Stories and More - November 2007

HEY BLONDIE
by Debi Hall

We were summoned. I hated those phone calls. Mother would announce
that we were going over to my grandparent’s house to visit with some
relatives. And the demand always came in the middle of a game of kick the
can or olly olly oxen free. On that Saturday, I was outside when Grammar
called, and I knew that it meant that I had to take off my favorite corduroy
overalls and put on the black and white checked taffeta dress and stiff
petticoats that I hated!

Mother yanked a comb through my hair and gave finger-pointed warnings
about off limits topics. “Debra, don’t you dare ask about anyone’s age, the
liver spots on their hands, why they smell like pond water or why their arms
jiggle,” she threatened as she strapped my feet in the uncomfortable black
patent leather Mary Janes. This must be somebody important, I thought. As
we drove across town, I pulled at the hem of the dress and tried to remove
my socks wondering who we had to visit with this week.

MORE>>
____________________________________

THE WRITERS STRIKE
by Eddie Pepitone

So here goes again. Another sitnspin piece, time to pretend that I am
connected to some greater reality so that when I read the piece at the
comedy central stage it will carry some weight. The writers strike has just
begun so I am wondering if I should be writing. The writers strike is the
greatest excuse for people with success issues to stop trying to write.
Writing is so painful to me. I think a strike is a great idea. I never want to
write. I always feel so inadequate with what I put on paper. I read all the
books on writers block by writers and to sum them all up they basically say-
just write moron! Just write ! Tell your inner critic to stop trying to murder
you. Your inner critic is an amalgam of people who want you dead- parents,
teachers, lovers, friends- all the people who don’t want you too succeed.
Just tell your inner critic that you have listened to what it has to say and
now I am going to the King’s Road coffee shop to write my sweet little ass
off and become a big fucking star who hurts people with their fame. That’s
basically what these books say.

MORE>>
____________________________________

untitled
By Carol Schlanger

The day I turned fifty-eight in Los Angeles, which is like turning eighty-nine
in Flint, Michigan, I decided to become a witch. It was the only option open
to me after I refused to consider plastic surgery.   I wanted to get old.
Bags, jowls, wrinkles… I deserved them. They were mine! So what if no
one would hire me, let me pitch, or walked right past me towards the
mango salsa at parties. I liked who I was even if they didn't.   So, now I'm a
Wiccan. I have lots of crystals, incense, talismans and a part time personal
trainer who's out on parole. Best of all, I have the POWER and I'm not a
good witch, no way, I'm wicked, terrible and wise. I like sweeping up my
little hovel in Mar Vista whose value has only been minimally affected by
the sub- prime crisis, making soup out of animal parts, watching my teeth
yellow, my nose grow and HBO.   "The Tutors" is my favorite program, after
that "The Sopranos" reruns and "South park" All bestial and bloody and
that's the way I like it.

I believe that people know each other by the T.V. shows they watch.
"American Idol", "Dancing with the Stars", "The Great Race", and
"America's Next Top Model", are our virtual coliseum where talented, fit,
and hopeful gladiators compete to kill each other off, survive the critical
lions and win.

MORE>>
____________________________________

SPLASH
by Suzee Seeds

My nearly lifeless body laid on the cruel, unforgiving cement for an
eternity, my head crooked to one side as I watched feet of all colors and
sizes shuffle past me. I couldn’t move, my arms and legs felt like 100 pound
weights. It seemed as though all hope was lost. I could hear scattered
laughter and overlapping conversation, as though I was in an Robert
Altman film. I felt like an elephant seal rolling back and forth, redistributing
my weight, hoping to pull myself a couple more inches forward. This wasn’t
exactly how it was suppose to be. The exhaustion was overwhelming, all I
had to do was crawl forward, just enough to hoist my leg over the side in
one last effort….. at salvaging… what dignity remained… in my attempt to
extricate my frail limbs… from the shallow end of the Van Nuys recreational
facilities public swimming pool.

A couple days ago, it seemed like such an innocent idea. What was I
thinking. Well, there you are, I was thinking. A concept I am still struggling
to master. It was a long hot summer, and I thought swimming would to be
the perfect sport to get this 57 year old, sagging, menopausal body back in
to shape, because after 50, all bets are off and the warranty most certainly
wears out. All at once gravity is no longer your friend. I thought swimming
was the perfect solution, and it was something I could do well. Heck, at
summer camp I competed and even won ribbons, lots of them. I was aqua
girl. It would be as if Ester Williams and Lloyd Bridges had a baby and my
uncle were Jacque Coustea, I was born to swim.

MORE>>
____________________________________

>> VISIT OUR ARCHIVES FOR PAST PODCASTS, STORIES AND TROUPE MEMBER BIOS

Website by Virtual-Environments.Net and Mike Thompson.