Sunday, December 9, 2007

Mint Julep

2 cups sugar
1 cup water
16 sprigs mint
4 pounds finely crushed ice
8 1 1/2 jiggers bourbon

Confectioners's sugar and mint for garnish

Mix sugar and water; bring to a boil, stirring. Cool. Place 2 sprigs of mint in each glass; crush to release mint flavor. Add 2 ounces of the sugar syrup, stirring gently. Fill glass with ice. Add 1 jigger of whiskey. Stir until glass frosts. Top with sprig of mint and sprinkling of powdered sugar. Recipe courtesy of Wilbert Martin in Louisiana Entertains - a complete menu cookbook

http://www.ericwilder.com http://www.gondwanapress.com

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Judge's Comment Sheet for Big Easy

Writer~ Digest
15th Annual International Self-Published Book Awards

Commentary Sheet

Author: Eric Wilder
Title: Big Easy
Category: Genre Fiction
Judge: 98

On a scale of I to 5, with 1 meaning “poor” and 5 meaning “excellent,” please evaluate the following:

Plot: 5

Grammar: 5

Character development: 4

Cover design: 4



Judges commentary:

What did you like best about this book?

A noir thriller/honor/Southern Gothic. Quite enough to please anyone who likes crime stories with a bit of the supernatural thrown into the gumbo, and the New Orleans setting is enough to entertain in and of itself. The Louisiana cuisine descriptions are a delight in themselves. Hunger gnawed as I read.

This could be desribed as a “Vodounit. New Orleans voodoo and other devilment keeps us interested until the exciting end. Lots of action, fisticuffs, bar fights, and dust-ups. Lots of local color. This is a swell novel, and I wonder why it was not published by a mystery imprint.

How can the author improve this book? Nope, too good to pick nits. Sorry. Aside from cavils here and there, not a thing should be done.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Friday, October 19, 2007

Feel the Magic

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Edmond, OK (Gondwana Press) October 19, 2007 -- Gondwana Press LLC announces the release of Eric Wilder’s newest book Just East of Eden. What do chicken sacrifices, oil wells and black panthers have in common? They are all storylines from Wilder’s prolific imagination that are highlighted in his latest outing.

Just East of Eden is a hybrid page-turner based on the author’s popular story blog by the same name. Wilder transports his readers on a rapid-fire journey between misty waterfalls in the Ouachita Mountains, steamy brothels in Vietnam, and a setting sunset amid filigree ironwork in the heart of the French Quarter - the ultimate destination located somewhere between reality and your wildest fantasy.

Author of Big Easy, a murder mystery set in post-Katrina New Orleans, Wilder has also penned Murder Etouffee, Prairie Sunset and A Gathering of Diamonds. Heather Froeschl of Quilldipper.com says, “The natural course of events is to take the blog and publish parts of it for those who still like to feel the pages turn beneath their fingers and breathe the scent of ink and paper. Eric Wilder has done this with his newest book, “Just East of Eden,” and I am delighted.”

About author
Native of Louisiana, Eric Wilder now lives and writes in Edmond, Oklahoma. The author of seven other books, he is also a geologist and noted energy expert.

About Gondwana Press
Founded in 2006, Gondwana Press LLC is a regional publisher seeking to expand the bounds of both knowledge and entertainment.

Just East of Eden, ISBN 978-0-6151-5230-1, is available at most web-based bookstores, and at http://www.gondwanapress.com. For more information, contact Taffy Bohl at 405-341-0076.

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

A Crack in the Ice, a short story

Barbara Wagner leaned against the shower wall, letting steamy water pour off her shoulders and short black hair. When the phone rang, she grabbed a towel and hurried into the living room of her tiny apartment. She stood dripping on the carpet, holding the dead receiver in one hand and the towel in the other. Shaken by the one-sided dialogue, she didn't bother turning when someone opened the front door, entering without knocking.

"Get an obscene phone call, or just making one?" the unexpected visitor quipped.
Barbara smiled weakly at Penny Pratt. Holding a half-finished romance novel in her hands, her gangly neighbor was peering at her over the top of her thick horn-rims.

"Bad news," Barbara said, hanging up the phone.

Penny asked, tersely, "Someone die?"

Tucking the bath towel beneath her arms, Barbara answered, "No. The bank rejected my loan."
Penny plopped on the couch and put her long legs up on the coffee table. Dressed in shorts and sneakers, she resembled a studious basketball player. "Is that all? Last time I tried to borrow money my banker said he knew teenagers with more assets."

Barbara smiled, went to the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. "My banker wanted to discuss the loan over dinner."

Penny ruffled her brownish-blonde hair and straightened her skinny frame. "You pretty girls have all the fun. My banker asked if I'd like coffee and charged me a quarter when his secretary brought it."

Barbara sat beside her on the couch. "Thanks for cheering me up, Penny, but I have a real problem."

"Diaphragm broken again?"

"I wish. I'm thirty days behind on my car payment, my insurance is due and I owe five-hundred dollars in taxes."

"Sounds like an average week for me."

"Seriously, Penny, I don't know what to do."

"Borrow it from your rich boy friend."

Barbara shook her head. "Can't do that."

"Why? You're marrying him, aren't you?"

Barbara walked to the window. "Robert's mother doesn't like me. I'm sure she wouldn't understand."

"Borrow it from Bob, not her," Penny said, following her off the couch and refilling her cup.

"Robert and his mother are very close."

"I'll say. Take my advice Sweetie. If you're gonna marry that boy, sooner or later you're gonna have to unlatch his lips from her nipples."

Barbara grinned. "Penny, you really have a way with words."

"His family is gold-plated, a family you'll be part of in less than six months. Why not borrow money from him?"

"Robert's mother doesn't cotton much to the idea of her only son marrying a plumber's daughter from Clarkston. I don't want to give her a reason to persuade him otherwise."

"You're not marrying his mother, Sweetie. If it makes you uncomfortable, just borrow the money from your parents?"

"Long story."

"I have all day."

"I haven't visited my folks in six months and I already owe them more than I can repay on my salary in the next ten years."

"They're still your parents. They'll be happy to help."

Barbara frowned and shook her head. "I had an argument
with Dad last time I was home."

"So what's new? My old man and I are always yelling at each other."

"Dad's retiring next year and he's going through a difficult period. He's depressed and angry and sulks and pouts around with a perpetual frown on his face. Mom says he even talks to himself."

"And makes both of you miserable."

Barbara nodded. "Nothing either of us do is good enough for him. He uses any excuse to pick a fight."

"Then borrow the money from Bob. Forget his mother. Even rich, good-looking hunks have their faults," Penny said, sprawling back on the couch.

"Why don't you tell him? He just drove up outside," Barbara said, looking out the window.
Penny quickly finished her coffee and rushed for the front door.

"No thanks. See you later."

She met Bob Lieberman, dressed for tennis, getting out of his red Corvette, smiled and waved. "Hi Bob. Barbara's expecting you."

When Bob saw Barbara's towel-wrapped wet hair, he wondered what Penny had meant. "Drip drying to save electricity?"

Barbara stood on her tiptoes, kissed him, then turned for the bathroom. Bob grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchen and followed her. He found her sitting at the small vanity, naked as she dried her short hair with a blow dryer.

"Mother wants you to spend the weekend," he said, sipping the coffee.
Barbara turned off the dryer, green eyes suddenly wide. "Are you kidding?"

"She asked me at breakfast to extend the invitation."

"Separate bedrooms?"

"For appearances only. We can do what we want after Mom and Dad go to bed."

"Thanks Robert, but I'm not comfortable in that huge house."

"June's not far away."

"We've discussed that a dozen times. It's just not a good idea for us to move in with your parents."

"The house has twenty-five rooms, a cook and a maid. No one will bother us."

Barbara shook her head and fluffed her hair. "That's not the point. We need a place of our own."

Bob quickly decided to drop the subject. "Are we on for this weekend or not?"

"I'm visiting my parents in Clarkston. Why don't you come with me?"

"And miss Mom's spring fling? I can't do that."

"Robert, your mother has twenty parties a year."

"But not this one. The spring bash is a family tradition."

Barbara draped her willowy arms around his neck. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I have something more important to worry about this year than your mother's party."

***

Next weekend Barbara gunned her old maroon Fiero down the winding blacktop near Clarkston, slowing as she passed the graffiti water tower, the red emblazoned heart still visible at the top of the tower. Jack loves Barbara, it said. A suppressed memory invaded her thoughts and she smiled, despite herself. Red bud trees and white-blossomed dogwood lined both sides of the road. Feeling like a high school senior again, she pulled the car off the blacktop.

"Gorgeous," she exclaimed, opening the door.

Barbara picked a yellow wildflower. When she glanced up she saw old man Baker in his old pick-up, waving like a hundred times before. Some things never change, she thought.

Little had changed. A few new fast-food restaurants and a giant Wal-Mart were Clarkston's only concessions to the new decade. She passed a group of youngsters milling at the Dairy Freeze. Others, out of school for the holiday, cruised the streets looking for mostly non-existent excitement. When she reached her parent's house a wave of nostalgia crested, washed across the sands of her memory, then returned in foamy rivulets to the ocean of her subconscious. Her stoic father waited on the porch as she parked in front of the house.

"Hi Dad. How are you?"

"Passable," he drawled.

He waited stiffly as she hugged him, then moved away quickly to retrieve her bags from the car. "Are you alone this time?"

"Yes," she said, realizing she was visiting Clarkston the first time in many years without a boyfriend.

He silently took her bags into the house.

"Where's Mom?"

"Your grandmother's."

"How is grandmother?"

He laughed drily. "The old woman will outlive us both."

"Any thoughts on putting her in a rest home?"

Barbara could feel his anger when he answered. "Not if your mama has anything to say about it," he ranted. "She's there from ten till noon. Goes back at three and stays till six."

Barbara started to reply, but a car pulling into the driveway interrupted her -- her mother, arriving in a brown Pontiac. The attractive middle-aged woman slammed the car door and hurried up the steps, an anticipatory smile on her face.

"Babs," she said, putting her arms around Barbara's shoulders. "You're early."

Barbara hugged her and smiled. "Just a little. How's grandmother?"

"Doesn't know a soul," she said, grimly.

"Mama, why don't you put her in a rest home?"

Cynthia Wagner stiffened noticeably and crossed her arms. "Mandy and Polly would rather die," she explained.

"Aunt Mandy and Aunt Polly live in Houston. They don't take care of grandmother everyday. Neither should you."

Her mother pulled away and opened the refrigerator. "I don't mind. You hungry? There's chicken and a roast, or you can make a sandwich."

"I'm not hungry, Mom. What's wrong with Dad?"

"He's under the weather since his prostate trouble," she said, shutting the refrigerator door.
"More like a terminal case of constipation if you ask me."

Cynthia Wagner ignored the remark. Barbara passed her father in the den, reading the newspaper and smoking his pipe. Cynthia followed her upstairs to her old bedroom. Barbara found her suitcase and overnight bag on the bed.

"Jack Stevenson is in town."

Barbara frowned. "I'm engaged, Mom. Remember?"

"I know Dear, but you haven't seen him since you went away to college. It would be nice to at least say hello."

"You liked him more than I did."

"He reminds me of your father when he was younger," she said, pulling away. "You never explained what happened."

"Nothing happened. I wanted college and a career. He wanted to stay in Clarkston."
Cynthia smiled knowingly. "But he didn't. He has his own construction company now." She edged out the door and Barbara followed her.

"I'm going for a spin through town, Mom," Barbara said, feeling suddenly closed in. "I'll be back later."

The little town was all greenery and solitude. Barbara drove to the park, followed a familiar path through the pines and sat on a swing. She listened to children playing and the swing creak, soon hearing something else beyond the clearing.

Barbara found a group playing volleyball. The young man serving attracted her attention. She admired his wavy hair -- dark as her own -- and bare muscular chest that rippled when he served the ball. Not until she looked twice at his green-flecked hazel eyes did she realize it was Jack Stevenson. Feeling light headed and disoriented, she quickly returned to her car.

. . .

Barbara took a nap before dinner and went downstairs, determined to broach the subject of the loan. She didn't find the courage until her mother served the apple pie.

"You're very quiet tonight, Dear," her mother said.

"I have something on my mind."

Cynthia Wagner looked concerned. "What's the matter, Babs?"

"Mom, I'm behind on my bills. I need to borrow some money."

George Wagner threw his napkin on the plate and stood from the table. "I knew it!"

Cynthia glanced disdainfully at her husband and protectively grabbed Barbara's hand. "George! Don't be so insensitive."

He ignored her, stalking out the front door and slamming it behind him.

"I'm sorry, Babs. Of course we'll lend you the money."

She began clearing the dishes and Barbara remained sitting, brooding over her father's angry outburst. Distraught and hurt, she joined him on the porch swing.

"Dad, I'm sorry about the money. I just didn't know who else to ask."

George Wagner stood up and went into the house without answering. She crossed her arms and rocked silently in the swing, tears streaming down her face. He returned with a glass
of milk, handed it to her and touched her shoulder. Barbara recalled his gentle tone when he spoke.

"I remember when you were a baby and I took care of you by myself the first time. After about five minutes you started crying and it scared me half to death. I yelled out the window to old Mrs. Branson next door. She just laughed and told me to give you a bottle."

George Wagner smiled, remembering the moment. He noticed Barbara's tears and handed her his handkerchief. They trickled down his neck as she rested her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry about my temper tantrum, Chicken. I guess that's what happens when you get old."
"You're not old, Daddy."

"Thanks, but you're not the only one that's reminded me lately about what an old grouch I've become."

"At least you're a lovable old grouch."

He patted her shoulder again and extricated himself from her grasp. "You knew we would lend you the money. You should have asked sooner."

"I didn't want to be a bother."

"You're no bother to us, Chicken." He opened the door and went inside. "We would like to see your smiling face around here more often," he said, sticking his head back through the door.
Barbara crossed her arms and rocked in the swing, happy tears streaming down her face. Another voice startled her. She flinched and turned around.

"Come home for the full moon?"

It was Jack Stevenson, standing in the darkness behind her. "Jack!"

Jack Stevenson grinned and walked up the front steps. "Didn't mean to scare you. Like some company?"

"Sure," she said, wiping her eyes with her father's handkerchief still in her hand.
Jack waited for her to move over in the swing. Her face turned bright red when she realized she was sitting in the middle and she quickly scooted over, glad for the embarrassment
cloaking darkness.

Jack sat beside her, still smiling. "Long time since we did this."

Their elbows touched, making Barbara nervous, but also exciting poignant memories. She didn't move away.

She asked, "How did you know I was home?"

"I didn't. I visit your parents when I'm in town."

Barbara cocked her head in disbelief. "After all these years?"

He laughed out loud. "What's wrong with that. You know I always liked your parents."
"I thought you liked me."

Jack touched her hand, but quickly pulled away and turned around, facing the darkness. "I still miss you, you know?"

"No, I didn't know."

Jack smiled the same old smile Barbara used to daydream about during class. She felt suddenly light-headed, staring blankly into his dark eyes. The yellow moon melded into a flash of light, searing straight to her brain. She squeezed his hand, glad she was sitting and not trying to stand on wobbly legs.

. . .

Penny Pratt watched as Barbara parked and then hurried out of her apartment to help with her bags.

"From the look on your face you're parents must have lent you the money." Barbara smiled and nodded, but didn't answer. "Was it worth it?"

"Penny," she said, without answering her question. "Remember the yellow bikini at Flashman's I liked so much?"

"Yes."

"Let's go shopping. I'm going to buy it."

Penny scratched her head, looking confused. "I thought you said you didn't need a new bathing suit."

Barbara grinned. "Well, I can't very well go to Cancun this weekend wearing an old suit."

"Cancun? How are you going to swing that? Bob's mother thinks he's still a virgin."

Barbara grabbed Penny's elbow, smiling as she steered her toward the door.
"Believe me, Penny, it's not something she's going to have to worry about."

THE END

http://www.ericwilder.com http://www.gondwanapress.com

Monday, October 8, 2007

Big Jim's Hunting Trip


Here is a story from Eric Wilder's new book Just East of Eden, available later this month.

BIG JIM'S HUNTING TRIP


While I have written volumes about my east Texas grandparents, I have neglected telling many stories about my equally colorful gp’s from north Louisiana. Jim and Lela migrated from Mississippi during the early 20s. Big Jim was, as his name implies, was a large, intimidating man, Lela, his antithesis, small-boned, rather frail and always had a smile on her face. Together, they had six children, all different, yet all the same.

Grady was the second son. After the tragic and untimely death of Iris, his older brother, he embraced the role of eldest living child and only male heir of Lela and Big Jim. Like his father, Grady was an avid hunter, mostly of squirrels and dove.

Vivian is only a few miles from the Texas state line. Grady and Big Jim had Louisiana hunting licenses, but not Texas hunting licenses. Still, they would often park Grady’s old Ford on a dirt road near Jeems Bayou in Louisiana and then work their way into Texas. On one such trip, both Grady and Big Jim had each bagged more than their limit of quail, even if they had been legal. They weren’t.

Big Jim stayed with the shotguns and over-limit quail, and sent Grady down the road to retrieve their car. When Grady drove past in his Ford (Grady and Big Jim always drove Fords), he saw the game warden with his dad. Like any son with good sense, he just kept driving.

The game warden arrested Big Jim, confiscated his guns and illegal game, and drove him to Jefferson, Texas. Big Jim always had cash on hand. He paid a fine of $100 and then hitch-hiked back to Vivian. When he got there he was not a happy camper.

It didn’t matter much. Grady had already told the story to everybody in the family. When Big Jim blustered, everyone began to laugh at him. Finally, with a disgruntled shake of his head, he shut his bedroom door and retired for the night.

The story is legend in the family, retold countless times at reunions and among family members. Except for Big Jim. No one ever mentioned the event in his presence. He wasn’t an ogre and probably would have taken it okay, but no one ever took the chance.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Hurricane Oklahoma

I somehow managed to sleep through a storm Sunday night that can only be described as Hurricane Oklahoma. Radar images from the Oklahoma Mesonet revealed a picture of a storm unlike any other that has ever occurred, not just in the United States but anyplace in the world. Re-enervated Tropical Storm Erin was to blame. Winds reached near-hurricane proportions and the storm dropped twelve inches of rain, flooding and causing major destruction from Piedmont to Kingfisher.

The yearly rainfall in Oklahoma is already more than twenty inches over average. Erin preceded Hurricane Dean, the first major storm of the year in the Gulf of Mexico. Dean, a category five hurricane, is on a direct course to ravish the Yucatan Peninsula within the next few hours. Following less than two years after the massive destruction of Rita and Katrina, Dean is a but a harbinger of the tremendous climate changes being seen around the world, and during the world-class storm felt Sunday right here in Oklahoma.

http://www.gondwanapress.com http://www.ericwilder.com

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

Walking Woman

As those of you that keep up with my blog know, my dad Jack lives in the Alzheimer’s ward of an assisted living center. Tonight, Marilyn, friend Debbie and I took Dad out to dinner. When I returned him to his room at 7:30, almost everyone had retired to their rooms. Almost everyone. One of the women, as always, was walking slow laps, up and down the hall. I call her the walking woman.

I do not know this person’s name, nor have we exchanged even as much as a glance. Since my dad came here, I have never seen this woman speak, or even acknowledge anyone’s presence. All I have ever her seen her do is walk.

This woman is very slender and has white hair. She walks in a continuous circle, back and forth, her hands clasped behind her back like an ice skater. Her head always cocks to the left, resting almost on her shoulder as if she no longer has the strength to maintain its weight, or maybe the weight of the memories her mind contains. At 7:30 tonight, she was still walking. The past couple of years have caused me to reevaluate my own thoughts, and the meaning of the memories in my own mind.

More than twenty years ago, my wife and I had a small oil company with forty or so employees. Caught up in the eighties oil bust, we lost everything we owned. It was even hard to hold on to our self esteem and for many years all we had was each other, and the empty knowledge that we had always done the best we could. During this time, I was grossly overweight and I began to jog.

I started out running to the end of the block. Soon, I was much lighter, running 10 Ks and feeling better about myself. When Anne got lung cancer, I continued to run, stealing a few precious moments alone everyday, even as I worried about being away from the house. It was more than guilty pleasure. The simple act of running helped keep my sanity. It also kept me strong, both from the physical toil my wife’s illness placed on me, and the mental tax that I knew I would inevitably have to pay.

Tonight, after leaving my dad in his room, I watched the walking woman and I felt that I truly understood her plight. Her children must all be dead, or else don’t care anymore. She walks because she is trying to stay strong, retain her sanity, and keep a grasp on a fleeting reality that is rapidly forsaking her.

I wanted to communicate with her, put my arms around her scrawny old body, and give her a hug. Instead, I realized it was beyond mattering. She had achieved her goal. Her mind no longer knew why she walked but her legs kept moving. I punched the access code on the keypad, shut the security door behind me, and disappeared alone into the night.

http://www.ericwilder.com http://www.gondwanapress.com

Monday, July 30, 2007

Murder Etouffee Book Trailer

Here is the trailer for a book about New Orleans and south Louisiana. Taste the Tabasco!

Six Hawks

This evening, just before dusk, Marilyn and I lazed by the pool behind my house, watching the sky as six hawks did an aerial dance in the mid-summer thermals. The birds are large and gorgeous. One landed on a high branch in a tree in my front yard. I tried to record a movie with my digital camera, but quickly realized that my point and shoot Nikon is grossly inadequate for the task. I'm resigned to buying a digital movie camera with a suitably long, telephoto lens.
http://www.ericwilder.com http://www.gondwanapress.com

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Name of the Game - an Eric Wilder short story

Name of the Game is the opening short story in my first published collection of short stories by the same name. The book is available at http://www.gondwanapress.com.

NAME OF THE GAME
by
Eric Wilder

Rita would wait for me at the door of the building where she worked. I would drive up close to the door and wait until she came out. Our routine was always the same. That day, a powder-blue Mercedes had taken my usual parking spot. The car's anxious driver, a prepped-out lawyer type with moussed hair, turned halfway around in his bucket seat to watch Rita leave the office complex.

"Who was that?” I asked.

Rita leaned across the seat to plant a sultry kiss full on my lips. "I didn't see anyone."

The man in the Mercedes watched us with interest and continued staring as we pulled away from the curb.

"Today I want it hot and fast," Rita said, turning the rearview mirror and using it to touch up her lipstick.

"Whatever. How have you been?"

Rita crossed her legs, revealing much more than a momentary peek at her shapely thighs.

"Beyond irritation," she said. "Russell came home late after leaving me alone with Jessica. Ever try communicating with a blonde teen-aged cheerleader with tits bigger than her mom's."

"What happened when Russell got home?"

"Nothing, absolutely nothing. I even paraded around in my stretch-lace teddy to show him what he was missing."

Talk of Rita's husband always made me uncomfortable. Sensing my discomfort, she leaned across the console and squeezed my leg. It was late Autumn, a beautiful clear-blue day, and Rita’s grin was wicked when I braked hard to avoid a squirrel scurrying across the road.

We barely spoke during the short distance to my apartment. I found the parking lot empty and a spot near the stairs. Just the way Rita liked it. She had her arms around my neck almost before I shut the apartment door behind us.

"Miss me?" she said.

"You know I did."

"Miss these?"
She unbuttoned her frocked blouse to the waist and cupped her breasts. I traced a narrow path up her smooth belly with my fingers but Rita was having none of it. Grabbing my wrist, she pulled me down the narrow hallway to the bedroom in back.

"Let's not waste it." Releasing my hand beside the bed, she dropped her dress, slip, and bra in one practiced motion and fell back onto the covers. "Now, I want it hard and fast."

I had left the air conditioner on high before leaving for work that morning and the room was dark and cold. Rita was already hot, immersed in all the foreplay she had needed during our torrid stroll from the front door. For the next five minutes, she clawed painful Xs in my back, yanked handfuls of hair, moaned loudly, and squirmed like a woman possessed. When we finished she rolled off the bed, went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind her, returning five minutes later, quite naked but with a can of hair spray in her hand.

"Hurry," she said. I have a prospective employee to interview at one."

"But we just got here."

"And did what we came to do. Now be a sweetie. You know my job is important to me."

As I got out of bed and pulled on my pants, Rita returned to the bathroom to fix her hair. This time she emerged looking ready for an important business meeting and tapped her shoe as she waited for me to knot my tie. Grasping my hand when I finished, she squeezed it tightly and hurried me to the car.

Because of lunch hour traffic, we found the return trip to her office much slower and Rita remained silent most of the way. When we were almost there, she said, "I have a question and I need an answer."

"Something wrong?"

"Does there have to be?"

"It's just the sound of your voice."

Rita ignored my psychoanalysis, folded her arms and turned her knees toward the door.

"Tell me. What's the name of the game?"

"Game?"

"The one we're playing."
I did not understand the question and paused before answering, "Infidelity, maybe?"

Rita closed her eyes. "This isn't a joke."

A blaring horn distracted me from the unexpected direction our conversation had taken. “Have I done something wrong?"

"You've done everything just right and I've enjoyed every minute of it. Cool drinks in smoky bars, peanut butter picnics in vacant lots and steamy sex in ways I love. I'd just like to know what it all means to you."

"Something exciting and very special. I can't remember having so much fun since I went skinny dipping with the homecoming queen in the Principal's pool."

Rita's strained smile flickered briefly. "Now what? It's almost winter and the pool is empty."

"You're shooting over my head. Is this about Russell? Are you thinking of divorce?"

"Russell's not the problem."

"But isn't Russell part of the equation? And Jessica?"

"That's not what we're discussing here," Rita said, her voice rising.

"Then please tell me what we are discussing."

By now, Rita's demeanor had diminished from silent composure to barely suppressed rage and I still was not sure why.

"Just let me off in front of the building," she said.

I coasted into the slow lane and let several irritated motorists stream past on the left. "First explain why you're angry with me."

She had neither a frown nor a smile on her face, only the blank expression of muted frustration as she pointed at the curb in front of her building.

Sounding deadly serious, she said, "Pull in and let me out. I never play the game with someone who doesn't understand the rules. You don't even know we're playing."

She hurried across the busy street without a backwards glance. When I phoned to apologize, she refused my call.
Three days passed, and then a week, without a word from Rita. Finally, no longer able to contain my curiosity and hurt feelings, I drove to our old rendezvous spot beside her building and parked at the curb. From there I watched, aware of a sudden wave of deja vu as she walked out the door at exactly our usual time. I quickly realized why.

Even though she recognized my car as she hurried across the sidewalk, she did not look my way or acknowledge my presence. Instead, she focused her smiling attention on a young man in a red Corvette as he opened the passenger door to let her in. Once inside, she wrapped herself around him and administered a sultry kiss. As they disappeared down the street, I watched him cast a curious glance in his rear-view mirror.


END

http://www.ericwilder.com

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

First Light of Dawn

Sometimes a story begins at the first breaking light of dawn, and sometimes not until the dark bitter hours just before.

Today is my dad’s eighty-eighth birthday. He looks remarkably good for a man born on July 24, 1919. We had planned a large birthday party for him. No one showed up except for my brother and me.

My dad has Alzheimer’s, but I sensed he was expecting more than Jack and I when we entered the Steak and Ale restaurant near the rest home where he lives. He glanced around the room, as if looking for someone to jump up and yell surprise. No one did. My brother is sixty-three, and I am sixty and the dinner caused me to ponder my own mortality.

My mom died last November, a victim of cancer and fate. She had a quick mind until the day she died and could always remember the past’s vaguest detail. My brother Jack and I, it seems, are more like our dad.

Yesterday we took Dad for a doctor’s visit. His doctor is a tiny, but beautiful, Chinese woman who specializes in geriatrics and gerontology.

“He isn’t getting enough mental stimulation,” she said, “Nor enough exercise.”

“Dad is shy,” we told her. “He is the only man in the place. He is lonely, and bored.”

She looked at me, and then my brother. Her expression needed no interpretation. I understood her question and I know Jack also did. She did not expect an answer and I am positive that she read our faces as clearly as we had hers.

Leaving her office yesterday, my dad grabbed his groin and winced.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I haven’t had much exercise lately,” he answered.

Tonight, he grabbed his groin at the dinner table, the expression on his face that of pain. Dad is from a generation that does not make waves, faces his pain with stoicism. Still, it was apparent on his face.

You okay?” I asked again for the second time in two days.

“Not enough exercise,” he answered again.

When I left the old man at his room in the nursing home, I sensed a feeling within him. I think it was acceptance. At his age, he has rarely seen a doctor, or been sick. He is lucky. Or is he?

Living in a small area with only women, all more incapacitated than himself, the days must be endless, the inability to understand the quagmire immersing him even more devastating to what remains of his fragile psyche.

I do not really know where I am going with this story. As I peck it out on my keyboard, I wonder – where am I at my present stage of life? At sixty years of age, it is obviously not my first breaking light of dawn, but how many dark hours remain until the circle reconnects?

http://www.ericwilder.com

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

The Rain in Spain

This is the wettest year in Oklahoma history, following on the tail end of a five-year drought. Yes, we needed the rain but I am ready for a stretch of dry weather. Yesterday, I put a picture of my house's rain gutter on my blog, Just East of Eden. There are seven corn plants growing in the gutter and two of them already have sizeable ears of corn on them.

My dogs have houses but they also have a lean-to that they like lying under. The cedar shavings beneath it are all soaked and moldy. I noticed when Lucky and Patch both developed red, runny eyes. Eyewash has taken care of their optical problems and this weekend, if it stays dry until then, I'm going to rake out the remainder of the shavings (Velvet has already gotten rid of most of it) and replace them with a fresh batch.

All is not bad and I'm looking forward to sinking my teeth into my own homegrown gutter corn. Eat your heart out, gardeners of the world. - Eric Wilder

Prairie Sunset Book Trailer

Saturday, July 14, 2007

A Gathering of Diamonds Book Trailer

Here is a promo trailer for Eric Wilder's suspense novel A Gathering of Diamonds. The book takes the reader on a journey to a remote region of the Ouachita Mountains in Arkansas. Tom Logan, the protagonist, is searching for his missing brother while trying to regain his sanity. Along the way, he meets a beautiful woman.
Read the book and go with them for a wild ride. Meanwhile, please take a look at the trailer:

Welcome

Welcome to Gondwana Press' blog site. This site will feature books available on http://www.gondwanapress.com , specifically the works of Oklahoma author Eric Wilder. Please join us.

Alcoholic Hazes - a short story

Hurricane Katrina decimated New Orleans in August 2005. My Louisiana parents were living with my wife Marilyn and me in Oklahoma. My mom had...