|
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.
© RC Westerholm
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
-
from my motorcycle
fantasy - Vital Mission
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 -
 |
|
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.
|
| |
go to full story here --
|
|
Haiku
Children laugh
with glee
voices loud as water streams
making yellow snow
Haiku is
one of the most important forms of traditional Japanese poetry.
© RCW
selected lyrics
from my songs ...
|
You know you shoulda stayed beside me
when the lights went out
and then it never would've ended this
way... |
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Old men in the park, warming their bones
waiting for darkness to chase them back
into their homes... |
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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 ...
|
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Who Killed Maxie? |
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Old Men in the Park |
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A Common Thing |
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Spellbound |
| |
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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.. |
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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 ... |
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High Country Cowboy |
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Smokin' Gun Barrel Blues |
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The Carousels |
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Nashville Dreams |
| |
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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. |
|
In a darkened doorway covered with
grafitti
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. |
|
 |
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Softtail Springer |
|
Emergency Hospital |
|
Street Musician |
|
|
all original music and lyrics
© by
Bob Westerholm
(SOCAN)
|
|
go and hear some of my music here - |
|
If I was to unfold my arms,
would you be
the one I had held there?
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?
Therése
- in my novel Acts of Empathy
© Dahlia
|
|
the
Afternoon
I
am lying
couchant
beside her. It is as humid as it gets in East Asia after the monsoon. Close.
There is little oxygen.
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.
© 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 hat
morning you wouldn't have heard a scream across the broad green lawns
surrounding the asylum. The hissing rain muffled other sounds as though
concealing a whispered secret. Was accompanied by a stealthy floating
mist you could hardly see through. The white painted lawn chairs looked
forlorn, desolate. Even the dark trees seemed hunched over, protecting
themselves against the cold foggy drizzle and the gaze of the curious.
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.
Psychiatrists betray their own emotions, they're so concerned with yours
that they let their own thoughts hang out like Chinese laundry on a bamboo
pole. They don't even know they do it.
I always knew what Fredrickson was
thinking.
© RC Westerholm
|
get it right now at Amazon Books
click
|
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
|
|
from - A
Place in the Sky
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.
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 drawing an
Army issue Colt .45, aimed it with a shaky hand.
© RC Westerholm |
get it right now at Amazon Books
click
The astonishing tangle within our heads makes us what
we are ....Colin Blakemore
|
|
from my novel
Tango Murderoso
|
McGrath's heart leaped.
"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. 
McGrath's
voice took on a hard edge and his eyes bored into Willie's. "Bullshit,
Willie, he would've had you help him."
"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'l
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.
"Now Willie, where'd you and
Condy put the fucking BAGS?"
|
© RC Westerholm
Tango Murderoso is also written as a screenplay
|
|
Read the entire prologue chapter of Tango
Murderoso
here .....
|
|
get it right now at Amazon Books
click
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 Now is Home?
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)
Copyright R.C. Westerholm
|
from my novel Acts of Empathy
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
 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.
It was the clarity of love.
.
© Dahlia
|
Read the entire first chapter of
Acts of Empathy
here ...
|
|
Get it right now at Amazon Books
click
|
At Glennis' poetry
party -
Another
much older woman stared at me from across the room. Our
eyes met and she nodded her head, moved through the
crowd to stand in front of me. She had the wide turns of
a Renior face, full cheeks, very attractive for her age
but the tell-tale lightness around her eyes told of some
face work.
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."
|
THE BIRTH OF LONELINESS
|
|
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
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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?"
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.
© RC Westerholm
|
from
chapter two of my novel
Acts of Empathy
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Firenze |
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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 |
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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 ...
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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 |
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Let's Kill Auntie
Lena |
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Fifty's Long Enough |
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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.
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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.
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excerpts of song lyrics
©
by R.C. Westerholm
Back to top
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from Amazon Publishing |
| |
from
No Tears ...
INTERIOR - RECORDING STUDIO - DAY
Singer
Harry is about to begin recording his first
Christmas album. There are some decorations
evident. In the Control Room are the Musical
Director KEVIN, his Personal Assistant GIRL, and
the ENGINEER. They are watching through the
glass as Singer HARRY dons a head-set in his
sound booth. We hear the pre-recorded orchestral
intro music. The song is
Mistletoe and Holly.
FADE IN:
MUSICAL DIRECTOR KEVIN
Cue for Harry's Christmas Album.
The music swells, Singer Harry appears ready.
SINGER HARRY (singing)
Oh by gosh by golly, it's time for Mister Toe
and holly, tasty ...
M.D. KEVIN
Cut! (laughing)
Go again, a little slip there, Harry. No
problem.
SINGER HARRY (looks oddly at
them)
Sure, Kevin.
The
Engineer restarts the
music.
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?
The Engineer glances at Kevin. P.A. Girl just
shrugs, chews her gum.
M.D. KEVIN
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?
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)
He's funny.
ENGINEER
Yeah, funny.
M.D. KEVIN
Harry, you're saying Mister Toe instead of
Mistletoe.
SINGER HARRY
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 ....
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excerpts from my stage play
- The Ride
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Big John sighs with frustration,
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BIG JOHN
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Randal, I not be sharp guy like you boys, go out to having fun
wit' girls. Not too hard life, eh? Good.
When I was young as
like Frenchy, I hide in sewers for two years while Gestapo hunt
for me.
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They all keep a
respectful silence a moment
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| Jerry Dunn |
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Hey John, what was
Frenchy's real name anyway?
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BIG JOHN |
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Frenchy?
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JERRY DUNN |
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Yeah, what was his
name? Was it French? Pierre or something?
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BIG JOHN |
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He was good boy,
speak two language.
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JERRY DUNN |
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Was always sayin'
merde,
means shit in French.
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HAGLER |
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Frenchy
died with liquid shit in his veins. |
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BIG JOHN |
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(thinking)
I never know his real name.
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HAGLER |
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Damn, none of us
even knew what his real friggin' name was.
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JERRY DUNN |
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It matter to you, Hagler?
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CALLOWAY |
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Prob'ly don't
matter to nobody.
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HAGLER |
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Frig off, Calloway.
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Big John takes he
unlit cigarette out of his mouth.
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BIG JOHN |
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You boys listen. You don't t'ink it matter? Somewhere in
Montreal is a mother waiting for Frenchy to come back home.
Every body matter to some body, understand boys? You too.
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from SCENE II ... later |
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Wallace returns
from Phil's,
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WALLACE |
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You guys ... Phil ain't coming
... He's ... (takes a deep breath) He ain't goin' nowhere ...
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JERRY DUNN |
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What?
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WALLACE |
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He's just .... dead man, he's ....... bloody well straight
assed dead.
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JERRY DUNN |
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Nooo.
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CALLOWAY |
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Phil? Dead?
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Hagler and Jerry simply look at each other, having a hard
time believing the news. Calloway is shaken |
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WALLACE |
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I ain't lyin'. He OD'd.
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HAGLER |
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Wait a minute, back up, Wallace.
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JERRY DUNN |
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Yeah, how do you know for sure?
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WALLACE |
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When I got to his house, an ambliance
was there awready, takin' him away. His Mother cryin' .... wailin' at the gate.
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HAGLER |
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But are you sure he was dead?
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WALLACE |
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Neighbours all out there watchin' ....
his ol' gray Dad .... just sittin' on that raggedy old porch
.... Holdin' his head in his hands. |
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CALLOWAY |
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Maybe Phil was only unconscious?
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JERRY DUNN |
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Yeah, maybe they were just takin' him to
the hospital?
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CALLOWAY |
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That's what happens, ya sorta go into a
coma.
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JERRY DUNN |
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Jeeze, I feel like poundin' Phil's face
in.
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HAGLER |
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You
shittin' us, Wallace? Don't fool around with this.
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WALLACE; |
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No
shit. The white sheet was up over his head. He was
strapped down on that stretcher. I .... I seen his ....
his dead hand hangin' down.
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from SCENE III... later |
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CALLOWAY |
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Beatin’ me up ain’t gonna bring Billy back.
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HAGLER |
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(now pacing)
Shut your face, Calloway.
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CALLOWAY |
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Shitsakes, I didn’t stick the fuckin’ needle inta his arm, he
was my friend, ya know.
(Exasperation)
Quit blamin’
me, Hagler!
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HAGLER |
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You
were with him. You scored FOR him!
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CALLOWAY |
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How was I to know he wasn’t gonna wake up? I didn’t know what
he was doin’ until it was too late.
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HAGLER |
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Just watched him die, didn’t you?
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Calloway retreats whenever Hagler moves close. Big John
watches them closely.
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CALLOWAY |
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Billy was a hype like me, you just didn’t wanna see it.
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HAGLER |
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He was my little brother, asshole!
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CALLOWAY |
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I didn’t kill him, Hagler. He shot every cap he scored that
day, he killed himself!
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Hagler steps closer to Calloway, their voices are steadily
raising, they hear nothing else but each other
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BIG JOHN |
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Randal, be cooling down now.
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HAGLER |
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Don’t say that, Calloway, you're a fuckin’ liar!
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Hagler gives Calloway another shove
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CALLOWAY |
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He told me yer Uncle Jack started on him right after he
moved in. He couldn’t tell your Mom, thought it would send her
off the deep end ...
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HAGLER: |
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Shut up, Jimmy!
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CALLOWAY |
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And Billy couldn’t fight with him like you did. He just wasn’t
strong enough!
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HAGLER |
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Jimmy, you’re lying!
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CALLOWAY |
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You know I’m not. Billy wanted to go out in a dream ... He did
himself on PURPOSE! Ya still don’t get it, do ya Hagler! Your
brother he, he WANTED to die!
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© RC Westerholm |
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information for dramaturges here
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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.
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.
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.
 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.
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 |
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As writers become more numerous, it is natural for
readers to become more indolent .... Oliver Goldsmith |
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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
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If you're inspired a little - here's
further exploration for your creative writing interests . . .
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writing contests
-
http://www.freelancewriting.com/writing-contests.php
also check your local library's
literature department for postings of current writing contests.
screenwriting -
https://www.zoetrope.com/
Zoetrope is Francis Ford Cupola's annual contest.
the
playwriting seminars -
http://www.vcu.edu/arts/playwriting/seminar.html
much information on screen or stage writing in easy to take
format.
screenwriting software -
http://www.screenplay.com/
Movie Magic screenwriting software is second to none for support, and
acknowledged as THE best.
poetry -
http://www.uwo.ca/english/canadianpoetry/abtcpjr.htm
Try writing your own poetry, even if you've never done it
before.
literature -
http://www.americanliterature.com/
There are thousands of literary sites on the web to keep the
literati happy forever.
writers clubs -
Vancouver public library has many leads for writers -
http://www.vpl.ca/
and three women write about
-
Women Inspiring Women
-
http://www.taracronica.com
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Local writers' groups are a great place for all creative writers.
You'll get a valuable critique that friends won't give you. Join one! |
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The Magic Bus |
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Terrence climbed
onto the bus, hung his umbrella over his arm and withdrew his
new wallet. Paid the 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 pulpy scar across his lip and thick dark
hair, wearing khaki shirt and trousers.
"So you sit with me." The Soldier 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
fingers were like freshly dug potatoes.
"It'll be rough ya know, Autumn '44 ain't to
country picnic, even if the war is leavin' Italy. They're still
tryin' ta hang on wherever they can. Mussellini is somewhere up
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 um, wasn't Rome already liberated in the
Spring of 1944?" Terrence remarked.
"Yeah, but that kinds shit's easy.
Artillery. Whole armored 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 Barbecue."
"Uhn, provided you can get close enough to
use the thing?"
The Soldier twisted, stared directly at
Terrence with sparking eyes, "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 ta
dyin' .... no one will beat ya up this time thought."
"I hope not. I abhor violence."
"So ya got punched in the head and the mugger
took yer wallet, that's why ya wanta 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 as
WAGner.
Terrence gulped, corrected, "VAHGner."
The Soldier took a deep drag from the
cigarette. The foul 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 blonde 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 with the light fragrance of wild rose.
"Hello," she said, her voice musical, her
eyes possessing a teal-blue sheen, "are you getting off when I
do?"
"I, don't know yet. I don't even know you're
name?"
"Melinda, some of my friends call me Lin, but
I don't like its immaturity."
"You're not very old."
"But I have experience, I can do sex like any
grown woman."
Terrence gulped openly while furtively
studying her body in the opaque window reflection, 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 you, um, have an idea?" he ventured.
She touched her skirt and it seemed to ride
up higher on her thigh, "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."
Terrence could sense the heat in his cheeks.
"I have never considered this before, I mean doing it in front
of others, especially with such a young person as yourself."
"Remember that older woman you went with that
time? How she teased you afterwards?"
The scarlet humiliation still colored 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 will
have no sex problems with me. I have trained in Paris,
Montemartre, working out of that little cafe east from the
Moulin Rouge, on the Boulevard de Clichy. And also with those
butterscotch girls in Bangkok, Siam."
Terrence lowered his voice when he saw the
soldier cock an ear. "As a prost ..."
She continued, "A
fille de joie,
Some of our audience will be some whom you are acquainted with,
perhaps that petit little typist you see once in a while at your
office. She will be enthralled with what you do to me, wish it
was her." She gave him a winsome smile, "Terrence, will you come
with me?"
Terrence's pulse rate quickened. He worried
about his blood pressure again. He slipped into a daydream a
moment before jerking awake. She was smiling expectantly at him
with celadon eyes. "Excuse me," he uttered, "perhaps I'll be
back." She gave him another 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. He 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 this
capriccio, you cannot go back, you
are 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, sometime in a
hush, as a Chopin chording," he emitted a portamento hum, "Other
time in a clatter of emotion as in one of Tchiakovsky's violent
moments." Terrence tried to turn away from his invasive odor.
The aficionado led an imaginary orchestra with an invisible
baton. Said with his eyes closed, "Why try to avoid such noble
pursuit?"
The Soldier mumbled under his breath, "Noble
schmoble."
The music man continued, "It can slide
imperceptively into one's awareness, as Grieg can do with his
most delicate melodies."
The Soldier jaggedly 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
fingernail, watched it burn until he snubbed it out with his
bare fingers. Grinned at Terrence.
The Italian retrieved
Terrence's attention and 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
collaborazioni? 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 you. Ha. You must have VISION,
my boy."
The headset allowed him to play it raucously
without anyone hearing except himself. Terrence spoke, trying
for a little proudness, "But I CAN play waltzes and rumbas on
it. And Hawaiian. It keeps its own rhythms. I was trying with
numbers to make music. Stephen Sondheim used mathematics in his
song writing."
The composer retorted
impatiently, "We depart at once for
Lago de Como, in the Nort' of
Italla, where concerti can be berthed in Verdi solitude."
"Italy. Enrico Fermi. I almost took a holiday
there last year."
"We will 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 with sing it."
"Luciano?"
"We must exit soon." He looked ahead
but the bus lights only dazzled in the fog.
Terrence slid across the aisle and sat
hesitantly beside a large muscular black man. "It goes like
this, see? You win he 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 waiting
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 in the batter's
box," he forced a half smile, "Uh, my Mother was very upset."
The black man's sharp voice continued, "This
time your bat is light as a piece of straw, you see the
stitching 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 more could you ask for?"
Terrence tried feebly for a joke, "Two
hundred?"
The Sportsman evidently didn't hear, "This
maybe; you go on to ice hockey. Play for a team what's never
done well. You dazzle 'em, see? Gretsky stalled at ninety-two
goals. So whatdya think?"
"Think? About?"
"Of you gettin' that hundredth goal. You
stand there with the puck behind your own net, and POINT to the
other goal! Like Ruth did and smacked a homer outa the park! You
skate out and every player is trying to catch you! Every camera
in the sports world is on you, Man. Wow."
"Wow." Terrence wanted to close his eyes for
the dream but couldn't.
The Italian butt in, "So what is creative in
this?"
The Sportsman with the light in his eyes
chose not to hear, "You then go on to Formula One auto racing.
What's the record for straight wins? Fangio still have it? Jim
Clark? Maybe you win every race? What else? Football? They
be trying to sign you by now. Sure throw looping touchdown
passes John Elway style. Whatever you want, five glorious
years!" He stared meaningfully at Terrence, "Listen Man, the
thing about glory is that you CAN take it with you! I'm just
three stops from here, have it all, get off with me."
Terrence moved to yet another seat. A bulky
dark man slumped against the wall of the bus, a black patch over
one eye, dressed oddly in a loose fitting tunic of coarse
leather. Scarred arms, one draped over the seat back, making
Terrence nervous of his intent. A crude gold amulet hung from a
thong around his neck. "You would have choice this time,
Terrence, your people date the time around 205 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 but none of the baby
Caesars inside dared accept my challenge. They were shaking with
fright, taking the easy way out with jeweled daggers to their
own bellies!
Hannibal paused to spit on the floor.
Terrence pulled his feet under the seat. "The Senators with
their stentorian orations debating who would chase me away. I
only left to face Scipio Africanus at Zama."
He fixed a single eyed stare at Terrence who
resisted the urge to cringe. "I read about that in history class
once. Didn't the Romans destroy Carthage?"
"You could change it all for me. Perhaps go
in over the wall. Sack Rome long before the Visigoths or the
Huns. You would be right there at the height of Roman power,
riding your elephant into the coliseum. They would send up blood
sacrifices to their Gods, such as they are." He spat again, a
vile green liquid, "Thumbs up to Terrence, son of Hasdrubal,
Great Emperor of Rome." They sat silent a moment letting the
wondrous ideas to saturate.
Terrence said, "I was going to Rome, if I had
gone on that holiday to Italy."
The Soldier coughed trying to steal
attention. Hannibal was still within his illusion. "And today,
chiseled into the magnificent Arch of, Terrence, on the Appian
Way, forever, your very own history. Yes, it CAN be altered. My
stop is coming up, Will you step off with me? It is an
opportunity my friend, to be savage, what every man lusts for."
Terrence changed his seat again. Found
himself near a tall man dressed in black with chased platinum
hair. His face very white. A large hawk nose, had the look of a
cadaver. Piercing steel gray eyes. "What is your deal," he asked
in a braver tone than he intended.
"Deal? Hah. I make no deal." The words
emitted like a bad taste. He raised his large head, 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 until his eyes took on a silver
glint, "but oh what battles we could fight."
"Battles." Terrence swallowed hard, realizing
he was gripping his umbrella too tightly. The great figure with
the long head smiled, raised his pewter eyebrows, "That
surprises you?"
"I'm not sure what you are talking about, it,
um, sounds dangerous."
The Angel bristled a moment with impatience
before settling himself down with a shudder. "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, and is now a fallen angel. Hah, but oh what fun we have,
stalking, skirmishing at every turn." He spoke slowly, as if
savoring delicious words. "Oh the never ending hunt, the
brilliant clashes." He broke into a wide aluminum smile.
Terrence said, "We would be fighting the very
Devil himself?" the words stuck in his throat.
"Truly a magnificent challenge. I would give
you Raphael, Uriel and ah, Gabriel as cohorts. It would not be
like going down in history as Ghengis Khan or my friend two
seats ahead, Hannibal for instance ..."
Hannibal turned and glared at the dark Angel,
"Friend? I have my own Gods, none of them yours." He spat on the
floor and it steamed and sizzled. The Angel was irritated, "I
beg your pardon, I believe I have the attention of my learned
friend at the moment." 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. He could
hear the soldier's labored breathing. Distracted himself by
studying the fall of Melinda's golden hair.
"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
shifted his eyes only, said, "DO you mind?"
Melinda commented to Terrence, "I don't mind
being taken with strength if 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 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 vanish you."
Hannibal retorted, "Then I'll just come back
as Hitler."
The Soldier rose to the 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. I promise
eternity."
Terrence stared out the window. "Um, 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 off with me,"
"Is that music?" Terrence thought he heard a
rhapsodic 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 a confidential tone, "It's house ta house fighting
in Grosetto. Ya live to die. It's exhilaration. 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." The Angel's teeth
sparkled one at a time.
The Italian composer's thick breath wafted
forward, "A complete symphony. Bellisimo!"
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."
Angel was becoming angry, "I can make statues
cry, and crosses bleed."
Melinda added, "Sex is the driving force of
men."
The Italian disagreed, "Not to be true,
creativity is."
The Soldier had his own slant; "I hate ta
spring this on you assholes, but killing each other is where
it's at."
The Italian was incredulous, "You would have
us believe this is our purpose?"
"Nature's way, music man, there's too many of
us, can't ya work that out?"
"Ridiculous."
The Angel produced 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? You can draw power from them."
The Sportsman asked, "Have you ever ridden a
wave of popularity, Man? Sports heroes are revered everywhere,
Brains are out, basketball's in!"
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.
All the riders called out simultaneously,
"Come with me!"
Terrence said weekly, "I need to think." He
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 in his mirror, ignoring the road. The magic
bus came to a stop and Terrence got off. The other riders lapsed
into agitated argument. He heard snatches of their simultaneous
chatter.
"There's looting too, war is fun ..."
"Get rich ..."
"It is the passion of women that men seek
..."
"We two could change the shape of the future
..."
"Music is truth, as
only music can be ,,,
inamorata."
"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 it's
buzzing sound dissipated as it moved off up the street. It
was now a misty rain but Terrence decided not to open his
umbrella. He walked right into Fred Carter, his next door
neighbour, 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 talking to your Mom, 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 that Italian holiday you were going on?
Don't know why you don't get a car, your driving instructor
survived, why take the bus all the time?"
Fred's reverberating speech seemed to become
a murmur out of a tunnel. Terrence believed he heard something
new, a conversation in a whisper of the wind. Distant drums. In
a moment he answered to himself, "Yes Fred, why indeed? Why not
step off into 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, your
not."
Terrence quietly closed he door to his room.
In silence looked over the equations on his chalk-board, he was
so close to his mathematical string theory explanation of
multi-verse that his mind forgot his intense desire to be like
others and quickly filled with quantum scatterings.
Someday Terrence would make a decision about
what to do. Until then, he'd ride the bus.
FINITO
performed
on stage by the Spin Cycle Players, Vancouver, BC.
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The Dandelion Seed
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The teasing young wind carries the
dandelion seed,
tantalizes it frivolously, unaware of its need,
a moment's touch-down, a kiss to moist soil
then a gusting a rushing and a floundering roil
as it sweeps the seed upward on a hot drying breath,
swirling it
skyward in a dizzying soar
scratches it across the infertile rooftops,
so high so high I don't see it anymore.
That immature wind, in an impulsive instant
fades like
a puppy pausing to sleep
yet it has miles to
go, pledges to keep.
The dandelion seed has a lingering dream
of a crack in the sidewalk or a roadside seam
Until the puerile wind wakes and drags
again at the seed,
tugs it so cruelly, unaware of its need
a fortuitous wind, in a light hearted play.
That fragile young seed has found its
rightful way,
On a
breeze as gentle as a mother's sigh,
its rightful place, is a place in the sky.'
written by Zac in A Place in the Sky, the third novel in the
Yuli Haugan trilogy ... TREPHINING
©
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from
my comedy stage play
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Talk About Love
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from ACT III - Empty Nest
HE:
Men are more inventive.
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!
information
for dramaturges here
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© RC Westerholm
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from my novel Tango Murderoso - chapter 50
Tango Murderoso
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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
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?"
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."
©
RC Westerholm
|
|
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 |
|
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
|
|
Read the entire first chapter of
Acts of Empathy
here ...
|
Back to top
|
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 Your
term. Correct though. And you are Dancy Whitecotton.
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
it. Robber! Robber! he yelled, addressing this human. We have
placed him there.
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 -
he now has it. Rage MUST be good.
DANCY That
is NOT Earth logic. You haven't said WHY you want to
take us away.
POT Oh.
Our race is dying. A genetic malfunction. We believe you
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.
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.
|
....
excerpt from The Trial of Dancy Whitecotton
© RC Westerholm
Synopsis -
Just because aliens can get here to Earth to take samples of human
beings
back to their own
planet doesn't mean they are all that smart.
|
* * *
|
from my screenplay - Nashville Dreams |
|
They pass a police car at the side of the road with two deputies.
ROSCOE and OTIS notice the
old pickup with FDR
driving.
ROSCOE
There he is Otis, Franklin in his Papa's truck.
OTIS
Ol' Ornery Tom's gonna kill that boy, Roscoe.
ROSCOE
I never thought he'd have the gumption to steal
it. If that's what he did.
They start their car, speed after the truck with their red lights
flashing. Our three are still having fun until Jackson turns to look
back at the dog and sees the police car.
JACKSON
Whoa there, what's this?
Elijah turns, stopping his
fingering of the banjo.
ELIJAH
We ain't speedin'.
FDR
W-What?
JACKSON
We got a police car catching' up on our rear here,
FDR.
FDR
Well they d-don't have to b-be ch-chasin' after
us.
Jackson and Elijah continue
looking out the rear window. FDR tries to adjust the hanging rear view
mirror to see but it's too loose. He turns, looks, gulps and loses
control of the truck and nearly slides into the ditch beside the road.
FDR
Oh n-no.
ELIJAH
They IS chasin' us, man.
JACKSON
What d'you mean, 'Oh no', FDR? Why'd they be after
us?
FDR doesn't answer, keeps on
driving. A siren starts.
JACKSON
You best pull over boy, there ain't nobody else on
this road.
FDR just keeps driving faster,
looks worried. He turns off the paved road onto a side lane of gravel,
kicking up a spray of small stones over the police car, which drops back
a bit. Whistlestop is trying to balance while howling at the siren.
ELIJAH
Your Daddy KNOW you took his truck?
Jackson is squirming between them
looking incredulously at FDR and the police car, now close to their rear
bumper again.
JACKSON
This ain't YOUR truck, boy?
ELIJAH
We be goin' t' the Iron and Steel Hotel.
FDR suddenly veers off the road
onto a dirt path through fields. Dust is everywhere and the police car
loses a little ground.
FDR
(nervous voice)
He d-didn't essactly s-s-say I c-could have it.
JACKSON
You STOLE this truck?
|
|
© R.C. Westerholm |
|
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. |
written by Elijah, a character in
Nashville Dreams
|
written by character Zac in Deadly Nightshade
-
|
|
Hero of the Sky
|
|
I am your 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 Tears
|
Bob's body parts face a dilemma ....
"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 148
more silly posts in
No
Tears
-
get it at Amazon Books
|
|
some projects from which excerpts are taken -
Novels -
Acts of Empathy, Tango Murderoso, Deadly Nightshade, A
Place in the Sky,
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.
|
|
|
 |
| work in progress |
Edwin Weis is sent by MI6 into LatviaSSR during the Cold War
to investigate a militant anti-war group who is a threat to
the nuclear facilities at Chernobyl. |
 |
|
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|
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Email |
|
|
feedback - inbunk@gmail.com |
|
|
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all writing ©
RC Westerholm ©
Dahlia
©
Bob Westerholm |
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- Vancouver BC
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