A Whiff, A Whim

By Michael Ollie Clayton

High-energy short stories that push the envelope to the edge, if not over the edge...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365643200

Book preview

A Whiff, A Whim

A Whiff, A Whim

Short Stories

Michael Ollie Clayton

Contents

A Whiff, A Whim

Copyright  © 2006 by Michael Ollie Clayton

Devil’s Delight

Now You're Ugly, Too

Columbia, Gone Away

Defrocked

Lucky Strike

Copyright  © 2006 by Michael Ollie Clayton

ISBN #: 978-1-365-64320-0

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. 

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

Devil’s Delight

She was on her second orange and gin and one hour into a conversation with the most intriguing, exquisite shape of a man who ever entered her space.  His approach had been smooth, flawless, even.  His voice was masculine, distinct, yet sensual and ingratiating.  His eyes were direct and soulful, and at times probing and encroaching, but he always stopped short of staring too hard and making her feel uncomfortable.  He seemed to know when to look away, when to stare...deeply, and, most importantly, when to acknowledge her with a nod instead of a glance: when not to make inappropriate eye contact.

She liked his sensitivity, whether put-on or sincere; at least he had the tact to play the game...

And he was a far cry from the previous gentleman with whom she had the displeasure of sharing fifteen of the most arduous minutes of her life before her current object of attention showed up.

How did you come to be a writer?" asked the man.

She sucked her teeth.  That's hard to answer.  It's a mystery, almost.  I mean, I've been writing all my life...from kindergarten on.  So, on the one hand, I've been a writer all my life.  On the other had, I was published eleven years ago, and in some people's eyes, that's when I became a writer.  But for me, honestly, I couldn't really answer that question no more than I could tell you what produced the atmosphere and the timing whereby my father's sperm met my mother's ova.  Nor could I detail the social stimuli that determined I was to be a writer.  By all accounts, it just happened.

So vague, yet so specific.

She smiled.  Yes, yes!  Her face was aglow, and she was delighted with the ease with which the conversation was flowing.  "It's too bad that we are going to get to know each other.  That's how this night will end, you know?  We're going to end up saying that we want to see each other again, and we will, and it will all be ruined.

But why? asked the square-jawed man.

One thing we writers share in common is a genuine hatred of clichés-well, the writers with integrity, but that's another matter.  She went on, We hate clichés mostly because we live them, and living one gives me the right to invoke one:  If we start a relationship, it will blossom, then it will wilt because, she put her hand to her throat as if offended, familiarity breeds contempt.  

Well, at least you don't fault me for being a dog.  I was sure your cliché was going to allude to malekind's deficiency in the relationship department.

Oh, she muttered, pleasantly thrown.  Well, I don't see men in that light-the one's I actually look at, anyway.  But yes, I admit my part in it-all women's part in it.  We are just as guilty of destroying relationships as that highly publicized legion of insensitive, inattentive, over-sexed men.  I know who I am... she announced, light-hearted.

I like this, said the man.  I really like this easy line of communication. 

I like it in as much as you haven't panicked at anything I've said.  You don't seem to have your buttons pushed so easily.  And beside, you haven't bored me by bringing up sex, drugs, money, marriage, or feminism.

Well, I'm not common, n-n-nor,  he drug  his nor out, a slingshot pulled taught, predictable.

...Then what are you?

I'm a man.

She smirked.  I can see that!  I'm talking about the man behind what you obviously want the general public to see.  The world only sees what you show it.

Then you tell me what I am.

I see confidence, she said, wry.

The man tugged his chin.  I get the feeling you meant to say arrogance.

Oh, no, you're smart enough-worldly enough-to subdue your arrogance; but your confidence, well, you can't submerge that.  It's you.

He laughed.  You're rather intuitive.

Suddenly, the energy between them changed.  Her eyes widened, and her lips thinned.  That's a sexist term!