The D.S. Writing Project Presents
Volume I, Issue 1
Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead. â€“Charles Bukowski
What Is This? What Is This? Think of Broken Wings & Gestures Obscene as that dirty music hall that bands get their first gig in. I want you to get drunk. Throw panties on stage and put a lighter in the air if you liked the writing or throw rotten fruit and dirty underwear if you didn’t. Go crazy. I now belong to an official “writerly” community that I found online. Yes, I found some cool guys on the internet. No, they don’t want to ‘hang’ out—yet. If you are an aspiring writer yourself, check it out. It’s way better than an MFA program: www.litreactor.com. Anything in here has already been through a round of criticism, so it’s enjoyable and readable. A lot of people are still experimenting with style, stories, etc. We’ve been practicing, but we need an audience. A rowdy fucking crowd. We need you. If you continue to keep up with this, and I hope you do, I’ll keep you posted on who’s being published where as they move onto bigger and better things. Feel free to send this thing to anyone you think might want to go crazy too. -Dave, December 2011
In This Issue: So what is actually in the Debut Issue? To start, we have a poem, “Suicide in the Trenches.” If poetry isn’t your thing, it wasn’t mine either. I think we get slammed with what ‘good’ poetry during the early years of our education and it kind of sours our taste for it later on (around the same time vodka got ruined for me, coincidentally). So this is different. And actually good. I think you’ll agree. We’ve got a pretty taboo pushing piece by Timothy S Morehead, from LitReactor. I think it’s fucking awesome—definitely worth your time. But he needs your opinion. I’ve got a piece in here as well, “Lunch is for Pikers.” And seriously, if you loved it, hated it, think something could be better, send Tim or I an email. Put your lighter up or throw some rotten fruit. Our poet of the month is currently dead, but I’ll talk about him with you if you’re interested. Finally, any improvements to this little PDF file that you have on your laptop/ pile of paper that you printed off at work (you show the Man), feel free to email me: firstname.lastname@example.org
A Small List of Contents 6 Suicide in the Trenches 7 Lunch is for Pikers 11 Bug 15 About “Bug” and Timothy S. Morehead 17 About “Lunch is for Pikers” and Dave Hanson
Suicide in the Trenches Siegfried Sassoon (1886â€“1967). Counter-Attack and Other Poems. 1918.
I KNEW a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum, 5 With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again ..... You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, 10 Sneak home and pray youâ€˜ll never know The hell where youth and laughter go.
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Lunch is for Pikers By D. Scott Hanson email@example.com My phone is ringing in my pocket, but I can’t pick it up. It’s my birthday. “Benjamin Fucking Thompson, happygoddamnbirthday you cocky sunnuvabitch.” That’s Vincent DeLitto, Vice President of Accounts over at JR Masteron-Fletcher. He drinks double malt scotch with names he never pronounces correctly. He’s holding out a glass of it right now for me to cheers. “Thanks Vinny, you know it’s always a pleasure,” I say, making sure to give his glass a solid clink from mine before moving on through the rest of the party. I drink Tangueray and tonic. I’ll slip the bartender a twenty to make sure it’s just tonic and lime if there’s a need to get an edge in a business outing. If I get dragged back to a family function and get stuck listening to my brother grumble about how tough it is to be a chef in today’s restaurant climate in between glances at my cuff links, I can load my cocktail up for a nice stealth buzz that helps stomach trips back home. He used to steal the money that I made as a poor little line cook at this greasy spoon, Georgina’s, that kept under my mattress. For as much as I’m still pissed about it, I suppose his theft did lead me to stocks—stocks were a safer place for my money than living near a brand new cocaine habit on legs. I am twenty seven years old. My net worth is over eight million dollars. Sure, it’s not ultra wealthy, but it’s a long way from the kid that needed all the financial aid he could grab to get through Princeton undergrad. I had classes with the same cocksucking, blazer wearing, ‘masters of the universe’ that circle jerked each other at Bear Sterns and Lehman Brothers over how cultured they were for having the same taste in Bordeaux while they drove the financial world into an iceberg. I shake hands and smile my way through this crowd of blue blazers and dresses, gold watches and jewels, clinking drinks and occasionally catching some trophy wife cleavage, stirring the room. “Benny Boy, Happy Birthday! Hope you know the KVM Holdings divestment that you engineered was the luckiest thing I’ve ever seen anyone pull off.” That’s Randolf Christopherson III, Vice President of Special Investments, one of the typical blue blood pieces of shit that managed to float through the top schools into jobs at their parents’ firms. He thinks I’m
lucky because he’s clueless. Interesting thing about Randolf: he actually connects with shitty pop music. I got stuck in a limo with him once on the way back from a Tea Party fundraiser—we got liquored up because that’s the only way any sane person can sit through all the batshit craziness—and he was belting out teeny-bop pop songs the whole way home. Almost endearing at first, but after the fifth Justin Bieber song, I broke back into the limo’s mini-bar. “Randy, always a pleasure. A step quicker and you would’ve had the divestment all to yourself,” I say and smile and pretend to be ribbing him. He likes that, makes him feel like he’s on the same level as me. I could take a shit and it would have to fall seven stories before he could even smell it. My fund had an eight hundred percent return on investment betting against the Lehman Brothers and AIG. Every dollar my clients invested turned into eight at the exact same time that their portfolio reports from other “investment specialists” were coming across their desk covered with red ink and desperate explanations. I continue on, like Moses in a sea of beautiful, arrogant, clueless dinks. I see George Flannery’s trophy wife leaning against the bar stirring her drink with her pinky, wearing a tastefully low cut dress, a very tastefully low cut dress. The diamond necklace around her neck looks like a shimmering river of melting ice. I smile and instead of guessing how many Africans died for those diamonds, I say, “That is a stunning necklace, you must give George my compliments.” “Oh, shush, Benjamin,” she says, her red lips smirking now. “You just wanted an excuse to look at my breasts.” I don’t know her name because memorizing George’s license plate would be more useful to me, but I smile my roguish smile that I’ve perfected for moments like these, and say, “George is a lucky man. Say, have you met Kyle Shippee?” Before she can pretend to say no, I’ve looped my arm around hers and we are walking to Kyle’s group. Kyle is an up-and-coming Vice President of BRIC investments at Warstan-Cooper. I also caught wind he was “fucking George’s trophy wife.” They’re both professionals though, and they greet each other with the right amount of pleasant surprise. It’s important to stir the party at the beginning of Broken Wings & Gestures Obscene
the night, it sets up all the good things that will come out of it. For example, George’s trophy wife will be reminded of her infidelity and remember what it was like fucking a young buck like Kyle. Then she’ll go home and fuck George like she used to, before she could use his black American Express card, in a delicious mix of guilt and lust. A perfect nightcap to the discussion I’ll have with him later this evening about why he really needs to invest ten million and not eight. It’s all about positive reinforcement. That’s the idea anyway. I’m not naïve enough to think that these little plans of mine go right all the time. All anyone can do is pull the margins in their favor as far as possible then bet Big, capital B Big, right down to the damn lint in their pocket. I politely excuse myself and move on. “Benjamin Thompson,” a silky voice whispers in my ear. A soft hand gently grips my arm. I slide my arm back and wrap it around the voice’s body, look over. And this is Jennifer SaintPierre, Vice President of Something. “Jennifer, are you enjoying my birthday?” For the uninitiated, everybody is a Vice President in the financial world—Vice President of Investments, Vice President of Custodial Engineering, or in Jenny’s case, Vice President of Sucking a Co-President’s dick. “Why yes. I’d be enjoying it even more if you would think about taking my talents over to that new firm you’re opening up.” Her eyes are playfully blue even though they’re contacts and her hair is platinum blonde. Her tits are fake but she paid good money for them so they’re not trashy. She’s the kind of girl that’s built herself into a solid seven or eight but after these guys have been stuck in an office with nothing but her and her perfume she climbs to a fifteen real fast. I politely excuse myself and continue on through the room. “Ben, you’ve heard this a thousand times already tonight, but happy birthday.” That’s Mary Ulbrich, one of the new breed that’s killing the old boy’s club. I understand the definition of the word I am about to use, especially in the context of the advancement of women’s rights, but unfortunately it is the only way to describe her. She is a royal fucking cunt. Good to have on your side if the merger is in danger of going sideways though. She is also the only person I’ve contemplated killing for longer than a minute—but then I caught wind that Cisco was going to be getting into the x86 server business. “Mary, you look wonderful tonight. And thank you,” I say. “I still can’t believe you shorted the entire market
back in ’08.” “I told you to short it, too.” “Well, we weren’t necessarily on speaking terms then.” Ah, I forgot to mention, Mary and I did fuck once. Well, she fucked me. Just got right on top, slapped me in the face when I tried to put her on her back, looked me in the eye and said, “I am going to make you come.” Then she did. Not even five minutes after we finished—well, probably just me—she told me didn’t sleep well when other people are in the bed. I took the hint and went home. The phone rings again. I put my hand in my pocket and hit the ignore button while I ham it up with Vladimir Somethingornother—I can’t pronounce his last name, but his firm is very interested in investing. This is about smiling and making it look like what I do is easy. When people see my success they assume I must be slaving away at all hours in an office. Which I do. There are earnings calls to review, not just the bullshit that the Public Relations department pumps out for the hacks that trade stocks on a transaction basis; but understanding the competitive landscape from direct competitors to tertiary factors, like environment, evaluating the market as a whole, the trends for whatever industry I’m making a shitload of money off of. All that bullshit that they mention in the MBA program, I am making come to life. There is no real difference between what I do every day and what the other players out there are doing, the ones that are doing it honestly, anyway. There’s always phone calls, dinners, spreadsheets, spreadsheets, spreadsheets, phone calls, dinners, a lunch here and there if I can get away, numbers, graphs, charts, fucking powerpoint. It’s just like cooking, part of it is getting the right ingredients, part of it is true skill and part of it is theater. Knowing when to make it look effortless and when to make it look difficult. Make Vladimir and the rest of them feel like they’ve got a real natural born winner they’re investing with. These investors—at least the ones in this room, have never had to work hard for anything they have. None of those blue bloods have. Not the Maserati, or the swanky apartment, or the cashmere, or the Inglheim Classic yacht; their trophy wives are first place for being robots that were born in the right place at the right time. So they get uncomfortable when someone has to work at anything—outside of golf, of course. The phone rings again, but I can’t answer it because I’m talking to Mayor Julio Robbins, the guy to know in Irvington. He likes to pretend he drinks but he is on good behavior tonight, since the place is crawlBroken Wings & Gestures Obscene
ing with barely washed reporters, the type that keeps their yellowed Master’s of Journalism degrees proudly displayed in their rent-controlled apartment, that Reuters likes to send to these type of events. I bump shoulders with a Kyle Shippee as he’s heading out the door in a hurry. I raise an eyebrow and he grins, and I look behind me to see George’s trophy wife leaving the party, looking casual and cool. The phone rings again while I’m talking to Gregor Ballantine, the whiz kid that is developing a back end for anything running on a mobile phone to shove ads of what you’re thinking into your face. Here is a guy that can run numbers all day but can’t start a conversation for himself. So I talk to him and introduce him to some venture capitalists in the room. Got to stir the pot. The phone rings again while I’m ordering a tonic with lime. I excuse myself from a conversation with the Cook brothers and head down the marble hallway to the bathroom, my leather soled shoes clacking away. I shut myself in a bathroom stall and ignore the snorting and occasional “Wooo” as I check the phone. Fifteen missed calls. I squint at the phone to make sure I’m seeing this right—because fifteen missed calls in and of itself is not out of the ordinary. But its fifteen missed calls from the same number. Area code is northern Connecticut—the shit hole part that I grew up in. I blink again to make sure I’m seeing this right. I take a deep breath and dial back. “Hello and thank you for calling The Hospital of Central Connecticut,” the automated prompt tells me. “If you know the extension of the party you are trying to reach, please press eight.” I press zero because that always bring you to an operator. I really don’t have time for this. Another “Wooo” from next door. “Hospital of Central Connecticut,” the male voice says, almost bored. “Hi, yes. Benjamin Thompson. I’ve received fifteen calls from this number.” “Ah, ok. Last name again?” “Thompson.” “One minute please.” Soft jazz plays while I stay on hold. I realize I am gritting my teeth. “Hello?” says a voice I haven’t heard in about two years. My brother Jeremy. What the fuck is he doing calling from a fucking hospital? “Benjamin Thompson,” I say. When I don’t know what else to say, I find I just stating my name is enough to get a conversation moving along. “Ben…” Jeremy says. “I’ve been trying to reach
you.” “Yeah, I know. What the hell are you doing calling me from a hospital?” “It’s ma. She’s—she’s gone, Ben.” “Gone where? What the fuck are you talking about?” She can’t be dead, she was fine the last time I saw her… what, three years ago? Christ, it’s been awhile. I’ve got a new Viking Range showing up at her house for Christmas. “Ben, she passed away two hours ago. An aneurism…” I hear him start to sob. I hang up. I go to the sink and splash cool water on my face. I see Henry Carro coming out of the stall next to mine, wiping his nose with one hand and fixing his hair with the other. His pupils are the size of dimes when he says to me, “Benjamin fucking Thompson. Happy Birthday man. Great party. Really great.” He slaps me on the back while I smile and rinse my hands off. I let him walk back to the party ahead of me. I want a real drink. I don’t even want to put ice in it. But venture capitalists and heiresses keep slapping me back to reality. My phone rings again and I shut it off. Yevgeniy is talking to me now. I’m smiling and nodding and being extremely appreciative. Making the rounds, handshakes. My head pounds. Keynote speaker. I stand up and wave. Say a few words. Confident about the future, recessions always end, opportunity in chaos. Then the stripper cake. Real classy. I’m sitting in the limo, on the big leather seats at the back. Laughing businessmen and strippers and even Mary Ulbrich has made it in, I’m crammed in here with them. George Flannery has a stripper on his lap and he’s nudging me with his elbow jabbering in my ear. Great birthday. Success. Definitely going to invest the full ten million. I lean over and take the bottle of vodka out of the stripper’s hand and taking a healthy swig. The burn crawls up my throat and scratches the inside of my nostrils. She makes her sauce with the canned tomatoes, my mom does. She dices up the onions and puts them in first, with some olive oil, extra virgin, and always from Argentina—which she never told her parents, because it would break their off-the-boat-Abrutse hearts. Once the onions are translucent and crackling in the oil, she throws in the garlic that’s been sliced so thin it practically melts. The secret to her sauce though, is she puts in the canned tomato paste, sometimes Broken Wings & Gestures Obscene
she uses real tomatoes but it doesn’t make a huge difference, then throws the meat in, letting pork and sausage and meatballs cook in there for hours—if you cook any meats before throwing putting them in the sauce you lose all of that juice—adding parsley and basil and a dash of thyme and some rosemary, and a very tiny bit of jalapeño. And she puts two fingers of whiskey in it too. She lets it simmer all day, stirring it slowly, filling the house with that smell of a feast. She sends me jars of the stuff, FedEx overnight. She used to send them. I take a deep breath, and have the limo pull over on the highway. I get out, pushing myself passed the confused faces and the shrugs and the shaking heads. I send the limo driver on his way with a few hundred dollar bills. Cars speeding past me on the highway, in the middle of the night, and I take out my phone and turn it back on. I call my brother.
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Bug By Timothy S Morehead firstname.lastname@example.org I haven’t seen her since she dropped out of high school and ran away three years ago when she turned seventeen. When she disappeared, two of my Leicas, a few lenses and a piece of my heart disappeared with her. The camera equipment probably sold or traded for drugs. Or maybe – hopefully - to finance a new life in a better place somewhere far away from here. Now, after all this time, and not so much as an email or postcard to tell me she was alive, she’s standing on my front porch staring at me through the screen door looking just as lost as she did the last time I saw her. Only with more ink on her skin and more metal in her face. Her name is Emily but I call her Bug. I’ve lived next door to her parents since they bought the house next to mine in the mid-eighties, six years before she was born. I photographed her for the first time the day they brought her home from the hospital. She was all pink and wrinkled and wiggly and small enough to fit in a shoe box. She looked larval, thus the nickname - Bug. Given the level of neglect her parents are capable of, it’s a miracle she survived her infancy. She was born into an already stressed relationship and her unexpected birth just added to the tension. It made her tough. Early on, she learned how to manipulate people and to fend for herself. Bug is a survivor. “Hi Uncle Jack.” That’s what she’s always called me. “You look surprised to see me.” “Do I? I can’t imagine why,” I say while opening the door. I give her a hug and a peck on the forehead. My heart has moved behind my Adam’s apple and it’s doing somersaults. “Where’ve you been all this time?” “Here and there. Around. All over.” I should be pissed but I’m not. Her sudden appearance has triggered a slide show on the inside of my forehead. With every blink of my eyes there is another image – like flipping through a family photo album. BLINK. Six-year-old Bug sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal and drinking Ovaltine. BLINK. Bug on my shoulders putting the star on the top of the Christmas tree that same year. BLINK. Bug, at eight, playing fetch in the backyard with Meathead, my Bull Terrier. BLINK. Bug wearing a tutu during a dance recital when she was ten. BLINK. Bug, thirteen, with her first boyfriend. BLINK. Her first tattoo at sixteen.
BLINK. Blink. BlinkBlinkBlink. I’ve got thousands of photos of her. More than all the other images I’ve made during my entire carreer combined. Albums upon albums. I have an entire bookshelf dedicated just to her. She pulls out of my arms and bounces into the kitchen. Before sitting down at the table, she grabs a beer from the fridge. “You mind?” she asks while twisting the top off the bottle. “Go ahead. This is still your home too.” She presses the bottle to her mouth and it tinks against her lip ring. Taking a gulp, her neck gently swells and then contracts as she swallows. She sweeps the hair from her face but some of it falls back down. Her green eyes peek at me from behind the raven strands. She removes the denim jacket I gave her when she was in high and lays it on the chair next her. She’s wearing a wife beater, cutoffs and a pair of red canvas sneakers. The flaming-heart tattoo with wings inked across the width of her chest clearly shows through the thin material of her t-shirt. So do her pierced nipples. My eyes molest her as I look at the ink which covers most of her body. She was always such a pretty girl, and still is. More so now. I find her piercings, a nose ring, tongue bar, a dozen or so small hoops running the length of both ears and the ten gauge buffalo horn plugs in both lobes very titillating. It could be her long absence or it could be that she’s a woman now, but whatever it is, it’s stirring something primal in me. I was woken up one morning at three o’clock by scuffling and clanging coming from the kitchen. I grabbed my .45 from the night stand and quietly made my way downstairs. Following the pistol into the kitchen, I found five-year- old Bug sitting at my kitchen table and Meathead in the chair beside her. She was eating a ham and macaroni ‘n’ cheese sandwich. She had crawled through the doggy door and made a meal out of the day’s leftovers. Her eyes were as big as the bore of the Colt in my hand. “You gonna shoot me?” Half chewed macaroni falling from the corner of her mouth and Meathead almost knocking her off the chair diving for the morsels. “No darlin’, I’m not.” “Good. ‘cause I haven’t finished eating yet.” Suppressing a laugh, I tucked the gun in my Broken Wings & Gestures Obscene
waistband and poured her a glass of milk. I let her finish eating before taking her home to an irate mother who hit her in the face hard enough to knock her down. Not because Bug had snuck out at 3am but because my bringing her back home at that time in the morning made the hung-over bitch drag her skanky ass out of bed before noon. Holding my anger I said nothing, knowing that it if I did it would only cause a more severe beating when I left. The next morning before dawn, Bug was back raiding my refrigerator. And the next and the next. I have no children of my own but I’ve never felt like I missed out on anything because Bug has always been a surrogate daughter to me. She spent the majority of her childhood at my house. I raised her as my own. I taught her the things I thought any father would teach his daughter. I taught her how to dance, how to drive, how to defend herself, how to maintain a poker face and to never draw to an inside straight. She learned all the lady things from my girlfriends. My stomach is in knots right now as I sit here thinking about what I want to do to my little girl. “I’ve had a lot of work done since you last seen me, huh?” she says as she shifts in her seat showing me the full sleeve on her right arm. A bare-breasted geisha in the throes of passion. “How do you afford all of that? It must be insanely expensive.” “I do odd jobs. Barter and trade when I have to. It’s amazing what you can use for currency if you’re willing to get creative.” “Are you well? Everything alright?” I ask. “Hunky-dory. Never better,” she says as she raises the bottom of the bottle toward the ceiling emptying the last of its foamy contents down her throat. “Well, whatever the reason you’re back, I’m glad. Missed you something terrible and I’ve been worried sick about you. I almost hired a private investigator but figured if you wanted me to know where you were you’d let me know. You hungry? Want something to eat? You look thin.” She laughs. “Jesus, calm down. I know I’m an asshole for just up and leaving without a word, you didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry, I really am but I had to get away. Hope you understand. And no, I’m not hungry.” Bug was six years old the first time her father went to prison for assaulting a man during a bar fight. The second time he went away, for beating her mother bad enough to need reconstructive surgery, she was thirteen. The court awarded custody of her to her grandparents but it wasn’t long before she was back at my door. Her grandmother told me to keep her because
she never wanted to see her again. I’m a photographer by trade so I taught her everything I knew about photography. Everyone should have a skill. She was my little assistant, helping me in the darkroom and studio. Clients loved her, always slipping her a few dollars when they thought I wasn’t looking and asking her not to tell. She never did. She eventually became quite the photographer herself, but that was a long time ago before the drinking and the ecstasy. Can’t say it was unexpected. People with that many scars often choose to fight their battles in the wrong way. I tried everything - sports, music, and counseling. Her downward spiral continued. She started coming home with less frequency and every time she did, there would be another tattoo or another piercing. I take responsibility for that. She would sit for hours and look through my Suicide Girls and Gods Girls books. These are the kind of girls I am attracted to. These are the girls I date and these are the kind of models I like to photograph. Working in the studio and through contact with me, she has met hundreds of alt models through the years. She always insisted on helping me when I would shoot a tattooed or pierced model. She puts the empty bottle in the sink, sits down in my lap and gives me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. She smells like lavender soap and beer. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, ya know?” she says. I put my hands around her waist and lift her to her feet. “C’mon, let’s go make a portrait of you.” “Great! That’s why I’m here now. That and the fact I couldn’t leave Oregon before my parole was up last week.” “Parole?” “Don’t worry about it,” she says, looking innocent. “It wasn’t anything serious. Just a little thievery. I’ll tell you all about it later.” She gets another beer from the fridge. Simultaneously closing the door with her elbow and opening the bottle, she spins on the balls of her feet and looks me in the eye. “I want to be a Suicide Girl.” “Seriously?” I don’t know why the statement catches me by surprise. It shouldn’t. The thought of being able to jerk off to her pictures just like I do the others in my favorite books is almost more than I can take. “Yeah. I’ve had a lot of time to think about things. I made a list of what’s important to me and all the things I wanna do before it’s too late. I want to be a Suicide Girl. It’s on my bucket list.” “You’re a little young to have a bucket list aren’t you? Get me one of those,” I say pointing with my chin Broken Wings & Gestures Obscene
at the bottle in her hand. “You’re never too young to have a bucket list. And I want to move back in here with you. If that’s okay.” She leans into the fridge retrieving a beer and hands it to me. I’m wishing now I had put them on the bottom shelf. I use it to cover the hard-on in my lap. Ridiculous for a man my age. I haven’t felt like this since I was seventeen and parked at the Sundown Drive-In watching Cool Hand Luke with Sally McMullin’s cherry red lipstick smeared the entire length of my blood engorged cock. I close my eyes and think of the time I almost cut my index finger off with a jig saw. “Uh … sure. That would be fabulous. Just like old times. Only better now that you’re all grown up.” “So you’ll take some pictures for me to submit Suicide Girls then?” “Of course.” I stand up. My erections always go away faster when I’m standing. She runs across the room and jumps on me wrapping her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist. I flinch as ice cold Budweiser runs down my back and she gives me a violent kiss on the lips. If she let go right now she could probably remain exactly where she is perched on the steel rod inside my Levi’s. “You’re the best, Uncle Jack.” Holding her hands above her head, she dances around me acting all goofy and cute. Her shirt is raised up showing her midriff and the multi-colored tribal design encircling her studded navel. Her breast bouncing unrestrained beneath the sheer white cotton. The beer is frothing, overrunning the top of the bottle, spilling on both of us and onto the floor. She grabs me by the hand and leads me toward the basement where my studio is. “This is gonna be so much fun,” she squeals and giggles. ** I catch a reflection of myself in the make-up mirror as I’m putting a memory card into the camera. My skin, creased and tough as leather is quite the contrast when compared to her smooth and creamy flesh. The faded tattoo of a pin-up model on my forearm is more than twice as old as Bug who is now sitting on her knees in the middle of the big iron bed I have for boudoir sessions. I replace the 50mm lens that’s on the camera with a 35mm f/1.4 and I check the camera settings. ISO 100. Shutter speed 1/200. File type RAW. “Let’s get a reading,” I say as I trip the shutter release. The strobe pops and Bug looks at the light meter
she’s holding up against her nose.” Five-six point four,” she says. I set the f-stop accordingly. She hands the meter back to me. I hang it on the tripod and bend down to frame her through the right angle viewfinder attached to my camera. I set my focus point and press the shutter release half way. There she is, tack sharp and looking directly into the lens. Visions of the very first time I photographed her fill my mind. She wasn’t even a week old. I’m ashamed of the thoughts that are running through my head now. Breathe damnit! I remind myself. “Relax,” she says. “This is just another shoot. You’ve done this at least a thousand times.” Composing myself, I fire off three dozen or so frames of her in various poses. She’s having a good time and I’m enjoying the hell out of it myself. I had almost forgotten how photogenic and what a great model she is. “Okay, now for the good stuff,” she says as she slowly removes her shirt. It takes exactly nine frames before she’s topless. Her muffin sized breasts upturned slightly. And firm, like only breasts of youth can be. She transitions from pose to pose effortlessly. She understands the light and how to work the camera. The pictures show it. Some of the best I’ve ever made. She’s making me look like a better photographer than I am. Arching her back causes her erect nipples, little pink raspberries contrasting against her pale skin, to point toward the ceiling. Wiggling her ass, she frees herself from the faded cutoffs and tosses them on the floor. Her well-trimmed pubes are the icing on the cake. Wasn’t expecting that. Bush is an endangered species these days. Haven’t seen one on a woman under fifty in more than a decade. Other than the well-manicured lawn and some ink – nothing but bare. Nothing between my eyes and her skin. Nothing between my lips and her skin except the camera and my self-control. Perfect in every way. Her lips are moving but the only thing I hear is my heart pounding in my ears. “Hey, are you listening to me?” “I heard you,” I say, not having a clue about anything she just said. “So, whattaya think?” “About what?” “About getting accepted to the website. Maybe put in one of their books?” “They’d be fools not to accept you. I think you’ll be their number one girl,” I say. And I mean it. She rolls onto her belly and raises her ass preBroken Wings & Gestures Obscene
senting it to the camera - to me. Perfect. Pouty. Pink. Pussy. And labia long enough to chew with my back teeth. The tip of my dick is sticky and my mouth is full of saliva. I make it through the rest of the shoot on autopilot, muscle memory and instinct. Still naked, she pulls a chair up beside me at the computer and we do a rough edit. Almost every image is a keeper. She’s ecstatic and I’m about ready to implode. Explode. Shoot my load. “I have a bucket list too,” escapes my mouth before I can stop it. “Oh yeah. Tell me what’s on it,” she says turning toward me. My breathing is out of control. “I …” My tongue weighs fifty pounds and I’m shaking like a detox patient. “Spit it out,” she says talking to me like I’m a fouryear-old with a toy train in my mouth. My eyes never leave the computer. “I want to star in my own porno.” “Seriously? Uncle Jack, you ole dog.” “ButIdon’twantittobewithastranger.” Deep breath. “Or porn star.” There I said it. It’s out. Still facing the monitor, I look at her out of the corner of my eyes. Her eyes are locked on my face and she’s standing up. Fuck! What have I done? Bug swings one leg over mine and straddles me. Her tits are in my face for a split second before she lowers herself onto my lap for the second time today. No doubt she feels my erection this time. She used her hand to push it to the side when sitting down. “Do you want to make a porno with me? Fuck me on camera? Is that what you’re saying?” I can’t look at her. She takes my chin in her hand and forces me to look her in the eyes. She searches my face for a reaction. “In the kitchen earlier, I know you wanted me. You wanted to throw me down on the floor and fuck me right there on top of all of that spilled beer, didn’t you? “No. I wanted to bend you over the table and pound the hell out of you,” I reply after a short pause. If she wants to play a game of chicken, I’ll play. I’ll go all the goddamn way with this. “You’ve always been good to me, it’s time for me to be good to you,” she says as she leans forward and bites me on the bottom lip. I feel a sting and taste blood on my tongue. “You were there when I needed a father. I’ll be here when you need a lover.” “Let’s do this. If I’m gonna be stayin’ here I need to pay rent somehow. I told you I could be creative if motivated, didn’t I?” she continues. “Let’s have a dress
rehearsal right now. Or should I say, undressed rehearsal?” She climbs off my lap and gets the video camera. Fastening it to a tripod, she points it at me. The little red record light is blinking. She returns and disappears under the desk for a fraction of a second before her face reappears between my knees. She unbuckles my belt and unzips my pants. Don’t need a fluffer. I’m fully aroused and ready to go. Not wasting any time tonguing or teasing, she gets right down to business. Just the way I like it. Her tongue bar moving up and down the underside of my dick has me quivering in my seat. Occasionally the little round ball on the end of it enters my urethra. Before I release and blow a hole through the back of her head, I stand up and lead her to the edge of the bed. Bending her over, I work myself between her dripping labia and my shaft soaks up her juices like a wick. Gently prodding, it takes several attempts to open the treasure box. She’s tight as a mouse’s ear. The tip of my cock poised for entry, I lean forward and watch myself slowly disappear inside her. While fingering her clit I begin to pound the hell out of her just like I told her I wanted to do. She curls her calves around my thighs and sinks her heels into my ass pushing me deeper inside her. She’s hot as an oven. Sweet music. A choir of angels. I’d forgot what it sounds like when a twenty-year-old moans. “Fuck me, Uncle. Fuck me hard,” she’s screaming loud enough for her parole officer in Oregon to hear. I wrap her long dark hair, dyed white on the tips, around my hand and shove her face into the mattress. She convulses around my shaft. My knees buckle as spasms lasting what seem like a week take control of me and then it’s over. For now at least. I collapse on the bed and she curls herself around me. Both of us slick with sweat and sex. “I think I’m gonna have to quit calling you Uncle Jack and start calling you JACKhammer,” she says laughing while stroking my now flaccid cock with the back sides of her finger nails. “That’s not funny.” “Lighten up. We’re both adults here.” “Maybe so. But it’s probably best if you don’t mention this to your parents or grandparents. I don’t think they’ll understand,” I tell her. “They would totally understand. Dirty old men need love too. That’s what Daddy and Grandpa always used to tell me,” she says as she rolls off me and gets dressed. “Hey, my Mustang’s on vapors. Do you have a hundred bucks I can have for gas?” Fade To Black Broken Wings & Gestures Obscene
About “Bug” and Timothy S. Morehead By Timothy S Morehead
David has asked me to write a short blurb about BUG and about myself. I’m not sure those two things are mutually exclusive. And I’m not sure how short I can make this. If I were to reveal everything about the inspiration for this story, the blurb might be longer than the story itself. I will try to keep it brief. If I do ramble, it’s David’s fault blame it on him, he’s is the person that instigated this by creating the Challenge Thread on the LitReactor forum. It’s odd sometimes the series of events that need to happen in order for something to come to fruition. Take BUG for example. 1- I joined LitReactor, an online community of writers, misfits, subversives and deviants. 2- David posts the Challenge thread. 3- This picture prompt is given to me and my challenger. A picture prompt – this is a very important factor.
I grew up in a very religious family. I’m the son of two Evangelical ministers. A lot of things that are normal for most Americans, were taboo for me when growing up. Dancing, Rock & Roll and even Country music was forbidden. Movies weren’t allowed. I
saw my first movie when I was nineteen and found my mother sitting on the hood of my car when I left the theater. She wanted to know what I thought I was doing. Drinking a beer or any alcohol was absolutely not permitted. But the granddaddy of all taboos was, of course, sex. Couldn’t think about it, dream about or talk about it. And masturbation – let’s not even go there. I’ve been a photographer since the early eighties. Mostly because I like photographing pretty girls. It started in high school when I was staff photographer for the school paper and yearbook. It soon became a way for me to talk to girls. Because of my background, I had absolutely no social skills that allowed me to interact with the opposite sex and religious or not, I was a typical horny teenage boy. The camera was the buffer that afforded me the safety to approach those curvy creatures [created by God, mind you] that roamed the halls and sit beside me in class. They smelled so good. It was about fifteen years ago when I (everyone) found out that one of my cousins (my father’s sister’s daughter) was sleeping with her uncle (my father’s older brother) and that she had been doing it for quite a few years. I had always suspected that something strange was going on between them, but being that she is ten years older than me and our uncle is more than twenty years older than her, I really never gave much thought to it. It was also found out that my uncle had been giving her several hundred dollars a month. I don’t know if this was his idea or hers, but knowing my cousin, it was more than likely hers. You can only imagine the scandal. Hush money or compensatory funds for a fuck well done? I have no idea. I do that she probably never would have fucked the old bastard without some kind of compensation. Jumping forward. A few years ago I read an interview with photographer/pornographer Richard Kern who works with a lot of alternative models. In the interview he talks about lusting over a model that he photographed and the fact that all he could think about was fucking her. His solution to the problem was talking her into doing a porn movie the sole purpose of which was him being able to all the things to her that he had been fantasizing about. Sick and twisted, yes. But I do admire his Broken Wings & Gestures Obscene
creativity and problem solving abilities. It is an amusing story but the existence of guys like Richard Kern and Terry Richardson, who are both well-known and highly respected professional photographers, makes it more difficult for me as an art photographer to build trust with the models I work with. Not impossible, just more difficult. I work with a lot of great models, some of which have become really good friends. These guys exist on all levels of the photography industry. There has even been a derogatory term coined for them. Go to http://www.urbandictionary. com and type in GWC. So, by adding the three elements listed above with my personal experience and background, it was inevitable that BUG would be written. It’s a story I’ve wanted to tell for a long time. My original thought, a few years ago when I read the Kern interview, was to turn the idea into a short film. I still might. My mom thinks I’m a pornographer.
Feel free to contact Tim with what you thought. His website is pretty cool too. Also, you can follow his progress on his novel Open Wounds at: http://mywritingchops.blogspot.com/ Send your love and hate mail to: email@example.com or through one of these other nifty means of communication: Phone: 303 941-5136 Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/VisualRamblings Website: http://www.visual-ramblings.com
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About “Lunch is for Pikers” and Dave Hanson By Dave Hanson
Most of you know me to some degree or another so I won’t spend a lot of time on that. For those of you that were lucky enough to have this forwarded to you, thanks for taking the time to make it here. I am an artist at heart (I use that time loosely), but since my parents always told me that starving artists were losers, I write during my free time while giving my 8-6 Monday through Friday hours to The Man. The best way to get in touch with me is firstname.lastname@example.org for the moment, until it goes live to a real website. About “Lunch is for Pikers.” This is partially a pure reaction to the world I work in. Also, I was trying to capture the moment that when I found out my grandmother passed away, which I hadn’t really been able to relate to in anything I’ve read. So let me know if it rings true for you. Also, this story has been sitting in the back of my mind for awhile now, but there was a hedge fund manager that was running his own firm and made an 866% return on investment during the subprime mortgage collapse—he’s basically who I based Benjamin Thompson on. After making all of that money, he basically wrote a letter to all the newspapers that were contacting him saying he was quitting. A lot of his comments are still relevant going on three years later, so I suggest you check that out here: http://www.cnbc.com/ id/27239479/Hedge_Fund_Manager_Goodbye_And_ Think_Pot Seriously, writing is my passion. I think it’s about time for a revolution.
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Other Semi-Neat Stuff
Frequently Asked Questions That I Ask Myself: Why is this not a blog? Because I am not a web developer. Once I really figure out how to translate this to the big internet machine in the sky, it will be one. Some of these words that are in here are not words! That is not a question. That is exclamatory statement. My question isnâ€™t on here, what the hell? Send your question to email@example.com and Iâ€™ll speak to the editor-in-chief about including it. Contributors: Timothy S Morehead David Hanson Siegfried Sassoon
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Published on Dec 11, 2011