Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 4
February 16, 2022
VISIT WITH A ROLEX A.D. ⌚
Sometime in the not too distant future ...
"Good morning, sir. Welcome to Rolex! How may I assist you?"
"I'm interested in the new 41 1/2 mil Submariner."
"Excellent. That's quite a bump up in size, however. Are you certain you can adjust to the additional heft and wrist presence?"
"I already own a 41 1/4 mil. I think I can handle it."
"Good. Some people are traumatized by the additional 1/4 millimeter. It is a bold step on the part of Rolex! If you should suddenly find yourself stricken with insomnia or a bout of bed wetting, we do have a support group that meets here on Thursdays."
"Thanks. I'm sure I'll be fine."
"Excellent! I'll just need you to sign this double-indemnity life insurance policy & legal document bequeathing all your internal organs to Rolex in case of sudden death ... and a payment of $40,000 -- cash if you've got it."
"Forty grand for a $10,000 watch!???"
"Oh, it's not for the watch, sir. It's just the application fee for our waiting list."
"How long a wait?"
"Sir, need I remind you that Einstein has already proven that time is relative?"
[Customer looks skeptical]
"However, if time is a consideration, I'm pleased to announce the opening of our new Cryogenic Freezing Facility next door to our foundry. We can keep you on Ice until a new Sub becomes available."
"Wow! And I thought making your own hairsprings was impressive."
"It's all part of our new service. We'll thaw you out once every five years to update you on our progress -- and berate you for not purchasing a Yacht-Master II instead."
"Look, this all sounds really complicated. I'm going next door to the A. Lange & Sohne boutique."
"Suit yourself. [The A.D. grins] You'll be back!"
5 minutes later, our protagonist is greeted by a paunchy, middle-aged sales rep wearing lederhosen ...
"Guten morgen, sir! Welcome to A. Lange & Sohne. Would you care for some strudel?"
"Knock off the phony sales spiel -- I just want a watch!"
"Splendid! That'll be $500,000."
"500K?"
"Did I say 500? ... I meant 250"
"$250K?"
"125?"
"Look ..."
"Okay, okay ... It's obvious you drive a hard bargain!... $50K"
"But ..."
"Well, you've really got me over a barrel -- doncha, fella? ... $10K and I'll throw in a hat ..."
"Really ..."
[The A.D. slams the watch down on the display case]
"Just take the goddamn thing!!!"
"You're GIVING me a brand new Lange???"
"Please! Take it! ... I'm sick a lookin' at the thing!!!"
"This is insane! The entire watch industry has gone friggin' insane!!!"
"You think this is insane? [Another patron who's been waiting chimes in] You should check out the F.P. Journe boutique! They're accepting applications for the new Chronomètre Bleu Squid Game ..."
THE END .... ✒
"Good morning, sir. Welcome to Rolex! How may I assist you?"
"I'm interested in the new 41 1/2 mil Submariner."
"Excellent. That's quite a bump up in size, however. Are you certain you can adjust to the additional heft and wrist presence?"
"I already own a 41 1/4 mil. I think I can handle it."
"Good. Some people are traumatized by the additional 1/4 millimeter. It is a bold step on the part of Rolex! If you should suddenly find yourself stricken with insomnia or a bout of bed wetting, we do have a support group that meets here on Thursdays."
"Thanks. I'm sure I'll be fine."
"Excellent! I'll just need you to sign this double-indemnity life insurance policy & legal document bequeathing all your internal organs to Rolex in case of sudden death ... and a payment of $40,000 -- cash if you've got it."
"Forty grand for a $10,000 watch!???"
"Oh, it's not for the watch, sir. It's just the application fee for our waiting list."
"How long a wait?"
"Sir, need I remind you that Einstein has already proven that time is relative?"
[Customer looks skeptical]
"However, if time is a consideration, I'm pleased to announce the opening of our new Cryogenic Freezing Facility next door to our foundry. We can keep you on Ice until a new Sub becomes available."
"Wow! And I thought making your own hairsprings was impressive."
"It's all part of our new service. We'll thaw you out once every five years to update you on our progress -- and berate you for not purchasing a Yacht-Master II instead."
"Look, this all sounds really complicated. I'm going next door to the A. Lange & Sohne boutique."
"Suit yourself. [The A.D. grins] You'll be back!"
5 minutes later, our protagonist is greeted by a paunchy, middle-aged sales rep wearing lederhosen ...
"Guten morgen, sir! Welcome to A. Lange & Sohne. Would you care for some strudel?"
"Knock off the phony sales spiel -- I just want a watch!"
"Splendid! That'll be $500,000."
"500K?"
"Did I say 500? ... I meant 250"
"$250K?"
"125?"
"Look ..."
"Okay, okay ... It's obvious you drive a hard bargain!... $50K"
"But ..."
"Well, you've really got me over a barrel -- doncha, fella? ... $10K and I'll throw in a hat ..."
"Really ..."
[The A.D. slams the watch down on the display case]
"Just take the goddamn thing!!!"
"You're GIVING me a brand new Lange???"
"Please! Take it! ... I'm sick a lookin' at the thing!!!"
"This is insane! The entire watch industry has gone friggin' insane!!!"
"You think this is insane? [Another patron who's been waiting chimes in] You should check out the F.P. Journe boutique! They're accepting applications for the new Chronomètre Bleu Squid Game ..."
THE END .... ✒
February 4, 2022
LOVE SONG FOR A CYBORG
Hang a left at Alpha Centauri, he thought. Save some time. Use the ol’ wormhole. But traffic at the exit was backed up for several galaxies and they’d gone and raised the toll. So, he tuned in some quasar static on the easy listening station, locked it in hyper-drive, and took the scenic route home. Docking his whizzer in the usual spot, he took the tube up to their pod.
“Greetings.” Britney 9000, his spousal unit, said.
“Greetings.” Zorlock tugged his wife’s multi-frequency listening aperture.
Though she returned the gesture, Zorlock could tell her heart really wasn’t in it. Why bother, he thought, remembering how it had been during their initial mating phase. It seemed like eons since he’d had a decent tug.
Zorlock and Britney were cyborgs. Billions of years ago, mankind had been wiped out by a terrible natural cataclysm, giving rise to a new race of beings who were half human, half machine.
The couple had been married for almost two thousand years now; had one offspring – Klorg, a male unit – and resided in a “pod” (what humans once referred to as a condo) orbiting the charred, turd-like cinder that was once the late, great planet Earth.
Britney hated the neighborhood and was always after Zorlock to move out of the Solar System – like so many of their friends had.
Truth be told, the present digs were all he could afford on a blue collar salary. Zorlock worked in a black hole a dozen light years away, forging the anti-gravity rods that powered the whizzers – the cyborgs’ standard mode of transportation. The commute was murder, but he belonged to the union and the benefits were good.
“What’s for dinner?” Zorlock asked.
“I’m making dilithium crystals and magnesium casing with a side of plutonium.”
“Plutonium again?”
“It’s Monday.”
“Oh …”
“Aren’t you going to say hello to your son?”
The boy, seated in a high chair, regarded his parental unit blankly.
“Greetings, Klorg, offspring of Zorlock!”
The boy belched, farted, then stuck out his bionic tongue and blew his father the raspberries.
“Say, when’s he gonna stop making those awful noises and learn to speak properly?”
“Did you forget?” Britney said, pouring her husband a glass of sulfuric acid, “We haven’t had him programmed yet.”
Zorlock took a seat and helped himself to the magnesium casings, then passed them to Britney.
“I’ve really gotta lay off the magnesium. I can barely fit into my new Dolce & Gamma neutron suit.”
“You look so handsome in neutrons.”
Just then, Klorg’s head popped off. It landed with a thud in the center of the table, jangling the titanium silverware; bounced, then rolled underneath the infrared thermal convector.
“I thought you were gonna take him in and have that fixed?” Zorlock said, chewing a mouthful of magnesium casings.
“I’ve been busy. Yesterday I used him to vacuum the carpet, and today I had my nail appointment and G-4 rewiring inspection.”
“Make sure they oil and lube him … my policy covers that.”
Britney fetched Klorg’s head from where it had rolled under the thermal convector and screwed it back on. She gave her son his favorite treat – a fluorescent glow tube – to suck on, while her husband finished his dinner.
“How about some dessert?” Britney asked, as she cleared the table.
“No thanks. I could really go for a cup of liquid hydrogen tho.”
“Gimme a sec and I’ll brew some fresh.”
While his wife finished clearing the table, Zorlock scratched his light-emitting diodes and yawned.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that at the table … it’s not polite.”
Zorlock grunted, “They issued me a new cobalt exo-sheath at work today. I think it’s giving me a rash.”
“I’ll rub some petroleum based bi-products on it before we go to bed tonight.”
“I’d like that.”
It was a beautiful night. Well – not really. Night hadn’t fallen in nearly five billion years. The Sun, now a red giant, had already swallowed up Mercury and Venus. Zorlock watched it through the kitchen portal: a churning, angry red mass that engulfed the sky.
Like it or not, they were going to have to move. Probably in the next fifteen or twenty million years. It was always something.
Britney fixed two cups of liquid hydrogen and joined her husband at the table.
“Know what I was listening to during the trip home tonight?” Zorlock asked, gazing wistfully at his spousal unit.
“I’m sure I couldn’t guess.”
“Quasar static.”
Britney smiled, “Remember the first time we heard electromagnetic quasar static?”
“How could I forget? Spring break by the magma spouts of Triton. Voltan introduced us. You were wearing a two-piece.”
“I had to. I wasn’t assembled yet.”
Zorlock winked, “Those were the days.”
“Speaking of Voltan, I ran into his spousal unit, Paris 5000, the other day.”
“No kidding?” Zorlock sipped his liquid hydrogen, “I haven’t seen Paris or Voltan in a solar-age -- how are they?”
“Quite well. Voltan just made a killing on the quark exchange and he’s taking Paris and their offspring to the Crab Nebula.”
Zorlock made a face, “Quarks are so risky in this economy. And the Crab Nebula … too crowded this time of year.”
“It would be nice if we could take a vacation.”
“You know what the orthodontist said. Klorg’s getting his fourth set of teeth and he’s going to need braces – again. We just can’t afford it right now.”
“I know. I know … it’s just that Voltan and Paris have been together for over a dozen millennia and they still behave like newlyweds. We’ve only been married two thousand years and we’re like a couple of old zorts.”
“That’s not true. Didn’t I take you to Mars just this past century?”
“Mars! … There’s a big deal!”
Klorg’s head popped off again. It went sailing out the open kitchen portal.
“That’s so annoying.” Zorlock said.
“Finish your liquid hydrogen. I’ll retrieve it.”
“Why bother? Just buy him a new one.”
“Why don’t kids today listen to quasar static?” Britney wondered.
Zorlock shrugged, “That stuff they listen to nowadays is just awful … you can’t even dance to it.”
“Love songs … what happened to all the love songs?”
A solar flare suddenly erupted, turning the sky a molten, phosphorescent orange. Yeah. They were definitely gonna have to move. It was always something.
“Greetings.” Britney 9000, his spousal unit, said.
“Greetings.” Zorlock tugged his wife’s multi-frequency listening aperture.
Though she returned the gesture, Zorlock could tell her heart really wasn’t in it. Why bother, he thought, remembering how it had been during their initial mating phase. It seemed like eons since he’d had a decent tug.
Zorlock and Britney were cyborgs. Billions of years ago, mankind had been wiped out by a terrible natural cataclysm, giving rise to a new race of beings who were half human, half machine.
The couple had been married for almost two thousand years now; had one offspring – Klorg, a male unit – and resided in a “pod” (what humans once referred to as a condo) orbiting the charred, turd-like cinder that was once the late, great planet Earth.
Britney hated the neighborhood and was always after Zorlock to move out of the Solar System – like so many of their friends had.
Truth be told, the present digs were all he could afford on a blue collar salary. Zorlock worked in a black hole a dozen light years away, forging the anti-gravity rods that powered the whizzers – the cyborgs’ standard mode of transportation. The commute was murder, but he belonged to the union and the benefits were good.
“What’s for dinner?” Zorlock asked.
“I’m making dilithium crystals and magnesium casing with a side of plutonium.”
“Plutonium again?”
“It’s Monday.”
“Oh …”
“Aren’t you going to say hello to your son?”
The boy, seated in a high chair, regarded his parental unit blankly.
“Greetings, Klorg, offspring of Zorlock!”
The boy belched, farted, then stuck out his bionic tongue and blew his father the raspberries.
“Say, when’s he gonna stop making those awful noises and learn to speak properly?”
“Did you forget?” Britney said, pouring her husband a glass of sulfuric acid, “We haven’t had him programmed yet.”
Zorlock took a seat and helped himself to the magnesium casings, then passed them to Britney.
“I’ve really gotta lay off the magnesium. I can barely fit into my new Dolce & Gamma neutron suit.”
“You look so handsome in neutrons.”
Just then, Klorg’s head popped off. It landed with a thud in the center of the table, jangling the titanium silverware; bounced, then rolled underneath the infrared thermal convector.
“I thought you were gonna take him in and have that fixed?” Zorlock said, chewing a mouthful of magnesium casings.
“I’ve been busy. Yesterday I used him to vacuum the carpet, and today I had my nail appointment and G-4 rewiring inspection.”
“Make sure they oil and lube him … my policy covers that.”
Britney fetched Klorg’s head from where it had rolled under the thermal convector and screwed it back on. She gave her son his favorite treat – a fluorescent glow tube – to suck on, while her husband finished his dinner.
“How about some dessert?” Britney asked, as she cleared the table.
“No thanks. I could really go for a cup of liquid hydrogen tho.”
“Gimme a sec and I’ll brew some fresh.”
While his wife finished clearing the table, Zorlock scratched his light-emitting diodes and yawned.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that at the table … it’s not polite.”
Zorlock grunted, “They issued me a new cobalt exo-sheath at work today. I think it’s giving me a rash.”
“I’ll rub some petroleum based bi-products on it before we go to bed tonight.”
“I’d like that.”
It was a beautiful night. Well – not really. Night hadn’t fallen in nearly five billion years. The Sun, now a red giant, had already swallowed up Mercury and Venus. Zorlock watched it through the kitchen portal: a churning, angry red mass that engulfed the sky.
Like it or not, they were going to have to move. Probably in the next fifteen or twenty million years. It was always something.
Britney fixed two cups of liquid hydrogen and joined her husband at the table.
“Know what I was listening to during the trip home tonight?” Zorlock asked, gazing wistfully at his spousal unit.
“I’m sure I couldn’t guess.”
“Quasar static.”
Britney smiled, “Remember the first time we heard electromagnetic quasar static?”
“How could I forget? Spring break by the magma spouts of Triton. Voltan introduced us. You were wearing a two-piece.”
“I had to. I wasn’t assembled yet.”
Zorlock winked, “Those were the days.”
“Speaking of Voltan, I ran into his spousal unit, Paris 5000, the other day.”
“No kidding?” Zorlock sipped his liquid hydrogen, “I haven’t seen Paris or Voltan in a solar-age -- how are they?”
“Quite well. Voltan just made a killing on the quark exchange and he’s taking Paris and their offspring to the Crab Nebula.”
Zorlock made a face, “Quarks are so risky in this economy. And the Crab Nebula … too crowded this time of year.”
“It would be nice if we could take a vacation.”
“You know what the orthodontist said. Klorg’s getting his fourth set of teeth and he’s going to need braces – again. We just can’t afford it right now.”
“I know. I know … it’s just that Voltan and Paris have been together for over a dozen millennia and they still behave like newlyweds. We’ve only been married two thousand years and we’re like a couple of old zorts.”
“That’s not true. Didn’t I take you to Mars just this past century?”
“Mars! … There’s a big deal!”
Klorg’s head popped off again. It went sailing out the open kitchen portal.
“That’s so annoying.” Zorlock said.
“Finish your liquid hydrogen. I’ll retrieve it.”
“Why bother? Just buy him a new one.”
“Why don’t kids today listen to quasar static?” Britney wondered.
Zorlock shrugged, “That stuff they listen to nowadays is just awful … you can’t even dance to it.”
“Love songs … what happened to all the love songs?”
A solar flare suddenly erupted, turning the sky a molten, phosphorescent orange. Yeah. They were definitely gonna have to move. It was always something.
October 22, 2021
FERNGLOW'S FINAL EQUATION (FULL)
Fernglow had done it. Or so he claimed. For ten years he’d been holed up in a tiny, cubbyhole of an office in the basement of the Physics Building scrawling impossibly long equations on a chalkboard not quite long enough to accommodate them. Day after day; week after week; month after month … well. You get the picture.
The phone rang shortly after noon in the director’s suite. It was Fernglow on the line. Breathlessly, he informed the director that he’d done it; formulated a mathematical equation that would alter the very course of Western civilization – perhaps Eastern civilization too. More important than E=MC2. More revolutionary than Fermat’s Theorem. Grab your socks and haul it over to the Physics Building – pronto!
With visions of a Nobel Prize dancing in his head, the director did as he was instructed. Though he’d sworn off wearing socks years ago, he grabbed Dean Jones – titular head of the Physics Department – and the two men hurried over to Fernglow’s office.
This could be big. Very big! A member of the faculty being awarded a Nobel would be justification for yet another tuition hike. A BIG one. It already cost $1,000,000 a semester to attend the university – not including textbooks – and the only bragging rights trumpeted in the institution’s brochure was an adjunct biology professor who could play "Red Sails in the Sunset" on a series of specimen jars.
“Do you think he’s really done it?” Dean Jones asked.
“He wouldn’t call us down here in the middle of the day if he hadn’t.” The director offered, eagerly rapping on Fernglow’s door which bore a large “DO NOT DISTURB” sign.
The door creaked open and there Fernglow stood; grinning at the two men through bloodshot eyes.
“Fernglow – is it true? Have you really done it?”
Fernglow smiled and nodded, running his fingers distractedly through his long hermit’s beard. It reminded the director of a National Geographic program he’d once seen on TV about a man who sported a beard comprised entirely of live bumblebees. Guy probably saved a fortune on honey.
Seizing both men by the elbow, Fernglow ushered them over to his chalkboard.
“Well … whattaya think?”
The two men squinted at the board on which a single, albeit brief, equation had been scrawled:
ZERO GUNS = ZERO GUN RELATED DEATHS.
“I don’t get it.” The director said.
“I’ve used the unimpeachable logic of mathematics to settle the gun debate once and for all.” Fernglow beamed.
“How so?” Asked Dean Jones.
“Zero guns equal zero gun related deaths.” Fernglow repeated.
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me. Are you suggesting that getting rid of guns will somehow solve the problem of gun violence? The director scratched his head.
“If there aren’t any guns, it’s impossible to be shot with one.”
“Do away with man’s ability to kill his fellow man by the hundreds in a matter of minutes? Dear God! How will anyone ever feel safe again?”
“I’m afraid I have to agree with the director.” Dean Jones said, “Specious argument. The NRA has done exhaustive studies. Video games, poor parenting, improper breast feeding and plaid leisure suits all contribute to gun violence – but not guns.”
“Of course!” The director chuckled, “Guns are inanimate objects. You can’t blame them for anything.”
“Exactly.” Dean Jones chimed in, “Next you’ll be using your circular logic to convince us that alcoholism is somehow linked to the consumption of alcohol. I’m glad the liquor industry finally put that myth to rest.”
“Purely a matter of semantics.” Said the director.
“Clever word play.” Added Dean Jones, “Next they’ll be using tongue twisters to settle arguments.”
Fernglow held out a piece of chalk, “The math doesn’t lie gentlemen. Show me the flaw in my equation and I’ll drop the subject altogether.”
“Really, Fernglow.” The director gave him an affectionate clap on the shoulder, “It’s an interesting theory, but just how would you propose to get rid of every gun on the planet?”
“It took me exactly twelve seconds to formulate my equation. I’ve spent the remainder of the past ten years working on this …”
Fernglow removed a tarp from a hulking apparatus situated next to the chalkboard. It looked like an over-sized microwave oven.
“What’s this?” The director asked.
“The Whatchamacallit. Haven’t had time to come up with a name for it yet.” Fernglow’s chest swelled with pride, “Converts any matter placed inside into pure energy.”
“Ya don’t say…” The director said
“Not only will it get rid of all the guns, it’ll solve the problem of climate change as well. No more fossil fuel …”
“Climate change?” The director had to stifle a laugh, “Chinese propaganda! I’ve owned oceanfront property for the past thirty years and I can state unequivocally that there’s been absolutely no change in sea levels whatsoever.”
“Really? Where?”
“The Mojave Desert.”
The director motioned to Dean Jones. “Excuse me Fernglow while I have a private word with the dean.”
“We have to stop him!” The director said, drawing the dean aside, “As of the year 2065, gun sales now account for two-thirds of America’s GDP.”
“And the other third?”
“Ammo.”
“But how?”
“I’ve got it!” The director hooked an arm around Fernglow’s stump of a neck and administered a fatherly pat on the head, “Look Professor, suppose I allow you to present your findings to the entire faculty – one caveat, however.”
“Name it.”
“You permit me the opportunity to shoot down your argument – no pun intended. Allow me to prove that a man can be shot dead without a single firearm within a thousand yards of the premises.”
“Of course.”
Fernglow and the director sealed their agreement with a handshake. The next evening the entire faculty assembled in the physics lab as agreed. Just as Fernglow stepped up to the chalkboard to present his case, a gunshot rang out shattering a nearby window. Clutching his chest, Fernglow slumped to the floor dead. Calmly removing the chalk from Fernglow’s lifeless hand, the director wrote the following on the chalkboard:
1 SNIPER + 1 LASER SCOPE + 1 M24 RIFLE = 0 FERNGLOW
As the crowd hooted and applauded, the director winked at Dean Jones.
“Fernglow was right. The math doesn’t lie.”
(Oiginally published in Literary Heist)
The phone rang shortly after noon in the director’s suite. It was Fernglow on the line. Breathlessly, he informed the director that he’d done it; formulated a mathematical equation that would alter the very course of Western civilization – perhaps Eastern civilization too. More important than E=MC2. More revolutionary than Fermat’s Theorem. Grab your socks and haul it over to the Physics Building – pronto!
With visions of a Nobel Prize dancing in his head, the director did as he was instructed. Though he’d sworn off wearing socks years ago, he grabbed Dean Jones – titular head of the Physics Department – and the two men hurried over to Fernglow’s office.
This could be big. Very big! A member of the faculty being awarded a Nobel would be justification for yet another tuition hike. A BIG one. It already cost $1,000,000 a semester to attend the university – not including textbooks – and the only bragging rights trumpeted in the institution’s brochure was an adjunct biology professor who could play "Red Sails in the Sunset" on a series of specimen jars.
“Do you think he’s really done it?” Dean Jones asked.
“He wouldn’t call us down here in the middle of the day if he hadn’t.” The director offered, eagerly rapping on Fernglow’s door which bore a large “DO NOT DISTURB” sign.
The door creaked open and there Fernglow stood; grinning at the two men through bloodshot eyes.
“Fernglow – is it true? Have you really done it?”
Fernglow smiled and nodded, running his fingers distractedly through his long hermit’s beard. It reminded the director of a National Geographic program he’d once seen on TV about a man who sported a beard comprised entirely of live bumblebees. Guy probably saved a fortune on honey.
Seizing both men by the elbow, Fernglow ushered them over to his chalkboard.
“Well … whattaya think?”
The two men squinted at the board on which a single, albeit brief, equation had been scrawled:
ZERO GUNS = ZERO GUN RELATED DEATHS.
“I don’t get it.” The director said.
“I’ve used the unimpeachable logic of mathematics to settle the gun debate once and for all.” Fernglow beamed.
“How so?” Asked Dean Jones.
“Zero guns equal zero gun related deaths.” Fernglow repeated.
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me. Are you suggesting that getting rid of guns will somehow solve the problem of gun violence? The director scratched his head.
“If there aren’t any guns, it’s impossible to be shot with one.”
“Do away with man’s ability to kill his fellow man by the hundreds in a matter of minutes? Dear God! How will anyone ever feel safe again?”
“I’m afraid I have to agree with the director.” Dean Jones said, “Specious argument. The NRA has done exhaustive studies. Video games, poor parenting, improper breast feeding and plaid leisure suits all contribute to gun violence – but not guns.”
“Of course!” The director chuckled, “Guns are inanimate objects. You can’t blame them for anything.”
“Exactly.” Dean Jones chimed in, “Next you’ll be using your circular logic to convince us that alcoholism is somehow linked to the consumption of alcohol. I’m glad the liquor industry finally put that myth to rest.”
“Purely a matter of semantics.” Said the director.
“Clever word play.” Added Dean Jones, “Next they’ll be using tongue twisters to settle arguments.”
Fernglow held out a piece of chalk, “The math doesn’t lie gentlemen. Show me the flaw in my equation and I’ll drop the subject altogether.”
“Really, Fernglow.” The director gave him an affectionate clap on the shoulder, “It’s an interesting theory, but just how would you propose to get rid of every gun on the planet?”
“It took me exactly twelve seconds to formulate my equation. I’ve spent the remainder of the past ten years working on this …”
Fernglow removed a tarp from a hulking apparatus situated next to the chalkboard. It looked like an over-sized microwave oven.
“What’s this?” The director asked.
“The Whatchamacallit. Haven’t had time to come up with a name for it yet.” Fernglow’s chest swelled with pride, “Converts any matter placed inside into pure energy.”
“Ya don’t say…” The director said
“Not only will it get rid of all the guns, it’ll solve the problem of climate change as well. No more fossil fuel …”
“Climate change?” The director had to stifle a laugh, “Chinese propaganda! I’ve owned oceanfront property for the past thirty years and I can state unequivocally that there’s been absolutely no change in sea levels whatsoever.”
“Really? Where?”
“The Mojave Desert.”
The director motioned to Dean Jones. “Excuse me Fernglow while I have a private word with the dean.”
“We have to stop him!” The director said, drawing the dean aside, “As of the year 2065, gun sales now account for two-thirds of America’s GDP.”
“And the other third?”
“Ammo.”
“But how?”
“I’ve got it!” The director hooked an arm around Fernglow’s stump of a neck and administered a fatherly pat on the head, “Look Professor, suppose I allow you to present your findings to the entire faculty – one caveat, however.”
“Name it.”
“You permit me the opportunity to shoot down your argument – no pun intended. Allow me to prove that a man can be shot dead without a single firearm within a thousand yards of the premises.”
“Of course.”
Fernglow and the director sealed their agreement with a handshake. The next evening the entire faculty assembled in the physics lab as agreed. Just as Fernglow stepped up to the chalkboard to present his case, a gunshot rang out shattering a nearby window. Clutching his chest, Fernglow slumped to the floor dead. Calmly removing the chalk from Fernglow’s lifeless hand, the director wrote the following on the chalkboard:
1 SNIPER + 1 LASER SCOPE + 1 M24 RIFLE = 0 FERNGLOW
As the crowd hooted and applauded, the director winked at Dean Jones.
“Fernglow was right. The math doesn’t lie.”
(Oiginally published in Literary Heist)
September 21, 2021
S**T! THE RAMONES EVEN WROTE A SONG ABOUT IT!
If you were from South Queens back in the day, Rockaway Beach was your oasis: a veritable French Riviera for the working class -- the pristine sand decorated with crumpled beer cans, discarded condoms and occasional medical waste which washed up on shore.
Couldn’t afford a shitty, above ground pool for the backyard? Pack up the kids in the ol’ junk box and head for Rockaway. Shit, the Ramones even wrote a song about it.
There I was, soaking in the sun along with bikini-clad Katie and four other girls from our 60 Park crew. Katie looked amazing in that bikini: yellow with black polka dots. At one point, she’d decided to cool off in the water. When she got back to the blanket, I noticed that her sea-soaked bikini bottom had somehow hiked itself up; leaving her with a self-inflicted wedgie that all but exposed her glorious posterior. Although this was the pre-thong era, Katie had apparently seen the future – and I, the very gateway to paradise.
“Katie, your ass is totally showing!” Maryanne, one of the girls in our crew, said.
Katie nonchalantly reached behind her and yanked the material of her bikini down over her shapely bottom. Lying there next to her on a beach towel, staring straight up at those magnificent glutes, I silently thanked the Lord that I’d chosen to wear my old, baggy cut-offs rather than my tight-fitting swim trunks. No, that sure as hell wasn’t a banana in my pocket.
“You’re shoulders look pretty red, Quinn. How about a little sunscreen?” Maryanne said.
Maryanne had made it abundantly clear that she had a thing for me. She was a cute girl. A little too zaftig for my tastes at the time – and definitely no competition for Katie: the Emerald Isle’s answer to Phoebe Cates.
I thought Maryanne was going to simply pass me the bottle of sunscreen. Instead, she insisted on doing the honors.
“You’ve got big shoulders,” Maryanne said, as she slathered me with sunscreen, “You’re back is really muscular too.”
I glanced over at Katie who was now stretched out flat on her back on a beach blanket alongside me. Her eyes were shut as if deep asleep. I watched the slight, almost imperceptible rise and fall of her flat belly with each breath; the faint outline of her toned abs; the perfect “innie’ belly button; the smooth, sun-tanned skin.
I could’ve had sex with Maryanne right there next to Katie and the latter probably wouldn’t have batted an eyelash. That was my relationship with Katie in a nutshell. After Maryanne finished giving me a thorough lubing and checked my filter, Katie eyes suddenly sprang open. She sat up on her blanket.
“I could really go for some ice cream. Wanna take a walk with me, Quinn?”
No need to ask. In that bikini she was wearing, Katie was a stone adolescent masturbatory fantasy; a sex magnet for every creep on the beach. Every perv with eyes would have her image on speed dial – permanently burned into the CD ROM of the ol’ spank bank. Of course I was gonna go with her.
As we headed off toward the boardwalk, I let her have a little bit of a head start so I could enjoy the view. Oh, that ass! (Hey, I needed a snapshot for the spank bank too.)
When we got to the soft-serve stand on the boardwalk, Katie ordered a vanilla cone. I paid. She balked, but I insisted. As we headed back, she suddenly stopped short.
“How come you didn’t get anything, Quinn?” “I didn’t want anything.”
I looked at her. Hair still wet. Like Aphrodite herself risen from the sea in an almost non-existent yellow and black polka dot bikini.
“You don’t want anything?”
“Nope.”
She took a step toward me. Close enough so I noticed the tiny flecks of hazel in her otherwise deep blue eyes.
“Are you sure about that? Sure you wouldn’t even like a taste?”
She twirled the ice cream on her tongue. Her bikini was cut so low, I thought I detected a hint of pubis winking at me.
She gave me the look. You know the look. What could I do?
“Actually, I would like a taste of that ice cream.”
I pulled her into me and kissed her: ice cream on her tongue. She kissed me back. We were really going at it. I slid my hand down inside her bikini bottom to cop a quick squeeze of ass.
“You just made me drop my ice cream.” She laughed.
“I’ll buy you another.” ...
From "KING OF THE NEW YORK STREETS"
Read it now!!! ...
https://www.amazon.com/KING-YORK-STRE...
Couldn’t afford a shitty, above ground pool for the backyard? Pack up the kids in the ol’ junk box and head for Rockaway. Shit, the Ramones even wrote a song about it.
There I was, soaking in the sun along with bikini-clad Katie and four other girls from our 60 Park crew. Katie looked amazing in that bikini: yellow with black polka dots. At one point, she’d decided to cool off in the water. When she got back to the blanket, I noticed that her sea-soaked bikini bottom had somehow hiked itself up; leaving her with a self-inflicted wedgie that all but exposed her glorious posterior. Although this was the pre-thong era, Katie had apparently seen the future – and I, the very gateway to paradise.
“Katie, your ass is totally showing!” Maryanne, one of the girls in our crew, said.
Katie nonchalantly reached behind her and yanked the material of her bikini down over her shapely bottom. Lying there next to her on a beach towel, staring straight up at those magnificent glutes, I silently thanked the Lord that I’d chosen to wear my old, baggy cut-offs rather than my tight-fitting swim trunks. No, that sure as hell wasn’t a banana in my pocket.
“You’re shoulders look pretty red, Quinn. How about a little sunscreen?” Maryanne said.
Maryanne had made it abundantly clear that she had a thing for me. She was a cute girl. A little too zaftig for my tastes at the time – and definitely no competition for Katie: the Emerald Isle’s answer to Phoebe Cates.
I thought Maryanne was going to simply pass me the bottle of sunscreen. Instead, she insisted on doing the honors.
“You’ve got big shoulders,” Maryanne said, as she slathered me with sunscreen, “You’re back is really muscular too.”
I glanced over at Katie who was now stretched out flat on her back on a beach blanket alongside me. Her eyes were shut as if deep asleep. I watched the slight, almost imperceptible rise and fall of her flat belly with each breath; the faint outline of her toned abs; the perfect “innie’ belly button; the smooth, sun-tanned skin.
I could’ve had sex with Maryanne right there next to Katie and the latter probably wouldn’t have batted an eyelash. That was my relationship with Katie in a nutshell. After Maryanne finished giving me a thorough lubing and checked my filter, Katie eyes suddenly sprang open. She sat up on her blanket.
“I could really go for some ice cream. Wanna take a walk with me, Quinn?”
No need to ask. In that bikini she was wearing, Katie was a stone adolescent masturbatory fantasy; a sex magnet for every creep on the beach. Every perv with eyes would have her image on speed dial – permanently burned into the CD ROM of the ol’ spank bank. Of course I was gonna go with her.
As we headed off toward the boardwalk, I let her have a little bit of a head start so I could enjoy the view. Oh, that ass! (Hey, I needed a snapshot for the spank bank too.)
When we got to the soft-serve stand on the boardwalk, Katie ordered a vanilla cone. I paid. She balked, but I insisted. As we headed back, she suddenly stopped short.
“How come you didn’t get anything, Quinn?” “I didn’t want anything.”
I looked at her. Hair still wet. Like Aphrodite herself risen from the sea in an almost non-existent yellow and black polka dot bikini.
“You don’t want anything?”
“Nope.”
She took a step toward me. Close enough so I noticed the tiny flecks of hazel in her otherwise deep blue eyes.
“Are you sure about that? Sure you wouldn’t even like a taste?”
She twirled the ice cream on her tongue. Her bikini was cut so low, I thought I detected a hint of pubis winking at me.
She gave me the look. You know the look. What could I do?
“Actually, I would like a taste of that ice cream.”
I pulled her into me and kissed her: ice cream on her tongue. She kissed me back. We were really going at it. I slid my hand down inside her bikini bottom to cop a quick squeeze of ass.
“You just made me drop my ice cream.” She laughed.
“I’ll buy you another.” ...
From "KING OF THE NEW YORK STREETS"
Read it now!!! ...
https://www.amazon.com/KING-YORK-STRE...
August 2, 2021
DIRTY WORDS
Oh, I know there are those of you who shake your head and clutch your Rosary Beads whenever I let slip yet another F-bomb -- all you prissy, judgemental little pussy farts who've led absolutely perfect lives ... never lied, cheated, coveted a close friend's new piece of ass, or wished ill upon another. Yeah! Im talkin' to YOU!!! You mealy-mouthed phoneys who are mortally offended by words ... WORDS!!!
I once heard it said that to the physcian, nothing about the human body is dirty. I'm a writer. For me, there are no dirty words! To be sure, there are some truly ugly, venomous words. Words that still carry their baggage of hate and ignorance. Words that only serve to wound. But those are few in number and remain the exclusive property of the poisoned minds that birthed them. Those aren't the words I speak of.
The great defense attorney, Clarence Darrow (one of my idols), was once reprimanded by a judge for using "salty" language. Darrow's response (and forgive my paraphrase) was to inform the judge that given that language is such a woefully inadequate instrument, he felt he should be allowed to use ALL the words. So, in the spirit of that immortal utterance, I'd just like to say, "FUCK YOU!" ... 😁
I once heard it said that to the physcian, nothing about the human body is dirty. I'm a writer. For me, there are no dirty words! To be sure, there are some truly ugly, venomous words. Words that still carry their baggage of hate and ignorance. Words that only serve to wound. But those are few in number and remain the exclusive property of the poisoned minds that birthed them. Those aren't the words I speak of.
The great defense attorney, Clarence Darrow (one of my idols), was once reprimanded by a judge for using "salty" language. Darrow's response (and forgive my paraphrase) was to inform the judge that given that language is such a woefully inadequate instrument, he felt he should be allowed to use ALL the words. So, in the spirit of that immortal utterance, I'd just like to say, "FUCK YOU!" ... 😁
October 23, 2020
CHASING ARNOLD (ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER, BARE NAKED LADIES, AND MY QUEST FOR PHYSICAL PERFECTION)
“I’m coming at the gym … I’m coming at home. I’m coming when I pose in front of five-thousand people. I’m coming day and night … I’m in Heaven!” – Arnold Schwarzenegger (Pumping Iron)
The year was 1975. I sat transfixed in the theater; Arnold’s words ringing in my ears – his deltoids and biceps filling the screen as he pumped them to freakish proportions. The Limbic Region of my 15-year-old brain lit up like a pinball machine. I’d found religion. I too wanted to be “coming day and night!” I wanted women to eye me with awe and wonder – like something carved from raw Italian marble (or perhaps hidden under a tarp at a circus freak show).
My quest for physical perfection had begun …
I joined “Mid-City” – the mecca of New York bodybuilding: a tiny dungeon of a gym located in the heart of NYC’s theater district offering little more than a collection of medieval Universal exercise machines and beat up free weights. Hot, smelly, poorly ventilated … it was like working out in the sweatbox of a Mississippi chain gang.
Arriving for an afternoon training session, I stumbled upon a scene that would forever leave its mark on my teenage psyche … like a ding in a 45 lb Olympic barbell plate.
There was Arnold himself! Wearing nothing more than a pair of posing trunks and thin sheen of baby oil … surrounded by six Playboy-perfect, butt naked blondes!!! I’d wandered into the middle of a photo shoot. Slack-jawed, I watched along with a handful of other gym rats, as Arnold was snapped pressing and curling the girls like barbells. During a momentary break in the shoot, I caught the Austrian Oak’s eye …
“You see!” He said, pointing a sausage-like finger at me (even his digits were well-developed), “Bodybuilding is pleaaasssure … twenty-four hours a day!”
I’d been anointed. How many people can claim their first glimpse of bare, naked cooch was accompanied by Arnold Schwarzenegger standing not ten feet away … in posing trunks!? (Something I’m still trying to work out in therapy … and I never even thanked him!)
For the next 35 years, I lived Arnold’s credo … leaving bits and pieces of myself in bodybuilding and boxing gyms throughout NYC … then the move to Vegas and 24 Hour Fitness. I took supplements … all of ‘em … from the very first plaster of Paris-like protein powders, to nitro-infused creatine. My workouts proved to be cyclical – much like everything else in life – with the inevitable ups and downs trending toward the down.
Eventually, I began to realize I’d been sold a bill of goods. Arnold was full of crap! Bodybuilding was NOT pleasure twenty-four hours a day … and pumping up your biceps didn’t feel better than an orgasm (after all, Arnold wasn’t caught doing incline dumbbell curls with his housekeeper).
My enthusiasm sputtered. I spent more time hefting venti mochaccinos at the Starbucks next door to my health club than iron. After 35 years of munching barbells, I did the unthinkable: I stopped going to the gym. My new “home workout” consisted of 2 minutes with a Shake Weight (a pink “Lady” Shake Weight I’d inherited from an ex-girlfriend), followed by a few sets of push-ups and pull-ups … pathetic. Though I was no longer the gym animal of my youth, I consoled myself with the fact that I was still in much better shape than most guys my age (sort of like winning a wet T-shirt contest in an assisted living facility).
Finally, disgusted by my sissy boy workouts and dwindling upper pecs, I decided to get serious again. With a mere 8 weeks to my 53rd birthday, I was determined to do the impossible – to get in “the best shape of my life” (a hypothetical, much like the Lost City of Atlantis and the female G-spot).
Dusting off my old Mass Nutrition account, I hopped online and had some supplements express shipped: whey protein isolate, creatine, and a new “stack” guaranteed to pack on slabs of lean muscle. Having put my 24 Hour Fitness membership in mothballs years ago, I decided to use the “fitness room” at my condo, shooting for a 4xs weekly split-body workout. Usually vacant, the room was equipped with the bare essentials: rack of dumbbells; lat machine; Nautilus-type bench/military press combo – all I required.
I hit the iron. Two mornings; two afternoons a week. The first few workouts were rough. Incline bench press was my lead exercise -- working the upper pecs and front delts. That first morning I was only able to crank out eight reps with the maximum weight of 200 lbs … not bad, but not exactly Mr. Olympia caliber either. After 4 sets and a quick adjustment, I rolled directly into seated military presses … followed by lateral dumbbell raises and some triceps push-downs on the lat machine. Doing all 4 exercises in quick succession like a giant “super-set” – a training technique glommed from an old Weider Muscle Builder magazine – gave me a vicious pump. It might not have been a roll in the hay … but man it felt good!
By the end of the 3rd week, there was a noticeable change in my upper-body. I was beginning to see signs of the old “cannonball” delts I’d once sported, and my large size shirts were beginning to wear like straightjackets. Once again I was that 15-year-old boy in the movie theater: Chasing Arnold. Chasing the pump. I’d concocted a little mental game for myself – a test of willpower and stamina. Each time I hit the gym (fitness room), I’d challenge myself not to put down the weights before the guy working out next to me (usually some kid half my age), and rarely came out on the losing end.
Along with the change in my physique, came a change in demeanor. The anabolic stack I was using to beef-up, transformed my normally sweet disposition into something akin to that of a rattlesnake passing a kidney stone.
“Good thing I bought fuckin’ green bananas!” I snarled at a Whole Foods clerk, as I wrestled with a plastic produce bag; muttering obscenities as I struggled vainly to find the opening.
Okay. So I had the temperament of a premenopausal roller derby queen … but goddamn! I’d done it!!! I’d turned back the clock – drawing the same admiring stares I once had as a teenage muscle-head. Even with an increase in muscle mass, the scale in my doctor’s office registered a drop in bodyweight. During a routine physical, the young PA did a double take when she noticed the birthdate listed on my chart … 53???
By week six I was banging out 26 reps on the 200 lb incline presses. King of my condo’s fitness room, I felt like Godzilla laying waste to a miniature scale model of Tokyo. Then I peaked. By week seven, my spike in strength had flat-lined. I’d aggravated an old shoulder injury, and the almost workout-to-workout progress I’d been enjoying had stalled. My iron sessions no longer had the same ferocity. Then came the final blow.
Dragging myself to the fitness room one morning, I found my only company to be a senior working out on the elliptical machine. Rockin’ an American flag bandana and a “The Spin Stops Here!” T-shirt, the varicose veins on the old geezer’s spindly calves resembled a map of the Venetian canal system. Easy pickin’s for certain. I was determined not to put down the iron ‘til I sent Grandpa back to his rocking chair and DVR’d episodes of The O’Reilly Factor.
I hung with him thru a 30 minute elliptical session, followed by treadmill, dumbbell curls and ab crunches. I actually thought I had him when he momentarily paused during lateral raises, but … what was this??? … The old boy was popping vitamins! … right in the middle of a workout!!! (Isn’t that cheating?!) I could hardly believe my eyes! Before I could say, “low testosterone,” he was back hammering out incline dumbbell flies with a pair of 40s!
Rotator cuff throbbing, I finally racked my weights. I’d hit the wall, but the old fart was still going … one-arm push-ups for Christ’s sake!!! The better man had won. Had to give him props! I shook his workout-gloved hand and congratulated him on making those 40 lb iron twins his bitches. Still short of breath, I told him about my approaching birthday … the big 5-3. About the 8 week challenge I’d set myself.
“53?” He said, looking me over with an air of superiority, as palpable as the scent of Ben-Gay. “You’re in pretty good shape for a guy your age.”
Pretty good shape for a guy my age? Was he puttin’ me on?
“If I’m not being too personal, how old are you?”
“48.” Mopping the sweat from his cue ball-like dome, he added, “I’m not looking forward to 50!”
I grinned; running a hand through my thick, dark hair. I’d Just had it cut short and spikey … like some of the younger guys I’d observed hitting the iron. Okay. So I wasn’t up for one-arm pushups due to a bum rotator cuff … at least my follicles hadn’t deserted me (thanks to good genetics -- and a twice-daily dose of Rogaine). I still had the façade of youth – if not the resting heart rate …
I didn’t work out the next morning … or the morning after that. In fact, I decided to take a break from the weights. Celebrate my upcoming birthday with a little brew and a lot of down time in front of the plasma; watching the special 25th anniversary edition of Pumping Iron on DVD. As Billy Crystal used to say in that old Saturday Night Live bit: “It is better to look good, than to feel good!”
Originally published in a slightly different format in Trend Prive magazine ...
The year was 1975. I sat transfixed in the theater; Arnold’s words ringing in my ears – his deltoids and biceps filling the screen as he pumped them to freakish proportions. The Limbic Region of my 15-year-old brain lit up like a pinball machine. I’d found religion. I too wanted to be “coming day and night!” I wanted women to eye me with awe and wonder – like something carved from raw Italian marble (or perhaps hidden under a tarp at a circus freak show).
My quest for physical perfection had begun …
I joined “Mid-City” – the mecca of New York bodybuilding: a tiny dungeon of a gym located in the heart of NYC’s theater district offering little more than a collection of medieval Universal exercise machines and beat up free weights. Hot, smelly, poorly ventilated … it was like working out in the sweatbox of a Mississippi chain gang.
Arriving for an afternoon training session, I stumbled upon a scene that would forever leave its mark on my teenage psyche … like a ding in a 45 lb Olympic barbell plate.
There was Arnold himself! Wearing nothing more than a pair of posing trunks and thin sheen of baby oil … surrounded by six Playboy-perfect, butt naked blondes!!! I’d wandered into the middle of a photo shoot. Slack-jawed, I watched along with a handful of other gym rats, as Arnold was snapped pressing and curling the girls like barbells. During a momentary break in the shoot, I caught the Austrian Oak’s eye …
“You see!” He said, pointing a sausage-like finger at me (even his digits were well-developed), “Bodybuilding is pleaaasssure … twenty-four hours a day!”
I’d been anointed. How many people can claim their first glimpse of bare, naked cooch was accompanied by Arnold Schwarzenegger standing not ten feet away … in posing trunks!? (Something I’m still trying to work out in therapy … and I never even thanked him!)
For the next 35 years, I lived Arnold’s credo … leaving bits and pieces of myself in bodybuilding and boxing gyms throughout NYC … then the move to Vegas and 24 Hour Fitness. I took supplements … all of ‘em … from the very first plaster of Paris-like protein powders, to nitro-infused creatine. My workouts proved to be cyclical – much like everything else in life – with the inevitable ups and downs trending toward the down.
Eventually, I began to realize I’d been sold a bill of goods. Arnold was full of crap! Bodybuilding was NOT pleasure twenty-four hours a day … and pumping up your biceps didn’t feel better than an orgasm (after all, Arnold wasn’t caught doing incline dumbbell curls with his housekeeper).
My enthusiasm sputtered. I spent more time hefting venti mochaccinos at the Starbucks next door to my health club than iron. After 35 years of munching barbells, I did the unthinkable: I stopped going to the gym. My new “home workout” consisted of 2 minutes with a Shake Weight (a pink “Lady” Shake Weight I’d inherited from an ex-girlfriend), followed by a few sets of push-ups and pull-ups … pathetic. Though I was no longer the gym animal of my youth, I consoled myself with the fact that I was still in much better shape than most guys my age (sort of like winning a wet T-shirt contest in an assisted living facility).
Finally, disgusted by my sissy boy workouts and dwindling upper pecs, I decided to get serious again. With a mere 8 weeks to my 53rd birthday, I was determined to do the impossible – to get in “the best shape of my life” (a hypothetical, much like the Lost City of Atlantis and the female G-spot).
Dusting off my old Mass Nutrition account, I hopped online and had some supplements express shipped: whey protein isolate, creatine, and a new “stack” guaranteed to pack on slabs of lean muscle. Having put my 24 Hour Fitness membership in mothballs years ago, I decided to use the “fitness room” at my condo, shooting for a 4xs weekly split-body workout. Usually vacant, the room was equipped with the bare essentials: rack of dumbbells; lat machine; Nautilus-type bench/military press combo – all I required.
I hit the iron. Two mornings; two afternoons a week. The first few workouts were rough. Incline bench press was my lead exercise -- working the upper pecs and front delts. That first morning I was only able to crank out eight reps with the maximum weight of 200 lbs … not bad, but not exactly Mr. Olympia caliber either. After 4 sets and a quick adjustment, I rolled directly into seated military presses … followed by lateral dumbbell raises and some triceps push-downs on the lat machine. Doing all 4 exercises in quick succession like a giant “super-set” – a training technique glommed from an old Weider Muscle Builder magazine – gave me a vicious pump. It might not have been a roll in the hay … but man it felt good!
By the end of the 3rd week, there was a noticeable change in my upper-body. I was beginning to see signs of the old “cannonball” delts I’d once sported, and my large size shirts were beginning to wear like straightjackets. Once again I was that 15-year-old boy in the movie theater: Chasing Arnold. Chasing the pump. I’d concocted a little mental game for myself – a test of willpower and stamina. Each time I hit the gym (fitness room), I’d challenge myself not to put down the weights before the guy working out next to me (usually some kid half my age), and rarely came out on the losing end.
Along with the change in my physique, came a change in demeanor. The anabolic stack I was using to beef-up, transformed my normally sweet disposition into something akin to that of a rattlesnake passing a kidney stone.
“Good thing I bought fuckin’ green bananas!” I snarled at a Whole Foods clerk, as I wrestled with a plastic produce bag; muttering obscenities as I struggled vainly to find the opening.
Okay. So I had the temperament of a premenopausal roller derby queen … but goddamn! I’d done it!!! I’d turned back the clock – drawing the same admiring stares I once had as a teenage muscle-head. Even with an increase in muscle mass, the scale in my doctor’s office registered a drop in bodyweight. During a routine physical, the young PA did a double take when she noticed the birthdate listed on my chart … 53???
By week six I was banging out 26 reps on the 200 lb incline presses. King of my condo’s fitness room, I felt like Godzilla laying waste to a miniature scale model of Tokyo. Then I peaked. By week seven, my spike in strength had flat-lined. I’d aggravated an old shoulder injury, and the almost workout-to-workout progress I’d been enjoying had stalled. My iron sessions no longer had the same ferocity. Then came the final blow.
Dragging myself to the fitness room one morning, I found my only company to be a senior working out on the elliptical machine. Rockin’ an American flag bandana and a “The Spin Stops Here!” T-shirt, the varicose veins on the old geezer’s spindly calves resembled a map of the Venetian canal system. Easy pickin’s for certain. I was determined not to put down the iron ‘til I sent Grandpa back to his rocking chair and DVR’d episodes of The O’Reilly Factor.
I hung with him thru a 30 minute elliptical session, followed by treadmill, dumbbell curls and ab crunches. I actually thought I had him when he momentarily paused during lateral raises, but … what was this??? … The old boy was popping vitamins! … right in the middle of a workout!!! (Isn’t that cheating?!) I could hardly believe my eyes! Before I could say, “low testosterone,” he was back hammering out incline dumbbell flies with a pair of 40s!
Rotator cuff throbbing, I finally racked my weights. I’d hit the wall, but the old fart was still going … one-arm push-ups for Christ’s sake!!! The better man had won. Had to give him props! I shook his workout-gloved hand and congratulated him on making those 40 lb iron twins his bitches. Still short of breath, I told him about my approaching birthday … the big 5-3. About the 8 week challenge I’d set myself.
“53?” He said, looking me over with an air of superiority, as palpable as the scent of Ben-Gay. “You’re in pretty good shape for a guy your age.”
Pretty good shape for a guy my age? Was he puttin’ me on?
“If I’m not being too personal, how old are you?”
“48.” Mopping the sweat from his cue ball-like dome, he added, “I’m not looking forward to 50!”
I grinned; running a hand through my thick, dark hair. I’d Just had it cut short and spikey … like some of the younger guys I’d observed hitting the iron. Okay. So I wasn’t up for one-arm pushups due to a bum rotator cuff … at least my follicles hadn’t deserted me (thanks to good genetics -- and a twice-daily dose of Rogaine). I still had the façade of youth – if not the resting heart rate …
I didn’t work out the next morning … or the morning after that. In fact, I decided to take a break from the weights. Celebrate my upcoming birthday with a little brew and a lot of down time in front of the plasma; watching the special 25th anniversary edition of Pumping Iron on DVD. As Billy Crystal used to say in that old Saturday Night Live bit: “It is better to look good, than to feel good!”
Originally published in a slightly different format in Trend Prive magazine ...
September 19, 2020
ZOMBIES & FOOTBALL
ZOMBIES & FOOTBALL! What could be more uniquely American? Just to demonstrate I was ahead of the curve on the whole Zombie Craze, an excerpt from my 2008 novel "Horse Latitudes" (and my sincere apologies to Pat Benatar) ...
That night he dreamed.
It was a football game: famous dead writers versus the man-eating zombies. He was quarterbacking. Chester Sprockett.
The contest was brutal: seesawing back and forth right from the initial kickoff—the zombies now leading by a single touchdown. With only three minutes left on the clock, Chester called a timeout and hastily gathered his team into a huddle.
“Well, we’re really in the shit house now.” Ernie Hemingway said, wiping at some blood on his chin with an enormous, hairy forearm.
He glanced at James Joyce crouching next to him in the huddle and spat disgustedly into the dirt, “Of course that’s largely due to the fact that there’s a certain member of our squad who couldn’t find his own arsehole without benefit of a flashlight and compass…also incapable of writing a pure, simple uncluttered sentence.”
Joyce pretended to ignore the comment, absently fiddling with his chinstrap. The helmet he’d been issued was much too large and kept slipping down over his eyes. Not that it really mattered. Earlier in the game the Irish author had his bifocals stepped on during a scrimmage, and, blind as a bat, had inadvertently run the ball back to the wrong goalpost scoring a touchdown for the opposing team. Poor Papa had nearly had a hemorrhage.
“Save it Ernie!” Chester snapped. He shot Hemingway a reproachful look, “It’s not Jimmy’s fault you stepped on his fucking glasses. Besides, I dig some of that stream-of-consciousness crap. Although if it proves to be excessively baroque—as in the case of Nabakov—it can give me a migraine.”
Hemingway grunted and nodded. He gave the Irish author a friendly thump on the back causing the helmet to drop down over his eyes again. Henry Miller scratched himself and chuckled. Kafka sighed.
“Okay. There’s still three minutes left on the clock and I fully intend to win this fucker. Here’s the deal…” The circle tightened; everyone listening intently. “What we’re gonna do here his thread the needle. Ernie, I want you to open a hole in their defensive line. Henry, I want you to go through that hole and get clear. I’m gonna drop it right in your arms.”
Just then Truman Capote waddled by wearing an over-sized pair of shoulder pads. He looked like a frightened turtle peering out from its shell.
“While Ernest is busy tending to Henry’s hole, what shall the rest of us all do?”
Chester watched one of the zombies tear off its teammate’s arm and hungrily gnaw at the rotting flesh. “Pray.” He said.
Norman Mailer came bounding over wearing a black Ninja outfit waving an assault rifle.
“Forget that fag. I say we kill these bastards. Rip their balls off. Sodomize their children. Fuck football! This is war!”
“Take it easy Norman.” Chester said. “Besides, you’re not dead. What the hell are you doing in this dream?”
“Not dead?…Have you seen ‘Tough Guys Don’t Dance’?”
“Negative.”
“I invested four million out of pocket; cast Ryan O’Neal in the lead…and directed.”
“You’re a sick man.”
The huddle broke and everyone assumed their positions. One by one, the zombies slowly began to form a line in front of Chester and his teammates. The zombies all had identical black helmets with a skull and crossbones painted on the side, and instead of football uniforms, wore expensively tailored business suits. Apparently they were all former marketing reps for Barnes & Noble.
“On four.” Chester said.
“On four.” Ernie Hemingway said.
“On who?” Truman Capote lisped.
Chester made the sign of the cross and began counting off. “HUT ONE. HUT TWO. HUT THREE…”
The ball was snapped. Two of the zombies launched themselves at Chester. Hemingway clotheslined the bastards; decapitating one and sending his head skittering across the field. Mistaking the head for a football, several of the zombie’s teammates piled on top of it, leaving a gaping hole in their defensive line. With scarcely a minute left to play, Chester fired a pass out to Henry Miller who made a spectacular, twisting mid-air catch, running the ball in for a touchdown.
“GRAND!…JUST GRAND!” Hemingway roared.
Chester and Papa high-fived each other. Lowering their heads, they butted helmets affectionately.
Over on the sidelines Pat Benatar and the lingerie models on the cheerleading squad erupted in a wild frenzy of shouting and pom-pom waving. Hips gyrating, the girls hiked up their ruffled miniskirts in turn; their cute, panty-clad bottoms each strategically emblazoned with a large red letter spelling out the word “SPROCKETT”.
Pat winked at Chester; blowing him a kiss with her pouty, well-rouged lips. Damn. There was something about that broad. That sexy elfishness. Tonight he was gonna invite her out for a drink and throw the rocks to her. Hard. Football. What a fucking game ...
https://lasvegassun.com/news/2009/apr...
That night he dreamed.
It was a football game: famous dead writers versus the man-eating zombies. He was quarterbacking. Chester Sprockett.
The contest was brutal: seesawing back and forth right from the initial kickoff—the zombies now leading by a single touchdown. With only three minutes left on the clock, Chester called a timeout and hastily gathered his team into a huddle.
“Well, we’re really in the shit house now.” Ernie Hemingway said, wiping at some blood on his chin with an enormous, hairy forearm.
He glanced at James Joyce crouching next to him in the huddle and spat disgustedly into the dirt, “Of course that’s largely due to the fact that there’s a certain member of our squad who couldn’t find his own arsehole without benefit of a flashlight and compass…also incapable of writing a pure, simple uncluttered sentence.”
Joyce pretended to ignore the comment, absently fiddling with his chinstrap. The helmet he’d been issued was much too large and kept slipping down over his eyes. Not that it really mattered. Earlier in the game the Irish author had his bifocals stepped on during a scrimmage, and, blind as a bat, had inadvertently run the ball back to the wrong goalpost scoring a touchdown for the opposing team. Poor Papa had nearly had a hemorrhage.
“Save it Ernie!” Chester snapped. He shot Hemingway a reproachful look, “It’s not Jimmy’s fault you stepped on his fucking glasses. Besides, I dig some of that stream-of-consciousness crap. Although if it proves to be excessively baroque—as in the case of Nabakov—it can give me a migraine.”
Hemingway grunted and nodded. He gave the Irish author a friendly thump on the back causing the helmet to drop down over his eyes again. Henry Miller scratched himself and chuckled. Kafka sighed.
“Okay. There’s still three minutes left on the clock and I fully intend to win this fucker. Here’s the deal…” The circle tightened; everyone listening intently. “What we’re gonna do here his thread the needle. Ernie, I want you to open a hole in their defensive line. Henry, I want you to go through that hole and get clear. I’m gonna drop it right in your arms.”
Just then Truman Capote waddled by wearing an over-sized pair of shoulder pads. He looked like a frightened turtle peering out from its shell.
“While Ernest is busy tending to Henry’s hole, what shall the rest of us all do?”
Chester watched one of the zombies tear off its teammate’s arm and hungrily gnaw at the rotting flesh. “Pray.” He said.
Norman Mailer came bounding over wearing a black Ninja outfit waving an assault rifle.
“Forget that fag. I say we kill these bastards. Rip their balls off. Sodomize their children. Fuck football! This is war!”
“Take it easy Norman.” Chester said. “Besides, you’re not dead. What the hell are you doing in this dream?”
“Not dead?…Have you seen ‘Tough Guys Don’t Dance’?”
“Negative.”
“I invested four million out of pocket; cast Ryan O’Neal in the lead…and directed.”
“You’re a sick man.”
The huddle broke and everyone assumed their positions. One by one, the zombies slowly began to form a line in front of Chester and his teammates. The zombies all had identical black helmets with a skull and crossbones painted on the side, and instead of football uniforms, wore expensively tailored business suits. Apparently they were all former marketing reps for Barnes & Noble.
“On four.” Chester said.
“On four.” Ernie Hemingway said.
“On who?” Truman Capote lisped.
Chester made the sign of the cross and began counting off. “HUT ONE. HUT TWO. HUT THREE…”
The ball was snapped. Two of the zombies launched themselves at Chester. Hemingway clotheslined the bastards; decapitating one and sending his head skittering across the field. Mistaking the head for a football, several of the zombie’s teammates piled on top of it, leaving a gaping hole in their defensive line. With scarcely a minute left to play, Chester fired a pass out to Henry Miller who made a spectacular, twisting mid-air catch, running the ball in for a touchdown.
“GRAND!…JUST GRAND!” Hemingway roared.
Chester and Papa high-fived each other. Lowering their heads, they butted helmets affectionately.
Over on the sidelines Pat Benatar and the lingerie models on the cheerleading squad erupted in a wild frenzy of shouting and pom-pom waving. Hips gyrating, the girls hiked up their ruffled miniskirts in turn; their cute, panty-clad bottoms each strategically emblazoned with a large red letter spelling out the word “SPROCKETT”. Pat winked at Chester; blowing him a kiss with her pouty, well-rouged lips. Damn. There was something about that broad. That sexy elfishness. Tonight he was gonna invite her out for a drink and throw the rocks to her. Hard. Football. What a fucking game ...
https://lasvegassun.com/news/2009/apr...
September 6, 2020
KING OF THE NEW YORK STREETS
SHE WAS A KNOCKOUT. A stoned fox. I’d never seen her before. Not one of the cutesy Irish Barbie Dolls I normally fell for, this was something of a different class altogether. No disco glam or sparkles or fashionably trashy stripper chic. No make-up or slutty, revealing outfit. No desperate, tits-in-your-face “notice me” B.S. This was something pure and earthy -- fresh as newly cut grass. The smoking-hot girl next door, but yet completely of another world and time. A true classic. She spotted me standing there and gave me one of those lingering looks that momentarily froze me in place. Without changing expression, she shifted her eyes back to the chessboard.
“Who’s the chick?” I asked Terry
“Helena. We have homeroom together.” I saw the smirk on Terry’s face, “Why don’t you go say hello?”
I didn’t need any encouragement. I casually made my way over to the card table where the chess match was winding down, exchanging an occasional nod or greeting.
“Quinn! You made it!” Maryanne was definitely glad to see me – and she wanted to make sure I knew it. “It’s been so long … I really miss seeing you.”
“Yeah. Nice seeing you too, Maryanne.”
“How’ve you been? Still boxing.”
“Just oranges down at the produce market.”
Maryanne laughed, “You’re really funny. Want me to get you a beer?”
I spotted an opening, “That’d be awesome. Could you please do me a favor? Check all the bottles and grab one that’s super cold? Skunky beer makes me sick.”
While Maryanne was off temperature checking the beer, I made my way over to the Chessboard.
“What’s up, Richie? Been a while.”
“Look who showed?” Richie gave my hand a shake, “Quinn, have you met Helena?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Helena took one of Richie’s pawns with her knight, “What makes you so sure it’s gonna be a pleasure?”
Attitude too. Perfect.
“I’m psychic.”
Helena looked up at me. Finally. A smile.
“Are you really?”
I nodded, “I can read people’s minds."
“Wow! What am I thinking right now?”
“I’d tell you, but I wouldn’t wanna make Richie blush.”
I got an even bigger smile. One that seemed to indicate I might actually be worth the time of day.
“Nice to meet you, Helena.” I held out my hand and she shook it.
“You can call me ‘Layna.”
“You can call me Quinn. I’ve got dibs on the winner.”
I kept all my fingers crossed and silently prayed that Richie would tank. Although he was definitely the “King of Kings” with a Pensy Pinkie, chess obviously wasn’t Richie’s game. He abdicated his seat and I helped Layna reset the board.
“So, you’re a school friend of Terry’s?”
“We both go to Lane.” Layna said, arranging her pieces.
Franklin K. Lane was one of the local high schools. Located near the Brooklyn-Queens border adjacent Cypress Hills cemetery, it had a tough reputation. Its roster of dropouts included future Godfather John Gotti and my own heartbroken mother; forced to leave in her sophomore year to help support an alcoholic mother.
Since she was the reigning champ, Layna got the white pieces and thus the opening move. Pawn to king four: one of the most common opening moves and statistically the most effective resulting in a win 55.95% of the time. I was actually a halfway decent chess player. A high school friend of mine had been a ranked player and taught me a little about the game. I responded by choosing to develop my Queen’s Knight. Not the most sophisticated response. But I was more interested in ogling Layna than the actual game.
“Care to wager -- just for fun?” I said.
“You’re on. What’re we playing for?”
“Strip chess. The loser has to remove an article of clothing. Shoes and socks are excluded. Wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”
“You’re such a gentleman. Alright. I’m in.”
I liked her already.
Layna was a spitfire. I could tell. I sat there checking out the merchandise; the view from up close even more impressive. Much like yours truly, she had a thick mane of dark hair that spilled to her shoulders; something between curly and wavy. It gave her a kind of exotic, “Sheena Queen of the Jungle” look. Perfect Jane to my Tarzan. Her eyebrows had a pronounced arch which in contrast to her warm, playful brown eyes gave her a somewhat mischievous, Gowan … I dare ya! Look.
Her features weren’t of the elfin, Irish variety, but fine and aristocratic; not the prominent “Roman” honker I sported – rather the elegant, European Dutchess model. The lips, slightly downturned at the corners, framed a set of perfect, white teeth visible even when she wasn’t speaking. Layna was a looker. Positively “smokin’” as all the guys at the party would later concur. Tall and generously endowed, her breasts -- while only modestly displayed – gave every indication of being of the “perky” variety. The all-important posterior (which I eagerly eyeballed when she rose from her seat) was both boner-worthy and positively adorable. High ‘n’ tight, Layna had the kind of ass you’d normally only expect to find on a well-developed Nubian Princess.
Maryanne was back with my beer. I checked the bottle to make sure it was good and cold.
“Perfect!”
Maryanne smiled.
“Would you mind getting one for Layna?”
Maryanne looked at me, “We’re in the middle of a game.” I said, “Make sure it’s good and cold, thanks.”
Visibly pissed, Maryanne nonetheless dutifully hurried off to fetch Layna a beer.
Before you could say Take off, zee bra, baby! I had Layna in check. Fortunately, she was only a so-so chess player.
“Looks like check and mate.” I said, relieving her of her last remaining bishop.
Layna made a face.
“We had a deal.”
“Which way to the ladies’ room?” Layna asked Maryanne who’d returned with her beer.
“Straight back and left past the kitchenette. Can’t miss it.”
It was clear Maryanne simply wasn’t gonna let me out of her sight. She stuck to me like a wad of chewing gum on the bottom of my shoe. As Maryanne tried her best to make small talk, Layna returned from the ladies’ room.
“Beer makes me piss like a racehorse.” She said.
Maryanne made a face and took a sip of beer.
“Good thing we’re not having tacos too. Beer and Mexican food make me fart.”
Maryanne looked positively horrified. Somehow I got the distinct impression that was precisely the effect Layna’s comment was intended to elicit.
“By the way, you’re a lousy welsher.”
“Welsher?” Layna feigned indignation.
“Strip chess – remember? You were supposed to take off an article of clothing.”
Layna gave me a wide-eyed look, “I did.”
“I must be missing something?”
“No. I am,” Layna smirked, “My panties. I took ’em off in the ladies’ room.”
Like an involuntary reflex, my eyes locked on the area in question.
“They’re in my back pocket,” Layna said, giving it a pat, “They’re really skimpy. I wear thongs.”
Reaching into her back pocket, Layna pulled out a pair of little pink thongs. The thought of Layna’s panty-less bottom really got my motor revving.
Layna wagged a finger at me, “Never accuse me of being a welsher again,” She scolded, “I always honor a bet.”
“I totally take it back. You’re obviously a woman of high culture and breeding.”
“One hundred percent German … the “master race,” Layna rolled her eyes to make sure I got the joke, “Growing up in Germany they did background checks on both parents. Not a single non-Aryan in the entire gene pool – except for a Turk on my mother’s side. They let that one slide.”
“Were you born in Germany?” I asked.
“No. But until I was about four, I only spoke German. By the way, what kind of panties do you wear, Maryanne?”
Poor, demure little Maryanne’s face turned redder than a stoplight, “I think someone’s calling me.”
“I didn’t hear anything.” Layna said.
“Would you like another beer, Quinn?” Maryanne asked.
“I’m good.”
“Me too.” Layna said.
“I think I could definitely use one.” Maryanne suddenly vanished like the last slice of pizza at Knights of Columbus mixer.
Layna smiled, “Hope it wasn’t something I said?”
Layna and I got to spend some quality time shooting the breeze. She was from Glendale; a little town right next to my own Queens neighborhood. As it turned out, she grew up in that little, red shingled two family home just off Cooper Avenue – the one I’d so often pass en route to visiting my father’s friend in Brooklyn.
“So, what’s shakin’ over in Glendale these days? Whataya do for kicks.”
“Hang out over at Neon Signs.”
“Neon Signs?” My heart sank a bit, “A disco?”
I got a withering look, “Disco? Hell no! It’s a shop that makes neon signs in my neighborhood.”
“Neon signs …” I said, nodding as if I had even the slightest clue.
“At night a bunch of us hang out there. We smoke, drink beer. Gotta be careful though. I only live a couple blocks away. Sometimes my father’s out riding his bike.”
“Your father rides a motorcycle? … Cool.”
“No. A bicycle.”
“A bicycle? Oh, you mean like onea those European racer dudes … Tour de France.”
Layna shook her head, “No. He’s just cheap and doesn’t wanna spend money on gas.”
“Makes sense.” I said.
Layna shook her head, “No. It’s just embarrassing.”
“What else do you do?”
“Sometimes we head over to Catalpa.”
“A club?”
“A Laundromat over on Catalpa Avenue. Another late-night hangout.”
“Laundromats … neon signs. You like to live on the edge – doncha, Layna.”
“Oh, like hangin’ out at 60 Park is some big friggin’ deal? I know people from your neighborhood.”
“Like who?”
“Burt.”
“Burt?”
“Eddie Cicalese. We call him Burt ’cause he looks like Burt Reynolds.”
Eddie lived on my block. We’d both attended Saint Thomas. Fairly tight as youngsters, I hadn’t seen much of him in recent years.
“So, you know Eddie Cicalese?”
“Know him? … I almost went out with him! One of my friends tried to fix us up.”
“But she didn’t … I mean you didn’t?”
Layna shook her head. I felt a sudden wave of relief break over me.
From my memoir, "King of the New York Streets" ...
KING OF THE NEW YORK STREETS
June 21, 2020
FERNGLOW'S FINAL EQUATION: NEW FICTION IN LITERARY HEIST
Fernglow had done it. Or so he claimed. For ten years he’d been holed up in a tiny, cubbyhole of an office in the basement of the Physics Building scrawling impossibly long equations on a chalkboard not quite long enough to accommodate them. Day after day; week after week; month after month … well. You get the picture.
The phone rang shortly after noon in the director’s suite. It was Fernglow on the line. Breathlessly, he informed the director that he’d done it; formulated a mathematical equation that would alter the very course of Western civilization – perhaps Eastern civilization too. More important than E=MC2. More revolutionary than Fermat’s Theorem. Grab your socks and haul it over to the Physics Building – pronto!
With visions of a Nobel Prize dancing in his head, the director did as he was instructed. Though he’d sworn off wearing socks years ago, he grabbed Dean Jones – titular head of the Physics Department – and the two men hurried over to Fernglow’s office. This could be big. Very big! A member of the faculty being awarded a Nobel would be justification for yet another tuition hike. A BIG one. It already cost $1,000,000 a semester to attend the university – not including textbooks – and the only bragging rights trumpeted in the institution’s brochure was an adjunct biology professor who could play Red Sails in the Sunset on a series of specimen jars.
“Do you think he’s really done it?” Dean Jones asked.
“He wouldn’t call us down here in the middle of the day if he hadn’t.” The director offered, eagerly rapping on Fernglow’s door which bore a large “DO NOT DISTURB” sign.
The door creaked open and there Fernglow stood; grinning at the two men through bloodshot eyes.
“Fernglow – is it true? Have you really done it?”
Fernglow smiled and nodded, running his fingers distractedly through his long hermit’s beard. It reminded the director of a National Geographic program he’d once seen on TV about a man who sported a beard comprised entirely of live bumblebees. Guy probably saved a fortune on honey.
Seizing both men by the elbow, Fernglow ushered them over to his chalkboard.
“Well … whattaya think?” ...
A physics professor attempts to end the scourge of gun violence by means of a simple mathematical theorem.
Read the rest of "Fernglow's Final Equation" along with an outstanding assortment of other short stories, articles, poems & reviews in the new Summer Edition of Literary Heist ...
https://www.literaryheist.com/short-s...
The phone rang shortly after noon in the director’s suite. It was Fernglow on the line. Breathlessly, he informed the director that he’d done it; formulated a mathematical equation that would alter the very course of Western civilization – perhaps Eastern civilization too. More important than E=MC2. More revolutionary than Fermat’s Theorem. Grab your socks and haul it over to the Physics Building – pronto!
With visions of a Nobel Prize dancing in his head, the director did as he was instructed. Though he’d sworn off wearing socks years ago, he grabbed Dean Jones – titular head of the Physics Department – and the two men hurried over to Fernglow’s office. This could be big. Very big! A member of the faculty being awarded a Nobel would be justification for yet another tuition hike. A BIG one. It already cost $1,000,000 a semester to attend the university – not including textbooks – and the only bragging rights trumpeted in the institution’s brochure was an adjunct biology professor who could play Red Sails in the Sunset on a series of specimen jars.
“Do you think he’s really done it?” Dean Jones asked.
“He wouldn’t call us down here in the middle of the day if he hadn’t.” The director offered, eagerly rapping on Fernglow’s door which bore a large “DO NOT DISTURB” sign.
The door creaked open and there Fernglow stood; grinning at the two men through bloodshot eyes.
“Fernglow – is it true? Have you really done it?”
Fernglow smiled and nodded, running his fingers distractedly through his long hermit’s beard. It reminded the director of a National Geographic program he’d once seen on TV about a man who sported a beard comprised entirely of live bumblebees. Guy probably saved a fortune on honey.
Seizing both men by the elbow, Fernglow ushered them over to his chalkboard.
“Well … whattaya think?” ...
A physics professor attempts to end the scourge of gun violence by means of a simple mathematical theorem.
Read the rest of "Fernglow's Final Equation" along with an outstanding assortment of other short stories, articles, poems & reviews in the new Summer Edition of Literary Heist ...
https://www.literaryheist.com/short-s...
April 3, 2020
HELIUM-3 (NEW FICTION)
LOVE. This thing so often referenced by human beings. I do not understand it. An attraction of the sexes. I’ve studied it. Read of it in their literature. I understand the biological necessity of perpetuating the species. But one might accomplish this task with any partner. Why this obsession with a particular mate?
I have read the ancient tale of Layla and Majnun. Two Persian lovers separated by circumstance. “Star-crossed,” as humans say. Majnun is refused Layla’s hand in marriage by her father who has betrothed her to a wealthy nobleman. Both lovers eventually perish from what is often referred to as a “broken heart.” Though I have studied human anatomy as part of my orientation and know of many conditions which may afflict the heart, I have found no case studies in which one has become “broken” in the manner inferred. I intend to study the phenomena further ...
An excerpt from my short story "HELIUM-3" -- An android, a woman, & mining a rare, energy-producing isotope on the moon.
A tale of love, gender & artificial intelligence all cloaked in the guise of hard scifi with a tip o' the hat to ancient Persian lit and one Mr. Eric Clapton.
Read the story ...
https://www.silverblade.net/2020/03/h...
Listen to Clapton's masterpiece ...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TngVi...
I have read the ancient tale of Layla and Majnun. Two Persian lovers separated by circumstance. “Star-crossed,” as humans say. Majnun is refused Layla’s hand in marriage by her father who has betrothed her to a wealthy nobleman. Both lovers eventually perish from what is often referred to as a “broken heart.” Though I have studied human anatomy as part of my orientation and know of many conditions which may afflict the heart, I have found no case studies in which one has become “broken” in the manner inferred. I intend to study the phenomena further ...
An excerpt from my short story "HELIUM-3" -- An android, a woman, & mining a rare, energy-producing isotope on the moon.
A tale of love, gender & artificial intelligence all cloaked in the guise of hard scifi with a tip o' the hat to ancient Persian lit and one Mr. Eric Clapton.
Read the story ...
https://www.silverblade.net/2020/03/h...
Listen to Clapton's masterpiece ...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TngVi...
