Roy L. Pickering Jr.'s Blog, page 19

FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Four) - JAMIE

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I was in the supermarket one day when I spied what appeared to be the last remaining can of French Onion soup, which I had been craving and was the main reason I had come to the supermarket in the first place. My hand grabbed hold of the can an instant before another hand grasped mine. I turned towards the woman who shared my appetite.

She was in her early fifties, just beginning to turn gray, not bothering to hide it. It wasn't necessary, for the signs of age that showed were no match for her beauty. Her ample breasts still stood high, thanks to exercise and a good bra. Child bearing had added voluptuous rather than matronly inches to her hips. The faint crows’ feet that framed her pavement colored eyes did not diminish their sparkle. But what entranced me most was her neck, slender and unblemished, reminiscent of a porcelain swan I used to admire in my childhood home.

"How about I keep it but take you to lunch as a trade off? What are you in the mood for?"

She gestured to the can I held. I thought she meant that she still wanted it until she suggested a French restaurant a few blocks away.

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Jamie was her name, and my asking her to lunch had been just what she needed to shake off the funk she was in. Two months prior she had become a grandmother.

"I know it's selfish to be anything but ecstatic. My granddaughter is a perfect little jewel. But I can't get used to the fact that I'm Grandma now. It doesn't seem like I was given enough time to just be Jamie. When did I grow old?"

"You haven't."

"You're being kind."

"That I am. But I happen only to be kind to young, vibrant, sexy women. And don't expect me to tell you that again."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd rather show you."

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Jamie's husband had died eighteen months earlier of a heart attack in the arms of his mistress. This event relieved her of the role of neglected wife she had played for many years. Her most crucial duties as a mother were also behind her. Now she was a grandmother. But she was also a woman, one grown tired of titles. To me Jamie was who she longed to be, at least for one more afternoon.

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I had often seen lust and love in the eyes of conquests, but gratitude of this nature was something new. It made me feel proud, as if having performed a humanitarian deed. The pride acted as aphrodisiac and I do believe Jamie was the beneficiary of one of my finer love making exhibitions. It was a perfectly wonderful encounter, and when it was over, no expectations were held on either side. Jamie was reassured that becoming a mother squared had not turned off her libido or attractiveness. I ended up with another sweet memory, and a can of soup.

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TO BE CONTINUED (on March 16)



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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Three) - CLARISE

Most of the women I hook up with have no connections between them. I meet them in different settings, initial encounters are brought about by a multitude of scenarios. I rarely stick around long enough to be introduced to sisters, co-workers or girlfriends. And I have more class than to come on to a woman introduced to me by a lover. But to every rule there are exceptions, and meeting Clarise on account of Michelle was just that. We met at Michelle's wedding reception, an affair I felt was not to be missed. I usually have a good time at such events, so many women around with romantic notions in their heads. Clarise ensured that this time would be no different.

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If she was over five feet tall, she barely made it. This aroused me in the same way that a beautiful woman over six feet tall does. There's just something about extremes. Why walk upon common ground when you can be at the top of a mountain or bottom of the sea? Clarise and I met by inadvertently bumping elbows at the bar. She was Michelle's aerobics instructor. Judging by the amount of people in the place, everyone Michelle had ever met was there. I had picked out over a dozen potential targets, but fate threw Clarise in my path first. Or perhaps she threw herself there. I didn't bother to ask.

In case you were wondering, I don't use pre-prepared pick up lines. Any bullshit I end up tossing is usually invented on the spur of the moment, inspired by the particular situation I find myself in. Who I am depends largely on who she is, who she wants to be, and who she wants to be with.

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For Clarise I was an ex-jock, my promising football career cut short when I injured my knee in a college Bowl game. I could almost see myself in uniform, pulling down a bullet pass from the back of the end zone. Claiming to have once dressed as a USC Trojan wasn't too much of a stretch, since that happens to be the brand of condom I don.




One night stands don't always take place entirely in the course of one night. Clarise and I exchanged no bodily fluids that day, only phone numbers. I am not one of those guys who leaves a woman waiting for days by the phone. I don't request a number unless I intend to dial it, usually within a day or two. I undertake all missions with intent to complete them.

Things seemed to be going well during what was to be our first and last date. Halfway through her second glass of wine however, the mood changed. Something gave Clarise an excuse to bring up her ex-boyfriend. They had been together for six years, marriage presumably just around the corner. But it turned out that her man was not inclined to make that turn any time soon. So she broke up with him, figuring it was just a temporary measure that would make him realize what a good thing he was losing out on. Unfortunately, he never did figure this out. Instead, he began seeing another woman and within three months was engaged to her.

Her ex and his fiancée had been at the wedding. No wonder Clarise was so friendly towards me. She had hoped to make him as jealous as he was making her, to win him back by acting like his presence wasn't even noticed. It seemed I was on a roll when it came to being used, but I wasn't such a hypocrite to let this upset me. I was simply glad that her little charade was ineffective, or else she wouldn't be with me. I told Clarise this, but the flattery didn't lift her spirits any. It appeared I was in danger of becoming one of those schmucks I pity most, guys with perennially dampened shoulders from letting women cry on them, but nothing else getting soaked by the heat of desire.

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I turned the sympathy bit around on her, telling Clarise that I too had been the victim of a long term relationship that ended badly, at least from my perspective. According to my yarn, as soon as my knee was rehabilitated enough to make a pro team, we were to be wed. But once I knew for certain that my knee would never get strong enough, not only did I have to deal with the loss of my dream, but my girlfriend dumped me for one of the New York Jets. Clarise was money in the bank after that bit of concocted melodrama, and her third glass of wine probably aided my cause as well.

Those are the details of the tale I wove, but a tale on its own will not suffice. Women like Clarise believe firmly in love that strikes instantly, long before familiarity settles in. They feel not only that love can exist without knowing a person particularly well, but that "true love", the takes-your-breath-away kind that romance novelists and serial killers cash in on, exists only in such a climate. I can honestly say that this mindset makes a fair amount of sense to me, so it was with little difficulty that I continued to ham it up along these lines. I told Clarise how overwhelming my attraction to her was, that I had not expected to feel so strongly about another woman for a long time, but there was just something about her that I was helplessly drawn to. These are the sort of Hallmark card declarations that can make many a man, and also a few women, gag as if having accidentally swallowed a kitchen utensil. Even in the most conducive of circumstances, such sentiments must be expressed judiciously and timed perfectly in order not to come off cartoonish.

In my expert hands there was no danger of this. Not only did I not choke on the words, but to some extent I even meant them. I described myself to you as a liar earlier. But like many a method actor, I often sincerely believe what I’m saying at the moment I’m saying it. Then the mercifully brief moment passes, other moments transpire, and what I had almost convinced myself of no longer applies. I have as little control over the changing of my mind as I do over the passage of time. Reality is no less transient than fantasy, so perhaps then, it is no more real.

Within a few strokes I can tell if the woman beneath me thinks she's fucking or making love, and Clarise clearly felt the latter. She thought we were two wounded souls whom destiny had brought together to heal one another. Clarise believed we had something substantial because I allowed her to stop feeling sorry for herself by feeling sorry for me. She was ready to be a naughty nurse rather than a helpless patient so I let her tend to my imaginary wounds of the heart. After several consecutive days of undesired phone calls, I told her I had reconciled with my old girlfriend. One too many losses by the Jets had done the trick. Clarise should have understood, since she would have dumped me first had her ex come back around. But he didn't, so she didn't, and sometimes that's just the way things go.

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Was the sexual workout she put me through worth the emotional wringer I subjected her to? The answer is yes. It's always yes. Why else would I keep doing it?


TO BE CONTINUED (on March 13th)

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Two) - NATALIE

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There has never been any need for me to hold down a nine-to-five gig, a fact that I never cease to be grateful for. Corporate America holds absolutely zero appeal to me. Just about everyone I know who is caught in that trap complains endlessly about it, and the rare few who don’t seem to mind their captivity are to a man or woman the least interesting people I’ve encountered.

Having been spared from such a fate by a generous inheritance, I have never experienced one of the more popular forms of interplay amongst the sexes – the interoffice romance. On the plus side, this has exempted me from the risk of being accused of sexual harassment. It also means I’ve never been the boy-toy of a female superior, which strikes me as a considerable perk that I’ve missed out on. Although I do not don a suit and tie five days per week and schlep a heavy briefcase to some office, or worse yet, some cubicle, I have done beyond my fair share of hiring. Since my home and my office are one and the same, and in part because I was raised by a woman who came pretty close to the textbook definition of germaphobe, I am rather obsessive about cleanliness and order. As result, I have gone through a great number of cleaning services in search of a crew who would meet my demanding white glove standards. One after another they failed to measure up until the day Gladys and Carmela entered my home and removed every last speck of dust from all nooks and crannies to be found. I was nearly brought to tears by their thoroughness. At last my search was over. For three years they dutifully showed up once a week and worked their magic, sweeping, mopping and dusting with a fervor that allowed me total peace of mind.

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One day Gladys showed up with a new comrade. Carmela was feeling under the weather, so Natalie had agreed to temporarily step in for her. In three years I had not had a single sexual urge while my apartment was being cleaned, and one look at Gladys and Carmela is all it would take for anyone to figure out why this was so. They were both darling women, but neither of these middle aged Columbian women warranted a second glance. As for Gladys’ twenty four year old daughter, I never took a second look at Natalie because I was incapable of unlocking my initial gaze, even though I had much difficulty fixing it to one particular area. Her pouty lips seemed custom designed for the activity I most loved to be performed on my favorite body part. A snug, abbreviated shirt could barely constrain natural breasts that were remarkably perky for their impressive size, and also showcased an athletically taut abdomen. Tight shorts highlighted flawless legs and an ass that surpassed perfection. Apparently she had no idea how to properly dress for a cleaning gig, much to my distraction and delight. Her incredible array of curves had me hypnotized, mesmerized, and if I be permitted the artistic license to invent a word here – hornyized as hell.

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As luck would have it, Gladys needed to run out for five minutes to restock her cleaning fluid. This gave me a minute and half longer than I needed to convince Natalie to stop by later that evening on her own. Her command of English was rather shaky, but the passion burning in her eyes spoke the same language as my own. I did suspect that her lust was perhaps of a slightly different variety than mine. She may have been in search of a sugar daddy who would guarantee that this would be her last time cleaning someone’s apartment for spending money. It could have been that she had a thing for older men, not so old that stamina would be an issue, but old enough to have mastered what they were doing to a woman’s appreciative body. Or maybe she simply got a mildly perverse kick out of being paid to make a man’s bed only to return and mess it up again. I could not say for sure, nor did I really care. My only interest was in paying homage to the magnificent job that God had done in molding such a splendid specimen of womanhood. I have known women who spent a fortune on personal trainers, Botox injections, liposuction, plastic surgery, the most exclusive make-up, hairstylists, facials, etc. simply to be a distant runner up to the likes of Natalie. The sex would no doubt be amazing even if she was relatively inexperienced, earth shattering if she possessed the basic requisite skills, and due to our language barrier, conversation before and afterwards would be minimal. I had no complaints whatsoever.

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Natalie became my weekly fix for the next few months. Our affair was kept secret from Gladys upon my request. Natalie did not have a problem with this. Her love life was her business and now also my leisure. At first she surpassed my most erotic wishes to such a degree that I was genuinely smitten, my version of it anyway, which means an erection would start forming as soon as the buzzer of my apartment let me know each Wednesday that she had arrived. But by our fourth bout of furniture breaking fornication it had become obvious that her biggest language flaw was not a limited grasp of English, but rather, that she had very few interesting things to say. We had virtually nothing in common. She didn’t seem especially interested in learning anything new about the world from me, and since I was already acquainted with the words of Spanish she screamed out in the heat of the moment due to previous dalliances with Latinas, there was little for me to learn from her. This was a guaranteed recipe for boredom regardless of how good the sex was, and once I was thoroughly familiar with her body and no longer needed to fantasize about what every naked square inch looked like, even the sex became merely ordinary. When she started to hint that it would be nice for me to expand our routine by taking her out to the movies, or clubbing, or shopping, or getting together with her friends rather than just erotically occupying ourselves in the confines of my apartment, it was clear that the status quo would have to change one way or another. She was interested in dating as well as fucking, whereas simply the latter served me quite fine. I was almost surprised to discover that my appetite for her was not insatiable. Apparently I preferred a relationship with Natalie that was sort of similar to the one I had with her mother. I wanted her to come to me and service my needs, at which point I was content for her to leave. Since I did not pay Natalie for her time as I did her mother, the writing was on the wall that our time together had run its course. She seemed to handle it pretty well. There were no tears, no anger, no doe eyed asking for another chance. Natalie was so composed and mature about our break up that I almost rescinded it at the last minute. But the big head prevailed over the satisfied one, primarily because I waited until after we had made love one last time to deliver my prepared speech. The following week Gladys and Carmela did not punctually arrive at my door as was their habit. Once they were past fifteen minutes late I began to fear the worst case scenario. It was confirmed when I called Gladys’ cell phone and was cursed out in Spanglish for messing around with her beloved daughter.

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No matter how poor the service, I know not to treat wait staff rudely if I don’t want something unappetizing to be placed in my food as revenge. I would never offend the barber who was cutting my hair because I’d rather not have to shave my head or wear a hat every day for several weeks. And thanks to Natalie, who ended up teaching me something valuable after all, I’ve learned that regardless of how fine her daughter may be, never to jeopardize my relationship with a top notch cleaning woman. They are too few and far between. I’ve lost track of how many I’ve gone through in the year since I last saw Gladys and Carmela. I remain picky and dissatisfied about the one facet of my life that was happily settled for awhile, with no one but myself to blame.

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TO BE CONTINUED (on March 10th)
If you missed the start of the tale, backtrack to the Prologue via this link and read forward from there.

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter One): MICHELLE

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I was reaching for a napkin when our eyes first met. Some Wall Street type whose lighter side was showcased by the cartoon characters on his suspenders was plying her with drinks which had sexually explicit names, hoping to put ideas as well as alcohol into her head. Being no fool she accepted the free drinks and scanned the bar while feigning interest in his stock portfolio. If one third of the shit he was spouting was accurate, the guy could probably afford a woman like her, at least for a few weeks. But it was plain to see, at least to me, that she was in search of less fiscal pleasures.

She broke eye contact within a few seconds but conveyed in that time all I needed to know. I turned back to my White Russian. The night was young and I am nothing if not a patient man.

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The guy obviously didn't want to risk letting her out of his sights, but his bladder was stronger than his will, so an hour down the road he took a gamble. The moment his ass was off the stool, the woman he hoped to be going home with set her sights on me, her gaze now locked and loaded. I gave no indication that I noticed. In fact, I had disregarded most of the glances cast my way throughout the evening, acted as if transfixed by the mixture of Kahlua, vodka, milk and a splash of coke in my glass. She struck me as someone used to getting what she wanted, so I knew my best bet lay in putting the matter in doubt. When I finally did acknowledge her, the hardness of her stare was as blatant as a punch to the face. She wordlessly demanded to know if I was qualified to handle such a precious commodity. I headed over to answer the question posed by her midnight eyes.
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As I approached she stood up, meaning that she was ready to leave, with me if I said the right thing, alone if I said anything less. She was taller than expected, proportioned like a fashion model who wasn't hooked on heroin just yet, attired in money-is-no-object style. Such women inevitably tend to be preoccupied with themselves, which I suppose is excusable, since everyone else is preoccupied with them as well. Unfortunately, such a personality trait usually forebodes a lousy lay. But from the first words she spoke, I knew I had pressed a wrong key in my stereotype.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't let that guy buy me half of Saks?"

"Saks doesn't sell vibrators."

"Do you?"

"I have a trunk load at home. But you won't be needing them."

"Good."



In the midnight hours of a Manhattan night, a cab can go from the top of the city to the bottom, or vice versa, without catching a single red light. The absence of those sudden stops and starts can make for one hell of a blow job if you find the right mouth to accommodate you. I had no complaints.

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In a more conventional lovemaking locale, as we sprawled out on my bed during rest periods, I learned that Michelle had married and widowed well. She claimed not to have had decent sex in over four years, the last time being with the stripper from her bachelorette party. Michelle had been a good girl for a long time. I let her be bad again, and again, and again.

I told Michelle I was a writer, for that is what I fancy myself, and impressive lies were unnecessary by this point. Not having to work for a living allows me the opportunity to attempt whatever comes to mind. Writing the Great American Novel seemed like a good idea. Starting it has not been a problem. I have written thirty-four first chapters, at which point I always run out of steam. I didn't tell Michelle this. I just bent her over my writing desk. Lack of steam was not an issue.

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Over breakfast (I make one hell of an after fuck meal), Michelle was kind enough to invite me to her wedding, which was to take place in three weeks. Much older millionaire number two. She had kept her megawatt engagement ring in her purse. I didn't tell her that she needn't have bothered. The ring could have been protruding from her forehead for all I cared. Big dogs and small airplanes make me nervous, but diamonds cause me little concern. On too many occasions they had failed to act as chastity belt.

I suppose I could have griped that unlike the stripper, I did not have advance notification of Michelle's upcoming nuptials. But I'm not one to complain. Knowing that I was having my way with someone who was about to become another man’s wife would have sprinkled additional spice on what had been a red hot night. I would have put in some extra effort to guarantee that the end of her single days be as memorable as possible. Marriage is a pretty tough gig from what I hear, so best to enter such a state on the highest possible note.



TO BE CONTINUED (on March 7th)

If you missed the Prologue take this link to it, then return here.

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS: A Novella Serialized (Prologue) - MICHAEL

I have decided to present my novella Feeding the Squirrels, which is published by SynergEbooks exclusively as an eBook, here at A LINE A DAY in serial format.  Every three days a new installment will post until the tale has been told in its entirety.  The story is Rated R, falling short of 50 Shades of Grey degree of explicitness.  I don't believe it would be categorized as erotica but it most definitely is about sex, about a man who can't get enough of it, a man who has no trouble finding one ready and willing partner after another.  Michael is not merely fulfilled but defined by these sexual conquests.  Each chapter in between the first and last is named after a woman he has been intimate with, and thus helped to shape his identity.  His single-minded pursuit of pleasure is the common thread that unites them. But although the succession of affairs are singular experiences to a man who rarely thinks of yesterday or tomorrow, they eventually intertwine and leave him with a web of his own design to untangle.  Enjoy!


“The biggest coward is a man who awakens a woman's love with no intention of loving her.” - Bob Marley








You may be envious once I've related a little about myself. Or perhaps you will despise me. No matter. I seek neither acceptance nor punishment. And as for peace of mind, that elusive serum for hobgoblins which sets so many self-indulgent tongues in motion, I never held much stock in the stuff. I choose to spill my guts for no other reason than that they overflow.


This is not my life story. About myself there isn't much to tell. Not because the passage of time has been uneventful. My travels have been numerous, though no topographer could chart the shores I have landed upon. For it is not places that have been my destination, but women. I am drawn to them by a force I have never questioned. To their infinite variety of charms I am helpless. But the hold of none has been strong enough to keep me from wandering aimlessly to others. No matter how sweet the pollen of a particular flower, the supply quickly runs out. Rather than settle in the embrace of petals, I move onward, because my thirst has yet to be quenched.


I suppose I am blessed. Those who dream exclusively of riches do not find money where others see only leaves. A desire for fame is usually unfulfilled by the obscure. Longing for immortality adds not a second to one's allotted time. And I know there are men with carnal natures equal to mine who find relief mostly in the palm of their hands. But that which I seek, I tend to find.


I have done nothing to earn such good fortune. Genetics showed favor without regarding my worthiness for the gift. Of course, more important than appearance is knowledge of what to say, who to say it to, and who not to bother with. This too was bestowed upon me, though I am less certain how this came to be. Unlike the origin of my physical features, climbing the family tree provides few clues.


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I would love to claim the ability to posses any woman I choose, but such a notion is ludicrous. Rather, I am gifted at knowing whom to eliminate as possibilities and whom to pursue wholeheartedly. My talent is looking into a woman's eyes and instinctively knowing what I need to. If she's lonely or bored; neglected or abused; timid or adventurous; satisfied or confused; looking to recapture the past or re-invent the present; making plans for tomorrow or merely concerned about tonight. I discover what a woman is looking for and promise it to her. If all she wants is a good time, she gets everything. If she wants more, I lie and take what she has to give. Then I move on.


You can say I'm taking advantage of the vibes I sense, or make a case that the vibes are exploiting my weakness. I take nothing that is not willingly offered. I hunt only for the bodies. Is it my fault that trust occasionally comes along for the ride?


I love them all in my fashion. For me, love means never forgetting. Every moment of the ecstasy is preserved, the agony as well. I remember who they were, and who I pretended to be. Or perhaps it's who they brought out of me. It seems I am unable to tell the difference. Does the answer lay in the truth beneath my lies, or the lies beneath my truths?


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I determine what a woman's fantasy is, then play the part. This is done for my benefit as much as theirs, for most women will and do settle for far less than their ideal. You see, I’ve found that I need to be someone else. Or maybe I just need to be someone. The lies set up the foundation. The women fill in the empty spots. Take away the lies and the women, and who am I? Your guess is as good as mine.


My name is Michael. I don't lie about my name. Something has to be sacred, it might as well be something inconsequential. My father passed away when I was in my early teens, leaving me independently comfortable and on my own to determine what it meant to be a man. Bequeathed the luxury of spending time as I saw fit, my cock decided early on to run my itinerary. Since further back than I can remember, as I suckled on my mother's breasts, I have been a hedonist. Having no brothers or sisters, parental attention did not have to be split. I got it all, just as I like it.


I sense your misinterpretation already. You think I'm selfish, but in fact, giving pleasure is far more important to me than receiving. Seeing a woman's satisfied smile, hearing her contented moans, that's my reward. Sometimes I think I am the sum of the orgasms I bring about. When they cease to come I will likely cease to be. If I satisfy a woman's physical desires, it must mean I am worthy of her appreciation. When she clutches my back and tries to draw me in deeper, the moment could only be enhanced if she absorbed me entirely.


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That's enough about me. I want to speak of them. The ethereal beings who give purpose and meaning to my existence. They are as varied as can be. My lust may not be blind, for standards must be met, but what stirs my loins is more spiritual than physical. I am equally content laying my head on pillow-like breasts or slurping substantially smaller versions like a pair of Hershey's chocolate Kisses. An ass tight as a fist brings my blood to a boil, but one that voluptuously stretches elastic to its limit has a similar effect. As long as a woman's legs are wrapped around my torso, short or long, thick or thin makes little difference. And as for the fiery region between those legs, I have yet to encounter one I did not find sublime.


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If I brought about solely pleasure, I suppose I would be a happy man. But I am also responsible for pain on occasion, and this shames me, though only in retrospect. The pain is caused by them wanting more than I am willing to give. I make promises I know I won't keep, and some people grow attached faster and stronger than others. The thing is, for the most part I can detect these situations in advance. It's my gift, remember? I'm fully cognizant of what they desire, and need only be honest to avoid the inevitable scene of heartbreak. But then I wouldn't get to experience what they have to share, and my greed never fails to vanquish my conscience. The women who want the most are the ones I most desire, because they have the longest distance to travel towards contentment. They're in search of a man who will make their dreams of day a reality of night. The look in their eyes when they see the possibility of that in mine is a drug I cannot decline. I need to make the oaths as much as they need to hear them. Then I must callously break them.


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If you are inclined to listen, I will tell you about a few of the women who have flitted in and out of my life. All beautiful in a way unique to the individual possessor. Each one touching me in a fashion, adding to the blank slate that I am. Some wanting me to stay regardless of the circumstances, but all being left behind. They had to be. How else was I to find out who and what lay ahead?


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

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TO BE CONTINUED

I hope you enjoyed the start of this tale. While you're waiting for Chapter 1 which will be posted on March 4th, I urge you to stop by Amazon if you are a Kindle owner or use the Kindle App on your device of choice. Patches of Grey can be dowloaded for free starting today. This promotion will continue through to Sunday. So now that you've read the Prologue to FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS and after you've perused the imagery below, please proceed to obtain my debut novel at no cost and add it to your TO BE READ lists. Or perhaps begin it right away. Happy Reading!

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In Love With Love Stories?

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Love in all its forms is a splendid thing indeed. On Valentine’s Day we pay homage to the romantic variety. It is certainly deserving of the honor. I think it’s safe to say that without romantic love the world would contain a great deal less art, which would be a monumental loss. How many songs, books, poems, paintings, movies, etc. have been created in an attempt to capture the elusive spirit of romantic fervor? Sure we’d still have religious art, and mankind wouldn’t expire because lust and duty to maintain our species would be sufficient to keep procreation going. But it just wouldn’t be the same as when inspired by the urges of two people to unite until death do them part. It doesn’t always work out that way of course. Many of us outlast those feelings, or rather, we decide it would be best to transfer them to someone else. Valentine’s Day doesn’t concern itself with the hard work required to keep a relationship together through the ravages of time. This day is about the magical, mystical moment when holding a certain person’s hand is as great a high as can be achieved. No work of art has truly captured that euphoria, though this won’t stop artists from eternally trying. And no matter how brief the stay at the peak of its height may be, and how arduous maintenance of a far less intense version proves to be, this does not stop lovers from seeking and finding each other. We are put here first and foremost to love each other. Some have better luck at it than others. Cupid’s aim is haphazard. Yet most of us are struck at one point or another, repeatedly in many cases, in certain scenarios once proves to be enough. When it hits the mark the concept of Forever becomes meaningless unless it can be spent with The One who makes our heart beat to a rhythm that nobody else can match. However...

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On the other hand, some say that men are predestined by biology to be serial lovers. The Bible starts off with a tale of enduring love at first sight, but the original sin is not the failure of Adam and Eve to be true to each other, but failing to obey the word of God. If you put that story aside and instead think of cave people as the origin of mankind, the consensus is that men have been hunters and gatherers from the start. Women, being the ones capable of giving birth and providing nutrition from their bodies, are natural nesters. Obviously much has changed from then till now, but what has probably altered least of all is our DNA. This being the case, is it genetically unnatural for a man to settle down with one woman to the exclusion of all the others? Do monogamy and marriage run counter to the most primitive urge of men to spread their seed? Or is this just a convenient excuse for those who play at love as if it was a game of Chess, calculating and emotionless, accepting that certain sacrifices are necessary to achieve the pleasurable victories they desire? Such individuals are not immune to the effects of love but are not currently under its spell, so they are able if willing to exploit its power for selfish gain. It seems we were also put here to be cruel to one another. Love is an enchanted gift that in the wrong hands can be used as a merciless weapon. Proceed with caution.

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My novella FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS, which in its own unique way is a love story, will be presented here at A Line A Day in serial format beginning on March 1, 2013. Every three days after that a new chapter will be posted until the tale has been told in its entirety. No need for you to be idle while waiting for the story to begin though. Enter the contest at GoodReads.com for a chance to win a copy of my novel, PATCHES OF GREY. Three winners will be selected on the day serialization of my novella begins - March 1st. As for members of Kindle Nation, I certainly don't want to leave you out of the equation. So I am making the Kindle edition of Patches of Grey available to download at Amazon FREE of charge 3/1 - 3/3. Let the games begin.

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Goodreads Book Giveaway Patches Of Grey by Roy L. Pickering Jr. Giveaway ends March 01, 2013.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads. Enter to win

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

Interview of Todd Keisling - Author of THE LIMINAL MAN

I posed a few questions to Todd Keisling, author of A LIFE TRANSPARENT and the follow-up, THE LIMINAL MAN. He had plenty of interesting things to say. The interview is presented below, as is a brief except from his second novel. I invite you to check it out, enter the raffle at the end of this post for a chance to win some freebies, and then go check out Todd's books. Tell him Roy sent you.

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RP: Did you intend to write one or more follow up novels to A Life Transparent from the start, or did you decide later on that you had unfinished business to take care of with The Liminal Man? Have your readers seen the last of Donovan Candle, is there more to come, or is his future literary life still undecided?


TK: I originally wrote A LIFE TRANSPARENT as a standalone novel, but a couple of years after the release of the first edition, I had a strange daydream about Donovan Candle tied to a chair and locked inside a room. I didn’t know how he got there, or who put him there. The image persisted, and in late January 2009, I decided to find out—and that’s how THE LIMINAL MAN came into being.

Although I’d planned for TLM to be the last story, my editor insisted I reconsider, as the original ending didn’t fit with the novel’s overall tone. She was right, of course, and earlier in 2012 I began jotting down notes for a third novel. So yes, readers can expect one more story about Donovan Candle, but not anytime soon. I’m going to spend 2013 promoting TLM and working on some shorter fiction for a collection. Once those stories are complete, I intend to begin work on the final book of the Monochrome trilogy.


RP: Some writers plot out each scene in advance while others prefer to fly by the seat of their pants. Which is your technique and is there anything that made its way into The Liminal Man that you did not plan or expect?


TK: I used to be a “pantser” when I was younger, but not so much anymore. My free time to write is limited, so I like to know what I need to accomplish when I sit down to work. This doesn’t mean I have a rigid plot outline—I find that if I know what’s going to happen before I start writing, that kills a lot of the magic and surprise. At the same time, I have to know where the story begins and how it ends before I can begin working on it.

There’s plenty that found its way into TLM that I didn’t intend or expect. The character of Kale, for example, wasn’t mean to be anyone important. In my original notes, he didn’t even have a name—and then he showed up again in chapters two and three, and before I knew it, he was integral to the plot as a secondary villain. I also didn’t expect a certain ambiguous character from ALT to show up in TLM’s pages, but he did so toward the end of the second part.

This is the beauty of connecting the dots in between the beginning and end. There’s still room for plenty of surprises even if you know where you’re going to end up.


RP: I'll give you a thirty minute head start in the race to trademark "pantser". To what degree if any did you borrow from your own life to create Donovan Candle's real world, and to create the Monochrome? If Donovan could bring you along to visit a world created by one of the sci-fi authors you most admire, which one would it be?


TK: I borrowed quite a bit from my own life. Donovan’s world is a bizarre mirror image of my own. When I originally wrote ALT, I commuted to and worked in the city of Reading, PA five days a week, and so a lot of that geography found its way into both novels. In the first book, Donovan spends a good deal of time commuting to work and listening to the radio. He works at a job he hates for terrible people who don’t care about him, and he’s deluded himself into believing that he’s doing well in life even though he’s slowly, silently stagnating. People always comment on how well the mundane grind of 9 to 5 is captured in that first book, and there’s a good reason for it: that was my life every day, circa 2006.

In response to the second part of your question, I think it would be cool to visit the world of Bradbury’s SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES. I wouldn’t mind living in Green Town for a while.


RP: Who do you envision portraying the main characters in The Liminal Man if it was to be made into a movie? Who would you pick to write a song for the soundtrack?


TK: That’s a good question. I once told my editor I could see John Hamm (Don Draper from Mad Men) playing the part of Donovan, but in retrospect, I think Hamm would be a little too old. Maybe Joseph Gordon-Levitt or Tom Hardy?

As for the soundtrack, that’s an easy one: Trent Reznor. His music inspired the general mood of the novels, so having him and his longtime collaborator Atticus Ross score a film adaptation would be perfect.


RP: And here I was thinking you'd be leaning towards Justin Bieber for both leading man and soundtrack. It has been said that being an indie author allows one to write outside the box that traditional publishers are looking to neatly place their next Best Seller into. This allows indie authors to uniquely tell the stories they are compelled to deliver. Do you feel there are elements to your writing undervalued by The Big 6 that readers have appreciated?


TK: Short answer: Yes, I do think so.

Long answer: The Big Six want fiction that sells. They’re businesses, after all, and that’s what businesses do: turn a profit. If you look at their publishing model from that angle, their search for derivative, “successful” fiction makes sense. Unfortunately, the art factor tends to get a little watered down in the process. I’m talking about the hundreds of Twilight and Fifty Shades copycats that hit the market once those novels became million-sellers.

Indie publishing—and really, indie authors—are at an advantage in the respect that they can stand out by offering something different. I chose the indie route because I knew that traditional publishers wouldn’t like my work for its unconventional merits. I write horror stories, but they’re also thrillers, mysteries, suspense, romance, sci-fi, fantasy, and philosophical stories as well. You can’t package that and put it on a bookshelf. There isn’t a category for it. If your book can’t fit into a single category, it’s harder to promote and sell. The Big Six would say “There’s no market for you,” and in some respects, they’re right. My sales echo that.

But they’re also wrong to an extent. Last year my first novel peaked at #2 in horror during a free promotion, and I’ve heard from a lot of people since then who enjoyed the hell out of it because it wasn’t a typical horror story. They appreciated that the book had an underlying message and were eager to read the next book in the series. This proves there is a market. It’s just a matter of figuring out how to get to those people.


RP: The tiny six million self publishers each hope to put out fiction that sells as well. If only there was a magic formula that guaranteed success. But what fun would that be? Has a reviewer ever said anything about your writing that surprised you with an unexpected interpretation? Has a review ever gotten under your skin, and if so, were you able to refrain from responding? What are your thoughts on the online bickering between readers and writers that has drawn attention recently?


TK: I’ll answer these in order:

1) Yes. It’s funny you ask that, as I recently just had a review for TLM over at Horror Novel Reviews in which the writer touched upon a secondary character who, in the context of the story, isn’t even a real person. He’s a figment of Donovan’s imagination, speaking in place of Don’s conscience, and the writer went on to say that this character is one of the most important in the series. I really didn’t expect that. Another example is from several years ago, in which one reviewer suggested ALT is, on a deeper level, an indictment of corporate American society. Although that was never my intention, I can’t disagree with their opinions.

2) Oh yes. A couple of years ago I made the mistake of sending ALT in for review at a place that really had no business even reviewing a book such as mine. They ripped it to pieces, spewing venom in all directions. I’m convinced they impaled my book on a spike and planted it outside their office as a warning to others. I never responded publicly—you simply can’t, because everyone is entitled to their opinion—but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting. I retreated from promoting for several months because of that incident, and now I research extensively before sending out my books for review. A trendy “hipster lit” magazine has no business reviewing speculative fiction. Lesson learned.

3) Regarding the recent cases of online bickering: I think writers should know better. People have different opinions, and sometimes a book ends up in the wrong hands. ALT was once picked up by a book club whose favorite titles were all contemporary women’s literature. Big surprise: they all hated my book. Things like that happen all the time, and you just have to bite your tongue and move on—because people are allowed to not like what you do. Bickering with the readers is a bad move because, no matter what you say or how right you are, the act of public fighting is going to paint you in a bad light. In situations like this, I have to fall back on an age-old saying: be the bigger man and walk away.

RP: I couldn't agree more that writers need to do less bickering, more working on the next book to bicker about. It's been a pleasure chatting with you, Todd. Best of luck.


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“Bad Omens” – Excerpt from The Liminal Man by Todd Keisling



He glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye, but when he turned, he saw only a scrap piece of paper caught in the wind. It scraped across the pavement, down the steps, and under his car.

The door to the building shot open, startling him. A woman in a thick winter coat emerged from the opening. She stepped out onto the top step, lifted a handkerchief, and hacked into it for a good minute. Her coat was tattered and dirty, covered in some sort of gray sludge. The woman surveyed the empty street, squinting against the early afternoon light, then turned and coughed again. She wiped her nose and spat.

Donovan watched, frozen in place and unsure of what to do or say. The transient slowly turned her head. The wild look in her eyes gave him a chill. “The fuck do you want?”

When he spoke, his throat felt stuffed full of cotton. He fought to keep his composure, and after a few agonizing seconds he said the first thing that came to mind: “Do you know what happened to the children?”

She curled back her lip into a toothless snarl. “S’pose I do,” hissed the crone. “Seen what he did, too, and good riddance to ‘em all. Spies ‘n traitors ‘n everyone who don’t serve the king burn in Hell. Did ya know that?”

“What king?” he asked. “Who is this ‘king’?”

“The Monochrome King,” she went on.

A pit opened in his stomach, threatening to swallow him from the inside. “You mean Mr. Dullington? He’s here?”

The woman waved her hand to the sky. “Somewhere.” She grinned that horrid, empty grin like a rotting jack-o-lantern. “Somewhere over the rainbow.”

Donovan’s frown prompted her to let loose a wild cackle. He realized he wasn’t going to get any answers, and was about to walk back to his car when her laughter ceased.

She took two long strides toward him, and stopped so close he could smell the stench rising from her body. “I know you,” she said. “He knows you.”

Donovan paused. “Who?”

“The king. He knows you. Knows us all. Over the rainbow, under it, other side of the darn thing where the colors don’t show. He knows, and he knows you, and we’ll all be seein’ you soon.”

Donovan stepped away from her. He suddenly felt very vulnerable, remembering he had nothing but his hands with which to defend himself. A scenario flashed before him: this filthy hag leading him into the depths of Winthorpe Station, where he would be cornered, robbed, and brutalized at the hands of an army of homeless people.

But they’re more than just homeless, whispered Joe Hopper. They’re lifeless and empty, hoss. They’re the Missing.

The hag cackled once more, and he recoiled from her acrid breath. He watched as she did an odd dance back across the pavement toward the open door. She sang, “He sees you sees me sees you sees us all!” as she went, and stopped in the opening. Beyond it he saw what appeared to be stacks of televisions, what might have been an entire wall of them, all blank and gray and busy with static.

“The king sees us all,” she finished, “and we’ll all be seein’ you soon.”

She closed the door. Its hinges groaned. Then she was gone, and he was alone on the steps of the station once again. The exchange left him reeling, drained of his last ounce of determination.

He retreated to his car, realizing that he was not ready to make that descent after all.

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Rite of Passage - SHORT STORY SUNDAY

Quite a few years ago I had a fine time writing this short story which was inspired by the raucous spirit of my collegiate fraternity days. When it was accepted for publication the magazine was to be accompanied by a CD of author readings, so I did my first ever audio recording of something I'd written. Since the story includes conversation between a guy and a girl, I enlisted the aid of my then girlfriend, now wife, to read the girl's dialogue. We had a blast. Putting together this presentation of the story was a fun experience as well, since as you'll see below, I went a little further than simply cutting and pasting the story into my blog. And now I hope you have an enjoyable experience reading it. - Roy


RITE OF PASSAGE



Richard awakened, wanting to sit up but unable because his left arm was pinned down. He turned to see by what, and the vision his eyes presented his brain with brought the memory of last night with it. Lying beside him was the girl he picked up at the party.

It had finally happened. Richard graduated high school still very much a boy. Now, with four weeks left of his first semester in college, his initiation into the rites of manhood was complete.

Richard managed to slide his arm out without awakening his conquest and replayed the events of the previous night in his mind. He had been remarkably smooth. The eight glasses of his fraternity's patented "leg spreader punch" saw to it that he was as relaxed as could be. The large quantity consumed by the lady love beside him made her very much receptive to his advances. It had been almost too easy. Richard couldn't recall asking for her name, nor offering his own. Exchanging resumes was not a necessary precursor for the night's subsequent proceedings.

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His first semester at college had been great, more than living up to the party till you drop expectations Richard held. Before the school year was even a week old, he was pledging a fraternity. Within the next three weeks he experienced his first bout of intoxication (complete with requisite puking), his first mooning, and his first panty raid. He had also learned seven drinking games and three different ways to chug a beer, for after all, he was in college to learn.

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Another significant event had occurred during this time. Richard and his long time girlfriend broke up. They had been together since eighth grade, and were separated for the first time when he went away to an out of state college. They vowed to make a long distance relationship work. And it had, right up to the weekend Amy paid him a visit and informed him that they should see other people. He was fairly certain that she already was, but didn't mention it so as not to jeopardize his final opportunity. As usual, he failed. Amy didn't consider breaking up sufficient impetus for sex. She was as determined to hold on to her virginity as ever.

Richard was not nearly as determined, but much to his chagrin, equally successful. His involvement in a five year relationship during the raging hormonal years of puberty failed to get him laid even once. If a greater tragedy had ever befallen man, Richard did not know what it could possibly be. He was convinced he was the subject of a practical joke concocted in the heavens by a demented angel. Some people craved excessive riches, others obscene degrees of fame, and there were those who dared dream of immortality. Richard merely wanted to fornicate. It seemed like a reasonable request, but so far had yet to be granted.

Matters weren't helped much by the emphasis his college mates placed on romance. Romance fraternity style that is, which boiled down to getting laid - a lot. Far more crucial than the number of beers he could chug, the most important statistic in his new world was how many girls he bedded.

There were a couple of guys in his fraternity who averaged a girl a week. Or at least a girl a party, which was approximately the same thing. The brothers in the lower end of the scale by which they were measured managed to score once every few weeks. Every member of his pledge class, even buck toothed Morty, had slept with at least one girl this semester. Richard was dwelling in the wonderful world of the one night stand, but instead of being an active participant, he was a mere bystander.

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Which is why he had been so determined last night to prove to his brethren that he was worthy to be included in their ranks. Why he had drunk like it was going out of style, marched up to the cutest, drunkest available girl that he saw, and let nothing impede the completion of his mission.

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Richard examined the young woman lying beside him. Last night she had looked pretty good, a solid eight. The morning sunlight coming through her dorm window was not as kind to her as the neon lights at the party. Her make-up had wiped off, presumably in the heat of passion. Without it, or perhaps without a gallon of Kool Aid and grain alcohol still working its magic, she dropped a couple of digits. She wasn't ugly, merely one of those plain girls who usually fail to grab a guy's attention among her flashier peers.

Next, he checked out her body. Skin tight, midnight black clothing had made her appear quite voluptuous. Naked, without everything squeezed in or pushed up and out, she was a bit on the chubby side. Not exactly fat, just not the aerobicized Barbie doll he thought he had landed.

A degree of disappointment began to settle in. Then Richard remembered the words of his fraternity's president and resident stud, Craig Hunter. Craig was being teased about picking up a girl who was well below his par. "Women all have the same thing between their legs,” he had said. “So when it comes to getting laid, it's quantity, not quality that counts." Amen.

Richard reminded himself that the important thing here was he had broken his slump and started his streak. In no time he would be considered a real ladies man, perhaps even receive a cool nickname lauding his accomplishments. Next semester he would move out of his dorm and into the fraternity house. There would be no stopping him then.

He rose from the bed, making as little noise as possible so he would not awaken what's her face. He scanned the floor, quickly finding and putting on his clothes, preparing to make a speedy exit. They had never been properly introduced, so he saw no reason for a formal goodbye. Let her get some beauty sleep. Besides, what was there to talk about? No topic of conversation seemed appropriate. He certainly was not prepared to converse about what they had done together. His memory of last evening's activities was rather vague.

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Richard grabbed a pair of panties as souvenir, took a fudge bar from her pint sized refrigerator, and thought about what was awaiting him. The atmosphere at the fraternity house following a party was like the locker room of a football team after a big win. Only difference was, the rookies had to clean up the field when the game ended. It was amazing how filthy three hundred stomping, beer swilling undergraduates could make a place.

Today though, Richard wouldn't mind in the least. In fact, he was looking forward to it. The morning after a party was when the guys swapped stories of the previous night's exploits. On all of the prior occasions, Richard had sat back quietly and listened, having nothing to add to the dialogue. Now it would finally be his turn to bask in the spotlight.

"I don't think they're your size."

Richard spun around. The thief of his virginity was awake. It looked like he would have to figure out something to say to her, but "thank you" were the only words coming to mind.

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"You're probably right." He grinned sheepishly and returned the underwear to its drawer.

"So you're a Knicks fan?"

A baffling question without a doubt. Had they engaged in a long discussion about basketball last night. Was he yelling for Alan Houston to drive to the basket in his sleep? He had been expecting "Was it good for you?", or "I don't usually do this sort of thing", or "Are you a transvestite or a kleptomaniac?". When she pointed at his head, Richard remembered that he was wearing a Knicks cap.

"Oh yeah, right. You too?"

"They should have taken San Antonio in the Finals. I think they'll go all the way this year, though."

She was a basketball fan. This was the second girl he had met this year who could make such a claim, the first being Nicole Maxwell.

Nicole was what was commonly referred to in the Greek system as a “frat rat”. This term was used to describe any girl who didn't belong to a sorority, and was not the regular girlfriend of any guy in a fraternity, but still seemed to always be around. There were two categories of these girls. The ones who didn't put out (about ten percent) and the ones who did. Nicole was a member of the majority. She had been with five guys in Richard's fraternity, Craig Hunter being the first, of course. She was considered to be a sure thing. Being a brother, or even a lowly pledge, seemed to work as an aphrodisiac on her.

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"What year are you in, Richard?"

Apparently he had told this girl his name. He was grateful that his first lover was adept enough at small talk to make his first morning after relatively painless. Without the make-up and party dress, there was a tomboyish quality to her which put Richard at ease.

"This is my first year. I'm pre-med."

"Me too. How do you like the city so far?"

He had told her that he wasn't from New York. Did she know his astrological sign and social security number as well? When had he babbled all this information? What the hell was her name?

"It's pretty cool," answered Richard. Then he noticed Al Pacino's image on the wall. "Where'd you get the poster?"

"From this place a few blocks from here called French Kisses."

Richard could not help but be impressed. Amy had never been able to appreciate the sheer brilliance of Scarface, no matter how hard he preached the merits of the film. She just thought it was mindless, gory, guy stuff. He had to give this nameless promiscuous girl some credit. She had slept with him, rooted for the Knicks, and was a fan of Scarface. Obviously a woman of refined tastes.

To his right was a collection of C.D.'s. Limp Biskit, Eminem, Jay Z, Dave Matthews. She was into the same kinds of music as him. Richard licked the fudge bar he had snatched. Yet another thing they had in common. Of the scores of girls Richard had met since school started, he had only bonded so easily with one other. That bonding is what kept her from becoming his first lover.

He would always remember that day. Elated from passing a mid-term he had been certain he would fail; grateful for the help she gave to make his C possible; convinced she was an easy lay; and being horny as hell; Richard sprung a passionate kiss on Nicole Maxwell.

It lasted ten seconds. The next time Nicole opened her mouth was to deliver a speech. She told him how Craig and the others had been casual flings based solely on physical attraction. A good time was had by all, but nothing more. Richard on the other hand, was someone she really cared for. As a friend. She valued their friendship too much to throw it away, and sleeping together would be doing just that. This made as little sense to Richard as anything he had ever heard, but he went along with it anyway. There didn't appear to be much choice in the matter. So he and Nicole remained platonic, and he unsullied.

Fortunately, not every girl was as finicky. Last night's festivities had required nothing more than lust and booze aplenty. Craig Hunter himself could have fared no better.

The girl pushed the play button on her answering machine. "Marilyn, this is Barbara. Give me a ring. Bye."

Marilyn! That's what her name was. Thank goodness he wouldn't have to go through a whole ordeal to find out without giving away that he had forgotten. But why did he even care? She was just a one night stand, one of the rewards of his new fast pace lifestyle. Not knowing anything about her was part of the situation's charm.

Marilyn laughed at the next message left on her machine. Her face changed when she smiled. She went from plain to kind of pretty. Not that she was in Amy's league, for few girls were. Amy's magazine cover beauty had caused Richard to stay with her for a considerable time after concluding that they weren't right for each other. How could he give up someone he was so lucky to be with? Once she gave in and they started having sex, their differences would disappear. Or he wouldn't care about them nearly as much. But Amy managed to keep her virtue intact, and Richard grew disenchanted enough in the final months of the relationship to risk leaving his hometown behind to check out a bigger piece of the world.

His master plan was to rival Don Juan, Cassanova and Charlie Sheen. Ten women for each day of frustration and futility endured. Not that his relationship with Amy hadn’t produced numerous wonderful memories as well. Especially at the beginning when he wasn't concentrating as strenuously on trying to get into her pants, they had had some great times. The best times of his life. Getting drunk with the guys and chasing after girls certainly had its merits. But holding Amy's hand while their bare feet played in a stream, talking about the future, sharing their dyadreams. That had been real.

Richard picked up the male action figure standing on top of the stereo. It was Captain Kirk. No further evidence was required to make up his mind. Like Nicole Maxwell had said to him on that most frustrating of days, when you have something that's good, you do whatever you can to keep it. There was potential with Marilyn, and the possibility of love blew away a playboy reputation any day.

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"Marilyn, if you don't have anything planned maybe I could take you to lunch."

"That's sweet, Richard. It really is. But I don't think so."

"I don't understand."

"Last night was great."

Thank God. He had been too shy to ask, but dared to hope. If he was starting out at great, imagine how amazing he would eventually become. If only he could remember any of it. But at least she did. She remembered it was great. Why then was she shooting him down?

"But I usually don't do this sort of thing," she continued. "And I'm not exactly proud of my behavior. Truth is, my boyfriend broke up with me yesterday and I was feeling sorry for myself. I thought if I got drunk and picked up some guy, it would be a kind of revenge."

Picked up some guy? He had picked her up. But now was not a time to quarrel over details. There were bigger issues at hand.

"So you're saying you want to get back with your ex?"

"No. That's over with."

"Then I don't understand," Richard repeated.

"I don't want to create a false impression. I would go to lunch with you if I was interested in starting a relationship. But if that were the case, I wouldn't have slept with you last night. I would have wanted you to respect me first, and I don't think you can now. And even if you could, it still doesn't matter. I can only see you in one way. You were a one night stand, Richard, and the night's over with."

"You're not attracted to me, is that it?" Richard was highly agitated over this turn of events and not bothering to hide it.

"No. I'm saying that since we began this way, it's best we end it like this. Besides, I didn't get the impression that you were looking for a girlfriend. It seemed you were just looking to get rid of something that you were tired of holding on to."

He was never getting drunk again. Richard couldn't believe he had confessed his virgin status. And she was still brushing him off. Virginity was preferable to this humiliation any day.

"That was just a line," he said meekly.

"Okay, if you say so," Marilyn said, but Richard could see she didn't believe him. Leg spreader punch was the best truth serum there was, and she knew this as well as he did.

"I thought after last night, the gentlemanly thing to do would be to take you to lunch. But if that's too much of a good thing for you, so be it. Nice meeting you, Marilyn."

Not bad. Richard began to walk out of the room, pleased that his closing remarks had salvaged the situation enough to leave him with the upper hand, or at least a draw.

"By the way, Marilyn is my roommate. I never told you my name."

Richard momentarily stopped in his tracks. This was definitely not how he had envisioned his first time to be. He had expected ... Actually, he had expected to slip out the door, then go rushing back to the fraternity house to brag about his exploits. The only thing different was that instead of sneaking out with his pride intact, he was crawling out with his tail between his legs. His friends would get the same story, regardless. No way they would be hearing the truth. He had told enough of that to last him a lifetime.

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"Like I said, we're just each other's one night stands. Bye, Richard."

"Bye."

And with that he was out, left to ponder the mysteries of womankind. He was finding them far more complex than any of his classes. They each had their own strict set of rules, each one equally enigmatic. The end result of his attempts to solve their riddles so far was this. He had had romantic love without sex, platonic love without sex, and sex with no kind of love at all. It had been frustrating to say the least. But as Richard headed back to his brethren, he knew he would eventually get the right combination, and that he would have a whole lot of fun in the process.



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GUN CONTROL

When I disagree with someone on an issue, I want to hear them out. I give them an opportunity to change my mind and I do my best to see the issue through their perspective. Perhaps there is something that I’m missing. Maybe the approach that led to my opposing point of view was simplistic, but when guided through the complexities of the matter I’ll realize that I had formed an opinion based on misinformation. I’m certainly not infallible. I’ve been wrong before and will be again. A whole lot of people clearly care a great deal about being permitted to own guns. Whenever the topic of stricter regulations comes up on Capital Hill, opponents to the notion are literally up in arms. Below are examples of the ways (ranging from witty to frighteningly absurd) they express their displeasure at the mere suggestion that there are too many guns out there that are capable of shooting too many bullets at too rapid a rate. And it is too easy for these weapons and the ammunition to get into the wrong hands, that is, not in the possession of law abiding citizens who wish only to hunt or shoot at targets or protect their homes and businesses, but in the ill intentioned grasp of criminals and psychopaths. NRA propaganda aside (their opinion does not matter to me because I know they profit monetarily from it), I don’t really comprehend why the two sides can’t come together and find common ground. What I do know is that the ground is purposely and willfully not common despite declarations on both sides that we want to protect the good guys from the bad guys. No matter what a particular proposal is about (wider reaching background checks, limitations on degree of firepower, greater watchfulness over purchases made at gun shows or over the internet that currently are about as regulated as the Wild Wild West), the response is some variation of “the 2nd Amendment says we have the right to bear arms so that we can protect ourselves from criminals and the government won’t attempt to fully control our lives”. The truth is that both sides are right. But they’re talking about completely different things, which isn’t at all helpful. Nobody has proposed abolishing the Second Amendment and not allowing any citizens to own guns. Every law abiding American who owns or wishes to own a gun before additional regulations are possibly enacted will be able to obtain a gun afterward. If owning a firearm makes you feel safer, guess what, you’ll be able to feel equally safe after tweaks to laws are made. No plan to turn the United States of America into a police state is currently on the table. So why can’t we have an intelligent conversation about what actually is on the table in order to reach consensus and possibly save a few lives as result? I have earnestly attempted to find the answer to this question. It remains a mystery.



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So it’s not surprising then that they get bitter, and they cling to guns or religion, or antipathy towards people who aren’t like them, or anti-immigration sentiment, or, you know, anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations. – Candidate Barack Obama

R.I.P. Lost children of Newtown, CT.

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The Return of SHORT STORY SUNDAY

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Stop by on the first Sunday of whichever months I choose (I'll be sure to send out invitations) to find a new (new to appearance on this blog, that is) short story featured here at A LINE A DAY. If you enjoy the tale, please be sure to let me know by leaving a comment and kindly share it with friends. I'm kicking things off in January of 2013 with a story about finding artistic motivation. Good luck locating your own muses in the new year and beyond.


A WORK OF ART



Johnny lounged on his sofa, absorbed in the Knicks game on television. Finishing off a glass of homemade lemonade, he placed it on the coffee table. As if summoned telepathically, his wife entered the room and refilled it.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, honey."

Johnny leaned forward to grab a handful of sunflower seeds shelled by his wife. This gave Lucinda the opportunity to fluff the pillow behind his back.

"I hope this game doesn't go into overtime like the one last night," she said. "I want you to get out of this rut you've been in and start working on a new painting."

"Why even bother if you'll be the only one seeing it?"

"Your big break will come, Johnny. You just have to remain positive. You're extremely talented. Someday everybody will learn what I already know."

"I'm tired of trying to stay positive."

"Relax and enjoy the game, honey. I can be positive enough for both of us." Lucinda placed a kiss on his forehead, then headed back to the kitchen.

Johnny smiled. Lucinda was a good woman. She supplemented his strengths, balanced his weaknesses, catered to his needs. As for her needs, they were rather simple in nature. She was made happy by the act of loving and taking care of Johnny.

He felt no doubt when he looked into his wife's doe eyes that he was indeed fortunate to have her by his side. The bane of his existence was that he was not in love with her.

There had been isolated moments when he thought he perhaps did feel for his wife as he desperately wanted to. He had been somewhat moved when she walked towards him down the aisle, her face covered by a wedding veil. When he first saw their daughter laying asleep on Lucinda's breast, Johnny's heart had swelled. But this was mostly gratitude, which in time transformed into a degree of resentment. Once he became a father, his fate was permanently sealed. He could no longer entertain realistic thoughts of leaving. His place had been cemented, and it was by Lucinda's side.

They had been set up four years earlier on a blind double date. According to Shelly, the girlfriend of his best friend, they were to make an ideal match. Johnny's dance card was considerably deal less than filled, so he agreed to give the canned arrangement a shot.

It was disappointment at first sight. Lucinda was not difficult to look at, just not easy enough on the eyes to warrant enthusiasm. Her body was not of the exotic variety he preferred, merely utilitarian. Lucinda was no heartbreaker, and Johnny hungered for the sort of woman who put his heart at risk from the get go. But these were no reasons to let his evening be spoiled. He was with dear friends and did not mind making a new one. So he decided to make the best of things. With the pressure to win over his date removed, he relaxed and was quite charming.

The charm was reciprocal. Each topic of conversation revealed yet another shared interest. Lucinda laughed at every one of his jokes, even the more obscure ones that usually produced blank stares. And she told wonderfully humorous anecdotes of her own. Best of all, she was completely fascinated by the subject he loved to speak of most. Himself. Or to be specific, his artistic pursuits. Johnny drained multiple glasses of wine and reveled in the fine company. He barely noticed when James and Shelly cleverly managed to leave them to themselves. He was not aware of any desire to kiss Lucinda until he found himself doing precisely that. It felt nice. Too nice for goodnight.

Good morning awoken to in Lucinda's bed brought reality crashing along with it. This should not have happened, but hindsight would do him no good. He would have to tread carefully. Johnny did not want to come off as a jerk.

They had brunch together, and the time passed as pleasantly as had the night before. Lucinda did not dismiss his aspirations as adolescent fantasizing or a harmless hobby to be condescendingly indulged. Under her admiring gaze, it seemed almost reasonable to believe that his dreams would one day be realized. The least he could do was bring her home for a look at his paintings.

The hole he dug gradually deepened into a canyon. Lucinda expertly stroked his ego, made him feel like a king, and he didn't want the feeling to end. So he encouraged it to continue. Against his judgement that a relationship between them would be doomed, he began seeing her regularly. Until a suitable replacement came along. When several months passed without this happening, his strategy was adjusted. He would break up with her as soon as possible. Despite Lucinda's many wonderful qualities, regardless of their great compatibility, one fact remained that could not be denied or further ignored. Johnny felt he could do better.

If this branded him as shallow, so be it. He had given desire ample time to grow, but it was only familiarity that multiplied.

"If you leave her, you'll regret it," said Gary. "But you'll regret it more if you stay."

"You think you're such a great catch?" exclaimed Norma. "Women like that don't fall for clowns like you every day. Losing her would be the biggest mistake you ever made, and you've made some whoppers."

"If you're not completely happy, you owe it to yourself to end it," advised Lance. "And even more, you owe it to her."

"You'll always feel like you could have done better," Maxine said. "And you'll come to take it out on her. Spare her that. Spare yourself from becoming somebody you won't like. Stop being such a wimp."

"You've never compromised in your art," said his brother Dedric. "So why compromise in your life?"

"You either love her or you don't," Collette stated. "Decide which it is and then act on the answer. Everything outside of that is a load of bull."

"Subtly suggest cosmetic surgery," cracked Randy.

"Stay with Lucinda, but cheat like wild on the side until it's out of your system," suggested Carlos, always a strong proponent of both having and eating one's cake.

Kevin's commentary on the business led Johnny no closer to resolution.

"When the lights go out, I'm sure she's as much of a goddess as any other woman. Of course, that doesn't help you out much once the sun rises."

Everyone was in agreement on only one detail.

"Should I be honest about the way I feel?"

"Uh uh." "No way." "Hell no!" "Are you nuts?" "I wouldn't advise that."

At least that much was clear. He would have to be less than forthcoming about why he felt their relationship had run its course. He would do it in a way that left Lucinda with dignity. He'd cast all blame upon himself. It had nothing to do with her, everything to do with his own immaturity and unwillingness to commit. What choice would she have but to accept his resolution?

Johnny worked up his nerve over a candle lit dinner cooked and staged by Lucinda that he intended to be their last meal together as a couple. He needed to free both of them up for the people they were destined to be happy with. The bombshell finally landed, but it was Lucinda who launched it.

"I'm pregnant."

By all accounts they had a lovely wedding. Every picture taken of the groom showed him with a broad smile. He knew it was crucial to hold it in place, lest his true feelings be broadcast.

Things might have worked out okay had the Mortons not moved next door. He may have grown accustomed to the life he ended up with, come to appreciate the immense upside to it. Lucinda earned a considerably higher salary than him, so she paid a substantial share of the bills. Yet she also handled most household duties, including taking care of a daughter whom Johnny cherished with all his being. She encouraged his artistic pursuits, not only with kind words of support, but also by allowing him time to work undisturbed. There was nothing he could think to ask for that she did not provide. As the years passed and vanity lowered accordingly in his list of priorities, he would certainly come to be grateful for the choices he had sort of made, that he had accepted without putting up too much of a fight.

The Mortons were amiable people, fine neighbors. They were also the parents of a sexy, nubile vixen. The moment Johnny spied their 17 year old daughter in the saran wrapped shorts and belly baring tee shirt she wore, he knew he was in trouble.

His thoughts were occupied by innumerable fantasies of an outrageously sexual nature throughout the weeks to follow. He imagined himself and Monique getting together in every conceivable scenario, locale and position. Not even an energetic two year old who found new trouble to get into by the minute could distract him from obsessive contemplation. But his desires were harmless so long as they remained unrealized. He could lust for Monique to his heart's content. Danger would only be present if she felt likewise. And what were the odds of that?

Much better than expected, as it turned out. Monique was a girl who knew what she wanted, and she was aware that most things wouldn't be very difficult for her to acquire. In defiance of logic, her sights seemed to be set on Johnny.

"How old are you?" she inquired one day as he mowed his lawn. He briefly considered subtracting a few years from his age before replying honestly that he was 35.

"I hope the man I marry looks as good as you when he's 35," she said, pleasantly making the number sound considerably less than 100.

Johnny kept his expression nonchalant and his budding erection discreet, wiping the sweat from his brow in response to the compliment.

"You must work out," said Monique.

"From time to time. When I can."

"Well it certainly shows."

She was leaning against the gate that separated their backyards, bronzed cleavage temptingly showcased, her hair in childish pigtails but her body demonstrating that she was all woman. Johnny forced his eyes away from her delectably rounded hips and exquisite midsection, for her belly's cavernous button was lulling him into a trance. This just led him to stare at her full and glossy lips which were working over a piece of gum.

"I hear you're an artist. Are you any good?"

"A few people think so, but no major galleries yet. I'll have to stick with my day job a while longer."

"I'd like to see your paintings."

"Sure. Some day soon we'll have you and your parents over for dinner."

"I'd like to see them now, Johnny."

Lucinda and Joy were not home and weren't due back for a couple of hours. As if sensing the tension of the moment, a lawnmower that was roaring in the near distance came to a sudden stop and all was relative silence.

"Okay."

Johnny remained physically faithful to his wife that afternoon, despite the overwhelming temptation to obey the commands of his hormones. Whatever risk was involved with the situation, he was willing to roll the die and take his chances. But he did not intend to make the first move, no matter how welcomed it seemed. He would leave that up to Monique, whom he sensed to be quite capable of taking control. Something in her gaze left the impression that she acted with far more purpose than the average teenager experiencing a case of puppy love.

Hopefully a single taste of the succulent feast of flavors before him would satisfy his appetite. He was the head of a family. This was not to be jeopardized. Some fun might be had as a one shot deal, if he determined that she would be able to refrain from becoming emotionally involved. He would then return to his domesticated state, and she would head into the arms of some college boy with fortunate timing. No one would be the wiser, and Johnny's list of cherished accomplishments would have one more sweet item added.

"Honey, what's the matter?"

"Nothing", said Johnny in response to his wife's query later that night. "I'm just real tired. Maybe I'll surprise you in the morning."

"That would be nice. We haven't made love right after waking up in a while. Remember when ... Johnny, are you asleep already?"

"Mmmm hmm."

"Sweet dreams, my dear."

Johnny simply could not will himself to be aroused by Lucinda. Not while consumed with burning knowledge that Monique was his for the asking. Whenever he looked at his wife, he thought of how little he had settled for. Not only regarding his marriage, but in practically every aspect of his life. When given a choice between struggling to attain what he truly wanted or accepting what was less desired but freely offered, he had taken the easy route on each occasion. He was not supposed to be a suburban, middle class, sales rep who dabbled in painting as a weekend hobby while doted on by the plain Jane wife who bore his children. He was an ARTIST, perhaps a brilliant one if he could only dedicate sufficient time and energy to his craft. But in order to do that he would have to be hungry. Not in his stomach, but in his gut. A cushy existence was the death of desire. Every day of the mundane life he was living sapped his spirit a little bit more. He needed to feel passion, for only then could he freely express it on canvas. The woman who shared his bed should serve not only as a mate, but also as muse. Her presence should trigger the release of his talent, so the space he took up in the world would be justified. He needed a cause of greater merit than comfort.

Johnny resumed the regimen of pull-ups and sit-ups that had been abandoned in his mid-twenties. He wanted his physique to show the results during his excessive gardening on the weekends to follow. Once he was out in the yard, Monique never failed to leave her house and head over to the gate that divided them. They would speak about everything under the sun. She told him about her plans to be either a doctor, lawyer, or actress someday. He told her about the paintings and artists he most cherished, the symphonies that moved him most deeply, the novelists whose gift of prose left him in awe at the majesty of God's creation. She took it all in like a teacher's pet student, looking at him with hunger for knowledge and thirst for what he was growing increasingly anxious to supply. Little by little, without conscious intent, Johnny was molding his perfect woman. Monique was becoming more than a mere erotic fantasy. She was no longer just a diversion from all that was ordinary and plain in his life, or a reminder that beauty should be perpetually aspired to, never taken for granted. A woman he could envision a future with was being formed. Her mind was clay to his skillful fingers. Only her body remained unexplored.

He vigilantly waited for a sign of encouragement to progress to the next logical step. One was recognized on the day she asked to watch him as he painted. No woman other than Lucinda had ever examined him at work. He was conscious of Monique's tantalizingly close presence with every feverish brushstroke. He ached to reach out and pull her into his arms. But somehow he refrained, fearing that she was not quite ready. Johnny was certain that she would let him know beyond doubt when the time was right. He needed only to be patient.

The frequency of lovemaking with his wife significantly dropped. He saw it as a necessary evil, endured only when she forcefully ignored his excuses. Each day he grew more convinced that he should, could, and would leave the life he possessed for the one he craved. As devastated as Lucinda would be, as undeserving of such treatment as she was, his decision was immune to the persuasion of tears and hysterics, beyond the scope of moral consideration. People's feelings were hurt by the hour, their lives turned upside down with a minimum of notice. They generally got over it. Lucinda would as well. Johnny had no choice in this matter. The urges prompting him could not be denied much longer. Resistance to forbidden fruit had always been mankind's most futile goal.

"I want to pose for you, Johnny."

"Okay", was his brief, helpless, automatic reply.

Four posing sessions would be necessary per his method. Johnny intended to give birth to a masterpiece that would invoke the envy of the Sistine Chapel's ceiling. Monique's beauty would extract genius from his soul. When the painting was completed, she would be overwhelmed by the immense desire it exuded. She would turn to him, speechless. He would lay her down, love her slowly, appreciate every inch of her splendor. Then they would start making plans. The summer was soon coming to an end. Monique would be starting college in a matter of precious days. For Johnny's dreams to be realized, he needed to awaken and take action.

"I brought over a couple of bathing suits," Monique said. "You can choose one for me to wear. Unless you'd rather paint me nude."

"Nude?"

"Sure. I don't mind if you dont."

"No, no, I don't mind. Are you sure you'd be comfortable with ... Do you think that would be such a good ..."

Johnny's difficulty completing sentences was replaced by inability to speak altogether as Monique removed her blouse.

"I cant believe I'm going to be the subject of a real work of art. This is so exciting."

She removed her bra. "Now I know how Mona Lisa must have felt."

She removed her shorts. "I know you'll make me look beautiful."

Her sandals were kicked off, and then finally, with no indication of self-consciousness, Monique removed her panties.

"How shall I pose?"

Johnny grabbed hold of the nearest inanimate object to steady himself. When he remembered that breathing was a necessity, he took a gulp of air into his lungs and slowly let it back out. A ringing sound was faintly heard. At first he thought it was in his head, that the sight of Monique's nakedness had affected him much like sitting close to the speakers at a rock concert. Too much of a good thing could overload one's senses, although it stood to reason that this should happen to his sight rather than his hearing. The ringing was not constant, but came at evenly spaced intervals. He finally realized that it was the phone upstairs, which could easily be ignored and would eventually be cut off by the answering machine.

Monique sat down, crossed her legs, and looked straight ahead with an expression of erotic serenity. Although everybody was born nude, not every body was designed to naturally remain in such a state of grace. On Monique, clothing was an obstruction of divine sculpting.

"How's this?" she asked.

"Perfect." It was the most honest answer Johnny had ever given to a question.

He lifted a brush and stared at his hand, surprised by how steady he managed to hold it. Summoning the spirits of Cezanne, Picasso and Monet, he began to weave magic.
Never before had he worked with such intensity, yet remarkable ease. He would have continued all throughout the day, the night, and into the following morning had this been feasible. But Lucinda and Joy would be returning at four oclock, as they did every Saturday afternoon. Lucinda dropped Joy off at her sister's apartment on the way to aerobics class, and picked her up on the way back home. Melanie loved to babysit her precocious niece, and an empty house gave Johnny the peace he required to concentrate on a painting. Usually he would stare at a blank canvas for about ten minutes and then abandon the task due to insufficient motivation and head back upstairs to his couch and television. He had brought an alarm clock down to the basement that was set for 3:30, to make certain Monique was gone before his wife and daughter came back.

Johnny was consumed by the vision posed before him and the reflection he was unleashing. The rest of the room, and then the house, and then the neighborhood, and then the reality of his existence faded to black. He felt himself transported from his American suburban basement at the beginning of a new millennium to a studio in Paris a century earlier, giving birth to a new movement in art, living a life that legends are made from.

The illusion was roughly shattered when Lucinda walked into the basement. Johnny turned to look at the alarm clock, expecting to find that it had been incorrectly set and he had lost track of the time. Instead he saw that it was ten minutes before three oclock, matching the time on his watch. Lucinda was home early. Had he answered the phone or checked the message she left, he would have known that her aerobics class had been cancelled and she was returning earlier than usual. But contemplation of what would and could have been was of little use. So was the manufacturing of excuses. Not even Harry Houdini could escape this predicament.

Johnny concluded it was probably for the best that things were out in the open sooner rather than later. Cowardice is not an option when one is cornered. He would tell Lucinda how he felt, that their marriage was over, that he had found another. But first he would allow Lucinda to say her piece.

"Don't worry, Johnny. You can paint the girl. You can screw her even. You can daydream about being in love with her if you must. Fantasies are important, I understand that. Especially for an artist. But so is reality. You will not be leaving me, Johnny. Your wife and daughter need you, and you need us. We're having roast beef for dinner."

Lucinda went upstairs. By the time Johnny could shake off his astonishment and look towards Monique, she had finished getting dressed.

"Your wife certainly knows you well."

"Huh?"

"You behaved pretty much like she said you would. I thought you'd be groping me within the first week. And I can't honestly say I would have minded. But Lucy said you'd be a pussy cat and that's just what you were."

"Is that right?" asked Johnny in a daze as the reality of the arrangement slowly penetrated his comprehension.

"I can't wait until the painting is finished. My boyfriend is going to love it. Should I show up the same time tomorrow?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"I'll see you tomorrow, Johnny."

She walked out and went home, or to her boyfriend, or to wherever it was that youth and beauty ventured. Johnny looked at the form taking shape on canvas. He suspected his hands had been manipulated by a higher power. It did not seem possible that he was responsible for such a budding masterpiece. Here was the greatness that Lucinda had believed him capable of from the start, and continued believing long after he had accepted mediocrity as his destiny.

Monique had awakened long dormant urges. She reminded him of what his life had once been about, of the future he had eagerly anticipated. She had unleashed the abilities he had never before been able to transfer from his subconscious to his fingertips. Monique was the muse he had always known would come along.

Courtesy of Lucinda's handiwork.

Johnny went upstairs slowly, moving as if he had aged forty years in a single afternoon. He clicked on the TV, lifted his daughter as he ran towards him with hands upheld, took his favorite post on the sofa and sat Joy down on his lap. The sound of meal preparation in the kitchen caused him to go up a couple notches with the television remote from his volume level of prefernece. A drink would hit the spot, but he didn't rise to get one. Johnny wasn't certain if his mood was for beer or a glass of wine. He didn't concern himself over this quandary. Without needing to be asked, Lucinda would provide exactly the right thing.