Prologue

 

Outside, a brisk October blue framed the sky, while a few bursts of white colored clouds marched rapidly away, driven by the wind. She was heartened by such rain-washed air; her cheeks pink, her tawny, hazel eyes seeking but unswayed, and her mouth poised.

She was in her mid 20's, sensuous and unsophisticated, although the depth of her eyes suggested a private wisdom tucked inside her youth.

Staring upwards, gazing along the ivy-covered brick façade, she took a deep breath of courage and started her trek to the fourth floor, moving through the aged door, propelled upward by the hulking lift.

Inside, the smell of ink and sweat and old age crept into her whispery bones. Desks strewn with paper, clicking keyboards, the ping of ancient typewriters, whirring copy machines, florid men jawing on spent cigarettes, ash floating on drafts from open windows-her head turned in each direction, mystified and befuddled.

One deep breath of smoke-laden air, another and she sighed deeply-remembering Arthur. Hating the memory, her courage renewed. Hair the color of faded brick, her smooth pageboy swung freely about her shoulders. She stepped forward, inside the gated outer office of the editor-in-chief.

"Elliot Rawlings, please," she asked, feeling her bravery bloom against the imperious odds she faced. She had a body full of passion, liquid, willowy, but not slight. The more voluptuous aspects of her form were hidden respectfully under a navy suit-cut specifically for a modest business environment.

"What was that?" the matronly secretary inquired, with her head thoughtfully cocked and a pleasant smile on her warm face. She would be the guts behind this small publishing house, the redheaded newcomer concluded.

"I'm sorry," she spoke up, thinking she was shouting. "I'd like to see Elliot Rawlings."

A flip-looking copy editor snickered as he passed by and heard her plainly stated demand.

"I'm afraid that Mr. Rawlings has appointments all morning," the secretary informed her. "Could I give him a message?"

"I need to see him personally," she was determined to be firm, clutching the folder under her arm with steely resolve.

"That would not be possible, Miss."

"Then, I'll schedule an appointment," she decided.

"Perhaps you could tell me the nature of your business." The secretary was much too kind, condescendingly so. Altanta Cole. The young woman noted the nameplate at the front of the woman's orderly desk.

"I'd rather speak with Mr. Rawlings personally."

"Do you have a manuscript to submit?" Atlanta Cole turned her attention to the folder, which looked welded under the redhead's arm.

"I do."

"I'm afraid that Mr. Rawlings and Dorchester Press do not accept unsolicited manuscripts." Her eyes dripped with pity.

"Maybe not, but he'll accept this one," the young woman came back strong. "Tell him I called and will call on him again."

"Perhaps you can leave your manuscript with me," Atlanta Cole held out her hand, "along with your name and number."

"No, I can't," the girl rushed on much too brusquely, sighing painfully. Tiny stress lines appeared around her eyes; her tender jaw quavered. "I need to speak with Mr. Rawlings personally," she stated again, firmly so that half the room took note. "This is a manuscript he'll want to see. I'll try again another day."

She knew this would be rough, and was undaunted by the rejection. Clutching her beloved folder more tightly still, a feigned smile disappeared from her lips as she turned and left the office.

Atlanta Cole watched her leave, watched the womanly sway of the redhead's finely shaped ass as it vanished out the door. The smell of her perfume was memorable, uncontaminated by the clutter and bustle of the room and all the old manners inside.

Excerpts from the diary of S. R. Lourdes

January 5 ^th

I am just eighteen. A college freshman in my second semester. My creative writing teacher insists that we journal our thoughts. I've always been afraid to do so; strange ideas pop out at me when I write freely. I think for me, what's in my head should remain the stuff of fiction. But perhaps this will be a useful tool to generate story ideas. Being alone, a freshman in a world of graduated confidence, I'm easily tangled up inside my head, where this inner life is just as frantic and scary as the tangible world has become.

Miss Dunkirk suggested that we write our memoirs as fiction-that way we can practice our craft-and not get sloppy with the writing, she says. I'll try this, though I'm not sure I understand completely what she wants. Even though she's not going to read this diary, it still seems a little creepy opening up my thoughts for this much inspection.

January 10 ^th

I am no more than an average student, lost inside this university. Average body, average height, average looks and a less than outgoing personality, which means I spend a lot of time alone. I've watched my roommate weekend after weekend leave me for her myriad of men, all fawning over her flouncy blonde hair and anorexic body dressed in skimpy clothes. She has the look men have been taught to covet. No tits, skinny arms, a wide mouth, great hair and a daring, funny personality.

Of course I'm jealous.

But facts are facts. I don't want her drooling boyfriends. The cute ones with their trimmed goatees and preppy clothes. The smart-ass jocks with their self-absorbed bravado. Even the studiously handsome eggheads who will be next year's crop of doctors, lawyers and corporate executives. Something rumbles much deeper inside my core that supercedes the need to bed, nest and breed with simple-minded men. Not that life wouldn't be much easier if I did accept the easy terms of routine growing up and living. I just can't.

February 1 ^st

I'm taking a course in sociological ethics from Judge Perdue. He's been on the Federal Bench for several years and is on loan to the University this semester. Those are his words, 'on loan'. He is the most fascinating man I've met this year, even though he's over forty and a rather generous specimen of masculinity. He burgeons in his judicial robes to great breadth, which only enhances the picture of authority he presents to the world-and especially our classroom of fifty students. I find him stern but kind. His air of command makes him sexy in my eyes, makes my cunt warm when I attend his class. I know I'm being childish and crazy to think this way. It's just a foolish crush, the kind I should have left for more mature love in Junior High School. But these are my fantasies. I won't take them further.