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Post by phil on Sept 14, 2003 1:45:49 GMT -5
Natural Light
The photographer snapped off the solitary lamp next to her as she sat comfortably and patiently waiting for the shoot to commence. The man in charge of lighting – his cousin - turned it back on in a huff. “Leave it on!” he demanded. “We don’t need it,” the expert argued. “All we need is maybe a little back-lighting. You saw the meter.” “I did not!,” he said, obviously getting lighter in his loafers as his voice rose. Relations should never work together. “Well..look here then!,” and he showed yet again the incident-light meter as he moved it closer to her. It was reading almost off scale – like a Geiger counter in an old 1950’s sci-fi movie. The light guy gasped. He looked wide-eyed at the reading, glanced at the object of reflection sitting there and then back at the meter. “Ok. So maybe a little back-lighting. No reflectors. No arc lamps. Nothing,” he lisped incredulously walking away. He said something like “SO, she creates her own shadows,” but it was hard to understand with his back turned towards them. The photographer left too for awhile and returned with a darker shade and turned the lamp back on. “What the Hell,” he smiled at her. “Now we’re ready. You look beautiful.”
She was beautiful, sitting with legs crossed wearing a crème colored full-length cotton robe tied loosely. She had to rewrap and re-tie it as more and more leg would peek out until finally the photographer told her “leg is good.” He came out from behind his tripod once also to untie her hair in back and, saying ‘pardon me, Mademoiselle,’ ran his fingers through her smooth light tresses. A faint blush came to her face. She felt lighthearted and very happy - and carefree. Afterwards, she was without a care as she went out in a rowboat after the shoot ended.
She was out on the lake by herself, drifting and leaning back with a large white cross-stitched lake hat shading her light face and one leg kicked over the side, and she was re-reading a favorite book. On the shore she could hear children laughing. Some were pleading to venture out onto the lake as well. She wasn’t alone really. She imagined Holden and Phoebe adrift with her, astern and balancing the boat so it would never sway off course or tip over. Now those were relatives that wouldn’t rock the boat, unlike Mr. Lightswitch and Mr. Featherloafer. Holden adored his sis. She held the book briefly against her heart, closed her almond eyes and thought of that. But she didn’t think too hard. It wasn’t like Einstein’s Theory Of Relativity. Something easier on the noodle such as the Theory Of Relatives. She laughed quietly as she thought: “hey, that’s pretty good. Now who would come up with that?” Her mind glided as she made up the silliest names she could imagine. Dr. Herman C. Whalefish. Or Professor Percival R. Klingtonbird, Jr. Or how about Dr. Fritz J. Beakersniffter. Yes, she laughed, Dr. BeakerSniffter’s Theory Of Relatives. She must remember to attend his lecture at the University. She promised herself she would not snore too loudly and upset the good Professor.
She opened her luminous eyes and went back to her beloved story. Peering up and over the edge of the well-worn book she noticed a puffy white cloud up in the sharp blue sky that resembled Minnesota. She set the book gently down by her side, pushed her lake hat back a bit and raised her arm and pointed to where Winona would be. She crossed over to St. Paul and down to Mankato and back to the river town to form the triangle. The Bermuda Triangle - where her life could have been sucked into and swallowed and pulled under. She outlined the triangle again. The Bermuda Triangle was right…about…there…as she floated, wearing her Bermuda shorts and her toes skimming the water. She must ask Dr. BeakerSniffter’s opinion on that too she thought.....
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Post by Charles on Sept 14, 2003 2:03:36 GMT -5
. Amazing, Phil . . . what a delight to read. Thank you
Chas[/size][/color][/font]
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Post by ETS - wr on Sept 14, 2003 5:23:06 GMT -5
That was great! very funny ;D
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Post by phil on Sept 14, 2003 18:54:31 GMT -5
Thanks! Don't forget to load up on caffeine before attending the Beakersniffter Seminar.
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Post by phil on Sept 28, 2003 11:54:18 GMT -5
Named this thread after a strip that Herve and I did:
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Post by Charles on Sept 28, 2003 12:50:16 GMT -5
. Yooo Phil,
That's great!!! I had no idea what the inspiration was. Thanks for posting it.
Chas[/size][/color][/font]
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Post by GRACKLEMAN on Sept 28, 2003 16:15:36 GMT -5
Natural LightThe photographer snapped off the solitary lamp next to her as she sat comfortably and patiently waiting for the shoot to commence. The man in charge of lighting – his cousin - turned it back on in a huff. “Leave it on!” he demanded. “We don’t need it,” the expert argued. “All we need is maybe a little back-lighting. You saw the meter.” “I did not!,” he said, obviously getting lighter in his loafers as his voice rose. Relations should never work together. “Well..look here then!,” and he showed yet again the incident-light meter as he moved it closer to her. It was reading almost off scale – like a Geiger counter in an old 1950’s sci-fi movie. The light guy gasped. He looked wide-eyed at the reading, glanced at the object of reflection sitting there and then back at the meter. “Ok. So maybe a little back-lighting. No reflectors. No arc lamps. Nothing,” he lisped incredulously walking away. He said something like “SO, she creates her own shadows,” but it was hard to understand with his back turned towards them. The photographer left too for awhile and returned with a darker shade and turned the lamp back on. “What the Hell,” he smiled at her. “Now we’re ready. You look beautiful.” She was beautiful, sitting with legs crossed wearing a crème colored full-length cotton robe tied loosely. She had to rewrap and re-tie it as more and more leg would peek out until finally the photographer told her “leg is good.” He came out from behind his tripod once also to untie her hair in back and, saying ‘pardon me, Mademoiselle,’ ran his fingers through her smooth light tresses. A faint blush came to her face. She felt lighthearted and very happy - and carefree. Afterwards, she was without a care as she went out in a rowboat after the shoot ended. She was out on the lake by herself, drifting and leaning back with a large white cross-stitched lake hat shading her light face and one leg kicked over the side, and she was re-reading a favorite book. On the shore she could hear children laughing. Some were pleading to venture out onto the lake as well. She wasn’t alone really. She imagined Holden and Phoebe adrift with her, astern and balancing the boat so it would never sway off course or tip over. Now those were relatives that wouldn’t rock the boat, unlike Mr. Lightswitch and Mr. Featherloafer. Holden adored his sis. She held the book briefly against her heart, closed her almond eyes and thought of that. But she didn’t think too hard. It wasn’t like Einstein’s Theory Of Relativity. Something easier on the noodle such as the Theory Of Relatives. She laughed quietly as she thought: “hey, that’s pretty good. Now who would come up with that?” Her mind glided as she made up the silliest names she could imagine. Dr. Herman C. Whalefish. Or Professor Percival R. Klingtonbird, Jr. Or how about Dr. Fritz J. Beakersniffter. Yes, she laughed, Dr. BeakerSniffter’s Theory Of Relatives. She must remember to attend his lecture at the University. She promised herself she would not snore too loudly and upset the good Professor. She opened her luminous eyes and went back to her beloved story. Peering up and over the edge of the well-worn book she noticed a puffy white cloud up in the sharp blue sky that resembled Minnesota. She set the book gently down by her side, pushed her lake hat back a bit and raised her arm and pointed to where Winona would be. She crossed over to St. Paul and down to Mankato and back to the river town to form the triangle. The Bermuda Triangle - where her life could have been sucked into and swallowed and pulled under. She outlined the triangle again. The Bermuda Triangle was right…about…there…as she floated, wearing her Bermuda shorts and her toes skimming the water. She must ask Dr. BeakerSniffter’s opinion on that too she thought..... Hi, Phil!!! Haven´t I read this story before??? Hehe...
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Post by phil on Sept 29, 2003 14:49:19 GMT -5
Yes you have G-man. But, it premiered here since Charles has been so kind to let me pin my scribblings here.
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Post by phil on Oct 5, 2003 15:17:34 GMT -5
The Rendezvous It was warm and so perfect after the torrential rains had passed through the previous evening. The winding road surrounded on both sides by the overgrown shady elms stretched onwards up and around a steep climb and fell down into the vale. Along the road at one point a hawk swooped down in front of him almost as if it was an escort. He thought he could almost reach out and touch it. She will love to hear about this, he thought. His bike came to a screeching halt on Main Street diagonally parked in front of The Coffee House. She was there waiting for him sitting by the window at a small table with a light blue checkered tablecloth. She waved and smiled at him.
She was lovelier than a lullaby. Her light skin was the same color as the foam head on her Latte. Her silky shoulder-length hair seemed darker in contrast to her complexion. Her brown eyes glistened joyfully. Her jean jacket was hanging on the back of the wooden chair she was sitting in and she put her cigarette out. He walked in and hugged her but she was the last to let go. It made him feel taller.
They played their little meeting game. “Nice to meet you,” and “Do you come here often?” as they sat opposite each other at the solitary window table. They looked out as the streetlights flickered on and grew bright quickly. An elderly couple holding hands strolled by on the other side of the street. They stopped and peered into the jewelry shop and their faces reflected in the lit window.
“I’m hungry,” he said happily, looking at her once again. “Me too,” she replied quietly. “I want one of everything,” he joked looking at the menu upside-down. “And, I want a side order of burnt toast.” She laughed with her hand covering her mouth. The waitress smiled but she’d heard it a thousand times. “I love a good joke,” the waitress deadpanned. Waiting for the food to arrive he relished in the opportunity to talk to her. “How have…,” he started, but her cell phone rang. Whoever it was did most of the talking. She was attentive and looked concerned. “Uh huh….yes….I see.” He felt his chance slipping away. He was looking down fumbling with the silverware with his right hand. He counted the water spots on the spoon. He thought, I’d rather count the little freckles and moles on her. He looked around the diner and saw an old man that he thought resembled Ernest Hemingway. The waitress was refilling his coffee cup and he smiled his thanks. When she left, the old man with the white beard reached into jacket and pulled out a small shiny flask, unscrewed it quickly and poured twice into the porcelain cup. He felt her fingertips gently touch his left hand. He looked up and she smiled and then made a funny face and chewed on her tongue. He laughed through his nose.
“I’m hungry,” she said, after putting her phone down. “I am too.” “What shall we do later?” “Whatever you’d like. I’m at your service.” And then, “I’ll go shopping with you.” “I’d love that,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on you,” he said mischievously. She turned away from him. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked out the window. He’d hurt her feelings. She was silent for a few minutes. He thought, You Bastard, you couldn’t leave it alone, you rotten stinking ignorant peasant, son-of-a-b*tch. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, but she slipped farther away it seemed. “Do you come here often?,” he asked with no response as he began to panic. “Please know me,” he whispered. She looked at him after dabbing her eyes. “No harm done,” she said kindly. “I’m so hungry.” “Me too,” she said happily. But they ate in silence. She really didn’t know him. When they were done they parted.
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Post by Charles on Oct 5, 2003 15:36:03 GMT -5
Splendid!!!
[/color] . . . . Chas[/center][/size][/font][/color]
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Post by phil on Nov 5, 2003 22:01:48 GMT -5
The Actress
It was Sunday, and from my old wooden desk peering out the upstairs office window I could see the tree tops sway a bit in the rain. Most of trees had changed from the chill of October into bright yellows, flaming reds, dull bronze and a mesh of green and orange, and some already stood shivering naked. The ground was saturated from the constant raining so I was glad to be out of the marsh. I was in the mood to write but I was like one of the trees that had lost its leaves - nothing came out of me and I was staring at a fresh white page wrapped in the typewriter. Lost in fragmented thoughts I didn’t see her standing in the doorway.
“Hi, how long have you been there?” I asked. “About a day and a half.”
She looked heartbreakingly beautiful. She stood there smiling with her hands in her jean pockets and her shoulder length hair, frizzled by the wind and rain, fell lovingly on her white T-shirt. Her unblinking eyes looked bright and intelligent as always.
“Come in and get warm. How are you?” “I’m fine…leaving for Prague soon.” “Where?” “Stare Mesto on the Vltava’s east bank. Cobbled lanes and lush courtyards and old churches stitched across the land. A place where you can stand on a hillside and look far, far away.” “Sounds wonderful. Can I go?” “Sure, if you can fit in a suitcase. The coffee smells delicious,” she hinted.
I just had the one mug, so thinking quickly I dumped out a mason jar holding pens and pencils, blew into it to knock out the crap at the bottom, then poured the rest of the mug into it. I filled the mug with fresh java and took it over to the black leather couch where she was sitting.
“Thanks,” she said, smiling and shaking her head as she looked pass me at the jar. “So this is where it all happens.” “Yes, you heard the old joke. Put a hundred monkeys in a room in front of typewriters and they’ll come up with a masterpiece.” “You’re the only monkey today,” she laughed. “And a typewriter? Why not a notebook?” “Not interested. Nothing better than a good ol steel-framed Underwood. I can feel each letter. Plus, there’s not enough power from Scotty down in the engine room to power a pc.” “A Star Trek fan, heh?” “No. F Scott Fitzgerald.”
I followed her gaze over my shoulder to the framed torn photo of Hemingway on the wall, delicately holding a black cat to his chest looking down sadly in lost thought. He was probably sad from looking over my shoulder and seeing nothing on my blank page. Next to it on the bookshelf she saw the Oscar.
“Your Oscar?” she inquired. “Kind of. My mom's uncle was a jeweler employed by the Los Angeles Bronze Foundry in the 20's and 30's. They made the first Oscars. That one was flawed, so they let him take it home. Dated 1929.”
I rose and took it over to her. She cradled it gingerly, almost like a newborn, keeping its head up. She studied it carefully. “I guess I keep it around for inspiration,” I said, but it never really did. I quickly typed out ‘WINONA RYDER BEST ACTRESS AND FRIEND,’ tore it off and grabbed some scotch tape out of the top drawer and went over and stuck it on the gold man’s base. She laughed.
“Now you have to make a speech,” I insisted. “I don’t know what to say,” she said mockingly like she was out of breath, her eyelashes fluttering. “Don’t forget to mention me and the restraining order.”
She rose and returned it to the shelf, the paper plaque coming undone and twirling to the floor. I grabbed it up, crumpled it and was about to toss it away. “I want that,” she said.
I handed it to her and she smoothed it out, folding it and stuffing it into her left front pocket. She smiled shyly and sat back down. There’s my real inspiration, I thought, sitting in front of me. We both sat quietly for a few moments, the raindrops pelting the window. At one moment it was as though we were in each other’s skin and breathing in rhythm.
“I’d like to share an idea and dream I have,” I finally said. “Oh?” “Involving you.” She grabbed up her coffee again, wrapping both small pale hands around it to get warmer and leaned forward and crossed her feet. “Tell me, please.”
I settled into my chair and gathered my thoughts so I could be precise. I turned and looked at the raindrops streaking down the window, turned towards her and closed my eyes. “We’re on a train, streaking along a narrow stream of track through the mist of a mountain divide and heading cross country. On board is an acting troupe…I don’t know...maybe Kate Winslet, Hopkins, Sarandon and Robbins,” and opening my eyes and nodding towards her, “and a certain brown eyed girl.” “How about Al?” she offered. Her eyes were attentive and she continued to sip her coffee. “Yes. We must ask Al!” “We tour the country for about ten months performing three act plays, which I write and direct of course, visiting a few smaller towns too and lavishing a little drama and comedy here and there. A chance for folks to see you up close with a footlight shining on you.” “Sounds like fun,” she said. “If anything, we’ll shut down any remaining vaudeville houses.” “Maybe,” I laughed. “If anything, we can eat off the fruit and vegetables they throw at us when we take our bows.” “That’s a lovely dream though,” she said enthusiastically. “I thought so.” After a few silent moments she said, “I must go now.” ‘No,’ I thought. Why do friends always seem to go away when it’s raining?
She rose and walked over to me, ran her delicate hand through my hair, and holding my head in back she gently tilted my head back with her other hand and kissed me. “Goodbye,” she said softly. I hated it but I loved the way she said it.
I wanted to say goodbye to her in the hallway, at the top of the stair, on the way down the stair, and at the bottom of the stair near the front door. We did not talk on the way down but we did smile at each other once. It was rather an eloquent silence. With one hand holding the umbrella shielding us from the wind and one arm around her waist I was about to say goodbye as we leaned against the car. There were dark clouds above but her eyes shone bright.
“I’ve got something I need to tell you,” I said quietly. She touched my lips with her fingertips and shook her head. “You have work to do now,” she said. Then, in a Russian dialect she said haltingly, “Go write. You tell me what to say and I will say it.” “Bon voyage, Horowitz.” “Arrivederci, Lorenzo!,” she sang back, now in Italian.
As she pulled out into traffic she honked the horn three times. I think I know what three words she meant.
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Post by Noni is Awesome on Nov 6, 2003 14:22:26 GMT -5
Excellent Phil as always! I do not know where you come up with these stories because they seem to true to life !!! Incredible Job! Keep them coming! NiA
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Post by Charles on Nov 6, 2003 16:18:58 GMT -5
Hi Phil,
Another excellent piece . . . to all the writers, including Big Daddy and Imayne, the "Fiction" section now has all of your latest works.
Cheers, Charles
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Post by phil on Dec 11, 2003 20:20:34 GMT -5
Just a little note. I'm still writing. She continues to inspire me. The next one is a Ghost story. Soon I hope.
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Post by phil on Jan 1, 2004 21:03:25 GMT -5
Ghost (Part 1)
She loved her friend Peggy dearly and treasured their daily afternoon rendezvous at the café on the promenade in the oldest section of town where the streets were narrow and crumbling. She looked out the window and noticed a thin sheet of ice covering the green round tables, and the chairs were frozen solid to the ground. Looking at her friend she sensed some deep burden, for her companion’s eyes seemed darker. It was as though her spirit was broken and her nerves were shattered. There appeared to be a deep sadness in her blue eyes and she was pale and looked tired and fragile. Winona took two sips of her tea, set her cup down on the saucer and turned it slowly in quiet thought. She reached over and softly touched Peggy’s hand.
“What’s wrong, darling?” she said sympathetically, leaning closer. Her companion looked away for a minute, fumbled with the silver locket on the chain around her neck, then turned back and looked at Winona’s forehead and then directly into her eyes. “Do you believe in the supernatural?” she asked at last, her voice quivering. Winona leaned back and her eyes widened. “Well…I,” she started. “I mean..if you saw an apparition…would you be more curious than frightened?” “Well…” “You’ve always seemed to me to be strong and open-minded.” “Yes,” she laughed, “I guess…the human brain can only handle one strong emotion at a time.” “Please don’t laugh.” “What’s this all about, Peggy?” “Will you spend the night at my house…in my bedroom…alone?” “What have you seen?” “No…I don’t want to say in advance to prejudice your mind.” “But…” “Please…Winona,” she pleaded with her eyes closed. “Alright. I’ll do it..if it eases any burden upon you.”
The wind was raw as she arrived that evening wearing a long heavy coat and a black hat that she had to hold down at times to keep from blowing away. She carried a small black overnight suitcase with brass trim and an umbrella tucked under her arm. The key was under the front mat as prearranged and inside was a note on the hall table that welcomed her warmly. She had visited many times before and knew her way around the two-story dwelling once owned by Peg’s grandmother. Peggy was staying at her mothers across town. She locked the front door and turned the deadbolt. From the inside the wind outside sounded like the cry of a woman in hopeless grief. She turned and checked the deadbolt once more.
In the upstairs bedroom she pulled the curtains back from the bay window and looked out. The wind was dying down now and the bare trees were swaying gently. The clouds were breaking away at dark and were rolling off to reveal the bright face of the moon. Winona sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. It was a cozy room she thought, but she was all but cozy to say the least. There was a lovely antique dresser with mirror, a cherry curio cabinet in one corner and a well-stocked bookshelf opposite the bed. She was drawn to the curio cabinet by the reflection of the small white marble cross on the top shelf. She reached in and closely admired a glass unicorn and a tiny penguin made of porcelain. On the bedstand was a small lamp with a white-laced shade. Various framed portraits covered the walls, including one of an old man who had an expression like he was asking ‘What the Hell you looking at?’ She smiled and laughed and stuck her tongue out at him.
She decided to sleep in her clothes and just kicked off her shoes and pulled the quilt cover up over her. There were some magazines on the bottom shelf of the bedstand, including one with her on the cover. ‘Peggy has good taste’, she thought. She thumbed through it and surprisingly found that she was dozing off. Despite her adventure into the unknown, every effort to stay awake failed and she dropped the magazine to her side, snapped off the solitary lamp and fell into an easy sleep.
Winona was awakened a few hours later by some sound in the room and a blast of ice-cold air. She raised up slowly and felt for her cell phone, but she forgot to take it out of her coat, which was downstairs in the foyer. She tried to say ‘Who goes there?’ but choked on the words. It took her eyes just a few moments to adjust to the light of the moon streaming in through the opening in the curtains. She heard what sounded like a soft shuffle of footsteps and labored breathing. A figure was definitely moving slowly and it stepped into the light from the moon. She could see it was an old man, hunched over and wearing a cream colored robe. His face was deadly pale and whiskered. He moved along the wall, stopped and inspected items in the curio cabinet carefully, looked in each drawer of the dresser, then moved to the bookshelf and studied each shelf in detail and shook his head dejectedly. Then, he swung around and looked at her with blazing wide eyes, shook his fists and seemed to mouth some words. Winona reached over and grabbed the table lamp, pulled it from the base out of the wall socket and hurled it with a violent crash against the bookshelves. The vision desolved like melting glass….and he was gone.
She remained motionless and her heart raced. Clutching the edge of the quilt, her mouth dry, she tried to regain her composure. The one true strong emotion was fear although she hadn’t counted on it. She stayed awake the rest of the night going over the events and tried to sort it all out. When the darkness faded she inspected the room looking for any evidence of her visitor but found nothing. She cleaned up the remains of the shattered lamp and hurriedly collected her things and left so she could meet again with Peggy.
“Well? Did you see him?,” she asked excitedly as she walked quickly into the café. “The old man searching?” “Yes!,” Peggy cried. “I saw him,” and she recounted the visit in the night. Peggy fell into the chair, slumped over and buried her face in her hands and began to weep. “Thank, God, I thought I was going mad!,” she said through her tears. Winona moved next to her companion and pulled her close and whispered comforting words. “I will not leave you.” After a few moments she asked, “Who is he and what is he looking for?” “I don’t know. But, every night, even if I do happen to fall asleep, he shakes me awake and gives me that horrible frown of despair.” “I have an idea, Peggy”, she said as she softly blew coolness across the top of her coffee cup. “It came to me about four o’clock. I have this friend….”
The taxi pulled up in front of a gray stone house at the end of a curving country road. The remains of brown ivy creeped wildly on one wall and beyond the house there was a shimmering lake in the bright frosty morning. Two huge men were standing at the gate and they were turned in towards the middle like two turtles trying to shield out the brisk wind. “Whattya want?” one of them asked, as the girls stepped from the taxi. “I’m a friend..and I want to see…” Winona began. “Whoa there, Missy..” one demanded, as he stopped her by grabbing her wrist. “My name is not Missy!,” she cried, and she turned on her left heel, spun and kicked him in the mid section. He fell back two steps almost in slow motion and dropped like an elephant hit with a tranquilizer. She wasted no time and reloaded for the second giant. He fell forward towards Peggy, but Winona grabbed her hand and they dodged the falling tree and ran down the path together towards the front door. It was unlocked.
A long dim hallway turned left to a shorter hallway and they stopped in front of double oak doors. Soft Classical music was playing inside. They both swept in quietly and halted. An old woman standing in the shadows near the curtains smiled at them, and her husband followed her gaze and turned to face them from his oversized leather desk chair. “Hello, Godfather,” the sparkling brown-eyed beauty said sweetly. He smiled back and gestured with his hand for her to approach. “This is my friend, Peggy,” she said, nodding towards her. “Any friend of….” he began to say in a raspy voice. The door burst open and the two whales, panting and wheezing, rushed in. One had a handkerchief at his bloody nose. “You need to keep that head back,” Winona offered sympathetically. The man behind the desk shook his head disappointedly, shooed them with his hand and the two quickly exited. Peggy was shaking. It was a bit too much for her and the room began to spin and she fainted.
When she came too she was on the couch, the old woman was bending over her offering sips of brandy to her lips. She gulped it down. Winona had given a detailed account of her adventure to her illustrious friend. He had listened intently with his fingertips pressed together, rising once going to the window and returning. After two long minutes of silence he motioned Winona closer, and speaking barely above a whisper in Italian, he said: “You’re chasing ghosts instead of making pictures?” The movie star shrugged her shoulders. “A friend in need. You can appreciate that, Godfather,” she said haltingly in his native language. He nodded in thought. He gently rubbed his face with the back of his hand. “Do you need…uh…any assistance…in securing a part?” “Maybe”, she blushed. “grazie, il mio Godfather.”
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