Bowling For Miracles 10 pages

Here's 10 pages of my new stage play, Bowling for Miracles. It's a comedy in 2 acts.
Copyright 2010 (c)
Registered with WGA



SCENE 3

Saturday afternoon, PAM’S living room. Dom has spread newspapers over the dining room table and on the floor. He devours one article after another, snickering as he does. After a few beats, Pam comes out of the kitchen.


PAM
Did you want-
Pam is surprised by the mess.

What are you doing?

DOM
This stuff is killing me!

PAM
What are you looking for?

DOM
I’m just reading.

PAM
Get them off of my table. Go on!

DOM
Look at this!

PAM
No.

DOM
Come here. Look at this one.

PAM(Reading)
Vampire boy found in bat cave...

DOM
Look at the picture! Can you believe that?

PAM
Get that off of my table.

DOM
Look at this! Look! “Man with two hearts donates one to next door neighbor!” Oh, that’s a good one! Can you believe they print this crap? Classic!

PAM
Move it or lose it!

DOM removes the papers to the floor revealing empty table. Pam does the following dialogue while setting table for three. Pam EXITS to Kit.

DOM
You got to see this one! Pam! Come on! Come out here a second.


PAM (O.S.From Kitchen)
Why are you reading that junk?

DOM
Perfect!

Pam enters from Kitchen carrying settings. Sets table.

PAM
They just make that stuff up. Imagine? They get paid for writing false stories like that.

DOM
Well, it’s a gold mine for somebody. Somebody’s making a mint! You can count
on that! You think they don’t make a lot of money writing this stuff? What do they charge for these things? A buck? Two bucks?

PAM
You’re the one wasting money.

DOM
I bet some of it’s true. Some of it could be true. Like this! See here? A man grew a radish in the shape of a chicken. Look at the size of that thing! What is it? A radish? Does that look like a chicken to you?

PAM
You want me to heat some bread?

DOM
That would be great. I mean it’s not the reason I bought these things. The miracle crap! That’s what I want to see. The holy stuff! That’s what I’m looking for!

PAM
Hush! You should be ashamed.

PAM EXITS to kitchen.

DOM
What? I’m just looking! A woman in Texas sees the Virgin Mary all the time. Then the sun spins around up in sky. People come from all around to see her. Does miracles too, I think. People, cripples, come hobbling up by the bus load just to watch her talk to the air. I wonder if they charge for parking? I bet that’s what they do, have some relative or somebody with a
huge cornfield or sand lot, charge a buck and a half.

PAM enters from the kitchen holding a hot bowl of pasta.

DOM (Cont’d)
Two, three bucks for vans. Campers. Motor homes, even!

PAM puts down the bowl and stares at Dom.

DOM
Ten bucks a pop even! Our Donny could be one of those people.

PAM
He’s not a cripple!

DOM
Not that.

PAM
Why, Dom? Why?

DOM
You know, special. He could be somebody very special. Oh, there’s money to be made! All you need is the right event, a little publicity. Start out small,

DOM (Cont’d)
work into the bigger stuff. Internet, radio, TV, Get on Oprah!

PAM
Oprah, ha! You got a screw loose you know that? Our, Donny...

Dom puts down the paper and smiles at Pam.

What?

DOM
I think he is. I think he’s, how you say it, blessed.

PAM
You think he is. Or is there “money to be made,” huh?

DOM
He’s a special kid, we both agree with that. Riding a bike at two. Lighting matches by four.

PAM
He takes after Henry.

DOM
He’s always reading the bible. Staying up all hours. Hardly sleeping. Barely eating...studying. I bet he knows more about the Bible than most priests!

PAM
Don’t say that!

DOM
Writing his writings. It’s like a retreat up there. Drawing those pictures on his pants. It’s like a shrine, those pants!

PAM
It’s a pig-sty up there.

DOM
I think something’s gonna happen. I believe he’s ready...he’s gonna
surprise even you! All he has to do is reveal a little bit of that mind of his...POP! A new Revelations! Something, some small little thing that gets the people come running and wham!

PAM
Wash your hands.

DOM
I tell you, Pam, I’ve been reading all about it! Things have been happening around the world. You think Donny’s the only one being affected? Other things,
too. Fish dying. People killing each other. Babies being born without brains!

PAM
So you’re not the only one.

DOM
It’s true! It’s true! And now, it’s happening to your own boy! Our, Donny!

PAM
Ughh...

DOM
It could be a sign! An omen!

PAM
Donny could be an omen? He draws on his arms and talks to lights and you think he’s sent from God? (A beat) The fish are dying? What the hell are you talking about?

DOM
Look at this-

PAM
Shut up and eat your supper.

DOM
All I’m trying to say is look around, he’s not the only one.

PAM
Your gonna be the only one to not get supper if you don’t shut up already! (Yelling) Donny! Donny, come down stairs your supper is ready.


We hear a door slam. Donny descends the stairs. He is shirtless. He wears blue jeans that have magic marker writing on them.
He is caressing his left side with his fingers and holds a BOOK in his free hand. He reads while walking slowly to the table.

PAM
Here he comes. Our savior!

She exits to the kitchen.

DOM
Come here, boy, I want you to look at something. You know it’s bowling night? You’re coming, right? You gotta wear a shirt, though.

Donny slowly walks over and slouches into the chair. Dom brings a paper to him.

DOM
Here, look at this! And this! And these!


Dom leaves the open papers in front of Donny and paces back and forth. A few beats.

DOM
Well?
DONNY puts the BOOK on the table and places his plate on top of it. DOM holds an article in Donny’s face.

DOM
You sure you want to eat on top of the Bible, there Donny?

DONNY
It’s Moby Dick.

DOM
You’re doing code on Moby Dick?

DONNY
It works pretty good, too!

DOM
Hush, you don’t want to tell anybody something like that. Don’t let your mother see you do that.

DONNY
Why not?

DOM
Why not? What are you trying to pull anyway? Are you onto something or are you not?

Donny shrugs shoulders.

Well, crap! (Beat) Anyways, you see this? (Reading) “The Virgin Mary appears regularly,” blah, blah...You see?


DONNY
It happens all the time.

DOM
That’s right! (To Pam in kitchen) You see? You see that? It happens all the time! Donny knows!

Donny starts to scoop a huge mound of pasta onto his plate.

PAM (O.S.)
I don’t want to hear it!

DOM
What are you doing in there?

PAM (O.S.)
Burning the bread!

Donny crams his mouth full of pasta.

DONNY
I’ll take a piece of that!

DOM
Me too! I’ll take a piece. We both want a piece!

Pam comes out of the kitchen holding a basket with the warmed bread, and places it on the table.

DOM
What about this one! “Virgin seen in sky!”

DONNY
Pass the pepper.

Pam passes the pepper and fills her plate with pasta.


PAM
Well, it’s all nonsense if you as me. If the Virgin wanted to show herself she would. You wouldn’t have to read some phony newspaper to hear about it. She’d make herself known!

DOM
And how would she do that?

DONNY
Is there any salad?

PAM
I didn’t have time.

DOM
How, pray tell, would she come down to earth, then?

PAM
Well, first of all, there would be no mystery.

DOM
Mystery is the first rule of being a Catholic!

PAM
She’d show herself for all the people to see. And people would be getting healed! Saved from the misery of their folly!

DOM
But that’s what we’re talking about here!

DONNY
Statues are giving milk.

DOM
What?


DONNY
In India. Statues are giving milk.

DOM
Milk? Really? You hear that? They’re milking statues! That miracle enough for you?

DONNY
Not milking! Milk is coming out of the statues! In India.

DOM
That’s what I said!

DONNY
Not milking! It’s just coming out!

DOM
What do you mean, it’s just spraying out all over the place? Like a car wash?

PAM
That’s crazy talk!

DONNY
Frogs are being born deformed.

PAM
Maybe they drank the milk!

DONNY
Floods. Famine. Disease. It’s all happening right now.

DOM
You hear that? We got to get in on this before it’s too late!

PAM
The end of the world is a scheme now?

DOM
I see shirts with Donny’s writin

Bowling For Miracles!

Just finished a play I started 12 years ago. Bowling For Miracles is a satirical play about a man and his nephew who hatch a scheme to make money from a "miracle." They get involved with a small time journalist who blackmails them into going 50/50 for all profits. Add a wacky publicist, a day time TV show and add a dash of nuts, and you get the idea. I think it’s one of the funniest pieces I’ve written. The play is a statement on pop culture, celebrity, greed and the out of whack values in this country. Stay tuned for updates.

What is "realisitic" in film and theatre?

Few of us are experts on all things. Most of us don't know how closely a spy show parallels reality, if military movies are realistic or if a moon shot can actually be done in the way portrayed in film. The two things that binds us (and we can each agree to some degree of expertise in a chosen field), technical knowledge and innate knowledge of human nature. It is the latter I am referring when I recall whether something is realistic or not. Too many people are hung up on technical jargon, time lines, and events to actually consider the realistic response of the players. We as human beings recognise good or bad acting. Why? Because we see the human response as our area of expertise. If an actors performance is multilayered, spontaneous and evokes an emotional response in us, we recognize this and are impressed. If an actor's portrayal of true emotion if off the mark it is blatant and unforgivable. So, what is realistic? Are we talking about circumstances within a film or the emotional life of the actors? I've found that non-reality, as far as plot and circumstances, can swing wildly away from "truth" given the right circumstances and the audience can accept this."Twilight" is a good example of this type of film. As long as the characters act and behave according to the unspoken or even elicited rules of their world, and have true emtional reponses to circumstances. But once an actor starts to behave in an irrationally emotional way, it just doesn't work anymore. (except if they are crazy, then that will not carry a film) So when I hear people going on about how "unrealistic" a film is, they are usually referring to the plot and circumstances rather than the acting. But I ask you, was "Animal House" realistic? No. Were the character responses within the arc of the story real? Yes. So we accept the film as being good. What about "Saving Private Ryan?" Was that realistic? I've often heard it said that the battle scenes were very realistic. So be it, but in truth films stack events in such a way as to build tension and thus are artificial by definition. All fiction is unrealistic by defintition. In adapting a true story to film, for example, reality cannot sustain the tension of a dramatic 2 hour epic without the events being manipulated into a dramatic arc. This is because that is not the way life is lived. We live in a jumble of the mundane and dramatic. Films are condensed, events are manipulated, timelines are changed, characters are often compilations of many character traits of certain key players plucked from reality. In other words, a true story has ever made it to the screen that has not in several ways been changed by the dramatic process. Drama is tension, conflict, and release. The same holds true for music. In a song there is tension in a phrase, built up by another phrase and then a release at the end. In essence a good song, let's say, Bungalow Bill, by the Beatles, is a mini dramatic theme similar to a short story. So, my point is this: When I hear someone criticize a film as being unrealistic, I consider a few things: Are they talking about the technical aspects of the story, the acting, the suspension of disbelief or all three? A good film sets up a premise in a false world that, hopefully, an audience will accept. If we have trouble getting past the world in which the characters live, we will not be able to suspend our disbelief. But if a movie is well acted, the characters live in a world that we can accept and things happen within the rules of that world, then it is, in essence, "believable." If, however, you get hung up on technical jargon, procedures, and timelines, then you will not be convinced to invest your 90 minutes. In my short play, "Do You Want Chili Cheese Fries with That?" I wanted to demonstrate the horror of killing someone. The person who does the killing knows the victim and has tried to forge a bond with him, even though he is not a fellow soldier, but an Iraqi national who has volunteered to help the Americans. So the dichotomy of the death is complicated by three factors: 1. The killer knew the victim. 2. The victim could have been working for the enemy. 3. The killer is stuck in a cave with the victim for several minutes to contemplate what he has done. Now, in reality, the soldier doing the killing probably would not have felt too much at that moment. Perhaps days, months or years later, I feel, it may have come back to haunt him. So I compressed time and had what I thought may be some future response to killing his acquaintance. Furthermore, his response was not only compressed but elaborated on by speaking his thoughts out loud. These two factors, compression of time and speaking his thoughts were an UNrealistic response considering the circumstances and timeline, but they were necessary in order for me to drive home a point. When this short play got some attention from a movie director who wanted to make it into a short film, I was confronted by the fact that these were unrealistic circumstances and suddenly they, and consequently I, became enamored with military jargon, realistic circumstances of the mission they were on, etc. And it got to the point of considering what kind of radios they had and how would they talk to each other on them. Several re-writes ensued andf finally, it came down to the point that the soldiers response would not be as written. I found myself in a position of defending my play and my film. Eventually, the inevitable happened, as so often with films, and the project got dropped due to lack of funds. But my point is, they took an idea and tried to weave a different reality around it due to a change of medium, when in fact, I felt they didn't have to do any of that. Still I went along with it, all in the name of realism. My point being, realism or reality has less to do with setting up dramatic events or structure than you may think. There are those who think that if you choose a specific technical subject, for example the film, "Crimson Tide," Starring Danzel Washington and Gene Hackman, you MUST be dead on at all times regarding reality and precedure. In this film, Danzel plays a submarine commander who goes against his captain’s orders to deploy nuclear missiles because a certain protocol has not been met. The film was taught, well acted and, I thought, realistic. When I asked the wife of a submarine commander, my neighbor at the time, about the film, she told me her husband said it was a load of crap. Very unrealistic and stupid. So, was he referring to the plot, the action, the acting or the technical jargon? He was referring to the plot. This would never happen due to certain protocols aboard ship. Hmmm. He was also referring to the way the characters acted. It would never happen. Period! The public didn't know this and the movie didn't suffer because of it. It made tons of money. But you see, they had to ignore the reality in order to get to the drama. Which is my point. So, next time you hear someone say a movie is not real, tell them, that's right. It's just a movie.

Dream State

Play Back

The car moves quickly and quietly through passages of indistinct dark and light. Shadows slide by faintly illuminated guard rails outside my window and beyond that, to my right, very far down, water. I turn to the driver. He’s a heavy set man with a dark five o’clock shadow and thick eyebrows. He looks not at the road, is fishing around for something, his eyes darting down to the seat and back to the road. Communication is nil. It’s already set in motion. I’m only along for the ride. But I have to try.
“Stop the car,” I yell.
He looks in my direction, smiles, like I’d paid him a gentle compliment. I turn down the sun visor and gaze into the mirror. It’s not me I see but a dark haired woman sitting in the back seat. She smiles. Her mouth moves but I cannot hear her. The moment comes: The truck comes at us, swerving all over the road, the piercing sound of tires skidding across cement, an instant shock, a slap to the head and we’re falling off the bridge into the river. My stomach flies around in my chest; my heart pulses to burst my veins. Then the smack of hitting the water, the look on his face when he turns to me, the crunching of vertebra as my cheek melts into the steel door. I see it in his eyes. He knows. All was lost. Death rears and there was no escaping. It’s happening no matter what I do.
Stop.
Stop time and see who he is. Can I start at the beginning, play it back?
Yes. I’m in the car again. We’d turn onto the bridge. What can I do? I unlatch the glove box and search for papers. Who is it this time? A name pops into my head as I try to read the registration. Then a flash of light, the crunching of vertebra as my cheek melts into the steel door. I’m in the water now, helpless, sinking down, trapped in the car, cold water envelopes me, bubbles escape my mouth as I scream his name.
”Carrillo. Pablo Carrillo.”
Then I woke up.
That was the first time I manipulated a dream to see who I was going to save.
The dreams first started about the time I turned thirty. I was walking home one early Sunday morning after a party in the East Village. I’d been drinking since about ten that evening and had a wonderful time chasing a girl I liked, trying to get her to go out with me. I failed in my attempt, however, and had way too much to drink. With time on my hands and little money for cabs, began the walk the fifty-something blocks back to my apartment. It was cold. Anemic flakes slowly began falling around me. After a while the snow stopped melting on the sidewalk and began a rapid accumulation. The light sputtering transformed into a white curtain and obscured anything beyond a half block in any direction. As I trudged on, the wind began to pick up. Swirling blasts of snow hit me in the face, numbing my cheeks and nose. I picked up a newspaper from a trash can and held it over my head. I looked down for protection, watching one foot step in front of the other. That was when I noticed the blood. There was a large drop of red on my shoe, then another on my knee. I put a finger to my nose and returned thin shades of red liquid. I collected snow and put it to my nose. Feeling woozy, I made it to the doorway of my apartment, unlocked the door and staggered into the building. I fell down, tried to recover but hadn’t the strength, and in the hallway I passed out.
I had the first of many special dreams. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the bits of information I was acquiring through this “dream state” would later enable me to save peoples lives. The information, or dream data, came to me in bits of short, black and white moving images, similar to a video clip. Micro movies I played back in my head and try to comprehend, but only if I woke up immediately. If I didn’t wake up immediately after, the information would slowly dissolve from easily remembered pictures into a mist of crumbling bits of black and white. I didn’t choose this to happen to me. I didn’t believe in ESP, mind melding, kinetic energy transference, time travel or anything else you can cram into that shit-box category. I was just an ordinary guy.

Dark Genius (Novel)

Okay, so this is an excerpt from my novel, Dark Genius. I wanted to post this because I am editing it now and soon will try to get it published.

Chapter One


John Harper had been coming to Maynards Island since he was about 10 years old. A tiny spec in Casco Bay, Maine, about a mile long and a half mile wide, the island imbued a sense of self reliance, and a closeness to nature, since it had no electricity, running water, except for a gravity fed rain barrel on the roof, and no paved roads or cars. The cottage sat on a small sloping hill that afforded some of the best views of the bay on the island. Built in 1908, beyond a spectacular fireplace and warm cozy furniture, it held little in the way of creature comforts. The gas stove and refrigerator hadn’t been replaced since the mid-nineteen sixties. Most of the furniture came with the place when his parents bought it. It was all original from the last owners and held up well. Since the cottage, with three bedrooms, a living room and dinning room, was not winterized, it was unusual for Harper to stay much past Labor Day. But those late days of autumn were the most splendid. Something about the shorter days, the sun lower in the sky, a wisp of chill in the afternoon air and beginnings of autumn color on the trees always invigorated him.
Now Harper stood in his kitchen holding a very special envelope. It contained, he assumed, the last known letter written by his very famous, most successful and now deceased brother, Jimmy. Jimmy Harper had been famous for his art. The world had known such painters before; Willem De Kooning, Jackson Pollack, Gerhard Richter, to name a few, that had made names for themselves and had been declared masters by contemporary critics and the art buying connoisseurs as well. Jimmy was now a dead master. A lifetime of emotional ups and downs, exacerbated by booze and drugs, had finally pushed him to an edge he willing slipped over.
Ferryboat captain Craig Morton, a small, gruff looking man, having just delivered the letter to Harper, seemed most proud of himself for being so helpful. He stood in Harper’s kitchen doorway and waited, no doubt, for confirmation of his good deed.
“How can I thank you, Cap?”
“It is from Jimmy, then?”
“Oh, yes. There is no doubt.”
“Kind of strange, don’t you think?” Morton shifted on his bare feet. “To get this so long after he’s gone?”
“Of that I am not so surprised, Cap. My guess is the mail in New York City got a tangle in it.”
“But a month after?”
“Six weeks after, actually,” he lied.
Harper examined the envelope one more time. The post marked was blurred but seemed to confirm the letter was in fact mailed not but a week ago.
“Well, whatever happened, I got it now, Captain. Thanks to you.”
“Well Harp, I thought you might like to see it right away. Letter delivery’s not my regular routine, you know.”
“I am grateful, Cap. I truly am. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to read it in private.”
The Captain grumbled under his breath before forming it into words. “Off to the next run, then. Regular service to the mainland will stop this week.” Morton started walking away. “Just a reminder!”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again, Cap.”
Morton trudged off.
Harper rested his back against the door and looked at the envelope. He took his pocket knife from his pocket and sliced it open.
It was probably just another in a series of odd little notes. Most of the notes had something to do with shadows moving, walls waving and demons living in the upstairs apartment. He'd seen many of these letters. Jimmy had been sending them for years, and each one had been more bizarre than the last; rambling, cryptic notes on paper bordered with hand drawn doodles and cartoons: Strange sea creatures, a snowman with black laced boots smoking a dope pipe in billowing clouds. Some of the letters were sent special delivery, others through regular mail. They never said much, chitchat about the New York art scene, ruminations on life, death, loneliness, and sometimes detailing dreams before going off into unintelligible blather. Harper knew them for what they were; the ramblings of a deranged man, hopped up on drugs, wallowing in hopelessness. And now Jimmy, his once beloved brother, internationally successful abstract artist, was dead. What was unusual was that it had been mailed weeks after Jimmy’s death by suicide. Unsettling as it was, Harper could not let himself get distracted.
Outside his back porch, tall brown grasses swayed gently in the field beyond his backyard. The late morning sun was drying foliage. Warm moisture from the grasses caressed Harper's face like hot breath as it coalesced above. He took a deep drag of his cigarette, put the tip onto a strand of grass and watched it bend from the heat. Then he opened the letter and read.


“Dear Bro,
I am drowning here in this filth hole. Why am I always complaining? Alright, I’m not complaining anymore. Where are you? I haven’t seen you in the city for a while. Still hiding on the island? Maybe I’ll come find you.
Jimmy”
That last sentence sent a chill down his spine. “Maybe I’ll come find you.” Harper folded up the letter and stuck it in his back pocket.
In his studio, Harper pulled on his heavy, paint splattered work boots and stared at his new canvas. The painting had come to him in a dream; an angry ocean ripped by wind and rain, and struggling on it, a small boat atop a giant whitecap in the middle of the vast sea. He’d hoped to show two things: The vastness and violence of the sea and the intimacy of the boat, a sailor alone, a mere spec of paint, at the tiller in that vastness. The painting was at the beginning stages. Harper hoped he would know when it was fully formed, his idea and concept realized, and not over paint the way he tended to do. Too much detail, he’d found confounds and destroys the illusion.
He also needed a rest from his brother’s spirit. It still lived within him, and all around the island, in the studio, the kitchen, and in his dreams. Death can never end a life so vivid, so complete in another persons mind. He knew Jimmy as he knew himself. He knew his heartache, his weaknesses and his vices. He knew of his spirit, his love, his gentleness. He knew his body and his eyes, his face. Even looking at his own hands, he could see the resemblance to Jimmy and it unnerved him. His hand alone could give him anxiety. He knew Jimmy needed to get out of his head. That he needed salvation from his brother’s spirit.
And salvation came in small rays of hope, and that hope was work. The glassy surface of a newly stretched canvas, stiff bristle brushes, the smell of gum turpentine and linseed oil, applying the paint; these things Harper loved. These things grounded him, healed him and would get him through his grief. Take him away from the guilt of Jimmy's death.
Taking a last drag of another cigarette, he looked up from his painting. The bay sparkled in silver slivers of reflected light. The nearby islands stood as blocks of green and dark brown in floating reflections of the sky. He put the canvas aside and headed down to the public dock for a look out at the bay.
Walking down the gangplank to the dock, Harper loved the feeling of being above the water, suspended over the secret world of sea creatures and grasses that he could see glimpses of gently swaying with the tide. The laughter of small children filled the air as Harper sat down on the dock. The autumn sun was just strong enough to warm his face and shoulders. A couple of kids with baited drop-lines, their faces hanging over the dock, waited for crabs to bite. Harper peered down at the sandy bottom, a patchwork of speckled light and sea grasses. Crabs appeared like black-brown spots, lingering by the children's baited hook. They moved mysteriously in and out of the murky shadows until succumbing to temptation.
"Got one!" The girl yelled as she leaped to her feet.
"Pull it up, pull it up!" The boy chimed, "No! This way!" The boy shouted again, taking the fishing line from her.
"It fell off!" "Let's do it again! Drop it!"
Harper chuckled as he watched the crab’s slow descent. Once landed, it again showed again interest in the baited hook, the harsh lesson not yet learned.
A canoe hit the dock as it came up along side. Harper got to his feet and grabbed the line offered him by a handsome young woman. He held out his hand to help her out of the canoe. She stepped awkwardly onto the dock, squared herself, and flashed a bright smile. She had to be about twenty-five, with thick, dark shoulder-length hair and dimples that framed her smile and accented both sides of her cheeks. She wore blue jeans, a white pullover jersey and nothing on her small white feet.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" She asked as she dropped her backpack onto the dock.
That line was too perfect for him to imagine anything but that she’d said it purposely to test him.
“Yes, it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? I love the fall weather.”
She turned and scratched her head, fluffing her thick hair.
"Does that little store up there carry flashlight batteries?" She asked, pointing in the direction of the island store.
"I think they do," he said, half chuckling to himself. It took getting used to, not having electric lights. "You stay on the island long enough, you get used to walking around in the dark.” He looked at her beautifully formed, square feet. The small toes looked a bit worse for wear with nicks and cuts. “And your feet will toughen up, too."
She looked down at her feet, then at his heavy work boots. She let out a little laugh. “Those are some big band-aides you got.”
Harper chuckled at her little joke. So she could hold her own. "Where are you staying?" He asked, half expecting her to name a friend from the island. Perhaps he knew her family?
"The Nubble," she said, "Right out there." She gestured to her left.
Harper turned to look at the Nubble. He hadn’t wanted to look at it. He knew that place so very well inside and out. The small cottage sat atop a natural foundation of large rocks. The round, two story, cottage just fifty yards off shore was Jimmy’s summer home, his art studio, his passion, and once upon a time, the only place he’d been happy. It was called, “The Nubble” by everyone on the island and nobody really seemed to know why, except that it was a small little thing, out of the way, perched upon a small knob of rocks.
The Nubble was ablaze with reflected sun off the bright white surface he’d painted just a few short years ago. It had been boarded-up since well before Jimmy’s suicide. No one had been out there for several months.
"The Nubble?” He said incredulously. “That’s Jimmy's place."
"That's right," she said, securing the straps on the backpack.
Daggers cut his chest. He was about to inquire further when she said,
"He was my fiancé."
The word hit him like a cold wave. The possibility that Jimmy could have been engaged stunned him, threw him into his head searching for answers, clues. Had he ever mentioned a woman in his life? Did Jimmy ever give any indication that he’d even been attracted to a woman? Had he not read all of the letters and emails carefully enough? Suddenly, this man that he’d know so well, this brother through thick and thin whom he held so close in memory, for a split second, his brother seemed like a complete stranger.
"Did you know, Jimmy?" She asked.
His startled glare seemed to catch her off guard.
"Well I guess you would, famous artist and all."
She pulled the backpack onto her shoulders and started to walk up the gangplank toward shore. Harper stepped forward, taking her arm. She turned to him and they locked eyes.
"What?" She asked defensively.
"The Nubble is empty, boarded up," he said.
"It was."
She smiled slightly, pulled her arm gently from his grasp and headed up the ramp toward shore. He watched her until she disappeared behind the pines at the top of the hill.
Harper couldn’t focus. He was confused. He was instantly attracted to her, couldn’t keep his eyes off of her and yet he was stunned even further by the fact that she claimed to be his brother’s fiancé. And she dared to claim permission to stay at the Nubble! Was he so sad and lonely that all these emotions could crawl into his heart at once and could not be pulled apart and examined?
He turned to the gleaming monster off shore. It was radiant, alive in the warm sun. A couple shuttered windows lay open, exposed to the light and sea. Stabbing glints of sunlight reflected off the glass and were a violation, as was the thought of someone living in his beloved brother's studio. When was the last time he'd seen the place like that; open, vulnerable to the world, alive? Jimmy had lived and worked there for fifteen summers. Harper helped him paint the damn thing the year he'd bought it and several times since. And Jimmy had painted his masterpieces, grown ill, wrote many of those crazy letters there while slowly slipping away, into that dark place he’d gone.
He pictured Jimmy on the wrap around deck, alive, vibrant, making love to a canvas, spreading paint with bare hands, smoothing it like mud on a nude body. Young, smiling, handsome, shirtless, splattered in paint, breathing irregularly, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he worked. This is how he remembered Jimmy now. The genius lost in his world.
Inside the Nubble it would be a raging mess; beer bottles, melted candles, clothing scattered, canvases in various stages of completion, desecrated, coffee stained, urine soaked, Jimmy’s unholy world.
The confusion surrounding Jimmy's death, with no real “last will in testament” found, with agents and gallery owners laying claim to most of Jimmy’s artwork, how could there not be even more confusion? More hurtles to jump. Perhaps it was inevitable. Maybe he shouldn’t be at all surprised to find someone snooping around the island. But he never, ever could have imagined a scheme like this one: A "fiancé?” A thrill of emotion ran through Harper’s stomach. So, the game was on. A beautiful woman was involved. Okay, I’ll play. I’ll play for a little while. He turned and walked up the ramp to shore. Outside the island store, he peered inside the window, but she wasn’t there. And he wondered, just for a split second, if he’d just imagined this beautiful creature, this young goddess he’d given a hand to, arisen from the sea.

Alla Prima 12 x 9 Oil on canvas

This little Alla Prima painting is not all I've been up to but it is the only painting I have bothered taking photos of. It's very difficult to get a really good photo of a painting. This one is just passable.

I don't usually work in alla prima, but I was inspired to just do a quick painting by some of the other work I had been checking out lately.

Just got back from a trip to Northern California a few weeks ago when I painted a small painting on the beach. I'll post that soon.

Been writing a lot. I am reminded of what a frustrating venture that is. It seems nobody really cares what you write. Why? Because they have to READ it and there is so much CRAP out there that after a while they just stop reading.

That's what happened to me when I was in a writers group. It seems the worst writers take up all the time of the more experienced writers and also it seems no really can give an honest crit because of hurt feelings and just not having anything constructive to say in general. Anyway, I can't blame people for not wanting to read because I'm the same way…so anyway, trying to get a screenplay read by anyone that can actually do something about producing it is next to zero!

It’s tough out there, people! But I have tons of ideas and stories I am developing in spite of the fact that I haven't an agent. Being hopeful and being full of shit are two different things, I've found. I know I am a good writer, as I have been published and been told so by folks in the business when they didn't have anything at stake by saying so. I enjoy writing immensely. It feeds my desire to create. Creativity is the closest to God a mortal can get. It is a gift from God, no doubt to be able to create, and only man can do this. We are all spiritual beings...enough ranting, back to work!

Peace,

Chuck

Peonies in Silver Cup 8 1/2 x 11 oil on linen

Finished this last night. Flowers are hard to paint. Bought this cup at Hobby Lobby of all places. Did this one for my sister. Flying to Atlanta tomorrow to visit her. Bringing this painting as a gift. Supposed to be hot and muggy as opposed to hot and dry in Phoenix. I hate flying into Eastern time zone! My body does not adjust well to that 3 hour change, but it will be nice to see her and my nephew.