Share an Excerpt..

So here is some dialogue along with some rambling paragraphs-It is a discussion between two close friends-one a physician the other a psychiatrist-one is Jewish-one is an African American-they are discussing another shrink who has been getting inside of the Jewish shrinks head-the other shrink is an arrogant wasp/Hitlerian sicko! Someone may be offended by this so a warning is said and done!

"You know, brother," David spoke quietly to his friend, "Today I spent two hours with the biggest a$$hole in Monmouth.”
"How is Dr. Elliot?" asked the Anvil.


"Sh!t, you know! I had to talk to him about April Guzzman. There's a lot he didn't want to tell me."
"Oh, what makes you think so?" The Anvil leaned into some leftover Mu Shu.
"I don't know why or what he's worried about or trying to hide. Ethics have never been a problem for the pr!ck before, but something in the Hannah family background is definitely not kosher! “

“Hannah?” interjected the Anvil. Without letting David answer he quipped, “Now, who's doing the dark Bogeyisms and such? Aren't you doing what you were accusing me of?”

“Hannah's her maiden name. Anvil, and no, my instincts are better than yours! You ought a know that by now!”
The Anvil belched, long and deep.

“Anyway, a$$hole, I'm suffering through lunch with this bastard and he's destroying me. I mean, Jesus Christ, Anvil, all I want to do is help April Guzzman, and I find myself getting crapped on by Lobo the Surgeon.
I'm the shrink, and this guy's beating my brains in!”

“It's his birthright!”

“What birthright, Anvil?”
“You know, equality equals superiority.” The Anvil stood up and turned on the television, then reseated himself.
“No, I'm afraid I don't get your meaning.” David pushed off his shoes and leaned back on the couch. “Do you mind?” he asked, pointing to his feet. “I'll keep the socks on, don't worry!”
The Anvil ignored the proffered politeness.

Sarcasm rimmed his voice: "Well, you oughta know by now! It's like this.” He stood up again and walked across the room. Standing on high, much as Orson Wells stood in the chancel sermonizing for Herman Melville about God's strange oceanic commandments, he symbolically threw his insides at David Rosenshein.

“Equality equals superiority, the trick whites have been playing on blacks ever since they figured out they are in a no-win situation."
"Sorry, Buddy, guess the beer has gotten to me, but you're zipping over my head!”
The Anvil pulled himself up to his full height, preparing to do battle with his friend.
"It's like math, son. It is a moral equation. Equality stroke superiority!"
He made a long, sweeping motion with his hand between the words "equality" and "Superiority".
"Gentile!" interjected David.

"Right, whatever you say, partner! Anyway, they're still slipping. They know it can't last, so they throw their ethnic superiority in our faces, yes, yours and mine.
The suggestion is that they're superior because they have given credence to our equality.
Are you starting to comprenezvous, kid?"
"Slow but sure wins the race," David sighed.

"Well, you're having problems with Buster Elliot 'cause he ain't no kike and he knows he ain't no ******. Now, that may seem oversimplified to you, friend, but if you drink enough Woo Tang, I'm convinced you'll start to glean me, baby. Know what Imean?"
"Starting to."
David followed the Anvil's advice.

"Okay! Again, you gonna spend the rest of your life fighting these dicks, and you know what? That's what they want, you to be too busy fightin' them to really kick their butts. That is, after all, what you wanna do, isn't it?"

"Well, Anvil, I wouldn't say that, but I wouldn't mind connecting with a few straight lefts!"
David was well into his fifth beer, and slowly starting to understand his friend's sermonizing.

"Parker Elliot is waiting to pounce on you 'cause he knows your insides want to rip him to pieces, an' he knows more importantly that your intellect wants to kick his a$$.
But he knows it won't let you.
Inside, man, you know, deep down inside, where he's scared to look, he's aware that you flew by him and his kind a couple a thousand years ago. And he knows from as many years of organic subconscious propaganda that you are too bright, and will therefore reason yourself to death trying to figure out why his kind behaves so immorally, so evilly, so without conscience, and yet we-uns is runnin' around, stoopin' over an' kissin' their pure-white rear ends. We don't like to hear that stuff, and we don't like to face up to it, brother, but people like us is walkin' the path of righteousness, and we ain't got the guts for anarchy 'cause they feedin' us too much good sh!t, like white houses, white money, and white, empty, spiritualist bullsh!t.
Oh, an' by the way, Jew boy, you jes' a ****** in sheep's clothing, an' don' you forget it!"
"I guess you're pretty mad, eh, Hulkster?"
"I love ya, Davey, but Christ, who gives a sh!t about Parker Elliot?"

Eek! First draft. Hope you like it!

It was a dark and stormy night. The gray sky, seeping with charcoal clouds, spat cold rain drops at the streets. The gutters overflowed with freezing water, dirty leaves spilling over onto the black streets. Splashing through the puddles, Charlie bounded through the dark alleyways. She threw back her mahogany hair away from her face and her blue eyes flashed as lightning struck from the sky. Few people scuttled on the sidewalks, chests caved in, wearing black raincoats. Charlie smiled at each of them as they passed her while she waited for the bus. The looming, dull gray bus skidded to a stop in front of her, spraying tiny droplets of water at the sidewalks. She hopped onto the slippery, rubber stairs and flickered to the back seats. The bus was empty except for two men, facing each other on opposite sides of the bus.

Charlie flipped through her poetry book, a ballpoint pen in hand. A paper flickered to the ground and, as an instant reflex, she snatched it up before it hit the wet ground. She began writing in a flowing mix of cursive and print, humming a soft and musical tune. The man closest to her began tapping his booted foot in time to Charlie’s rhythm, his hazel eyes watching her. She looked up, out the rain-covered window and placed her hand against it. She drew it back, a silhouette of fog around the hand print. She tugged on the cord above the window and the “Stop Requested” sign lit up and dinged. The driver drew to a stop and Charlie stepped out of the bus. She tilted her head up to the darkened sky, feeling the raindrops cascade upon her face as she began walking. She was a block away when she heard, “Hey! Hey, you!”

Charlie turned back and saw the other man from the bus, running towards her. His right hand was stretched out in front of him, her poetry book in hand. He reached her, out of breath, and handed it to her. She hugged it to her chest, and he extended his hand. “Tony.”

Very nice! I particularly like the "chests caved in" - gave me a perfect visual.

One more from me - remember its a first draft!
my agent-heroes are posing as a married couple...
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“And here is your room,” Donna said to Vance and Tiffani as she opened the door, Vance looked in and stopped. There was one small bed in the center of the room.

Donna closed the door behind her as she left them alone. Vance turned to Tiffani questioningly. She appeared unhappy. Before she could speak, he ushered her into the small bathroom and turned on the faucet. Putting his lips close to her ears, he whispered, “The room will be bugged, better act normal.”
“Agreed,” she whispered back, “but you better keep those wandering hands to yourself.”
“I can think of much better things to do with them.”
“Try it and you will know what an interplanetary incident feels like!”
He decided to switch topics, “did you notice our hosts, looks like they have been brainwashed.”
“I would say a simple wipe and imprint,” she said thoughtfully, “if their knowledge was extracted first then we would have been arrested as soon as we landed. We just need to play along and see how things turn out. So far, we don’t seem to be in any danger.”
“Right, let’s see how things look tomorrow.”

Lying in bed he waited for her to change. She opened the door, wearing a thin silken nightdress that left nothing to the imagination.
“You look good,” he said in a desperately casual voice, “is that a new gown?”
“This old thing?” she said dimpling and turning in a circle, “I wasn’t expecting this and didn’t pack very well.” He knew what she meant, although their hidden watchers would not, that she had expected to sleep alone otherwise she would have brought more formidable sleepwear.

She slid into bed beside him, turning her back to him as he switched off the light. She tried to hug the edge of the bed, as far from him as she could get but the bed was an old one that sagged slightly in the middle and they quickly ended up together in the center. Vance turned toward her and spooned, feeling the heat from her body against his. He draped his arm across her, feeling her tense up then slowly relax as he made no other moves. He lay awake long after her breathing slowed, feeling the warmth between them and smelling her perfume.

She awoke gracefully. Taking stock she felt Vance’s hard muscled body against hers. He was snoring slightly, a peaceful sound compared to the powerful energy he displayed when awake. She liked it, in fact she discovered she liked waking up next to him. Not that she could let him know it of course.
‘Time to get up sleepyhead,” she planted a delicate kiss on his lips, watching with enjoyment as his eyes fluttered open.
With a laugh, he snatched her down on top of him, wrapped his muscular arms around her and spun until he lay on top of her. He planted kisses on her neck, face and lips until she was out of breath. Then just as suddenly he released her, sitting up and looking down at her underneath him.
“That is just about the best alarm clock ever,” he said, grinning wolfishly at her grimace.
“And that’s the last one you’ll ever get,” she said trying to wriggle out from under him, “Get off me you big oaf.”
“Then I better get one more while I still can,” he said and bent down for another kiss. This one lasted quite a long time and they both were flushed when they came up for air.
“Um, I think…” he started, then stopped, unsure what to say.
“We had better get the day started,” Tifani said unsteadily, “we are supposed to meet with Heorot this morning.”
“Heorot,” Vances eyes snapped into focus, “that’s right. We will be touring the city today.” He slipped off of her, focused on the task at hand once more.

The First Ghost: Second Installment

When opened my eyes to see a gorgeous man- tall, dark hair, blue eyes—standing at the foot of my bed I had two thoughts. The first was: I hope this isn’t a dream. The second, which I unfortunately said aloud was: “Please tell me you aren’t another ghost.”

He smiled as if I had said something witty. “Sorry I disturbed you.” He had a lovely voice, warm and baritone.

I smiled back at him. If he was a ghost, he was a nice change from Corinne. I wouldn’t mind being haunted by those eyes.

“I’m Portia,” I said. Damn but it’s hard to flirt and look alluring when you’re lying in a hospital bed.

“I know.” He tapped the charted he was holding and something clicked in my addled brain. Oh. White coat. Reading chart. “Are you my doctor?”

“I was. I was the attending physician when they brought you into the E.R. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Drat. “I guess I’m going to be fine.”

“I can see that.” He smiled again and my heart did a little flip that had nothing to do with my health. His smile lit the sterile room. “Do you mind?” He moved closer with his pen light and peered into my eyes.
I tried not to blink or pull away and to look beautiful at the same time. It isn’t possible. I blinked like a nervous owl until he finally had to hold my eyelid open with a gentle finger. He had wonderful hands.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“Not at all. You’re the perfect patient.” He sat on the edge of my bed.

Oh, be still my heart. There was that smile again. “Do you visit all your patients?”

“Just the beautiful ones.”

Holy crap. He was flirting. I did a little giddy dance inside, but for some reason I was tongue tied. I searched frantically for something witty to say, but what popped out instead was unexpected. “Were you her doctor too?”

He pulled back slightly with a puzzled look. “Her?”

“Her. That girl,” I motioned toward Corinne’s now empty bed. “The one who died.”

“Oh. That girl. Yes, I was the attending when she was brought in too. Very sad. She was so young.”

And just who was it complaining about stopping at the good parts? Sheesh!

I like Portia's narrative voice a lot, and the flip at the end is very well done.

Soccer_Mom, that little piece is really well done. The words flow together really well and you can really "feel" the scene. I liked it a lot.

Mark, I like your excerpts, too. So far it's reminding me of Keith Laumer's Retief series.

And Sage, are the writers with the laptops NaNoing by any chance?

Fun stuff!

That's one way to release your aggressions.

So far in all my writing, I have yet to bump anybody off onstage. A lot of deaths have occured in the past which move the story along. I think that will change in this story.

"Double Take" Excerpt #3 (scene after post #37 in this thread):
===============================================

Katrina tied the second rope around her waist, took a deep breath, and slipped over the edge of the roof. Behind her, Pounce took up the slack by belaying the rope around the chimney of the tailor's shop. They'd snuck onto the roof with ease from the tree overhanging the cook shop on the other side of the block.

The wall gave Katrina plenty of hand and footholds. The rope was almost unnecessary. She'd left her cloak with Pounce and tried to stay hidden in the shadows as she climbed down, but the street was still empty. As she reached the level of the shuttered window she listened, but no sound came from inside. The rough stonework felt gritty as she ran her fingertips around the edge of the window frame. All she felt was dirt. No magic, none that her fingers could detect.

Katrina's secret weapon as a thief was her sense of touch. She had a slight magical affinity, just enough to tell her when magic was present, and just enough to help her finesse her way through magical traps others couldn't see.

She steadied herself with a boot on the windowsill and reached for the shutters. Not surprisingly, they didn't budge when she pulled, but she slipped her dagger through the center seam and lifted the latch. Dark room, no sounds of alarm, only some mild creaks from the hinges as she opened the shutters. She jerked on the rope to tell Pounce to give her slack, then slid over the window sill.

The only illumination came from the half open shutters behind her. Light gleamed in a line along the floor from the crack under an interior door. Katrina crouched in the shadow next to the window and listened while her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

Distant murmur of voices through the door, but Katrina couldn't make out any words. Rustle of movement from the far corner, along with soft sounds of breathing. She wasn't alone. The floor was covered in dust and rubbish. Stray pieces of cloth, empty bolts of fabric. An old chair. The light from the window wasn't enough to illuminate the whole room. The far corner stayed shrouded in darkness, the corner where the breathing rasped.

Katrina decided to risk a light. Reaching into her vest, she felt inside the hidden pocket for the flat token shaped like a crescent moon and pulled it out. The token clay glowed dimly like moonlight, just enough to shift the shadows away from her. She covered most of the token to control the light and held it toward her feet while she daintily stepped across the room to keep the floorboards from squeaking. She held her other hand before her to feel for magic, but she felt none until she reached the corner.

The boy lay on a rickety bed, his hands and feet tied to the bedposts, and a gag stopping his mouth. He wore a fine linen tunic and trousers which were torn at the knees, but no shoes. No other signs of injury. He raised his head as she reached him, and she whispered, "Shh, it's going to be all right."

His eyes burned with fury. Katrina recoiled in shock. Pure anger, helpless rage, stifled malice, all rolled off the boy in an almost palpable wave she could feel through her fingertips.

Loud noise from through the door, a crash like crockery jumping from a fist slamming a loaded table. Katrina froze and stared at the door, heart pounding, but the now raised voices continued their argument.

She looked back at the boy, almost afraid of what she would see. The boy's eyes brimmed with tears over the gag, and he made muffled sounds as he vainly tried to reach toward her with his bound hands. All she could sense was his fear.

Katrina shook her head, not sure whether she had imagined the anger, but the boy's fear was real enough. She could feel the tingle of magic from him, sleepy tingle, as if the boy had been drugged with magic. The child stealers had probably done something to him to subdue him when he was snatched.

"I can get you out of here," she whispered, "but you need to be very quiet and brave. Can you do that?"

The boy was younger than she thought, perhaps six or seven. His eyes squeezed shut, and he nodded. She untied his feet first, then his hands. When she reached to undo the gag, she gave him a stern look and gestured for silence. He nodded again, then took the untied gag from her and threw it on the bed.

She tied the second rope around his waist and pointed to the window, mimicking tiptoeing with her fingers. His bare feet made no noise. She slipped the light token back into her vest and followed him.

Between Katrina pushing from below and Pounce pulling from above, they managed to get the boy up to the rooftop. She stayed behind and jimmied the shutter shut so it latched from the inside. Let the child stealers try to figure out where the boy had gone.

Now all she needed to do was figure out what to do with him herself.
======================

oooh, all is not what it seems with our young captive. Cool.

And Mark's seems just chock full of "good parts!" I bet that's fun to write. I'm off to NaNo on my lunch hour. Be back tonight.

Give me your best shot. Play editor.

Jack and Adele
Jack threaded a small bouquet of heliotrope into the lapel of his suit. “Thanks, Paul. Gotta smell good for the ladies.” The florist smiled and bobbed his head as he watched Jack, a frequent customer for the heliotrope he grew in large bushes inside his store. Jack sniffed the purple blossoms. With a wink to Paul, he said, “Ah, love that grapey aroma,” Stepping outside, he felt the cold air, but unlike Chicago, no snow had fallen. He pulled his overcoat tighter around him, gave a tug to his fedora, and started walking toward the Seelbach Hilton where he knew he’d find Adele.
He had met Adele Washington at The National Theatre soon after he moved to Louisville. He’d gone with a woman he’d picked up in a bar to see “The Diamond Revue,” one of the few vaudeville shows still traveling the circuit, and “Metropolis,” the movie that closed the revue. When Adele came in and sat beside him, he noticed that she was a very attractive older woman. Beautiful black hair, worn loose, tinged slightly with gray, large expressive eyes that sparkled in the low house light, a small nose and delicate chin, dressed to the nines in a ruby gown with a black lace shawl—Jack immediately thought class. Except for the gray and a few lines around her eyes and mouth, he couldn’t tell her age. When the curtain opened on the first act, he saw she was instantly excited and fixated on the action. It surprised him because first acts were always duds, just some stupid thing to fill time so latecomers could be seated without disturbing important acts later on. Maybe she knows someone on stage, he thought, because it’s sure not worth all that laughter she’s giving out. But, as the show went on, she was even more into it, not only laughing joyously at almost anything said or done, but also making comments as if she were coaching the performers.
At one point she said, “No! Hold the shoe while you talk, then hit him.”
Not able to take it any longer, Jack leaned over and said, “You must think this is pretty cool, huh?”
“Oh, sorry if I bothered you, but I used to be in the business and I get all charged up when I see this stuff. Sorry.”
“No bother. I think I’d rather watch you than the show.” She laughed, turning back to the stage. “You’re from New Orleans, aren’t you?” he said.
She snapped her face to him. “How’d you know that?”
“The lilt in your voice. I spent some time in New Orleans, and I know how they sound. Like you’re from New York but with a French accent.”
“Creole. It comes from the Creole in us.” She stared at Jack as if wondering if he was trying to make a pass at her or was just curious.
“I’ll let you get back to the show.” He had almost forgotten he had a date, but when he looked at her, he saw she was bored and almost asleep.
The act just before the intermission was Smith and Dale, a popular comedy team, which was a surprise because the act wasn’t on the bill. According to the emcee, the duo was just passing through Louisville and agreed to appear that night only.
‘This is a great act,” Adele shouted over the applause. “I worked with them once.”
Mostly a slapstick comedy act with snappy dialogue, Smith and Dale performed their famous routine, “Doctor Kronkheit and His Only Living Patient.” Appearing with a young woman who played the nurse, Smith played the doctor and Dale was the patient.
“Are you the doctor’s nurse?” Dale asked the girl.
“Yes.”
“What? The doctor is sick, too?” Dale replied.
The audience laughed at each corny joke, and by the time the act was over, everyone was ready for a break. When the houselights came up, Jack nudged his girlfriend. “Rise and shine, Sweetheart.” She gave him a groggy stare. “Intermission, kid,” he said, offering his hand.
“I’m leaving, Jack,” she said as she struggled to her feet. “This ****’s boring. Come to think of it, you’re boring, too.” She stomped out to the aisle and disappeared in the crowd. Jack turned to Adele who was gazing at the ceiling and losing at an attempt to stifle a laugh. “Uh, we weren’t close,” he said. Adele yelped with laughter and sat back down.
When she could she said, “I’ve seen guys brushed off, but you was swatted, baby.”
He was laughing, too. “My name’s Jack Stewart.”
Calmed now, she stood, smiling at him. “Adele Washington.”
“Well, Miss Washington. It is Miss is, it not? I don’t like getting my jaw broke by a jealous husband.”
“It’s Mrs., but my husband passed several years ago.”
“Oh, my condolences.” He smiled. “Do you smoke?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, Mrs. Washington, will you join me outside?”
A warm October night greeted them, complete with a soft breeze carrying the sweet perfume of dying leaves. He offered her a cigarette, took one for himself, and lit both. “So, do I understand you were in show business?” Jack asked. In the low light of the marquee lights he noticed her skin was a soft olive shade, and her dark almond shaped eyes glistened from between thick lashes. Her lips, full and sensuous, set off glimmering, white teeth.
“Years ago,” she said. “I toured for Keith and Albee, starting in 1900. I was 21.”
“Wait a minute. You’re not much older’n 21 now,” Jack replied, genuinely surprised.
“Bless your heart, Mr. Stewart. So sweet of you, but might we leave age outta this conversation?”
“Okay. You were 21 and working for who?”
“Keith and Albee. They owned all of vaudeville in those years. Still do for that matter. I was a hoofer.”
“Hoofer?”
“Dancer, Mr. Stewart. I danced. Tap, ballet, interpretive. All of it. I’ve danced with the best like the Nicholas Brothers once at the Palace in New York, and I’ve danced with the worst. Ever hear of Teddy Allen?”
“No, can’t say as I have.” He flipped his smoke into the street and leaned against the brick wall of the theatre. This is a fascinating woman, he thought.
“Well, no wonder. I danced with him in a revue in Wilkes-Barre. He had two left feet and both of them were retarded.” She dropped her cigarette butt and gently pressed it into the sidewalk.
“So, why’d you quit?”
She hesitated awhile, fixing her eyes on the traffic moving along the street. “Oh, I just got tired, Mr. Stewart. I did two, sometimes five, shows a day, everyday. On the road constantly, never having a home. I wasn’t big time, sort of middle time, you might say. Never a headliner, but I made a living. Of course, vaudeville is really dead now ‘cause of movies, ‘specially the talkies. What you see tonight is rare, a real live vaudeville show. That’s why I’m excited.”
Jack smiled at her and offered his arm. “Well, Mrs. Washington, I think the curtain is about to go up.”
She took his arm and returned his smile. “Love the fragrance of those flowers you got in your button hole.”
“Heliotrope,” he said as they made their way back to their seats
First up was a short play based on “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” a relic of old vaudeville, Adele told him. Two comedy acts followed, Sanderson and Bowman with fast one-liners that made everyone laugh, and a ventriloquist act that was just plain corny, Jack thought, although Adele enjoyed it, joking that she’d dated he dummy. Dancers and singers followed, all pretty fair in Jack’s opinion, Adele concurring with a lot of laughter and enthusiastic applause. Finally, as had been the custom in vaudeville since the advent of movies, the film “Metropolis” began as the closer. After a few minutes, Jack leaned over and whispered to Adele, “You enjoying this?”
“No. I’ve seen it.”
“Can we go?”
Without a word they got up and went out. Jack suggested they find someplace to eat, but Adele said she needed to get home.
“I’m an old woman, Mr. Stewart,” she said with a grin.
“No you’re not, and my name is Jack, Adele, if I may.”
“You may, Jack,” she said, “but if I’m not old then I am tired.” She hesitated, and then continued, “This was fun. I’m glad we sort of bumped into each other.”
“Me too,” he said and once again admired her wonderful smile and her beautiful dark eyes.
“Sorry your girl ran off.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I think I was stupid for picking her up. Just lonely, I guess.”
“You’re not married?”
“No. What would a married guy be doing running around like this?”
“You’d be surprised. Hey, a cab!”
Jack turned and whistled, stopping the cab, which backed up to where they stood. Jack noted quickly it was a Checker series K, like he’d seen in New York and Chicago, unusual this far south. As Adele got in, Jack said to the driver, “Take the lady home and here’s enough for the fare and you.”
“Jack, you don’t need to do that,” Adele said.
“Yeah, I do. I wanna see you again.”
She leaned back, looked at him, smiling slightly. “I don’t know, Jack, that may not be a good idea.”
“Why not? Don’t tell me you’re too old, because I don’t buy that.”
“It’s more than that,” she said as she closed the door and rolled down the window. “You’re sweet young man, and it was great, but let’s call it a night.” She leaned forward. “Driver.” The car sped away, and Jack stood there with his hands on his hips, not believing what had happened.
For two nights, he hung around the theatre hoping to see her but gave up when she didn’t appear. Finally, being incapable of carrying a torch for any girl for very long, she grew dim in a week and faded from his memory in two. The railroad also got busy. It seemed like he and his engineer, Stormy, were never in Louisville the rest of that October and November. Thankfully, by early December work had simmered down, and they had some time off. Jack went back on the prowl.
“You ever think ‘bout anythin’ but women?” Stormy asked him once.
“Yeah,” Jack responded, “I think about food, now and then.”
In fact he was thinking about food on a chilly Saturday evening just before Christmas as he made his way down Grande Street toward Broadway to see what was available at his usual haunts. “What I wouldn’t give for a bowl of blackeyed peas and some greens,” he said to himself as he walked. “And some cornbread. Mmmm! Mammy little baby sho do love some shortenin’ bread.” He’d heard of a speakeasy, of all things, on Wilson Avenue that served incredible, down home food. Speaks were not known for food, and this was in Little Africa, the area of downtown where blacks had resided for over thirty years. It was rare but not unheard of for white people, most always men, to go into Little Africa, but it was usually for nefarious reasons because police presence there was considered unnecessary; blacks were considered unnecessary as well. Occasionally, for a thrill, white couples would go to a Little Africa speakeasy just to be daring, or because they just could; blacks couldn’t frequent white establishments, but whites didn’t have that restriction. Indeed, Jack had been reared to believe blacks were inferior, never questioning Jim Crow laws of the time that fabricated the idea of “place”

Today was a fun scene, so thought I'd share a snippet. I've never tried so many participants in dialogue, so I'm hoping this works keeping up with them. Showing, not telling, of course.

It's Margaret's POV in this scene, so you'll have to consider that she is blind and therefore doesnt' have any visual cues to share with us.

Enjoy!

_____________________________________

"Let's find the children."

Enid clasped Margaret's elbow and firmly guided her toward the walkway. "I believe they're out in the stables with Samuel and Sarah, making sure the horses are cared for and the bags are unloaded."

"Best to catch them now, then, before everything's unloaded. Show me."

"I'll take care of that, Margaret. But I want you to rest in the hotel parlor in the mean time. You took a nasty spill and it looks like you're limping now."

"I'll be fine," she said, straightening her spine and concentrating on not flinching when she put her weight down on her left ankle. "I've taken nastier spills."

"Yes, but you're also fatigued from the trip, so you'll rest while I get the children. Take some refreshment."

Enid was right, so Margaret allowed her to bustle her to a settee with a cup of tea and a stern admonishment not to move. In no time, the room was teeming with six lively, animated bodies, all clamoring to move and talk at the same time.

"Oh, Miss Margaret, I can't believe we are finally here!" declared Sarah.

"Stop it, Brick!" That one was Mick.

"Well, stop calling me Brick."

"Why not? He's got it right. You _are_ built like a brick wall," explained Samuel.

"Stop fighting," demanded Enid, furious over their boundless energy and lack of manners.

Everyone was talking at once, except for little Ida Mae who had crawled into Margaret's lap and laid her head against her breast. Margaret slowly stroked her back as she listed to the banter swelling around her, a little smile tugging at her lips. Life wasn't so lonely with so much animation about.

"What do you think the farm will be like, Betsy?"

"It's not a farm, Sarah. It's called a ranch."

"Well, what's the difference between a farm and a ranch? They both have cows don't they?"

"I told you I'm not a _Brick_!" bellowed Tom and Margaret heard something crash to the floor and shatter.

"Stop fighting!" cried Enid with continued futility.

"Look what you did!" cried Samuel with growing dismay. "You broke that vase."

"Nuh uh. Mick's the one that knocked it over."

"Because you pushed me."

"Did not," snarled Tom.

"Did too! Don't you waive that fist in my face. You might have hands like brick blocks, but I'm faster than you any day!" There was a clear smirk behind that voice.

_Crash!_

Well, that was going to cost her, too. As much as she knew they needed to move about after being stuck in that rocking wagon for days on end, they needed to control their enthusiasm. She didn't have the coin to spare for damaged property.

Fred, looks like the start of an intriguing romance. Good luck to Jack and Adele!

And sanremoave? I think anyone who has been pent up on a road trip with children can relate to that scene. I believe I kept up with who's who, but I got lost at two places. Is "Brick" Sarah or Tom? I also couldn't tell whose voice was smirking. I'm definitely interested in finding out where they're all going.

I'm loving reading these - you've convinced me to share.

OK, this needs a little explanation - Madeline is telling the narrator how she sheds her skin (like a snake) when she's feeling insecure.

****

“Psychiatry and medicine didn’t work, so I tried God. I had never been to church as a child, my parents weren’t religious. But I’d heard so much about him and I reasoned, somehow, that this condition was somehow related to me not being religious. So I went to church.

“I went twice, three times a week. I confessed my sins, I prayed to God morning and night. I tried to believe, to convince myself that I believed. But I could not. It wasn’t a passing thing.” She hurried to reassure me. “It wasn’t a passing thing. I really believed. Not just because I wanted to get better, not just because I wanted it to be the answer, but because I’d convinced myself that this was missing from my life.

“But my priest was a narrow minded man. I told him of my condition, I was trying to absolve myself of guilt, and he cursed me for it. He told me I had been evil to attract the wrath of God. He held me up to the community as an example of how God would damn the infidel.

“He dragged me to the front of the church, dragged me in front of the whole congregation and showed them the wrath of a vengeful God.

“After that, I was scared to show my face. I didn’t dare step out of my front door.

“I moved away from the area. I didn’t know what else to do. I had to run away.

“That’s when I met John.

“He was my neighbor. He came around to introduce himself the first day I moved in. He offered to help if I had any problems.

“Sure enough I did. The waste drain from my shower was old and narrower than the modern drain in my old house. It clogged up easily and I had water backing up in my bath.

“I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know how to clear it and I remembered the friendly man from next door.

“So I called him. I felt really awkward at first. I was frightened he’d reject me like everyone else had. But he came round and cleared my drain, and he showed me how to do it, so I didn’t need to ask for help again.

“I think he knew there was something odd; but he didn’t ask me about it. And he didn’t treat me as though I was strange or different. He smiled and joked as though clearing a weeks' worth of skin out of a shower drain was the most natural thing in the world."
****

Huge info dump, but I can work on that bit.

TheIT said:

And sanremoave? I think anyone who has been pent up on a road trip with children can relate to that scene. I believe I kept up with who's who, but I got lost at two places. Is "Brick" Sarah or Tom? I also couldn't tell whose voice was smirking. I'm definitely interested in finding out where they're all going.

Click to expand...

TheIT,

Thanks so much for the feedback! I wasn't entirely sure how well it played (outside of my head, of course) so this is awesome feedback. I'll see if I can't clear it up a bit. Tom's new nickname is "Brick" which he clearly hates but naturally everyone's going to be calling him "Brick" in no time. And Mick's the smirker 'cause he started it all.

What a challenge to have a blind narrator and to write without visual clues. Those are fun exerpts.

Yes, it's a bit of info dump. I've got some of those in my book right now. I'm with you. Just write them and move on. At least the info is interesting. I don't mind a little info dump in books I read as long as it is well-written and moves along.

Just bumping this back up. Keep posting exerpts!



Waking up in a hospital room is disorienting enough on its own, but try doing it with a sad-faced stranger staring at you from close range.

“Can you see me? You look like you can see me,” she said. She had long honey blond hair and a chubby, but pretty face.

Crap. I knew where this was going. “I can see you,” I sighed. “Are you a ghost?”

“I’m Corinne,” she said as though this explained why she was sad and sitting on my hospital bed looking like her puppy had died.

“What can I do for you, Corinne?”

“I...I think I died here today,” she said uncertainly.

“Oh.” Well that did explain a lot. It explained the sadness, but not her presence in my room. “Shouldn’t you be gone? I’m mean didn’t she...you know...take you where ever...you go?” I finished lamely, not sure how to frame the question. “Didn’t Death come by to pick you up?”

“She wouldn’t go.” I jumped at Hephzibah’s voice so near my elbow.

“Don’t do that.”

“Sorry, doll. Thought you knew I’d be here.”

“I have questions,” Corinne said. “I’m not ready to die yet.”

“I hear that all the time. No one is ever ready. Trust me,” Hephzibah said soothingly. “Just come with me and everything will be clear as day.”

“I want my answers first. Where am I going? Did someone tell my Aunt Susie? Who did this to me? Why? What’s going to happen to Billy?”

“Slow down. Slow down. I told you. Just come with me and we’ll get you some answers. As for the worldly things, it’s best just to forget them. They don’t matter to you anymore.”

Corinne crossed her arms stubbornly. “I’m staying here.”

Hephzibah gave me a look. “A little help here?”

“Me? Don’t look at me,” I said. “I am not my mother. No way. I don’t meddle in the affairs of the dead. Unh-unh. No way, Jose. Not gonna happen.”

“At least promise the girl you’ll call Aunt Susie in Omaha.”
Corinne’s face brightened. “Would you? That would help a lot.”

“Of course she will. Won’t you, Portia. Her name is Portia,” she whispered to Corinne. “She sees dead people.”

“But only for a little while. I’ll be myself soon. Then all this talking to the dead stuff is over. Okay. I’ll call the aunt. But that’s it.”

“What about Billy? Who’ll take care of my Billy?” Corinne’s voice was rising. Hezebah shot me another help me look.

I was gonna regret this one—big time. “Who is Billy?” I was praying she didn’t have a child she wanted me to adopt and raise. It would be hard to turn down a dead mother, but the answer was even worse.

“He’s my dog. My roommate hates him.” She was sniffling nosily but dryly. Her huge blue eyes were sad, but no tears ran down her cheeks. “Please take care of my Billy.”

“What? A dog? No way. I’ll call your aunt, even though I’m sure the people at the hospital have already done it, but if it makes you feel better then fine. A phone call? Yes. A dog? No.”

“It’s a little dog,” Hephzibah said. “I’ve seen it. A little bitty dog. Man’s best friend.”

“No. I’ll get evicted. I can’t have pets in my building.”

“At least find the doggy a good home.”

I glared at Hephzibah. “This is your gig. Not mine. Why are you dragging me into this?”

“I’m afraid Corinne is sort of fixated on you.”

“What?” I tried to sit up.

Hephzibah shrugged. “It happens.”

“I’m haunting you,” Corinne said cheerfully.

Soccer_Mom - that was a bitching post! I wanna read that story, it sounds very interesting..

another excerpt.. The space-battle stuff is always too long to post so I tend to throw in the little scenes.. hope it will stand on its own.

That night the graffiti covered the city. It appeared on every wall in every neighboring city. The underground rumor mill buzzed throughout the planet. Come to the main square in Imperial City in three days at 10am it said, the time has come to march on the palace and demand that changes be made. The emperor must be made to understand how bad things are, to see how many people are sick and dying and if he won’t understand, the time has come to make him understand.
On the day of the demonstration, they came streaming into the city. From far and wide, they arrived by bus, by plane and on foot. Thousands upon thousands filled the streets around main square, chanting and waving signs.
At 10am Albert appeared on a stage raised above the crowd. A tremendous cheer rose at the sight of him, only to be eclipsed by the screaming roar when Diane stepped out onto the platform. She wore a dress made of thousands of layers of shimmering transparent fabric over a glowing bodysuit. The effect was as if she glowed from within, the light rays flowing and refracting from the folds and weaves of the layers giving her the appearance of a gigantic living jewel.
Albert recognized the intensity of feeling the crowd felt toward her and gestured her to stand beside him. He offered her the microphone and stepped back.
Diane stood before the crowd, uncertain of what to say. They quieted, straining to hear her voice. At last, drawing on the strength she used to win beauty pageants, she raised her arms, “Good people! I stand before you uncertain of my future. Like you I know not what this day holds. We go to seek justice. We go to seek decency. We go to claim our lives back. We go to reclaim our dignity, and if we cannot be given it, then we will take it!”
Shouts and cheering erupted, drowning out her words. She waited until the cheering had died down before continuing, “I do not believe the Pig wants us to have any dignity. I do not believe the Pig wants us to have full stomachs. I do not believe the Pig wants justice. Only one man wants these things for you, the man I love, I give you Albert Finnigan!”
She stepped backward and pushed Albert up to the microphone with a flourish. Albert was stunned by her speech, fumbling with his words. Diane stepped beside him, grabbed his hand, and focused him on the microphone.
Emboldened, Albert spoke into the microphone. He spoke of their fundamental rights as human beings. He spoke of their right to ask for changes. He spoke of their rights to demand changes if asking did not succeed. His words slowly built up an anger and desire inside the crowd and when he finally unleashed them with “And now we march on the palace and demand changes!” They went screaming and roaring through the streets, heading for the palace.
Albert slumped into a chair, “I hope I have not signed their death warrant.”
“Surely the Pig would not murder them all,” Diane was horrified at the thought.
“I would not put it past him. Did you really mean it, what you said about us, about me?” Albert looked up at her with hope in his eyes.
“Every word my love,” Diane sat down in the chair next to him, wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.
He broke their kiss, slid out of his chair and got down on one knee. “I have loved you, from the moment I saw you, covered in dirt at that farm. I don’t care if we live only another day or an entire lifetime, I want my every moment from now on to be with you. Will you marry me?”
“Oh yes!” she squealed and jumped into his lap, sending the two of them rolling across the podium.
John gave them a minute then brought them back to reality. “Come on you two lovebirds, you can celebrate later. Right now we have to get into position or the diversion you so successfully whipped up will go to waste.”

A diversion? Inciting a revolution is a diversion? Oooh, I like it!

Thanks for the kind comments too. I just found a new source of conflict in story. (happy dance).

Here are the last thousand words or so that I've written-- I'm dropping out of the contest because I'll get fired from my job if I take the time to finish. I will finish the novel, though-- I'm enjoying it a lot. I've written songs for TOGM and drawn pictures of the characters and so on. It's a lot of fun. I have some of the first part posted on "share your work/mainstream", it's in four parts, and the first 10,000 words on "my novel" on the nanowrimo board.

In this part the main character Nemali Villareal is trying to use her band mate's cell phone without him knowing because she has been fobidden to call her friend Magda using her own cell phone which belongs to the band. (Magda borrowed money from Rashid Guererro and never paid him back.) Also the lead singer, Dane Zell, is having problems related to his alcohol and drug consumption. The band is all stuck together in the same cramped pickup truck cab because Nemali's car broke down and they abandoned it in Texas.

NOTE: There's a lot of cussing in this.
-------------
Going to the Gig (part xxx)

Gooney and Greg kept Dane propped between them as we left the rest stop. Gooney got out his headset and started listening to tunes. Greg stared out the window. Rashid continued to sit up and pretended to be paying attention to the road, but I could tell from looking at his mouth that behind his dark shades he was blinking sleepily. I turned the radio on and fiddled with it for awhile, trying to get some music that wasn't completely awful. Failing that, I flipped through the CDs in the floor tray; someone had spilled something on them, pop or something… or at least I hoped that's what it was. I finally found one that I knew would work, and stuck it in. Alice Cooper's Love it to Death. That'll work.

By the end of "Long Way To Go" everyone was dozing. We still had half a tank of gas left so we wouldn't have to stop for awhile.

Everybody in the car usually falls asleep while I'm driving. It used to make me mad (because if everyone else falls asleep I will always stay awake to help the driver stay awake), but I don't mind anymore. Now that I know to expect it, it's actually kinda nice. I turned off the AC and opened my window, and cracked the window next to Greg, and all the "bad Dane smell" went away. On down the road we went. I was hungry, but I wasn't going to stop until we were low on gas. If I could keep things moving like this for the next few hours we would be coming up on Baton Rouge by four or five in the afternoon—just in time for rush hour, oh boy. We had to show up at the venue for sound check between six and seven.

It's always better to show up early for sound check because there's a lot less of a chance then that one's die-hard fans who are camping in the parking lot will figure out that you are "in the band" and start mobbing you (or trying to attack, as the case may be). Naturally, a lot of people know what we look like without our face paint, but identification always takes longer in that case, buying you those precious few seconds that allow you to get into the club unmolested.

I looked around the truck again to make sure everyone was sound asleep, and they were. I turned Alice Cooper up a bit. I looked over at Rashid one more time. I could tell he was asleep because he wasn't frowning. (If RG is asleep sitting up he has an expression on his face of slack-jawed horror; Dane took a picture of him once. Of course he got angry about it. It was still funny anyway. I think that's why he started wearing dark sunglasses all the time, i.e., because the eyes were the funniest part, slightly open, all rolled back so you can only see the whites.)

With great stealth—made all the more tricky because I was driving a truck with a trailer through increasingly heavy traffic—I sneaked my hand over to the glovebox. Dane's pickup is extra roomy so I had to lean over to get my finger on the button latch. I left my hand there for a count of 20. No one said anything or moved. I pushed the button in; the glovebox, unlocked, squeaked open. Again I paused. There was not a sound or movement, except that Dane had started snoring.

Now for the really hard maneuvering. I had to keep driving (in a straight line) and keep my eyes on the road while finding Dane's cell phone in the glovebox. I knew it was in there because it wasn't in his belt clip, and it wasn't laying on the dash. But I'm not a tall person, folks, and so if the thing was on the far side of the glovebox, I would have to pull over to get it out safely.

Plastic fork, plastic spoon, folded burger joint napkins (those really flimsy ones where if you try to use just one for anything except maybe to wipe up a tiny blob of mayo, you'll just make more of a mess), something that felt like a map… another map…

I saw I was slowing down too much, only going about 45 mph at this point. If I went slower than that it would wake someone up. I had to give the truck more gas and find the damned cell phone.

My hand touched the phone's padded case. Eureka! I paused one more time, cautiously pressing the gas pedal with my foot to speed up without jerking the trailer. No one was showing any signs of being awake. I pulled the phone out quickly, sat up, and tucked it around behind me, sort of between my *** and my back, next to the driver's side door. My heart was beating fast. I glanced in the rearview; Greg, Dane, and Gooney continued to sleep peacefully. Without anyone to monitor him, Dane had slumped forward so that his chin was almost touching his knees; he snored loudly, no way the guy could be conscious. With his sunglasses still on, chin propped on his hand, Greg looked the most awake, but he wasn't. Gooney was angelic; I could see his eyes moving behind his eyelids.

Quickly, without turning or moving much, I slammed the glovebox shut and grabbed the steering wheel.

Rashid lurched, snorted, and frowned—now he was awake. Not knowing what had waked him, he looked around slowly. "Where are we?"

"We've only gone like twenty miles, homes. Go back to sleep."

He glanced into the back, then looked at me. "You left your car back there in Texas."

I laughed shortly. "Yep."

I thought he was going to speak again, but he propped himself against the door with his leather underneath his head, and fell asleep again. I selected another CD to start playing after Love it to Death was done: the Who's Who's Next.

After I was sure that Rashid was once again sound asleep, I fished the cell phone out and opened the case. Dane did not know how to use text messaging, and only used this phone to call his wife—it was in fact his own personal cell phone (well, his wife's) and it was of an older, clunkier type. The text messages would of course show up on the bill, and I knew his wife did watch closely to see if he had been calling anyone else with her cell phone—I guess she figured he was too stupid to know how to buy a calling card. But by the time she got the bill that included the call that I was going to make now we would be back from tour by a couple of weeks. She would yell at Dane a bit but he wouldn't know what was going on and if she tried to call the number it was very unlikely she would be able to raise anybody there. So she would have to suffer in miserable suspicion and jealousy until some other disaster came along to take her mind off it. Hm… not an altogether displeasing notion.

I turned the ringer and alerts off on this phone, and one careful thumbstroke at a time texted someone with a message: I saw my poor old dog in a dream last night.

I didn't want to sit holding the phone to wait for a reply while there was a chance Dane would wake up and see it. I set the text alarm to "vibrate only" and put the phone—where else?—between my thighs. If Rashid happened to wake up, he might see me with the cell phone, but likely he wouldn't even register that: To him all cell phones were pretty much the same. I tried not to be nervous. Meanwhile Dane did stop snoring, which was a bit concerning. When I glanced in the rearview I didn't see him anymore, so I had to turn my head—he was slumped over now, lying across Greg Hernandez's lap. Now THERE was a great photo opportunity! Greg looked awake, almost—his mouth was propped closed on his hand and he was wearing sunglasses, and he appeared to be gazing at the scenery (still mostly arid, but getting dots and clumps of green here and there now, and more hilly) that flowed past the window. Dane, now lying across Greg's lap with his knees nearly in the floorboards, looked almost comatose. His sunglasses had fallen off and he appeared to be near death's door. His cheeks and chin were stubbled with unattractive growth that did not in the least match his bleached blonde hair. He appeared grimy and harried to the point of homelessness, wearing a heavily sweatstained tank top that was several sizes too small for him and skintight stonewashed designer jeans that he had likely purchased for five dollars at a thrift store—er, not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just that if you saw them… well, never mind. I mean, they have embroidery on the pockets in different colors. Embroidery.

"Fags," I muttered.

What a charming scene. Where's the damned camera when you really need it!? I considered using my cell phone to viddy it, but just then the cell phone between my legs started to vibrate.

I looked at the screen. Right on. The reply to my text message said: I didnt know a dog could wear a silk shirt.

(Thank goodness.) Sorry to bug you. I need your advice about something.

K, wat?

Will you call me in about an hour and a half and I'm going to pretend youre someone else ok? You just ask questions and I answer. Ok? It took me nearly ten minutes to text that while driving, in case you are interested, Dear Reader.

There was a long pause. Im srry I didnt get all that.

I looked around. Everyone was still sound asleep. Dane had actually snuggled up a little to Greg and was totally lying across his knees now. Funny! I hoped to be there when soundman Greg finally woke up.

In about 1 & 1/2 hours will u call my cell & play 20 questions like we did that 1 time?

Oh certainly hija. is it about a boy?

Yes.

What is your cell no again?

I punched the numbers.

I ll call in hour and a half.

Thank you Tia Magda. xxxooo

xxxooo

I closed the phone up. Now to get it back into the glovebox—a much easier trick than getting it out. I paused, I lined up my sights, I looked at the road…

There were a lot more cars now. The back highway we had been roading was getting ready to spill onto a more major interstate. The countryside rolled and was rutted, and there were trees. Greater numbers and a greater variety of bugs splattered our windshield. The last time I had been in Louisiana was… hm… I couldn't remember.

I opened the glovebox quickly and threw Dane's phone back in; then I left it open and swerved a little bit. Rashid woke with a start. "What the ****!?"

"Sorry, man… I need to look at the map, I'm not sure if we're supposed to stay on this highway or go onto the other one."

He gave me a disgusted look. "I thought you had studied our game plan. You told me you did." (It's so like Rashid to call an itinerary a "game plan". Gimme a break…)

I gave him an even more disgusted look. "So you want to risk showing up late because I forgot where to turn off and got our asses lost?"

He looked around and noticed the trees. I saw him remember that we had crossed the state line some while ago. "How much gas is left?"

I heard Dane snort. Our talking was going to wake everyone up. Quickly I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, and said, "Hey, dude, look at that!"

Rashid glanced back to see Dane sound asleep on soundman Greg's lap—after which he favored me with one of his all-too-rare toothy smiles. He even giggled, then put his straight face on again and said, "Greg! Greg, wake up!" Underneath his black sunglasses, his mouth struggled to stay in a frown. "Greg!"

More snorting noises. (Gooney stayed asleep.)

I couldn't really see much but I saw Greg's head jerk as he woke up and then there was a silence of about five or six seconds, and then: "What the… GET THE **** OFF ME, MAN!!" Rashid and I both burst out laughing. (And he closed the glovebox, because he had bumped his knee on it when he turned to look. Good boy.)

There was a thud as Dane fell to the floorboards. Now Gooney woke up with an exclamation. "Huh?!" In the rearview I saw him look down. Now his tone was one of fear. "Aaah! Get off me!"

Dane was sort of thrashing slowly around; he was likely still halfway or all the way asleep.

Rashid said, "Dane, get up!"

Now Greg regained his sense of responsibility. "Dane! Dane!"

I saw Dane become upright again in the passenger cab, but his face underneath its grime and stubble was deathly pale. His lips moved but no sound came out.

Greg cried, "Nem! Pull over, he's gonna puke!"

I started to slow down. My seat bumped forward as Gooney jerked his legs out of the way of the expected cataract of vomit. He scrunched into the corner as far as he could go; indeed, I could hear his hands scrabbling against the door.

There were cars behind us so I couldn't come to a complete stop, I had to signal and get our speed down to about 30 miles per before I started pulling over. Rashid said, "Dane? Are you ok?"

Rashid has actually known Dane Zell since high school. Yes, it was and still is amazing that two people of such different temperaments and dispositions could have remained friends as long as they did—what they were now was not really friends, though. It was more like Rashid owned Dane's *** at this point.

Now the truck was bumping onto the shoulder, the trailer jerking and tugging against the trailer hitch as we slowed down. "Hurry, Nem!" Greg said under his breath, as though he feared that raised voices might make the puke appear more precipitously.

"Stopping…" I said as I braked and put my hand on the shift knob, "… now!" As I said that a small moan escaped Dane's flaccid lips. We were stopped; I put the truck into "park".

Like a well-drilled SWAT team, Rashid and soundman Greg burst into action. Rashid launched himself out the door like a man on fire, pulling the seat forward so Greg could get out. Even though he's a bit overweight and has a bad back, soundman Greg sprang out of the cab with an agility that would have impressed a gymnastics coach. Dane groaned, a bit more loudly this time. Greg reached back in and grabbed Dane's arm, and hauled him out onto the shoulder of the road. Dane took two staggering steps and then collapsed onto hands and knees. I couldn't really see him at this point, but judging from the sounds and reactions of Rashid (horrified disgust) and Greg (relief that he didn't get hit with any, mingled with pity) Dane did puke. A lot, and quite noisily.

"Jesus Christ!" Gooney said in a deeply shaken voice. I glanced at him in the rearview. His face was covered with sweat. His headphones had fallen down around his neck. Our eyes met and he chuckled weakly.

"The joys of band life," I said.

He reached around the driver's side of the seat and tweaked my arm, laughing. "Yeah."

Now I said in my tiniest-bit-too-loud voice: "Gooney! Stop it! Didn't we TALK about that alREADY?" It made me feel like a jerk, but I saw his reaction in the rearview mirror, and he was smiling. He got it. I saw Rashid glance up at this and he gave me a very sour look.

I cut off the Who in the middle of "Goin Mobile". "Dane!" I called out. "Are you ok?"

Pausing between spews, Dane made a noise that sounded like "muaaa". And right on cue, here came Rashid's lecture: "Zell, you stupid mother****er! We need this show or we won't make any money off the tour! I've told you over and over that you need to quit drinking! Your wife wants you to quit drinking! Your mom has begged you to quit drinking! You've had drunk driving tickets! You had to pay a lawyer five thousand bucks last year so you could keep your goddamned driver's license, man!!" (And so on. Meanwhile Dane panted and grunted and retched somewhere out of my line of sight, thank God.)

What the other motorists on this stretch of road might have thought on observing this pitiable and yet amusing scene, I admit I have no idea. Having been in one band or another for nearly all of my adult life, and in this particular band for two-thirds of that time, I believe I have lost a lot of what people call "perspective".

Naturally it's a bad idea to interrupt Rashid when he's on one of these rants. Greg came over and peered into the truck. "How long was I asleep?" he said.

"Mm… about, I dunno, an hour or so? Maybe?"

"So we're still pretty far away eh?"

"I think we've got about two hundred and ninety miles to go, somethin like that."

"What time is it?" Gooney asked.

I got my cell phone out and looked. "Damn… it's almost two p.m."

"That means we need to ****in hustle," Greg said in a worried tone. He turned. Now his tone took on some authority. "Dane! Get up! Get your *** back in the car, man, we need to get moving here."

Rashid was still going; he had apparently knelt next to Dane and was hissing at him now: "–you're turning into a ****ing joke, man! You're almost forty-five ****ing years old! Your body can't take this!" (And so on.)

Greg, fueled by desperation, interrupted now: "Zell, wipe your mouth and get back in the truck or I'm gonna kick your ever-livin ***!" I saw him bend over and when he straightened back up he was holding Dane by his nape. I almost expected to see him land a couple of spanks on his ***. Dane looked a bit improved by this most recent emesis; his face had more color and he was blinking. Greg pointed at Rashid. "You sit in back with me and Goon, and let Dane sit next to the window so in case he has to chuck again he can do it out the window!"

Rashid stood, his handsome features twisted with dismay and loathing. (And yes, Dear Reader, if you didn't already guess or know: Rashid used to be a quite a flagrant little drunk himself. He quit a long time ago. Rashid, Dane, and I used to create what we referred to as "vomit art" in the bathrooms of our favorite watering holes. Ah, the memories…) Carefully he checked the knees of his pants for detritus, brushed himself off, and stood waiting for Greg to get into the passenger cab.

"You sit in the middle, RG," Greg said; he continued, meanwhile, to hold Dane by his nape. Dane swayed back and forth, wiping the back of his mouth with his grimy wrist.

"I can't sit in the ****ing middle!"

About ninety-nine percent of the time, soundman Greg Hernandez is about the most easygoing guy you could possibly imagine, but every once in awhile he can show a little fang, and he did now. "I can't sit in the middle, man—if I do I won't be able to carry no boxes, it will **** my back up all to ****."

Rashid stood scowling for a moment or two, but decided not to waste more time arguing with Greg—he knew him too well, or rather: They knew each other too well. He climbed into the passenger cab and sat next to Gooney. Now Gooney said, "Um… I need to pee."

"Do it then!" Rashid snarled. I opened my door so Goon could get out.

"There's no place…" Rashid turned a look on him; after a moment of hesitation he pushed the back of my seat forward and climbed out hastily. In the side view mirror I saw him scoot around the trailer. A few seconds later I heard a couple of people honk at the tall white guy peeing into the tire well on the passenger's side of the truck.

Greg hustled Dane over to the door, meanwhile, and said, "Nemali, take him, take his arm so he don't fall down."

Zell was a mess, that's for sure. Greg threw me his arm like he was casting a rope from a boat to someone on a pier and I caught Dane's wrist and held it while he climbed into the back; then he leaned over the seat and together we pulled Dane up into the truck. Greg held him while I buckled his seat belt. I rolled the window all the way down. "If you're gonna puke again, man, do it out the window! We need to make time, here."

Dane nodded. His sunglasses had fallen off; they were in the floorboards in the back. Rashid handed them to him. Rashid, I saw in the rearview mirror, was pissed off. (So what else is new?) Dane put his shades back on and said, "Thanks…" in a really faint voice. Gooney came back around the driver's side, his face red with embarrassment at having to piss where other humans could see and honk at him. When he climbed back in he said grinning, "God DAMN Zell, what did you eat for dinner last night?"

Dane, definitely improved by having left whatever was ailing him by the roadside, chuckled weakly now and said, "Left a little somethin for the skunks…"

I put the truck in gear and pulled forward slowly. There were a lot more cars, so we had to drive along the shoulder of the road for about a hundred yards before I got any kind of an opening. Rashid said, "You do remember that you're supposed to get on 49, right?"

Right… I had been needing directions. Oh, what a tangled web we weave… "Now I do," I said in a blithe tone. Now Greg said:

"If you just stay on the right, it's a right turn and you can't miss it. There are signs everywhere."

"Look," Gooney said, "there's water!"

We were passing by a large lake or reservoir, and the smog of a city lay ahead. The water was pretty, dotted with little islands overgrown with bushes and weeds. A bunch of egrets were fishing.

"I think we're closer than you said, Nemali," Greg said.

"I dunno."

"Give me the map," Rashid said. He was not a happy camper, sitting with his long legs in their nice new black slacks bent up almost to his chest. There was a silence. "Dane! Get me the ****ing map, please!"

"Sorry man!" Dane muttered in a somewhat contrite tone. He opened the glovebox and got out the map we had marked and a pack of smokes.

"You're not smoking with me in the car!" Rashid carped. "Put those back."

"Please, man," Dane said faintly.

"No! Give me the map. Put those ****ing things back."

Dane did not put the cigarettes back in the glove box. He handed the map to Rashid, who opened it, his elbows bumping Gooney and Greg. Holding the pack of cigarettes low, Dane fumbled one out and put the pack back into the glove compartment.

"Zell, I told you NOT to smoke!"

Now it was Dane's turn to show some fang. "I'm not gonna smoke, god damn it! Leave me the **** alone, RG! Jesus ****in Christ!" He glanced over at the gas gauge. "We're gonna have to stop for gas pretty soon. I'll smoke then."

"You're disgusting, Zell!" Rashid carped.

"Leave him alone, RG," Gooney said.

Rashid wheeled on Gooney. Glancing in the rearview, I saw Gooney flinch away, blinking like he expected a punch. It was unusual for Goon to get involved in the least little way in these scenes. I could see from Rashid's expression that he was angry at Gooney, probably because of what I had told him earlier. Nevertheless, Goon continued to hold Rashid's gaze. He seemed about to say something, when Greg said:

"I agree." He sounded bored, and didn't even look at Rashid. "You guys fight like an old gay couple or something. Lay off the boy, he hasn't made us late to a show yet and he hasn't blown a show."

Rashid gave the map a pissed-off rattle and went back to studying it.

Dane held his cigarette like he was smoking it. His mouth was slack and he looked worse than ever, but I could tell he was starting to rally. He always would start to come back to life late in the afternoon. "Gooney boy," he said now, "would you please hand me my leather?" He wanted his flask that was in it.

Gooney had to twist a bit to reach behind the passenger cab seat to the candy-wrapper- and can-filled hole where Dane's jacket was. Rashid growled audibly, but didn't say anything. Gooney handed Dane's leather up to him. "Thank you, darling," Dane said.

"Hey," Greg said in a mild tone, "I thought I was your darling, D-Z!" He started to fake cry. "Buuuhhh, huh-huh-huh-huuuuhhh!"

"Nah, I was just sayin that so I could get in your pants," Dane said, fishing for his pocket flask. His jacket smelled almost as bad as he did.

"Well, I must admit that was the best blow job I've had in quite awhile," Greg replied, pretending to snuffle and wipe away tears.

"You're damn right it was," Dane said. He pulled his flask out and gave it the kind of look a mother gives her two-year-old when she hears him ask for a cookie in his cute lisping speech. Then, surprisingly, he handed the flask to me. "Would you like a swig for driving, Lolly?" The baritone was starting to come back to his voice. "I mean, before my lips touch it?"

"You're DRIVING!" Rashid said. Ignoring him, I took Dane's flask and got me a nice long gulp of vodka, and handed it back. Mmmmm… warm in my tummy!

"Thanks, homie D!"

"Oh, it was my pleasure!" Because we had thwarted Rashid in several ways, I suppose, Dane seemed genuinely pleased. He settled back in his seat, grinning, and applied himself to the flask, draining it in a couple of long, professional pulls. After doing so, he smacked his lips, belched loudly, and then erupted in a startling "Dane Zell" scream: "Aww, HELLS YEAAAAAHH!!!" Even though I was expecting it, it made me jump. I heard Greg and Gooney giggling and Rashid rattling the map. He (Dane) reached over and punched the CD player button and "Goin Mobile" started over.

"Arencha sad about yer car, Lolly?"

"Hell, no," I replied. "I never liked that car. It's a piece of ****, yo!"

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not the end by any means... I expect for this to be about 90,000 words when finished. xoxo