Diary of a Heretic

 Welcome to my online fiction. You've arrived as I'm rewriting a serialized work-in-progress, James Bond and the Girls of Woodstock. Links to those posts start in the sidebar on the right; just scroll down a  bit. Be prepared for more conflict; more epiphanies—and moral intrigue like never before. Look halfway down the sidebar for links to occasional Flash Fictions (stories in fewer than 500 words). Thanks and leave a comment, relevant or not! Click here for my feed.

Ecclesiastical Weed

Sung drove Axl to Wilder’s house in Saugerties so Axl’s friend could experience ecclesiastical weed instead of the dirt Wilder sold.

(click here for the first episode; here for the previous.)

Sung had bought an eighth from Pious Lies' talented lighting designer, who used seeds from a botanist in Berkeley, advanced irrigation, and cutting-edge LEDs.

Packing a bowl, Axl said, “Here, smoke something real.”

Sung then remembered an errand. “Is it convenient if I return in an hour?”

“No rush.”

“No rush what-so-ever,” Axl giggled.

Sung raced to his Cousin Rhee’s business. He had watched Brooke’s final Taekwondo patterns (for Rhee’s edification) inside the martial arts studio and hadn’t seen the renovations to the carriage house where Rhee conducted his busy clinic. Recently, he’d hired Maggie the midwife to schedule appointments. And from the beginning, Rhee had encouraged his clients to join the town’s yoga project and to buy their vitamins and supplements at The Health Emporium.

Proud of Rhee’s success, Sung had said if his cousin desired a western medical degree, “No problem but if not, no reason.”

Likewise with Taekwondo. Rhee’s Qi-Gong instruction filled the martial arts studio every time.

Even before he arrived via helicopter, Sung had apologized. During this visit, the King family would require his full attention. But in May, he hoped to spend time with Rhee—finally.

Maggie stood on the porch and directed Sung to the newly installed side door between the garage and treatment area. Rhee adjusted heated glass cups on a woman’s back, set a timer for three minutes, and welcomed Sung inside a double-screened seating space.

“The sound is buffered,” he said, sitting opposite Sung. “No need to whisper.”

“Fletcher wants to give us his Aston Martin, because we alone can maintain it. If you’ll keep it here, I’ll pay for upkeep.”

“I earn more than enough for upkeep, Sung, but thank you. I’m grateful for the automobile. What can we give Fletcher in return?”

“You cured his alcoholism.”

“I don’t think so. He had only partial acupuncture twice.”

“In any case, Fletcher’s sober. Tonight I’m helping him with electronic housekeeping.”

“Excuse me.” Rhee left to speak to his patient and reset the timer.

“I told her a few more minutes. Did you hear our words?”

“Only silence.”

“Sung, can you return tonight? Let me scan you for imbalances.”

“Thank you. I’m over-emotional. I greatly enjoyed Christmas with the Kings but Matthew’s too emotional about his family and now I am too.”

“Ordinarily, you don’t worry about emotions,” Rhee said. “I’ll be here all night.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your vision and skill.”

He slid back inside the rented BMW, aware his ego was overly invested in Matthew, although the black belt was certainly warranted. Yet because Matthew constituted the primary imbalance, vital as Rhee’s therapy was, Sung wouldn’t mention his overreaction to Brooke. He wouldn’t see her again—at least not for years.

When he had driven her on the highway, listing restrictions, Brooke’s unusual nature provoked him. Worse was how she affected him physically as he was forced to grab her before she jumped from his moving car! Sung had felt Brooke’s off-kilter compassion. Her loyalties burned like an eternal flame. She’d obey the rules when Matthew couldn’t or wouldn’t. Then, upon learning she hadn’t mentioned his roughness, Sung admired her, which only annoyed him further.

No matter now.

Intent on getting rid of Axl, Sung parked and entered Fletcher’s house, where he constructed an undetectable micro-audio network. Within minutes, he and Fletcher were testing it inside O’Bannion’s. Fletcher sat beside Monsignor Numarary and Jimmy Logan shouted, “I’ve pledged my life to Opus Dei and everlasting abstinence.” From that evening on, he said, he would partake only of his pub’s camaraderie. The loud crowd hurrahed.

“Once again,” Jimmy shouted, “drinks on the house!”

Fletcher said, “Luckily, Bond—and not I—foot the bills.”

Sung said, “Test the system from inside your car.” There the reception was perfect.

“Axl’s getting high with a friend,” he told Fletcher. “Try him at midnight.”

Hoping Rhee could dispel his sense of foreboding, Sung left Axl at Fletcher’s front door.

Falling into a plush chair, Axl streamed pornography and did what he always did. Fletcher, whose rented Cadillac sped through Urbana, spoke like thunder from above.

“Axl, why hast thou betrayed me?”

“What?” He jumped up and zipped his pants. “Where are you, Fletcher?”

“My essential being is everywhere, Axl.” He paused, hearing a woman shriek. “Guests are forbidden!”

“I know that.”

“If you’re watching pornography, turn it off immediately!”

“Don’t shout Fletcher. I missed you at Christmas.”

“Had you asked, Axl, I collect virile erotica—but no! You’ve chosen to flout all that I hold holy!”

“Huh?”

“You’ve trespassed against me!”

“Uh—no. Too cold for trespassing.”

“You’ve sinned against me grievously.”

“Jeez-sus! All right, already. Forgive me, oh, great god Fletcher, for watching a movie you wouldn’t enjoy.”

“Axl, I shall miss your obeisance to me: our physical transports and such, but henceforth you shall endure my infinite wrath.”

“Wrath means angry, right? You’re one angry bitch-god, Fletcher. Where the fuck are you? At a god’s convention in Illinois?”

“Precisely. The only paradise on earth is in the mind, and so for us gods, Illinois in December is heavenly. Now—did you or did you not tape cameras in Brooke’s brownstone bedroom?”

“Did you see ’em? Nothing but grainy, blurry darkness. A damn shame, because that nasty little bitch is whole-package gorgeous. A few naked pix would be so sweet.”

“Heretic! Lunatic!”

“Really. What a hypocrite, Fletcher. You gape at her, too.”

“You putrid voyeur.”

“Cool it, Fletcher. All I wanted was a few photos for my personal use.”

“Axl, knock your noggin against a rock. And be gone before dawn.”

“Fletcher?” Axl stared at the ceiling, swiveling his head. “Fletcher, be reasonable.” But he was gone.

Just Axl’s luck! Every stud he knew raked in money playing master/slave. So for years, he’d been waiting for a go at Mark Fletcher. And shit, if his lapsed god wasn’t totally supernatural.

(to be continued)

The World Is Not Enough

In the kitchen, Matthew and Sung, on speakerphone, reassured Harold—Sung’s extra week in Woodstock would not delay Readiness Is All.

(click here for the first episode; here for the previous.)

“With permission, Harold, seven days was precaution. I will arrive Friday.”

Matthew shook his head. Sung must not leave until Brooke was safe. In reply, his Lord and Master spread his fingers on the oak table. He had given Matthew his word—Axl would be gone tonight, never to return.

Their director raised his voice. “Barbara’s excited about James Bond’s black belt. And Matthew, your test is next week.”

“I know, Harold. Children smash boards in half every day.”

Sung vouched that Matthew’s new teacher was superior in power and speed-breaking—and equally superior in orchestrating underwater fight scenes before the yacht explodes.

From the hallway, Brooke was telling Dex that she and Matthew couldn’t both take them sledding. Matthew caught a peripheral glimpse of her ski hat with braided strings dangling along her neck.

Then she and Dex were whirling into the kitchen; Ivy dragging her snowsuit behind her. Matthew rose from his seat as if gravity had briefly weakened. Bidding Harold a hasty good-bye, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow evening on the set.”

Sung hung up and told Dex about playing Pokémon with a girl in Japan at four am.

“Did you win?”

“She’s another new player. Very pretty—a hotel manager. Please, Dex, show me the next two levels.”

“They’re easy.”

“Perhaps you can train me this afternoon.” Half-bowing, Sung left to visit his cousin, mentioning that after adjustments, the surveillance system now covered Matthew’s entire estate.

The children were still begging Matthew and Brooke both to go sledding.

“Sorry,” Matthew sighed. “I have to make phone calls.”

Dex said shit and Ivy tossed her boot.

“It’s hard on me too. Next year, I’ll be around all the time. Please think about how much easier our life is than other families’.”

Dex said Kevin’s parents had gotten divorced and Kevin didn’t care if he ever saw his father again.

“But I do care, Dad—a lot!”

“Me too,” Matthew said.

“Me three,” said Ivy, laughing at the joke she just made up. Matthew helped her into her one-piece snowsuit and put on her boots.

Then it seemed the children receded, stepping into the pantry like a faraway cloud, leaving Matthew alone with Brooke. He pressed his hand against the back of her knitted hat.

“Don’t,” she whispered, dancing to the table’s far end. Where she smiled, her face as vivid and beguiling as ever, although tinged with sorrow. She fastened the belt to her jacket, and suddenly Matthew stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Again, she slipped away from him; to stare out the wall-sized window.

He watched Brooke’s profile in the thin, winter light. She tilted at the waist and a fleeting, poignant energy coursed through her—and then through him. She turned, warning him with a look. “We’re on our honor. Right, Dex?”

“Shit,” Dex said, “and more shit.”

“Be nicer.”

Apparently, Matthew’s kids had not stepped into the pantry or anywhere else—he’d fantasized that. Brooke led them outside, saying, “I brought my own sled so we can race.”

After running this morning, Matthew kept asking how she felt, and Brooke kept saying she’d miss him when he left, no sooner. To him, it seemed she had tapped into a defiant forbearance not unlike her resolve after her father nearly cracked her skull. Possibly, horribly, her remarkable audacity, which he so loved, resulted—in part—from her father’s brutal assaults.

Yet she was now as poised as anyone he’d seen, which might help when her psychic injuries finally woke after lying dormant for years.

Stop! Matthew wasn’t a therapist and certainly not objective. So quit speculating!

Except he couldn’t: Brooke’s vulnerability frightened him even as it drove him toward something like worship.

Brooke had vowed they would outlast—out-love—all who opposed them. “We’re gonna show the whole fucking world, Matthew.”

The phone on the counter was ringing. Her words vanished but her nerve remained. In any case, he said to the caller, “To be, or not to be: that is the question.”

“Oh, I suppose so, Bond. Continue if you can.”

“Whether ’tis nobler in the mind—”

“Enough! Ask about me!”

“Fletcher, how are you? Have you got Jimmy Logan rooted to the spot?”

“My travails here are harrowing, Bond. Monsignor Numarary demands clandestine meetings, determined to convert me. How is it that an avowed homosexual does not want to join them? He refers to my ultimate ‘submission’ as if Jimmy’s induction depends on it, which it does not. Despite communal indignation over a heathen like me dragooning an initiate into their inner sanctum, Jimmy has officially made his ‘covenant.’ Opus Dei will save his soul and tithe his income.

“Ergo, I’m the one in mortal danger, Bond. I might wake to a tonsured head and burlap gown.”

“Fletcher, if Jimmy Logan isn’t gone forever, I cannot leave her.”

“Rubbish, you leave within hours. As agreed, I shall care for Brooke, knowing far better than you, Bond, the traumas she’s suffered. During a secret discussion with His Revered Excellency, I reported Jimmy’s deadly beatings of his little girl. And bloody hell, if his Serene Holy Highness didn’t rest his hands atop his globular belly and recite an insipid psalm.

“Whilst, I acquiesce to an icy shower before dawn, forego caffeine, and participate in the Tridentine Mass after which we trot to an AA meeting of theological dipsomaniacs.” 

“Thank you, Fletcher. Sung plans to arrive at Heathrow Friday morning.”

“That’s perfectly reasonable, Bond. You must listen to me! After the lawyers, realtors, bankers, et al, Jimmy and I walked into O’Bannion’s, which was bustling with lusty Guinness-drinking young men. The new owner introduced himself, saying, “Free pints, everyone, all night.” But they wanted pitchers. Of course, Jimmy said, to get their foam just right. He scanned the shelves: Harp in bottles, plenty of Jamesons. What about Bushmills? Show of hands—who wanted him to stock Bushmills? And what about Murphy’s Irish Red? Jimmy’s favorite.

“Tell me, Bond, what dim-witted miscreant would buy Jimmy Logan an Irish pub instead of a shoe shop.”

“That would’ve been better.”

“Silence, Bond! I’m speaking. A veritable cherub will keep Jimmy sober. Within two dulcet days, he’s declared his devotion to me and I’ve hired him as O’Bannion’s financial advisor.”

“What?”

“Do not question my miracle as that’s precisely what it is. Our eyes met, bedazzled during the Transubstantiation—you know, Eat My Body; Drink My Blood, except in Latin. And ever since, our fervid gazes waltz around the braying sheep. Should Jimmy waver in the least, my beloved Luke will immediately inform Monsignor Numarary, who cares not a whit about fatal child abuse, but as an ex-drunk going on thirty years is a zealot on sobriety.”

 (click here for the next episode)

Kings at Christmas

 

The first several nights, Brooke was too elated to sleep. “Maybe my love is growing more like yours.”

(click here for the first episode; here for the previous.)  

Matthew spread her glossy dark hair across his chest rather than disagree, although she was growing up. Her budding composure reassured him; no reason to say, “Brooke, go to sleep.”

With their enforced separation in sight, it seemed that they had ascended to a higher ledge. His desire no longer threatened him. Rather, he bowed to its permanence—Matthew would always want her. Next year, he could love her blatantly.

The real threat began tomorrow evening. Yet beside her now, he noticed a fresh constancy going on between them. In bed, they easily exulted in this moment and that moment and then inside a moment that could last forever…

…after which Brooke fell asleep.

Tonight, holding her close, he experienced pure tranquility. His thoughts dispersed into dreams but his eyes focused on her beauty. He was attuned to her every shift and gesture; intoxicated by her scent, and insanely happy.

If Brooke hadn’t woken at four am, to insist he run as always, he wouldn’t have. But loping through the cold darkness invigorated him. After showering, Matthew knelt over her. And she smiled, pulling him up, her hands in his hair.

“What time is it?”

“Early.”

Early enough to make love?

Yes. 

All mischievous fun, Brooke so thrilled and surprised him that he inadvertently whistled.

She showered, emerging in a red sweater and short pleated skirt. Finding her tall boots, she skipped ahead of him, yelling, “Merry Christmas.”

At the farmhouse, they helped the caterers unload brunch and dinner: coffee cake; cherry juice; fresh bread, baked apples; salmon; dried beef; cucumber kim chi, rice, salad and— Christmas dessert since Connie’s childhood, Bûche de Noël.

Matthew’s kids nearly jumped on them. Finally, Connie retrieved their stockings from the mantle. Dex and Ivy unpacked wind-up toys, magic pens, paints, sketchbooks, and at the bottom, a tangerine.

Apparently, the others were upstairs, playing harmonicas. Sung’s gift to everyone, including himself, was a Lee Oskar brand harmonica. One of his first students in LA had been Lee Oskar. In return for sparring lessons, Lee had spent long weekends teaching Sung to play the blues. So he showed Tara and the rest of them how to make different sounds.

But off in a corner, Chase noodled a while before taking off on My Babe and Juke. Almost immediately, the others were clapping and stomping their feet.

“Excellent, Chase. Here’s the first song Lee taught me.” Sung started Lowrider. Chase joined in but was soon improvising.

“I intended to show off,” Sung said. “Lee taught me classic blues. But Chase, you sound professional.”

“No way.”

Sung asked if Chase thought they could all play along with Lowrider, “following your recording by the band War. It’s on the new sound system.”

Already downstairs, Dex was calling, “Which album?”

“Nobody tell,” Ivy said. “Let Chase think.”

In what was now the music room, Chase patted Ivy’s head and stared at the ceiling. “Well, now...who’d a thunk? Why Can’t We Be Friends?”

“Correct.” Sung and Chase taught the others for half an hour. Then Dex maxxed the volume. Connie and Brooke couldn't get the harmonica at all, so they sang Lowrider.

Then Connie asked, “Doesn’t anyone want to open presents?”

When nobody ran into the sunroom, Chase said, “Later, music.”

Dex and Ivy opened ice skates and found sleds behind a curtain. Matthew gave celadon vases. His appreciation of the Korean art pleased Sung, who gave celadon jars.

Fond of coincidences, Sung pronounced it auspicious that he and Matthew gave each other Turnbull & Asser dress shirts—and even more auspicious that they had both given the same shirt to their agent Jeffery and to Harold the movie director, along with 007 cuff links.

When Tara opened a set of plates and napkins matching her Limoges tea set, she threw her arms around Matthew and kissed his cheek. Connie swept through the house in a full-length black cashmere coat from Matthew—for the opening of Brooke’s play.

He unwrapped a blue scarf Brooke had knitted. It puckered oddly with knots. “Not oddly,” Matthew said, “uniquely.” James Bond will wear it chasing Otto through Seoul.

Sung doubted that, but said, “Ask Harold.” Certainly, he could wear it in their upcoming swordfight videos. “Not possible, however, for the pre-promotion Taekwondo demos.”

Then Tara wheeled in Matthew’s Yeti bicycle. “From me and Brooke,” who stepped back and looked away; she wanted so much to ride the Catskill trails with him—and couldn’t.

Ivy opened ballet slippers and a tutu. Tara opened the suede wedges from Brooke, purple not orange, a much better color, especially with Tara’s laser-cut skirt.

Connie handed Dex a present and Ivy another for their father. First, Matthew opened a framed photograph of him and Brooke standing beneath the flowered trellis. She looked dewy and blissful, and despite the obvious heat, wore an elegant long-sleeved blouse and heavy blue jeans. Matthew held her shoulder with one hand and her straw hat in the other.

“I took that picture but you never noticed,” Dex said. Connie had printed it and Ivy helped to matte and frame it. Matthew asked both kids to sit beside him. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

He showed it to Brooke. “Remember that afternoon?”

“Of course. I’ll never forget it.”

Her small, wistful voice recalled the exact day. The picture showed them returning from the hidden pond. Matthew remembered the minuscule buttons down the back of that blouse and how he had slipped it over her head before they made love in the grass.

When the others were occupied, he held her head and whispered, “Next year, we can do anything and everything you want.”

Pulling away, she hurried from the room but turned at the threshold where she sent Matthew that same heartbroken, heartbreaking smile. He started after her, but Tara, who wasn’t occupied after all, shook her head.

Sung gave Dex the red Fender guitar and soon Chase was showing him the chords to the Rolling Stones’ (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction. Sung played the FLAC file but kept the volume low, adding his blues harp.

In the sunroom, Matthew opened the other present, a photograph of Ivy and Dex in the swimming pool. Connie had kept Brooke the life-guard in focus, however, as she sat on the diving board, wearing her French hat and two-piece turquoise bathing suit.

Dex was still practicing his fingering when Brooke returned, pink-faced, her eyes rimmed with red. Matthew signalled, sit here, and stroked her hair. She wouldn’t look at him, though, and he knew better than to express sympathy.

Connie called everyone to brunch and reminded them to wash their hands.

“Wait,” Matthew said. “I have something for Chase.” 

Happy just holding the gift tied in stiff gold ribbon, Chase said, “This—for me. Ain’t that something? Thank you, Matthew.”

Ivy said, “Open it, Chase.”

Taking his time, he ripped the tissue paper inside. “Goddamm!” Chase held up a tan leather vest. “Now this here’s what I call the shit.”

Dex and Ivy giggled.

“Chase,” Connie said.

“I mean, thanks, man. It’s…” Then he lifted matching leather pants from the box. “Jesus H. Christ! Far fuckin’ out!”

“Please, Chase! Just say, ‘Thank you.’”

“He did say thank you,” Ivy said.

After leading Matthew through a handshake of fist bumps, clasped fingers, and criss-crossing thumbs, Chase yanked off his shirt and slipped on the new vest, skin to skin.

Connie led him away before he dropped his pants. He reappeared wearing the vest unfastened, showing his leathery, lean torso. He danced around the room in his low-slung buttery soft boot cuts, his freshly dyed, thick golden hair swinging counter to his swaying butt.

Dex said, “Flex your muscles,” and Chase lifted his arms, ropy biceps pumped.

(click here for the next episode)