TBD on Ning
Parts
This thread is for those parts of tales we’ve written – inspired beginnings (or middles and endings) and flashes of brilliance that came out of nowhere – only to mysteriously disappear as quickly as they came- leaving us stranded at our keyboards.
Good writing, but orphaned without a “rest of the story”.
Check your files…show off some of that stuff. Who knows? Maybe now is the right time to complete it.
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Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by Bmichael on
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Gino’s mother, Aunt Sophia, brought fourteen year old Danny into her home the day his mother died – and put him in with Gino. He was given a few days to grieve… then sent back to school. The following Saturday, Sophia showed him the way from Newark over to D’atillo’s market, in the city, and left him with the baker.
At first, he was terrified of Benny, the foul-mouthed ex-marine, who constantly recounted his wartime experiences, boasting of how many fascists he personally killed, and the gruesome ways he did it. Everybody at D‘atillo‘s, except Danny, knew that Benny never saw any combat action. Instead, he did one of the things he does best… bake… behind the lines, in the officer’s mess.
Another thing he did well was fight…Benny was a boxer.
A talented, light heavyweight, and undefeated in dozens of military competitions, Benny continued to box after the war, though never turned pro. A cross between a street brawler and a boxer, he won all his fights by knockout, except for a single TKO, which Benny claimed as his only ‘loss‘. The joke in the market was that if Benny had been given a weapon and sent out to the front line, the war in Europe would have ended at least two months earlier.
On that first Saturday, Danny’s job was to clean up after Benny and make deliveries. He pushed the kid, gave him dirty jobs, and afforded him little time to accomplish them, while noticing the more he pushed, the harder Danny tried. Finally, when Danny showed up 30 minutes early on that fifth Saturday in a row for more abuse, Benny decided to teach him two things …bread and boxing.
That afternoon, Benny took Danny out back to the alley. “Can you fight?” asked Benny.
Danny gave him a surprised look, but didn’t answer.
“Femminuccia, I’m talking to you. Have you ever been in a fight?”
“No”, Danny mumbled.
Benny studied him for a moment. At fourteen years old, the kid was tall - about five feet, eight inches, and still growing. He weighed about 140 lbs, he guessed. Danny was going to be a big man, in time.
“Hit me” said Benny. Surprised, Danny looked up. “What?”
I said hit me. In the gut - now”.
Danny didn’t move. Benny reached out and slapped Danny’s face.
“Ow!” yelled Danny, rubbing his cheek.
“Ow? What the hell is “Ow”? What does that mean? Girls say ‘Ow’…are you a freakin’ girl? Hit me, Danny.”
Benny slapped him again. This time Danny didn’t cry out, but he didn’t move, either. Another slap.
“C’mon, hit me!” he yelled.
Danny’s expression changed from fear to concentration, as he gritted his teeth and punched Benny in the stomach.
“Again…harder”. Danny punched him again.
“Good! Again! “
With lightning speed, and before Benny could react, Danny let loose with a roundhouse right - catching Benny in the mouth, snapping his head back, and cutting his lip. Surprised, Benny watched, as Danny, with clenched fists and watery eyes, stood his ground. The boy’s eyes had become slits, mouth closed- his breathing controlled, guard up, and shoulders squared, instinctively. Good, he thought. With the back of his hand, Benny wiped the blood off his mouth and looked at it.
“Oww” he pretended.
Boxing lessons had begun.
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Permalink Reply by Carol T on
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Don't know if I've ever mentioned this before, Bmichael, but your dialogue is always spot on.
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Permalink Reply by Westerly_2 on
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Slurp
(The city of New York is considering a bill which outlaws sales of supersized drinks in restaurants and convenience stores, as a hedge against obesity).
Polly thought it was risky, but she went along with Fitz, so taken was he with the thrill of the …should she say “hunt”? Polly had the reliable car, and her older brother directed her around the turns and angles of the seedy housing complex with its overflowing dumpsters.
“Don’t crawl, Polly. You’ll draw attention. Just drive normal to the nearest spot that’s empty like you belong there.”
“There’s a security car parked over there,” she said.
“Don’t stare and point, Polly. God sakes. It just screams there’s a deal going down. Be cool.”
They parked and Fitz lead her on foot past a stairwell some kids were ducking under to avoid the water balloons thrown from above, then down an alley and up some creaking stairs. The little porch table held a chock-full ashtray.
“There are cameras covering the lot, so keep your head down,” he hissed in low tones.
He pulled up his collar, knocked softly on the peeling door – counted them out: rat-tat-tat…ratta-tatta-tatta.
“Who you?”
“Fitz-man, and the thirst is upon me,” he answered, low and growly.
The door opened a crack. The pudgy man glanced past them and all around.”Walk yourself in,” he said.
About ten or so were seated at the 3 long tables set up in the large room. The fountain dispenser/ice maker took up one wall. The sippers looked fat and happy. And there all the giant cups were stacked – the same cups once available at any nearby mart or restaurant before those sizes were outlawed by the city.
In all their splendor were the towering stacks of the 20-oz. Grand Slurp cup, the 32-oz. Magna Slurp, and the awesome 44-oz. Super Slurp. They paid the man, pulled the spigots and filled their cups and took their seats. “Ahhh! Fitz exhaled. throwing back his head and smacking his lips.
“I don’t get what all the fuss is about,” Polly whispered. “We can still buy the big jugs of soda in the super market.”
“Yeah, but there’s nothing like a fresh fountain drink slurped in public. Forbidden fruit….even sweeter….”
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“Next case.”
“Your honor, it’s the Commonwealth vs Bmichael. The defendant is charged with possession and intent to sell of over 30 pounds of trans fat within 500 yards of an elementary school and 200 ft of a Weight Watchers meeting.”
A gasp rose from the gallery.
“Mr. Bmichael, these are serious charges. How do you plead?”
“Yeah…I did it! And I’ll do it again! The law is wrong! This is America! You can’t stop people who want to be fat… we have rights! Power to the People!
“Bailiff…shoot him, now.”
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:^ }
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No Recall
Anchor Marsh Barclay squares his wide shoulders as the go-light blinks, spreads his big smile in a nation-wide greeting.
“I know you’re all eager to hear Senator Bosch Peeps tell his side of the story, as is his right…..” (Turns to the distinguished-looking gray-haired man in the subtly pin-striped suit and polka dotted tie): “Frankly, Senator, I’m surprised your lawyer allowed you to give us this exclusive interview in advance of the trial and senate hearings.”
The Senator’s mouth twitches imperceptibly and his eyelids blink rapidly as he says, “I have done nothing wrong, Marsh .I must get my story out, so that the American people can learn the truth.”
“So, Senator, during that publicly funded convention in the Caribbean last year, the aide who heard noises through the open bathroom door of wet flesh suctioning juicily from the shower, and of a certain Miss - one Miss Happy Noyse – moaning your name, spoke falsely?”
“Never happened, Marsh. First place, she said she was 18 and a licensed masseuse. Ah, what was that now? Was that this year?”
“This or any year, Senator.”
“Ah, hmmm…Don’t remember that. Nope.”
“Okay, Senator. Let me get this straight. Did you, just a few months ago while entertaining Miss Noyse in your Washington office, tickle her lady parts with a stalk of celery and instruct her to hurl slices of bologna at your mayonnaise-covered ass? I’m just asking. You know it’s out there.”
Senator Peeps hold his chin in his hand and turns his eyes inward. “Hmmm….Let me think….Ah, uhm…, noooo…. I don’t think so. No. I don’t recall that. Mayonnaise? Really?” An uninvited smile quivers on his lips.
“Thank you, Senator. You’re out of time. I’m sure it will all come out in the wash.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
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Found this in the archives:
The sun set quickly in mid-October, sending a chill across the infield.
Stadium lights, the switch thrown moments earlier, sent out a loud buzz as
the slowly developing illumination paced itself between the waning daylight and the oncoming darkness.
To the west, a single pink ribbon of light lingered, hugging low against the Texas horizon.
In the packed stands, jackets zipped closed, hat brims pulled down low, and blankets unfolded, as folks huddled together against the falling temperatures, all the while signaling for more cold beer and soft drinks.
On the field below, the patriotic activities of the intermission was nearly over – the finale having been the spectacle of a hundred man tug of war featuring the United states of America on one side versus the “Viet Cong” on the other, while the speakers blared Sgt. Barry Sadler's “Ballad of the Green Berets”.
The choreographed US victory in this battle was timed to the arrival of a loud piper cub as it sputtered low over the stadium, trailing a large American flag. The crowd roared as the victorious Americans then performed a simulated butt-kicking on their vanquished opponents – driving them off the field in a stunning display of American military might.
On the pitcher's mound, Carrie Harris of the Dallas Doom, adjusted her cap and blew on her hands to keep warm.
This was the final game of the championship, a best of seven game series between the Doom and the Fort Worth Booty – a fast pitch, semi-pro, women's softball league.
Up to now, the games had been exciting – high scoring, fast paced, and nerve rackingly close.
Tonight though, by the sixth inning, Doom was ahead 1-0.
With players on first and third,and two outs, Booty was threatening to score and take the lead.
Carrie turned her back and faced the outfield as the PA announcer introduced the next batter.
“Up next for Fort Worth ...Margaret Swanson!” followed by cheers and whistles from the Booty crowd.
Margaret Swanson, Booty's best hitter and game saver was also Carrie's lifelong ex-best friend.
Since grade school, Carrie and Margaret were inseparable, kindred spirits. They shared everything – clothes, opinions, thoughts - even boyfriends. They liked and disliked the same foods, finished each other's sentences and kept no secrets.
Until three years ago...
Carrie stomped her foot into the dirt – to change the subject.
Turning around, Margaret was in the batter's box – staring, waiting.
The first pitch was fast – low and outside...
“Baaaaalll!” called the umpire.
“ Foul ball...Heeeerike one!” as Margaret swung at the next pitch – connecting and sending the ball careening high over the backstop and into the crowd.
The next toss was low and inside as Carrie tried to back Margaret out of the box. Whistles and jeers from the Booty fans were met with hoots and shouts of encouragement by the Doom supporters.
“Baaaall two!” Margaret held her ground, didn't budge, glanced at Carrie and spit into the dirt.
“Count, Ump!” Carrie hollered.
“Two balls, one strike.”
Carrie stepped off the mound, turned her back to the plate and signaled instructions to the outfield, freezing Margaret.
A moment later, back on the mound, Carrie prepared to pitch just as Margaret returned the favor and stepped out of the box.
“Time!” yelled the umpire as he held up his hands and stepped across the plate.
The crowd murmured at this tactical display between the two players.
The next pitch came in high and close, inside - an obvious, designed pitch. Margaret arched backwards, lost her balance and fell into the dirt.
“Time!”
“Count!”
“Three balls, one strike!”
The umpire turned to Margaret. “You OK?”
Margaret didn't answer, dusted herself off, tapped her cleats with the bat, and entered the box.
Booty fans yelled, and then moaned as Margaret sent an arcing change-up ball deep into the right field corner only to have it twist foul at the last second.
“Foulballstriketwo!” screamed the umpire.
At full count, Carrie called time, stepped off the mound, and summoned the infield, again icing Margaret.
Raucous fans from both camps stood up shouting words of encouragement and insult, both at their teams and each other.
After a few moments, the huddled Doom players broke and returned to their positions as Carrie took the mound, dropped the rosin bag, and waited for the crowd to quiet.
Margaret took a few hard practice swings and dug in to the batter's box.
Leaning forward, Carrie squinted at the catcher's signals, nodded, wound up and let loose a blistering high, inside fastball that hit Margaret squarely in the side of the head as she attempted to dodge the pitch.
For a moment, she lay in the dirt as the crowd watched silence. The Booty's coach ran from the dugout, reaching Margaret just as she began to stand up, using the bat for support.
Assuring her coach that the helmet had absorbed most of the blow and that she was OK, Margaret took a few steps and with bat in hand, suddenly charged the mound.
Carrie watched and waited as Margaret approached, eyes glazed over, lips pursed, and swinging the bat as both benches emptied behind her.
At ten feet, Carrie reached down the front of her shirt, pulled out a .22 pistol and shot Margaret point blank between the eyes.
Margaret took one more step, dropped to her knees, and fell backwards down the slope of the mound.
Gun in hand, Carrie stood over the body as everyone on the field scattered and the bleachers emptied in terrified chaos.
For Carrie, the ball park, the noise, and the cold disappeared as she stared at Margaret's face.
Even without make-up she was still pretty.
Watching as the blood from the wound flowed quickly up Margaret's forehead before matting into her hair, Carrie sat down and grabbed Margaret's hand pressing it close against her chest as she leaned over...
“I always have the last word – just wait and see.”
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