THE VOWEL MOVEMENT
Their lips met in a titillating kiss, hearts throbbing, hands exploring. “Darling,” she whispered—the tender embrace ushering the eternity, her sweet breath on his, their lips locked, “My darling . . . ”
Just a minute. Apart from the obvious gawkiness of the piece, she just couldn’t talk while kissing, could she? No, that won’t do. Too bad. The Writer only had to wrap it up now, just the ending, just the riding into the sunset part. But the well was dry. Up to that point everything was going so well with this romance novel number ten. Nine love stories done, published and gobbled up by the tenderly disposed ladies. Number ten was assembled pakati-pakati-pak. A well-oiled machine. Two lonely people find each other in this cold and overwhelming world. He, Lance, a handsome brute, a bit over muscled yet exquisitely sensitive and irresistibly vulnerable after his four tours of duty in Afghanistan with the Green Berets, a loner and a hero favoring comfy armchairs, books by Washington Irving and Ralph Waldo Emerson, chamomile tea, earth tones, soft loafers and wool cardigans. She, Jane, a free spirited 5’10” beauty with wavy auburn hair, 130 pounds, size G bra and sparks of mischief in her large green eyes—the only heir to the Lockshman’s Kosher Dill Pickles fame—erudite and witty and longing deeply for the love she never knew.
A chance encounter. A stroke of fate. His attempted suicide fortuitously interrupted by her timely yet inadvertent appearance. Their first desperate love making scene (he was, of course, ALMOST too big for her), the passion, the upturned furniture and twenty eight earth-shuttering, spectacular and breathtaking orgasms later she is his forever. Then their getting to know each other stage, more out of this world lovemaking and lots and lots of intimacy, understanding and ultimate in tenderness and endearment—the true love. Then the tragic misapprehension—somebody said something to a wrong somebody, ill-intentioned or perhaps not, which came across the wrong way to and bam! The tragedy. Lovers driven apart, the love slashed and seared as if by a sharp knife (or, rather, by a dagger—a more interesting word—or a scalpel?), the sensitive souls anguished way beyond the tolerance threshold of mere mortals. Oh, the sweet agony of heartbreak suffering!
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“My name is Michael Priv. I was born in the Soviet Ukraine, escaped to the USA in 1979. A Civil Engineer by education and a Construction Business Consultant by trade, I am and have been since 1987 an avid student of Eastern philosophies, especially Tao, Buddhism, and Scientology–their modern reincarnation–especially as they apply to everyday problems and could actually be used to help people.” -Michael Priv
To read more short stories by Michael Priv, or to learn about his two novels, Friends of Fred and Forever Dead, visit his website at www.thetawire.com
To contact the author, send him an email at Michael@thetawire.com.
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Several million dollars of daddy’s money later she overcomes incredible odds and, using an army of private detectives, finds him as a Jehovah Witness missioner on the island of Borneo. Ecstatic reunion, they are finally together again in each others arms, blissful and complete, riding into the sunset. Thus, we arrive to the riding into the sunset part.
Yes, mush by the truckload was the only answer. That’s what he needed. “Can never have too much mush in a romance novel,” the Writer reasoned quite correctly as evidenced by the sales of his previous nine novels. Mush had already placed a sizeable chunk of butter on his daily bread. Well, let’s see . . .
Jane’s pale, supple breast showed through the tangle of her hair. He would have loved to touch it if he hadn’t feared waking her. He didn’t want that, relishing the moment. Once she was awake, the magic spell would have been broken and this moment gone forever. A part of him had been waiting for this, the other part feared it and deep inside, in his heart of hearts, he knew with every fiber of his another part—yes indeed, he always knew in the very essence of his yet another part that . . .
Now, where was he going with that? What about a honeymoon on Bahamas? White sand, azure ocean, cabanas, mind-blowing orgasms, a little reggae in the background, natives with very bad teeth . . . No thanks, the set-up was beaten to death. This was exactly the literary approach that gave “banal” a bad name. No, no, something else . . . Something true . . .
The Writer wandered to the fridge listlessly and made himself a ham and cheese sandwich. With pickles. Then he brightened up and marched back to his computer in long, decisive strides of a man struck by inspiration.
Ravishing in her slinky, low-cut red mini-dress and red high heels, her hair in steamy disarray, with her ample breasts and slightly-chilled by the morning crispness now erect nipples pressing against the front of her tight little garb, Jane whispered with tears in her voice, “I am sorry, darling, I am so very sorry!” “How could you?” he breathed out, barely audible, numb, “How could you have sex with the bellboy last night when we made love till about 2AM and it is only 6AM now?” “I just stepped out for a quick drink of water, darling, after you fell asleep and he . . . that bellboy! He . . !” Lance was startled by the feel of his favorite Ruger in his hand now, taken almost despite himself by the Hogue rubber grips of his trusty P944TH 40-caliber manual safety centerfire pistol, double action, ten in the clip, one in the barrel. He looked deep into her beautiful green eyes that were begging for forgiveness. A loud crack sealed the eternity. Bright red splatter suddenly appeared on Jane’s chest, right above the edge of her red dress . . .
No, fool! HAPPILY ever after! Happily! Focus! Nice gun, though . . . No, the Writer needed something else now, something honest and true . . .
“Whereas, passive income derived from property of any type owned by Mr. Lance Sterling, hereafter referred to as the “Husband”, shall have the same character for purposes of this agreement as the property from which it is earned after the effective date of the aforementioned . . .”
Well, that’s at least honest but . . . What about a gig as meteorologists on the North Pole for honeymoon? Cute Polar bear cubs, a seal or two, lots of snow sparkling in the sunlight? Stupid. Under water? Trivial. While skydiving? Brainless. They travel to Afghanistan together and start an orphanage! Yeah, and get kidnapped, raped and tortured, and then the State Department . . . No, that’s not a happy ending. Sounds a lot like a mid-point, at best.
The sound of his wife’s car brought the Writer out of his revere. The working day was over, the leisurely evening had arrived ushered in by his wife’s cheerful “Hi, honey!” and then urgent “Dancing with the Stars is already on! Switch on the TV! I’ll be right there, just got to pee!”
“Hi, hon!” The Writer marched to the living room smiling happily and clicked on the TV. Some people he seemed to have remembered vaguely from some TV show or something—or maybe not—were already dancing on the gaudy stage. His wife ran in and jumped on her favorite sofa, squealing with excitement. She loved that show. The Writer stroked her hair fondly and went to the kitchen for some snacks and a couple of beers for both of them. Then he settled next to her to watch the show. She immediately plopped her feet on his knee and he cradled them in his arms because he knew she’d feel warm and cozy that way. Together they watched people dancing, together they got just a tad tipsy and sang karaoke, together they munched on things that they probably shouldn’t have, together they drank their beer, together they burped and together they went to sleep comfortably after a pleasant evening.
What about a ceremony on a space shuttle with a NASA minister? Nah. Well, maybe he’d have his vowel movement tomorrow. Something honest, something true for his Jane’s Happily Ever After.
Definitely—tomorrow.