Lulu Unlimited

Breasticular Enhancification

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 07:30:00 +0000

a Lulu & Friends story

500 words inspired by a photo selected by Dive.

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“Lu, can I ask you something?” said Benni as she and Lulu walked home from the Food Emporium to the one-bedroom apartment they shared just north of 72nd street. “Do you think it would be ok if I asked my dad to help pay for a breast enhancement?”

Damn it! Lulu knew she should’ve hung back when she saw Benni on the check-out line, maybe hiding out in the dairy section until Benni’d left the store. But no, she had to be a schmuckette and call out to her roommate, so now it looked like they where heading for the Benni Zone, a warped and confusing region where logic was suspended and common sense took a holiday.

“I didn’t know you wanted a boob job” said Lulu. “You’re so petite and all in proportion.”

“Petite just means small. When I lie on my back everything just disappears. Look, I’ll show you” said Benni, putting down her grocery bags.

“What are you doing?” said Lulu. “You can’t lie down in the parking lot. Get up!”

“See?” said Benni from the pavement, running her hands down her chest. “Nothing. I can see straight down to my feet. Nothing gets in the way at all. Flat as a board.”

“Benni, get up! People are gonna think something’s wrong with you” said Lulu.

“Well,” said Benni, getting to her feet and smoothing her hair and clothing, “I think it might help me in the social department, if you know what I mean.”

“I hadn’t noticed you were having problems there” said Lulu.

“I’m meeting lots of guys, but nothing goes beyond a date or two, so I thought if I got myself a nice set of tatas for them to play with they might stick around a little longer” said Benni.

“And you want to ask your dad to pay for them?” said Lulu. “He goes to shul every morning and keeps Shabbos. I can’t believe you’re even considering this.”

“My parents want grandchildren, so in a way this is an opportunity for them to help move things along” said Benni. “Besides, Lily’s sister asked her parents for a boob job when she graduated from high school, so she could have them for college while she was young enough to enjoy them. I’m already twenty-five, my chance is almost over.”

“Lily’s parents said no, but that’s besides the point” said Lulu. “And regardless of who pays, the recovery can be really hard. Are you planning to move back in with your parents until you can go back to work?”

“I thought you’d take care of me” said Benni.

“I don’t think so” said Lulu.

“But you’re my roommate, we’re supposed to be like sisters,” said Benni. “You said said you wouldn’t help me if my diaphragm got stuck and now you won’t help me get boobies so I can get married and have kids. There’s something very wrong with you Lulu,”

Lulu sighed and turned towards home. It was gonna be a long night.

This One's For Dive

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Fri, 25 Mar 2011 03:06:00 +0000

a Lulu Sexytime Romance

Not quite 500 words based on a photo selected by Dive. It's not 500 words, but I think it does the trick.

Warning – this story is much more “adult” than my usual entries. If you are easily offended please avert your eyes and move on to the next blog. Seriously – this story's got some of that romance novel naughtiness that we've seen before... and it starts with a bang.

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Straddling him, she gasped and rocked faster, pressing her nether lips hard against him as he moved rhythmically inside her in the ancient, horizontal dance of love. Her deep, resonant groan, the vibrations traveling the length of her spine to the echo chamber between her legs , brought him closer to the precipice.

She sighed a long, shuddering sigh, her head thrown back, her waist-length auburn curls tickling his naked thighs, breasts straining skyward against her tee-shirt, the firm, fleshy grand tetons that first caught his attention all those years ago in the campus pub as she danced with her roommates, Skynyrd blasting from the speakers and the crowd of raucous freshman, giddy with their first taste of freedom, parted for an instant to let his eyes ravish her in all her 18-year-old glory.

She sighed again, her girl-tunnel clasping the full length of his throbbing love train over and over in secret embrace in the side parking lot around the corner from the Piggly Wiggly. As her love spasms peaked he moaned and grasped her hips, pulling her closer as he thrust upwards with all the strength he and the little blue pill could muster.

Spent, he lay back, eyes closed, legs splayed, a quivering jellyfish of a man. She leaned forward, affectionately pinching one of his nubbins with one hand as she took her purse from under his head with the other, then rising gracefully and smoothing her skirt. She paused to look down at his not-too-hairy legs, white socks and brown shoes, then dropped his crumpled khaki shorts over his flaccid man-parts as she turned to slip into the black SUV in the next parking space.

“See you at home, luv, after you finish your errands,” she said. “And don’t forget to pick up the dry cleaning.”

Little Apple

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 02:18:00 +0000

a Lulu & Friends story

500 words based on a sentence selected by Dive.

This week’s sentence is from L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz: "Not a tree nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of the sky in all directions."

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Sixteen-year-old Lulu stared out the bus window at the endless sea of agricultural sameness, wave after wave of uniform vegetation bobbing in unison in the early July breeze. Not a tree nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of the sky in all directions. She’d passed the morning dozing with her head against the window, sweatshirt unzipped and spread over her like a blanket to ward off the air conditioner’s chill. She’d wakened a few times, saw wheat or corn or prairie grass, then closed her eyes and dropped back into the light sleep that helped fill the time between stops on the six-week cross-country teen tour. Kansas was boring. Better to sleep through it and then stay up partying all night at the next campground.

Lulu needed to get away from home this summer. Puberty had not been kind to Lulu or her family. She fought with her mother and ignored her father except when she wanted him to buy something for her. She had no use for her younger brother. Most family conversations ended with Lulu screaming, stomping upstairs and slamming her bedroom door so hard that it bounced. The final decision was made after her mother said that if she and Lulu didn’t get a break from each other by the end of the summer one of them would be dead and the other in jail.

So now Lulu found herself on one of two Blue Bird buses with eighty-five other teenagers and their college-age counselors, traveling round-trip across the US, camping each night and taking in the local sights and the national parks. They spent last night in the other Manhattan, Manhattan Kansas, listening to school bands, small town politicians and local talent show winners salute the United States’ 200th birthday. To the spoiled adolescents from New York, Boston and Philly it was amateur hour and they mocked the proceedings. Even the big fireworks finale left them underwhelmed.

They sorted themselves onto their buses and headed back to camp, where the counselors built a fire and laid out snacks from the supply truck. Some of the guys slipped away to the other campsites looking for weed or beer. Lulu and the girls from her bus sat around the fire and gossiped about the couples that had already formed and whispered about the unclaimed boys, who were in short supply. Nothing much would happen until the guys got back from their forage mission, then someone would break out a guitar or radio and the party would begin. The counselors turned a blind eye as long as the volume stayed low and the neighboring campers didn’t complain.

This morning they’d all gotten up at 5 to watch the sunrise, have breakfast and break camp. They’d see the Rockies poking up over the horizon in a few days, but in the meantime Lulu watched the corn and the wheat roll by and wondered when they were going to stop for lunch.

Dead Fish Swimming

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Sun, 21 Mar 2010 13:51:00 +0000

a Davey's Family story

500 words based on a sentence selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

This week’s sentence is from Willa Cather's Death Comes For The Archbishop: 'Muerto,' he whispered.

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Davey trailed his family as they walked back to the car across the beach parking lot. Davey stopped frequently to check on the black goldfish circling in the plastic bag clutched in his hand. All of Davey’s previous fish had been orange – Coke and Pepsi, Seven and Seven, Jack and Bobby. This was his first singleton and he was determined to keep it alive for more than the usual week or two.

When they’d arrived at Bayville this morning Pop set up the beach umbrella for Ma, who needed shade for her pale, freckled skin.

“Redheads burn easily,” Ma said, sitting upright in a chair, wearing big sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, her book resting atop the cooler that held lunch and drinks and the two bags of ice that Pop had bought at the corner gas station at the start of their short drive to the North Shore.

Pop and Juicy watched the sun for a few minutes before setting their lounge chairs at the perfect angle to maximize rays and minimize the need to move as the sun tracked across the sky. They took off their shirts and plopped down for a good long bake. Even though it was early in the season, each was well on the way to the deep walnut tan they maintained through the summer.

Davey carefully spread his beach towel upwind of the grownups to avoid the inevitable cloud of smoke. Sure enough, as soon as everyone settled in Ma reached for her pack of Newports, Pop for his Luckies and Juicy fired up the cigar stump that hadn’t left his mouth all morning.

Davey walked the waterline, collecting shells and stones for his collection, but only after he suffered Ma to slather him in suntan lotion. Pop and Juicy swam in the Sound, racing each other from one lifeguard stand to the next. They all returned for lunch as Ma handed out salami sandwiches on rye with mustard, potato chips and fruit. There was beer for Ma and Juicy and Coke for Davey and Pop. After lunch the adults dozed while Davey read a few chapters in his library book.

On the way back to the car, Juicy suggested they stop at the arcade and play a few midway games. Davey looked longingly at the goldfish toss where a single black fish swam amongst the endless globes of orange.

‘You like that fella?” Juicy asked. Davey nodded. “I’ll win him for ya.”

Now Juicy fell back to walk with Davey.

“Got a name for that handsome fish?” Juicy asked. “He’s a special fish, so he needs a special name.”

“They die so quick,” said Davey.

“Maybe not, if he has a powerful name,” said Juicy.

Ma looked over her shoulder and motioned for Davey to hurry up.

Juicy bent to whisper in Davey’s ear. “Know what that means?”

Davey shook his head.

Juicy bent and spoke again behind his hand.

Davey raised the fish to eye level.

“Muerto,” he whispered, smiling widely.

Cooking with Benni

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Sat, 20 Mar 2010 04:55:00 +0000

a Lulu & Friends story

500 words based on sentence selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

This week's sentence is from E.M. Forster's A Room With A View: It tasted partly of the paper in which it was wrapped, partly of hair oil, partly of the great unknown.
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The stench smacked Lulu in the face before she stepped fully into the apartment. Her roommate sat at the dining table in the alcove off the living room holding a spatula in one hand, hair disheveled, makeup smeared, a plateful of something that looked like crumpled up paper in front of her.

“What’s that smell?” Lulu asked, clamping a hand over her nose and mouth.

Benni waved the spatula towards the kitchen. “I cooked,” she said.

“Cooked what?”

“My parents are coming for brunch this Sunday,” said Benni, “and they’ve been raving about this English pub that opened in their neighborhood, so I thought I’d make fish and chips. I’m practicing.”

Benni’s kitchen disasters were legendary. Lulu’s work friends loved to hear Benni stories. There was the grease fire from reheating fried chicken in the oven on a piece of tin foil without turning up an edge. Benni tried to extinguish the flames with a glass of water and was lucky to escape with eyebrows and bangs intact. There was the Thanksgiving green bean casserole extravaganza, when she spent an hour individually hand washing and drying five pounds of beans for a side dish to serve eight people.

And now there was this, whatever this was. It reeked of more than fried fish. It was more like putrid scorched flowers with onions, grease and god-knows-what.

“What recipe were you using?” Lulu asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“I just winged it. Fish and potatoes, right? The bodega on the corner didn’t have any fish but they had fish sticks and they’re practically the same thing,” said Benni. “And my feet hurt from my new shoes and standing on the bus all the way home and I couldn’t walk to the fruit and veggie guy so I picked up some tater tots, but they only had the onion flavor, but I thought that’s more interesting than plain French fries.

“When I got home we were out of canola oil, but I found this old bottle of oil from my grandpa’s apartment. It’s imported I think. Macassar oil. It smelled like it had exotic spices in it. But I’m not good at frying and the first batch just kind of sizzled and never got crispy, so I turned up the heat and the next batch spattered and burned. And we didn’t have any newspaper to wrap it in like they do and I wanted it to be authentic so I ripped some pages out of Cosmo, but I think maybe they were too close to the perfume samples, and some of the ink ran but maybe it’s ok.

“Anyway since you cook all the time, can you taste it and tell me what you think?” Benni pushed the plate toward Lulu.

Lulu knew it tasted partly of the paper in which it was wrapped, partly of hair oil, partly of the great unknown. No way was she going anywhere near this mess. Her office pals were gonna love this story tomorrow.

Home

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 16:51:00 +0000

Jarvis & Smith ~ Chapter 7

500 words based on a sentence selected by Dive.

This week’s sentence is from Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone: The Thursday night passed, and nothing happened.

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“Dad! Wake up. Mom says dinner’s almost ready.”

Jarvis opened one eye and found himself lying on a sofa, television blaring, adolescent boy glowering. The boy seemed familiar, but many years younger than Jarvis expected, a couple of decades at least. And something about this room was odd. His vision was blurred, his mouth dry.

“What day is it?” Jarvis croaked, not fully awake. He hoped it wasn’t a Thursday. Bad things happened to him on Thursdays. It had been weeks since the Thursday night passed and nothing happened.

“It’s Thursday. You had your test this morning, remember?” said Timmy. “Jeez, Dad. Get a grip.”

“We’ll be eating soon. You must be starving,” said Roz, leaving the table she’d been setting. Something was off with her as well. She seemed dowdy, ordinary. Where was the smoldering femme fatale who’d ravished him so thoroughly?

“Roz?,” asked Jarvis, slowly sitting up, one hand clutching the television’s remote, the other rubbing his face and hair. “What’s going on? You were up on the ship with Timmy and Doctor Richmond and me. No, Timmy was Doctor Richmond and I was so cold, and there was a beaver and robots and space aliens and Mulder! I talked to Mulder…”

“Ok, Greg. No more X-Files marathon for you today,” said Roz as she took the remote from him and turned off the TV. “You’re still groggy from the sedative and not eating anything solid the last few days.”

Jarvis shook a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table and lit it with the Godzilla table lighter standing sentry next to the ashtray.

“He’s such a dork,” said Timmy. “And does he have to smoke in the house? It’s frackin’ gross!”

“Timmy, go easy on your dad,” said Roz, “and watch your language. Everyone’s upset by their first colonoscopy. Let’s hope by the time you’re old enough for one there won’t be any need for cancer screenings.”

“Or at least they won’t have to go up your butt with a camera.”

“Enough!” said Roz. “Timmy, finish setting the table for me. Greg, go wash up.”

Jarvis heaved himself to his feet, rubbed his eyes like a little kid and wobbled from the room, steadying himself on the furniture as he passed.

“What’s that music?” he asked, pausing, hand on the wall, nodding towards the kitchen where a radio played to the empty room. “I can’t get it out of my head.”

“The station’s doing a psychedelic flashback thing this week.” Roz said. “Whenever they play the end of White Rabbit you’re supposed to call in to win a prize. I can change the station if you don’t like it.”

“No, it’s fine,” said Jarvis, turning back toward the bathroom. “Dinner smells good. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Behind him, Roz and Timmy exchanged a glance, a spark jumping from Timmy’s hand to hers as she passed him the silverware for the table. Their eyes glowed red as they nodded to each other in silent affirmation.

This Little Piggy

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 14:31:00 +0000

Jarvis & Smith ~ Chapter 6

500 words based on a sentence selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

This week's sentence is from Boris Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago: The hotel staff were being driven frantic; the incident in No.23 was only one more nuisance added to their daily vexations.

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The hotel staff were being driven frantic; the incident in No. 23 was only one more nuisance added to their daily vexations. It was not every day that one of the guest suites disengaged from the building and jumped to rejoin the mother ship hiding behind the moon. The Commander must have had her reasons and they would have to deal with the local authorities and the specialists who would undoubtedly be brought in from Bureau headquarters in Washington.

Jarvis, lying on the bed in Suite 23, was being driven frantic as well, being fully consumed by the expert ministrations of the intoxicating Miss Smith. He’d arrived at the hotel in response to a scribbled note to find her dressed only in heels, silk stockings and a lovely blue sash, which seemed oddly familiar somehow. She stripped him, learing at him hungrily, her dimples lending an incongruous air of innocence, and teased him, dancing with an intricately carved ivory fan. Then she’d taken a more direct approach. As he reached the outer limits of control he and the bed began to quake, which he attributed to Miss Smith’s considerable skills. Just as he reached the point of no return, she began to hum a haunting and familiar tune. Jarvis lost focus and then lost consciousness.

“Tell me again why we have to wear these ridiculous getups?” asked Richmond, fastening the off-center buttons on his white smock, carefully keeping the stethoscope draped around his neck.

“Just go with it,” said Miss Smith, her eyes briefly glowing red as she adjusted her starched white pinafore and matching nurse’s cap, “It adds to the ambience. Besides he’ll expect an element of camp.”

Richmond sighed and rolled his eyes. The things he did to humor the Commander these days. Once this mission was over he’d ask to be reassigned. She’d lost all sense of decorum and gravitas.

Jarvis opened one eye and found himself lying naked, prone and spread-eagled on a cold metal table, arms and legs restrained. He lifted his head, blinked both eyes, trying to bring the room into focus. From what he could see, he seemed to be in a laboratory of some sort.

“Hello Gregory,” said Miss Smith, dimples flashing. “I believe you’ve met Mr. Richmond.”

“I don’t understand.” Jarvis said.

“We’re collecting samples and checking on the health of humans of a certain age,” Miss Smith answered. “And you’re just what we’re looking for.”

“And now,” said Richmond, “We need to run one last test.”

As Richmond reached for the metal probe suspended from the ceiling on a gimbaled arm a flash of electricity arced between his hand and the instrument. He pulled on a pair of heavy black rubber gloves.

“This,” he said, patting the gleaming machine with a gloved hand, “We call this the Hog in Armour. Its snout routs around just about anywhere. Miss Smith, how about a soothing song for our friend Gregory?”

Miss Smith began to hum that blasted song again. Jarvis’ world went black.

Meeting

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 15:14:00 +0000

Jarvis & Smith ~ Chapter 5

500 words based on a sentence selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

This week's sentence is from Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest: "Out along the dim six-o'clock street, I saw leafless trees standing, striking the sidewalk there like wooden lightning, concrete split apart where they hit, all in a fenced-in ring."

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“Hi. I’m Jarv… I’m sorry, I’m Greg and I think I may be an alcoholic. This is my first meeting,” said Jarvis.

“Hi Greg,” the others chorused.

“I’ve always been a drinker and never had any real problems. You know, a few beers with the guys, some wine with the ladies, a couple of drinks after work. Once in a while, maybe a hangover in the morning.

“But lately I’ve been having these blackouts. The first time was a few weeks ago after meeting with a client in my office. I woke up the next morning with a huge hangover and no idea what happened. I don’t even remember having a drink, just this really bizarre dream.

“But it keeps happening every few days and I really don’t think I’ve been drinking. That’s the sign, right? Blackouts, loosing hours and hours at a time? I wake up walking in different parts of the city. No real hangover, just skewed perceptions, like my brain isn’t working right, like I’m not really sure what I’m seeing and can only relate it to other images I sort of half remember.

Behind Jarvis, Richmond quietly entered the hall and sat in the last row.

“Out along the dim six-o'clock street, I saw leafless trees standing, striking the sidewalk there like wooden lightning, concrete split apart where they hit, all in a fenced-in ring.

“In the noontime glare of Times Square I saw a mosaic of vehicles, trucks, cabs, cars, all interlocking like Legos, forming a pattern I was meant to decipher but just couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried.

“In the eight am rush I saw crowds of workers standing frozen at intersections, like those Chinese terracotta warriors, waiting for the general’s command to attack, but here they were just waiting for the walk signal to cross the street. When the light changed, they charged down the block and then froze again at the next cross-street, again waiting for the light change to animate them and restore them to motion.

“Today I found myself a block from here, standing on the sidewalk holding a flyer from a pub in England, the Hog in Armour. ‘Located in Saint Gregory’s Back Alley’ it says. I’ve never been to England. I don’t know what it means.

“They say the first step is admitting you have a problem, so I’m here. I need help. Thanks.”

“Would anyone else like to share?” the leader asked.

As the meeting ended, Jarvis debated lingering for coffee with the others at the back of the hall. Since the group was supposed to be anonymous, he hesitated to strike up a conversation.

Richmond approached him, small smile on his face, hand offered in greeting.

“I’m Timothy,” said Richmond. “I heard you’re a first-timer. I can be your temporary sponsor if you like, until you find someone permanent.”

“Jarv… um, Greg” said Jarvis, taking the other’s hand, then snatching his back as he was zapped by a small shock.

“Sorry,” said Richmond. “Static electricity.”

Probing Questions

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 08:22:00 +0000

Jarvis & Smith ~ Chapter 4

500 words based on a sentence selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

This week's sentence is from Louisa May Alcott's Little Women: "A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue sash."
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Miss Smith waited in a booth at the back of the diner, gazing out the window and idly playing with the carved ivory fan she’d picked up at a second-hand store, its pierced floral pattern really quite attractive. She was, as always, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit and blouse, makeup and hair fresh and immaculate. An untouched cup of black coffee cooled at her elbow. She checked the time on the neon clock over the swinging door to the kitchen. He was late, as usual. He’d say it was due to an abundance of caution. She knew it was just sloppiness.

“Miss Smith,” he greeted her, standing tableside. Damn, he smelled good.

“Mr. Richmond,” she sighed as he slid onto the facing seat. Their irises briefly glowed red in recognition as they made eye contact.

“Been shopping?” he asked, noticing the fan. He reached for the menu resting at the edge of the table, but did not open it.

“Supplies,” she said, picking up the fan and putting it into her tote bag. “A pair of silk stockings, that pretty fan, and a lovely blue sash.” She drew the cup of coffee toward her.

A waiter approached to top off her coffee and take their order. Miss Smith waved him away.

“How was your evening?” Mr. Richmond asked, trying to sound casual.

“More pleasant than I’d anticipated,” Miss Smith said, a small smile playing across her face, revealing the slightest hint of her dimples. “Jarvis is fully prepped. I set him up with two triggers. Either the song or the catch phase will induce a trance, making him fully receptive to our instructions. And I planted a visual in his subconscious and in his office just to keep him off-balance.”

Mr. Richmond nodded approvingly. “So he’s a likely subject?”

“Seems to be. He’s clever, intuitive and highly resilient. The tests will tell us more,” Miss Smith replied, reaching into her bag and passing Mr. Richmond a small padded envelope. “And he’s got some special skills I particularly enjoyed.”

Mr. Richmond ignored her last comment, knowing she was just trying to bait him. Their history was personal. This was business.

“Samples?” he asked as the small package disappeared inside his jacket.

“Hair and skin. Saliva. Seminal fluid. All there.”

“And the other?” Mr. Richmond continued.

“Not on a first date, Timothy.” Miss Smith batted her eyes coquettishly. “What sort of girl do you think I am?”

“Really Roz?” said Mr. Richmond, raising an eyebrow. A small spark flashed between their hands, resting millimeters apart on the faded formica. “Technically, you’re not any sort of girl at all.”

“There’ll be other opportunities,” she said. “We’ll take him aboard the ship. He’ll be expecting the full experience. The strobing lights, the cold metal table, the biting restraints, the looming, menacing probe.” She smiled broadly.

“Why wait? You had full access last night,” he insisted. “You just had to flip him over.”

“That would've been unprofessional,” said Rosamond, dimpling. She beckoned the waiter.

Feed Your Head

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 22:29:00 +0000

Jarvis & Smith ~ Chapter 3

500 words based on a sentence selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

This week's sentence is from William Burroughs' Cities Of The Red Night:
"He was passing a huge marble snail, a bronze frog and a beaver."

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Jarvis opened one eye and found himself lying in a puddle of drool on a conveyer belt tracking slowly through what looked like a large gallery. He was passing a huge marble snail, a bronze frog and a beaver, a fox and a dormouse.

He tried to raise a hand to rub his itchy nose but his arms were tangled in his shirt, which wound through his bare legs and wrapped behind his back. Jarvis lacked the coordination and the will to extricate himself. It was easier to just lie still, attempting to remember the name of the song he thought he heard playing quietly, just below the threshold to make out the words. He knew it, but the key and the meter were off. Still it was maddeningly familiar. Something from his youth perhaps? He felt it more than heard it as it wove snatches of melody and lyric into his brain.

Wait – did the beaver move? Jarvis thought he saw it blink. Nah, it’s dead, stuffed. The music got louder, building towards a crescendo. The beaver charged the conveyer, shattering the glass display case. It clawed Jarvis’ chest and furiously humped his leg while the fox danced on its hind legs wearing a beauty queen’s satin sash and the dormouse chittered urgently, running frantically back and forth within the ruined diorama.

Jarvis awoke with a gasp, jerking upright on his office sofa, sunlight streaming through the half-opened Venetian blinds. It was morning? The last thing Jarvis remembered was happily boinking his client on the bed, on the floor, on a towel by the door…no, stop! That was the Sarah Silverman video with Matt Damon. Jarvis and Miss Smith had been going at it on the desk, and now he was alone and naked and sore and missing several hours.

What was in the spliff he’d been smoking when she walked in? It certainly didn’t mix well with the gin he thought he remembered drinking. And why the shooting pain at the base of his skull and the double vision?

He lay back down and tried to recapture his dream. Some sculpture, some taxidermy and some music. A woman’s voice, haunting and hypnotic. And what about last night? When did Miss Smith leave? His memory was a kaleidoscope of erotic images, scents and tastes, but nothing made sense.

Jarvis squinted, trying to recall the last time the early morning sun had seared his retinas and thought about getting up to close the blinds and maybe start a pot of coffee. His mouth tasted like a sewer, his tongue furred and dry. This was more than his usual hangover.

Jarvis noticed a shimmering cloth half under the desk. Looked like Miss Smith left him a souvenir. He staggered to the desk, steadied himself against it and bent to retrieve her panties. What the…??? Not Rosamond’s silky drawers, but the fox’s satin sash, “The Truth is Out There” scrawled across it.

Now if he could just remember what the dormouse said.

Knowledge

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 18:41:00 +0000

Jarvis & Smith ~ Chapter 2

500 words based on a sentence selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

This week's sentence is from George Eliot's Middlemarch: 'I suppose it would be unprofessional,' said Rosamond, dimpling.

In the lead-up to this week’s sentence Dive stressed a bodice-busting theme. When I asked if the Romance Novel genre was required he said, “I certainly hope not, Lulu! Go with whatever you feel: noir, comedy, space aliens, Godzilla, whatever.”

I know a challenge when I see one…

If you haven’t done so already, you might want to read last week’s story, Knowing, first, and then come back to read Knowledge.

Warning – this story is much more “adult” than my usual entries. If you are easily offended please avert your eyes and move on to the next blog. Seriously – this story is humorously explicit in a Romance Novel kind of way.

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Knowledge
A Comic Noir Romance with Space Aliens & Godzilla

Jarvis put the report aside. He sat a long time smoking, he did not read any more.

He studied the woman sitting on the edge of his desk, knees all but touching his, as he settled comfortably in the high-backed leather chair. She was hot, with wavy auburn hair cascading past her shoulders. She slowly unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a lacy brassiere, her eyes locked on his, a lascivious smile on her moist, bee-stung lips, the hint of a dimple accenting each cheek. She was cool, cool as the two-carat zircon ring she’d taken from her left hand and flung into the far corner of the office, a mix of hot and cool and anything but lukewarm.

She’d shown up without an appointment, just as she had the first time. She undid the knot in his necktie, leaning in to graze his lips with the darting tip of her cherry-pink tongue. Her boldness surprised him, but he liked it. It sure beat drinking himself into a stupor – his usual activity this time of day.

The late afternoon sun and half-drawn Venetian blinds sliced zebra stripes across her face and upper body as she drew her skirt up her smooth inviting thighs.

“What do you have for me, mister professional investigator?” she asked, her dimples flashing as her smile grew. He ground out his cigarette in the glass ashtray.

“Well, Miss Smith, I spoke to my buddy Mulder at the Bureau,” he said, tracing a finger along the swell of her womanly orb, flicking his thumb across the pebbled rosebud that strained against its filmy cage, “Says your mystery man Richmond is not at all what he appears. He’s an alien most likely.”

“Illegal?” she asked.

“Flying saucer. He said to give you this, Miss Smith”, he said, reaching into the desk drawer. “Found it in Richmond’s apartment with your name on it.”

“My Godzilla lighter! See how the flame shoots out its mouth? How very professional of you not to keep it for yourself.” She pulled him closer, sliding down to straddle him in the chair, pressing her hidden petals against his throbbing manhood.

“I have something else for you, Miss Smith.”

“And what would that be, mister professional investigator?” she teased as he swirled his tongue into the shell-like recesses of her ear.

She threw her head back and tore open his shirt, buttons skittering across the floor as she raked his sculpted torso with her blood-red fingernails. He buried his head in her heaving bosom as she writhed with burning passion.

She loosened his belt and trousers. He lifted her onto the desk, standing over her as she lay back, barely containing himself as she locked her legs around his waist.

“Rosamond,” he groaned as his lust grew and grew. He lowered himself towards her as she rose up to meet him, clasping each other in a fevered embrace.

“Don’t call me that Jarvis. I’m still your client. I suppose it would be unprofessional,' said Rosamond, dimpling.

Knowing

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 17:07:00 +0000

Jarvis & Smith ~ Chapter 1

500 words based on a sentence selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

This week's sentence is from Alan Paton’s Cry, The Beloved Country: Jarvis sat a long time smoking, he did not read any more.

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Jarvis sat a long time smoking, he did not read any more.

He studied the woman seated across from him at the century-old desk. About thirty, he guessed. She was hot, with wavy auburn hair cascading past her shoulders, smartly dressed, her tailored suit showing off just enough of her curves to draw his attention away from the bottle secreted in the bottom drawer. And she was cool, cool as the two-carat diamond flashing on her left hand.

She showed up without an appointment, a manila folder under her arm, as Jarvis faced his daily 4pm debate: gin or coffee? She put the folder with its sheaf of handwritten yellow pages half-way between them and waited while he read, a mix of hot and cool and certainly not lukewarm.

The late afternoon sun and half-drawn Venetian blinds sliced zebra stripes across her face and upper body. The frosted glass in the door behind her bore the words The Jarvis Agency, Investigations. She had not spoken. He tossed the folder on the desk.

“What do you want me to do if I find him?” he asked, gesturing with the cigarette toward the pages that spilled across the blotter. His other hand went to his mouth, absently removing a piece of tobacco from his tongue and flicking it away. “And what do I call you?”

“You can call me Miss Smith. And I don’t want you to do anything. I want to know the truth.”

He drew a few pages from the folder, turning his attention back to her neat Catholic school script. She waited, gazing out the window to the traffic below.

He lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. Who was the man whose story she’d so carefully outlined on the pages torn from the legal pad? Couldn’t be her husband, there was no band accompanying the sparkler. Ex-fiancé perhaps? Then why was she still wearing the ring?

She reached across the desk and helped herself to a smoke.

“I need to know if anything, anything, he told me was true. You’ve got everything I know about him, everything he told me.”

“Miss Smith, you say he’s gone. Left the city years ago. What’s it matter now?”

“I loved a liar, loved him like an animal.”

“And?”

“And I’m getting married. But this chapter isn’t closed. I cannot swear to forsake all others until I know.”

“Are you prepared to live with what I find?”

“I’m not living now. I’m trapped in the past. I can only move ahead by putting him behind me, and the only way to do that is to know the truth.”

“It’s a thousand a week, plus expenses. And I’ll need two weeks in advance.”

She took an envelope from her purse and placed it on the desk. “I’ll call you next week for a report.”

Jarvis reached for the bottle in the bottom drawer. As the afternoon turned to dusk Jarvis sat a long time smoking, he did not read any more.

I-635 (LBJ Freeway)

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 01:35:00 +0000

a Lulu & Friends story

500 words based on a sentence selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

This week's sentence is from John Steinbeck's Cannery Row: "It was not so interesting driving at night."

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It was not so interesting driving at night, what with Lola snoring in the front seat and Lucky snoring in the back. Then again, Lulu told herself, the drive home from DFW airport wasn't much more interesting in daylight. At least during the day you could admire the bluebells at the roadside and the wildflowers in the median, gifts to the state from Lady Bird Johnson, or so Lulu'd been told when she first moved to Texas.

Lo'd been out of town for a few days and was getting in just after midnight. “Sure,” Lulu’d said when Lola called to tell her Travis couldn’t make it, it being poker night and all. “I can pick you up.”

Lucky was up for a drive, as pups usually are, so Lulu made the run from North Dallas to Irving with classic rock blasting on the radio and the dog's chin on her shoulder as he balanced in his co-pilot position, front paws on the center console and rear paws on the very front edge of the rear seat. Every few minutes he'd sniff Lulu's ear or jam his moist Westie nose into the soft spot under her jaw. Lu would giggle and gently push him back into the rear seat, telling him to sit, but a few seconds later he'd be back, head on Lu's shoulder, riding contentedly westward as the air conditioner blew in his face and Lulu absently reached up to scratch his neck.

Lola waited in the passenger pick-up zone, left hand resting on her leopard-patterned wheelie bag, right hand holding her usual Ozarka bottle, complete with bendy straw. She heaved the bag into Lulu’s trunk, then slid into the passenger seat, twisting to greet the dog as he strained between the front seats.

“Hola Señor Lucho. Did you miss your Auntie Lo-Lo?” she murmured as she rubbed the tickle spot on his chest. “Sorry I couldn’t bring you anything, but your mean ol’ mama says no food for you in the car.”

“Not after the pepperoni incident. How was your flight?” Lulu asked.

“Long and uneventful,” Lola answered through a yawn. “I think I’ll just rest my eyes for a while. Can you make sure I’m up when we get to the Galleria? I want to wave to Nordstrom as we go by.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re still in business, even with your being gone all this time.” Lulu smirked, knowing Lola’s near-addiction to their shoe department.

“Even so…” Lola trailed off, her head tipping back against the headrest.

Lucky’s paws twitched in his sleep, the tip of his tail wagging almost imperceptibly. Lulu reached across and gently took Lola’s water bottle from her relaxed hands and stowed it in a cup holder. Lulu figured she’d be able to drop Lola at her apartment in about twenty-five minutes and be back at her own place ten minutes later.

Lulu glanced over at Lola and checked on Lucky in the rearview mirror, happy to watch over her two best friends.

Bare Bear

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 06:03:00 +0000

a Davey's Family story

500 words based on a sentence selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

This week's sentence is from Garrison Keillor's "Radio Romance": So what happened to Hoyt Buford?

___________________________________________________

“Can I go read until dinner’s ready?” Davey asked.

Ma’s parents, Bubbie and Grandpa, were visiting. The hors d’ oeuvres were long gone, but dinner was still cooking.

Ma and Bubbie talked quietly in the kitchen. Pop and Grandpa sat in the club chairs in front of the big picture window in the living room, smoking cigarettes and making awkward conversation. Davey fidgeted on the sofa.

“No, you may not hide in a book while we have company. Why don’t you take Bubbie and Grandpa upstairs and show them your room?” Ma said.

“Do you wanna see my room?” Davey asked, less than enthusiastically.

“Of course we do, dear,” said Bubbie, beckoning Davey and Grandpa toward the stairs. Pop heaved himself out of his chair, ground out his cigarette in a glass ashtray and followed them upstairs.

Davey led the way, opening the door to his small bedroom, then standing aside to let his grandparents enter first. His room was neat as a pin, books stacked, clothing put away, bed made . Bare Bear sat in the place of honor, centered against the bed pillow.

“It’s lovely, dear” said Bubbie. “Everything in its place. You’re such a good boy.”

“And how’s Bare Bear these days?” Grandpa asked.

“Grandpa, do you like Bare Bear?” Davey asked. “Sergeant Buford sent him from Florida.”

“That’s a name we haven’t heard in a while. So what happened to Hoyt Buford?” Bubbie asked Pop. “You don’t mention him much since you got out of the service.”

“Married a local girl. Moved to Florida.” Pop said with a shrug. “Sent the bear when Davey was born.”

“And why does Bare Bear look so sad, Davey?” Bubbie asked. “He seems a little worse for the wear.”

“I took him outside to read last week and Patch, the dog from next door, grabbed him. I grabbed him back, but his arm came off and some of his insides came out.” Davey said. “Ma sewed him back up and he’s ok, mostly, I guess.”

“Well, I think Bare Bear needs a trip to the doll hospital in New York . They can get him all fixed up, good as new,” said Bubbie.

“We can take him home with us tonight,” Grandpa agreed, “and bring him back in a few weeks when he’s all better.”

Pop sighed loudly from the doorway “You’re getting too big for a teddy bear, son.”

“But he’s my friend. Any your friend gave him to me,” Davey said.

The kitchen time rang loudly. Ma called out, “Dinner’s ready!”

Bubbie headed to the kitchen to help Ma bring dinner to the table. Pop stomped downstairs, lighting a cigarette Ma would insist he put out before sitting down.

Grandpa lingered in Davey’s room, putting a comforting arm around the boy. “Don’t worry, dear. We’ll convince your Pop. Bare Bear will come home with us, I promise. They’ll even give him a ribbon to wear around his neck and he won’t be Bare Bear anymore.”

The Morning After

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 02:26:00 +0000

a Lulu & Friends story

500 words, just because… and BEFORE Dive declared “writer’s choice”.

[ok, ok...the original post was hard to follow. since some of you won't even try to hear the voices in my head, i've reformatted this entry in a slightly more orthodox (hee hee) dialogue layout.]

Interior. A small living room. Dawn.

LULU sleeps on a sofa bed. A heavy door SLAMS. BENNI enters, tying a short kimono-type robe.

BENNI
Lulu? Are you awake? I need the dustbuster.

LULU

Yeah Benni, I’m awake. Who the hell was that? Why do you need the dustbuster?

BENNI

Emilio. From the thing last night. He just left.

LULU

The Jewish singles mixer? Emilio?

BENNI

Says he’s Sephardic. Don’t you think he looks Jewish? His wiener does.

LULU

Stop! No details! You brought him home Benni? You just met him.

BENNI

Harold and I broke up, so I figured it’s time for somebody new.

LULU

You broke up last weekend.

BENNI

Isn’t that why we went Lulu? To meet guys? Don’t you want somebody to kiss on New Years?

LULU

I went because you’re my roommate and you begged me. It was the only place open on Christmas Eve besides First Wok.

BENNI

Wasn’t it great? All the music and the people and the atmosphere.

LULU

We were at the freakin’ Copacabana Benni. The 'atmosphere' was all cigarette smoke.

BENNI

It was so classy.

LULU

It was disco hell. And did they have to play that stupid Barry Manilow song every fifteen minutes? Did they think we forgot where we were? I swear Benni, I hate those singles things.

BENNI

Did you meet anybody? Didn’t you love it when they played all those new Madonna remixes?

LULU

Yeah, yammy-boppers everywhere. Not exactly my type.

BENNI

If they were religious, they wouldn’t’ve been there Lulu.

LULU

And those obnoxious Israeli guys. You know one of them tapped me on the shoulder, I turned around, he looked me up and down, said “Nah” and shoved me away. Very classy... So Emilio’s the guy you were making out with over by the bar?

BENNI

No, I met Emilio later. After you left, I think.

LULU

Who was the first guy?

BENNI

I don’t know, some lousy kisser. You gotta take a test drive before you commit.

LULU

Commit to what? You met Emilio at last call and brought him home. Are you trying to get us both killed? I don’t even have a door to shut, sleeping out here in the living room. He had to walk past me twice!!

BENNI

Well, it is my apartment Lulu. I get the bedroom, I pay more rent.

LULU

Yeah, and the front door’s at the foot of my bed!

BENNI

That’s how it is in the city. You knew the deal when you moved in. You’re just jealous because you’re alone and I’m younger. Where’s the dustbuster?

LULU

It’s over near the closet, where it always is. And you’re only two years younger than me. What’s the big deal with the dustbuster Benni?

BENNI

Emilio’s got this weird skin condition. It flakes off when you touch it. I didn’t know until I started rubbing his back. It was too late then.

LULU

Too late?

BENNI

We were in the middle…

LULU

So his skin was coming off and you did it anyway? Benni, that’s gross! He didn’t tell you beforehand?

BENNI

It didn’t come up, but something else sure did. Anyway, there’s all these dried skin flakes in my room. I need the dustbuster… Oh, and you might want to rinse out the tub before you take a shower.

[end]

Artie

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 19:22:00 +0000

a Davey's Family story

500 words based on a sentence (in italics) selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

“Mr. Bloom! A moment please, sir!”

Mr. Bloom paused near the waiting car, the driver watchfully anticipating his boss’s usual hurry to be gone from this place, replacing his cap atop his graying curls as he saw Mr. Bloom approach. Mr. Bloom was eager to leave the dockside neighborhood and looked forward to a long steam at his midtown Club to help purge him of the stench of the river and cheap perfume. He’d spent the afternoon reviewing accounts with the warehouse bookkeeper, a woman tough enough to endure the cat calls and wolf whistles of the stevedores and warehousemen on a daily basis, but still soft enough to evoke feelings Mr. Bloom knew best to ignore. He craved the hushed voices and mannerly ways of the Club and its well-trained staff.

McDonough, the shift foreman, hurried toward him, turning up the collar of his jacket against the late October wind. The sky was darkening. Surely it would rain before the men clocked out and headed back to the dark, cramped railroad flats most called home. Many faced an hour’s journey or longer, on the subway for those who could afford it, on foot for those who could not, before they’d cross their thresholds and face a whole different set of frustrations embodied by stringy-haired wives and snot-streaked children. Some would fortify themselves at the nearby tavern before fading away into the gathering dusk.

“Yes, McDonough, what is it?”

“It’s Juicy. He needs time off to bury his son.”

“Who?”

“Juicy. Julius Goldfarb.”

“Son? I didn’t know he was married.”

McDonough hesitated.

“He’s got a wife somewheres. I wouldn’t call it a marriage. Juicy split right after Artie was born. Sees him every couple a years. Couldn’t stand the bawlin’ or what it did to Blanche’s figure. Quite a tomato Blanche was.”

“How old was the boy?”

“Nineteen, maybe twenty. One a them Greenwich Village peacenik types. Got the call just now his boy’s dead.”

“Alright” said Mr. Bloom, “Give him two hours for the funeral. Without pay.”

“He needs a week. You know them people. They put ‘em in the ground quick, then have the wake afterwards.”

“No. We won’t hold a job that long for anyone. If he takes more than two hours replace him.”

“But…”

“If we have a job open when he decides he’s ready to come back, you can rehire him, but at a lower wage. He’s lucky we hired him at all. What happened to the boy, anyway?”

Again McDonough hesitated.

“Smack. Found him with the needle still in his arm. No other marks on him. Cops say it musta been his first time.”

At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:

"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."

Lucky

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 00:42:00 +0000

a Lulu & Friends story

500 words based on a sentence (in italics) selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

Lulu stepped in it barefoot on her way to the bathroom.

The dog sidled up to her and nosed the side of her leg as she sat on the edge of the tub washing her foot under the rushing water. “What’s a matter puppy face? Your tummy bothering you? We’ll go out in a minute.”

Lulu pulled on a t-shirt and jeans and grabbed a red leash. Outside the dog made his way to a tree, did what he needed to and pulled Lulu back towards the house. From that angle Lulu saw that he needed the back half of a bath.

Inside again Lulu parked the pooch in the tub, treated the stain with the carpet spray from under the sink and reached for the phone.

“Hi Lo. It’s me. Pupster’s gotta go to the vet. Can you pick us up? My car’s still in the shop.”

Lola got to Lulu’s just as Lulu shut off the blow drier.

“Wow – his hair’s really starting to grow in Lu. Why’d he have that other haircut?”

“I think the kids at the shelter thought he was a white schnauzer. Guess the pointy ears and carrot tail didn’t register. You’re looking more like a Westie every week, aren’t you poopy pants?”

“Uh, Lu? I think you got another problem over here behind the loveseat.”

“Crap!”

“Exactly. You need to shove his nose in it and yell he’s a bad dog.”

“No. He’s gonna learn that I don’t yell when he’s sick. He’s gotta learn to trust me and that he’s safe here.”

“Maybe when we’re done at the vet, Lu, we’ll go to McDonald’s and get him a sausage biscuit?”

“He’s already got diarrhea Lo. He really doesn’t need a sausage biscuit.”

“Well, maybe I’ll get one for me.”

At the vet’s office Lola picked up a magazine from a table and plopped down on a chair. Lulu and the dog fidgeted impatiently at the check-in desk. The receptionist wore white scrubs with a faded multi-colored paw print pattern.

“Have an appointment?”

“Yeah. I called a little while ago.”

“What’s the pet’s name?”

“Lucho Abril Marroquin.”

The receptionist looked up from her screen, eyebrows raised.

Lulu sighed. “Lucky. Everyone calls him Lucky.”

“You can take him into room two. Doctor Jeff will be right in.”

In the exam room, Doctor Jeff scratched behind the dog’s ears and made kissy-kissy noises.

“He’s got diarrhea? It’s probably just the bug that’s going around. We’ll do a quick exam just to make sure, then there’s a pill that will get him back to normal in no time. Eyes good. Ears look fine. Gotta take your temperature buddy. Our ear thermometer’s broken, so we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way. Now where’s that tube of lubricant?”

But with the passage of the years Lucho Abril Marroquin was to tell himself that of all the instructive experiences of that morning the most unforgettable had not been either the first or the second accident but what happened afterwards.

Preference

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 03:32:00 +0000

a Davey's Family story

500 words based on a sentence (in italics) selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

Davey was a bookish boy, his boldest adventures taking place in his own mind, combining the tedious flat details of everyday life with those far more interesting gleaned from the pages of the masters at the storefront library on Jackson Avenue or in cast off volumes rescued from bargain bins at weekend garage sales. He spent hours copying and recopying treasured passages into carefully catalogued black-and-white-covered composition books, learning the words not only in his head, but also in his fingers.

On sunny afternoons when Ma ordered him out of the house for half an hour to get some fresh air he would sit with his books on the cement step outside the kitchen door in the shade of the crabapple tree, listening for the sound of the kitchen timer that allowed him back inside and freed him from the scrutiny of the high school boys playing catch in the street, moving aside at the call of “Car!” when a vehicle needed to pass.

He dreamed of wandering Borges’ hexagonal Library, searching for the book of the story of his own life. Instead he was pedaling furiously homeward, dodging taunts and spitballs from the passing yellow bus on its run to the Home on Covent Road on the north side of town, twin baskets straddling the fat rear tire of his battered red bicycle crammed with schoolbooks, anticipating refuge in his small upstairs bedroom, perhaps even crawling into the kneehole under the desk and pulling in the chair firmly behind him.

As Davey turned onto Candy Lane he saw a cab pulling away from number twenty-four, its passenger half hiding a stumpy cigar behind his back as he knocked on the screen door. Juicy, Ma’s longshoreman uncle, was here for dinner.

“Hiya Red, I brought dessert.” He smacked Ma lightly on the bottom as she turned to take the big green and brown bakery box into the kitchen.

“Mmm, a blackout cake.”

“I love telling the cabby ‘Candy Lane’. Reminds me of a bubble dancer I knew after the war. Friendly gal.”

“Shh Juicy, the boy!”

Davey edged towards the stairs and his second-floor sanctuary.

“You don’t say hello to your favorite uncle? What say when your Pop gets home we go up to Bayville for a swim? Work up an appetite for your Ma’s delicious dinner?”

“I have homework.”

“You spend any more time with your books, you’re gonna turn into a certified bookworm. Swimming is good for you, and you might meet some girls. I met my Blanche at the beach. Your Ma and Pop met at Rockaway.”

“There’s a test tomorrow.”

“C’mon Sport. Where’s your moxie?”

Ma smiled hopefully. “Go on, Davey. Have a swim with Juicy and your Pop.”

His mind raced, searching for a refusal that would stick, strong enough to ward off Juicy but not rude enough to get into trouble. Then, suddenly, with great clarity and precision, he saw Bartleby's window and the blank brick wall before him.

“I would prefer not to.”

Lulu and Lola

noreply@blogger.com (Lulubelle B) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 04:05:00 +0000

a Lulu & Friends story

500 words based on a sentence (in italics) selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

Twin beds sullenly welcomed us at the motel just off the interstate, flat, spent pillows barely raising a bump under the stained quilted bedspreads. The sun had long ago sunk below the horizon, yet the Texas heat was as choking as ever, the relentless, disheartening, will-crushing heat of an August drought. The beige Saturn’s fickle electrical system continued its slow, lingering death that afternoon, taking with it the air conditioner and the controls for the power windows, which were now stuck at useless heights, neither containing the tepid air burping from the vents on the dash, nor letting any outside air circulate.

Traffic had slammed to a halt about 30 minutes north of Houston when a cattle carrier overturned, spilling disoriented livestock onto I-45. Local police stopped traffic in both directions while Texas Rangers on horseback worked with local volunteers to round up the frightened cows. The 250 miles between us and home in North Dallas stretched temptingly northward, but with no way to get there, Lo and I sat in the car most of the day with the sun pounding down on the roof, from the limitless, empty Texas sky. The motel room was little better as I slid between the graying, frayed sheets, trying to find a cool spot on my pillow and wondering why the room had no ceiling fan.

“Lu? Can I have a water?”

Three bottles lay on their sides, half submerged in the cloudy, lukewarm mystery liquid at the bottom of the cooler, floating among the remains of popsicles, candy bars and lipsticks.

“Sure Lo, but we’ll have to get some more tomorrow, and ice this thing up again before we leave. I’ve never seen anyone drink so much water.”

“Gotta stay hydrated. Oprah says how many liters a day? Got any straws?”

“Just drink it from the bottle”

“But…”

“Like you’re worried about make-up now? We’re going to sleep, just drink it from the damned bottle.”

“I’m sorry Lu”.

“S’ok Lo”

“You know what today’s like, Lu? Thelma and Louise. This is our big road trip. We’re just like them.”

“Lo, you know how that movie ended, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but maybe I can still have a thing with Brad Pitt? Might be worth it.”

“Go to sleep Lo”

“Night, Lu…Lu, can we find a waffle house for breakfast tomorrow? And when we get the water, we need straws too. Oprah always says to use a straw. Her guests always have straws, too.”

“Go to sleep Lo.”

And again next day a thinly populated sky, losing its blue to the heat, would melt overhead, and Lo would clamour for a drink, and her cheeks would hollow vigorously over the straw, and the car inside would be a furnace when we got in again, and the road shimmered ahead, with a remote car changing its shape mirage-like in the surface glare, and seeming to hang for a moment, old-fashionedly square and high, in the hot haze.