Last Call_Better a live doggerel than a dead Lake Poet_King Kong and the Alabama Slammer_The Agony a
Catalog Guide:
Last Call
INT. CHAPEL FOYER — NOONDAYBRANDY peaks her head into the chapel. People are checking their watches. Looking around. Whispering. GRANNY turns around from the front pew and makes eye contact.BRANDY Alright then.Brandy walks down the aisle. Her black dress just as typical as the other black attire around her. It’s her BOOBS, purple ombré MERMAID WIG, and RED STILETTOS that are the main attractions.She gets to the podium and www.onedoor.cclooks out at the crowd.INT. CHAPEL — SAME DAYBRANDY Hello, everybody. Well, {giggle}, this is awkward. She motions to the empty space to her left.Beat.BRANDY(cont’d) This rem...
Better a live doggerel than a dead Lake Poet
Pa pushed another heft of carcass into my unripe arms. I staggered down to the cellar, burdened the bloody mass to the butchering table and turned about for the next.I tramped back and forth through that sawdust twenty times and more a day, carrying quartered animal parts. I helped him split the cuts, salt the joints and take the meat back upstairs to hook on the brass rail at the front of the shop.The regulars came in cheerfully to purchase their victuals, gesticulating at the counter and passing the time of day. After they headed home I'd clean the knives and scrub the block; then there was ...
King Kong and the Alabama Slammer
Dalton Davis, manager for the last-place Cleveland Guardians, nervously spits out a volley of sunflower seeds. Paunchy, greying, and perpetually concerned for his job, the sixty-year-old field general is considered a superb strategist who identifies with his players. Dalton checks his two baserunners. Flint Concannon fidgets at third base, while Chase D’Amico takes a conservative lead off second base, scanning the stands.Once an All-Star, injuries have eroded thirty-four-year-old Flint’s skills, but the sandy-haired, affable center fielder is still considered a smart ballplayer.A rambunctious...
The Agony and the Ecstasy of Father Ferro
As it turns out, leaving was the easy part. When my not exactly beloved husband confided that he was going to take the considerable funds the Vatican had endowed him with to go and slay the heretics in Protestant Europe (in God’s Holy name, of course), I agreed to follow him into hiding in Italy for a lack of better options for myself. When I asked him about the undoubtedly elaborated ruse he’d devised to sneak me off the estate, he burst out laughing and took several long and deliberate moments to compose himself. “Are you serious?” he gasped with what I felt was an unnecessary and impolite a...