I’ve written a lot of serious things on my blog, but I’m bored with that. I want more comedy. And more swelling bosoms. Here’s the start of something…I envision it as a sprawling soap opera, sort of like Peyton Place but with more swelling. Please enjoy this little snippet. (Also, it’s better if you read it out loud. Dramatically.)
by Tanya Eby
Clean, white snow blanketed Grahnd Haven the way a mother would cover a child’s mouth with her hand when the child said a dirty word. White firmly clasped the chapel spires, the streets, the B&Bs, the local grocery, the cars…effectively covering all the secrets that shivered just beneath the surface.
Everything was quiet.
Under the snow, deep in the ground, tulip bulbs stirred to life and would soon break through the surface, erect and full of life, bringing color to the world. But not yet. Not. Yet.
It was morning time and most of the residents of the lakeside town were still sleeping. But not everyone. Larry, the cantankerous lighthouse keeper, had his third cup of French press going, and he was not happy with the color of the brew. Mrs. Santori was mixing muffins in the kitchen of her B&B before the guests stumbled awake asking asking asking for more. Sweet Little Bob, 12 years old, tried in vain to find a cell signal so he could watch some porn, but his search would be in vain.
Besides the bucolic beauty of this town, beyond the draw of the swell and moan of the great lake’s waves, Grahnd Haven was peculiarly located in a dead zone. No cell phones worked here. Computers mysteriously burst into flames. People here had to live the old way, before modern technology. Why, it was almost like stepping back into the 1950s and 60s when poodle skirts and bouffants were all the rage.
So in the town, covered in white, snow falling softly and gently kissing the trees and roofs, everyone was mostly quiet.
Down Danbury Lane, there was a flutter of activity.
Two dark shapes stood pressed together under a gazebo, their North Face coats-encased arms wrapped around each other, their bodies so perfectly made for each other, they could have been a standing 3D puzzle, locked together.
Their desire for each other burned hot in the snowstorm and their lips were raw from kissing and reapplying Chapstick.
“I want you so bad right now,” the man whispered, his words licking and then freezing against her neck.
“I feel so alive with you,” she answered back, a quiver in her lips and loins.
“If I could only be inside you right now, right this minute, I’d feel complete,” he said.
She nodded, in despair.
It could not be.
First, he was wearing a snowsuit and it would be impossible to pull out his turgid member, let alone find it. And she was wrapped in about twelve layers of clothing, including full-body thermal underwear. Plus they were both married. To other people. Their hot lust for each other would surely burn everything around them to the ground.
They met here, instead, to talk of a love that could not be. They were safe here, down Danbury Lane. Surrounded by woods and white, where no prying eyes could find them.
Or so they thought.
Grahnd Haven was peculiar in that electronic devices could not work, so what else could its inhabitants do but look out their frosty windows, with giant binoculars, to see the evil occurring around every bend in the road?
No one was safe in Grahnd Haven, and the snow would only last so long. Soon, it would melt and spring would burst forth, uncovering all of the town’s secrets and lies.
But for now, on this quiet snowy morning, everything was good. And pure. And safe.
Betty Bartland put her binoculars down. She wrote a few things down in her notebook and then picked up the Farmers’ Alamanac. The almanac predicted that things were about to heat up, and good.
Betty Bartland, 98, smiled.
To be continued….maybe. Someday. If Tanya wants to keep working on it.
Until then…check out her MAN HANDS series, written with Sarina Bowen! It’s funny. And there’s LOTS of swelling.