. A nearby bench was his thinking spot. He headed that way.

But it was a date night. The cemetery’s secluded far-side served as the town’s leading lover’s lane. So much for being alone to think. Besides, hunger called. The one place in town still open, the all-night Hilltop Café Motel and Truck Stop.

He parked near the café’s front door, got out, and heard the insistent wail of approaching sirens. Out on the main highway, three Sheriff’s Department cars raced by heading toward town with their lights flashing. He wondered what all the excitement was about, then shrugged and headed for the glass door with its sun-faded sign that proclaimed,

“WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO YOU”

He’d seen that sign, and untold numbers like it, many times during his twenty-one years on earth. Most went unnoticed—which he preferred. But tonight, something made him stop and study the old sign. It had once been bright and defiant. Now, like the hatred it represented, it was fading but still around.

Mark shook his head, as if trying to clear his mind of the past, then opened the door and stepped into the over air-conditioned, neon-lit café. A few couples were sitting in the back booths. None looked familiar. Out-of-town kids, he guessed. A lot of them stopped in after dates to check each other out for telltale signs of drive-in passion. After a quick burger, they’d rush home to beat the girl’s midnight curfew.

A familiar figure stood at the business end of the Hilltop’s pinball machine, The Blushing Beauty. By even the most tolerant of standards David Clyde Wright was a strange life form. By Pinefield standards he was way off the scale. His more distinctive features included long, stringy hair, and the beginnings of a beer gut. He also had a goofy, don’t-give-a-damn smile some girls insisted was cute.

Friends and law enforcement officers alike called him, D.C. Both groups agreed he was every bit as odd as he looked. Among other things he was a self-destructive, semi-alcoholic, anti-establishment free spirit.

D.C. was smart, but in an odd, D.C. sort of way. After being expelled from high school for repeated violations of most school codes, he got his equivalence diploma before the rest of his class graduated. Unlike his former classmates, he read Dylan Thomas and William Faulkner because he liked them.

Everyone in town knew he operated the printing press for his family’s weekly paper, “The Standard.” But few suspected he wrote many of the articles which appeared under his father’s by-line. Mark knew. By some strange amalgam of interests, they were long-time friends. And while total opposites, they could share certain secrets and count on one another for candid advice.

Unlike his anti-social friend, Mark was a big, easy-going guy. He’d been an athlete in high school. Back then he kept his hair short. Now it was a well-barbered, collar length. And while D.C. took the concept of casual clothing to an extreme, Mark dressed like the fraternity member he was. However, both men liked sports, Bob Dylan, and William Faulkner.

At the counter, Mark asked for two burgers and a large order of curly fries. The sour-faced, older woman D.C. had nicknamed, “Winona, the Woeful Waitress,” took his order in silence. After checking his hair in the mirror next to the “George Wallace for President” poster, he walked over and stood beside the machine. While a new ball was being put into play, he asked, “So what’s a guy like you doing in a nice place like this?”

Bells rang and lights flashed. D.C. kept his gaze focused on the shiny, darting, steel ball. “Getting my scrawny ass whipped by this damn machine.” As if to validate his remark, the ball ricocheted off a bumper at an unexpected angle, sped past the outstretched flippers, and disappeared from sight.

A short but emphatic string of obscenities followed, punctuated by D.C. slamming his palms against The Blushing Beauty. It responded to this assault by flashing, “TILT” and ending the game. Like two mourners viewing the body of someone who died owing them money, they pondered the treacherous machine’s dimmed lights. It was D.C. who broke the unnatural silence. “You know, it could be worse. I could be Chinese.”

“I’m going to hate myself for asking,” said Mark. “But, how do you figure that?”

“Just think, Cahill. There’s about a billion of them over there. And not one of those poor, thirsty, commie devils has a single Budweiser to drink.”

“Well, that does put your loss in a different perspective.”

His point made, D.C. turned his head and looked at Mark. “I wondered when you’d show up. Want a beer?”

“Why’d you think I’d come in here? And yes, I’d like a beer. I’ll even contribute the two burgers and curly fries I’ve got coming.”

“Cold beer and greasy fries. God is indeed good to the young and beautiful,” said D.C. his voice rich with solemn irreverence. “You had to show. Your head would be too screwed up from dancing with Bebe Boudreaux to go home.”

They’d been drifting over toward the worn counter. Now they sat on plastic covered, backless stools and waited for Mark’s order. “And you knew I’d danced with her because…?”

“Because who do you think took over the hi-fi when he saw you talking with Bebe and played all those slow Ray Charles songs? You owe me big time, Cahill.”

“It’s a debt I’m sure you’ll never let me forget. Not after you learn we’re going out next weekend.”

D.C. stopped lighting a cigarette to give Mark a look of genuine surprise. “A date? Damn son, you’re a fast worker.”

“With you as disc jockey, how could I fail?”

“So true. By the way, I didn’t see Amy at the dance. Is she still sick as the proverbial heaving hyena?”

Mark nodded. “Yep. But I called over there before I left for the dance. Her dad said she’s on the mend.”

“What do you think is gonna happen when she finds out about you and Bebe? Now I know you and Amy are just good buddies and all that jazz. But the last time I checked, she and Bebe weren’t what you’d call a mutual admiration society.”

“I’ve quit trying to figure out Amy Marshall. I suppose she may give me a hard time. But all we’re talking about here is one date. So she’s not going to care, at least not that much.”

D.C. reached for an ashtray. “Well, what about old buddy Bob and that time in high school when he asked Bebe to the prom? Best I recall, instead of just saying no, she called him everything but a one-legged son-of-a-bitch. And then there’s Willie, one helluva great guy, especially for a preacher’s kid, who just happens to be black. I suppose you know Bebe’s old man’s now the boss of our local sheet-heads.”

“That’s bullshit. He’s Cajun. They don’t join the Klan, much less become honchos. As for Bob, he’s so wrapped up with the luscious Libby I doubt he’ll even notice. And Willie, well, we’ve been friends about forever, give or take a day or two. I should be okay with him.”

“All right. But what about if you and Bebe click and go on more dates?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“But what if it does? Outside of maybe being a tad envious, I don’t give a shit. But what if you had to choose between Amy, Bob, Willie, and her?”

The arrival of Mark’s order saved him from dealing with that uncomfortable question. A few minutes later they were in D.C.’s old GMC pick-up, drinking beer and eating curly fries while driving past the modern, soulless structure that served as both parish courthouse and jail.

As was his long-standing custom, D.C. spit out the window in the general direction of the courthouse. “Since you were sitting with Skeeter, I suppose you heard that Connie Jackson had a baby girl?”

Mark nodded. Connie’s husband, Tommy Jackson, was in Vietnam. A gifted, all-state, running back, he’d married Connie right after graduation and gone to college on a football scholarship where he started on the freshman team. But then he surprised everyone by dropping out and joining the Marines.

“I’ll never understand why T.J. pulled that stunt,” said Mark. “How long before he’ll get to see his baby?”

“And the baby’s good-looking mother,” said D.C.. “But to answer your question, over three months.”

The topics of conversation moved onto life, love, and Mark’s long-standing obsession with Bebe Boudreaux. “I was glad to help,” said D.C., “you know, by playing those records and all. But I’ve never understood why you’re so hung-up on that little coon-ass. Granted, she’s sexy as hell. I mean, I’d nail her for a quarter even if she didn’t pay me.”

Both grinned at his old joke, then D.C. shook his head, “But, man, you know the drill, ‘If they will, screw ‘em. If they won’t, screw ‘em.’ But it’s Bebe whose been screwing you over since the day she first came dragging into town. So why this fascination with her?”

They headed out of town in silence. Mark finished his beer and, in compliance with local, male tradition, tossed the bottle at a passing speed limit sign. He missed. “It’s like this. All my life I’ve been a nice guy. It’s just the way I am. I’m the peacemaker, the polite type mothers always like, a team player, a real competitor. But I’m also the one who’s always the runner-up. I might win a sportsmanship trophy or get ‘honorable mention’ but I never, ever, win it all.”

“Don’t give me that shit. You’ve won a lot of things.”

“Like what? Okay, maybe there has been one or two. But I’m talking about feelings as much as reality. And I’ve always felt like an also-ran in a world of winners. Just think about it, Willie won a state title in high school and now plays for Grambling. Bob was All-District before blowing his knee out, and don’t forget, he dates the luscious Libby.”

D.C. crossed himself and muttered, “Blessed be her name.”

Mark ignored this and continued the litany of his friend’s accomplishments. “Amy was a cheerleader, district MVP in basketball, and homecoming queen—twice. And she’s so damn good-looking. I swear it scares a lot of guys off. And then there’s her big brother, Walt. How’d you like to have ‘all-everything Walt’ for a role model? Don’t get me wrong. He’s been like the big brother I never had. He taught me everything from how to shoot a rifle to the facts of life. But there’s no way in hell anyone can ever match his style. Much less all the stuff he’s done. And now folks say he’s a war hero.”

Mark took a cigarette from the pack D.C. had laid on the seat and pushed in the lighter. “Did you know my dad was a Golden Gloves champ, you know, boxing?”

There was a note of admiration in D.C.’s, “No shit?”

“No shit,” said Mark. “Of course, the best I could ever do was honorable mention all-district in football. My mother was a homecoming queen. And we both know I’m never going to Hollywood with my looks. It’s like I got their worst features.”

Mark paused to light his cigarette. “Oh, you’re gonna love this one,” he said, shoving the lighter back into place. “Last summer, I was visiting some of mother’s relatives in Mississippi. One of my cousins, a real doll, wasn’t able to get me a last minute date. She gave me this apologetic look. Then she said I wasn’t that bad looking. The thing was, girls might give a guy like me a second look, but never a third.”

D.C. laughed. “If either of us has to count on our looks for a meal ticket, we’ll starve.”

“Speak for yourself, oh, skinny-assed one,” said Mark. Then his smile went away. “The thing is, Bebe’s just flat-out turned me on ever since junior high. But if there’s anything more to my wanting her than just hormones, it’s that for me, she’s the ultimate prize, the blue ribbon, the first place trophy I never won. Because I promise you, when she agreed to a date, it made me feel like a real winner.”

As they drove back into Pinefield, Mark flipped his half-finished cigarette out the window. “There’s one other thing. But this is just between you and me. Okay?”

“Lay it on me, big guy.”

“Just before finals, some of us threw a party on the levee. And, well, there was this girl, we were friends, but that’s all. She’s the type normal guys don’t stand a chance with. You know what I mean?”

D.C. nodded. “You’re talking high-class, drop-dead gorgeous, running around baying at the moon, beautiful.”

“You got it. Anyway, somehow we wound up making out. Nothing more, sad to say. But now I’ve got it bad for her, real bad. The thing is, every time we meet she acts like nothing happened. It’s pretty obvious I’m still just a friend to her. And that means if I try anything, odds are about a million to one all I’ll do is screw-up our friendship. I mean, there’s no hope in hell. She’s so far out of my league it’s not funny. So it makes more sense to try getting her out of my mind. And who better to help a guy do that, than Bebe Boudreaux?”

“That makes sense. Just one question.”

“What’s that?”

“Is Amy a good kisser?”

“She’s incredi--.” Mark caught himself and glared at D.C.. “Who did you say? I mean if it was Amy, you’re so full of shit you, uh….”

The emotion drained from his voice and the words trailed off as his anger turned to disgust at himself. “You always could read me like a damn book. You’re right. She was ripped and vulnerable and it’ll never, ever, happen again.”

They drove back to the Hilltop in silence. In the parking lot, D.C. stopped Mark from getting out. “Look, I promised to keep this between us and I will. But, you know, it’s hard to believe I feel sorry for someone who’s made out with Amy Marshall and has a date lined up with Bebe Boudreaux.”

D.C. draped his arms over the steering wheel. The red glow of his cigarette reflected on the cracked windshield. Mark was used to these sudden meditations, and sat back to wait.

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

Mark smiled. D.C. didn’t. “The problem is you could end up losing ‘em both, plus a bunch of friends and, what the hell, toss in your self-respect just for good measure. So I feel sorry for you. No shit, I do. ‘Cause unless you change your ways, something tells me you’re in for a very interesting summer.”

THE SEDUCERS

2007-08-16T18:44:00.001-05:00

This is adapted from the opening section of a chapter in my novel, We Danced to Ray Charles, a 92,000 word, coming-of-age, mainstream love story. The central plot is a love triangle, set against a background of growing racial tension and social change in a small southern town in the summer of 1968.

Anyone wishing to read the novel on-line should e-mail me for the secret codewords to gain admittance into the mystic, password protected blog wherein it resides.

All comments and suggestions are welcome.

Bayou Bill

==

The Seducers
by Bill Fullerton

Velma Meeks sat enthroned at one end of the worn couch in her messy, haphazardly furnished living room. She lit a fresh cigarette with her old one, made a token attempt at crushing the butt, then left the still smoldering stub in the overflowing ashtray. Taking a deep drag, she leaned back and let the smoke come out in a long, thin stream. With her smoking chores completed, she propped her bare feet on a Sears catalog spread open on the crowded coffee table and prepared to wait for Bebe's return.

Waiting in patient silence was not her style, however. She turned her head toward the empty doorway to the kitchen. "You know it's hard for me to believe you're this screwed-up. You've always been so self-confident. Now, it's like you don't know whether to shit or go blind."

Bebe came back from the tiny kitchen carrying a Tab and a package of peanut butter crackers. "It's not that bad, really. I've just got this feeling, call it a hunch, that something's not right and I don't know why or what to do about it."

She reclaimed her spot at the other end of the sofa and found a place on the coffee table for the bottle. "The thing is, Mark and I went out a couple of times last weekend. One was a real date. On the other we just went swimming. Both times he seemed, well, sort of distracted. Like, it was nice to be with me, but it was no big deal, either."

"You think maybe he's just jealous and pouting because you went out with Darrell Ray?"

Bebe shrugged and reached for her own cigarettes. "Could be. That's what I'd hoped for. But now I'm not sure. He's never even asked about what I did while he was gone. At first, I figured it was because somebody told him about my dating Darrell Ray and, like you say, he was pouting. But now, I'm beginning to think he just doesn't care."

"I doubt it," said Velma, leaning forward to see if the new coat of bright red polish on her toenails was dry. "Maybe he's just trying to act cool. But judging from what you've told me, I doubt that, too."

Bebe squirmed in her seat. "Oh, did you hear about the crap he pulled this morning?”

Velma shook her head. “Not a word. What happened?”

“Seems he and Amy Marshall showed up at the courthouse with Willie, that nigger friend of theirs, and some nigger gal no one recognized. They talked about being old friends and wanting to register to vote together. Well, the nigger girl didn't, but the rest of 'em did."

"What happened? Was there any trouble?"

"Not a bit." Bebe sounded disgusted. "Sissy Bullock phoned right after they left and told me all about it. According to her, Mac Stringer, she called him an old fart, vanished and nobody could find the Sheriff. Seems like everybody knew what was going to happen, everybody except Sissy and me. What's more, that creepy D.C. Wright was there taking pictures. I guess for next week's paper."

"Mark didn't say anything to you about this?"

"Well, yeah, he kinda did. But he didn't make a big deal out of it. And to tell you the truth, I wasn't paying much attention. Like I said, he was acting so weird. I thought he was talking about politics or just his registering to vote."

There was a brief lull as both women smoked and pondered the situation. Velma sat up and started rummaging around on the coffee table. "You haven't seen my nail file have you?" She paused and looked over at Bebe. "You know, I just had a thought. Was he that way, you know, distracted like, when he picked you up? What I'm asking is, did something happen during the date that might have caused this?"

"Well, he seemed all right at first, I think." Bebe picked the file off the floor and handed it to Velma. "But I was carrying on, doing a lot of the talking. You know, trying to act like I was interested in what he’d done down in Baton Rouge. So I'm not sure. The one thing that was different from any of our other dates was those two damn niggers almost running us off the road."

Velma's eyes widened. "When did that happen?"

"On the way to the Catfish House. It was on that stretch of road with all those hills and curves. We were coming around a really long curve when this over-loaded pulpwood truck with two big niggers in it started coming right at us. I mean they were way over on our side of the road.”

“Damn. What’d y’all do?”

“Mark managed to dodge 'em, somehow. But it was close. I tell you, it just about scared me to death. I flat-out freaked and started yellin' that he should chase those niggers down and teach 'em a lesson. Then I noticed him giving me a kind of funny look and something told me I better shut up. He shook his head and said he'd rather spend his time wrestling with me than those pulpwood haulers."

Velma hooted. "You got to give him credit for coming up with a good line. I just wish you'd noticed how he was acting before then. But I doubt if it matters. I can't see something like that changing how he feels about you. Do you think something might have happened while he was in Baton Rouge, you know, with Amy?"

"I've been wondering the same thing. But I don't think so. Still, with her anything, and I do mean anything, is possible."

"I suppose there could be more going on between them than we first figured. They might of gotten carried away, you know, at one of those parties he told you about. If that happened, maybe he's feeling guilty and all."

Before Bebe could respond, Velma continued, "And while we're on the subject of getting carried away, I take it you two still haven't done the dirty deed?"

"Not yet. The timing just hasn't felt right.” Bebe winked at Velma. "Why do you think I went out with Darrell Ray?"

They both giggled, then Velma said, "Well, honey, maybe he's just getting tired of waiting for some action. Look, even if that's not the main problem, I promise you, a little back-seat boogie session will get you his undivided attention."

Bebe hoped she didn't come off sounding like a kid to her older friend. "You're right, of course. But what if the problem’s something else? Isn't there a chance doing that too soon could make things even worse?"

After lighting another Parliament, Velma said, "Not if you play it right. How you handle a guy after you do it the first time is super important. Nothing personal, but whatever you do, don't try pulling your roommate's old rejuvenating virgin stunt or, even worse, pretend it's your first time. It's 1968, for God's sake. You know better, I know better, odds are even Mark knows better. After all, he's bound to have learned something in college."

Bebe had to grin. "At least a little something."

"The trick is," Velma continued, "to act just a little confused and vulnerable, like it was so incredible you feel all shook up. Instead of saying you've never done it before, you say you've never 'felt' like this before. It's a sneaky little way of suggesting that, even if there might have been one or two others, he's the best."

Down at the other end of the couch, Bebe pretended she was taking notes. "Act confused and say, 'felt.' Is that right, Professor Meeks?"

"You got it. That way he'll get all full of himself and want to be your knight in shining armor and go around saving your honor—for himself, of course. Once he's your big, brave protector, you start hinting around about how it might be nice to have some sort of casual, just for the summer type, understanding. Maybe say something about how that way you'd have a good excuse to say no when guys like Darrell Ray ask you out."

"Velma, you won't do. Does any guy ever have a chance around you?"

"Not if I have my way, honey. They never have and never will. Just ask poor Buddy."

"So you think it's time I got it on with Mark?"

"A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do," said Velma. "And just between you and me and the walls, I've heard some girls say it’s kinda fun."

Bebe grinned, then checked her watch and stood. "I've gotta scoot. But do you remember that joke, the one you said you told Buddy, about how you were giving up sex because it was too messy, too much work, and the position was ridiculous?"

"Oh, yeah. I had Buddy going for a minute. You should've seen his face."

"Well, to tell you the truth, that's pretty much how I really do feel. I love everything leading up to it. You know, the flirting and the dates and even making out. And there are times when I do get a little turned on and really want the guy. That’s when doing it can be fun, at least for me. But most of the time, it seems a lot more about his wants and needs than my feelings. Still, I suppose if it has to be done, it has to be done."

"That's the spirit, girl.”

"Because I promise you," continued Bebe, in a voice that left no doubt about her sincerity, "there's no way in hell I'm going to let anyone, most of all Amy Marshall, keep me from winning this time."

CROSSED UP - short story

2007-08-15T22:49:00.000-05:00

A Catahoula Cur

Texas author Sylvia Dickey Smith was kind enough to interview me on her blog http://www.sylviadickeysmith.blogspot.com/ and then compounded her crime by including a 500 word (flash fiction) story of mine "Short For Beelzebub" among all the good stuff on her web site http://www.sylviadickeysmith.com/

That story first showed up among the other Bilge here and on USADeepSouth a couple years ago in a much longer (2000 word) version titled, Crossed Up. That insult to English letters was based on a chapter from my second novel, We Danced To Ray Charles.

For those into comparing and contrasting, not to mention heavy pain, here is the 2000 word version. After reading it, check out the smaller version on Sylvia's blog and see if you don't agree that, when it comes to my writing, less is best.

Inspired by Mel Brooks making fun of Nazis in, The Producers, I decided to try something similar with the help of three, less than expert, inchoate Klansmen.

Bayou Bill

==

CROSSED UP
by Bill Fullerton

Delmar Bullock was not impressed. The three young ‘uns standing just inside the door to his storage shed didn’t seem good for much, most of all a Klan job.

At first, they'd tried to act cocky, like this was no big deal. But none of ‘em said a word after seeing the cross he put together that afternoon. He wondered why Jack Boudreaux, who always worried about security leaks, picked these three boys to do a job one real man could finish in a minute or two.

The young ‘uns consisted of Darrell Ray Sims, his cousin Dickie Lee James, and Dickie Lee’s shadow, Floyd Haskins. In fact, Boudreaux hadn’t spoken to anyone but Darrell Ray about the job. But he hadn’t thought to say anything about security leaks or that it was supposed to be a one-man operation.

So Darrell Ray had brought Dickie Lee and Floyd because he didn’t want to do the job alone. In fact, he didn’t want to do it, period.

It wasn’t that he was afraid, of course. And he sure as hell didn’t like niggers. At least not the uppity ones or those mixed-breed agitators Mr. Jack was always going on about. It was just that he didn’t have anything personal against Frank Williams.

A few years after his father ran off, Darrell Ray’s big brother, “Wheeler,” fell through one of those raggedy-assed scaffolds at Imperial Paper. He died the next day. Williams was the one lawyer in the parish willing to handle their case against the company. And according to his mother, when they won, Williams just took his expenses from the settlement instead of the amount they’d agreed on. The odd thing was he made her promise not to tell anyone.

That’s why Darrell Ray always felt he and his family were kinda beholding to Williams. In fact, he sort of liked the guy, even though that candy-assed Mark Cahill was his nephew.

But then Bebe turned him down to go out with Cahill. So now he kinda had to do this for, well, for her daddy, for Mr. Jack. Still, if he was going haul around some cross, he didn’t want it to be in his truck. For one thing, that new, bright yellow paint job made it easy to recognize. And it was just natural not to want any cross or post-hole digger or whatever messing up that expensive finish.

In addition to saving his paint job, Darrell Ray figured it’d be quicker and safer if he had a little assistance. Dickie Lee was about half-ass loco anyway, so it didn’t take much to get both his help and the use of his old GMC truck. The only problem was having him for a partner meant Floyd Haskins tagging along. But that couldn’t be helped.

Bullock acted kinda putout when they all showed up to get the cross and the other stuff. Now his mood seemed even worse as he re-explained how things worked. “You’ve got everything here you need. I built this here cross small enough to hide in the bed of a pick-up. There won’t be any trouble keeping it out of sight.

“Once you get to where you’re going, lay the cross flat on the ground and pour on all the diesel I’ve given you.” He held up a five-gallon can. “That way the wrapping can get good and soaked while you’re digging the hole. Now, unless the soil’s real loose or sandy, the hole don’t have to be much more’n a foot or so deep. This thing’s not supposed to be around very long.” Something resembling a grin creased Bullock’s face.

“After you stick the cross in the hole, be sure to pack enough dirt in around the base so it don’t lean. You want it to stay upright. Looks better that way and makes it last longer, too. Then douse on this gasoline. I put you some in here.” He lifted a long neck beer bottle that was almost hidden by his massive hand. “All you gotta do then is light ‘er up, and git. Be sure to take along everything you brung. Don’t leave no evidence. Most of all, don’t hang around to watch your handiwork, either. Understand?”

They all nodded. Darrell Ray thanked him for going to all the trouble. Then he helped Floyd and Dickie Lee haul everything out to the truck. Ahead of them lay their first experience with cross burning.

The plan called for picking up the material around eight and finishing the job by ten. According to Mr. Jack, Frank Williams and his wife never got back from their Saturday night running around before eleven. That meant there should be plenty of time to spare. Only no one figured on the condition of Dickie Lee’s old pick-up, or that, it being his truck, he’d insist on driving, or on his lousy sense of direction.

None of them had been out to Bullock’s place before. It was an old, frame house tucked away at the end of a long gravel road in the middle of nowhere. They arrived in the dim light of late evening. By the time they left, it was pitch dark.

Within minutes, they’d taken the first of many wrong turns. This was followed by an extended period spent driving in various directions while arguing about which way to turn next and who was at fault. They made it back to the main highway just in time for a back tire to go flat. That’s why it was way after ten before they reached their target.

Thanks to Dickie Lee’s constant reminders about them being in his truck, the others agreed he could act as lookout and getaway driver. That meant Darrell Ray was stuck with Floyd as a helper.

They stopped in the shadow of some pecan tress across the street from the Williams’ one story, brick house. Dickie Lee stayed behind the wheel with the motor idling; his primary contribution being to urge Darrell Ray and Floyd to, “Get a move on.” The moment they got the gear, he drove off to wait up the hill at the intersection where he could spot any approaching cars.

The house was located on the edge of the town’s old, upscale neighborhood. Like all the residential areas in Pinefield, it was quiet. Darrell Ray was relieved there were no lights on inside. He figured it was about time something went right on this operation. A shallow ditch, a line of low hedge, and a fair-sized front yard separated the house from the asphalt road.

They stumbled across the ditch, tripped over the hedge, and soon found what looked like a good spot. As instructed, they lay the cross flat on the ground and then poured on the diesel. Darrell Ray made no move for the post-hole digger, so Floyd started on the hole. He barely had time to break a sweat before the blade hit a large, underground pipe.

That meant more lost time while they argued in loud whispers about where to try next, then moved over to the new spot, and Floyd got back to work. It proved to be prime digging soil however, and the hole was soon finished. That’s when they realized their gloves were back in the truck. That meant wrestling a messy, diesel soaked cross with bare hands. The thought did not appeal to the fastidious Darrell Ray, not one bit.

Back when they started working on the first hole, a dog inside the house began barking. Another one in the backyard soon joined. Mr. Jack had said there would be an inside dog, and that there might be one in a backyard pen. So it wasn’t the dogs, but the thought the barking might attract attention which motivated them to make a modest increase in the pace of their work.

This lack of urgency was a mistake. The barking dog in back was Belle, short for Beelzebub. She was the bad tempered by-product of a brief but turbulent liaison between a vicious Rhodesian Ridgeback and a brutal Catahoula Cur; the latter being a local breed raised to herd and fight wild hogs. Her distinguishing features were powerful shoulders crowned by a ridge of stiff hair along her backbone, dark mottled fur, a milky-white, “glass,” eye, a paranoid disposition, and an all-consuming desire to protect her human family from strangers.

Considering her lineage, Belle was on the small side. That hadn’t kept her from becoming boss dog of the big pack of hounds out at the family’s farm. Thanks to this status, she was a frequent guest at their house in town. While the men in the front yard debated, then moved to another spot and began digging a second hole, Belle was inside her pen in the backyard, barking and snarling with nervous fury while frantically digging her own hole.

As the triumphant front yard crew slipped the diesel soaked cross into their new hole, Belle made good her escape. Stealth not being one of her strong suits, the targets of her intended assault were soon alerted by the sound of loud, angry barks coming around the side of the house and approaching them at a very high rate of speed.

The two men spotted the dark, barking projectile at the same time. It was Floyd's misforutne to be nearest the house. He emitted something resembling a garbled scream, snatched up the post-hole digger and began doing his best to hold off the snarling menace. Darrell Ray splashed on the gas, dug out his lighter, and set the cross afire. If either one realized they hadn’t braced it upright, neither seemed interested in correcting the oversight.

Seeing the cross starting to burn, Dickie Lee cranked his truck and came down to retrieve the work party. Remembering Bullock’s warning about not leaving evidence, Darrell Ray managed to pick up the empty containers without attracting the dog’s attention. Floyd’s occasional yelps made it clear he was having uneven results in his efforts to avoid Belle’s assault. As he fought a desperate, rear-guard holding action, they once again tripped over the hedge and then stumbled back through the ditch to the edge of the road.

Before Dickie Lee could come to a full stop, Darrell Ray threw the empty can and bottle into the truck bed and jumped into the cab. They waited, with some impatience, as Floyd lurched backwards into the cab while trying to deny Belle any more samples of his flesh. Once inside, he yanked in the protective digger. This move sent the handles smashing into the windshield. Ignoring Dickie Lee’s angry protests, Floyd slammed the door shut before Belle could follow him into the already crowded cab.

A glint of light made Darrell Ray turn around and look through the dirty rear window. When he shouted that headlights were approaching, Dickie Lee stopped complaining about his busted windshield and gunned the engine.

It flooded and died.

They had the good luck to be facing downhill. Dickie Lee shifted into neutral and yelled at Darrell Ray and Floyd to get out and push. At that moment, Belle was doing her best to scramble in through the still open passenger window. Darrell Ray and Floyd yelled right back that he should get the hell out and shove himself. Even Dickie Lee could follow their logic and complied. As the oncoming headlights got nearer, the truck began inching its way downhill.

That was when Belle became aware of the new and very vulnerable target of opportunity standing outside the open driver’s door. She raced around behind the tailgate and pounced on Dickie Lee’s unprotected left leg. He responded with a short but intense string of obscenities. Displaying surprising agility for someone with a fresh leg wound, he jumped back behind the wheel and yanked the door shut, just missing Belle’s open jaws and bared teeth.

Shifting into low gear, he released the clutch. The truck backfired, then the motor caught. As they raced away into the night, the cross seemed to give them a slow parting bow that ended with it toppling over onto the grass.

Left behind amidst the exhaust fumes, and shreds of denim, a small-to-medium sized, mixed-breed dog watched the retreating taillights and bayed in savage triumph.

ADMISSION OF AFFECTION - excerpt

2007-08-03T23:25:00.000-05:00

This post, like the previous one (FIRST KISS) is an excerpt from a scene in my first novel, A Brief Affair. The aforementioned affair that developed between the kisser and the kissee, is about to experience a major change in its focus.

Your thoughts on how to improve my pitiful prose would be appreciated.

Bayou Bill

==

ADMISSION OF AFFECTION
by Bill Fullerton

Mark tensed at the familiar sound of Gwen’s footsteps approaching his room. Not for the first time, he flashed back to their blow-up the day before he left town. He still couldn’t understand why she wanted him to write her or why she’d gotten mad and started to cry when he said, no.

Once home, he succumbed to the memory of those tears and sent her a hand printed, three-page letter plus several cards. Despite that capitulation, he wasn’t sure what sort of reception awaited him. When he called last night to tell her he was coming back, she sounded happy and said she'd come over to see him after supper. But who knew what things would be like face-to-face?

All tension vanished the moment Gwen strode into the room. Her bright smile and cheery, “Hi, stranger,” sent a clear signal that his previous postal insensitivity was forgiven.

After a quick kiss, she stepped away from his grasp, pulled off her long monk’s cape and draped it over the back of the bedside chair. It was like watching a present being unwrapped—a very appealing present in a beige, cable-knit sweater, khaki mini-skirt, and brown boots.

He watched as she shook out her short brunette hair. Wispy bangs framed her face with its peach-tinted skin, perfect nose, soft, brown eyes, and very kissable lips. Either she’s gotten better looking, thought Mark, or I’ve missed her more than I realized.

Gwen moved into his arms. "So, did you miss me?"

"Only desperately.” Their lips met, halting conversation.

Afterward, she sighed and laid her head on his shoulder as their bodies became reacquainted. When she opened her eyes, Gwen noticed an unmade bed on the other side of the room.

"You have a roommate?"

"Affirmative. His name is Jessie Johnson and he seems like an okay guy. Says he was a tunnel rat with the 4th Division. He sure looks the part: short, wiry and careful. Went down one tunnel too many and got an eye messed up which is why he's in here."

"Where’s he now?"

"His mother stopped by on her way home. She works at Macy's. They've gone down to the day room to smoke."

"And then they'll come back without warning which, I'm afraid, puts a damper on the reception I had planned for you.”

"Not to worry.” Mark stroked her hair. "They’ll be back for her coat, but then she’s got to leave or miss her train. After that, Jessie's promised to make himself scarce."

"So you two have been plotting, have you?"

"What can I say? Us old beat up 'Nam vets have to stick together."

"Well, in that case, why don't we go out to the lobby for a while? I want to tell you about some stuff that happened while you were gone. And if it’s all the same to you, I'd rather not be interrupted by the return of Jessie and his mother."

A few minutes later, they were outside the ward in a dimly lit sitting area near the elevators. While an occasional person got on or off the elevators, no one came over to intrude on their privacy.

Gwen sat at one end of a well-used green couch. Something told Mark she really did want to talk, not make out. To avoid temptation, he leaned against the edge of the windowsill across from her. He glanced out at the traffic on rain-slick First Avenue and waited. After a moment's hesitation, Gwen cleared her throat and began.

"While you were gone, I broke up with Johnny, for good. He'd started dealing dope, not working at a real job. He knew how I felt about drugs, and why. So I told him we were through, forever, and gave him his ring back.” Her words came out in a series of low, rapid bursts.

After what seemed like an endless silence, she continued. "After crying and feeling sorry for myself, I suddenly realized I'm in love with you. I don't know when it happened, maybe the day you kissed me, but all I want is to be with you, forever. And I know this all sounds crazy, but I love you so much, I'd marry you today if you wanted to."

She fell silent and waited, apparently hoping for some reaction. There was none. Silent and motionless, Mark stared over her head into middle-space, then turned and looked out into the cold, January night, and tried to think of what he should say. She just broke up with Johnny, and yet says she’s ready to marry good old Mark. Not that the idea of marrying Gwen didn’t have its appeal. After all, she was smart, cute, fun to be with, and great in bed.

But something just wasn't right with this picture. It wasn’t a question of her being sincere. There was a guileless honesty in her voice. Still, he wondered if her priority was to marry him or just to get married? Was she in love with him or with some idealized notion of marriage?

"Gwen, I’m not sure you really love me. Maybe you're in love with the idea of being in love. Maybe you haven't gotten over breaking up with Johnny and need me to come in on the rebound. Who knows, you--."

Gwen broke in, "Mark, I'm in love with you, not with some idea. After breaking up with Johnny, it just came to me that I've been in love with you for, I don’t know for how long. But now I know why being with you always made me feel so special and why I've always loved making you feel happy. And I have, haven't I?"

There was a momentary silence, then with the faintest trace of a smile, he said, "Yes, you've made me very happy, both in and out of bed."

The smile left his face. "Look, let me spell this out for you. Like I've said before, I like you, I really do. In fact, I like you a whole lot. But, I don't think, I don't know, if I love you or will ever love anyone again. What's more, I think you're just infatuated, for whatever reason, not with me, but with some sort of dramatic, battle-scarred, soldier-type character I'm supposed to play.”

Mark turned away from the window and began to pace. "I'm not clear on all this myself. But to me, love is trust. Back in 'Nam, in the bush, you learned fast who you could count on, who you could trust. The only problem was your friends, the people you could trust, had a nasty habit of leaving fast and for keeps."

He stopped pacing as his mind focused on other times, other worlds. With a shake of his head, he looked down at Gwen. "Ever since getting back, it's like my emotions have been muted, been numbed. Even with my family or old friends, I sometimes find myself thinking about what it will be like when they're dead, when they've left me, so to speak. It's just..." his words trailed off.

“But Mark, I love you. I would never, could never, leave you."

Mark heard the plaintive note in her voice—could see the concern on her face. But could he ever be sure of her? After all, they’d started dating, and then making love, while she was still engaged to Johnny. Now a few days after dumping him, here she was. "Maybe not," he said, "unless things didn't go your way."

She started to protest, but he changed the subject. "And then there's the reality that I'm a half-blind guy who can't drive a car and hasn't even finished college. In here, I'm one of the few guys under a hundred. But, what would you think of me in the real world? I guess that also bothers me."

"Well, none of that bothers me.”

"No, it doesn't seem to," he admitted, with a half-smile. "I guess that's one of the reasons I like you, Miss Kaplan. That and your great legs."

Gwen smiled but said nothing, just sat in the dim light and stared up at him like a confused and anxious puppy. Hell, it was worse than her crying. "Look, Gwen, I'm sorry to sound like such a jerk. It’s just that, I’m not sure if what you feel for me really is love. As for me, I don’t know if I love you or, like I said, whether I can ever love anyone again."

He paused, and then broke the tense, serious mood. "Now at this point in the proceedings you may be asking yourself, just what in hell does this goober know? That's a fair question. So for what it's worth, here's what little I claim to know. I like you, a whole lot. And I like being with you, a whole lot. And I'd like to keep seeing you, a whole lot."

“Me too,” said Gwen. She stood and pressed her body against his as their lips met. It was a long, languid kiss. As the tip of her tongued darting around inside his mouth, her fingers toyed with the growing bulge inside Mark’s pajamas.

When the kiss ended, she looked into his face. "Well, Mr. Cahill, since that’s the case, I promise that from now on, you’ll be seeing a whole lot more of me, a whole lot of the time."

They returned to Mark's room to find a slender, young black man and a well dressed, middle-aged, black woman leaving. "Mrs. Johnson, Jessie, glad we caught y’all," said Mark. "Mrs. Johnson, I'd like you to meet Gwen Kaplan. She's the nursing student over at Bellevue I told you about who worked here last summer."

Mrs. Johnson gave Gwen a warm smile and extended her hand. "Well, I know you're glad to have this charming young lady coming to visit. Hello, Gwen, I'm Olivia Johnson. You don't happen to know of a nice black student nurse for my Jessie?"

"It's good to meet you, Mrs. Johnson," said Gwen, shaking the delicate hand. "Actually, one of my best friends at school, Ann Elmore, is black. We both worked here last summer. Mark’s met her and says she's cute."

"Fine, fine," said Mrs. Johnson with a chuckle. "Be sure to bring her with you the next time you come over to visit."

The young black man standing behind her sighed with feigned exasperation. Then he smiled at Gwen. "Hi, I'm Jessie. Don't pay any attention to my mother. Since I've gotten back from 'Nam, her only goal in life has been to get me married."

"Well, it would do you a world of good," replied Mrs. Johnson with an indulgent smile.

"Maybe so," said Jessie. "But right now we've got to get you out of here. You’ve already missed the early train."

They all said goodbye and Gwen promised she'd try to get Ann to come over with her sometime. As the Johnson’s headed down the hall, Gwen and Mark walked into his now empty room.

After Mark assumed his usual position on the edge of his bed, Gwen sidled in between his heavily muscled legs. She slipped her hands behind his neck and cuddled close, pressing her breasts against his chest. After a long kiss, she nibbled on his ear and whispered. "Now about that welcome back reception I had planned."

As Gwen’s fingers began the teasing process of opening the fly to his pajamas. Spellbound, Mark watched as she extracted her prize, then looked up at him and smiled. Moments later, all he could see was the back of Gwen’s head, all he could feel was the warm, sweet pressure of her mouth engulfing him. Every welcome back should be this good.

No Trick Plays

2007-07-29T07:37:00.000-05:00

In our hard-eyed, cynical world, sometimes the good guys still managed to win the big game and even the hand of the head cheerleader. For those of you who may have forgotten, didn't see, or want to relieve the event, here's a link to a YouTube highlight clip of the final dramatic plays of last season's Fiesta Bowl and the proposal that followed. Enjoy

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WgjKXyL_o24

No trick plays here: Boise State star marries cheerleader fiancee, prays to end prejudice
July 28, 2007

BOISE, Idaho (AP) -- Before Boise State running back Ian Johnson married the girl he proposed to on national television, the couple prayed to end prejudice.

Johnson and Chrissy Popadics, the cheerleader he proposed to after scoring the winning points in the Fiesta Bowl against Oklahoma, were married Saturday in a traditional ceremony at Cathedral of the Rockies First United Methodist Church.

Johnson, who is black, has said he received phone calls and about 30 letters, including personal threats from people who objected to his plans to marry his white fiancee. Johnson has not described the threats, and it is unclear where they came from.

The ceremony began with the prayer and ended with the couple jumping over a broom -- an African tradition signifying the couple jumping into a new life together.

As they drove away in a stretch limousine, Johnson kissed his new wife and said, "Let's play ball," the Idaho Statesman reported.

Johnson ran for a 2-point conversion on a "Statue of Liberty" to give the underdog Broncos a 43-42 overtime win over Oklahoma on Jan. 1 in Glendale, Ariz. Boise State finished the season 13-0 and No. 5 in the AP Top 25.

Getting to the Bottom of Things

2007-07-28T04:26:00.001-05:00

One Big-Bottomed Babe

USADeepSouth http://usadeepsouth.ms11.net/fall07.html has just sent its fall issue rolling down that old information highway. Hidden among the good stuff is the following account of how I got to the bottom of a writing challenge. (The rest of the offerings are MUCH better, trust me.)

Bayou Bill

Getting to the Bottom of Things

So you want to be a rich, famous writer? Well, I’m clueless about the first two. But if you want to be a good writer, having good friends can be a big plus. Here's just one example.

In “Bob Wills Is Still the King” the late Waylon Jennings sang, “Well, the honky-tonks in Texas were my natural second-home.”

When it comes to the internet, I feel the same way about the “Front Porch” forum at USADeepSouth. This past weekend, several Porchers not involved in a certain soiree on Caddo Lake, pitched in to help me get to the bottom of a delicate situation.

It all started last week when Robert Flynn, a noted Texas author (twelve books, including seven novels) and professor emeritus at Trinity University, was kind enough to go over the opening section of my "We Danced to Ray Charles" novel. Among his many excellent suggestions and helpful thoughts, was one concerning my use of "bottom" in the following paragraph.

(before note: The time and place is a dance in a small southern town during the summer of 1968. The characters are college age.)

"He watched as she made her way to the cloakroom. The sight of Bebe's near-legendary bottom (***NOT EROTIC***) swaying in a seductive rhythm was always arousing. Over the last eight years, he'd observed that wonder of nature many times. Far too often after another rejection. This time he felt no mixed emotions. Tonight, she would walk back to him." (***GOOD***)

(after note: before anyone asks, no, the last of the paragraph, which just happens to include that kind comment by Mr. Flynn, has nothing to do with erotic substitutes for “bottom.” And your point is?)

In search of sage wisdom, counsel and advice, I went before my fellow Porchers and tried to explain the situation. My summation to the Porch was as follows:

There’s always a chance Mr. Flynn might be wrong about the word's connotation in today's society. There is, however, a much better chance he's right. The problem is, neither of us could think of any better word for, “bottom.”.

So, what do you think of using "bottom" in that scene? Is it erotic? Should it be erotic? Can you think of some mo' better synonyms?

My cry for help resulted in less teasing than I'd expected, probably because certain "goat ropers" (note: members who live in Texas) were otherwise occupied on or about that lake, but also some good advice.

PANTHER PAM:
I think TUSH would be good, as you can't put ASS, right? How about derriere? BOOTIE??? How about rear-end?????

LONNYE SUE:
How about 'fanny' or 'posterior'?

OLD NEWT:
IMHO,in the context cited, either ass, or butt would probably be more gender appropriate and probably more erotic than bottom. Even in the buckle of the bible belt, a young man of 20-something would no more think or say bottom than he would derriere. Many times in my travels along the byways I have heard the phrases, "a world-class ass" and "a legendary butt". While neither word seems particularly erotic, they are more risque than bottom and used in your context somewhat allude to erotic behavior...sort of like teenagers telling dirty jokes hoping to break the ice for more intimate adventures.

Being a mannerly southern boy, I responded:
Thanks to Pam, Lonnye Sue, and Newt for the suggestions. The dicey thing with any non-contemporary story is coming up with terms that are appropriate for the time but don't jar on the ears of modern readers. (Remember when "gay" didn't refer to male homosexuals?) I've been squeamish about using, "ass." Still, with both Pam and Newt suggesting it as a possibility, it's now moving up on the charts.

Ye Ed (Beth) stopped chasing grandkids long enough to opine that:
Regarding the "bottom" question, I lean toward "rear" or "ass." I think

At some point, Delta Dawn speculated on the differences between the, uh, “bottoms” possessed by Jennifer Lopez and Queen Latiffa, but failed to come up with any new suggestion.

All that, plus input from my wife-unit, lead to this Monday morning missive:

Morning all.

Please forgive me, but I've just gotta use this line before the thread drifts off down the great info highway.

We could be getting to the bottom of this thing, so to speak.

Now back to bottoms, I mean, business, Pam and others, including the wife-unit, mentioned "derriere" as a possibility. At no additional charge, Roberta let me know she didn't care much for "near-legendary" either.

My worries about that term were similar to Old Newt’s, that it was out of synch with the character and setting. But then it occurred to me that: 1. “He” (Mark) is a college guy and, 2. a romantic and, 3. “She” (Bebe) is Cajun-French. That said, how does this revision strike you? (changes are in bold)

He watched as Bebe made her way to the cloakroom. The sight of that celebrated Cajun derriere swaying in a seductive rhythm was always arousing.

Is there more, less, or about the same "erotic" factor as in the original:

He watched as she made her way to the cloakroom. The sight of her near-legenday bottom swaying in a seductive rhythm was always arousing.

Whatever the final version, I do appreciate all the feedback. And before you ask, no, I never thought I'd ever be asking the Porch for advice on this particular subject--but I'm glad I did.

Bayou Bill

ps: Since he was responsible for starting all this fuss in the first place, I communicated the glad tiding of great joy to Robert Flynn along with a link to this article. He replied:

It's very nice of you to mention me, Bill. Thanks. I think you got it right with Cajun derriere. It sounds natural to me. Bob

Syl(via) Grills Bill

2007-07-23T02:55:00.000-05:00

Author Sylvia Dickey Smith

Sylvia Dickey Smith's roots are buried in the land of pirates, cowboys, Cajuns and Paleo-Indians. She grew up in the 40's and 50's in the southeast Texas town of Orange, the last "get off" of I-10 before Louisiana. In the seventies she moved to Trinidad, West Indies with her husband and children and lived and worked there for six years. There she developed a love for other cultures, races and religions.

She graduated with a B.A. in Sociology and a M.Ed in Educational Psychology at mid-life, from the University of Texas at El Paso. In her Freshman English class her professor encouraged her to develop her gift of writing. But lack of confidence and other personal struggles led her down another path. The drive to write haunted her dreams. Ideas for fiction and non-fiction alike turned into a tall stack of spiral notebooks tucked away in a drawer.

It's obvious she's gained self-confidence since then. Her first mystery book (Dance On His Grave) was published May, 2007, and the second book in the series comes out Nov. 1, 2007. The third book is under construction, along with a non-fiction book related to the pirates, privateers, smugglers, and slave traders along the southeast Texas Gulf Coast.

Sylvia now lives in Round Rock, Texas with her husband, Bill, a retired Army Colonel. She is the proud mother of four children, all grown and gone, and excellent writers themselves. She writes in a bedroom lined with books and papers and CD drives. When guests come, she vacates her writing room and sleeps late, rather than getting up before dawn to write.

One of the many things Sylvia does in addition to her writing is manage a very active blog and a writer-friendly web site. And that's where I come into the picture.

Sylvia's blog http://www.sylviadickeysmith.blogspot.com/ now includes an interview with humble, modest little me.

Beginning in September, she'll showcase a 500 word story of mine, "Short For Beelzebub" on her web site http://www.sylviadickeysmith.com/

Be sure to check 'em both out along with all the other (good) stuff, and tell her I said, thanks.

Bayou Bill

Appointment In Samarra: or why I need a drink

2007-06-13T08:12:00.000-05:00

phote from BBC News

http://http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/6748723.stm

I first heard the news from Samarra on NPR this morning and have just finished the following AP report.

Bummed Out Bayou Bill

==

Shiite Shrine in Samarra Attacked
By QASSIM ABDUL-ZAHRA, Associated Press Writer

Suspected al-Qaida insurgents on Wednesday destroyed the two minarets of the Askariya Shiite shrine in Samarra, authorities reported, in a repeat of a 2006 bombing that shattered its famous Golden Dome and unleashed a wave of retaliatory sectarian violence that still bloodies Iraq.

Police said the attack at about 9 a.m. involved explosives and brought down the two minarets, which had flanked the dome's ruins. No casualties were reported.

The attack immediately stirred fears of a new explosion of Sunni-Shiite bloodshed. There are close ties between al-Qaida and some Iraqi Sunni militants.

--

A U.S. military official in northern Iraq confirmed that the towers were destroyed, and said Samarra remained calm by early afternoon Wednesday. He spoke on condition of anonymity because he wasn't authorized to release the information.

The powerful blasts shook the town, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the air, said Imad Nagi, a storeowner 100 yards from the shrine. "After the dust settled, I couldn't see the minarets any more. So, I closed the shop quickly and went home."

It wasn't immediately clear how the attackers evaded the shrine's guard force, which had been strengthened after the 2006 bombing. A senior al-Maliki adviser said policemen at the shrine were detained Wednesday and would be questioned as part of an investigation ordered by the prime minister.

After last year's bombing, the mosque was guarded by about 60 Federal Protection Service forces and 25 local Iraqi police who kept watch on the perimeter, according to Samarra city officials.

The U.S. military released a statement saying "the Iraqi police on site described hearing two near-simultaneous explosions coming from inside of the mosque compound, but they did not see any attackers in the vicinity."

The Askariya shrine's dome was destroyed on Feb. 22, 2006, in a bombing blamed on Sunni Muslim militants believed linked to al-Qaida. The mosque compound and minarets had remained intact but closed after that bombing.

--

Police imposed an indefinite curfew on the Sunni city, located 60 miles north of Baghdad, amid fears the bombing might further inflame the sectarian hatreds that swept Baghdad and other areas of Iraq in the months that followed the destruction of the shrine's dome.

The execution-style killings largely blamed on Shiite militias had begun to decline in February, at the start of a major U.S.-Iraqi security push to pacify Baghdad, but the numbers have seen a recent rise as the bombings continued.

But while the numbers of people killed are down in Baghdad, violence has been on the rise elsewhere in Iraq after militants fled the security operation.

The Askariya mosque contains the tombs of the 10th and 11th imams — Ali al-Hadi, who died in 868, and his son Hassan Askariya, who died in 874. Both are descendants of the Prophet Muhammad, and Shiites consider them to be among his successors.

The shrine also is near the place where the 12th imam, Mohammed al-Mahdi, disappeared. Al-Mahdi, known as the "hidden imam," was the son and grandson of the two imams buried in the Askariya shrine. Shiites believe he will return to Earth restore justice to humanity.

==

That bit of 2007 news reminded me of Somerst Maugham's 1933 retelling of:

"Appointment in Samarra"

The speaker is Death

There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, “Master, just now, when I was in the marketplace, I was jostled by a woman in the crowd, and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture, now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me.”

The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, “Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?”

“That was not a threatening gesture,” I said, “it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.”

==

And that's why I need a drink.

Still Bummed Out Bayou Bill

Not Too Long Ago (okay, 1965)

2007-06-04T22:04:00.003-05:00

The Uniques with lead singer Joe Stampley

Not Too Long Ago
by Bill Fullerton

note: This was first posted last year. Since then the music video clip, Not Too Long Ago, vanished from YouTube. Now it's back. If you want a copy, better save it fast.

Those interested in the music, dancing, and styles from the early and mid '60's, should check out this music video clip of, NOT TOO LONG AGO, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XyEvsD5bqEA&feature=related by a '60's group from Springhill, La. called, The Uniques. The lead singer with the horrible hair-cut is, Joe Stampley, who these days earns his daily bread singing country. And, yes, you will need the sound turned on.

The Uniques had some near-misses, but never managed the leap into the national big time. They survived the early Beatles onslaught, but were washed away by the "hippie" music of the late sixties. Stampley pulled a Kenny Rogers and switched to country music. To the best of my knowledge, the rest drifted out of the business.

"Not So Long Ago" wasn't their biggest hit, it just happens to be the one with a video clip on YouTube. The group's signature song was a version of Art Neville's love ballad, "All These Things," so potent it may still hold the unofficial record for instigating unplanned pregnancies.

Harry Connick, Jr., Elvis Costello and others have "covered" the tune.

Here's a link to a short audio clip, followed by a copy of the lyrics.

All These Things

The touch of your lips next to mine
Get me excited, make me feel fine.
The sound of your voice, your sweet hello
The fire inside me, when I'm holding you close.

Your love's so warm and tender.
Your thrill is so devine.
It is, All These Things,
That make you mine.

If you would leave me, I surely would die.
When you started to go, I started to cry.
Now I've got it bad, but that's alright.
As long as you're near me every night.

Your love's so warm and tender.
Your thrill is so divine.
It is, All These Things,
That make you mine.

Music Break...

Now I got it bad, but that's alright.
As long as your near me every night.
Your love's so warm and tender.
Your thrill is so divine.
It is, All These Things,
That make you mine.

If you're into downloading songs and/or want to hear preview clips of these and other hits by The Uniques, one place you can check-out is, MUSIC ITCH

Abolish The Apostrophe?

2007-06-04T02:37:00.000-05:00

National Punctuation Day is September 24th

http://http://www.nationalpunctuationday.com/apostrophe.html

The following article appeared recently in About.com's Grammar and Composition newsletter. If you want to see eyes turn red and normally peaceable folks start foaming at the mouth, place a copy of this in front of some unsuspecting English teacher. Then stand back, way back.

Bayou Bill

==

The Campaign to Abolish the Apostrophe
by Dr. Richard Nordquist
originally published at About.com

Pikes Peak, named after explorer Zebulon Pike, lost its apostrophe in 1891. That was the year that the newly formed U.S. Board on Geographic Names outlawed this seemingly innocent mark of punctuation: "The possessive form using an 's' is allowed," declared the Board, "but the apostrophe is almost always removed."

Some would be quite happy to broaden the ban on that "morbid growth in English orthography," as linguist Steven Byington characterized the mark. Writing in American Speech in 1945, he observed that "the language would be none the worse for its abolition."

More recently, in an article bluntly titled "Axing the Apostrophe," Adrian Room argues that apostrophes are simply unnecessary. So what, he says, if “we’ll” appears as “well” or “he’ll” as “hell.” Context, he insists, "should soon show which word is meant, and grammatical parameters would make ambiguity unlikely" (English Journal, 1989).

Another knowledgeable opponent of apostrophes (those "uncouth bacilli," in George Bernard Shaw's words) is English teacher Peter Brodie, who also advocates abolition: "they are largely decorative, like the French circumflex, and--unlike the comma--rarely clarify meaning" (English Journal, 1995).

According to my extremely unscientific Google poll, two very different groups are behind the campaign to abolish the apostrophe.

One group is made up of learned individuals such as Dr. Room and Mr. Brodie: pragmatic educators who have apparently decided that trying to enforce the "rules" in the face of the mark's widespread abuse is hardly worth the effort. If the apostrophe has become the Rodney Dangerfield of punctuation marks, it probably deserves no respect and might just as well quietly slip off the keyboard.

If you think that judgment is harsh, consider the view of the other group of abolitionists--those whom we might call the IM crowd. Not only is the apostrophe unnecessary; far worse, it's uncool. Peter Buck, guitarist with the rock band REM, speaks plainly: "We all hate apostrophes. There's never been a good rock album that's had an apostrophe in the title."

(Come on, all together now: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band!)

Of course, the anti-apostrophe campaign has met with some opposition. There is (or at least was) an American Apostrophe Association operating out of Oregon. And I've written before about The Apostrophe Protection Society in England.

But let's hear what you think: is the apostrophe worth preserving, or is the little squiggle a lost cause? Share your apostrophetic thoughts by clicking on the "comment" button below. Or take a bold stand simply by choosing where to enjoy a cup of coffee--at McDonald's (with apostrophe) or at Starbucks (without).

And if you're not ready to ban the apostrophe just yet, check out Stephen Notley's illustrated version of the rules: Bob's Quick Guide to the Apostrophe, You Idiots (at Bob the Angry Flower Web Site). Or my somewhat gentler page, Guidelines for Using Apostrophes Correctly.