a f waddell fiction
excerpts & anthology links
 
 

 

"So, tell me something good." "There's not much to tell. Work's good. But damn it, Rita, I hardly ever meet any interesting men, and when I do, they're intimidated. Just because I pump iron and carry a .38." "Ah. It's been quiet at your place, no? Maybe you'll meet someone. Maybe his mind will be right." Rita smiled. "What are the chances of that?" "Not good. But people can get their minds right. There are ways to get the mind right." "Really? Who are you, Cool Hand Luke's gang boss?" "Who?" >>

 
 
 
 

. . . . "Lucille, don't look now, but there's a police car behind us." Lucille took a South left turn off an I-40 frontage road, cruising the gauntlet of low rent apartments and duplexes. They viewed a perversion of nature: harsh desert turned lush by extensive watering systems. Some homeowners simply rolled out astroturf. Others landscaped with stone. The streets were named of various shades; they wound up in a subdivision: Pastels. Light pink , green, yellow and blue ranch houses, rustic fencing, and swimming pools predominated on Cotton Candy Way. Butter Cream Court. Robin's Egg Lane. Easter Basket Circle. It was enough to induce nausea and dizziness. "Hey. I wonder where these girls are headed? Maybe we should pull 'em over on a pretense. Feel 'em out. Ask ‘em for their phone numbers! Ask 'em out for drinks! Our shift's almost over you know." "Yup." . . . . >>

 
 
 
 
 

“Oh, I absolutely love negative ionization. It makes me high!” Marilyn squealed. She wore a low-cut black silk dress and black heels. Her skin well took the sun. The tip of her nose had been shortened and narrowed; concavity below her cheekbones had been enhanced by the extraction of a few back teeth. Short platinum blonde locks contrasted with tan skin, like vanilla frosting on a caramel cake. The mole on the left side of her face seemed an asymmetrical  accent to her physical perfection. “Marilyn, darling, are you sure it’s not the margaritas?” Laughed her small blonde companion. “Truman!”  “Would you believe who’s here tonight? Am I hallucinating, or is that the president of the United States standing near the buffet table?” She laughed. “Perhaps you ARE hallucinating . . . “  >>

 
 
 
 
 
 

. . . . Under a skylight I crawled on the hardwood floor and arranged three-by-five-cards. Breaking down a novel into key film scenes could be torture. How to effectively condense, yet retain meaning? I agonized. Many screen treatments in any case eventually suffered drastic re-writes; the further into the process one got, the less original meaning likely remained, until a work could appear unrecognizable. Casting-wise, Cate Blanchett and Jeremy Irons might devolve into . . . who knew? I thought the first scene would be of protagonist Claire giving direction on a film set. Scene two would begin a series of flashbacks Claire in the early years, as continuity person and script supervisor on various low-budget location films, including the comic relief of behind-the-scenes on horror films. Relationships would be broken into love scenes, interspersed with her industry climb and disappointments, climaxing in her Cannes win for Sighs And Whispers. I gathered my three-by-five cards, mixed them up, and threw them into the air. I spun and chanted as the cards fluttered to the floor. Not bad! I thought of their re-ordering . . . .  >>

 
 
 
 
 

.. . . . Steve was suddenly talkative. “Lissen now, I have a little story! “Two guys are house-sitting in Marin County. A rustic little place in Larkspur. Great location. In the woods. Isolated . . .  “The decor left a lot to be desired, but what could they do? It wasn’t their place. Plaid upholstery, rust shag carpet, cheap dark wood paneling. Black velvet paintings of Elvis and bullfighters. Of dogs playing poker. Oh, the horror, the horror . . . “One night they’re sitting on the couch reading, and begin to hear noises outside. Bumping, scratching, and rustling noises resound near the house. They investigate, walking out onto the deck. The noises stop. They go back inside. The noises start again. “One guy goes back outside and says ‘Hey! Is anyone there? Don’t fuck with us. I have a gun!’ he lies. No response. He goes back inside. “Back inside, they resume reading, when . . . “ Thump thump THUMP THUMP go footfalls up the steps and across the deck!" . . . . >>

 
 
 
 
 

A dark  man in a white linen suit, brown wingtips, and white Panama hat chain-smoked Pall Malls, downed Wild Turkey and animatedly talked to a man seated opposite him.  "Just listen to them go at it, would you? Their paroxysms of passion make me positively dyspeptic. It's always the same, people from the other side inhabiting our special places and  invading our space. And entities capitalizing on our names. The Southern Gothic. Indeed! How long have we been here now? I wouldn't have predicted qualities of the afterlife. It takes a period of adjustment. "  "I suppose. I was here for weeks before I figured it out. I have difficulty keeping track of things." >>

 
 
 
 
 

Stuart Metzler sat in his 1959 Pontiac Chieftain on his Maple St. driveway.  Mmmm . . . that new car smell. One day they’ll bottle and sell it, he thought. He pulled a small memo pad and pen from a suit pocket and made a note.’New car smell — replicate and market!’ He took in the car’s interior. ‘Dashboard needs more knobs! Bigger!’ he jotted. As a Strategy Formulation consultant, he had diverse information and ideas but  felt occasionally envious as he watched clients succeed in their projects. He experienced random, uncontrollable urges to lie, and enjoyed gauging reaction. Stuart anticipated the day’s work, and wondered what his secretary Vicky would be wearing. >>

  
 

 
 

---

contact

legal

writing

blog

imagery

home