Category Archives: erotica

Wedding Cake House: Flash Fiction Pick From “Difficult People”

Wedding Cake House


It all began rather innocently and generously, but the outcome, Bob Harper would easily agree was quite the reverse. You see, Bob and his wife Gail Harper (nee’ Doubling)…had before they knew it, the glorious burden of a rambling Victorian, actually a picturesque Queen Anne, with lots of rooms, porches, stairwells and obscure passages in what they liked to call their “wedding cake house.”

“It’s way too big for us,” Gail complained but as if overheard…friends and relatives seemed to appear like some force of nature to fill the nostalgic spaces with a maddening fury.

Gail found herself all too frequently trapped and overwhelmed in the kitchen, and there she was preparing an immense beef stew dinner; meanwhile Bob had several artists and writers in retreat in a beautiful turret room on the second floor; and they were discussing the horrors of the business of hawking new books and canvases.

On the wide porch a nephew of Gail’s, one Kramer Spitz was weeping post graduate separation tears over an amore lost…while the children of these variously married adults screamed bloody murder tearing about the fascinating spaces of this old wooden castle: those wonderful narrow stairs to the third floor…the dumb waiter plunging up and down, herky jerky…and the echoic shouting down the laundry chute to the basement. Kramer was sobbing on the porch, and Gail saw her neighbor Kim kiss her husband goodbye and then saw seconds later, Bob’s artist pal Carlos sneak through the hedge and enter her house from the rear, so to speak.

With this plotline in barged her father and mother, both higher than kites, dragging along Aunt Kate and Uncle Douglas, heavy drinkers, loud, occasionally obscene as sailors on leave…

“How the hell are ya, Gail,” Uncle Douglas cries and grabs her round the waist, one hand brushing her breast (always the tit man, her aunt declared one drunken night)–

–and just then the kids burst down and up from everywhere and exploded like confetti in the big kitchen…and Gail seeing purple dancing spots slung the meat platter, a white bone heirloom, across the room like a giant ghostly prehistoric Frisbee…and the beef, sizeable given the demands of company on hand, skipped then rolled into the corner by the push pedal trash can–filthy–while the great heirloom continued its horrifying trajectory past Aunt Kate’s bristly hair and smashed solidly through the pantry glass doors and shattered glass followed the hallowed hoary plate to the floor and thence in a fantastic display of three dimensional chaos theory invaded the space beneath the kitchen table.

The crash and subsequent Munch-like, blood-curdling scream from Gail brought the entire tribe to absolute silence to the kitchen…

Gail was succored, patted, cooed to and hustled into a kitchen chair.

“Let’s eat out,” Bob said to kith and kin alike. “How ’bout Chinese?”

There was a shout of joy! And off they went, tumbling into three different cars, vans and SUVs, and Gail still sobbing between retellings, and laughing hysterically…

Gail finally laughed in a human-like manner; she had Uncle Douglas pick up Carlos, now distracted from the house next door by the bedlam spinning in the driveway…and off they went.

Later, after a big meal the cavalcade stopped at the city’s central park…and the kids and then adults waded in the giant duck pool and Uncle Douglas fell down and got soaked, Kramer the lovelorn was comforted, confessing his deep loss (mostly lust he later admitted), and then somebody screamed “water snake!” which cleared the pool and brought them home again to the wedding cake Queen Anne…which later that night Gail told Bob they must sell without delay or she’d have to leave him…and he stared at her like she’d lost her mind and said softly, “Okay, hon.”

Then Gail smiled and said with a feverish glint to her green eyes, “Over my dead body.”

#fiction DIFFICULT PEOPLE 172 EROTIC flash fictions, Zen tales revealing destiny-imbued moments. Adult readers only.

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Infernal Regions Report: Scribe in Purgatorial Revision Spirals

Let us now praise the gods & goddesses of revision.

Long accepted is the law of writing, reading, rewriting…putting away…(after a period long enough for amnesia to set in, reopen the text)…read, rewrite, read again till sick of it again…repeat ad nauseam…[test the manuscript on poor “friend” victims, get feedback, please be patient with good readers]…and so on it goes, until the Author gives the creature a push out of the lab and good luck to that orphan…but always remember, authors in their heart of hearts love all their children, however suspect in terms of ideal standards of literary finesse.

By way of prologue, this is currently a period of revision, two novels in advanced revision yet not quite ready to release into the sink hole of despair & hope. Yes, Authors must dream too about their creatures of the imagination.

In brief, two novels in final prep…and a clamor from the Idea Pile…for new works to start. Meaning, the Author is in a betwixt & between (liminal) state. A most delicate transition between imaginary worlds. Steadying this uncertain phase to the next work in progress are those tortured texts under final tweaking. You get the point I’m sure, especially if you’re an obsessive compulsive writer who must scribble or type something everyday or else you start to suffer withdrawal nausea usually accompanied by rock emotional swings. Strange business. Don’t wish this scribe habit on anyone. Count your blessings if you can write and put it down for a few weeks, months or years. Please, I hear you, enough.

Oh, almost forgot, I’ve joined up with Author Central out of the Amazon Tribe of Scribblers. They’ve given me a very nice website with great links for the tentacles in a postmodern writer’s life. Check it out my twelve current works of fiction, hopefully a little something for everyone (what a nice man, the author is):

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Follow us at Witts Inn Writers Retreat: Summer 2010

On foggy Monkfish Island somewhere off the Maine

Coast Near Portland (sometimes adrift it’s thought) is

Witts Inn Writers Summer Retreat (2010):

follow the fun goings on of a scribe tribe on a spooky island

 & listen to the gossip as they learn how to battle their uncertain

writing & social skills.


Go to:

Begins May 27/Memorial Day weekend & ends after Labor Day

******More to come here on blog after Labor Day

a spontaneous Twitter novel by Jim Stallings



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At Witt’s Inn: Twitter novel-in-progress

So just by accident I happened to start a narrative on Twitter from the phrase overhead “at wit’s end”. But I heard it also as “at Witt’s Inn.” And so, for a while at least, I’m having some fun improvising installments or dispatches from this island writer & artist retreat on mysteriously foggy Monkfish Island. It’s exact location off the coast of the U.S. is in question as it seems to move about along the various coastlines. The important thing is that we seem to overhear the meditations and concerns of resident writers & artists in Twitter’s 140 character frames.

The experimental dispatch novel is now only a week or two old but we’re hopeful our link to the island will remain viable and that we may learn a few things about the introvertive universe of writers in residence. Below are a sampling of recent communiques into the cyberspace void. Drop in at

and read the latest.

Here on the Weblog we’ll continue to post other works-in-progress & literary commentary.




At Witt’s Inn Island Retreat, literary writers clean communal bathrm; news fr NYC: vampire novel earns 6-fig advance. Gnashing of eye teeth.

Male residents of Witt’s Inn artist retreat think Al Gore’s breakup aftr 40 yrs of marriage is only way to reclaim unsown oats. Go Al!

At Witt’s Inn female residents argue Peace Prize went to Al Gore’s head & drained his tiny bit of Jack Daniel charm & thus estranging Tipper

At Witt’s Inn Island Retreat when the fog lifted & the sun emerged, writers knew the island was all too real w/ absurd real estate prices.

At Witt’s Inn on foggy Monkfish Island, rumors started w/ resident writers that the “island” was really a boat & they were being shanghaied.

On Monkfish Island at Witt’s Inn for Writers & Artists, guests sit in small rooms & listen to rain tapping a hideous message fr the Gulf.

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So it came to pass, lo, a mountain of electronic “books” were published worldwide each year. Hardbacks, paperbacks, all that former sentimental physical press history shrank into a tiny drivel of archival preservation. The blunt new truth was the so-called “book” was now an electronic text read on an electronic instrument. Everyone in the world could publish text. Almost everyone did.

The challenge for writers of electronic texts was to find an audience and build on it. Especially for writers of text who wanted to be paid in electronic credits deposited to their electronic bank accounts. After all, that was the definition of a ‘professional writer’…getting those currency credits. Herein are the tortured guts of the market consumption of texts: those who want to be paid social money credits (and a few intellectual credits tacked on for good show). But keep the chow train going. A scribe has to eat and so far, electronic food, well, it’s a mean lean meal.

E-Sluch Pile.

The electronic web at this soon to be reached point of publishing…well, you can imagine: it’s going to be a nasty war out there to make a paid living for writing and transmitting e-texts around the globe (maybe into colonies on the Moon and Mars).

For the radicals and anarchists and hermits, it probably won’t matter much who succeeds financially. They will reject such crass concerns. Writing into the ever expanding E-Slush Pile is a moral right and privilege, not to be denied by anyone.

Once denied by publishers, editors and critics, the slush pile publications, the great unwashed, the geniuses, freaks, schizos, world conquerors, puppets, psychotics and undiscovered talents, all in fact, the whole sum of the e-publishing networld, this will be the undifferentiated Mass. And who, may we gently ask, who will play gatekeeper and rater of quality of these billions of text issued worldwide each solar day/night? Who will step up and play critic? Who will find the so-called sweet two percent that justifies news about publication? Who will accept a corps of critical texts that serve to rate and rank the writers and texts in terms of worthiness?

These islands of recommended quality, more e-text themselves, will be those critical surfaces where favored texts are modeled for all to read. Cliques. Favored status. Elites. Tribes of good taste.

But these will come and go and meanwhile the tsunami of e-text publication will wash away at the limited exposure of one group’s favored, fair-haired. Literary class warfare.

And it will lead to self-erosion and a greater drift toward anonymity and freedom to write when and how you want.

So to all those writers out there struggling with the old trade book dilemmas, hung up on “making it’ in the paid, commercial fashion, take a deep breath and get ready to enjoy the freedom of nonattachment. Step back and watch the fishes play!

a crass commercial from this author still caught in a marketing age : see my latest BOOK: “Difficult People: Flash Fictions”: 172 short short stories for adult storybook reader. Stop on by and climb Slush Mountain!

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Poem: “As He Grew Frail”, notebooks, Jim Stallings

As he grew frail

She seemed to bloom

Not in spite of him

But in fulfillment

Of a unique journey

One of the heart & soul

Which in its flowering

Later than mid life

Gave proof to her theme

That patience and kindness

Were the basis of wisdom—

And the fount of joy,

Meanwhile her mate

In his exhaustion

Stood about and stared

As if there were nothing

Left to be seen.

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Poem: “Put the Peach Ripe”, notebooks, Jim Stallings

Put the peach ripe

On the table

In the sunlight

The circle of brightness


Where the knife flash

Falls across & through

The rosy red yellow

Apparition fuzzy

With pretension

To tastes delicious

Beyond mortal fare

In its sweet soft gush

Your tawdry dreams

Fulfilled beyond all measure

Of good- or deserved-ness,

And all this & more,

In a ripened peach.

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