This Blonde

So, there I was, minding my own business, when all of a sudden this blonde popped out of a shop on 23rd in such a rush she upended me on 31st. I was taken aback, to say the least, when my eyes met not the eyes of some bulky chap in yesterday's overcoat, but this vixen of legendary beauty and impeccable dental hygiene. I couldn't speak right away, so I took the gag out of my mouth. (Doctor's orders.) I stammered some lines of Shakespeare and Byron, but they came out all Dickinson and Poe. She smiled nonetheless and offered me her hand—I was still sprawled out on the sidewalk. She pulled me upward with the force of a professional bodybuilder. “Whoa!” I exclaimed.

We spent the afternoon ambling around Central Park, discussing Voltaire and politics. I said I was against the death penalty; she said she would vote only for the cutest candidates. She tried to hold my hand, but I played coy with her, having left my hand at home, next to my car keys and my Sear's card.

Dinner that evening was strange, as I had a date scheduled with Helga, my cleaning lady, and this blonde insisted on coming along. So, the three of us awkwardly sat around the table, shuffling our feet, reading the menu fifty times and not even ordering what we wanted in the first place. At this point I wasn't even hungry anymore, but the boot leather in red wine sauce ended up being rather palatable, and the bottle or two of late-vintage merlot washed things down splendidly.

That night, I felt I had a real good chance with my date, if you know what I mean, but this blonde insisted on coming up for coffee, too. So what else could I do? I killed her.

What? What did you expect?

Baby, Please

I awoke to a young cutie in my apartment.

It certainly was not the sort of thing I expected. It had been a late night, and I didn't remember going to sleep. Now sunlight was barely dripping in from behind the blinds. She smiled at me.

"Hi," I said.

She hardly spoke at all as I stumbled sleepily around the room, picking up clothes and garbage. She looked at me expectantly, her eyelids heavy. Then she cried. I must have disappointed her somehow.

"Shh," I said. "There there."

I wiped her tears with a white cloth. She spit on me.

"Now, there's no need for that," I said gently, wiping myself.

She was a mess. For whatever reason, she crawled around and babbled incoherently.

"Get a hold of yourself," I suggested, but I knew she wouldn't understand.

I sat on the floor watching. Then she started crawling all over me.

"Baby, please," I protested, but it was no use. She would do what pleased her.

That's what babies do.

Love Song (part 2)

(Read part 1)

The great singer's throat was dry, so we headed out to explore the local wildlife. I recommended a nice saloon not far from where we were staying (according to the plan), and he nodded as he chewed a piece of Wrigley's. We found the place and glanced around. I saw the brunette sitting at a table for two next to the bar. We got there at the same time as a whisky rocks, and the great man sat down. The brunette looked wonderful sitting there, her hair waving in every direction, her cute gingham get-up unbuttoned in all the right places. She introduced herself with glistening lips, the big fan of him she was. He just nodded and coughed “hi” in reply. She sipped her daiquiri through her straw while looking up at him, and I needed to excuse myself. As I stood, the singer shot me a look with wide eyes, but I assured them they didn't need me to bog down their evening. I left.

Boy, was he mad. He fumed at me before the next show as he tuned his guitar and sucked on a mint leaf. His rage was never pointed or direct; it sort of rolled over you like a fog or a bad smell. It just got worse the longer you were in it. This time, this one time, he looked me in the eye and ordered me never to leave him “hanging” like that. “Ever.” The seriousness of his tone hit me like a dart, leaving its mark on my mind for time to come. Yet the great musician kept turning that peg up a few bits, down a few, grinding that mint leaf until it was mush and he had to swallow it. A tall glass of water waited for him to wash it down, gargling a bit, before he took all his gack to the stage for the show. I stayed behind.

There was no helping him after that. The same routine guided us each and every show, wherever he was playing: play the show, find a bar, sleep. I followed; I enjoyed his company, as much as I suppose he enjoyed mine, and every now and again I could reap the benefits of his friendship. I was with “the band,” and the girls loved it. What made me so successful and him not? I don't know. It stopped bothering me, since I told myself to forget it, and his every look reminded me to keep it forgotten.

Then we were at the end of the tour, just a few more cities then done. The great singer was working on new material to take to the studio. Where did it come from? Each song was better, more heart-breaking or uplifting than the last. He could weave the story of two young lovers in a dusty town with ease and finesse. He had complete control over the heartstrings of every apple-pie-eating, flag-waving, son-of-a-gun American out there. He told their stories, their true, honest-to-Gospel stories, and they loved it. They couldn't get enough. He wasn't doing it for the money. He liked it and he was good at it. He was damn good at it. That's all.

Then we entered our last hotel bar. He had a few more shows in this town, but it would be over, we'd have our celebration then go home to our usual lives. His whisky rocks, my gin and tonic. We clinked glasses and wished each other the best. Feeling strong, I also added that I wished my friend would find someone who really touches him, who really gets him, and he can be happy with. The singer stared at me unsmiling, but he didn't frown either. Then he grabbed my shoulder heartily, the first time I think we ever made physical contact, and thanked me before swigging at his drink. I smiled. We had a great time reminiscing about the tour, drinking with controlled abandon as we laughed—and even laughed over the failed date set-up, back in Peoria or Pecos or wherever it was. The bar was full and lively that night, but not many folks took interest in the great singer, which was fine by him. The lady next to him only took notice after he got a bit wild with his swigging and swung his drink onto the bar in front of her. He laughed and apologized, for the first time talking freely to a girl without bashfulness or self-distraction. She was a bit younger than the singer, pretty but plain, with blonde hair and blue eyes, a living cliché. She didn't know who he was, I could tell right away. And when he realized, when the singer realized, he started having a mighty fine conversation with her. The singer, the musician seemed taken with her, though, and I know when to keep my mouth shut. I drank alone watching the game on TV.

At the show the next day, it was “situation normal.” The crowd loved it, the girls cheered and swooned, and the singer gave his usual performance. A bit under-spirited, maybe, but still a good show. Backstage, afterwards, while everything was being packed, he sat on the sofa picking his teeth. I sat across from him. I had to ask about the woman last night, but he just sighed and kept on picking, mumbled something about knowing “when to show 'em and when to fold 'em,” which made me scoff and roll my eyes. He didn't seem to care.

We drank again, as usual, and the lady from yesterday was there. I wished them both well and found some young loveliness of my own to cotton up to, which met with great success.

That was the moment when things changed. His manager complained about it while rolling coins in the coach van. “That son-of-a's losing his touch,” he oozed. The great singer stopped writing good songs, love songs, any songs, and his performances were dragging, lacking energy, even though the crowd was his, ready to hang on every vibration in his voice. His heart wasn't in it any more. After the last show, he approached me and shook my hand. I asked him where he was going, what he would be doing. He said he'd be “around.” I asked him if he'd be finishing the new album, flying to wherever they produce those things, laying the tracks down. He looked around then leaned into me. “I can't do that anymore.”

Here he was, the greatest writer, the greatest singer of love songs on the planet in this age, and he lost his power. “I found my love, my soulmate,” he declared as he took her hand. She blushed and begged him to stop, it made her feel so good to hear.

It wasn't a matter of choice. The great musician had tried to keep his music writing going, but there was nothing to be done for it. As some said, the muse left him because he gave his heart to another. Others thought the devil left him because he agreed not to fall in love himself in exchange for the gift. Whatever the cause, for the first time in his life, the singer was happy. Truly, truly happy. The rest of the world, myself included, could never get over the break-up, and we still play his love songs to remind us and make us cry.

Spilt Wine

It was the time I spilt wine all over my grandpa's Bible. I was alone (I'm always alone), eating pizza with a glass of wine, and I carelessly knocked into it, sending a recent vintage meritage all over the dining room table. And there was my grandpa's Bible, sitting there because I had cracked it open the other day out of curiosity.

He had given me the Bible as a passing thought. I was in his basement looking at old photos, and he asked if I wanted it. I said sure, because it was his, not because it was a Bible. He had written his name and address in it in case it ever went missing. It hadn't.

But now it was stained. “How will I explain this to my grandchildren?” I said out loud. It was a stupid thought. What grandchildren? From what children?

My next thought was, “Well, at least it's cheap wine,” as I mopped up the mess and poured myself the last of it. Good thing it was cheap; it only lasted a day.

And I was only just reading about that wedding at Cana. I didn't know much about it before, except that Jesus had apparently turned water into wine. They ran out of wine at this wedding, Jesus's mother complained (she must've been some drinker), and Jesus said he'd take care of it. But rather than run to the nearest liquor store, he just zapped some jars of water. It was an instant hit. I poured a glass of water, but no matter how long I stared at it, it just kept on being water. It was warm.

So I guess I could tell my theoretical grandkids about that if they asked. But there aren't going to be grandkids. Not at this rate.

Love Song (part 1)

by Kevin Story

He was a singer of great renown, and when he sang the women sank into their sighs and longing. Long into the night, he'd sing for them his songs of love and loss, but mostly love. Of all the singers of love songs in the world, he was most assuredly the best as I watched him there, and the girls all around, sighing and longing and waiting for him to look their way, which he never did, since his eyes were usually closed or looking at the neck of his guitar or staring far off into another world. Even when he thanked them he closed his eyes and said it with a small bow of his head, then walked off to rest in whatever room was provided for his resting.

It was there I found him, sprawled on some chaise or sofa that seemed to be unfit for his western look, with a wet towel on his face. When I asked him if I could join him, he didn't seem to hear at first. Then he slowly lifted the towel so as to get a glimpse of me, and when he did he gestured to another chair in the room and went back to his towel and lounge. I sat down.

And there we sat for some time in silence, until the great singer began to hum something soft, which in his rich baritone was like rich chocolate flowing around my head. I relaxed. It was an old tune he chose, one of the old hymns. Something like “Wondrous Love” or “Holy Manna,” I couldn't tell; maybe a mix of the two. It rolled from his muffled lips wonderfully soft and connected to some deeper emotion that withstood identification. The warm chocolate enveloped my head, smothering me with its sweet, sweet sound. At last, when the song was over, he pulled the towel off and slowly sat up, wiping his face a final time before putting it (the towel, not his face) on the coffee table in front of him. He looked at me, and I wasn't sure what to say, so I smiled slightly.

He asked how the show went. The question surprised me. I answered that it went great, that the crowd loved it—especially the girls in front, whose show of love to him still rang brightly in my ears. He said something that sounded like “naww” and leaned back into the sofa, but not before scooping a handful of almonds. He flicked one into his mouth and chewed like molasses as his mind chewed and ticked and thought and processed. After another long while he sighed staring at the ceiling and said, “Missed a few changes here and there.”

I was profuse in my defense of him, but he raised his unoccupied hand to counter. This wasn't his “first rodeo, kid,” and he didn't expect people to “sugar-coat” their opinions of his performance, especially some “youngster” like myself. Another almond popped into his mouth.

Here was the man who toured all fifty states in the same year; who wrote love songs that got women old and young to swoon with delight; whose ingenious chord progressions and innovative melodies got musical academics nearly as excited as the women. Here was a true music man, a true folk artist, a true hero to so many boys who would grow up pretending to emit his soothing baritone and woo some lady fair.

Only, this last bit was not the case. Not that he was a loner by choice or on principle. This great singer, great musician, great man, simply would not, could not pick up a woman to save his life.

Three or four almonds flew into his mouth, and this time he chewed them quickly, forcefully. Somehow he needed to make a connection between the romantic musical genius inside and the speech center in his brain. I wanted to help.

At the bar, he drank his bourbon rocks and ordered my gin and tonic. In his head he was working out some new song, perhaps, or mulling over a new way to play an old tune. I squeezed my lime and stirred slowly, looking around the bar. The young bartender was nice enough; she poured fast and heavy, and winked as she walked away. She wore a tight white top tied on with shoestrings, and a large cowboy hat with upturned sides on her straight, dirty blonde hair. I stared at her when I could, but the great singer kept to his liquor and his thoughts.

She'd come over when we first sat down and recognized him right away (who wouldn't?), offering him a free drink while leaning her bosom over the counter. They were mounted perfectly in their proper places. He said he preferred to pay for his own drinks, but thanks just the same. It was me she winked at as she walked away, but I didn't hold her attention without the fame of my friend.

He swirled and stared at his whisky. I leaned into him and asked in a low voice what he thought of the bartender. He glanced at her then quickly back. “She's a fine lookin' woman,” he said softly, then drank and went back to his staring and swirling.

At that moment, a mother and her twenty-something daughter came up to the bar. The daughter sat right next to me. She wore tight blue jean shorts and a pink tee-shirt with a neckline that pointed handily to the middle of her perky chest. They chattered about the concert. The bartender came 'round and took their drink orders: a glass of white wine for Mom and a Long Island iced tea for Miss Cute 'n' Perky. Her glass was so full, when she slid it closer some spilt on my arm. She apologized, looking into my eyes. She had these great big bright brown eyes full of life and fun. She took her napkin and wiped the liquor from my arm. Then she smiled at me and said “There, all better,” before turning back to her mother, who leaned over and apologized for her daughter's “rude behavior.”

The mother wasn't all that bad looking, either, if you're into that sort of thing. She'd sashayed in with her fake blonde curls and familiar brown eyes, in many respects the older version of the young beauty sitting next to me. The same life was in the older woman's eyes, but the wisdom of her age clung to her face like spikemoss to a rock.

The great singer just sat there sipping, disregarding the beauty around him, shelled in his world of music. That's the way it was with him. As for me, I met up with the girl later on that night. She snuck out of her hotel room after her mother passed out drunk from one too many glasses of white. This isn't about me, though. It's about him.

It was like him to sit and stare off, despite the distractions around him. Maybe it's what made him the musical genius he was. “Beauty is everywhere,” his manager would say, counting fistfuls of twenties in the coach van as it slid along the highway into the desert. Still the songwriter absorbed himself in his musical fantasies. When the thought of having even just one drink with a lady was brought up, he'd fidget and flick his fingernails under each other, mumble something like “yeah, we'll see,” and go back to his inner sanctum.

Another show, another crowd of adoring women, another bar, another night wondering what was really going on in that head of his. Sometimes it seemed like a spirit wanted to jump out of him and grab the first gal it could, wrapping her with its spirit arms and wooing her with its spirit words, but a great force kept it back, made it abide. The great wall stood, seemingly impenetrable. Female fans flocked to him, and he nodded and signed in silence, making those girls want him so much more. He finished with a flick of his hat and stomped off with his hands wringing in front of him. I shook my head.

Across the desert in another town, I decided to give a little more of a push. This was a time for action; there seemed to be no other way. During the show, I scanned the crowd for a young lady who the great singer might take a liking to. There were plenty to choose from, but after chatting some of them up, I decided on one pretty-looking girl in particular. She was brunette, leggy, and sported a great pair of glasses, the true sign of an intelligent woman. I thought maybe the great musician might be attracted to a little more than just perfection of form. She and I talked for a bit after the final set, and I explained my plan to her. She was thrilled, to say the least, and she offered a time and place, a nice saloon not far from where we were staying. I said we'd see her there.

to be continued

Delfort: 15. Getting the Seal

This is the next installment of the adventures of young Delfort, Prince of Darscinnia. To start from the beginning, read canto one.

Previous canto: "Escape! (Part Two!)"

Canto Fourteen  

Prince Delfort
by Kevin F. Story

Time stood still for the young lovers as they relaxed between white silk sheets. There was no war, no bloodshed; no commerce, no thievery; no hate, no cruelty, no meanness, no sorrow; only love in that moment, in that place, that seemingly placeless place. At least, that's how Prince Delfort felt, sighing there beside his recent conquest, feeling the warmth of the rosy patterned walls, staring at the creamy ceiling into infinity. Life was here, now; nothing else mattered nor existed. This is the way it should always be, thought the prince.

Clara coughed politely and sat up. Delfort smiled at her. The dark hair he so adored was curled in every direction. Even this she wore well.

“I must be going,” she said. Her smile was enigmatic; it said so much more than Delfort could ever understand.

Delfort sighed again and nodded. Clara slid her pale feet delicately onto the floor. She still wore her slip, which she smoothed out into some semblance of order before finding the rest of her garments. Delfort got up and tied the plush robe he had been wearing.

They had not spoken much. Delfort had been full of questions that were quickly forgotten. Why was Clara here, for example. And something else important. It would come to him.

Clara began the ordeal of reordering her hair. “What a coincidence that we should find each other here, no, my lord?”

“Mmm,” said Delfort. His eyes fed graciously on the image of darling Clara before them. He was in no rush to be rid of her.

“I thought we might never see each other again.”

“No,” said Delfort. He wished he had something more intelligent to say.

Clara turned to him. She set down her brush and walked to him. “I guess it's destiny,” she said before she reached up to kiss him.

“Hmm!” said a muffled voice at their feet. They both looked down at the figure of James, over whose body they had laid a blanket, as it was somewhat distracting to have an unclothed unconscious young man on the floor. Prince Delfort bent down to fold back the blanket. James squinted and blinked a few times.

“Why am I naked, sire?”

“James!” exclaimed Delfort. “This is wonderful. How do you feel?”

James rubbed his head. “Awful. What happened?”

Delfort explained about the enchanted knickers and collar. “And my sincerest apologies for having to quarrel with you so soundly. It would appear to be all for the best.”

Slowly James sat up, one hand clutching his head and the other clutching the blanket. “This is a most queer place, sire. When I left you to fetch our bags, I went back the way we were led, to the entrance. The carriage was gone.”

Delfort pressed his eyebrows together. “Gone?”

“Absolutely gone. No carriage, no valises, no clothes. When I returned to the drawing room, you were gone, but that strange woman, the Madam, was there. She said you had been taken to your room. I told her of our plight, and she said not to worry, that she had some things we could use during our stay. Then she got weird.”

“What do you mean, she got weird?”

James dropped his eyes. “I would rather not say, sire.”

“All right.” Delfort turned to look at Clara, who was back at the vanity with her hairbrush. “James, this is Clara.”

“Clara?” James turned very carefully. On seeing Clara, his cheeks turned a deep crimson and he clutched the blanket very tightly to his body. They had never met, and she really was rather lovely. “Does she have the seal?”

The seal! Of course! Delfort had forgotten all about it. “That is why I was looking for you!” he said crossing to Clara's side. “It was no coincidence for me to find you here. You took my royal seal because you wanted me to find you. Is that right?”

Clara maintained her coy smile. “My lord, you give me too much credit.”

“Please, dear Clara. I am touched by your affection, but I do need my seal.”

Clara laughed. “It is not here, my lord.”

“Not here?” said James, standing unsteadily.

“It must remain in Porte Godfrey, for that is where I last saw it.”

Delfort and James shared a weary look. All of this sneaking away to Vaslegas for nothing, they thought. Well, mused Delfort, at least I got to see Clara again.

Clara set down her brush and approached James. “We have not formally met. I am called Clara,” she said, curtseying.

“James,” squeaked James, clutching the blanket even tighter, if that at all was possible.

“Come,” said Clara, “I have something in my changing room you can wear.”

“Man's clothing?”

Clara laughed. “Yes. Man's clothing.” She pointed to a door. “This way.”

James made his way to the door with care, ever conscious that the blanket covered all the important places. Beyond the door was another room of similar size with many clothes, a mirror, and a divan.

“We will be but a moment, my lord,” Clara said, blowing a kiss at the prince before shutting the door.

Prince Delfort sighed and sat upon the bed. It was shaping up to be quite the adventure. Now they would have to somehow escape this odd place and the Madam, and also outfit themselves for a journey back to Porte Godfrey. Perhaps some horses or a carriage would be about, something for them to commandeer.

A muted yelp came from the other room.

“Is everything all right?” asked the prince.

“Fine, my lord,” called Clara.

Yes, they would have to plan their escape and return to Porte Godfrey, obtain the seal, and finally be on their way to the neighbouring kingdom. The original task seemed so distant to the prince, but he would have to go. With luck, his father would never know about this little side trip to Vaslegas.

*****

Prince Delfort's journey continues next time in "Finding the Way"....

Delfort: 14. Escape! (Part Two!)

This is the next installment of the adventures of young Delfort, Prince of Darscinnia. To start from the beginning, read canto one.

Previous canto: "Escape! (Maybe!)"

Canto Fourteen

Prince Delfort
by Kevin F. Story

The room into which James and Prince Delfort struggled was a bedroom not unlike the one in which the prince had awoken earlier. However, the time for looking around was not now, as Delfort was attempting to divest his enslaved friend of his knickers.

“Hold still,” said the prince.

James said nothing as he gripped the waistband and pushed at Delfort. They tossed about on the floor, bumping into furniture and knocking into walls. At one point, Delfort lost his grip and James scampered towards the door, but the prince grabbed the leg of his pants pants, sending James' head into the floor with great speed.

“Whoops. James?”

James did nothing.

Prince Delfort sighed and stripped his friend of his pants and collar. He rolled James over and checked to make sure he was alive. He was.

Delfort leaned back on the bedpost, catching his breath.

“What—oh, my!”

Delfort stood at once. Standing before him was a very surprised, shockingly beautiful—

“Clara.”

Clara glowed in Delfort's mind. Her face was pale, powdered, gorgeous. Her hair was curled and captivating. Delfort felt himself under a different spell, perhaps in a dream. Clara turned her surprise into a smile.

“My lord.”

She curtsied low, gripping the skirts of a majestic gown that seemed to sparkle with its own luminescence. Then she glanced at the unclothed, unconscious young man on the floor.

“Is he all right?”

Delfort nodded, dropping the black knickers to the floor.

“Has my lord, er, decided to seek the company of men?” Clara asked.

“What? Oh, no! Not at all.”

“Good.” Clara moved to a vanity and began removing her jewellery. “Did you know this was my room?”

Delfort joined her, mostly to get away from James' naked body. “No. You are staying here?”

Clara gave Delfort a mysterious smile. “Yes. For now.” She removed her shoes and set them aside.

“Look, Clara. I have been looking for you.”

“Have you?” She began untying her gown.

“Yes. I believe you have something of mine, and I desperately need it.”

“Do you?” She looked at James. “How long do you think he will be out?”

“Maybe an hour?”

“Good,” said Clara. Then she kissed him in such a way that the blood rushed out of his feet and hands. Then she let her gown fall to the floor. Then the prince remembered why he liked Clara so much.

*****

Prince Delfort's adventures will continue next time in "Getting the Seal"....