This evening, just before dusk, Marilyn and I lazed by the pool behind my house, watching the sky as six hawks did an aerial dance in the mid-summer thermals. The birds are large and gorgeous. One landed on a high branch in a tree in my front yard. I tried to record a movie with my digital camera, but quickly realized that my point and shoot Nikon is grossly inadequate for the task. I'm resigned to buying a digital movie camera with a suitably long, telephoto lens.
http://www.ericwilder.com http://www.gondwanapress.com
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Name of the Game - an Eric Wilder short story
Name of the Game is the opening short story in my first published collection of short stories by the same name. The book is available at http://www.gondwanapress.com.
NAME OF THE GAME
by
Eric Wilder
Rita would wait for me at the door of the building where she worked. I would drive up close to the door and wait until she came out. Our routine was always the same. That day, a powder-blue Mercedes had taken my usual parking spot. The car's anxious driver, a prepped-out lawyer type with moussed hair, turned halfway around in his bucket seat to watch Rita leave the office complex.
"Who was that?” I asked.
Rita leaned across the seat to plant a sultry kiss full on my lips. "I didn't see anyone."
The man in the Mercedes watched us with interest and continued staring as we pulled away from the curb.
"Today I want it hot and fast," Rita said, turning the rearview mirror and using it to touch up her lipstick.
"Whatever. How have you been?"
Rita crossed her legs, revealing much more than a momentary peek at her shapely thighs.
"Beyond irritation," she said. "Russell came home late after leaving me alone with Jessica. Ever try communicating with a blonde teen-aged cheerleader with tits bigger than her mom's."
"What happened when Russell got home?"
"Nothing, absolutely nothing. I even paraded around in my stretch-lace teddy to show him what he was missing."
Talk of Rita's husband always made me uncomfortable. Sensing my discomfort, she leaned across the console and squeezed my leg. It was late Autumn, a beautiful clear-blue day, and Rita’s grin was wicked when I braked hard to avoid a squirrel scurrying across the road.
We barely spoke during the short distance to my apartment. I found the parking lot empty and a spot near the stairs. Just the way Rita liked it. She had her arms around my neck almost before I shut the apartment door behind us.
"Miss me?" she said.
"You know I did."
"Miss these?"
She unbuttoned her frocked blouse to the waist and cupped her breasts. I traced a narrow path up her smooth belly with my fingers but Rita was having none of it. Grabbing my wrist, she pulled me down the narrow hallway to the bedroom in back.
"Let's not waste it." Releasing my hand beside the bed, she dropped her dress, slip, and bra in one practiced motion and fell back onto the covers. "Now, I want it hard and fast."
I had left the air conditioner on high before leaving for work that morning and the room was dark and cold. Rita was already hot, immersed in all the foreplay she had needed during our torrid stroll from the front door. For the next five minutes, she clawed painful Xs in my back, yanked handfuls of hair, moaned loudly, and squirmed like a woman possessed. When we finished she rolled off the bed, went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind her, returning five minutes later, quite naked but with a can of hair spray in her hand.
"Hurry," she said. I have a prospective employee to interview at one."
"But we just got here."
"And did what we came to do. Now be a sweetie. You know my job is important to me."
As I got out of bed and pulled on my pants, Rita returned to the bathroom to fix her hair. This time she emerged looking ready for an important business meeting and tapped her shoe as she waited for me to knot my tie. Grasping my hand when I finished, she squeezed it tightly and hurried me to the car.
Because of lunch hour traffic, we found the return trip to her office much slower and Rita remained silent most of the way. When we were almost there, she said, "I have a question and I need an answer."
"Something wrong?"
"Does there have to be?"
"It's just the sound of your voice."
Rita ignored my psychoanalysis, folded her arms and turned her knees toward the door.
"Tell me. What's the name of the game?"
"Game?"
"The one we're playing."
I did not understand the question and paused before answering, "Infidelity, maybe?"
Rita closed her eyes. "This isn't a joke."
A blaring horn distracted me from the unexpected direction our conversation had taken. “Have I done something wrong?"
"You've done everything just right and I've enjoyed every minute of it. Cool drinks in smoky bars, peanut butter picnics in vacant lots and steamy sex in ways I love. I'd just like to know what it all means to you."
"Something exciting and very special. I can't remember having so much fun since I went skinny dipping with the homecoming queen in the Principal's pool."
Rita's strained smile flickered briefly. "Now what? It's almost winter and the pool is empty."
"You're shooting over my head. Is this about Russell? Are you thinking of divorce?"
"Russell's not the problem."
"But isn't Russell part of the equation? And Jessica?"
"That's not what we're discussing here," Rita said, her voice rising.
"Then please tell me what we are discussing."
By now, Rita's demeanor had diminished from silent composure to barely suppressed rage and I still was not sure why.
"Just let me off in front of the building," she said.
I coasted into the slow lane and let several irritated motorists stream past on the left. "First explain why you're angry with me."
She had neither a frown nor a smile on her face, only the blank expression of muted frustration as she pointed at the curb in front of her building.
Sounding deadly serious, she said, "Pull in and let me out. I never play the game with someone who doesn't understand the rules. You don't even know we're playing."
She hurried across the busy street without a backwards glance. When I phoned to apologize, she refused my call.
Three days passed, and then a week, without a word from Rita. Finally, no longer able to contain my curiosity and hurt feelings, I drove to our old rendezvous spot beside her building and parked at the curb. From there I watched, aware of a sudden wave of deja vu as she walked out the door at exactly our usual time. I quickly realized why.
Even though she recognized my car as she hurried across the sidewalk, she did not look my way or acknowledge my presence. Instead, she focused her smiling attention on a young man in a red Corvette as he opened the passenger door to let her in. Once inside, she wrapped herself around him and administered a sultry kiss. As they disappeared down the street, I watched him cast a curious glance in his rear-view mirror.
END
http://www.ericwilder.com
NAME OF THE GAME
by
Eric Wilder
Rita would wait for me at the door of the building where she worked. I would drive up close to the door and wait until she came out. Our routine was always the same. That day, a powder-blue Mercedes had taken my usual parking spot. The car's anxious driver, a prepped-out lawyer type with moussed hair, turned halfway around in his bucket seat to watch Rita leave the office complex.
"Who was that?” I asked.
Rita leaned across the seat to plant a sultry kiss full on my lips. "I didn't see anyone."
The man in the Mercedes watched us with interest and continued staring as we pulled away from the curb.
"Today I want it hot and fast," Rita said, turning the rearview mirror and using it to touch up her lipstick.
"Whatever. How have you been?"
Rita crossed her legs, revealing much more than a momentary peek at her shapely thighs.
"Beyond irritation," she said. "Russell came home late after leaving me alone with Jessica. Ever try communicating with a blonde teen-aged cheerleader with tits bigger than her mom's."
"What happened when Russell got home?"
"Nothing, absolutely nothing. I even paraded around in my stretch-lace teddy to show him what he was missing."
Talk of Rita's husband always made me uncomfortable. Sensing my discomfort, she leaned across the console and squeezed my leg. It was late Autumn, a beautiful clear-blue day, and Rita’s grin was wicked when I braked hard to avoid a squirrel scurrying across the road.
We barely spoke during the short distance to my apartment. I found the parking lot empty and a spot near the stairs. Just the way Rita liked it. She had her arms around my neck almost before I shut the apartment door behind us.
"Miss me?" she said.
"You know I did."
"Miss these?"
She unbuttoned her frocked blouse to the waist and cupped her breasts. I traced a narrow path up her smooth belly with my fingers but Rita was having none of it. Grabbing my wrist, she pulled me down the narrow hallway to the bedroom in back.
"Let's not waste it." Releasing my hand beside the bed, she dropped her dress, slip, and bra in one practiced motion and fell back onto the covers. "Now, I want it hard and fast."
I had left the air conditioner on high before leaving for work that morning and the room was dark and cold. Rita was already hot, immersed in all the foreplay she had needed during our torrid stroll from the front door. For the next five minutes, she clawed painful Xs in my back, yanked handfuls of hair, moaned loudly, and squirmed like a woman possessed. When we finished she rolled off the bed, went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind her, returning five minutes later, quite naked but with a can of hair spray in her hand.
"Hurry," she said. I have a prospective employee to interview at one."
"But we just got here."
"And did what we came to do. Now be a sweetie. You know my job is important to me."
As I got out of bed and pulled on my pants, Rita returned to the bathroom to fix her hair. This time she emerged looking ready for an important business meeting and tapped her shoe as she waited for me to knot my tie. Grasping my hand when I finished, she squeezed it tightly and hurried me to the car.
Because of lunch hour traffic, we found the return trip to her office much slower and Rita remained silent most of the way. When we were almost there, she said, "I have a question and I need an answer."
"Something wrong?"
"Does there have to be?"
"It's just the sound of your voice."
Rita ignored my psychoanalysis, folded her arms and turned her knees toward the door.
"Tell me. What's the name of the game?"
"Game?"
"The one we're playing."
I did not understand the question and paused before answering, "Infidelity, maybe?"
Rita closed her eyes. "This isn't a joke."
A blaring horn distracted me from the unexpected direction our conversation had taken. “Have I done something wrong?"
"You've done everything just right and I've enjoyed every minute of it. Cool drinks in smoky bars, peanut butter picnics in vacant lots and steamy sex in ways I love. I'd just like to know what it all means to you."
"Something exciting and very special. I can't remember having so much fun since I went skinny dipping with the homecoming queen in the Principal's pool."
Rita's strained smile flickered briefly. "Now what? It's almost winter and the pool is empty."
"You're shooting over my head. Is this about Russell? Are you thinking of divorce?"
"Russell's not the problem."
"But isn't Russell part of the equation? And Jessica?"
"That's not what we're discussing here," Rita said, her voice rising.
"Then please tell me what we are discussing."
By now, Rita's demeanor had diminished from silent composure to barely suppressed rage and I still was not sure why.
"Just let me off in front of the building," she said.
I coasted into the slow lane and let several irritated motorists stream past on the left. "First explain why you're angry with me."
She had neither a frown nor a smile on her face, only the blank expression of muted frustration as she pointed at the curb in front of her building.
Sounding deadly serious, she said, "Pull in and let me out. I never play the game with someone who doesn't understand the rules. You don't even know we're playing."
She hurried across the busy street without a backwards glance. When I phoned to apologize, she refused my call.
Three days passed, and then a week, without a word from Rita. Finally, no longer able to contain my curiosity and hurt feelings, I drove to our old rendezvous spot beside her building and parked at the curb. From there I watched, aware of a sudden wave of deja vu as she walked out the door at exactly our usual time. I quickly realized why.
Even though she recognized my car as she hurried across the sidewalk, she did not look my way or acknowledge my presence. Instead, she focused her smiling attention on a young man in a red Corvette as he opened the passenger door to let her in. Once inside, she wrapped herself around him and administered a sultry kiss. As they disappeared down the street, I watched him cast a curious glance in his rear-view mirror.
END
http://www.ericwilder.com
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
First Light of Dawn
Sometimes a story begins at the first breaking light of dawn, and sometimes not until the dark bitter hours just before.
Today is my dad’s eighty-eighth birthday. He looks remarkably good for a man born on July 24, 1919. We had planned a large birthday party for him. No one showed up except for my brother and me.
My dad has Alzheimer’s, but I sensed he was expecting more than Jack and I when we entered the Steak and Ale restaurant near the rest home where he lives. He glanced around the room, as if looking for someone to jump up and yell surprise. No one did. My brother is sixty-three, and I am sixty and the dinner caused me to ponder my own mortality.
My mom died last November, a victim of cancer and fate. She had a quick mind until the day she died and could always remember the past’s vaguest detail. My brother Jack and I, it seems, are more like our dad.
Yesterday we took Dad for a doctor’s visit. His doctor is a tiny, but beautiful, Chinese woman who specializes in geriatrics and gerontology.
“He isn’t getting enough mental stimulation,” she said, “Nor enough exercise.”
“Dad is shy,” we told her. “He is the only man in the place. He is lonely, and bored.”
She looked at me, and then my brother. Her expression needed no interpretation. I understood her question and I know Jack also did. She did not expect an answer and I am positive that she read our faces as clearly as we had hers.
Leaving her office yesterday, my dad grabbed his groin and winced.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I haven’t had much exercise lately,” he answered.
Tonight, he grabbed his groin at the dinner table, the expression on his face that of pain. Dad is from a generation that does not make waves, faces his pain with stoicism. Still, it was apparent on his face.
You okay?” I asked again for the second time in two days.
“Not enough exercise,” he answered again.
When I left the old man at his room in the nursing home, I sensed a feeling within him. I think it was acceptance. At his age, he has rarely seen a doctor, or been sick. He is lucky. Or is he?
Living in a small area with only women, all more incapacitated than himself, the days must be endless, the inability to understand the quagmire immersing him even more devastating to what remains of his fragile psyche.
I do not really know where I am going with this story. As I peck it out on my keyboard, I wonder – where am I at my present stage of life? At sixty years of age, it is obviously not my first breaking light of dawn, but how many dark hours remain until the circle reconnects?
http://www.ericwilder.com
Today is my dad’s eighty-eighth birthday. He looks remarkably good for a man born on July 24, 1919. We had planned a large birthday party for him. No one showed up except for my brother and me.
My dad has Alzheimer’s, but I sensed he was expecting more than Jack and I when we entered the Steak and Ale restaurant near the rest home where he lives. He glanced around the room, as if looking for someone to jump up and yell surprise. No one did. My brother is sixty-three, and I am sixty and the dinner caused me to ponder my own mortality.
My mom died last November, a victim of cancer and fate. She had a quick mind until the day she died and could always remember the past’s vaguest detail. My brother Jack and I, it seems, are more like our dad.
Yesterday we took Dad for a doctor’s visit. His doctor is a tiny, but beautiful, Chinese woman who specializes in geriatrics and gerontology.
“He isn’t getting enough mental stimulation,” she said, “Nor enough exercise.”
“Dad is shy,” we told her. “He is the only man in the place. He is lonely, and bored.”
She looked at me, and then my brother. Her expression needed no interpretation. I understood her question and I know Jack also did. She did not expect an answer and I am positive that she read our faces as clearly as we had hers.
Leaving her office yesterday, my dad grabbed his groin and winced.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I haven’t had much exercise lately,” he answered.
Tonight, he grabbed his groin at the dinner table, the expression on his face that of pain. Dad is from a generation that does not make waves, faces his pain with stoicism. Still, it was apparent on his face.
You okay?” I asked again for the second time in two days.
“Not enough exercise,” he answered again.
When I left the old man at his room in the nursing home, I sensed a feeling within him. I think it was acceptance. At his age, he has rarely seen a doctor, or been sick. He is lucky. Or is he?
Living in a small area with only women, all more incapacitated than himself, the days must be endless, the inability to understand the quagmire immersing him even more devastating to what remains of his fragile psyche.
I do not really know where I am going with this story. As I peck it out on my keyboard, I wonder – where am I at my present stage of life? At sixty years of age, it is obviously not my first breaking light of dawn, but how many dark hours remain until the circle reconnects?
http://www.ericwilder.com
Friday, July 13, 2007
Friday the 13th
I was just updating my website http://www.ericwilder.com when I realized that it is Friday the 13th. I'm not frightened because how could things get any worse than waking up last Tuesday to a flooded living room? Today, Oklahoma exceeded it's normal annual rainfall and there is a storm approaching the City as I write this that is reportedly bigger than Tuesday's storm. Maybe I better find some wood to knock on because, hey, it is Friday the 13th.
Please check out my site's new video page featuring trailers from my books. Also, there is a vid I did of the book signing that I had last month at Kang's Asian Bistro.
http://www.gondwanapress.com
Please check out my site's new video page featuring trailers from my books. Also, there is a vid I did of the book signing that I had last month at Kang's Asian Bistro.
http://www.gondwanapress.com
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Katrina's Blues
I was up late last night making final changes on a video titled Katrina’s Blues. The video is a slideshow of New Orleans, before, during and after Hurricane Katrina and features the poignant lyrics of Randy Newman’s Louisiana 1927. As if to herald the production, Oklahoma’s weather grew rainy as I turned off the last light and went to sleep.
Heavy rain continued throughout the night. This morning, two inches of water awaited me as I walked onto my sunken living room floor. The water had pooled up from six or seven inches of standing water in my sloping back yard, high enough to flood my living room. When I called a water damage-restoration company to help me, I learned that my insurance does not cover flood damage.
Unlike many of the residents of New Orleans, I didn’t suffer a complete loss, in my case probably only a few thousand dollars or so (yes, even a little water can do lots of damage). Still, it gives me pause to consider the harm done by hurricanes Katrina and Rita and what hardships the inhabitants of New Orleans endured and continue to endure almost a year and a half later.
Please check out my video on YouTube and say a prayer for the people of south Louisiana. While you’re at it, you might add a few words for all the people ravished by recent and continuing flooding in Texas, Oklahoma and Kansas, and many of the farmers that have lost all their crops this year.
http://www.ericwilder.com
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnzY_Kmz0Uc
Heavy rain continued throughout the night. This morning, two inches of water awaited me as I walked onto my sunken living room floor. The water had pooled up from six or seven inches of standing water in my sloping back yard, high enough to flood my living room. When I called a water damage-restoration company to help me, I learned that my insurance does not cover flood damage.
Unlike many of the residents of New Orleans, I didn’t suffer a complete loss, in my case probably only a few thousand dollars or so (yes, even a little water can do lots of damage). Still, it gives me pause to consider the harm done by hurricanes Katrina and Rita and what hardships the inhabitants of New Orleans endured and continue to endure almost a year and a half later.
Please check out my video on YouTube and say a prayer for the people of south Louisiana. While you’re at it, you might add a few words for all the people ravished by recent and continuing flooding in Texas, Oklahoma and Kansas, and many of the farmers that have lost all their crops this year.
http://www.ericwilder.com
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnzY_Kmz0Uc
Friday, July 06, 2007
Prairie Sunset Book Trailer
Please check out my Prairie Sunset video of Livevideo.com.
http://www.livevideo.com/video/299CEDC7531E4E0AB2DD7075DFCC28C2/prairie-sunset-book-video.aspx
http://www.livevideo.com/video/299CEDC7531E4E0AB2DD7075DFCC28C2/prairie-sunset-book-video.aspx
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
