I dunno—you mention a “green man” to me, I’m thinking pagan god, face of oak leaves, all of that. Or maybe a serious case of decomposition, depending on my mood.
Spock was green, right? I could commit to him.
As always, peace and (x-rated or otherwise) joy!
pxj
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Is Green the New Sexy?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Published, America?
PA claims not to be a vanity press. Fine, whatever—doesn’t matter to me. As an author, I’ve chosen to submit to publishers with business practices and lists that appeal to me. As a reader, I choose to read stories that appeal to me. And if that should mean purchasing a PA book, I don’t suppose that I’d melt into a pool of shame or anything.
But I have to admit that I, like many others, tend to assume that any book published by PA isn’t going to be worth reading. This may not always be true, I know, but it’s a pretty safe bet just on the percentages.
Scanning the new books at the local public library recently, I came across a PA book. First I can recall having seen there! I’m sure there are others, I just haven’t seen them. Or noticed them if I have. This one, I noticed.
REPLACEMENTS
Mary Elizabeth Garrison
ISBN 1-4241-7103-2
Without any commentary on the quality of the writing—I haven’t read the piece, you understand—I present to you the backtext. Verbatim.
REPLACEMENTS
Thispschologicaldrama adetailsayoungw om an’sstruggle
to overcom ehertroublesom elife.Raised from childhood to
doubtherow nm ind and perceptions, the centralcharacter.
M arlow K issingerisdoing herbestto succeed in herw orld.
Experiencing lonelinessandalienation, the “right” thing to
do doesn’tseem to be crystal clear.This character-driven
story unfoldsasM arlow desperately seeks the approvalof
those around her.The everyday realities ofM arlow ’s life
experiences are som etim es shocking and disturbing.
How ever,herstory isa tribute to the tenacity ofthehum an
spiritandhow life can provide replacem ents for thosew ho
need strangers to becom esurrogatefam ily.
CoverArtD esign by Paige T.Leatherm an
You know, in the print world, writers are sometimes told to comb over their pre-print galleys “with a microscrope” to catch every possible error; it’s easier and so much cheaper to correct mistakes at that stage. The equivalent post-typeset instruction is sometimes rendered as “fix all those mistakes visible from a distance of six feet.”
My eyesight’s not that great, but somehow, I think this qualifies.
As I understand it, PA authors upload their own files; chances are, this is a simple matter of the author not understanding how properly to generate the desired output format. It happens.(1) But where was the pre-release review? Did no one look at this before it was released? And, as a reader—do I want to waste my time (and money, should I be purchasing instead of borrowing) on a book so obviously unseen by any editorial eyes that they can’t even get the spacing between words right?
To all the editors, proofreaders, beta-readers, ARC reviewers, typesetters and assorted miscellaneous people who work to ensure that the books on bookstore shelves are readable—
Thank you.
pxj
(1) Hey, it’s happened to me! Ask me about my first encounter with PageMaker for an amusing imitation of your basic rabid mammal. Lovely program, but horrible instruction manuals.
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Incredible Reappearing Author
No, I'm not...that word. I'm not, really, and please don't jinx me by saying it! But I do seem to be popping up more often. And since I'm trying to reclaim my health as well as the rest of my life, I've joined the lovely Celia Kyle's Incredible Shrinking Authors (and Industry Peeps)
Come on by, take a look! Lots of different goals, lots of different approaches, lots and lots of support.
Happy (healthy) curves!
pxj
Friday, August 15, 2008
Friday Flash: The Postcard
In an odd mood today, so here' an odd little short. Happy weekend!
The Postcard
Silver bleeds to salmon as night becomes dawn, and I sigh, watching soft petals fold away. How long until night falls again?
...goodbye, the breeze whispers. Good day.
Noon, glaring gold and faded green, wilted heat. Promise of thunder in the distance, but only a tease; bone-white clouds fray and fade away. Ducking into a market, I am served a brown drink like mud-flecked water. Delicious! Tamarind. Bought you this postcard and a shirt, pale gauze, voluminous. The cloth smells of the shop: bay rum and citrus. I wonder if it will glow in the moonlight, as the petals do?
(Imagine me rising from a blossom, clad only by the moon and wreathed in flower-scent. Does that thought make you smile, too?)
Late afternoon, the sunlight gold as honey, shining through drought-thinned leaves and melting over melted post-work pedestrians. Office workers swelter in their sweaters and jackets until they can shrug free, rushing for their air-conditioned cars. I nibble crisp jicama white as starshine, flavored with lime and chile, and smile as they pass wiltingly by. They are so very beautiful, a garden's worth of blossoms, similar and yet unique.
Once, you were such a face, chance-spied, limned by the rays of the setting sun. And I...
I, arrayed in silver-white, sit lotus in the garden and wait for the moon to rise. My eyes are closed, yet still I perceive Moonflowers’ slow unfolding, furry calyx yielding to the need of the luxuriant satin petals to be free. The urgent approach of nightbird, moth, bat, seeker after sweetness summoned by perfume. A slower drawing-near, footsteps light as goosedown but not at all hesitant.
Your smile, as you wait for me to turn.
The heat of you in the cool night, and the satin brush of petals over our skin...
See you soon!
pxj
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Five-Ring Circus: Condom News Round-Up
1. Gold medal for condom ads!
Man, I am SO far behind on condom news. (Well, not having posted anything in...um, moving on.) Have you seen the Beijing Olympic Condom ad campaign yet? A series of clever stills like the image above is garnering nearly as much chatter as the games themselves! The company, Elasun, has some clever take-offs on other ads as well. No need for a quip here, I think the ad-folks have created humor enough.
For now, anyway. -G-
2. Happy Birthday! Wait...who are you?
The female condom turns 15. An earlier roundup, unposted due to illness, included a study on female condoms and barriers to use. (I'll see if I can turn it up.) IIRC, price wasn't the primary objection women had to the things; the major reason these aren't used more is that a lot of us don't really know what the things are or why we should care. 15 years in production. And 00 in advertising time.
3. Sadly, you'll need more than 35 seconds
Spray-on condom has technical and approval issues Y'all remember this, right? The condom in a can, about which I confess to having made my share of jokes. Well, it's no longer coming soon.
Le Sigh(tm).
4. Every Man's Dream:
CDC pays (popular) men to talk about (safe) sex
Sort of. Actually, the program gives gift cards to social leaders, not $$ per se. No word on whether those cards can be redeemed at condom-sellers.
5. Can I be an honorary Canadian?
National Sex Day 2008 – August 21
http://canadianpress.google.com/article/ALeqM5hWc-aGdi5XyxnXo7kL53F3Ldu1tA
A day to celebrate sexual well-being. And, yes, the organizer is providing free condoms.
And, finally:
6. While you're waiting for designer phalli
Intellx recently announced a line of, well, let's say interestingly shaped condoms. SafeSexyShapes, they call them, made with a new technology that allows them to move a bit past the, um, natural model. Oh, the possibilities! The press release mentions a number of future options--Submarine, anyone? (Down, periscope! Oh, stop me. Please.) Or maybe you'd prefer to be a beer bottle, hourglass, baseball bat (!)... Available now are a flat-top model "YourTube" and the ever-popular dolphin--complete with, ahem, "pleasing bottlenose."
The deponent rests.
pxj
Monday, August 11, 2008
...just casually sauntering by...
Let's get one thing straight: I am NOT back. Over the course of my illness-and-recovery cycle, call it the past year or so, I've declared my return several times, and each time, something bad has happened. Not always terrible, but always a setback, consuming time, money, and energy I'm quite sure I could better have employed in some other way. And, frankly, I'm sick of it.
Also, growing superstitious. "Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action"? Not unless the Universe doesn't like me anymore... Horrible thought, out of which such things as throwing spilled salt over shoulders is born! So, no, I'm not back. Really. I'm just posting. Saying hello. Maybe I'll do it again. But I am not back.
Even if you should happen to see me on a loop. Or in real life. Say hello, by all means, buy me a cup of coffee if you like, tell me about your new book--I'm always interested in that--or whatever's got you smiling or amusingly ranting. I miss you all, and I'd love to get caught up!
Just...don't, please, whatever you do, say "welcome___" to me.
K? Thnx.
pxj
Friday, May 2, 2008
Friday Flash: Pick of the Season
Strange couple of weeks. Haven't had any issues with my memory in a while--the last symptom of my illness and by far the most disturbing. The doctors cleared me to get back to life, though with lots and lots of cautions. And the Universe...promptly gifted me with jury duty. A whole blessed week of jury duty.
This, I need?
Haven't yet converted that ordeal into fiction, sorry. But, hey, it's spring! Incredibly vibrant, cheering, blooming-and-blossoming-and-burgeoning all over SPRING. End of the loquat season, beginning of mulberry. Yummy spring, bright and warm, and it feels so wonderful that (gasp!) I had to reach for my keyboard and celebrate.
Hmm. Maybe I'm not quite back to normal, if that was the first impulse? -G- Can't complain too strenuously, though I'm not yet certain where this particular fruit-inspired story is going. But you'll see what I mean...
Ivan watched sidelong as, just outside his window, the nymph tipped back her head, exposing the long column of her sunbrowned throat, and sank small white teeth into the sunset-hued fruit she had just plucked from his tree.
His tree. Seed planted with his own two hands, in the rich soil of his land, planted to grrow where he could see. And still! Birds and wasps he expected--thiefs of nature who yet gave back as much as they stole--but this was no bird to pay in song for the fruit she ate.
Not...exactly.
Eyes flashing, he rose, headed for the door. But a mirror gave him back his appearance, reminding him he was not appropriately attired. Changing his guise took no effort, only a spark of will. A man of this age, this place and time. A man to charm this unwinged thief.
The mirror told him he now wore greying hair, shaggy if not unkempt; his reflection looked at him from earth-brown eyes. Neat pressed denim pants and a shirt of similar weight showed shoulders broader than his own form had, a lightly muscled chest, a stomach softened with age though not quite fat. Older than the nymph--the woman, he corrected himself. A father figure, perhaps.
Or perhaps she, too, was older than she looked. He paused in the doorway, neither indoors nor out, and stared. Bright sunlight picked out silver strands within the russet hair, and faint pale lines radiating outward from her eyes. When he spoke, she turned at the first sound of his voice, her lips shining with fruit juice, cheeks coral with emotion, spring-green eyes wide.
He met her gaze and he felt--
Something.
"Excuse me?"
Caught in the act, Sadie could only wince. It's not as if you don't know better, she reminded herself, and slowly turned to face the (presumed) owner of the tree she'd been robbing. Harvesting. Over-ripe fruits fermented at her feet, proof enough he had no use for the things. So was it really stealing?
The cops would say so, if asked. She could only hope the tree's owner would be satisfied with scolding her and sending her away.
"Excuse me, please?" the voice came again, and Sadie paused in her glacial motion, caught by the rich tones--and the accent. Like something out of an opera. Russian? Yummy as fresh-picked loquats, she giggled, and the smile stayed on her juice-sticky lips when, at last, she faced him.
Oh, yum-yum-yum! Loam-brown eyes in a sun-weathered face, brows raised quizzically. A thatch of greying hair flopping to the collar of a shirt that framed broad shoulders. A strong but not too strong chin. And those lips--
Sadie blushed as she realized what she was thinking. Blame it on the perfect day; spring always made her frisky. And there'd been the delightful feeling of naughtiness as she crossed the sidewalk, venturing near the house, the allure of those golden-sunset fruits hanging so temptingly, their taste...
"Excuse me, please," it wasn't a question now, the voice firm though still melodic, "I asked you, what are you doing to my tree."
To the tree? That's nothing, tovarisch, she thought, swallowing laughter and nearly choking. Ask me what I want to do to you! Better he didn't; the way she was feeling, she might tell him. Which would open up a whole new can of...fruit.
"Loquats," she managed, holding out her hands, a cluster of ripe yellow-orange fruits balanced on one palm, the fruit she'd just bitten into when he caught her in the other. Her gaze followed his as he stared down, and seeing the clear juice welling from creamy flesh, she sighed. Licked her lips.
"They are...you find them good to eat?"
A good sign. The folks who asked that didn't usually call the cops. (And you know you need a new hobby, she scolded herself, when you've racked up enough past encounters to judge that! Right? Right.) The standard loquats-for-dummies lecture rose to her lips, but she didn't speak it. Instead, she plucked a perfectly ripe fruit from the cluster and held it out to him.
His brow furrowed: a forehead-centric frown. "Show me."
She looked at him, this homeowner who, so far, hadn't really objected to her trespassing. He stood barefoot on the slate steps, in jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves folded back, and made no motion either toward her or away. Cell phone in his pocket, so if he'd wanted to dial 911...but instead he simply stood, waiting. Watching her as much as she watched him.
Okay. Her purse lay still where she'd dropped it, by the sidewalk, but she had a small pocketknife on her keychain, used that to slit the fruit in half. "You can't eat the seeds. Poisonous. Pretty, though." Two large tiger's-eye ovals flew as she flicked the knife. "And you'll probably want to pull the membrane. Some gourmets blanch and peel the fruits, at least for cooking, but fresh," the blossom-end cut away, she extended the fruit to the man, "well, here."
He took one half from her, delicately. "Show me."
Sadie watched his eyes as he bit into the creamy flesh, but saw nothing. No flash of surprise or of pleasure, no ecstatic slow closing, not even the suspicious narrowing of a man who thinks a trick's being played on him. He bit down, chewed, swallowed, but showed no reaction at all.
It worried her. But the sun's rays warmed the fruit-half still in her hand, releasing its unique bouquet, and she remembered his request. Demand. Show me, he'd said, and so she would. Feeling a trickle of juice making its sticky way toward the hollow of her palm, she decided to truly give him a show.
Step one: put the knife away. That was harder than it should have been, even after she wiped the blade clean; her hands were shaking, just slightly. What was it about this man? Something. One thing at a time. The blade snicked home at last, and she stifled a relieved sigh. Step two: Um, next? Oh, right; she needed both hands free. So all the fruit, except for that one still-leaking half, she laid by his feet.
Noting their oddly squared appearance in passing, and the old-ivory sheen of his toenails.
Rising, she took a sudden step back, out of his shadow. Shivering. She panted, tasting copper, wondering. Fear--like a storm--had swept over her, through her, but surely there was no reason to be afraid. There was only an attractive older man standing on his front stoop, asking, quite reasonably, why she was picking fruits from his tree.
An attractive older man willing to listen, to try, to learn. And he'd asked her to show him...
Ivan shifted his weight back on his heels, adjusted his newly broadened shoulders to let the sunlight pass unimpeded. She'd flinched from the touch of his shadow, sudden fear darkening those light green eyes. A moment he had not chosen, would have side-stepped had he been able to, but he hadn't expected her--yet--to kneel at his feet.
Laying his own fruits down in offering. Brazen, this woman!
And no sooner had he thought it than a new light was in her eyes, mischief dancing in green like the legends of his home that led wanderers a merry and dangerous way. Could she be more than she seemed? But, no, she was human, salt sweat and strong emotion and the rich red blood beneath the skin. Human, mortal, thief.
Her mouth would taste so sweet.
No, that's not all there is. That's not even all I've written today---but it's all I'm going to post right now. In part because I've already gone over wordcount, but also because there are three separate and distinct paths I can see for this story. And I'm feeling greedy enough that I want them all! Were I to post the next bit, that only works with one path, I'd feel obligated to keep traveling it.
But, hey, if you have any preferences...
The happy hermit,
pxj
Friday, April 11, 2008
Can't be a science nerd post 'cause this ain't science!
I'm foaming at the mouth over a recent story on the AP wire. The header reads "Sex and financial risk linked in brain"; doctors' orders or not (mouth-foaming not being an approved activity), I had to read on.
Why do I do these things?
My first reaction, discounting the rabid-animal imitation, is simple disbelief: Let me get this straight: my non-hermit friends work their buns off trying to get press coverage for their latest fantastic opus, and this makes it onto AP?
This isn't science. This isn't even fuzzy science. This is, not to put too fine a point on it, nonsense.When young men were shown erotic pictures, they were more likely to make a larger financial gamble than if they were shown a picture of something scary, such a snake, or something neutral, such as a stapler
Okay, I'll buy that. Of course, young men aren't exactly known for either their disinterest in sex or their sense of financial responsibility. Hmm. How young were these guys? Old enough the reasoning pathways were fully formed? (Teenagers really are different, though maybe not quite a separate species...) Article says hetero men, but what if you were to study men with stapler fetishes? Or those guys who are, you know, really fond of snakes...
Giggling, I read on. And choked. Their sample size was 15 college-aged men
Fifteen? That's not a study, that's barely a start. Deep breath. No women? Do women not take financial risks? Of course. Was this an all-male school? No. So
why no women? Becausethey didn't know what pictures aroused women
Where should I begin? Granted, the actual study isn't nearly as silly as the AP article makes it sound, and, yes, there is a link provided to some actual almost unbiased news coverage, but it's still irresponsibly sensational reporting.
Or maybe I'm just upset because chocolate didn't get a better mention. Or, for that matter, sex. –g–
As always,
pxj
Friday, April 4, 2008
Flash Fiction Friday: Pixie
Hi, folks.
Yep, it's the hermit, posting. Asking for help, actually. (Hail from a clear sky; two blue moons in a single month; kind words from a mother-in-law...) The worst part about being sick for so long, for me, is that it gives me permission to do nothing. But I'm not all that sick anymore, really, and now--
I NEED SOMEONE TO KICK MY A*S!
More specifically, I need someone to remind me that I don't get to call myself a writer unless I write. That unfinished drafts are useless as unfletched arrows. That...
Blecch. Surely you get the point. It's a Flash Fiction Friday, so here's a tidbit. From (you guessed it!) a story I haven't finished. Nearly, almost, it's only missing a few little things...
Rev up those feet, won'tcha?
pxj
Anna blinked, absurdly conscious of the small breeze the motion stirred. The weight of her eyelids, their passage, tiny muscles in concert. The brief cessation of sight. Normally, of course, all of that would have gone unnoticed—but there was nothing normal about this.
Impossible not to tremble, but her hands were steady, holding onto her camera with just enough pressure, not tight enough to stress the plastic, but with no risk she’d drop the thing. It was her favorite digital, the one she called Pixie, the one she carried with her everywhere. A camera that ate batteries with voracious appetite, but that never failed her in the clutch, that never fogged or blurred, that fit all her old lenses and scopes and held thousands of images in its capacious expanded memory. The camera that never faltered nor falsified, never lied.
Pixie hadn’t lied to her this time, either; she’d only thought it had. Thought the image it had shown her too preposterous to be real.
But it was. He was. Not the least bit credible, but real just the same. Sitting at a café table just like any normal man, in a small Louisiana town no one beyond the county line had ever heard of, a mystery in human shape. With eyes that held her easily.
“Please,” his voice was cultured, soft and deep with only a hint of a drawl, “sit down.”
She sat. She didn’t think she could have stood much longer anyway, her legs shaking as badly as the rest of her. Except her hands.
“Will you have tea?”
Tea. She’d never understood how people could drink hot beverages once the temperature got above ninety, but just then, she felt chilled. Tea might help. Only, she’d have to let go of Pixie for that. And she might drop the cup, shaky as she was.
He hadn’t waited for a reply, pouring with an almost laughably serious expression, completely focused on the small task, setting the saucer properly before her. “Please.” Oh, that voice! It had a texture, that voice, like wet sand, soft and sharp all at once.
Fit match for the man.
Anna drew in a quivering breath, the scent of him—earth and oak, something sharply green, moisture and a hint of chalk—overwhelming in the close, still air. Louisiana humidity. Which writer was it that had likened it to an animal humping your leg? But he’d forgotten to mention the decadent perversion that rich air carried on its fetid breath, that made a woman want to turn and draw it up her body, see what fun she could have rolling around with it.
Darlin’, that feeling’s not from the air. Take another look at the man-rock sitting there.
The Primal Stone. That’s what she’d seen through her camera, a free-standing bone of the earth, dark as obsidian, strong as granite, rooted deep in the land and unwilling to be quarried free. Small sparks like sun on mica danced over an unremitting darkness shaped vaguely like a man. To her eyes, he wasn’t quite so daunting.
But so much sexier.
It wasn’t his looks, though she supposed he was handsome enough—black hair worn a little long, the way she liked it; dark eyes; strong features, bone structure clear beneath just enough flesh to keep him from looking raw; broad shoulders. She couldn’t see much else, with him sitting at a café table, but he had wonderful square hands, and his nails were clean.
It wasn’t his looks that stole her breath, but the sheer solid strength of him. She could feel it, sitting across the table, knew others could feel it as well. The way the waitress kept one eye on him, no matter where she was; the way no one came near enough to jostle him, though there was a crowd.
“What—who are you?”
“One of your picturesque natives.” Flash of white teeth: a smile. “Drink your tea.”
Heat washed across her cheeks as she obeyed.
No secrets in a small town. That was the maxim, long-ago learned and yet still a surprise. Anna hadn’t been back to this particular small town since a summer visit when she’d been twelve or so. Even then, it had felt stifling, her mother fluttering, a pair of spinsterly great-aunts forever telling her to mind her manners, a flock of cousins teasing, locals whose dialects and motives she hadn’t understood, and no real consciousness of time in the whole place. So unlike city life. She’d told her mother after that visit that she was never coming back, and she hadn’t, either, until now. This trip was an obligation, for the family; they’d just buried one of the great aunts, and she’d come for the funeral.
Though that wasn’t her only reason. Being a freelance photojournalist wasn’t the glamorous, financially secure life the movie-makers portrayed; she’d hustled a few assignments to pay her way, including one for the Chamber of Commerce. Small wonder people knew what she was doing, wandering with her cameras. And, usually, Anna wouldn’t have cared if it bothered them, if they thought she was playing safari in their home. Anyplace else, yes, but not here; this place had never been kind to her, so what matter if they thought she was cruel? It wasn’t like a few pictures would hurt anything; hell, some would even help! And she’d take them and be gone. She wasn’t interested in leaving good memories behind; all she wanted was to leave.
Or, all she had wanted. Now, there was a big solid chunk of mystery calmly sipping tea, watching her as she watched him.
She opened her mouth, and words fell out. “Picturesque. You are, you know. Uniquely picturesque.” Before she was through speaking, she worried she might have said too much. Flickering monster-movie images rose before her mind’s eye, vampires and werewolves coldly disposing of the mortals who had stumbled upon them. The sun shone down, almost too bright, but her skin bore a renewed chill. What was he, this man who looked like a monolith to her camera’s sight?
Whatever he was, he knew, she was sure of it. Coal-black eyes stilled as he looked at the camera, and sound faded from her world as she watched him look. He knew she’d seen. She thought again of his impossible image in her camera sight, wondered if he’d destroy the camera before or after he took her life. Horrible thought, that what might have been the best photos she’d ever taken wouldn’t be shared with the world.
“I-if you’re going to kill me, I’d really like to know why you look...like you look. First.”
He threw back his head and laughed, the sound like a friendly landslide.
...
Monday, March 17, 2008
Story: Donny Boy
.jpg)
yes, I've written something. This must be a good sign. A very brief seasonally appropiate work-safe m/m something. Enjoy. (The story and the holiday. Just, if you really do drink green beer, please don't tell me!)
pxj
Donny Boy
“Hey, Danny boy. You know why there’re no good men around?”
Donny kept his eyes on his work, pulling a Guinness with an artist’s attention to detail. Customers who couldn’t be bothered to get his name right shouldn’t expect any better than to be ignored. The woman in the green lipstick didn’t seem to need an answer anyway.
“It’s all the fault of that damned Irish saint.”
Not the wisest thing to say in an Irish bar, and particularly not on St. Patrick’s Day, but Donny wasn’t going to tell the woman so. She was sloppy drunk, half poured out of her perch on the bar stool, and would probably fall over if anyone took a swing at her.
He almost wished someone would, just so he could see it. Green lipstick! The saints wept. And a green-patterned dress about three sizes too small that made her look like a mildewing sausage. About the best that could be said of her appearance was that she seemed very much one of the crowd.
Donny thought there was little worse that could be said of a person. Except maybe that he was an Englishman. Grinning to himself (he didn’t really have any problem with the English, though it was sometimes fun to pretend so), he delivered drinks to a booth in the back and swiveled his way back to the bar, trying not to step in time to the ghastly version of whatever “traditional” tune the band was mangling at the moment. At least it wasn’t Paddy Murphy—again. Not yet sunset, and already he’d heard every interminable verse of “The Night Pat Murphy Died” five times! When once through was almost enough to make him wish he himself were dead.
At least the tips were good. St. Patrick’s Day was big business. The bar’s floorspace had been extended by a tent and temporary taps installed behind a board-and-sawhorse arrangement, but he’d claimed the permanent Guinness taps for himself. Even if that meant doing the odd bit of table service when others were busy. He hated fighting with the jury-rigged air-lines, and besides, the tent was louder. Though this year, some idiot had put the stage just beside the delivery door.
Which was open. Donny tried not to frown—it would only make his headache worse—tried not to curse, tried not to hear the bagpipes and bass fighting to establish a key.
Tried not to step on the man kneeling behind the bar.
By all the saints! That was a sight Donny hadn’t expected on this day of days. Though certainly no stranger to men on their knees, Donny was between companions and in no hurry to form any new attachments. The last one had left scars. But this man was lovely, more beautiful than handsome, all entreaty with his big brown eyes and soft red lips parting.
“Excuse me?” His voice! Oh, bards would have given their souls in trade for such a voice, rich as stout and deep, flavored with the lilt of home... “You! Hand me that bag afore the line blows. Drinking the green beer...”
Donny’s cheeks were hot as he fumbled for the stranger’s tools. “Sorry,” he mumbled, cursing himself. Great first impression he’d made. “That the central or the stout mix?” He could fill pitchers of the other while the man worked, get ahead of the crowd’s thirst and busy his hands so they wouldn’t reach out all on their own to stroke the shining nut-brown hair or trace the line of those shoulders...
The man’s smile flashed bright in the neon glow of bar signs. “Central, this one. I’ll be changing out t’other in a moment, but it’s up for now.”
“Thanks.” It was only his imagination, he knew, but Donny felt as if he stood near a fire, the man only inches away, gracefully bent toward the arrangement of valves and tubes and canisters that fed the taps.
Whoever he was, he was a good deal faster than the guys who usually serviced the bar. In only a few minutes, Donny felt an incandescent tapping on his right calf; looking down, he fell into deep brown wells, hearing only distantly the man’s words that the Guinness would be briefly offline.
And then he was standing, a bit shorter than Donny’s own six feet, slim enough to seem taller than he was. Neon barsigns sent light bouncing red and gold and green from the long brown hair, and the green shamrock lights strung all around made his skin almost impossibly pale. His jeans and dark tee looked almost like a costume on him, somehow—Man Celebrating St. Patrick’s Day—the body so wonderfully displayed it had to be intentional. No man wore jeans that cupped his ass like that unless he wanted it to be looked at.
Right?
Donny felt the stirring in his own jeans and thought desperately of cold. Screwing his eyes shut helped; his headache, but it seemed a decent trade. When he thought he was safe, he opened his eyes and smiled at the serviceman.
“Ken,” said the man with the appropriately stout-hued eyes, holding out a long-fingered hand.
Donny introduced himself, almost choking on his own name as his mind finally registered the design of Ken’s shirt. “Test your work?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Ken swung lightly over the bar to sit beside the drunk still half-propped between stool and stein. Turning to her, he asked her to explain. “What did St. Patrick do that you think there are,” his voice made the words a quote, “no good men around?”
“St. Patrick banished all the snakes.” She nodded owlishly. “An’ where do you think they came? Here!”
“My lady, that might explain a number of bad men, but not a lack of good ones. I assure you, some such survive.” He leaned in close. “You must first seek if you would find.”
She blinked again, laboriously following his gaze toward the crowded tentspace, then slipped from her stool and lumbered off.
“Nicely done. Thanks. I was about ready to drown her, myself.” Donny slid the Guinness across the bar so accurately that the glass stopped an inch before Ken’s hand.
“ Not one to hear the good Father maligned?”
“Don’t much care. He was a Roman anyway. No, it’s that I’ve heard the whole pitch. After she gets that bit out she starts singing. ‘Trouser snakes nipping at my ankles’.”
“I don’t believe I know that song.”
“Neither does she.”
Ken’s laugh drew attention, and the music hiccupped as the crowd began a sort of osmotic movement toward the bar. “Oh, damn,” he muttered before sipping his stout, raising an eye and nodding his appreciation. “That’s why the separate line. You use a proper pub mix. Lovely.” He drank more deeply this time, and Donny watched the play of his throat, admiring.
“Hey, Kenneth!” The shout came from three directions, startling Donny until he realized the caller was onstage, his voice miked. “Ken-neth!”
“She wasn’t altogether wrong, you know. There’s a snake for sure, great legs or no.”
Donny grinned wide watching as Kenneth made his slow way to the stage. Good looks, great voice, humor, knew the difference between proper stout and swill, and shared his taste in men. Truly someone was looking out for him. If not for Ken himself, who’d seemed more than a bit reluctant as he turned from the bar. Or perhaps that was only wishful thinking; certainly, there was nothing shy or reserved about the way he stood before the mike!
“Can’t stay long, boys,” he heard Kenneth say from all around, “I’m working tonight. But if the crowd drinks enough, I might get to come back.” And as the band began a song, all the instruments miraculously in tune, Donny found himself suddenly busier than he could possibly be.
Everyone ordered Guinness, no doubt in honor of Ken’s, Kenneth’s, T-shirt. Or perhaps inspired by the delivery truck outside, just visible through the still-open door. Though in that case, wouldn’t someone have ordered Harp, or a Black and Tan? Well, no matter; Donny pulled pint after pitcher after pint, dancing behind the bar as the band he’d been cursing earlier suddenly proved that they could, in fact, play.
And then the crowd was shouting and clapping and carrying on, and Ken was there, smiling wide and bright, grabbing up his satchel. “I’ll be listening for the call,” he nodded, and was gone, leaving in his wake a scent of stout and salt and green and a chorus of sighs.
Donny’s first among them. Damn, but that was one lovely man.
***
The Guinness flowed like water, ales and lagers and whiskey fell into open mouths like rain, bands followed one after another up onto the stage. Donny lost count of the number of times he heard the same few songs. Some of the groups could play their instruments, others could play the crowd, one or two even managed to do both at once, but none caught his attention for more than a song or two.
Until he heard that deep, rich voice with its bite of iron rise above an off-key chorus of some neo-trad piece. “Hey,” it called, “you’re not Irish!”
Donny let his hand slip from the tap, leaving golden foam to drip into a half-filled glass, and raced to the door. He made it just in time to see a young man leap from the stage, cordless mike in hand. Heart in his mouth, visions of riots dancing in his mind, he watched, breathless, as Kenneth reached the other man and the two of them nodded—not at each other, but toward the stage.
“Oh… You’re not Irish, you can’t be Irish, you don’t sing Danny Boy...”
A stunt. Damn him. Impressively staged, though, and wonderful harmonies. Heart still pounding, Donny went back to work, dropping a bar cloth to sop up the worst of the spills. Ken shouldn’t have to get his knees wet.
Though that mental image did nothing to slow the race of his pulse.
The band finished out its set, and Donny cocked an ear toward the crowd. It wasn’t his imagination, he really could track the singer’s progress by the sound: high-pitched squees and low rumbled invitations, any number of admiring whispered curses, soft sighs… Who was the man? And did he do it on purpose? He’d slipped in easily enough that Donny hadn’t noticed, it was the voice—he’d laughed, and suddenly all the world was his stage.
Odd he wasn’t playing, then. Irish musician on St. Patrick’s Day, surely he could have had his choice of gigs. But instead he was making air-mix deliveries. Very strange. Maybe I’ll ask.
“Got that call.”
Donny’d expected it, but the voice still surprised him. He nodded without turning, hating the flush he could feel spreading down his neck. He was too old to have schoolgirl crushes—and the wrong gender besides. When he felt less like he was on fire, he glanced over his shoulder. Under his arm. Finally turned, to gasp as Ken’s hands grasped his hips to keep him from falling as he jumped back.
“Sorry. Just wanted to see how long it would take.” This close, the singer’s eyes were flecked, earth-brown and iron-dark. His breath smelled of malt (how else, on this day of days?) but also of grass. And his body was a furnace, radiating heat.
Donny tried to speak, but his voice was gone. Licking lips gone dry, he managed to croak: “...take...?”
Ken blinked, and his eyes when he opened them again seemed somehow less hot. More sane. “Never mind. It’s just that I hate this damned green-tinted-everything travesty of a day. No need to take it out on you.” Ken smiled, but it was a smile devoid of humor or warmth, and Donny shivered as he was freed.
“Let me see to the lines and I’ll get out of your way.”
What the hell just happened? He went out like a light! Still beautiful, but…quieter…now. Oh. His voice was as wonderful as ever, but pitched so that only Donny would hear. Off stage. Probably not a bad thing.
Though Donny wasn’t sure just why he thought that. “Ah. Um. Ken. Going to sing more tonight?”
“No, I don’t think so.” The voice echoed hollowly from somewhere beneath the bar. “Why?”
“Your leprechaun seems to have gone off-shift. Thought I might offer to take his place.”
Donny held his breath. If he had to, he’d make himself a good deal more plain—he could still feel the touch of those hands on his hips, yearned to feel that touch elsewhere, and that odd chill, too, had reached him, making him think that Ken maybe shouldn’t be alone on this St. Patrick’s night. Let the basses and bagpipes fight it out without him.
Ken twisted somehow, coming up from his knees gracefully enough to steal Donny’s breath. “My leprechaun—? Ah.” He grinned. “That’s not all he does, you know...”
And Donny laughed, hearing the question beneath those lilting words. Deliberately campy, he fluttered the bar cloth in one hand. “Well, darlin’, I should hope not! What a waste of a good shillelagh!”
Kenneth raised a pint, toasting the words and the bargain just made.
-end-
Friday, March 7, 2008
The e-hermit checking in
Still alive!
Figure I ought to start out with the good news. –G– As for the rest…well, the doctor didn’t say “recovered,” as he’s spent much of the week reminding me, only “recovering.” I spent the weekend now past and gone at a Celtic (Irish) music festival, and completely wiped myself out—though it was worth it, and not just for the men in kilts.
Although, you know, there were a few truly lovely kilt-wearing men around, some of them with arms full of bagpipe, some without… Oh, sorry. Am I drooling on the keyboard again?
So, not in much shape to post nor chat, but getting through the backlogged e-mail. Slowly. Relying on the Draft function so that I can make sure my messages actually say what I need them to say (for a change).
Hope you’re all celebrating Spring appropriately!
pxj
What? Details? Um.
Seriously eclectic music program, as always. It’s why we love NTIF! (Okay, that and all the men in kilts. Or out of them. If you ask politely, I might tell a tale or two…) Not sure what my favorite musical moment this time might have been, but probably from one of these three bands:
Matt and Shannon Heaton Band—with an incredible percussive dancer!
Brother—Men in pleather kilts. With didgeridoos.
Altan. What can one say?
Okay, back to e-mail. See you ’round!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Ketchup, please?
Since it seems I’ve got some words to eat. -G- Turns out what I thought was recovery was only a brief respite—and when I pushed myself, I got worse. Pretty nearly instantly. Dramatic as all, but hardly entertaining. Sigh. February now, no longer really the new year, but I have a resolution. Everyone listening? Here it is:
I am going to listen to the doctor. I am!
And this time, he says I’m on the road to recovery.
Let’s hope he’s right. So: Hello, all. What’d I miss? Come wave things under my window!
pxj
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Duck, Cough, Goose
Yes, folks, I’m okay. Picked up the traditional holiday cold (it’s not Xmas until I start coughing!) and couldn’t seem to shake it off for entirely too long, but I’m back. Working through a whole heap of messages—please resend anything urgent—and chasing deadlines and so on.
Such fun. Anyway, it occurs to me that I haven’t said anything to anybody about my holiday yet. Seeing as I’ve been flat on my back since. -G- It was something of a fowl-heavy trip, between the usual Peking duck (one of those things you just can’t get here at home, and a lovely excuse to visit the only part of Philadelphia in which I’ve ever felt welcome, even when I don’t get a chance to see particular friends there) and the geese I finally managed to get through airport security. No avian flu, fortunately. I kept waiting for a down pillow to explode or something, to finish out the pattern, but had to settle for a chance glimpse of one of my favorite sorts of raptors, a Harris Hawk, on New Year’s Day. 
But I think the standout event of the whole holiday season—not counting unwrapping and attendant girly squee!—had to be the discovery, while playing a dice game with family, that I’ve officially become a “real” author in everyone’s eyes at some point when I wasn’t looking. Mind, I’ve been “my {insert relationship} the writer” for years, but it’s now so much a part of my identity that they can joke about it.
At which realization, you really could have knocked me over with a feather! Except that the “rhino virus” beat you to it. -VBG-
Hope you all had a lovely holiday, and that your 2008 has so far exceeded expectations!
-pxj
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
.jpg)
.jpg)