Summer Night

It was a soft night. A light breeze rubbed velvet air on his skin. The night called for swimming naked in the pond, under a full moon. But there was no pond. Only surf pounding against rocks, the crash of waves jarring the balminess of the night.

He stood at the edge of foamy water that lapped at his feet then pulled away, dragging sand along. He curled his toes, but could not hold the sand.

Out of reach of the waves, she waited, sky-clad under the half moon. Yet he stood without thinking, only feeling the softness of the night and the hardness of waves crashing in their ageless rhythm.

Finally, he joined her. Soft and hard, making a steamy, sultry summer night.

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Surgeon

The surgeon looked at the nurse and said, “I am not the idiot she says I am.”

This time she didn’t try to soothe his ego. She just looked away and sighed, while he went off to his private lair, whistling.

That night at home, she typed the day’s adventure into her computer.

“Today he was confronted with his stupidity, by one of his victims, no less.

“She’d hired him to take a suspicious-looking and probably dangerous large spot off her left leg. Only he cut a smaller, not dangerous spot off her right leg. When confronted with his error, he offered no apology. Rather, he demanded to know, if she knew it was the wrong leg, why she hadn’t stopped him?

“She screamed something about being unconscious at the time and stomped out. Then she yelled at the bookkeeper that the doctor better not send her a bill.”

When the nurse finished typing and printing the tale, she felt much calmer. And added the page to a great, fat 3-ring binder on her shelf.

Horse Laugh

True love, we are told, can withstand anything, barring necrophilia, disappearance and serial infidelity. My first venture into the slippery arena of amor, however, ended in a puddle of aromatic foam.

Cloudcroft, NM, is a mountain community whose revenue source at the time of this story, was largely from skiing and winter games. My family, dad Ken, mom Muriel, sister Shirley and I, were on our way to Hobbs, also in NM, to begin a new life. Mom suffered from respiratory problems and her doctor recommended she move to a dry desert locale and away from Iowa’s winters.

We arrived in Cloudcroft after supper one evening in early mid-September and took a room in a cheap motel. Two rooms down another family was carrying their suitcases into their room. I was outside staying out of the way while my parents set up a sleeping arrangement on the floor for my sister and me, when a girl about my age emerged from her room two down. From inside her mother’s voice counseled, “Don’t go too far, Millie.”

“Okay, mom,” the girl answered.

Millie had reddish-blond hair whose attractive tint captured my attention, and like me seemed at loose ends. Her gaze turned ninety degrees and spotted me. She walked toward me with a kind of natural boldness, then stopped by a 4×4 post supporting the overhang. “Hi,” she said leaning against the post

“Hi,” I answered. She was close enough for me to see that she had light blue eyes and a pale skin dotted with apricot freckles.

She regarded me, then said, “I’m Millie. What’s your name?”

After I answered, she regarded me some more, gnawing on her lower lip. Then she cast a glance back at the door to her room and said, “Let’s go for a walk.”

She had already left the post and started away from the row of connected rooms, so I gigged myself into action. As I caught up with her she stuck out her hand. It felt strange to take hold of her hand and walk along as if we were old friends. I began to feel some odd stirrings inside. It occurred to me that maybe we were going somewhere where we couldn’t be seen, and that maybe Milly had something in mind, like maybe messing around.

We were heading toward a large fenced-in pasture in which three horses were foraging. Now about forty yards from the motel, she stopped next to a mare that was cropping at grass clumps about ten feet inside the fence.

“I just love horses,” said Millie dreamily. “Don’t you?

“Yeah, I like horses. I like to draw ‘em.”

She apparently wasn’t impressed by this. “Did you ever ride on one?”

“No, I never did. Did you?”

She shook her head. “I hope to soon. When we visit my uncle’s ranch in California.

She reached towards the mare, who stopped cropping grass and raised her head. A big black stallion that had been nosing for grass some fifty feet away in the center of the pasture saw this and must have concluded that treats were being handed out because he came on a trot directly toward us. He stopped in front of us about five feet from the fence and studied Millie’s hands. Seeing that the mare hadn’t taken anything, he gave a snort and shook his massive head. My head barely came to the lower part of his mane. I was impressed by his size and the suggestion of powerful grace as he stood looking at the ground some feet away as if musing.

“Oh,” Millie said rapturously. “Isn’t he beautiful? Oh, he’s so gorgeous, so noble looking. I wish I had a camera.”

Then time and volition seemed suspended. Before our softened gazes a purplish-black organ the diameter of a baseball bat began to slide from the stallion’s penile sheath, growing close to two feet in length. A tiny squawk issued from Millie’s lips. She edged away from the fence. From the nodding tip of the stallion’s penis shot a garden hose stream of urine that spattered against the churned up soil of the corral behind his front hooves and quickly formed a puddle the color of , well, urine.

Between the spatter noisily lashing the widening pool into crenellated spires of foam rising from its perimeter, much like egg whites beaten until the frothy stuff stood, romance was sending out tendrils of hopeful longing, and then blunt reality grinned in the form of the stallion’s preposterously enormous dick sticking out so far as to sweep our wispy sentiments into oblivion.

The forceful hiss of urine plunging into the foaming pool, now glinting an unwholesome off-greenish tinge, must have gone on for twenty seconds or more, its rank, hot steamy aroma enveloping us in an invisible cloud. Several feet away from me, Millie made an “Ulkk-k,” sound.

I had been so distracted by this engrossing event that I had forgotten about Millie. Glancing over, I saw that she stood back  from the fence at a lean. I watched as she panted a few times and seemed to be struggling to swallow. My attention drawn back to the stallion, I was wondering where that lengthy organ reposed between waterings when Millie said, “I think my mama’s calling me. I better go.”

I watched her  jog and walk by turns toward the motel. I shrugged, somewhat disappointed by her faintheartedness, then turned my attention to the horse reeling his member splotched with pink back inside his abdomen. He had bitched up what was to have been my first taste of a girl’s lips. I studied him wondering if his timing at uncoiling his colossal penis had been deliberate. Maybe he was getting even with us for teasing him with nonexistent treats. His upper lips folded back revealing his big uneven teeth. Then he whinnied, clearly laughing at me.

Actually that didn’t happen. What did happen was that Millie and I almost met the next morning, but when she saw us leaving our room she kept to the far side of  their car so she wouldn’t have to exchange glances with one who had seen her at a moment of great personal embarrassment.

Offended that I no longer met her criteria for notice, I whinnied.

Well, actually that didn’t happen either.

Announcement – Correction – Again!

The Cochise Community Creative Writing Celebration is sponsoring two open-mic readings in conjunction with the Celebration:

  • Saturday, January 14, 2-4 PM, at the Oliver House, 24 Sowles Avenue, Old Bisbee
  • Saturday, January 28, 2-4 PM, at the Sierra Vista Public Library, Mona Bishop Room, 2600 East Tacoma.
Everyone is welcome.  Admission is free, and refreshments will be served.  Bring poetry and prose to read!

The Creative Writing Celebration will be held on Friday, March 30, at the Ethel Berger Center, and Saturday, March 31, 2012, at Sierra Vista Campus of Cochise College.

Deadline for the writing competitions associated with the Celebration is February 24.

For more information about the Celebration, check out the Cochise College website.

Consistency

Nice to be back for my regular Wednesday blog post after a vacation to another realm of social media. I dove head first into Facebook. Learned so much, connected with so many old friends, and had such a good time that my husband prevailed on me to set up a Facebook account for him, too. When his super-tech son, Denny Jr., found out, he posted, “OMG, my pop has made hell freeze over!”

The downside is that it’s taken me a week to re-orient my synapses. If you’re writing a regular blog–or doing any other kind of writing–consistency is essential. If you don’t believe me, read Robert Olin Butler’s account in From Where You Dream of his move from New York to Louisiana. He was away from his writing for eight weeks, and it took him that long again to get back in the fiction groove.

Butler’s agony is an object lesson for us in two ways. The obvious one is that we need to write regularly to keep our minds in gear. The less visible aspect is that some people are so discouraged by the process of getting their creative machinery up and running again that they give up. If that were all there was to it, it would be painful enough, but of course giving up on a dream chews at the back of a person’s psyche and makes it harder to start again.

I’m not suggesting that we should never take a break from our writing. A hiatus here and there can bring us back to our work refreshed. Rest and new input are useful. Sometimes, our brains form new patterns, and our writing may be better than ever.

Putting a piece away for a while can bring us back to it with new insight. But then it’s beneficial to be working on something else in the interim. It keeps your creative gears meshing.

Consistency–that’s our creative lubricant.

Scam Warning

Taking a break from my usual posts to put up this warning. This morning I received this e-mail offering me an upgrade to Adobe Reader: Fake Adobe Reader upgrade offer. It’s almost certainly a scam. I’ve checked the Adobe web site and they ARE NOT updating Adobe Reader. Check out the address the e-mail was sent from, too.

If you get a message like it, contact your e-mail service provider, your local media, even local law enforcement and/or the FBI. Don’t be a victim!