I do believe that I am destined to someday scare myself to death.
This wisp of insight has, just lately, finally become apparent to me.
My calculating shadow is ever-a-lurk...is ever-alert...for the slightest opportunity to pounce upon me, upon me its lifelong victim...its too-often otherwise-occupied and unwary prey. That dark entity's frighteningly sudden appearance from its doleful den of ever-night into the glare of the light of day, its incarnation as it leaps with extended tooth and claw... it simply terrifies me.
When I unwittingly knock-over a nearby object, this action starts a chain of events that sets alight and sends to flight a veritable skyrocket of blood-pressure and heightened pulse-rate. And sparks a sudden sense of instantaneous panic.
It is then a matter of long minutes before the streaming pressure of the blood coursing through my arteries and veins returns to a relatively normal rate of flow.
The innocent pen or pencil or magnifying glass or unopened resting checkbook falls...
And when it falls it then so pseudo-serendipitously and seemingly maliciously dislodges other objects lying there...below it at rest near my desk...and they too suddenly launch themselves through the air and into my hyper-alerted consciousness...
And reflexively I jump aside and dodge and then dislodge another of those hidden scurrilous demons in disguise.
But wait, now.
An idea for a story of horror has come this instant to the fore. And it's tapping at the entrance on my imagination's chamber door. An idea yes but with it also something more. An unwelcome visitor is insistently knocking, persistently mocking, deep within my psyche's quaking core.
Hmm . . .
No, not now. Maybe later . . .
First things first.
Back to work on the story I was crafting just before I paused to scribble down today's blog entry. Let me see now, where was I?
Oh yes . . .
A Somewhat True Recollection
by Charles Gene Chambers
One summer evening in 1955 when I was a 16-year-old sophomore and reluctant male-virgin I was as usual playing slap-and-tickle with one of the loud and rowdy females who hung out at Bazz's roller-skating rink out on the edge of town.
The snack bar appended to Bazz's with its booming jukebox was a destination the rock'n'rollin' teens of the town had found to be sufficiently permissive enough in which to nightly congregate. To have something to do, you know.
This night my teasing playmate (Note: prey-bait? primate? prime-mate?) was Lanky Lucy, real name Lucille Collins, who was 19 and had graduated high-school the year before.
Lucille had been flirting with me all evening. Even though she was not the prettiest girl in town, she was kinda cute in a slim boy-ish kind of way with her short-trimmed dark hair and faded men's work-jeans.
But her deep and dusky eyes, shadowed coal-black and her wide and cushiony crimson-colored lips were not at all boy-like. In the face-painting department Lucille was one-hundred percent female.
(break here: the following are plot notes)
Dickie, Lee, and Paul complain about nothing to do and horse-play, pitching pennies, punching each other on the shoulder, and then ranking on each others' mothers, etc.(expand this) Lucille and I keep playing around, slapping at each other and ducking and running from each other until the other guys (hint that these 3 curiously-interesting characters: Dickie, Lee, and Paul, will have future roles to play) go inside and Lucille and I are alone.
When we are alone, she slowly reaches out and takes my hand and leads me down the adjoining alley into the darkness alongside the building and then wraps her arms around my neck and pulls my body against her own, and somehow she is no longer boyish or lean or hard.
She has become totally feminine. incredibly full-bodied, and achingly soft.
A little later as we creep hand-in-hand into the high grass behind the Wolfitz Lumber Yard down near the railroad tracks, we are joined by Lucille's best friend, Susie Ritter, who REALLY joins us as we become intimate in 'heavy-petting' (remember, this is the 1950s)
From behind me, Susie exhales a puff of warmth on my neck and then lingeringly kisses my neck and runs the tip of her tongue up and down and around on my flesh and presses her tiny pointed breasts into my back.
(End of Story Notes:)
Oh Good Lord! Such insipid mush. Perhaps I could introduce a fictional villain hiding in a nearby railroad boxcar, a mysterious character who...
No! No, dammit. Get back to work.