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
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
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
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
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
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:
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.
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