Monday, December 24, 2007

Mery Christmas to all - and Poetry train!

A Christmas Story

Copyright Roscoe James 2007

Twas the night before Christmas
And Santa was drunk
Down through the chimney
He fell in a funk.

He wandered around
First farted then belched
Tossed up his cookies
And felt pretty squelched

That’s when he saw her
She looked so sublime
Her legs all akimbo
On velvet reclined.

My Dear what’s your name
He asked with a smile
Virginia she answered
And blushed all the while

Oh my, he exclaimed
As he ogled her wares
You might catch a cold
Just running round bare

She giggled and wiggled
And wanted to know
What does it mean
To go… Ho Ho Ho

My dear not to worry
With time I will show
Just what it takes
For you to go Ho

Come sit on my lap
And whisper to me
What you want for Christmas
And I’ll make it be

My goodness dear Santa
Do you carry a gun
Or are you happy to see me
And thinking of fun

Don’t worry Virginia
You mustn’t think twice
Santa will show you
How not to be nice

Her eyes all a twinkle
Her nipples a glow
Her thighs all aquiver
She let Santa know

I’ve been such a good girl
It’s all such a drag
I think what I need
Is as night with a stag

A whole hour later
The jolly old man
Sprang up the chimney
And said, Yum Yum Yum

So on through the night
Dear Santa did ride
With a shivering Virginia
Close by his side.

Mery Christmas to all....
Virginia is tight!

Thursday, December 13, 2007

AMP Flash Fiction - White Swan

Copyright Roscoe James 2007

Standing on the blacktop apron, the sun at his back, he studied the lines and sounds of the White Swan and realized that, unlike most dreams come to life, this one didn’t disappoint.

His mind wandered back to his grandfather’s study. To dusty tomes arranged on dark-wood shelves that clung to plaster and lathe walls. Hours of sitting in a barrister’s chair that swallowed him whole behind an ornate desk that instilled an importance and sobriety seldom experienced by a seven-year-old spellbound by the wanderings of Huck Finn, the life and times of Tiny Tim and the swashbuckling ways of Long John Silver.

A collection of hand carved pipes standing in a carrousel beside a heavy crystal tobacco humidor still filled his mind with the smell of cherry and Prince Albert and recollections of the leather blotter on the imposing desk brought to mind Mr. Santini’s shoe shop.

The black-walnut grandfather clock off in a corner that set a cadence as words on the fragile yellowed pages flowed from paper to eye to mind setting his imagination free but capturing his soul forever still echoed in his mind.

The seed dropped in his heart while reading Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi, the harrowing tale of a boy from a small river town that aspired to be a riverboat captain, floated in the muddy waters of the Mississippi at the base of the Gateway to the West.

Unlike her boxy predecessors she was graceful and majestic even when moored to the floating jetty twenty feet from shore. Five decks of white enamel hand carved woodwork with highlights of shiny brass and blood-red trim.

Her paddlewheels were intricate latticeworks of white and red aluminum cast to mirror the shipwright’s work that adorned the decks above and at four-hundred-and-fifty-feet long with a beam of ninety-seven-feet; the biggest steamboat never built had been brought to life in living, almost breathing, color.

The calliope provided a carnival atmosphere for the last few passengers as they left their luggage with the shore stewards and crossed the red-carpeted gangway to the main deck.


“Hey! Be careful with that you klutz!”

He nearly burst out laughing when he turned and saw a taxi driver struggling to pull a Louis Vuitton wardrobe steamer trunk from the back of his cab. Running over he grabbed a side and helped the poor man set it on the sidewalk before it crushed him while its owner admonished them both with a not so polite critique of their progress.

“You must be one of the stewards,” she proclaimed still clutching a promotional brochure between finely manicured finger tips.


“Look, it says right here, dock side stewards to receive your luggage. That’s you, right?”

In sharp contrast to her brusque manner she was willowy and graceful. Her almond shaped face, china skin with a smattering of freckles and intelligent green eyes, captivated. Fiery red hair cascaded in lush ringlets across her shoulders and halfway down her back and did much more than captivate; it took no prisoners.

“Why, sure am, ma’am,” he finally said with a chuckle while he watched the taxi driver stack a matching suitcase and makeup bag on top of the imposing piece of luggage. After receiving his fare the driver pulled out a puffy garment bag to add to the small mountain of luggage that had grown on the sidewalk, got in his cab and left.

And just as quickly she was gone. Looking back over her shoulder she said in an impatient pissed-off sort of way, “Well, come on. I don’t want my luggage left on the dock.”

He rushed to tuck the small suitcase under his arm, dangle the makeup bag from his fingers, tilt the trunk back on wheels set into the bottom and balance the garment bag across the top as he fell in step behind her.

“You’d think they could put a jet way and terminal up here. I mean, this is the twenty-first century, right?”

“I’ll be sure to tell the owner, ma’am.”

He smiled while she carried on about everything and nothing on their walk to the gangway. It was too humid, too hot, too sunny and too windy. The airport had been a mess, her taxi driver rude and she’d had to endure some one’s ten-year-old in first class. The boat was pretty though and that made him smile.

When one of the stewards saw them and cringed, dropping what he was doing, and started their way, he shook his head admonishing him not to bother, and followed her up the gangway where a smiling Mr. Blackburn, waxed handlebar mustache shining in the late afternoon sun, took her ticket and almost jumped overboard when he saw who was pushing her luggage. “Let me get you…”

“Sorry about that, Mr. Blackburn. I got here late. It won’t happen again, sir.”

With overblown bluster that belied his surprise Mr. Blackburn fixed him with a scrutinizing stare and finally replied, “Right. Well, make sure it doesn’t. And Miss Holloway will be staying in the Director’s suit on deck four.”

That explains it. So this is Teresa Holloway, intrepid freelance journalist and member of the very elite club all journalists worth a tinker’s damn aspired to, a Pulitzer-prize winner, here to write an in-depth article about - how had she put it - that idiot with more money than sense that wants us all living in the nineteenth century. She’d never confirmed, and neither he nor his staff was sure, she was going to show up.

Pushing her luggage toward mid-ship he listened to the click of her heels on the teakwood planking and wondered if he should tell her now or wait for the gala later in the evening.

“Do you know the owner? What’s his name? Nash Floss?”

“Fross,” he corrected while he waited at open double doors for her to precede him into the main atrium area.

“Right, that’s it. Nash Fross. You know him?”

He didn’t get to answer.

“Damn,” her voice was one of amazement and awe. Finally she added, “Well, when you see him, tell him the atrium impressed the hell out of me.”

Five stories of twin open curved staircases, satin finished mahogany, two replica scissor-gate elevators, plush wool carpet, all capped off with stained glass was intended to impress and he was glad it had.

There was hardly room for the two of them and her luggage in the elevator but they managed. When they stopped on deck four he followed her out and was rewarded again when she stopped to peer over the banister muttering ‘damn’ once more.

As they neared her suit he explained, “The original designs of the White Swan were found in a desk sold at auction in the 50’s. They were drawn up in 1926 by Ward engineering for the Reid Steamboat company just before the rails took over the riverboat trade.

“Originally designed to house 526 passengers in three classes, along with freight, the interior has been redesigned with twelve luxury suits and eighty-eight junior suits…”

“No longer carries freight,” she interrupted, “has five restaurants, all highly rated on the Michelin list, one cinema that will seat three-hundred, a top deck swimming pool, two workout rooms, one cabaret, ten bars, twenty-six stores, crew of ninety-seven and is propelled by two paddle-wheels powered by twin turbo-diesel electric plants. Need I go on?”

Pushing her door open he handed her a key card and laughed, “You sure know a lot about the White Swan, ma’am. And here’s your suit.”

“It’s my job to know a lot about a lot of things. Would you like gross weights, range and how much Mr. Floss paid for this little dalliance of his?”

Wheeling the trunk through the main sitting room, past the bathroom and leaving it at the foot of the king-sized bed the fun had evaporated when she referred to the White Swan, his White Swan, as a dalliance.

His smile was strained when he turned to leave and said, “That’s okay, ma’am. I’m sure Mr. FROSS has his reasons.”

When she shoved a twenty in his palm and said, “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” he wanted to poke her in the nose but found the act of receiving a tip entirely too distracting. Pulling the suit’s door shut behind him he scowled, saw another steward rush by, shoved the bill in his hand, and said, “Journalists!”

“Thanks, Mr. Fross. I think we’re ready to leave. The captain was looking for you.”

Billy Joel - live and in concert

Billy Joel! Yes, there is still magic in a Billy Joel concert. I caught him live, up-close and in person last night at Foro Sol in Mexico City. I had heard that his voice is shot. I’ll get to that in a minute.

The concert lasted two-and-a-half hours and was, literally, non-stop. And I was surprised to learn Billy Joel had enough rudimentary Spanish to ad-lib with the audience.

After the second song he said hi to Mexico and introduced some of the musicians in the band. Then, with a sly smile, he added (in Spanish) – I’m not really Billy Joel, I’m Billy Joel’s dad. Yes, the hair, what little is left, is gray. The stomach is heavy and, well, he looks every one of his 57 years. But he’s still Billy Joel and he can still belt out his songs and bring an audience to life.

But, as I’d heard, his voice isn’t what it used to be. And I’ve given this some thought. When was the last time you saw a 57 year old Star NFL quarterback take to the field and play a full-on, no-holds-barred exhibition game? How old was Wilt the Stilt when he played his last exhibition game? Has anyone seen Julia Roberts recently (well, that wasn’t a rerun)?

No, if you’re looking for an exact reproduction of the 52nd Street CD (made in 1978), you won’t find it at a Billy Joel concert. But if you’re looking for the magic and spirit that created that album (back when albums were still black discs the size of pie pans) you won’t be disappointed.

Billy Joel rocks! My sixteen-year-old son said so.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Overwhelming Evidence

Copyright Roscoe James 2007

The shadows were long across the pavement when he stopped in front of Creolla’s house. The engine idled while he contemplated. It was about why. Why she hadn’t looked for him, asked for his help.

His thoughts stepped off the trolley at his own feelings. He hadn’t thought about Creolla in years. Almost a decade and yet a glimpse, a touch, a sigh, a word, and he was consumed by a need be near her. Not just for a moment or a night. But for… For what?

He slammed his car door in disgust and rubbed his sweaty palms together trying to recall the last time he’d felt this perturbed about a woman.

“Landon! Come in!” Her surprise was genuine and her smile grateful.

In the foyer he stalled looking at dried flowers, a colorful print, an umbrella stand – anything but her.

“When I woke up you were gone,” she sounded hurt and he felt bad. Her fingers raked his chin and she grinned, “But here you are. Landon.” Her voice became dreamy her comment not directed at him, just a statement, “With me. My rock.”

He noticed the way her hair came up in curls from her hairline and wanted to touch.

“Are you hungry? Where did you go?”

Laugh lines around her eyes made him want to smile and he felt selfish for not giving in.

Taking his hand in hers she pulled toward the living room, “The sheriff called today. And I spoke with my lawyer.”

He watched their hands rise between them when she stepped away urging him to follow, stretching their arms out until she had to stop or let go.

“I’m so glad…” and she paused standing with her bare feet in a spot of sun on the hardwood floor.

He tried to resolve the smiling creature in blue jeans and loose knit top with bands that circled her body making him think of rainbows and sunlight with the wonton plaything that had stepped into Ethan’s arms at Mason’s.

She came close again and rested her fingers on his chin. He could feel her warm exhalations on his neck. Her blue eyes were gentle, imploring him to speak, to be with her. To step into her world.

When she leaned the softness of her breasts on his chest highlighted the stiffness of his own body. When her hands intruded beneath his arms and circled his body he relented.
Breathing deep the fragrance of her hair he pulled her to him and searched for her ear in a fall of mahogany locks and nuzzled.

“Oh, Landon,” she moaned.

His words were gentle, “I’m sorry, Creolla. I think I’m lost.”

She kissed the small of his neck, “No, Landon. You’re here. With me.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

Her lips were warm on the side of his neck. “Yes,” she sighed in return.

His hands moved down her back hugging and exploring. His fingers found the edge of her jeans and slid in.

She leaned into him in a swoon and he kissed the top of her head. In one swift move he swept her into his arms and carried her to her bedroom where he threw her on the bed. Standing over her he pulled on his belt, jerked at his zipper, pulled his shirt over his head, and watched her pull her top off and struggle frantically with her jeans.

Toeing his shoes off he hooked his thumbs in his slacks and boxers and shoved them past his knees. When he stood his cock bobbed and waved. An angry baton set to direct the next movement of the Rhapsody they’d become.

Knees at her chest still struggling with her jeans he fell on her. Fingers digging between her upturned thighs he grabbed the crotch of her panties and pulled. They came away wet which only drove him madder with desire.

She whimpered when the lacy material broke. Shoving her arms back he trapped her jean covered knees with his chest, shifted until the head of his cock found her wet spot, braced with both hands on the mattress and pushed all the way in.

Her eyes closed, her breath caught and her tongue found her lips.

The back of her thighs were soft and hot against his hard stomach as he rode her, took her. Her head rocked on the pillow and she mumbled her breathing finding cadence in his thrusts.
He was lost in the feeling, the soft wet grip that held him, massaged him, urged him to release.
When that grip tightened and she fixed him in a wide eyed stare he hurried to catch up, to take her hand and plunge headfirst into the ether with her.

Her grunt was unladylike, his growl harsh and menacing. He felt her shiver turn to quakes, her knees pushing up as she strained to stretch her body and ride the wave.

He exploded with the fury of a god and felt just as empowered as Creolla writhed beneath her stuttering moans his only council.

The room was dark as they lay panting, a tangle of half removed clothes and sweaty bodies. Her fingers played lazily in his hair and his ran across the inside of her thigh.

“Where are you,” she finally asked dreamily.

“Lost,” he said for the second time that afternoon.

“Lost?” she sounded concerned.

Pushing her knees off his chest he rolled and licked the inside of her thigh.
Her hand found the top of his head and twirled a curl.

With a swipe of his tongue he stroked her still swollen clitoris.
She moaned distractedly.

With a nudge to her hand he kissed his way to her naval and licked.
“Lost?” she sounded uncertain.

He kissed the soft skin of her belly and licked his way to the center clasp on her bra.
“Lost?” she giggled.

His hand snaked between their bodies and released the clasp and his head nudged the flimsy material aside so he could capture a nipple and suck it into his mouth.

“Lost,” she moaned her hands coming to the back of his head trapping him there.

He found her other breast with his hand, his warm palm pressing, her other nipple trapped between his fingers.

Her fingers raked lazily through his hair.

With another nudge to her hand he was on top of her, his eyes level with hers, his lips a hairs breadth away from hers.

“Lost?” she whispered.

“In you,” he said and kissed the words he dared not speak.

This time he was gentle and loving. He wandered her body with attentive care and marveled in renewed discovery.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Something I'm Personally Passionate About - Flamenco (Music and Dancing)

This guy is superb.

The Bar is Open

Right. I recognize this place. Yeah, I’ve been here before.

Just wanted to say I’m sort of back. Finished my rewrite and have it back with the publisher. Right now I’m trying to decide if I continue a book I started or abandon it and start a new one.

I have something special in the works for Poetry Train Monday and something finished for Friday Flash.

So, without further ado – let’s get this show on the road!

Saturday, December 1, 2007

Sorry About That

I'm in the middle of a re-write and will be back the first of next week. Well, or you can believe I like the pizza-girl and don't want to take her down. Or maybe the guy with the eyeliner over at Jill's place gave me a nervous breakdown. Maybe the Princess and BB have kidnapped me and are slowly torturing me to death with matches and Star Trck reruns.

Send a rescue party!!!!!! Send food!!!!!! Send Booze!!!!! Send women!!!!!!