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Subject: {Losgud}JDR"The Island A"(MF inc con humor)[1/2]
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JOHN DARK REPOST
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk.
The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming
Attractions," which includes the titles to be reposted in the next week.
These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked
the story, either drop the author a line at that e-mail address or post a
comment to alt.sex.stories.d. Please don't post it to alt.sex.stories
itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way
to encourage them to continue entertaining you.
The copyright of this story belongs to the author, and the fact of this
posting should not be construed as limiting or releasing these rights in
any way. In most cases, the author will have further notices of copyright
below. If you keep the story, *PLEASE* keep the copyright disclaimer as
well.
=====================
The following is total fiction. Any resemblance etc. is a product of your
imagination. This work is meant as ADULT entertainment. If the laws
where you sit say you're too young to read this, go away and turn
yourself in to the thought police. Even thinking about sex is dirty and
nasty and will warp your mind forever. Go watch a movie or play a
game that ends with a body count in the high four figures. Death and
destruction are good clean fun.
Copyright (c)1997 losgud. Personal use just fine. Archiving okay.
Absolutely NO for-profit use permitted. Reposting without notice is
frowned upon. Tampering with the text (rewriting) is illegal. Copyright
violations will fall under the jurisdiction of my principality, where the
punishment is to discourage repeat offenders. We cut your fucking hands
off!
=========================
NOTE: Again--losgud trademark--there is the long buildup and wait for
the sky to darken before the fireworks commence. If you don't want
the context, skip about halfway down to after dinner. Enjoy!
======
ISLAND
losgud
losgud@hotmail.com
Section A:
Why in the world anyone would choose to build a tiny little cabin on a
tiny little island in the middle of a tiny little lake is something I've
never figured out. But there it is and there I was going. It'd come
down from my wife's side, and when her parents died she and her siblings
had turned it into a sort of family trust. We all split the costs
of the upkeep and share a vacation destination. The unwritten by-laws
still work fairly well. The obvious hot dates are doled out
democratically; we had the long Labor Day weekend last year and won't
see it again for at least half a dozen more. We're barely an hour's
drive away and come up once or twice a month during the summer, but
if we have plans then hear the California Gang has decided to fly in for
the same dates, we of course do the gracious thing. Things have gotten
a bit more crowded, if cheaper, now that all our children are growing
up and buying in.
It's a primitive place and there's no way out except by boat. There is
a great family story dating back to a particularly bitter winter back in
the days of the Model A when a hardy group _drove_ out to the island.
Oh, and they made it. The proof is apparently still at the bottom of the
lake about halfway back. There's not much to be done when one wheel
breaks through a patch of bad ice except curse Henry Ford for your
own stupidity. The gang scattered safely back to the mainland, talking
already of safety lines and chains and a winch set up on shore. Later
in the day they returned with the necessary equipment, and luckily
someone thought to bring a prehistoric camera. And there is the actual
proof. A wall of the cabin is adorned with framed and matted copies of
the series, shot as they approached the site but were still safely away,
the images capturing the few minutes before the final _cra-a-ack_ that
set the automobile deep diving.
The island has a little cove with a little beach and a little pier. The
cabin itself is one fair sized room. One wall sports a huge stone hearth
that is the furnace. Cooking is done on a cast iron wood stove that
was rowed over piecemeal way back when. If you need a bath, someone
hands you a bar of soap and tells you to go jump in the lake. The
toilet is a half-step above dragging a shovel behind you on your way
out into the woods. The water source used to be a bucket but anymore
you bring your own, fresh and safe from a tap. The lake's not toxic
but even boiled it's not good for the bowels. We're curious creatures,
us humans. We soil our own nests, then bitch about it later.
Still and all it's a nice cozy place. There's no worry of being stuck out
there with some big family bash because it really is too tiny. The
upcoming visit would be pushing all known limits, setting records and in
fact the logistics hadn't really been worked out. There are two double
beds in the place, but they date back to when people were much
smaller. We'd be banging against the rafters, I just knew it, but in the
face of so much enthusiasm I decided to play along. My wife and I, our
daughter Melissa and her husband Dale, and their two little ones.
Truth be told my favorite time out on the island is when I'm out there
alone playing the handyman. The peace and quiet and the chill of a
six-pack sunk in the shadowy cool water under the pier. Nothing to
beat it. There were some minor chinks in the mortar between the logs
that needed attention and I knew of a prime piece of dead fall that
should be perfectly seasoned for firewood. And I've recently acquired
the luxury of being bound by no work week, which is a blessed feeling
for a man in his mid-40s who had been resigned to shoveling shit for
the rest of his life. Reason enough to motor out to the island a day
early. Get things ready for the rest of the crew.
So I was all set for a little solitude when Melissa suddenly announced
that she wanted to join me. My heart sank but I kept it from my face.
Sure, she's my wonderful daughter and all, but mostly I was telling
myself _don't be such a fucking ingrate_. It was her doing that I was
able to be doing this.
I was early in college when a faulty gene revealed my true destiny.
_C'mon_, it shouted, _drop out and paint_. A painter in the sense that
the only walls I'd be covering would be those in museums. I still don't
know why Betsy chose me to be her husband. She's terribly intelligent
and driven and creative, but she has a pragmatic sense I totally lack.
She supported me for a year, but with no real nibbles and the advent
of Melissa I made the decision to become a lifer at the fucking
warehouse. It paid the small bills of the time. I still painted like
crazy, and never stopped. Once it became practical Betsy reentered the
workforce and went corporate in a big way. Every glass ceiling she
encountered, hell, she just threw some bricks and crashed her way
through. Within ten years she was earning enough I could have
comfortably quit but I didn't. It was never a big male ego provider
thing, I just didn't want my selfworth to revert to that of dead weight.
The kind of husband and dad who stays home drinking coffee all day,
engaging in basically a hobby, taking the odd dance with the vacuum
cleaner to make myself feel productive. If I'd possessed any innate
culinary skills perhaps things would have been different. If I'd had a
wonderful way with mops. I still shopped around. Some gallery owners
had kind words but rarely any space for me. I met a few enthusiastic
people with very little money. I'd sell a painting now and then and be
content with the progress. But, you know, to be ecstatic about a year
in which my gross income managed to push beyond the three-digit
range, that wasn't quite me. It didn't even pay for the fucking
supplies. I was never sure what Melissa felt about all this growing up.
Telling her class at the beginning of each school year, _oh, my daddy
has a shitty job in a warehouse and paints on the side_. Lissa always
was in many respects very much of her mother. Completely different,
but tolerant. She whipped through her four years as a Business Major
in three, and then went on to grad school. No one was more surprised
than me that first Christmas break when she came home and announced
that her MBA program had mutated into an MFA. Feeling particularly
fatherly I threatened to take off my belt and convince her otherwise.
But when she showed us some of her work I used it instead as a sling
to keep my chin from dragging on the floor. Damn, but my girl was
fucking _good_. I was instantly intensely proud. Not because my
genetic material had finally shone through. But because she had
distilled it into greatness. There was the brief period where she would
visit and I'd chase her from the threshold shouting, "You can't fool me!
You're not here because you love us; you just want to steal my
supplies." And sure enough she'd leave and my brand new tiny $20
tube of cadmium red would have gone missing. I'd call her up and
bitch her out, "Those cadmiums and cobalts are not only expensive,
they're _toxic_. They're not meant to be in the hands of children."
Then she'd show me her latest series and of course she'd have put the
pigment to far better use than I ever could. Was I ever jealous? No,
not really. There was never any room for that. I was too busy being
enthralled. And then very quickly she married Dale her old MBA beau.
He ran up the ladder of success. Melissa didn't bother wallowing in
that bohemian thing. Fuck all the galleries. She started her own while
starting their family. Two small children later hers is the preeminent
gallery in the entire region. I never said a word until the day she
showed up and marched straight to my storage. "What do you want?" I
shouted. "This and this and this and this . . . " she replied. I got
barely half the stuff back. Lissa rarely hangs her own stuff there
anymore, and then almost as a lark. She organized the daddy/daughter
show several months ago even though most of her work was tagged NFS.
One was officially the property of the Whitney in New York. It was
their second purchase, and the head curator called angling for a third.
All twenty of my meager entrees wound up walking out the door opening
night. That was a Friday. Monday I called in to the warehouse and
spoke to my boss. "Remember how on Friday you were my supervisor?"
"Yea, whatcha gettin' at?" "Well, today is Monday, and you aren't."
So goes the story of how I managed to be guiding a small outboard
motor towards a dinky little island in the middle of a lake in the middle
of the day in the middle of the week when by all rights I should be
deep in the bowels of a warehouse bitching at a forklift driver, "Pallets
of product, right. _Wrong fucking row!_"
I'm the skipper of my own boat, with a lovely young passenger who
happens to be my daughter my savior. Does life get any better than
this? I think not. Melissa is indeed a delightful creature, and the
happiness she exudes is infectious. My darling little daughter, my
sweet Princess. Daddy's little girl. All those wonderful intonations from
the days when I was King. When I was Daddy the Hero Who Could Do
No Wrong. When I was the man who she wanted to marry when she
grew up. Betsy, well, she could have a bedroom all her own in our new
house. These were the memories that nearly made up for the
subsequent eras when I became _Daddy, that bastard_, and later a
seemingly bottomless pot of money. _Honey, if you only knew_. Which I
suppose she actually did. What is the measure of success in parenting
other than that they grow into adults without despising you? And
really that is the best success. Melissa sat in the bow of the boat as
charming an adult as I cared to have as company. As I dared to hope
to have as company.
As we puttered across the tranquil surface of the lake I was thinking
that I didn't like the looks of the horizon. It wasn't anything a novice
might notice, just a slightly darkish string laid along the tree tops. In
all likelihood it meant nothing. I didn't care to mention it, not wanting
to spoil the gay mood of Melissa chattering away. She was going on
and on about the success of the last show. Then she paused to add in
a cryptic voice, "Everything I've ever wanted I've learned from
watching you."
I shrugged off the tone. "You snagged a few tubes of paint and did
the rest on your own."
She just sat there, silent, her head in a minor shake of dissent.
"That's not the art I'm talking about," she finally whispered.
I shrugged clueless and guided the boat towards the approaching pier.
My first mate tied us off with the knot I'd taught her ages ago. We
lugged the provisions up to the cabin and opened the place up. Then I
went out and circled the perimeter, making mental notes of where I'd
want to work.
Then it struck me. "God_damn_it!"
Melissa was fast in the doorway with a worried look. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing. _Nothing_. Not a thing," I scoffed. "Just you know that
bag of mortar?"
She picked it up real quick. "Oh, you mean the one you left in the
trunk of the car."
"You got it," I grinned.
She paused. "You going back to get it?"
"Naw. Hell with that."
"Want me to go?"
"Nonononono. Manana, baby, manana."
Instead I wound up in the woods. I had cut the dead fall into
draggable lengths the last time I was on the island. Nothing to it but
the little bitch of pulling the stuff down and out. Lissa came and
helped for a while. I could tell she was having second thoughts almost
immediately but didn't know how to back out of the team. Finally I said
gently, "Princess, I know it's sick, but I actually sort of _like_ doing
this. So why don't you go run off and do something you want, okay?
This _is_ supposed to be _Fun Island_, you know."
She beamed. "Okay. Thanks Daddy. I think I will go and have an
explore."
"Just mind the Heffalumps!" I called out after her.
I set to work cutting the stuff down to size. The ax went _clunk clunk
clunk_ . . . and after ten minutes I'd raised a tiny scattering of wood
chips. I realized I wasn't going to cut through anything with this
method, or if I did it'd only be my foot. The old saw worked
moderately better but after going at it for ages I'd only gone through
one section. I used the ax to split all that, and then I sat down on a
stump. At some point when I wasn't paying attention, my motivation had
seized its chance and run away.
It was the saddest sight in the world, that tiny pile of mine. All that
effort, and I had maybe a few hours worth of firewood. It was an
illustration of my life. _Oh my intentions are always the best, but all
my plans just turn to_ shit! Gloomy thoughts, what wonderful
companions they make. I shook it off, because the situation was so
archetypical and amusing. It was laughable, and then there _was_
laughter. I turned to find Melissa, all snuck up on me, her hand over
her mouth.
"I'm sorry, it's just that you look so . . . _you_."
"That's okay. I know. It's no news to me. I've been living with it for
46 years now. And actually that's basically exactly what I was just
thinking about."
"Why didn't you use the chainsaw? I kept waiting for that manly
explosion of sound."
"Well, aside from the fact that I didn't feel up to walking all twenty-five
of those feet to the cabin to fetch it, I plain didn't want to deal with
the noise. I mean, sure, you get all the work done, but only because
there's someone yelling in your ear the whole time."
"That's my father," she smiled and tousled my hair, "very funny, a little
strange, and decidedly unique."
"Carve that on my tombstone okay?"
"Remind me when you're not a hundred years away from it. Anyway, I
came out here to see if you'd be interested in a little dinner."
"Dinner? What's that?"
"Just one of the sundry uses for that yap of yours." She gave it a
quick peck, then helped hoist me to my feet.
=========================
Like? Yes? No? Comments welcome. losgud@hotmail.com
=========================
I am archived at DejaNews under the "Author" name:
lushgod@hotnomail.com
======
ISLAND
losgud
Section A
-30-
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