The Cafe

What choice did I have? What would you have done? Wrongs must be rectified, that is the only way to true love. You say that I didn’t have to, but…

I watched her enjoy her favorite coffee–a hit of nutmeg, followed by lazy, incessant stirring. I admired her through the window; as I was engaged, the most I could do was peer. My morality would not allow for such behavior. No I didn’t notice my hands shaking, perhaps I need a cigarette. Do you have a light? Thank you.
I passed by that café when I went to work, and always she was sitting there with friends or reading the paper. Pretending that she did not notice me as I went strolling along. I would glance, surreptitiously, towards her, yet not a word passed between us.

Then a tragic but fortuitous event: my engagement disintegrated. It ended quietly, painlessly. No shrieks in the night. So many times I had walked past the café, never once broaching its cavity, but I was a free man, I could what I pleased. The bell chimed welcoming me inside, and she smiled–¬milky white teeth, eyes fiery with delight. She had to have noticed me, wanted me from before. That smile, that flicker of passion, we collided.

I frequented the cafés inner sanctum, no longer a passerby looking in upon my queen. I learned her favorite drink, the car she drove, the friends she kept, the way her laugh lilted in the caffeinated air, the way her voice sweetly rose and fell, branding upon the annals of my mind. On several occasions I followed her to work but never had the nerve to speak. I found out her phone number from the receptionist, and I would call but my voice ran before hello. I still saw her at the café, but we did not speak. Not then.
I
get jittery at the thought of our first few months together. Though you may wonder why I never spoke to her, I am not powerful as you are gentleman. I cannot take a woman upon me with just my burly musk, as I’m sure you can. I am genteel. Thinking of speaking to a woman first causes me great pain; my heart beats a drum that marches my sweat dutifully. I knew she was interested in me. Whenever I looked upon her, she pretended not to have been looking the moment before. Gazing, steadfastly on her paper. I could not work up the courage. Once I had made up my mind that I would speak with her, I was to get up from my corner and walk triumphantly to hers, a knight come to reclaim his lady, but I stayed seated. She left, and so did I. Strangely, she went home instead of to work, an act she had not done before. I thought, this, this is it. I shall speak with her now, I will casually, not forcefully engage her in conversation, but before I had set upon the proper words she vanished into the building. I waited, some hours at least, but she did not come down. I left, vanquished, but determined.

You’re probably wondering about my job. I had quit some time before; my uncle had died and left me a considerable inheritance that allowed me to focus my attentions on my passions. Rarely did my passions go further than my café concubine, but I had wonderful intentions. They would have to wait until I had her within my grasp before embarking on my adventures. They could only be attained with her aid, and love. So I waited. I paused my life for her.

One morning, I sat sipping my coffee, eyeing her, as I was want to do, she came striding up to my table. Her voice quivered as she asked me if I had followed her home the other night. I could not speak, so she forcefully asked me again. I had to respond; I could not keep her waiting. I lied. I said no. She said I looked familiar. I said I frequented this place often. She said she was sorry to bother me, in her self-deprecating way. She was much to hard on herself, I could see that, and I knew that if she would only let me I could fix it. I could make her whole, but she walked away her buttocks tightening and releasing, a special morse code I knew was just for me. She knew it had been me that followed her home, she wanted me, but this was no dingy bar, she could not force herself upon me. This was daylight, and in the day the man must take his prey, even if the prey is willing to be sacrificed. She wanted me to follow her home, and this was her sign.

She left the café, but I did not follow her yet. I went back to my apartment, and washed myself. I cologned, shaved, combed, and dressed. I arrived out on the street fresh, and prepared for my beastly labors. Carnal pleasures should always be derived when the man is fresh, a ripened apple, picked and bitten for its sweet juices.
Look at me I’m shaking. I’m sorry; I did not know then how stupid I had been. How was I to know that my beautiful angel was lying? Luring me in to destroy me, how could I have known how much I had wasted? Only retrospect allows for this kind of questioning, for in the midst of my reckoning I did not see her folly. I did not know my Desdemona.

I bounded up the stairs to her apartment, and broke down the door, a hungry lion seeking his lioness. I knew she would want me manly, self-assured of my own prowess, so that she could rest easy in the hands of civil tyrant. I strutted into her room, expecting her delicacies bare upon her virginal bed. A boy was violating her. I was hurt. Anger welled inside me, a furnace fueled by her moans of deceit. I pounced upon them, a lion retrieving his pride. He fought but could not break my grip. His life turned idly towards death. She had run to the phone, but I caught her, and carried her to the bed. Tears dripped on her face, as I beat my fists into her delicate body. Piously, I slid my hands around her neck.

Have you ever held your beloved’s neck in your hands? Have you ever squeezed the life out of her, watching, as she turned from her rosy pink to a tepid blue? Probably not. I squeezed, my tears streaming over her, my kisses, saliva mixing with tears. A fledgling scream died in her throat: the last gasp of life. I held her to me, and stroked her. My beauty. My love. My Desdemona.

This completed our love, a love that had been fostered in those months at the café. It was subtle, but it was rapture. When you have a love that strong you do not allow it to die out on it’s own. Love is an oil fire. It burns until it is smothered. I had to smother our love; I could not allow it any other way. If I was to prove to her that I was worthy of her love, I had to smother it, the way any man would when confronted with such a test. What choice did I have?

- A. W. Fentress

It's All in the Timing

I haven't posted anything for a few days mostly because I haven't edited any of my new stuff because I've been neglecting my duties. I have, however, been reading Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov, an intensely dark, humourous love story about an adult and his nymphet. So never fear, things are still darkly brewing in my cesspool of a brain. My 'Dear Caitlyn' series on Tumblr is set to get off the ground in about a week as I embark to the Old World.

I ought to put away my future glories, preferring the ideals of the effervescent present that will momentarily, ah see? There they go, flitting away into the deluge of darkness behind, losing ground as we metaphorically speak.

I love you my seven 'followers', their words not mine. You're a sexy crowd of intellectual misfits, and I thank you.
- A. W. Fentress

Medamn.

I rang God the other day. Peter, his receptionist, answered the phone. 

- Hi and welcome to the Heaven Call Center– an affiliate of Heaven Incorporated, this is Peter, how may I direct your call?

-God please.

-I’m sorry but he’s busy at the moment.

-It’s important.

-It always is sir.

-Is there any way I could speak with him?

- Sir, He only has a few celestial hours, and we are far behind in production for the day. Can this wait until you join us?

-Probably not, I’m an atheist.

-Oh that’s too bad. We’ve got a special place for you little devils. (He paused) Get it? Devils.

-Yeah. I got it.

-I’m kidding, everybody gets to enjoy the splendor of Heaven. We are an equal opportunity afterlife. Jews, Muslims, Christians, Mormons, even devil-worshippers are allowed in, though they are usually upset about the décor. Can you hold?
Before I could answer piped in music began playing in the receiver. It sounded like a Benedictine Monk mash up with Miles Davis and Jimmy Hendrix. Peter’s voice cut back in.

-Good news! He’ll take the call.

-Perfect. Thank you.

-No problem. See you in 5 years.

-What?

The phone rang, pounding an African rhythm of reverberation. The ringing stopped but no sound. A meager hello crept from my lips. I tried again, but still no answer from Heaven. I sat dumbfounded; had Peter played a trick on me? Then a voice materialized.

- Atheists, so easy: is he there, is he not there, I was so sure before!

- You got me.

- Not impressed?

- Just seems like a stupid trick coming from the most powerful being in the Universe.

- I didn’t have to take this call, especially not from an atheist; it’s better to keep your old customers than to find new ones you know. 

- I didn’t realize life was a business venture.

- Are you kidding me? The more humans I get, the more money I’m going to make on this bet.

- I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.

- You’re human; it happens. 

- Ouch.
    
- I float like an angel and sting like a plague.

-  Colloquialisms– not what I would expect from the all powerful in the Universe.

- I can speak every language ever read, written, spoken or danced. If I want to shoot the shit with you, then I’m gonna shoot the shit with you. Period. You were so wrong.

- Clearly.

- No, no about the universe thing. I only have jurisdiction over this section of the galaxy.

- You didn’t create the universe?

- You’re kidding right?

- Not kidding.

- You think one guy could have done all that? Especially if I made YOU into my image. You think YOU could create the whole universe?

- No.

- Then what makes you think I can?

- I don’t, but there people down here that wouldn’t agree with me.

- Let me lay it down for you.

-Please.

-Listen.

God stopped speaking. I strained to hear, my breath bated, but no sound. I look checked the receiver, the cord, but still no sound. Finally he spoke.

- You get all that?

- Get all what? It was just silence.

- I just told you.

- I swear to, well you, I didn’t hear anything.

- You didn’t? Really?

- Really.

Again the voice snuffed out. Then came a booming laugh.

- I know. I’m just fucking with you. Medamn you humans are gullible.  Ok here’s the story: I created Earth and its outlier planets. I went with the one sun model over binary because I didn’t want to deal with balancing the planets in a dual gravity, and I knew a bi-solar system would make you look all-weird. Anyway, I’m tinkering with the planets when one of my buddies comes up and asks me if I want to be in the office pool. I was shy and new and wanted to make friends so I said sure. We walk into the meeting room where all the other Gods are talking about this bet and putting money in the pot, and I’m telling you this pot is huge. I’m talking, well, you wouldn’t understand. It’s cosmic money that we deal with in universal time, universal string theory, and black holes, hefty shit my creation.  I lay down a few bills before somebody says what the bet was outright. All we had to do was see how many of our creations we can get to live full and productive lives. Easy but I tell you what; you bastards just don’t want to work with me. Medamn semi-sentient monkeys.

- Wow.

- I went back to my desk, created your solar system then put some shit on Mars, and that was, well that’s a story for another day; then I started over on Earth with some bacterium.

- Evolution is true?

- Hell yeah.

- And what about the big bang.

- Not quite. It’s close though.

- Incredible.

- I guess.

- Hey, you said you messed up on Mars.

- Yeah, but I’m God.

- You’re right. I’m sorry.

- Way to be! Taking responsibility for shit. I like that.

-Thank you?

- If more humans did, you’d have a hell of an easier time.

- Really?

- Oh yeah.  If you’d own up to your actions, bear your falsehoods, and deceits without condemnation or incrimination of others, people probably wouldn’t commit so many harmful actions.  If you can’t be saved by me, what else are you gonna do except be good to your neighbor and treat people with respect and dignity no matter their race, creed, religion, political motivations, whatever.

- Amazing. 

- It takes time, it takes effort, but it’s absolutely worth it. Some things like who you were born to, your genes, shit like that, you can’t control, so don’t worry about it. Give all the human effort you can muster, and when you fail, don’t curse the world, or the unfairness of life.  Essentially, take control of your life, your destiny if you will, don’t be a casual passerby.

- I’ll do my best. Question.

- Sure.

- Do you want all this praise? Obviously you can’t be for every sports team, and award winner, and warrior and political candidate, and whoever else uses your name for their cause. And are you only on the victor’s side?  What about…?

- Whoa, slow down. Let me start with the first before you start firing off shit. Do I want all this praise? I didn’t create the galaxy for that now did I? I did it so that you could become happy, and productive, and civil to your fellow man. I’m not in the trenches of wartime with you. I’m not at your job interview, and I’m not on sports fields. I don’t condone the violence committed in my name, but I’m not gonna strike you down if you do. I set in motion nature for you to enjoy and relish, I set in motion women for men and, yes, lesbians to enjoy, I set in motion men for women and gay men to enjoy. Get the zest out of life. Don’t praise me every medamn day; enjoy each other’s companies, and do whatever makes you happy.  If praising me in church or praying makes you happy then go ahead, but I hate when people think they carry the ‘Almighty Right.’ I don’t meddle in people’s affairs; I set life in motion, and I laid the foundation for you to be happy, productive, and civil, and proud, responsible, and all the other virtues that make Man Man. That’s some impressive shit I set in motion. I didn’t make you; I just planted the seed. You don’t say, “I made this tree; I planted this seed.” You say, “I set this tree in motion”. And that’s exactly what I did. I think that answers both of your questions.

- Yeah. Wow. It did.

- Live your life. If you want to go to church, go ahead. If you want to worship the devil, go ahead, but stop all the conversion.  You can be right in your mind, and gut without having millions of people agree with you. It doesn’t make your argument right; it makes it popular. It’s a ploy to deceive the intellect. If you want to talk to them about it, have a discussion, please, by all means, but don’t assume that you are right and they are wrong.  Your planet has gray area; paradox.  That’s an edict we creators abide by don’t give them black and white, give them the mix. You don’t see two races; you see many. You don’t see two trees; you see many. You don’t see two dogs, cats, bugs, horse, pachyderm, invertebrates, vertebrates; you see many. Your fellow man makes or breaks you. I stay out of it.  I’ve moved onto creating new, varied worlds, in different universes, in different parts of galaxies. I set them in motion, plant the seed, lay the foundation. Don’t’ forget you’re a trial run. Someday, I’ll perfect a creation that comprehends, and they won’t need me as an artifice or reality.  Whichever you prefer.

- How did you become a creator?

- I’ve lived a long time. That's all I'll say about it. By the way, learn, if there’s one thing I hate more than people killing for me, it’s ignorance. I didn’t set in motion dummies; I set in motion sentient beings. Not semi. Do your job, I’ll do mine.

- Should I pass this along?

- Did you learn anything from this conversation?

- I thought so?

- Why don’t you listen more, learn more, and live by your values instead of pushing them on others?

- Uh. I’ll try.

- Put the time in and get it done. Medamn.

- Yes, God.

- Anyway I have to go.

- It was nice to meet you God.

- You too.

-Can I call again?

-Sure. Why not? I’m not making galaxies and shit. 

- Oh.

- Besides, I’ll see you in five years.

- That’s not…

A dial tone buzzed in my ear.


- A. W. Fentress

Soft, Supple Bodies

        I hate queers. Fags. Faggots. I suppose that’s redundant but I don’t care.  I hate them. I think they all ought to go back to hell. Begat from the Dark Prince himself, he defecated them onto Earth to destroy the moral and righteous. Sometimes these rainbow necromancers can turn a straight man from his need for tits and pussy and turn him towards sodomy. I won’t even touch a woman’s ass for fear that I might commit sodomy.

       These faggots are turning America, our modern day Eden, into a new Soddom and Gommorah. They’ve infiltrated the priests, touching little boys and turning them into queers. We need real men to become our priests, and gear our boys towards women, instead of other men.  And I’ll bet it’s the queers’ idea to let women into the cloth: blasphemy, goddamned blasphemy. Anyway, I’m getting onto another subject entirely. Jesus Christ,  I’m no theologian, but I just don’t think women should be priests, almost as much as I know that gays shouldn’t be priests. It just don’t make any sense.  And as for our government?  having these God-fearing senators fighting against this scourge of humanity turning out to be one of them? Why it’s wrong, and small- minded if you ask me. I would never stick my foot under a stall for no reason; I don’t even tap my foot to some grooving music. I don’t want no man of the law holding me down, my pants half way down my ass, cuffing me, calling me a faggot! I am not a faggot, and I’ll fight anybody who says I am! I’m God fearing, and woman fucking: not a fag.

         Let me tell you a story of how I get my revenge on them gays. Sometimes, late at night, I like to go where men and boys take money for sex, or blowjobs, or hand jobs, or other immoral, kinky stuff; I guess you’d call them prostitutes; I think they do it for fun, not because they can’t make it nowhere else like most other poor prostitutes. You know most prostitutes get beat up, and hurt all the time by their pimps, but not them fags. They do it for fun so they don’t ever need a pimp. Jesus Christ, I sure am a damn bleeding heart, go on about prostitutes and their problems and not finishing my story like I’m supposed to. Anyway, I go late at night and mess with those heathens. I’ll make them suck my dick, you know really pumping on it, and then sometimes I’ll make them masturbate and I’ll watch or I’ll make them fuck me real hard but I won’t pay them, except with a punch– making them bleed all over their outfits, their soft, supple bodies underneath. Some say kissable, but I don’t. And they can’t kiss me. That’s gay.

         Somebody asked me if I thought gays should be allowed to get married. Obviously this was somebody who didn’t know me too well, but I sure set him straight. I told him now why should they get to have a break on their taxes like the rest of us God fearing folks? Why should they be allowed to change the way our constitution is written? Ain’t nobody ever added an amendment to it, it’s a dead document for God’s sake. It can’t be changed! Besides the bastards shouldn’t be alive, let alone allowed to live harmoniously with other straight couples like my future wife and me?  I’d move out of my neighborhood if they moved in, and I’ll move out of this country if they ever get the right to marry.  Then he pulled out his dick and started beating it real hard, just like we had pre-arranged. He said he agreed with me, faggots ought to go back to where they come from, hell I said, as my dick swelled with blood, and he ejaculated exhaustedly. I hate queers.

A Qualification

Dear Friends, Comrades, and Readers,  
Let me explain, not all of the work on here will be comical. Some of it, hopefully, will be tragic, explosive, mind-bending, cynical, fresh, philosophical, satirical, sobering, and creative. I'd like to have a populace of interesting works that stretch themselves across many horizons, rather than dessicating in one particular.

With Love,
A. W. Fentress

Lardy Lass

         The brass bell filled the din with a piercing shriek each time the old drift wood door opened. I had grown accustomed to the sound fervently shaking my eardrums; concussively beating its shrill rhythm against the backdrop of tepid sounds. Schmoozers and beer hounds. Perched upon my sticky red seat, my head filling with fumes, lackadaisically sipping a light beer whilst fantasizing about my prey, I slipped into a soft alcoholics dream. The bell boomed, lifting my barroom coma; I turned as she waddled through the door, turning sideways to wedge herself through. She slithered over to the bar- an elephant dancing across the Sahara- plopping herself down upon two seats to my left. My gaze drifted towards her imminent presence; a soft, barely distinguishable beige covered her plump face¬– pouty lips, a stunning brow of arching hairs weaving above her eyes, a smashed tomato nose, curly black hair peaking from her lip, ironed straight hair down her back, rolling hills of audible curves, down to her plump and sagging rear. I gulped down the rest of my now warm light beer, sputtering as I went in for the kill. I bantered with her, laying down the best moves I could muster, there was after all too much chatter here, so why didn’t we just move to someplace more…She picked me up and thrust me through the door. In her excitement she walked forward, rather than sideways, through the little crevice. After a few moments of partial panic, and partial arousal, she burst forth, a cascade of rolls. I opened her car door as she beeped her way in, adjusting this way and that way, a big bell of flesh. I floated to the other side, started the car, and raced to my dingy apartment. I jumped from the car, raced to her side, opened the door, ran back to the drivers, closed the door behind me, put all the force of my back and steel framing into freeing her this trap, and after a few unsuccessful moments of beating my now devoured feet into her lower (?) back, freed her with a squelching pop.  I mashed the elevator button but she insisted we hike the twelve floors.  Several wheezing, and coughing fits later, we arrived at my apartment door. She stepped sideways, and a small shove overcame inertia. I directed her to the couch, poured her a goblet of wine and then I sat on the littlest peaking of couch. She drained the wine in one voluminous gulp; voraciously she stripped while I ripped my scraps of cloth. I pounced.  Her heaving bosom threw me to the floor; I crawled through the dimpled skin mass wading through her rotund body, a sea of rollicking corpuscles quivering with delight and gravity. I dove for her buried treasures, a spelunker in a vast cavern fighting off vertigo and oxygen deprivation to sample her sweet nectar. She rumbled, an earthquake of volume shook me back and forth, a writhing bell of pleasure. After we had our fill, I lay, covering myself with her fleshy blankets and slept, deathlike, until my alarm bell clanged hours later signaling that a night of rapture was ended. I extricated myself from her warmth and proceeded to the shower to cleanse me of my labors, but when I returned to the couch, she was gone. Devastated, I clambered to the window searching for my lardy lass; I could not spot her voluptuous vacillating. 

I never saw my buxomed beauty again.

- A. W. Fentress