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Wilma & Betty: Episode X

Transmitted on Sunday, January, 31st, 2010 in New Stuff , Wilma & Betty

Here’s the full story read on Saturday, Jan 30th at Jengo’s Playhouse at the latest installment of The Cure for the Common Reading. I’ll leave it here for about a week, then probably take it down. I may or may not try to actually send it out somewhere!

Hope you all enjoy!

-JM

The Further Adventures of Wilma & Betty:
Episode X: How It Does or Does Not End

(Dedicated to Bill Shipman)

It was 4:59 on a Friday afternoon and outside the 1st National Bank of Bedrock the sky was gray. A steady, dreary rain was falling. The two women just did make it through the front door of the bank as the clock struck 5 pm. The security guard pulled the door shut behind them and closed the lock home.

He was a young, broad-shouldered boy. Reminiscent of a young Dennis Quaidstone.

To be sure, he was handsome. A handsome boy that might someday ripen into a handsome man—if his life was long enough and hard enough and he made just enough bad decisions.

“You ladies got lucky,” the young guard said, smiling a perfect smile.

Betty grinned, looking both guilty and disingenuous.

Wilma sighed. “Yes,” she said. “We did get lucky.” She smiled an apology.

Then she pulled out her pistol and shot the young guard just above the knee.

He crumpled with a scream.

“Here we go,” Wilma said.

*
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Wilma & Betty: New Year’s Eve

Transmitted on Tuesday, June, 2nd, 2009 in New Stuff , Prose

Wilma & Betty III:  New Year’s Eve

The night was early.  The moon was still awakening from the dusk.  But, already, all of them—Wilma and Betty and Fred and Barney—were so drunk on Jack Danielstone whiskey that none of them could remember who had suggested “wife swapping.”
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Paper Bags and Angels

Transmitted on Tuesday, April, 14th, 2009 in Prose

At one thirty in the morning, with cold, fat rain beating against your head, a paper bag is a piece of heaven.  It’s just as much a piece of heaven as any angel.  ‘Cause angels don’t come down anymore.  They can’t be expected to stop by and hold their wings over your head just as the hardest part of the storm hits and people in their Mercedes drive by and pretend they don’t see you, sopping wet and shivering.  But my paper bag, that’s my angel.

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The Dream that was Arcadia

Transmitted on Tuesday, April, 14th, 2009 in Prose

She just showed up one day with her bag over her shoulder and the mud from her shoes leaving size seven memories in my freshly vacuumed rug and said, “I’m here to stay.  Where’s your bathroom?  What’s for dinner?  Nothing with garlic, I hope.”
There wasn’t anything with garlic, I told her.  Just something Cajun I’d been working on, but nothing with garlic.  The bathroom’s at the end of the hall, just across from the bedroom.
“Good,” she said.  “I tend to get up and down in the night.  By the way, I sleep on the right side of the bed.”

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