Happily Ever After

Posted on February 1, 2018 by Curmudgeon-at-Large

It is February, the month of valentines, hearts, flowers, Cupid, love and time for another long overdue, heart throbbing story of:

Fallen Arches title copy

For those too new to this blog to remember or those who do remember but wish to forget, Fallen Arches is my grotesque effort to reinvent the romance novel (more on that subject at Fallen Arches Redux). Here, for your reading pleasure, is the latest installment.

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The transport carrier was heard before it was seen. The drab, dusty, black-hole like sky of Voltmore 4 prevented sight for more than an arm’s length. The bulky carrier’s engines throbbed as it approached and docked at the colonizing station platform.

Anxious couples milled about in the darkened air, nervously awaiting their turn to be processed and then boarded onto the carrier for their transport to the far off lands of Northeros and Southos in the Gethen solar system, where their lives could begin anew. The exhausting and endless Arrakis wars, stopped then renewed with even more hostility and bloodshed, had seen the near extinction of several tribes caught in the midst of the seemingly endless struggle.

Ultimately the Hainish Truce supplied a welcome but brief relief. At first the warring factions did not observe the tenuous truce but then, after several false starts, it appeared that the truce would hold and repatriation or, at least relocation, of the decimated tribes could begin in earnest. The Wockyjabbs, a docile, retiring, servile people, were among those tribes caught in the unrelenting, harsh wars between the belligerents and nearly obliterated. Oscar was among the few Wockyjabbs left.

Voltmore 4, though incredibly barren and bleak at the edge of the galaxy, was a safe holding place for the remaining tribe members who survived until they were chosen by the supreme Ekumen Council to be paired together and then moved to Gethen where they could settle and breed and continue their lineage. By Council law, each tribe was granted one pairing per transport which occurred only once a nebulon.*

[*Author’s note: A nebulon is a single revolution of the planet Hysteria around its sun or approximately fifty years.]

In the near complete darkness, Oscar, his newly chosen mate alongside, plodded ever so slowly through the dimly lit corridor leading up to the carrier. Painfully shy like all Wockyjabbs, Oscar finally picked up the courage to reach out and touch the hand of his chosen partner. Other than their exposed hands, both were covered head to toe in layers of clothing to protect themselves from the harsh Voltmore 4 climate. When no resistance occurred, Oscar started to stammer out his thoughtful but slow speech.

“I.. I know that we will be together for a lifetime and we hope to.. to form a new life and.. you know.. re-create, I.. I mean reproduce, to keep our species alive and.. and all those things but, but I.. well, I don’t even know your name. Please tell me.”

After a pause, his mate replied “My name is Walter.”

—————

With apologies to J.K. Rowling, Lewis Carroll, George R. R. Martin, Frank Herbert, and Ursula Le Guin.

…and they say romance is dead.

Posted on February 19, 2016 by Curmudgeon-at-Large

and they say

You may thank (or blame) Tom Merriman for this episode of:

Fallen Arches title copy

He asked in his February Monthly Theme for a post on the topic “…and they say romance is dead.”

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A husband and his long suffering wife decided to take a romantic driving vacation through the scenic US West. The husband, who was hard of hearing, was speeding down a remote highway and was spotted by a state trooper who pulled behind them, siren blaring.

“Pull over” says the wife.

“What?” says the husband.

“PULL OVER! STATE TROOPER!” screams the wife.

The husband pulls to the side of the rode and is approached by the female state trooper.

“May I see your license, please?” says the trooper.

“What?” says the husband.

“LICENSE! SHE NEEDS YOUR LICENSE!” screams the wife.

The husband hands the trooper his license. Upon looking at the license, the state trooper says:

“I see you’re from Delaware. I used to date a man from Delaware but he was a real asshole.”

“What?” says the husband.

“SHE SAYS SHE KNOWS YOU!” screams the wife.

…and they say romance is dead.

Fallen Arches Redux

Posted on April 10, 2015 by Curmudgeon-at-Large

I am on a short (several week) break. In my absence, I direct your attention to Fallen Arches.

Fallen Arches is my silly effort at poking fun at romance novels. Both Carrie Rubin and Diane Henders have been kind and big-hearted enough (and foolish enough) to allow me to take their novels and turn them into mincemeat with my perverted version of heart-throbbing and head-aching romance. See The Minot Misery and Corned Beef on Spy, respectively. Madame Weebles‘ post on Search Terms: WTF Edition and Alex Trebek inspired me to write a parody entitled Double Jeopardy.

[As an aside, I do note that no one has asked me to do this a second time.]

Other vain and misdirected efforts include an envious vampire, a lonely housewife, and a would-be gangster. I have sought out every genre from dinner parties to detectives to outer space to mystical transformations. I have written them based upon search terms and multiple choice: No theme is beyond my ability to reduce it to crappy pulp. They are all listed under “Romance Novel?” in the Types of Gripes.

But, as you know, I’m not original and I am always looking for material. If any of you wish to have your novels, journals or articles reduced to mushy, illogical, sentimental rubbish, then please send me your ideas and I will ruin them post-haste (or whenever I feel like it).

When I return, I will give your comments the attention they deserve. In the meantime, you can waste your time and waste away your brain perusing through the chapters of .

Transformed

Posted on September 25, 2014 by Curmudgeon-at-Large

For those of you unfamiliar with this theme, Fallen Arches is a curmudgeon’s way of looking at romance, one broken heart at a time.

So here is yet another episode of:

Darryl had only three desires in life – hunting, fishing and getting into girls’ panties.

Coming to Grandma’s cabin in the mountains let him do the hunting and fishing; girls’ panties would have to wait a bit longer. He always liked coming to Grandma’s cabin. Grandma was a little bit weird but she was pleasant and she always fed him good stuff like shrimp and grits and biscuits with gravy. Besides, the hunting on her property today was fan-tastic! He had already bagged himself two rabbits just a short ways from the cabin and was on his way back to show off his trophies.

His hope was that Grandma would be back and she would not have Uncle Fester and Aunt Lou Ellen in tow. They were really weird! In fact, all three kept talkin’ shit about some trans-somethin’. Aunt Lou Ellen was always gabbing about how the rocks and the stars mixed with your soul and brought out your inner being, blah, blah, blah. It was all bullshit as far as Darryl could see. He couldn’t figure it out and didn’t want to. As long as they fed him and let him hunt, he was happy.

He also liked the thought of seeing cousin Daisy. He always wanted to get into her knickers since he was a pup. She must be all of fourteen now and ripe as could be, yeseree. Darryl figured that one day he’d see Daisy, sneak up on her and let nature do the rest. At least, that was how Darryl saw it.

As he approached the cabin, he saw that Grandma had returned. The other pickup in the drive told him that Uncle Fester and Aunt Lou Ellen were there as well. His downcast spirits were lifted a bit by the thought of seeing cousin Daisy, even if she came with that snot-nosed little brother of hers. Just as long as Uncle Fester didn’t stare at him with those god-awful eyes. Darryl was a big, strong young man and not afraid of much but something about Uncle Fester frightened him and made his skin crawl.

He bounded up the steps and prepared himself for the ritual greetings as he heard Grandma say to him “Oh, Darryl. You just missed it. It was the most wonderful transformation that your uncle has ever done.”

Darryl wondered what crap he had thankfully missed when his aunt chimed in. “It was amazing. Both children just hopped and bounded with joy. You should have seen them leaping out the door and into the fields.”

“Both children?” said Darryl querulously. “You mean Daisy and her little brother?”

“That’s right.” chirped Aunt Lou Ellen. “Your uncle made them free animal spirits. They get to enjoy the entire day as joyful creatures of the open air and fresh fields before they change back. You may have passed them hopping about as you came in.”

“H-h-hopping” stammered Darryl. “You mean l-l-like rabbits?”

“Yes,” said Aunt Lou Ellen “that’s exactly right. Your uncle transformed them into two darling rabbits to sense freedom and experience their other being.”

“So what did you do while we were gone?” asked Grandma. “Was your hunting successful?”

“Oh, yes” said Darryl, without thinking. “I managed to bag two – ah – two – ah r-r-rab-rabbits.”

“Two rabbits” said Uncle Fester in a low, even but menacing voice. “Two rabbits out in the front field, by any chance?”

“Y-e-s” said Darryl slowly as a dreadful thought started to enter his skull.

“The front field!” shrieked Aunt Lou Ellen, “Isn’t that where the children went when you changed them?”

Uncle Fester’s eyes – always scary as two coal-black centers – now began to change to an intense, fiery red glow as he stared with increasing animosity at Darryl.

Darryl realized with growing alarm that he was going to find out about being transformed. And he wasn’t going to like it one bit!

Double Jeopardy

Posted on February 24, 2013 by Curmudgeon-at-Large

I am indebted to Madame Weebles and her post Search Terms: WTF Edition for this chapter of Fallen Arches.

Personally, I have nothing against Alex Trebek or his wife but the idea was too good to pass up. All the phrases in italics are taken from Weebles’ search terms.

————————————————————————–

Alex Trebek sat tidily erect at the dining room table reviewing the latest topics for his game show Jeopardy. Despite the early morning hour, he was already dressed nattily in a double-breasted summer-weight wool suit, whose creases were squarely aligned without wrinkles, his azure-blue Countess Mara tie squarely formed in a Windsor knot and a carefully folded monogrammed handkerchief peering delicately and precisely from his suit jacket. His signature silver hair crowned his head and was as full now as it was decades ago when he first started as the host of his eponymous variety show.

Sipping elegantly from his cup of freshly seeped Oolong tea, he was momentarily distracted from his morning chore as he stared across the table to a plate of half-eaten spaghetti with weebles. Next to it sat a food-stained edition of Weeblerotica magazine opened to an article entitled Picturesque Vagina. Alex instinctively wrinkled his nose at the messy intrusion into his otherwise neatly arranged world. As he returned to his list, he suddenly noticed that someone, annoyingly and surreptitiously, had penciled through the list of topics and entered another, and more vulgar, set. In place of Towns Starting with ‘B,’ Presidents’ Day and Wild West were scratched in Barricading the Cheese, Precocious Tits and Dead Marshmallow.

Drawing in his breath, his brows furrowed, he knew who was responsible when the culprit, his wife, lurched into the room. Wearing a shocking pink nightgown, her hair in curlers and the butt of a cigarette dangling from her lips, she staggered to the liquor cabinet and helped herself to a morning bourbon. Looking at Trebek, she spat out the words: “Well if it isn’t Subway Penis.”

Alex, unfazed, put down the altered list and said smugly: “You need to phrase that as a question, dear.”

She snorted: “Here’s a question for you Alex, when are you going to stop wearing pantyhose, you butt-plug?”

Alex, unsmiling, replied: “I wore pantyhose for Halloween, now I can’t stop.”

Undaunted, his wife continued: “Here’s some more questions for you. Can I touch up my hair and raid it the same day? Why is Alex Trebek such an insufferable prick? Can cats carry demons? Why does Alex Trebek think he’s hot shit? “

Bolting upright from his chair as though shocked by a cattle prod, Trebek stomped firmly out of the breakfast room but not before his wife shouted one last question to his back. “Will Mr. Pantyhose Ascendant have a nice day?” She let out a guffaw followed by a series of chortles, gasps, snorts and wheezes, the result of many years of chain-smoking and binge drinking. Alex marched stiffly forward, slowly and determinedly, as though walking to the gallows.