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Trephining
is three novels; Deadly Nightshade - Riding Pegasus
- A Place in the Sky
- following schizophrenically challenged police detective Yuli Haugen. Yuli works to solve a murder among the rich and powerful, while desperately trying to maintain his identity and hang onto his sanity. Yuli tells you the story himself, but is he losing it? Is he in touch with reality or is fantasy protecting his troubled psyche? And more importantly, Dear Reader needs to make a decision; is Yuli Haugen telling you the truth?
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| excerpt from my novel Deadly Nightshade | |||
1st book in the trilogy - Trephining
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| © R.C. Westerholm | woody nightshade |
about deadly nightshade poisons here X
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buy it at Amazon Books
& & & & &
Words are,
of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.
from my novel
Acts of Empathy
recited by character
Rachel . .
.
And
silver flows like honey, liquid in my dreams, And all
the sunbeams sending down their diamond studded swords, © Dahlia
Not only do words infect,
egotize, narcotize, and paralyze,
but they enter into and colour
the minutest cells of the brain .
- Rudyard Kipling
and gold is washed
upon the shore, and dissipates it seems,
until
reflections in your eye recast that muted light,
of all the treasures of the earth, of all
the starry night.
and
all the poets' pens abound with fluent wishful words,
and all the ocean waters, and all the mountains high,
do not contain the love that shines, within your lambent eye.
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from my novel in progress Pelly and Miramar Miramar don't care. She's prob'ly out havin' a good time right now. Party Princess. When they find my body squished under the wheels of one of them huge trailer rigs, she'll cry then. Or will she? The highway meandered between rolling farmlands and stands of dark trees. A scattering of cars hissed by. Lazily. Dark clouds rolled overhead, muting the countryside in a moody light. Pelly Boyes continued mumbling to himself as he waited for a semi. A big rig would end it quickly. The last thing he wanted was to end up a vegetable and have nurses feeding him through tubes, not being able to tell them he wanted to die. One blink for yes. And Miramar giving him that sick, 'you're so stupid' look. Again. The doctors trying to repair the sack of bones that had been dragged under a ten ton truck. Pelly had to make sure big fat double tires got him right away. He stood on the overpass above the fast lane on the far side to oncoming cars, away from the view of an approaching driver, pressed against the rail, watching for the exact right truck, ready to drop as the vehicle drove under the highway bridge. No driver could react quick enough to avoid him when he leaped. Just a blurred shape in front of the bumper. At twenty-four, it was all over for Pelly Boyes, he had nowhere left to go. 'I told you, Pelly, not to get involved with them people. You didn't listen.' His cash flow flew. The angle he had hoped for never appeared to him. Too many little shit deals that went sour. Scammy deals doomed from the start. Pelly mumbled to himself, "Too many small time assholes who you can't count on. Like Midas the Fink. Damn Midas. I shoulda shot you Midas when I had that gun, tellin' the cops all that shit about me. There's no way into the loop for a guy what no education, no chance of getting wherever it was I was tryin' to be gettin' to. And Angel supposed to tell me when he's gonna 'lectrify a horse, some jockey friend you turned out." Pelly wanted to go now. Make the exit from humanity. Couldn't pay his debts and Sal Mungo didn't tolerate late payments. A guy called Crunchy was looking for him right now. The worst of all Miramar was gone. She clinched it when she ran off yesterday with that big city dork wearing a fancy Western suit and a blue Mercedes. And pointy-toe Tony Lamas. She flashin' her green eyes at his crocodile wallet. Damn drop-dead gorgeous Miramar. Steppin' out of a forties movie. But gawd she has that Forties style. What does she like about that so much? Glenn Miller for chrissakes? Pelly stared down at his worn shoes as the first few drops of heavy rain spattered the pavement, absorbed into the concrete. Then the ominous dark Cadillac caught his attention. If the sky hadn't been so dark he wouldn't have been able to see into the car at all. Odd, one driver, three large men squished into the back seat. from Pelly and Miramar. ©
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 from the entrance to Commodore Bowling and Billiards, Granville Street, Vancouver, B.C. established in 1930, Canada's oldest bowling alley. Painter unknown |
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Pelly and Miramar is a quirky story about two people destined for each other but don't understand it yet.
'.... be careful Pelly, Miramar could just get you killed doing it.'
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I cannot and do not live in the world
of discretion, not as a writer anyway ...
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| War Poem |
| written by character Nathan in my novel - A Place in the Sky |
more war poems here - - -
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from my novel - Nashville Dreams |
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Jackson, Elijah and FDR, full of smiles, crunched together,
driving along a country road in the old pickup. Whistlestop stood in the
back, legs splayed for balance. The cab had no rear window and he poked
his head in often. They rolled past a gentle countryside. Hay fields or
cotton fields with hedgerows separating them and plowed furrows with small
stands of scrubby oak or pine. Sometimes pastures with grazing black cows.
Occasional weathered farmhouses with picturesque barns. FDR drove slowly, concentrating on the road and Jackson and
Elijah realized he was a novice driver as he continually corrected his
steering. Elijah absently plucked his banjo and Whistlestop enjoyed the
breeze rushing through his fur. Jackson said, “FDR, this was a great idea. We are gonna be
like them big stars before you know it.” “We’re on our w-way to N-Nashville!” “And we’re going to be having everything you ever wanted,
cars, money, pretty women ....” “Food.” “Wh-what stars, Jackson?” “Nashville stars my boy, Eddie Rabbitt, Dwight Yokum, them
guys are huge stars, FDR. Kenny and Dolly, they don’t get bigger than
that.” “Don’ know if I c-care about them folk an’ bein’ r-rich,
Jackson.” Elijah mocked, “George Strait hada move outa his own home
state ‘cause all his exes moved in.” He strummed a few bars of the hit
song. “That from bein’ too rich.” They all laughed and occasionally gasped when FDR seemed to
veer off toward a ditch. They were finally experiencing some success and
enjoyed how the bright sunlight cast a warm ray of hope on future dreams. They passed a police car tucked into the shadow of several elm
trees and a highway road sign. Two deputies watched them go by. Deputy Roscoe said, “There he is, Otis, Franklin in his Papa’s
yeller truck.” “Ol’ Ornery Tom is gonna whup that boy, Roscoe.” “Never thought he’d have the gumption to steal it. If that’s
what he did.” They pulled out after the old truck with lights flashing. Our three were still having fun until Jackson turned to pat
the dog and saw the police car coming up fast behind them. “Whoa there, what’s this?” Elijah turned, stopped playing. “We ain’t speedin’?” FDR said, “Wh-what?” “We got a police car catchin’ up on our rear here, FDR.” “Well they d-don’ hasta be ch-ch-chasin’ after us.” FDR concentrated on keeping the truck in a straight line. He
tried to adjust the hanging rear-view mirror but it was too loose and he
almost lost control and nearly slid the truck into the ditch. “Oh n-no.” Elijah said, “They is chasin’ after us, man.” Jackson looked to FDR, “What d’you mean, ‘oh no’, FDR? Why
would they be after us?” FDR didn’t answer, kept on going, trying for a little more
speed from the old pickup. A siren began to wail. Jackson glanced at Elijah while saying loudly, “You best pull
over, boy, there ain’t nobody else on this road.” FDR just drove faster, looking worried. He suddenly turned off
the paved road onto a side road of gravel and dirt. Small stones flung up
from the wheels and the police cruiser dropped back a bit. Whistlestop was
all legs askew, trying to balance while moaning his own song at the siren. Elijah watched the deputies, “FDR, your Daddy know ya took his
truck?” Jackson squirmed between them looking incredulously at Elijah
then FDR and the police car, on their rear again. “This ain’t your truck,
FDR?” Elijah sighed, “We be going ta the iron an’ steel hotel.” FDR turned onto a dirt path surrounding a freshly plowed
field. Dust everywhere, the police car now close behind. FDR said, “He din’t essactly say I c-could t-take it.” “You STOLE this truck?” FDR didn’t answer. Jackson said, “You were sitting in it. In town. I …. we
thought it was yours.” Elijah glanced at Jackson, “Ain’t no WE here, man. You be two
people is all.” “But …” Elijah watched the police car, said, “I was suspectin’
somethin’ like this. We gonna be playin’ with picks and shovels, Jackson,
‘stead a picks an’ strings. You talked me inta this.” Jackson turned to Elijah, “He stole it! It ain’t his.” FDR was defensive, “H-he owed m-me.” Elijah, “I be whisperin’ low now so the police don’t hear me.
This be a felony.” “Sweet loving Mama, I hooked up with two crazies, Barnie and Clyde.” Jackson wondered if FDR even had a drivers’ license but was afraid
to ask.
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© R.C. Westerholm |
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ELIJAH singing softly beneath a railroad trestle Ain't no hurry to get nowhere, roll on, along the road got no worry, already there, roll on along the road.
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written by Elijah, aka Trestle Bill,
my character in
Nashville Dreams
check it out at Amazon Books
D
id you know - if you click the Amazon button, you go to the websiteand look at the cover art of the novel, you can click the 'look inside' feature
and read a nice portion to see if you like it
before you buy! Easy? Go try it.
from Act II - scene 2
the conversation at the kitchen table continues - - -
SHE: So you're
saying the Elvis sightings are true?
HE:
Yep. The King has NOT left the building. Elvis is free now and doing just fine,
he travels the back roads and enjoys the
countryside.
SHE:
I believe you.
HE:
Eats at Diners. No pressure. SHE:
Except too many people still recognize him?
HE:
Exactly. He was getting noticed way too much. Not in the Diners though ...
(Then with authority) 'cause them folks are
close-mouthed, don't tell you nothin' ... SHE:
Secretive are they?
HE:
But when he gassed up the Caddy, the attendants, they recognized him.
SHE:
Even with the shades?
HE:
Yep. And he hardly ever puts the top down.
SHE:
No white glitter suit?
HE:
Just jeans and a jean jacket.
SHE: He
wasn’t even humming?
HE:
Honey, nobody HUMS 'Hound Dog'.
SHE:
But he still has a Cadillac convertible?
HE:
He drives an old '59 Eldorado Bairritz.
SHE:
He does huh? Would that be a pink one??
HE:
Nope, blue.
SHE:
Are those the ones with the airplane tail fins? HE:
Honey, ALL ‘59 Eldorados have massive tail fins with the twin
rocket tail-lights.
(HE holds up two hands as if feeling the roundness of the twin rocket
tail-lights, looks at her breasts and widens his hands with a grin. SHE responds
with a warning look)
SHE:
So Elvis thinks a blue Caddy is incognito?
HE: (Nodding, explaining) And
when he went in to pay for his gas, they always knew it was him, even though
he’s lost a lot of weight. He was getting tired of it so he bought the monkey ...
SHE:
Bought the monkey. HE:
Elvis found an old Italian guy who
had been an organ grinder and he had this trained monkey. But with music being
digital now ... he was out of work because wind-up street organs don’t play that
stuff. SHE:
Really.
HE:
Right, and Elvis made him an offer for the monkey.
SHE:
And Giuseppe sold him?
HE:
Yep. Including the military jacket with the yellow epaulets and the pill box
cap. SHE:
Such a deal!
(HE makes a furtive
action, folding up his collar, looks at her sideways over the collar.
Twitches his upper lip)
SHE:
And they lived happily ever after?
HE:
Wait. It was working out fine, Elvis even
trained the monkey to fill the gas tank and then go pay, so he wouldn’t
even have to get out of the car ... SHE:
Just sat there gunning the engine.
HE:
So one day, the damned monkey forgot to replace the gas cap ... and Elvis could
smell gas when he cornered because
it would leak out. Of course, the little monkey only knew the tank was
full when it overflowed!
SHE:
Spilled all over, huh?
HE:
So until he could get another gas cap, Elvis made the monkey sit in the rear
seat and plug the gas tank opening with
his long tail ...
SHE:
I see.
(SHE is staring
at him like he is nuts, shaking her head. She looks into the audience for
reaction. HE is intent on his story with sincerity)
HE:
Yes ... which would have been ok, but you see
the poor monkey, because he was such a furry lil’ critter, had, in effect,
become a huge wick ...
SHE: (glances into the
audience) Don't keep us in suspense.
HE: And when
Elvis lit up the cigar!
SHE: Oh my gawd!
HE: Exactly.
SHE:
Poor monkey.
HE: Elvis could only find the pill box cap. He’s using
it for parking meter change. SHE:
You mean Elvis wasn't blown up too? HE:
Honey, get real, nothing can kill Elvis! SHE:
To think ... I actually married you. . . . . . . . . . . etc.
Talk About Love
- A stage comedy in five acts
Synop -
Love and war between friends and the constantly hilarious struggle between man
and woman for what each desires in a relationship. The Battle of the Sexes
continues through four stages of one couple's life together, HE and SHE, yet it
always progresses toward accomplishment of their common goal and proves the
theme, Love Conquers All.
information for dramaturges here
-
The
two Velocettes have been on my mind for years after seeing
them one squall-threatened, darkening night at a deserted Canadian border
crossing. One had burnished gold accents over its black and the other had
writing on the front fender, Venom Thruxton.
The leathered riders attended to their business with an aura of mystery as I
watched their small tail-lights fade into the mottled moonscape.
And now my own game is afoot. You’ll catch
a glimpse of me slashing across the pavement, a stab of sunlight and I’m gone,
chasing my vanished youth if you like. But I've become a young rider, alert,
aggressive, pitched forward with deliberate intent -
go to full story here --
Haiku Children laugh
with glee Haiku is
one of the most important forms of traditional Japanese poetry.
© RCW
selected lyrics
from my songs ...
Who Killed Maxie?
Old Men in the Park
A Common Thing
Spellbound
High Country Cowboy
Smokin' Gun Barrel Blues The
Carousels
Nashville Dreams
In a darkened doorway covered with grafitti
Softtail Springer
Emergency Hospital Street
Musician
go and hear some of my music here -
If I was to
open my eyes, would your image remain in my sky?
If I was to
kiss the morning air,
would my lips feel the warmth of your being?
And
If I was
to fall for love, would you be the one to catch me?
© RCW chang'e -
woman of the moon
The writers only responsibility is to his art ....William
Faulkner
excerpt from my novel Riding Pegasus
2nd book in the trilogy - TREPHINING DAY 1 Monday T If Marie hadn't been there to help, I might have blown everything. I
might have had to stay in the asylum. Might have been better if I had.
Five people would still be alive. That morose morning, Dr. Fredrickson was supposed to be there to sign
my release papers at 10 a.m. My incarceration in the regional mental
hospital for the criminally insane should have ended then. He was late.
There was nothing to do but wait. Sit on the hard oak chairs and wait. A
few hours longer wouldn't make much difference. It was like a dream
state. Sitting there watching occasional lethargic movement from the
nurses, who seemed to murmur without moving their lips. Sometimes a
sibilance reached my ears but I could never identify a distinct word.
The nurses became unfocused white blurs against the pale green walls.
And rustling hosiery. I stared at a framed print entitled Road with
Cypresses, by Vincent Van Gogh. It should have created a simple
impression of light and pleasant color, something to relax the inmates.
Or, if you knew nothing of the artist's life, a sense of hope. I saw it
as dizzying frenetic swirls and the impression in my mind was of the
bloody side of the man's head and the anguish that raged within. A
violent, colored Rorschach. While we sat there waiting, two thoughts dominated my mind,
freedom and time. I regard them as closely related. Freedom. I don't define it from a patriotic charismatic point
of view, as in a national anthem sense, that's liberty. Freedom is different.
I feel it as a selfish, lustful, personal greed. Freedom is to be alone
without someone watching you, without guarding yourself, without analysis and
squinting eyes. Freedom is letting your face loose. Laughing at what's funny.
Frowning at what isn't. Not having to think about a decision or it's
consequences. No black tricks to play, no blue subterfuge. No green games. Time. During my twelve-year imprisonment, (for murder, I might
as well tell you right out) I hardly thought about it. To a man sliding
through his forties in a nebulous haze, time was oppressive. Time was heavy,
draped around me, over my shoulders as a dusty old Persian rug, rolled with a
dead body inside it. And I hadn't considered it with any intellect for a long,
long while. By eleven o'clock my thoughts about freedom and time were so
acutely centered it was a psychedelic LSD trip. I could SEE a moment moving
through history. Seconds were flickering scarlet laser beams which came FROM
infinity and blasted right past me on their way TO infinity. A sudden blinding
SOS from an obscure corner of space, or the view inside a fibre optics cable.
And I could HEAR time. A speeded up recording of thunder, bump bump bump, and
somehow it smelt like burnt firecrackers. Freedom was very nearly an
explosion. I was the inside of the grenade. Fredrickson showed at 3:37:20 in the afternoon. The gray-black
sky had become confused for several hours until a bright white light emerged
between the clouds, almost at 3:30. If that wasn't a sign, I don't know what
was. I finally walked away from that sullen gray building without a
backward glance. If it was still there when Marie and I drove off I wouldn't
have known it. Besides, I didn't want to meet Fredrickson's eyes, I knew he
was watching, his face near to the misted window pane, absently touching his
moustache. I knew what he was thinking too. He wanted me to turn and wave,
like a child going off to the first day of school. He wanted me to smile up at
him. He wanted confirmation he was right - that during the five hours
thirty-seven minutes he had delayed, we had been playing the final Green Game.
No way. Our minds are now inexorably linked. I wasn't even going to
acknowledge him.
© RC Westerholm
RAIN
I scowl
grey
paste overhead
more rain I forgot
the umbrella
head bent toward the grey
sidewalk hunch shoulders shut out the depression
try to avoid the murky puddles
water falling from the sky
free life some never get any
look at the passing faces
blank.
not seeing through the droplets
clusters of detached strangers
only water
it's not
that dark.
a drop on my nose
hanging there
I must look silly
is it
going to drip off
little teasing bulb
clinging to individuality
humorous transparent prism
cartoon character
I smile
it's only water
look up into the sky
more cool rain on my face
fresh water
fold my collar down
set myself apart from the
depression.
I'm not going to work today
I'm going to walk
I grin r a i n © rcw
3rd book in the trilogy -
TREPHINING
We listened, trying to hear a footfall
beneath the mutter of the wind. Stood still, expecting something to
happen. Dry tree branches rattled and fern fronds flailed at the edge of
the clearing where a capricious wisp flashed through. Scattered petals
from a yellow blossoming bush swirled to the ground like lemon snowflakes.
I could hear a crow somewhere, its scolding voice carrying on the hot air.
© RC Westerholm
McGrath's heart leaped.
McGrath's
voice took on a hard edge and his eyes bored into Willie's. "Bullshit,
Willie, he would've had you help him."
"Now Willie, where'd you
and Condy put the fucking BAGS?"
Read the entire prologue chapter of Tango
Murderoso
here .....
g
Where Now is Home?
Copyright R.C. Westerholm
We
made love on that huge bed in the innocent, muted, white morning light;
in the sylph garden amid applauding flowers on motionless turquoise
afternoons; on those soft lounges before a conflagration of sunsets and
in the hushed scarlet of descending twilight; on the veranda watched by
smiling blue stars and white
It was the clarity of love.
.
© Dahlia
At Glennis' poetry
party - Her
dulcet voice whispered, "Your
eyes are deep, a liquid brown, as they meet with mine and
told, Question,
answer, flash as one, a secret story told. We share
a message, eye to eye, that no one else can see, amid the
crowd, I know at once, you are a soul like me."
Robert
sailed on. Tonight he was aboard a square-rigger. On the Indian Ocean bearing
tea from Ceylon, bound for Olde England, running on a freshening breeze from the
starboard quarter. Robert was captain.
The high moon, lighting the billowing canvas with an argent glow, was almost as
bright as day. His alert eyes, shadowed beneath the peak of his cap, caught the
sleek splashes of arcing dolphins in a luminous sea. The trade winds that pushed
the hull through the hissing rush of water flickered Robert's hair at the back
of his neck with a warm caress. The sensuous flirtation of a capricious breeze.
Four bells told him it was 2 A.M., halfway through the mid-watch, one of his
favourite hours in the tropics.
The snapping of the British standard from a halyard, the creak and groan of wood
spars and the strain of rigging were reassuring voices whispering only to him in
the night. The green tea in the brimming holds occasionally wafted an Oriental
scent and brought to mind Asian ports full of mysterious, turbaned Indians and
busy Chinese with sing-song voices. Robert liked to stare up at the latticed
tangle of rope and masts silhouetted against tendrils of moonlit cloud. And to
feel the cool spray that occasionally reached his skin, tossed by a playful sea.
Mrs. Reynolds' squeaking chair interrupted Robert's reverie. She made a comment
to her husband in a shielded voice, who just sat and puffed his old briar.
Nodded. Robert disliked both Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds. The man was so florid and
flabby and she was so slovenly they would never have survived aboard ship. But
Robert wasn't really on a ship, he was only pacing through the evening until his
mother came to collect him from these unlikely babysitters. He was simply
imagining. The creaks and groans were just the uneven floor and the latticed
rope was nothing but straggly washing hanging over the stove.
What he loathed about them was that they had so little to say except to ask him
questions about his mother. And Mr. Reynolds had pipe breath and she smelled of
stale sweat. When he tried to sit and read, they continued talking to him. They
didn't comprehend reading, didn't even own a book or a magazine.
Robert tried tacking toward the china cabinet, increasing wind strength as he
neared the east coast of Madagascar, but it wouldn't work now; he was simply
walking round and round the single room of the Reynolds' apartment. Waiting.
Seeing only the worn grey linoleum instead of a glistening sea. Wishing Mother
would get off work early, come soon, instead of like last night when he had to
fall asleep on the hard wooden chair and awoke sometime later, he didn't know
how much later, with terrible pains in his side from the chair arm. His mother
telling him to wake up. Thanking the Reynolds profusely and paying them before
she took him off into the cold damp night.
Robert knew what these people thought. They thought he was not right. Because he
either read the book or paced most of the evening. The book was Zane Grey's,
Ken Ward In The Jungle. A wonderful story about a young boy whose father
took him to the South American jungles to explore an unknown river, where they
ran over dangerous rapids and into huge crocodiles and spotted jaguars. Robert
had read it five times so far. He was hoping to put off reading the book again a
little longer so he'd be able to forget how it went.
It was only a matter of time until he discovered Robert Louis Stevenson, Mark
Twain and Joseph Conrad.
Robert tacked to starboard, toward the small green tiled bathroom, then
immediately to port, to avoid the strong odor emanating from the running toilet.
The alcove where the Reynolds slept smelled musty. He yearned for his own bed
but he was too young to stay home alone. Even though his house was just up the
lane.
He had stayed alone once, left most of the lights on and tramped around the
house, talking gibberish in a lowered voice so he'd sound like a big man if
anyone was listening outside. His mother had found him asleep behind the
chesterfield.
The wind increased and Robert, as Captain, knew they'd have to prepare to
'round-the-Cape' soon. The Cape of Good Hope at the tip of Africa. They'd have
to shorten down. Perhaps the impending storm would allow him to see St. Elmo's
Light playing on the mast. "Haul away lively," he muttered, slipping the words out
quietly. Yet they reached even the inattentive ears of Mrs. Reynolds, who spoke
to her husband about Robert as though he wasn't there.
Yes, perhaps Robert wasn't there. By choice. Perhaps these nascent hours spent
lost in dark imagination or illuminated book were instilling a mental process
into his future. A means of escape that would last a lifetime. Which could never
be shared. An escape from a reality too bleak to be faced.
Since his Grandmother died he had hid silently within himself. Dreaming.
Traveling. And grieving the gentle, understanding woman. Maybe he would get a
letter from his father tomorrow, he'd had a letter last year at this time.
They'd be loading mail when the ship reached Mananjary. And cross the Tropic of
Capricorn the following day. Robert sailed on, past the worn old sofa and the
dish-filled sink. The whistling tea-kettle became five bells.
Perhaps he would finish the midwatch from the stern where he could observe the
glinting silver foam and stars dipping themselves into the roll of the black,
following sea, becoming its phosphorescent trail. Bright as fireworks to night
vision eyes. He'd allow the sounds and smells and sights of the oceanic night to
transport him into his private oblivion - and be embedded there for reference
and escape from whatever torments his future held.
Tonight he'd try to see another blue star.
Tomorrow . . . . .
End
Can one write a
literate memory about a favorite uncle's flatulence?
Meet the
Bertrameister here
from Riding Pegasus
2nd book in the trilogy - TREPHINING excerpt from Day 8
Cinny
said, "Is Doc on the way? Did Michael call him?"
Firenze
Shawna
fixed a peculiar look on her face. Spoke, "Therése, you really
want to enjoy Florence and Italy, right?"
"Of course. I am too. Why?"
"Are you studying it more and enjoying
it less?" She held an angled smile.
"What do you mean?" We strolled through
the tourists and clapping pigeons into the adjoining piazza San
Giovanni.
"Come with me." Shawna took my hand
and I followed her across the square, past the octagonal Baptistery of
Saint John the Baptist, with its bronze Renaissance doors crafted by
Lorenzo Ghiberti called 'Gate of Paradise'. She confiscated my little
guidebook and handed it to a boy-child, who immediately rushed off to
sell it.
"Shawna ..."
"Sit here, with me." She picked a
shaded area and we sat close against the side of a cool building,
looking across the space at the constant flow of people around the
cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore and Giotto's magnificent bell tower.
"Do you notice, Therése, how the
Florentine air seems to sparkle here? It's clearer. Cooler. Laden with
oxygen. You could spend hours looking at that tower and never tire of
it. The designer meant it that way. He didn't care if you remembered
what year it was built, or what architectural style, or maybe even who
he was. He wanted the world to enjoy it. Forever if possible. That's why
he faced it to the sun. You detract from his dream by studying it too
carefully. Let the drudging scholars and the dusty historians do that.
The tower should take a lifetime to reveal itself to you, that's why you return
to Firenze again and again."
I was beginning to understand.
She continued, "The Italian's don't
save vintage wine for a hundred years in dank cellars, they drink it
now. They don't baby their Lamborghinis, they
drive them. And they don't eat spaghetti out of a can ... enjoy the
moment, Therese, this IS the moment. If you know nothing of the artist,
does it diminish your appreciation of the work?"
"I believe you're right, Shawna. I do.
It is so beautiful the details don't matter."
She took my hand again. "Get an
attitude, Miss Lambikins, believe you are the center of the
universe and everything revolves around you, because it's true."
We watched a vivid life passing, like
coloured planets in a bright galaxy, each with its own orbit.
"I understand what you're saying,
Shawna. If I think about it, like, the true history of the world is in
my own head, my own memory."
"Exactly. It doesn't exist if you don't know it."
"Yes. I see, you have to let it happen
to you."
"Now you're living, Therése. The moment
before you die, there won't be anything else."
She grinned at me, relaxed. "Let's sit
here a while. Someone will come and sell us ice cream soon."
A pair of sightseers was looking toward
the church, thumbing quickly through their guidebook, backpaging and
forwarding, desperately trying to find information. They hardly ever
looked up at the magical edifice before them. A tour group placidly
followed a guide across the square like a kindergarten class going home
after a field trip, unseeing and unhearing in their weariness, unable to
revolt and run for it.
The little Italian boy shrieked after
he sold the guidebook and ran off like a gazelle into a shadowed narrow
stretta.
Another man was trying to photograph a
panel of the Door of Paradise close up, seeing the sculpture only in
terms of the angle to record it. Wondering what the picture would be
like when he got back home. Tourist.
We were sitting in a particular spot
that was never sunlit and the stone was cool. There was something
unusual in this light of Florence, this artist's light. My outlook was
changing.
Shawna said, "Can you hear that,
Therése, that hum?"
I listened a moment. Detected the soft
buzz of traffic in the background, on the Via Della Scala, said, "I
think so, yes."
"That's not traffic, it's the hum of
life, the murmur of creativity and it was here seven hundred years ago."
She folded her knees up and leaned
across them. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as those
brilliant blue orbs saturated themselves with the essence of existence.
It was as though she was drinking from a well with her soul.
Two lovers in pure white slowly crossed
the square, arms around each other's waists, looking downward in the
dreaminess of lovers' thoughts. They didn't even see the tower or the
people. The universe revolved around them.
After a while a man approached pushing
an ice cream cart, looking expectantly at us as he neared.
"Gelato?"
Shawna winked at me and said to him,
"Do you have licorice pistachio pineapple?"
His face dropped in dismay, "No. Have
only la cioccolata e vanilla."
She grinned that captivating crooked
grin and said, "Due cioccolata, per favore, and big ones too."
The ice cream had come directly from
God.
© Dahlia
Acts of Empathy ... Synopsis
- A young widow traveling
alone in Northern Italy meets a lesbian, faces death, falls in love and
discovers herself.
Read the entire first chapter of Acts of
Empathy here ...
Fifty's Long Enough Let's kill
auntie Lena, let's chop up her head, and then
uncle Harry, let's make them both dead. Let's get a
great big knife, to stick in her heart we'll wait
till she's sleeping, and cut her apart. Let's shoot
uncle Harry, when he doesn't know, we'll dig
him in the corn patch, to see if he'll grow. I love
auntie Lena, and like Harry too. But I won't
go to bed now, there's nothing to do.
Fifty's long enough to live when your heart is broke like mine. A lifetime's just too much to give when you're long past forty-nine. When the days 're gray an' the
nights don't pay an' the years keep draggin' on. Fifty's long enough to live an' you might as well be gone.
excerpts of song lyrics
©
by
R.C. Westerholm
Want a smile? Buy a little silliness here
from
No Pizza ...
INTERIOR - RECORDING STUDIO - DAY
Cue for Harry's Christmas Album.
Oh by gosh by golly, it's time for Mister Toe
and holly, tasty ...
M.D. KEVIN
Cut! (laughing)
SINGER HARRY (looks oddly at
them)
Sure, Kevin.
SINGER HARRY
Oh by gosh by golly, it's time for Mister Toe
and ...
M.D. KEVIN
Cut! Harry?
SINGER HARRY
What? What's going on?
M.D. KEVIN (trying to laugh)
You did it again.
SINGER HARRY (puzzled, looks through glass at
the others)
Did what again?
Harry, you're saying Mister TOE.
SINGER HARRY (after a pause, still
staring)
Yeah, so?
M.D. KEVIN
Okay, Ha ha. I get it. He's funny. Isn't he
funny?
He's funny.
ENGINEER
Yeah, funny.
M.D. KEVIN
Harry, you're saying Mister Toe instead of
Mistletoe.
SINGER HARRY B information
for dramaturges here
-
The Dream
Here's
my dream: I'm living in this huge old house in England and ... No, wait! I'm
riding my motorcycle first. The black one. It's very dark but moonlit and I'm
flickering through mottled shadows on a country road bordered by tall trees and
a latticed canopy of branches. There is no colour, like an old black and white
movie. I'm speeding. Fascinated by the ground shadows and not even looking ahead to wherever it is I am going. I have no
headlight. I am a shadow, without sound, without structure. I'm not even sure I
can be seen. Or if I am there at all except when a fallen leaf overturns in a
gust as I pass. I'm an amorphous shape. In my head I hear a squawky rasping
wailing plaintive Eric Clapton guitar. Like he's playing on the other side of
those forbidding black trees.
Then I arrive at my house. It is still. Graveyard
quiet. Very late. The lambent light is silver yet darksome and the blacks are
those brown-blacks of an Ingmar Bergman movie. The house is one of those great
half-timbered manors you see in old country England, Devon or Cornwall, grey
slate roof and many chimney pots.
I have to put the motorbike in the garage
which is not really a garage at all but a tiny room at the west side of the
house, down five or six stone steps. I work it through the narrow entrance. Then
I make my way into the main house toward my room. The long building angles
around in an arc, so everything faces onto the broad sloping grounds, each room
leads through a wide archway into the next. Everyone else is sleeping upstairs
in one of the fifteen bedrooms.
Except my nephews are there, in the huge
living room. There are no windows. The walls are painted black. They aren't
really my nephews, but two young men who say they are. I go through to another
spacious but somber room. Wood paneled in light oak and filled with bare tables
made of beechwood. Standing floor lamps emit dim light. Old fashioned
upholstered chairs are angled to look out the tall windows. It's like a hunting
lodge common room.
My own small quarters are in the far east
corner of the house. I have chosen this room. A garden room half sunk below
ground level like where my bike is. It has leaded diamond-pane windows allowing
me to look out onto the expansive lawns and I can stand there and see through
the bottom of the shrubbery and no one knows I'm even there. It's more like a
filled-in porch with rough boards washed an odd, transparent white. Rampant
garden plants invade and vines struggle through wall cracks. The dimness is
half-lit by a tall street lamp though there is no street outside, only drifting
lawns which disappear into faraway stands of dark, funereal trees. If anyone
furtively crosses the cool grass their shadow is cast upon my wall by the argent
light and I can see who's out there. I fear a burglar may enter and I realize my
Bowie knife is lying on a ledge right beside the door where my bike is.
Accessible to anyone who may enter. The original bone-handled Bowie knife with
the gleaming blade and the leather sheath that I changed from brown to black
with shoe dye.
Then I'm heading back through the house and
now the main room is like a dusky night club. There are undefined people at
white-cloaked tables but they are not real people, they are manikins dressed in
tuxedos and skimpy black tango dresses. One of my nephews has a silver
microphone and there is a wide stage draped with black and white satin, making
it appear like some tacky underground transvestite after-hours club. I think the
boy is an emcee but he says he isn't and there is no club scene happening here.
He doesn't try to hide the mike and I don't ask about it. The manikins meet my
eyes but they won't say anything. It's as though they have already been looking
at me when I see them. The women look Gay Nineties or Roaring Twenties and I
think this is the first time I have dreamt in black and white. Or at least the
first time I have been acutely aware of it.
I float back to the murky room where my
motorbike is. It has been moved and I am afraid when someone comes in they'll
scratch the gas tank so I rearrange it, putting it close against the cold
concrete wall. The door is now wide open too, leaving only the flimsy screen
door to repel the crooks so I re-close it and head back to my room.
I think
something is odd in the nightclub-living room but my two nephews are there now
and they perfidiously deny it. It is too warm in there to be silent and still as though nothing was
happening and who are these manikin people? My tall nephew smiles and assures me
that nothing is going on. Really. The other, without removing his hands from his
pockets just shrugs with impudence. They glance conspiratorially at each other.
The stage is all in black too. I threaten the
young men that I will perform a Whistling March from World War 1 and destroy the
night club's reputation if they are lying to me. The whistling tune where I
spurt out saliva and dribble over my chin and quick-march in leggings and spats.
That ought to stop any shenanigans in my living room.
The club has tiers of
tables and seats receding into the sooty gloom and there is only one person at
every other table. A manikin woman with slick black hair plastered to her head
smiles a stilted smile at me but doesn't move. A kiss curl sticks to her
forehead and pearls glow coldly around her neck. She has huge painted black eyes
that shine with crescents of silver. Others clutch long black cigarette holders
in their slender fingers but the smokes are unlit. Their sequins glint in
nacreous light.
I make my way again through the morose gray
lodge room to my own room, just realizing when I get there that I didn't collect
the Bowie knife.
I have to go back. And this time one of my
nephews is on stage like a master-of-ceremonies in some bleak Hamburg production
of Cabaret. Wearing a gray suit and a white buttoned up collar without a tie.
Surrounded by smoke and fog the colour of tarnished silver.
My bike has now been placed under a huge
electrical box beside a rusted, chained-up lawn mower without a push handle and
the seat of the bike and one handlebar are touching the bottom of the metal case
so I have to move it again, jockeying it forth and back until it's right but the
side stand isn't correctly extending so I have to keep trying to see if the
heavy bike would fall over and I can't let go of it.
Then when I go back through the nightclub
there are now a few live people there, sprinkled among the manikins.
Including
my friend Tom who died a few years ago. He is being a waiter and comes toward me
with a silver tray and a white towel draped over his arm. He is wearing one of
those short black waiter's jackets and kind of long short pants and his legs
look thin but healthy, more like a young boy's legs. The short pants are beige
and they are the only coloured thing in my dream. I bump right into him with my
chin, hitting his nose. He drops the tray and walks away, up an aisle between
tables, balefully rolling his eyes because I was so stupid to have walked right
into him with my chin. Everyone is watching the stage. Anticipating. Waiting for
something to begin. Yet it seems it won't until I leave. Tom turns and moves
away. He is holding his fingers over his nose and then starts letting his jacket
slide up and down over his shoulders as if he can't decide whether to take it
off or keep it on. His wife is there and just laughs. But there is no sound to
her chuckle. And it is as if she knows something I don't.
I'm rubbing my chin. The lower right side is
throbbing. Right on the bone. There are a few other real people present but I
don't know who they are. A flicker of silhouette is moving furtively through the
chiaroscuro at the back of the room. A door opens somewhere. And I think
something is about to start.
I wake ... The air is cold and moist and no
one is there. I am lying on the cover and I have to tug it hard to get a piece
of it over me.
I ... I can't go back to sleep now, because
my mind is flashing with staccato images fitting themselves together like
jiggling dominoes printed with scenes from ten different movies ... or ten
different lives.I can't go back to sleep now ... and my chin
is throbbing with pain.
I can't go back to sleep now ... I don't dare.I am afraid of the act that may be on stage.
© RC Westerholm
Limerick
A
meticulous girl from Vancouver
was cleaning her room with a Hoover,
she vacuumed her cunny
which wasn't too funny
'cause it took 12 men to remove her.
© Bob Westerholm
writing contests
-
http://www.freelancewriting.com/writing-contests.php
screenwriting -
the
playwriting seminars -
http://www.vcu.edu/arts/playwriting/seminar.html
screenwriting software -
http://www.screenplay.com/ poetry -
http://www.uwo.ca/english/canadianpoetry/abtcpjr.htm
literature -
http://www.americanliterature.com/
writers clubs -
and three women write about
-
Women Inspiring Women
-
http://www.taracronica.com
You'll get a valuable critique that friends won't give you. Join one!
from ACT III - Empty Nest
HE:
Men are more inventive.
information
for dramaturges here
-
© RC Westerholm
my novel Tango Murderoso - chapter 50
Tango Murderoso
James McGrath materialized in a black tuxedo with satiny
lapels, his hair slick and combed straight back, his features sharp and clear,
eyes bright and bold. Cassandra's already lavish dress became a glimmering red
satin with a plunging neckline promising warm oblivion. Her hair swept off her
face and piled in tousled curls atop her head like a billowing thunder cloud. They stood in the middle of the
dance-floor. Her red lips closed but stretched in the makings of a smile. Her
black eyes already dancing with excitement, like looking into a galaxy of sparks
and shooting stars. The band was even transformed and
now looked to be all thin Argentines with pencil-line mustaches and greased hair
and black bow ties over starched ruffled shirts. The rhythm grew louder, blurred
hands pounded out an exotic lush beat full of bongos and congas and ratchety
scratches and rhythmic grunts. Cowbells and ebony-wood boxes clanking and
clicking. It was the deep living jungle in the heat of the tropics. Cassandra drew McGrath into her
arms and they began the dance. Formally at first, the steps from
the books, from the classes. They moved with sweeping low strides and head
jerking reverses dipping and swirling like a mountain stream until they flowed
into a warm, erotic liquid-honey movement of animal lust and straining desire.
The moment stopped and time waited while they swept first this way, moved
swiftly across the floor ending in a spin, then that way, using every inch of
the inlaid wood, floating like smoke on a carefree breeze. The music swelled
until it was the motivating force of their heartbeats, the rhythm of their lungs
and legs, the flow of their blood. They drank the nectar of each other until
they were intoxicated with elation, tongue-tied drunk with hedonistic love. They
became one gliding, fluttering red and black bird deep in a lush green forest.
Time waited. And waited. It was a hypnotic dance, the
Patrons sat and stared, mesmerized, and although the band moved while playing,
it was as if a moment in the history of the world was being witnessed by a
privileged few. The White Rose was stunned. Time waited. The music began to fade. Slowly.
Imperceptibly at first, then thinned and finally disappeared yet Cassandra and
McGrath's movements only gradually slowed, languidly as though they could still
hear the strains reverberating into the luxuriant green hills or out into the
empty universe. The only sound became their foot sweeps. Then they were standing
alone, Cassandra in an almost supine position beneath him, held by his strong
arms, he above like a conquering lion. McGrath gazed down at her. A line
of water moved down his forehead, crawled along his eyebrow, dripped off and
landed on her cheek. Resuming its hesitant journey, it ran into the corner of
her mouth. She touched it with her tongue. They were both breathing hard, her
creamy breasts swelling the red satin, one arm clinging to his neck to keep her
balance. They held their position. Cassandra's face was moist, her eyelids half
closed, she had had the ultimate orgasm, in her mind as well as her body. They stared into each other's
eyes until the music faded from their minds. Then they were alone, the last two
in the universe. McGrath had never felt like this in his life. Was this love?
Through smoke behind them, around them, the real White Rose returned like a
tattered phantom through fog. And in McGrath's mind, the
struggle that had gone on in there ended savagely, decisively, the victor
emerged from the ashes and arrogantly claimed the spoils. That triumphant entity
considered it essential that Cassandra acquiesce to her fate and accept that it
was held in the hands of James McGrath. Still holding Cassandra tightly,
he spoke, a crisp, clear voice, "I arrest you for the murder of Condy Carlyle.
You have the right to remain silent. You They slowly straightened. There
was a pounding silence in the room, the Patrons were gazing at them, puzzled,
but not saying anything, still bewitched by the display of primal needs of the
dance. Unwilling or unable to transport themselves back into the present. The
heat and odour of dry wood and wallpaper seemed oppressive. "Do you understand me?" McGrath
said again. There was a
moment's hesitation
as though deep within Cassandra's psyche a decision was also being made, as to
who among her personalities could best meet this new and most dangerous
challenge. "I have the full
proof of the murder now. Conclusive evidence that you killed him, for the
money." "Do you?" Cassandra stepped away
from him. "Yes."
©
excerpt from Chapter 8 -
Mare Ligure "No way, you son of a bitch!" Shawna
leaped forward and slugged him in the back of the neck. "Get off her!"
Roberto swung his arm around and caught Shawna with a vicious blow on
the side of her head, sending her sprawling out the door. "You are
going to fuck or swim, you bitches!" The boat was rocking heavily. Roberto
tried to grab me but I eluded and slipped into the passageway. Shawna was
getting up holding her head and we backed up the stairs into the main cabin.
I still didn't believe what was happening. "We didn't come here for this,
Roberto." Roberto Rico followed, grinning and holding his limp penis in his
hand. "We are going to fuck. Is what you want."
"No we're not, you bastard." Fire was
venting from Shawna, I swear I saw it. I was wooden-legged with terror. He
pounced at her, hairy arms extended, his face distorted. "Don' call me bastard." She sidestepped and tried to kick out but he caught her again with
a closed fist that glanced off her shoulder, then he had her arm, trying to
grab her breast with his other hand. He was grinning. They crashed against
the wall. She brought her knee up into his groin and he buckled and cried
out, bent over in pain. "Therése, help me!" Her cry brought me out of my panic
stricken freeze. Suddenly this was life or death. I tried to hit him from
behind but he twisted around and shoved me hard. I fell back and wedged
between the sofa and a table attached to the floor. The surging of the boat
kept me off balance. Rico faced Shawna, sweat ran down his forehead. No
gentleness in those black eyes now, only menace. He touched his testicles,
grimacing in pain. "Tonight, you are fucking me. You understand American
bitch? All Americans fuck. I sell them drugs in return for fucking." Shawna was like a feral cat, eyeing him.
A readiness in her crouch. I saw desperation and determination in her eyes
at the same time. Yet no fear, only a thirteen-year-old girl-child who was
never going to be raped again. She declared, "I'm never going to fuck you,
you asshole." He retorted, spitting venomously, "You
are going to fuck me, then I throw you overboard American bitch." He leapt
forward. She met his onslaught with a straight hand to his face, trying for
his eyes. He cried out in pain yet still swept her aside with his powerful
arm. Shawna landed on the sofa but bounced up. I extricated myself only to
have him hit me again on the shoulder, sending me flying across the cabin
and onto the floor again. Even though my head was spinning the thought was
surfacing that I was going to die tonight. I struggled to my knees, the boat
rolled and pitched and I slid under the table. He whacked Shawna, sprawling
her over a chart table, was quickly atop her, grabbing her neck and
squeezing hard. "I kill you and fuck her!" She cupped her hands and slapped
hard at his ears, got a knee up against his chest and pushed him off, aided
by the rocking motion of the yacht. Shawna coughed. He reeled, shook his head
but charged immediately back at her before she could regain her balance. I
was up and trying to hit him from behind. He twisted and slammed me, then
lunged for Shawna with me falling against his back. Again she sidestepped,
this time grabbing his hair and pulling him forward using his own momentum
and my push. He plunged head first into the stairwell leading down to the
master stateroom. Disappeared with a clunk. It was suddenly quiet. Only the
undulating hum of the engines and the sound of lapping waves and Shawna and
me gasping for breath. She rubbed her throat. The side of my head seared
with pain. We held on against the tossing motion of the boat, stared at each
other with wide wild eyes, waiting for Roberto to reappear, trying to calm
our breathing, preparing for the worst. The churning engine wavered as the
boat rocked over the water with no one steering. I could smell diesel fuel. Shawna inched forward, peered into the
dark stairwell. I looked down. Saw Roberto's bare feet, then his hairy legs
and thick round buttocks. The
Italian did not move.
© Dahlia
reg. Writers Guild Canada # S04-8228
The Trial of
Dancy Whitecotton
a stage play about the invincibility of the human spirit
ACT I - SCENE 1
A summer evening. A street outside a small corner grocery
store in a slummy, poor neighbourhood. A ROBBER wearing a
pantyhose stocking mask with one leg hanging down is just backing out
of the store. He has a paper bag full of money and points a large
black gun into the entrance. ROBBER
Friggin'
yahoo! He shoots upwards into the doorway. A very loud report from the gun. - Three
strange figures
appear nearby,(the ALIENS; Grass, Pot and Maryjane)
dressed like humans but there seems to be something odd about each of
them. They observe the scene with detached interest. As the Robber
starts away he almost runs into them. Startled, he aims the gun
threateningly but they do not react, just stare at him with curiosity.
ROBBER
Outa th’ way
freakos! One of the aliens (POT) waves his Right hand in the air. The
Robber reacts in panic and fear at what he believes is a threatening
action and reflexively pulls the trigger and shoots all three. He is
shocked and scared by his own action and his eyes widen as he realizes
the bullets have had no effect. The aliens simply observe him. POT This one displays
Anger, I believe. You think, Mister Grass? GRASS nods. GRASS Yes Mister Pot, rage
may be this emotion. Look at those eyes.
MARYJANE (leans close to Robber)
I sense Fear as well,
below this hostility. POT (as
if he knows something the others don't)
Mister Maryjane, you are correct, these
must be wonderful emotions. Just what we need. You understand
this human, Mister Grass? He entered the store wanting money, and now he
has obtained it. A fine example to collect. GRASS Precisely, Mister
Pot.
Shall we take him? The Robber shoots again. Still no effect. Looks into the barrel of
the weapon. Pot moves his LEFT hand in
the air, points his MIDDLE finger toward Robber and instantly freezes
him in place, as if he is stuck to the pavement with crazy glue. Robber
struggles, wide eyed with disbelief at what is happening. He cannot move
his feet or speak. He is shouting but we hear nothing. POT Rage. GRASS
(crosses arms
studiously)
Yes, rage. MARYJANE
(nods agreement)
Rage it is. End of Scene 1 ACT I - SCENE 2 DANCY WHITECOTTON exits her workplace, just up the block from the
grocery store, a sign over the door says; SWEATSHOP SPORTSWEAR, INC.
Workout Wear. She is crestfallen as she leaves, digging through her
purse for her apartment key while softly crying. DANCY
(plaintively to
herself) It's not fair. I deserve a raise.
Darn you Mr. Goldfogel. The aliens are near but she doesn't see them or Robber yet. They
observe her tears. Pot peers over her shoulder into her purse. POT
I see her name, Dancy,
Whitecotton. GRASS Hmmm. Anguish, Mr. Pot? POT
I think, yes. That is Anguish. MARYJANE Anguish it is. POT (waving hand in air absently) Anguish is on our list. Let's take
the Dancy Whitecotton human too. As Dancy moves toward the corner grocery store, she gasps and
retreats at the sight of Robber standing there struggling but stuck
fast to the pavement. The aliens move closer. End of Scene 2 ACT I SCENE 3 All three are looking curiously at Dancy, who now sees them and steps
back, fearful they are muggers, yet they ignore her offers of her purse. DANCY You, don't want my
purse? My money? You're not with him? POT Au contraire. It is
YOU we are taking. Dancy backs off another step. Glances at the robber. DANCY
(puzzled and afraid)
Taking? To ...? POT Our planet. Many
millennia from here. Pot waves a HAND indicating way off somewhere and the Robber suddenly
has one leg free and tries to take a step until Pot points a finger at
him and he is glued again. Dancy is perplexed. DANCY Your PLANET? Oh no.
Who are you, aliens or something? POT GRASS
(hurriedly
explaining) But we're not aliens at HOME. On OUR
planet. MARYJANE Oh no. Not at home. DANCY
(rolls her eyes)
Just what I needed. You look human though. GRASS Yes Mister Dancy?
That pleases us. DANCY MISS Dancy would be
correct.
(then
indicating the robber)
Who is this guy and why can't he
move? POT
His name is Robber. I
have heard the one inside the store say MARYJANE We are taking him with us too. DANCY Why is that? POT He has exhibited the emotion called Rage.
ALIENS (in unison) (Nod heads with a naive understanding)
It must be good. DANCY
(incredulously) Oh my gawd. Rage. You
all think rage is good? GRASS He has Rage - He wanted money when he went into the store - DANCY That is NOT Earth logic. You haven't said WHY you want to
POT Oh. Our race is dying. A genetic malfunction. We believe
you GRASS We need to study your character evolvement.
DANCY
So, you're, just taking me as a SAMPLE? POT
(raises a finger to point at her)
Correct. Ready? DANCY Oh my gawd. Synopsis - Just because aliens can
get here to Earth to take samples of human beings
* from my
screenplay of - Nashville Dreams
reg. Writers Guild Canada #
S00-3278
Terrence
climbed onto the bus, hung his umbrella over his arm and
withdrew his wallet. Paid his fare. Ten thousand dollars. The
driver didn't smile - he never did at Terrence - just pressed a
big red button and the windows fogged as they accelerated away.
Terrence glanced over the singular passengers who looked expectantly at
him. Hopeful faces.
He chose an
empty seat beside a rugged looking Army man with a scar across
his lip and thick dark hair, wearing a khaki shirt and trousers.
“So you sit
with me," the Army man said in a gravelly voice. He pulled a
pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and lit one by flicking his
thumbnail over the red and blue head of a wooden match. Didn't
offer a cigarette to Terrence. His hands were like freshly dug
potatoes.
“It'll be
rough ya know. Autumn ‘44 ain't no country picnic, even if the
war is leavin' Italy. They're still tryin' to hang on wherever
they can. Mussolini's up there somewhere in them hills.
Montecatini maybe, who knows? But we'll find him, don't worry,
we'll find him." Smoke drifted out of his nose as though his
lungs might be permanently smoldering.
“But, uhm,
wasn't Rome already liberated in the Spring of 1944?" Terrence
remarked.
“Yeah, but
that kinda shit's easy. Artillery, whole friggin' divisions
rollin' along. Tanks. That's velvet pie. Ya could use one of
them new flame throwers if ya wanted. Fry the friggin' Krauts
right in their burrows."
“F-fry them in
their b-burrows?"
“Bunker
Barbeque."
“Uhm, provided
you can get close enough to use the thing."
“Who said it
wouldn't be dangerous? That's the whole ticket. It's why yer
here, ain't it? To go one on one?"
“I'm not sure
yet."
“The game is
diggin' 'em out one at a time, Buddy ... Ya don't ever live
better than when yer so close to dyin' ... No one'll beat ya up
this time though."
“I hope not, I
abhor violence."
“So ya got
punched in the head and the mugger took yer wallet, that's why
ya want to face it now, ain't it? Believe me, them new flamers
are the cat's ass. The Nazi's howl is like a Wagner opera."
He pronounced
the composer’s name WAGner.
Terrence
gulped, corrected, “VAHGner."
The soldier
took a deep drag from the cigarette. Smoke clouded his voice.
“You'll love it, Buddy, there's fun if ya get off at my stop
with me, better than a table grade woman."
The virile
offer was tempting.
Terrence
looked around, opted to move near the little blond woman.
As he sat
beside her he realized she was only a young girl. Soft, supple
looking. She could have been sixteen, had fine yellowy hair and
a light fragrance like wild rose.
“Hello," she
said, her voice musical, her eyes possessing a kind of blue
sheen. “Are you getting off when I do?"
“I, don't know
yet. I don't even know your name."
“Melinda, some
of my friends call me Lin, but I don't like it's immature."
“You're not
very old."
“But I have
experience," she replied quickly, "I can do sex like any grown
woman."
Terrence
gulped openly while furtively studying her body, noticing her
small breasts, the feathery down on her arms, knew she was a
natural blonde. How would she look without clothing? Downy, he
expected.
“Do, do you,
uhm, have an idea?"
She touched
her skirt and it seemed to ride up higher.
“Yes. We have an opulent room surrounded by a glass
partition, a circular bed. You and I upon it, satin sheets.
Candles glowing. An audience in the half light. They watch our
performance."
“Oh ... I've,
never considered this before, I mean, doing it in front of
people, especially with such a young person like yourself."
“You DO
remember that older woman you went with that time? How she
teased you afterwards?"
The scarlet
humiliation still coloured him, lingering in his peripheral
consciousness whenever he looked at a pretty girl.
“I didn't
think you'd know about that."
“I am aware
because it helps us. You'll have no sex problems with me. I have
trained in Paris, Montemartre, working out of that little café
east from the Moulin Rouge."
“As a, a
prostit ..."
“Fille de
joie. Some of our audience will be people you know, perhaps
the little typist you see once in a while. She'll be enthralled
with what you do to me, wish it was her."
Terrence's
pulse rate quickened. Heat flowed into his cheeks. He worried
about his blood pressure again. Terrence slipped into a daydream
for a moment before jerking awake.
“Excuse me.
Perhaps I'll be back," he uttered. She gave him a further
glimpse of a golden thigh.
Terrence then
sat beside a swarthy man with thick ruddy features and
disheveled hair, who had on a striped tweed suit and reeked of
garlic.
“Look,"
Terrence said, trying not to inhale, “I don't think I want to
chat. I need to gather my thoughts."
The man's
accent was Italian. “So they are STREWN in the aisle as
confetti? Is okay with me. I see life, however, as MUSIC. The
notes do not FLOAT to the ground. Once they are streaming
through the ether, there is not way to stop them. When you hear
such capriccio, you CANNOT go back, you have already
experience it ... So why try to avoid this pleasure?"
Melinda,
watching them from her seat, repeated absently, “Pleasure?"
The Italian
ignored her or did not hear. “Accept this harmony of thought as
it arrives - sometimes in a hush, as a Chopin chording," he
emitted a portamento hum, “other times in a clatter of emotion
as in one of Tchaikovsky's violent moments."
Terrence tried
to turn away from his strong odour.
The
afficionado led an imaginary orchestra. “Why try to avoid such
noble pursuit?"
The soldier
mumbled under his breath, “Noble shmoble."
The music man
continued, “It can slide imperceptively into one's awareness, as
Grieg can do with his most delicate melodies."
The soldier
interjected, “WAGner for chrissakes, pound the shit out of it."
He dropped his cigarette, ground it out with his polished boot,
lit another match with his nail, watched it burn, snubbed it
with his bare fingers and grinned at Terrence.
The Italian
offered, “We two would work on this, ah, music of life.
Musica vita. We write a notturno, si?
The world NEEDS nocturnes now. Chopin had but nineteen.
Do you know the result of this, uh, collaborazione? World
fame. Symphonies performing YOUR music. The Aristocracy of
Consonance bending to welcome you."
Terrence
thought of his little electronic keyboard. “It wouldn't be
anything like my Casio."
"Which you
keep in your room and play with earphones so Mama will not hear?
Ha. You must have VISION my boy."
Terrence
spoke, trying for a little proudness, “But I CAN play waltzes
and rumbas on it. And Hawaiian. It keeps its own rhythms you
know." The headset allowed him to play it raucously without
anyone hearing except himself.
The composer
retorted impatiently, “We depart at once for Lago di Como,
in the Nort’ of Italy, where concerti can be berthed in
verde solitude."
“Italy? I
almost took a holiday there last year."
“We'll create
like madmen, our piano will reverberate across the emerald lake
until EVERYONE comes near, drawn magically by the lushness of
our song. We write an erotica together. Pavarotti will
sing it."
“Luciano."
“We must exit
soon.”
Terrence went
and sat hesitantly beside a large muscular black man.
“It goes like
this. You start with tennis. You win the first point, so it's
fifteen love. You go on to four Grand Slam victories in a row
... But you don't come back, see? This is the REAL game. The
tennis world is waitin’ but now you're on the roster of the New
York Yankees. Ruth, Mantle. But I don't think you should start
with baseball, you played that once. Remember?"
Terrence's
mind imaged his attempt at baseball. “It was a long time ago but
I suppose you already know. The ball hit my head, I had a
concussion on home plate. Uhm, my mother was very upset."
The sharp
voice continued, “THIS time your bat is light as a piece a
straw, you SEE the stitchin’ on the ball as it leaves the
pitcher's fingers, like Reggie Jackson. You'll get a hunderd homers in one year in
the Show. What else could ya ask for?”
Terrence tried
feebly for a joke, “Two hundred?"
The sportsman
evidently didn't hear. “This maybe; you go on to ice hockey,
you're on a team what's never done well. You dazzle 'em, see?
Gretsky stalled at ninety-two goals. So what d'ya think?"
“Think? Of
...?"
“Of YOU
gettin’ that hunderdth goal - You STAND there with the puck
behind your own net, POINT to the opposite goal, like Ruth
pointed to the grandstand, the crowd'll go nuts. Every camera in
the sports world is on ya. You skate out as the other team tries
to catch you. Wow."
“Wow."
The Italian
interjected, “So what is creative in this?"
The sportsman
with the light in his eyes didn’t hear. “You then go to Formula
One auto racing. What's the record for straight wins? Fangio
still have it? Jim Clark? Senna? Maybe you'd win EVERY race.
What else is there?"
“Football?"
“Yeah. They'd
be tryin’ to sign ya by then, but ya only opt for the one year
contract. Run back punts. Throw loopin’ touchdown passes, John
Elway style. Whatever you want. Five magnificent years. Glory
like nobody else has ever seen." He stared meaningfully at
Terrence. “I'm just three stops from here, Man ... The one thing
about glory, is that you CAN take it with you ... Reach for it.
You can have it all if you'll get off with me."
Terrence moved
to yet another seat. A bulky man slumped against the wall of the
bus, a black leather patch over one eye,
dressed oddly in a coarse, loose-fitting tunic. Scarred
hairy arms, one of which draped along the back of the seat,
making Terrence nervous of his intent. A crude gold amulet hung
from a thong around his neck.
“You would
have great choice this time, Terrence. Your people date the time
as 206 BC, after my trek through the Alps. We were at the gates
of Rome - I am Hannibal of course - I threw a spear over the
wall, no Roman dared come out to accept my challenge. The little
baby Caesars inside were shaking with fright, taking the EASY
way out with jeweled daggers to their own chests." Hannibal
paused to spit on the floor.
“The Senators
with their stentorian orations debating who would chase me away.
I regret it took so long to get back to Africa to face Scipio
Africanus at Zama." He fixed a single-eyed stare toward
Terrence.
“I read about
that in history class once."
“You could
change it all for me, perhaps go in over the wall, you'd be
sacking Rome long before the Visigoths or the Huns." The
soldier's eyes lit up with that word. Hannibal continued,
"You'd be
right there at the height of Roman power, riding your elephant
in victory into the coliseum, they would send up blood
sacrifices to their gods. Such as they are."
He spat again,
a vile green liquid.
Terrence saw
only his own visions. “Me, conquer the legions of Rome?"
“Thumbs up to
Terrence! Son of Hasdrubal. The conquering, newly proclaimed,
Emperor of Rome!"
They dreamt
together a moment, allowing the wondrous ideas to saturate.
“I, I was,
going to visit Rome. If I had gone on that holiday to Italy."
The soldier
coughed, trying to steal attention.
Hannibal was
still watching his illusion. “And today, chiseled forever into
the magnificent 'Arch of Terrence', on the Appian Way, your very
own history."
“The life of
... Terrence?"
“Yes, history
CAN be altered. My stop is coming up. Will you step off with
me?"
He peered at
Terrence with his dark wild eye.
“It is an
opportunity, my friend, to be savage, what every man lusts for."
In confusion
Terrence changed seats again. Found himself near a tall man
dressed in black with chased platinum hair. His face very white,
had the look of a cadaver. A large hawk nose. Piercing steel
gray eyes.
“What is your
deal?" Terrence asked in a braver tone than he intended.
“Deal? Hah. I
make no deal." The words were like a bad taste. He raised his
large head and stared down the long nose at his seat-mate. “You
believe I offer a deal, because I am here in black? What am I? A
salesman of greed? The foul friend makes DEALS but he has
no monopoly on wearing black."
He huffed and
glanced out the window although Terrence could see nothing but
darkness.
“I, am an
ANGEL, a seraph taking your human form. I needn't be seen only
in white." He gestured with his arms as if to present himself.
“I offer you turmoil and trouble," he gazed at Terrence a moment
until his eyes took on a silver glint, “but what battles we
could fight."
“Battles,"
Terrence swallowed hard.
The angel with
the long head smiled, raised his pewter eyebrows at Terrence.
“Yes, bloodshed. That surprises you?"
“I'm not sure
what you're taking about. It, uhm, sounds, dangerous."
The angel
bristled a moment with impatience before settling himself down.
“I could
install you into the inner circle as Terriel, a Warrior Angel.
That IS an exalted position even if archangels are only second
up." He adopted a superior attitude. “There are nine levels of
angels, you know, and every one has a specific task. Lucifer
disputed his, is now a fallen angel. Hah. His folly ... but oh
what fun we have. Stalking, skirmishing at every turn," he spoke
slowly as if savoring delicious words. “Oh the brilliant
clashes." He then broke into a wide aluminum smile.
“We would be
fighting the very Devil himself?"
“Truly a
challenge my friend. I would give you Raphael, Uriel and uh,
Gabriel as cohorts. It would not be like going down in history,
of course, as Genghis Khan, or my friend two seats ahead,
Hannibal, for instance ..."
Hannibal
turned and glared at the angel. “Friend? I have my own gods,
none of them yours." He spat defiantly.
The angel was
irritated. “I beg your pardon. IF, you don't mind, I believe I
have the floor." He huffed at the Carthaginian before turning
back to Terrence.
“As I was
saying before that heathen interruption, his is an earthly
history, I offer you the chance to write it at a higher level, a
history of the Seven Heavens. Written by we angels. It WILL be
discovered within five thousand years ..."
Terrence was
intimidated under the stern glare of Hannibal and the glinting
stare of the angel.
“What of this
challenge, boy? Is this not a good offer? A DEAL if you like. I
promise you a sword of fire."
Terrence was
flustered, couldn't answer.
Hannibal did,
“You see? Savage, exactly what I said."
The angel
turned his eyes only, said, “DO you mind?"
Melinda
commented to Terrence, “I DON'T mind being taken with strength
is that is what you like. I am familiar with the Marquis de Sade
too. I am no vanilla girl."
Hannibal
reasserted, “MY offer is real, not a smoky figment by an
imaginary character."
The soldier
erupted into a series of strangulated coughs.
The angel was
getting exasperated. “Did I interrupt you people?"
The African's
temperature was also rising. “YOU people interrupted the course
of history!"
The seraph
began to lose his temper, “Shut up, or I will dissipate you!"
Hannibal
retorted, “Then I'll just come back as Hitler."
The soldier
rose to this challenge. “Fuckin' okay with me, Buddy."
The angel
turned his attention back to Terrence, trying reason.
“Pay them no
heed, my son. You hesitate, but one must work one's way up to
Seraphim, mustn't one? Through the levels of Powers and Virtues
etcetera. These are grades of angels, you see. We can't possibly
start you out as a six-winged Seraph right away then, can we?"
Terrence
didn't reply.
“Well? Can
we?"
Terrence was
shaking with indecision. He arose, moved forward in the rumbling
swaying flying bus, clutching at the chrome grab handles.
The angel
called after him, “Forget the sports deal, Terrence. That IS a
pact with the Devil, you notice he only offered you five years?"
Terrence
stared out the window.
“Uhm, does
anyone else see those grassy green hills? The olive trees?"
No one
answered.
“Some sort of
gray stone castle there, on the horizon." He pointed into the
oblivion.
And above the
castle Terrence saw a silver biplane arcing through a powdered
sky.
He heard the
girl-woman's ethereal voice. “My stop is just two forward,
Terrence. Come with me."
“Is that
music?" Terrence thought he heard a melody. And the scent of
June lilacs wafted to his nose.
The rugged
Army man rasped beneath his smoke, “What can she give ya but
crotch pheasants?"
Melinda
quickly answered, “The gratitude of women, the envy of men.
Fantasies go with me. And sexual passion."
The soldier
countered with his best weapon, spoke low in confidence, “It's
house ta house fighting in Grosetto, live to die. Let's do it,
Buddy." He lit another match and held it up. The sulphur
overpowered the lilac.
The sportsman
offered, “The World Cup. Soccer, now there's a real sport, or if
you like singular, how about the hundred meters, flash it in
nine flat, put the records out of reach."
The angel,
with diamond clarity, announced, “Alright then, I'll make you a
full Dominion, that is of the sixth level, responsible for
Jupiter." His teeth gleamed of pearls.
The Italian
composer's thick breath wafted forward, “A complete symphony,
Bellissimo!"
The angel
laughed derisively, “As if YOU could match the power of
Gabriel's horn."
Hannibal
jumped in, “Then let's hear it! I have two good ears."
“I can make
statues cry, and crosses bleed!"
Melinda
commented, “Sex is the driving force of man."
The Italian
disagreed, “Not to be true, creativity is."
The solder had
his own slant, “I hate ta spring this on you assholes, but
killin' each other is where it's at."
The Italian
was incredulous, “You would have us believe THIS is our
purpose?"
“Nature's way
Musicman, there's too many of us. Can't ya work that out?"
“Ridiculous!"
The angel
smiled a serene, liquid smile at Terrence. “We’ll always have
room for you in the Fourth Heaven, my son."
Hannibal
asked, “Have you ever ridden an elephant, Terrence?"
The sick
soldier emitted a trailing cough, looked upward. “Our purpose is
to advance mankind. You can count the individuals who have done
this on your fingers, Buddy. I don't know how long I can hold on
for you, Terrence." He gripped his chest as though in pain.
The sportsman
asked, “Have you ever ridden a wave of popularity, my friend?
Sports heros are revered everywhere. Brains are out!
Basketball’s in!"
All the riders
called out simultaneously, “Come with me!"
Terrence said
weakly, “I need to think."
Terrence stood
at the front of the bus, looking back at the other riders, who
stared forward with hopes that he would rejoin them, stay on
until their particular stop, exit at their particular world. The
driver watched them all in his mirror, ignoring the road.
The magic bus
stopped and Terrence got off.
The other
riders lapsed into agitated argument. He heard snatches of their
simultaneous talk.
“There's
looting too, war is fun ...”
“Get rich ...”
“It is the
passion of women that men want ...”
“We two could
change the shape of the future ...”
“No! Music is
truth, as only music can be ...”
“Everybody
loves a champion ...”
“Rome MUST
fall!”
Only the
clarity of the angel's voice seemed to emerge above the clatter,
“POWER, is everything.”
The pulsing
orange glow of the bus and its buzzing sound dissipated as it
moved off up the street.
Terrence
walked right into Fred Carter, his next door neighbor, who
always seemed to ask a million questions.
“Terrence. How
are you?”
“Fine Fred,
just fine.” He tried walking on but Fred persisted.
“I was just
talking to your mum, she said you're acting odd lately, staying in
your room. Thinks your job is getting to you. Do something else,
Terr'. How do you stand that huge accounting office year after year?
You're only a number there. What happened to the Italian holiday you
were going on? I don't know why you don't buy a car, your driving
instructor survived, why take the bus all the time?”
Fred's
reverberating speech seemed to come out of a tunnel and Terrence
believed he heard something new in the voice, a whisper. Distant
drums.
In a moment he
answered, “Yes, Fred, why indeed? Why NOT step off toward a new
destination? Into a new life.”
Terrence
walked home, now with a confident stride, entered his front door and
announced boldly, “Mother, I'm home and I'm going away to Italy to
create music.”
His mother's
disjointed voice came from the kitchen or upstairs or the basement,
firm and quick, and indisputable, “No you're not.”
He quietly
closed the door to his room. Someday Terrence would make a decision
about what to do.
Until then,
he'd ride the bus.
written by character Zac in Deadly Nightshade
- Hero of the Sky the one to teach young hawks to fly I show their wings how to use the wind and guide them safely home again. I am the clouds that shine with light my heart is honest, moral, white I know some things that can't be told when to be meek, when to be bold. I am your Hero of the Sky I'll show you what it is to die to free your heart and soar in bliss liberate your soul with a lover's kiss I use the rain to wash away, the evilness that came today I use the sun to burn the beast that worships to a secret priest. I have the Moon to light your way a silver path, you cannot stray. I own the stars where wisdom lies We'll both be Heroes of the Skies. I am Your Hero of the Sky unfold your wings and learn to fly let go the branch and leave your nest I promise you eternal rest. ---------------------------------- Were there secrets
in this prose? What meaning? It was not Cynthia's handwriting. Perhaps that
mysterious dark friend she mentions often. I placed the page back in the drawer.
Now the tiny voice within me was warning, 'Be careful Yuli, something very
strange is going on here.' Atop the desk a
phone, a long gray metal box with a Celtic design carved into its lid. Inside a
necklace of amber. An antique black handled knife, black blade, very ominous
looking. More old books on a shelf didn't seem to be related to school. Cynthia
had secrets I needed to know about. The little spice jars drew my attention.
©
Exercize Program from
No Pizza
Bob's body parts face a dilemma ....
Merriam-Webster online dictionary -
http://www.merriam-webster.com/ Roget's online thesaurus -
http://humanities.uchicago.edu/orgs/ARTFL/forms_unrest/ROGET.html Dictionary of British slang -
http://www.peevish.co.uk/slang/t.htm Dictionary of American slang -
http://www.oup.com/us/collections/slang/?view=usa Bartlett's quotations -
http://www.bartleby.com/100/ The only real screenwriting software -
Although these online references are great,
nothing beats having the hard copy at your fingertips .... buy books.
O some projects from which excerpts are taken -
Riding Pegasus, Pelly and
Miramar.
Stage Plays - Talk About Love, The Ride, The Magic Bus, The Trial of Dancy Whitecotton,
Madame Merelda's.
¿Magyck?
Short
Stories -
Vital Mission, The Birth of
Loneliness, The Bertrameister, Roses,
The Magic Bus, The Dream, The Lie,
November Eleventh.
Screen
Plays -
features - Tango Murderoso, Nashville Dreams,
The Ride. short films - the Magic Bus, The Dream.
excerpt
from my comedy stage play
-
Talk About Love
from my motorcycle
fantasy - Vital Mission
from a line of William
Aytoun; 'Like a tempest down the ridges, swept the
hurricane of steel..'
I am a Royal Knight plunging
fearlessly into the dark den of danger, reigning my black champing
steed, brandishing a flashing Excalibur.
Vanquishing the chimera
of languor. Saving sanity.
voices loud as water streams
making yellow snow
You know you shoulda stayed
beside me when the lights went out
and then it never would've ended this
way...
Old men in the park, warming their bones
waiting for darkness to chase them back
into their homes...
There's a coyote
yippin' in the hills
tellin' all the world about his misery
Soon he'll have no place to go
just how he feels I know
he's feelin' just like me ...
You are in the spell of old Tangier
where nothing's new, beneath the sun,
love can flow
just like a rumor here ...
He was a high country cowboy
came from the end of the sky
He was
an old fashioned dreamer
Life was just passing him by..
Twenty-five policemen, poundin' at my door
Standin' in the kitchen with a smokin'
forty-four ...
Will the horses ever know a gentle hand??
Do they ever get away from fairyland?
If someone would give the carousels to
me
I would let the horses all go free.
Ridin' in a boxcar, trackin' down to
Tennessee
Got myself some buddies, playin' music
just like me
We ain't good lookin' but you'll know
when we're in town ...
Softtail Springer, I own the big sky
chrome plated winger, I'll ride 'till I
die
Dragonfire demons and deadly dark
flights
I own the days, but she owns the nights.
A knock on my door about a quarter to
four
they came and then they took me away
I dared to disagree and someone told on
me
They take down every thing that you say.
stands a haggard man who's aged before
his time
In a dusty black case open on the
sidewalk
there's a quarter, seven nickels and a
dime.
all original music and lyrics
© by
Bob Westerholm (SOCAN)
If I was to unfold my arms,
would you be the one I had held there?
the
Afternoon
In the subdued light through the latticed teakwood blinds she seems to shine in
her creamy skin. Keeps her silken eyes closed - but not sleeping.
The cotton sheets are cool. The ceiling fan revolves in a lazy turn, keeping the
scent of sandlewood floating on the warm air ... and spice, nutmeg and cinnamon
from somewhere. A tincture of stale tea remains in the porcelain cups.
Sounds from the frenetic street are muted, barely reach into this quietude,
except for the sing-song of Chinese voices as they pass and the moans and
rattles of a rambling old truck.
A languorous afternoon drifting through time unnoticed.
Her breathing is slow and steady. She is Chang'e, woman of the moon. She is moist and pleasant to touch. My finger
traces an undulating path over her skin, mingling with enough moisture to form a
droplet, adding to the tiny pool at her belly. I taste of the glistening pool. Savor the texture as nectar.
My heart beats with regular rhythm. There is no sense of urgency, no need of
hurry. No need to think. The heat suppresses thought, only creating abstracted,
dreamy, watery images.
The lethargy of time only allowing this
entre nous
and a wandering glide toward a concupiscent conclusion.
from - A
Place in the Sky
We started along the narrower trail, gently pushing branches aside. There
were several more homemade wind chimes, each with an individual harmonious
sound.
I had just glimpsed a piece of rusted tin through the trees when I heard
the movement behind me.
"Don't you motherfuckers move or you die!"
He had Zac gripped with his left arm under Zac's and his left hand behind
his head, a half nelson. In the browned skin of his right hand was a long
bladed commando knife, pressed hard against Zac's throat.
Zac was staring at me. And I was staring into stainless steel eyes.
"We won't do anything stupid. Are you Nathan Browne?"
He pressed the honed edge of the blade tighter into Zac's throat. His
features were hard to recognize because they were colored with black and
green irregular spots, jungle make-up, but even then I knew right away who
he was. The man I was facing was Zac's brother. Cynthia's brother. The
resemblance was striking even though Nathan appeared much older. He wore a
baggy camouflage jacket.
The steel eyes shone with hostility. "Who the fuck are you? Why you lookin'
for me?"
"We have a mission to find you," Zac said. He was hanging limp in Nathan's
arms but twisted his head trying to look at him.
"Fuck you asshole! The mission's over." He batted Zac's hat off with the
long blade. There was a dark blue tattoo on the back of his right hand,
the head of a fire-breathing dragon and the word Khesanh.
I said, "We have some very good news for you. Please let him go. We mean
no harm."
He only readjusted the knife. Zac's skin was white along the crease and
the edge of the blade glinted where it had been often sharpened.
Zac tried to straighten his body, raised his voice, a different Zac spoke,
"It is destiny which leads me to arrive here. A destiny which commands you
as well. You must carry out your own mission. Time has converged upon us,
now there is none left, do it! You must slice through the softness of the
man you clasp. It is preordained. This IS your purpose."
It had to be the other Zac talking. He began pulling against Nathan's
grip.
"I'm gonna slice your fuckin' throat in another minute."
"Yes! Yes! You must. There can be no hesitation. Commit the act which sets
us all free!"
Nathan was having a hard time controlling Zac. His eyes went wild and his
hand tightened on the knife.
"You're dead, man! I'll slice your head off! I done it before." Zac was
trying to lurch away.
"If you do," I yelled, "you'll be killing your own brother!"
The steel eyes landed on me, darkened into a slate gray. His hand grabbed
at Zac's hair and pulled his head back violently. He tried to see Zac's
face without taking his eyes from mine. I raised my hands to keep them in
his sight.
Zac's eyes flashed a laser green, as though I had betrayed a family
secret. I had. His incredulous look was because I knew. He was breathing
in huge gasps. "You must do it! Draw the sacred blade along the devil's
skin. It must be done. I as Michael, command it!"
Nathan flung Zac to the ground in one movement, cutting the front of his
throat slightly as he withdrew the blade and at the same time
pulling an
Army issue Colt .45 from his rope belt, aimed it with a shaky hand.
The astonishing tangle within our heads makes us what
we are ....Colin Blakemore
from my novel
Tango Murderoso
"Where'd he take the bags, Willie?" McGrath met his eyes in a cold stare.
Willie
thought a moment. "Don' know, I waited outside."
Willie was
genuinely confused with the sudden influx of knowledge and his mind
couldn't process it. There was excitement there but he couldn't fathom the
implications. He needed time to think.
"Naw,
he was secret about some things he ..."
"So
you mean he packed all those bags in by himself?" McGrath's voice was
rising. "Incredible, that's what he paid you for."
"Fuck
you, I wasn't his Joe-boy y'know. I handled other jobs for 'im."
Sure,
McGrath thought, you were nothing but his strong-arm. Too stupid to be
involved in anything cerebral. "What'd he say about them, the bags then?"
"Said
they were a surprise for Cassandra, didn't want my help."
"Didn't
you even ask him what was in the fuckin' things? I don't believe this."
"Fuck
off, he said it was a surprise. Sure I aksed him but he goes, 'you'll find
out later? I never thought about it after. Forgot."
McGrath
knew he was going to lose ground once Willie figured he didn't need him.
He'd start lying. If he wasn't already. He had to find out where those
bags were hidden. "Wait a minute, I've got a sheet of paper here to show
you."
McGrath
leaned into his car, Willie behind him. McGrath imagined Jose Canseco
stepping out of the batter's box to swing at a pitch-out. He twisted away
from the car with the baseball bat in his hands and slammed Willie in the
head with it. Blood splattered. Willie reeled across the alley and went
down in a daze amid garbage piles. McGrath hit him twice on the knees with
vicious blows. Quickly had Willie's jacket open and the gun removed, slid
it into an inner pocket of his own coat. Willie didn't make a sound, he
was numb but regaining consciousness. McGrath stood over him, sweat
dripping from his brow, fiery anger in his eyes.
© RC Westerholm
Tango Murderoso is also written as a screenplay
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its
origin from emotion recollected in tranquility
.... William Wordsworth
Home is in the mind
Where was Langvei? Was that the last hill?
Are we still in the valley of the shadow of death?
Where is Khesanh? Can we find it still?
Can we walk any longer? Is this our last breath?
Where now is home? To the north to the south?
The hooch in the jungle, the picket fence lane?
What words do I hear coming out of my mouth?
Are the sobs and the moans the sound of profane?
Tread on the button bombs or upon the death adder.
Take your cubes and your pills, what are they for?
In the combat of grunts, what does it matter
if anyone survives this paraplegic war?
Where does it end, this loathing of man?
How can we endure this continual pain?
Where can we say this turning began?
Pray to my God I'll not pass here again.
Where now is home? Where now is home?
(war poem written by
Nathanial in
A Place in the Sky)
from my novel Acts
of Empathy
porcelain
moons; in the shower - one undine stooping in the cascading water and
the other clutching the shower curtain until I tore it down in a deluge
of watery passion; in every chair and sofa; atop the piano to a
crescendo of chromatic screams; in the kitchen on the counter top amid
the aroma of tangy herbs; contortively crunched into the nook; sitting
on the bar flavouring ourselves with Grand Marnier liqueur. We initiated
every room in the house with a delightful, instantly recoverable, erotic
memory. Spent effusive days and nights intoxicated with the elixir of
each other.
It was the perfect coalescence of two
wanton insatiable beings rising through the physical world into the
cerebral purity of psychic sensualism. 
Read the entire first chapter of
Acts of
Empathy here ...
available from Amazon Books
THE BIRTH OF LONELINESS
Jack Murphy turned his attention to Cinny and his look softened. "He's
comin'. Why you doin' this for this guy?"
"He needs help, Jack. I'd do it for you too."
"How much is the room?" I said.
Murphy took this as a smartass remark. Growled, "I could bust the other
arm for you." He folded the Popeye forearms across his chest, they
expanded to resemble the legs of a Clydesdale. Most of the tattoos were
blue but there were dabs of red and green as well. The word Death somehow
stood clear of the circuitous designs. I had no doubt he could break arms,
knew he'd done it before.
"Jack, don't, he's badly hurt ..."
Murphy looked at her, gentleness in his expression. I was involved in a
triangle whether I wanted it or not.
"You said you wouldn' be back. Your stuff's in that box there."
There was a cardboard apple box near the door, filled with Cinny's
personal hygiene products.
"I know what I said and it's true, but ... we needed Doc Morse, you can
see that."
"Why you even mixed up with this prick?"
"Hey ... " I started to rise dizzily from the bed.
Murphy stepped forward. Cinny jumped between us.
"Look, I need some help here," I said, "you wouldn't be happy with
yourself if you broke my other arm anyway, not picking on a poor little
shit like me when I can't ... "
"You can't awright," he said quickly.
"Can you say, Oy yam what oy yam?" I muttered, mimicking Popeye.
"What?"
"Maybe you should call Doc again?" Cinny asked, trying to defuse the
situation.
Jack Murphy never took his stare off me. Never once glanced at my bleeding
arm. He was built like a water buffalo. "Michael called 'im awready."
"Want to make a deal, Murph'?" I asked.
Suspicion narrowed his snake eyes. "What kinda deal would I make with you,
Sport?"
"We'll have a truce, I'll get the bullet out of my arm, we wait a couple
of weeks and then I kick the shit out of you."
Murphy leaped at me. Cinny screamed. I rolled off the other side of the
bed, crushing my bloody arm as I did but he was flat on his face as I
struck him with a left-handed shuto. My focus was gone and I hit the side
of his neck and shoulder. The mattress absorbed more of the blow than he
did. I fell back to the wall, waiting for his onslaught, hoping my legs
would work. There was a hard knock at the door. Cinny quickly opened it
and a huge black-haired man stood there with the diminutive Doc Morse
cowering behind him, little black bag in hand. I knew Michael Houlihan
right away. Murphy was coming at me, rubbing the side of his neck where I
had got him.
Houlihan roared, "Murphy! Fuck off!" They barged into the room, slammed
the door. This guy looked like a real fighter, huge, bony and cat-quick.
Popeye Forearms stopped, snarled, "You got lucky there, Sport. You got a
deal, don't wait too long though or I'll come lookin'."
He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head, kept repeating the action
until I did.
"Deal," I said with false bravery, "see you soon. Keep training. Eat your
spinach."
Murphy glanced at Houlihan, back at me with his best rattlesnake glare and
left.
Cinny said, "Thanks, Michael. Thanks a ton."
Michael said, ignoring me, "Cinny. You're stayin' outa street work for
sure now. Are ya not? That is what ya told us. Can we take it as the
gospel?" A tinge of Irish brogue.
"For sure."
"This lad mean somethin' to ya, does he?"
The little bald doctor made his first comment, "He's not exactly a lad."
I immediately disliked him.
from
chapter two of my novel
Acts of Empathy
You're neither
unnatural, nor abominable, nor mad;
you're as much a part of what
people call nature as anyone else;
only you're unexplained as yet -
Radclyffe
Hall - Well of Loneliness
Let's Kill Auntie
Lena
FADE IN:
MUSICAL DIRECTOR KEVIN
The music swells, Singer Harry appears ready.
SINGER HARRY (singing)
Go again, a little slip there, Harry. No
problem.
The Engineer glances at Kevin. P.A. Girl just
shrugs, chews her gum.
M.D. KEVIN
Musical Director Kevin looks to the others for
confirmation that they also think Singer Harry
is joking. They seem doubtful. Singer Harry is
peering at them all.
P.A. GIRL (nodding at Engineer)
I am saying - Oh by
gosh by jolly, it's time for
Mister Toe and holly.
M.D. KEVIN
Now you said by gosh
by JOLLY! It is mistletoe not
MISTER TOE, and golly not
jolly.
SINGER HARRY
I've always sung it
Mister Toe. That's the words.
M.D. KEVEN (exasperated)
No, they're not Harry,
it is mistletoe, what you do at
Christmas. Under the mistletoe,
get it?
SINGER HARRY
We never had mistletoe
since Mom and Neighbour Bill
that time.
M.D. KEVIN (sigh)
Just do the words,
Harry.
SINGER HARRY
Kevin, my uncle sang
that song to me when I was four,
and every year since. I know the
song.
P.A. GIRL (whisper to Kevin)
I think he thinks
those ARE the words.
etc ....
excerpt from my stage play
THE RIDE
(Big John sighs with frustration)
BIG
JOHN
Randal, I not be
sharp guy like you You boys go out to having fun wit' girls.
Not too hard life, eh? Good
.... when I be
young as like Frenchy, I hide in sewers for two years while
Gestapo hunt for me.
(They all keep a respectful silence
a moment)
JERRY DUNN
Hey John, what was Frenchy's real
name anyway?
BIG JOHN
Frenchy?
JERRY DUNN
Yeah. What was his name? Was it
French? Pierre or something?
BIG JOHN
He was good boy, speak two language.
JERRY DUNN
Was always sayin' merde, means shit
in French.
HAGLER
Frenchy died with liquid shit in his
veins.
BIG JOHN
(thinks) I never know his real name.
HAGLER
Damn, none of us even know what his
real name was?
JERRY DUNN
It matter to you, Hagler?
CALLOWAY
Prob'ly don' matter to nobody. Jerry,
gimme that ride downtown, okay?
HAGLER
Frig off, Calloway.
(Big John takes the unlit cigarette
out of his mouth)
BIG JOHN
You boys listen, you don't
t'ink it matter? Somewhere in Montreal is a mother waiting for
Frenchy to come back home. No one tell her he not coming.
Everybody matter to somebody. Understand boys? You too!
(Wallace returns from Phil's house, looks
shaken)
CALLOWAY
Wallace, got your car? I need a ride
downtown.
I
gotta score t'night.
WALLACE
You guys .... Phil ain't coming. He
.... (takes a deep breath) He ain't going nowhere.
JERRY DUNN
What?
WALLACE
He's just .... dead, man .... bloody well
straight assed dead.
JERRY DUNN
Noooo.
CALLOWAY
Phil? Dead?
(Hagler and Jerry can't believe it.
Calloway is shaking)
WALLACE
I ain't lyin'. He OD'd.
HAGLER
Wait a minute, back up, Wallace.
JERRY DUNN
Yeah, how d'ya know for sure?
WALLACE
When I got to his house, an ambliance was
awready there, takin' him away. His mother cryin' at the gate
...
HAGLER
But are you sure he was dead?
WALLACE
... neighbors all out there watchin'.
His ol' grey Dad, just sittin' on that raggedy porch ...
holdin' his head in his hands.
CALLOWAY
Maybe Phil was only unconcious?
JERRY DUNN
Yeah, maybe they were jus' takin' him to
the hospital?
CALLOWAY
That's what happens, ya just sorta go into
a coma. After ya breath in your own puke.
JERRY DUNN
Jeeze. I feel like poundin' Phil's face
in!
HAGLER
You shitting us, Wallace? Don't fool
around with this.
WALLACE
No shit. The white sheet was up over his
head .... he was strapped down on that gurney ...
HAGLER
Jeeze.... Phil was always the lucky guy.
WALLACE
... I ... I seen his dead hand just
hangin' down.
CALLOWAY
You guys don't get it do ya? Was the same
shit as your little brother, Hagler. Phil wanted to die!
The two of them grin
with feigned innocence and tell me once more nothing is happening but when I get
to the motorcycle room the bike has been moved again and I know it's to allow
incoming patrons to pass. The door is open. Cool night air drifts in from across
the damp lawns. I see moths clinging to the screen like errant scraps of wan
cotton. The grounds are moonlit from a high moon and the trees cast Rorschach
shadows. There is no one out there.
As writers become more numerous, it is natural for
readers to become more indolent .... Oliver Goldsmith
If you're inspired a little - here's
further exploration for your creative writing interests . . .
Local writers' groups are a great place for all creative writers.
from
my comedy stage play
-
Talk About Love
SHE:
I don't concede that, you've screwed up the world with your inventions.
(They stop circling, stare at each other over the table )
HE:
Hey now ... Men have contributed to
the betterment of Man.
SHE:
(Looking into audience at women) Egg,sactly.
HE:
Why can't you admit it? We've created the greatest inventions ...
SHE:
How many would have been invented if men had to make
their own dinner?
HE:
Automobiles, for insta ...
SHE:
Carbon monoxide pollution. Ozone depletion.
(HE sighs, continues pacing)
HE:
Aircraft, to fly you to the sun on vacation ...
SHE:
F18s to reek napalm attacks and agent orange ... Would a woman ever have
invented a gun?
HE:
Electric guitars. You love Eric Clapton.
SHE:
Decibels. Heavy Metal. Ozzy Osborne, Axl Rose, bite bats, kill cops, eat babies.
(HE thinks, leans over the table, raises an arm in defiance)
HE:
(Rising voice) Rockets to the moon. Teflon!
(SHE leans across the table to face him)
SHE:
(Arm up too) Surface to air missiles!
And who gives a shit if your eggs stick to the fucking pan!
have the right to an attorney, if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be
appointed for you. If you say anything it could be taken down and used against
you in a court of law. Do you understand what I have just said?"
Read the entire prologue chapter of Tango Murderoso here
...
The only abnormality is the incapacity to love -
Anais Nin
from my novel
Acts of Empathy
Read the entire first chapter of
Acts of Empathy
here ...
it. Robber! Robber! he
yelled, addressing this human. We have
placed him there.
he now has it. Rage MUST be good.
take us away.
have something in your, emotion, which has allowed such a
weak
species as you to survive. We must have samples of humans
to
find out what it is.
....
excerpt from The Trial of Dancy Whitecotton
© RC Westerholm
back to their own
planet doesn't mean they
are all that smart.
etc . . . from
Nashville Dreams - an original screenplay
©
Synop
-
Songwriter
Jackson McDill wants to be a country music star, and with his two new found
buddies, old Elijah the banjo plucking hobo and young stuttering FDR, they
head for Nashville. The trouble is, they are stone broke and have to
hitchhike, ride the rails or walk, and everyone seems to be conspiring to
prevent their success. A hilarious road adventure full of fun and fright
that changes everyone, including the dog, Whistlestop.
also a
novel
The Magic Bus
Performed on stage in Vancouver, BC by the Spin Cycle Players.
I am your Hero of the Sky,
"So what's up with this?"
Brain "Who's that?"
Thigh "Me, Thigh. He's
nearly running again today."
Brain "Yeah, he has
started on some kind of exercise
thing."
Thigh "Well, I'm still
aching from yesterday. I don't
like this at all."
Foot "You think
that's bad, he's had those
Adidas for 6 years, and now he
wants to start
running on them?
They're worn out for Pete's
sake! My arches are falling."
Thigh "C'mon Brain, no
one wants any exercise program,
what was wrong with him
just
sitting at the computer all
day?"
Heart "That was nice
and relaxing, I never had to
beat over 60 bpm. I could nap
from lunch to dinner time. And
at night with TV I could just
lie there in a warm pool of
blood."
Knees "Yes, Brain, nag
him about his bad knees again. I
did what I could last night,
ached and ached."
Thigh "So how
determined is he anyway? I think
he'll quit soon."
Brain "Sometimes I
can't tell him anything, it is
like his mind has a mind of it's
own."
Lungs "Hey, that is your
JOB, Brain. I can hardly keep up
with all this oxygen!
I used to
be able to take every second
breath off. Now I feel like some
kind of
vacuum pump in a lead
mine."
Brain "You parts need
to remember how good it was when
he used to run the Sea Wall
every day. And do gym exercise
too."
Stomach "I liked that, he
could eat cake whenever he
wanted, and those donuts with
pink icing."
Thigh "It's not all
about you and your lascivious
pleasures, Stomach. Some of us
have
to work for a living. But
walking two miles is excessive!
From his bed to the computer
or
TV is just right. No one needs
to do more than that."
Ego "He's doing it
to look good, doesn't want to
get old and ugly."
ID "He's already
old, he should face it and quit
picking out grey hairs and
trimming
his eyebrows. No girls
gonna look at him. And there's a
wonderful variety of canes
out
now. How can I make him
cantankerous if he's looking
good?"
Thigh "Well if he tries
this fast walk thing again
tomorrow I'm getting a Charlie
Horse."
Foot "I might be able
to rub up a few blisters .....
ID, couldn't you steer him into
a tree or something?"
Ego "Don't ask ID
to do stuff like that. You're
flirting with disaster."
ID "I don't flirt
with anybody. I'll kick a puppy
if you like."
Thigh "We need to stay
on target and stop this madness
of exercise."
.... etc
....
...
and 49 more silly
chapters
in
No
Pizza
-
get
it at Amazon Books
Email
feedback - inbunk@gmail.com
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