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Summer Thunder by Jill Candles

August 9, 2016 1 comment
By Jill Candles

By Jill Candles

A romance series exclusive to the Lankville Daily News.

Ivan was my first love. He had strange, tremendous tufts of blonde hair and a glove compartment filled with napkins. You would have never thought it possible to shove so many napkins into a glove compartment.

We drove down to the paper factory. “It’s burned to the ground,” he said. “There’s nothing to see, really.” He opened the glove compartment, removed a single napkin and tossed it out the window. “Hand me those tapes,” he said. They were neatly arranged in a brown leather case. The music was screechy and atonal– he had terrible taste in music, one of his few faults.

I heard the summer thunder off in the distance.

We walked among the charred remains. A train went by and disappeared into a tunnel. “You know what that means?” he asked. At the time, I didn’t. Later, after that summer, that summer of the summer thunder, I would understand.

He let it go and walked over to the car and took out another napkin before I could respond. He folded it carefully and threw it up in the air. It landed at his feet. “Gravity, that shit!” he exclaimed.Summer Thunder

We rented a hotel room that night under the name “Mr. and Mrs. Karl Koupons”. Paid cash. It was a double bed with a yellow comforter and a large painting of a dog above an old television set. “Why don’t you see what’s on?” he said. “I’m going back to the car”. I knew it was to get another damn napkin. It never ended.

When he opened the door, I heard the crash of the summer thunder.

The set sputtered and then flashed on. A series of spaceship rockets were being launched into a bay. You could hear a voice over a radio– “The spaceship rockets just fell into the bay. Mission aborted.” Then, the show ended. There was a long pause and then a commercial came on for soap flakes.

I removed my skirt and unbuttoned my shirt. Ivan came back in with his head down. He looked terribly guilty of something.

“What? What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing. Just, those napkins make me so nervous”.

I kissed him. He ran his tongue along my front teeth. The sensation was odd.

“I…I’m sorry, I’ll be…just a minute.” He left. It was those napkins again.

I slept alone. Listening. Listening to the summer thunder.

Summer Thunder by Jill Candles

August 4, 2016 Leave a comment
By Jill Candles

By Jill Candles

A romance series exclusive to the Lankville Daily News.

I guess it was Bret who first took me to the Wild Life Room.

“You’ll like it,” he said. “It’s red.” We drove down in his Neptune with the top down.

“I’m going to park around back,” he said. “Because I want…well…I want to kiss you.”

I heard the summer thunder. But it was distant, faraway. It didn’t feel part of this.

He kissed me. I didn’t move my mouth at all. He just crushed his lips into mine. I felt as though I could no longer feel.

“Let’s get some steaks,” he said.

It was a gay room, full of dancers. A band played upbeat trumpet music. Waiters dodged between the tables– they were dressed in white tuxedos.

“Pretty upscale, huh?” Bret said.

I heard it again. The summer thunder. It was louder this time.

“I’m going to the men’s trough,” Bret said. “I may be awhile.” He went off.

"I want you inside of me," I whispered. The summer thunder crashed down upon us.

“I want you inside of me,” I whispered. The summer thunder crashed down upon us.

A waiter came to the table. Later, I would know him as Erik. Or maybe I already knew that. Our eyes locked instantly.

“What will you have, miss?” He puckered his lips quickly, sensuously.

“I…I want…something new, something different.”

“We have that new alternative to soda everyone is raving about. Lithium citrate 7. It helps to…stabilize the mood. Or…perhaps you don’t want your mood stabilized, miss. Perhaps you want it to fly freely into the sky.”

The summer thunder was right above our heads this time.

 

I went away with Erik. The empty beach at midnight. He built a fire and produced a ragged book called Great Rhyming Love Poems of Lankville.

“It is worn,” I said.

“Yes, I’ve read it many times,” he said. “Poetry is just wonderful, don’t you think. It’s intoxicating.”

I heard the summer thunder.

He read me several poems in his deep, sonorous voice.

“I want you inside of me,” I whispered. The summer thunder crashed down upon us.

“Let me just finish reading a couple more poems first,” he said. As he read, he removed his jeans shorts.

And when he was done, the summer thunder crashed its loudest.

The night disappeared around us.

Summer Thunder by Jill Candles

August 12, 2015 Leave a comment
By Jill Candles

By Jill Candles

A romance series exclusive to the Lankville Daily News.

She looked away from Rod as she fumbled nervously with the cup of after-dinner soda. Outside the plate glass window of the quiet side-street cafe, the first eddying wisps of fog circled about the street lamps accompanied by the sound of distant thunder. Inside, it was all warmth, soft light, restrained trumpet music…and heartbreak.

“Can’t you see what a fix I’m in, Jill,” said Rod, his handsome face sullen and darkened. “I’m poor. I can’t afford to get mixed up with a girl like you.”

“But don’t you see, Rod?” she begged. “I don’t care about money…I just care about us.”

He was silent. Then came the clatter of silverware, the muted sound of traffic from the street. And then thunder. It was growing louder, closer.

“Why did you agree to see me again, Rod?” she pleaded. “It would have been easier just to…not show up.”

Rod’s lips tightened and for one once he didn’t look quite so handsome.

“I didn’t…know what you might do. Why, I thought, perhaps you would…”

“Shall we walk a bit?” he asked. “It is becoming moister.”

Her olive skin flushed darkly; she looked beautiful then– brilliant with fury and alive with suppressed emotion. Her knees were lax with the fierceness of her anger. There was thunder.

And then she rose.

“You have nothing to fear from me!” she told him bitterly. “From this moment on, I don’t know you, never knew you and don’t ever expect to know you again!”

She pushed open the cafe door and the damp cottony fog rolled up to meet her. And then, from somewhere, was a voice.

“I like the fog, it’s so dampish, clammy and moist. Look at it against the light.”

He stepped out of the shadows. And there was thunder. But this time, it was the thunder of her heart.

“Shall we walk a bit?” he asked. “It is becoming moister.”

“Yes,” she whispered. She stared up at his profile, sharply cut against the drifting fog and thought how different he was then Rod. Sure, Rod had perfect features and a model’s smile. But this man, with his beaklike nose and strange, twisted grin had something Rod would never have– something that was difficult for Jill to put her finger on.

They walked, quietly but together. And then he suddenly led her into a low doorway, hospitably lighted by two old-fashioned iron lanterns. The thunder was now right above them. “My home,” he said. “Shall we get out of the moistness?” And he led her into a low-ceilinged room that breathed of peace and comfort.

Jill dropped her coat on a red leather bench and looked appreciatively about. Dark woodwork and pale walls, lighted by ivory-shaded lamps that cast a subdued light over the the built-in bookcases. There were leather chairs, several velvety throw rugs, warm red drapes drawn over sheer window curtains and the gleam of brass here and there. She watched as the stranger lit a fire– it smoldered immediately and then went out as the cacophonous sound of thunder echoed down the chimney.

“Perhaps not the right night…for this kind of fire,” he remarked.

It was inside her now, the thunder.

“My name is Otis. Otis Plaza.” Her heart stirred further, her lips tingled. Some of the misery was stealing from her soul.

“I’m not rushing you,” he said. “I’m just warning you that you better start thinking of me because one day soon, you shall have to make up your mind.”

“I want to be rushed, Otis.” She arched her back. He slipped his hand beneath it.

And then came the thunder, the summer thunder. Constant, streaming, flushing out the night outside.

Sweat and Moonbeams by Del Midnight

December 6, 2014 Leave a comment
Del Midnight

Del Midnight

Del Midnight is the author of many excellent men’s adventure stories.

“Come on Glenn, lend us your nest,” pleaded Shanes.

“Don’t be a damned fool, Shanes,” Glenn replied. “A nest has to be completely private, secret even. Otherwise, the chickens get shy of it– see?”

“C’mon Glenn, I’m your best friend!”

“All the more reason we shouldn’t get our love affairs mixed and spoil everything. Get your own nest!”

Shanes became mopey and began lurking in a corner.

“Look, Shanes, I’d like to help you. But I’m using my nest anyway– see. Chrostine is coming tonight.”

Shanes looked up. “Chrostine? My God, Glenn. She’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever…” He suddenly vomited onto a table.

Glenn laughed. “Makes you nervous, huh, buddy? Let me get you an aperitif.”

Glenn moved slowly over to the bar. She is the most beautiful creature he thought. Her exquisite piles of cascading hair, her huge eyes like walnuts, her pouty lips, that big awkward smile. 

He found that nearly an hour had passed. Shanes was poking him in the shoulder with a child’s beach pail. The entire room was trashed.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” Shanes explained. “I thought time was stopping. I went into a state of pathological enraged panic. I apologize for the room.

Glenn could barely say a word. “We…I have to get this cleaned up,” he said, snapping out of his haze.

“There was some deviancy too, I’m afraid. I’m sorry about your pillows,”

Glenn set to work. It was only an hour before Chrostine was due.

II

She walked into the room. Everything had been straightened and the pillows tossed down the garbage chute. He would ultimately have to explain the complete absence of pillows in the room but he didn’t care. The nonappearance of pillows in the apartment was no longer a concern.

"She hesitated a moment and with a warm tide of crimson creeping over her face, she averted her eyes and began seductively fingering a pneumatic upholstery stapler that he had accidentally left out."

“She hesitated a moment and with a warm tide of crimson creeping over her face, she averted her eyes and began seductively fingering a pneumatic upholstery stapler that he had accidentally left out.”

“How do I look?” she said. It was a black sleeveless number– his veins ran fire as he took it in. He heard thunder in the distance, then it was closer. She hesitated a moment and with a warm tide of crimson creeping over her face, she averted her eyes and began seductively fingering a pneumatic upholstery stapler that he had accidentally left out.

He went to her and took her in his arms, drawing her down beside him on the little cretonne covered love-seat beneath the suddenly storm-lashed windows. Their lips met in a deep, burning kiss. He thought about the scarcity of pillows in the apartment again but only briefly.

III.

The storm had stopped and the unmade bed was bathed in moonlight. They were both toweling off.

“There’s no use pretending,” he suddenly said. “You aren’t any kind of chicken. I love you Chrostine.”

She smiled up at him. But she was distracted. She was feeling around at the head of the bed.

“Chrostine, didn’t you hear me? I love you. I want you to be Mrs. Glenn Yount.” He thought about getting down on his knees but then he remembered the outright dearth of pillows and decided against it.

He thought suddenly of his war experiences. Sitting up in that tree for two years, firing into an abandoned house he thought. What did it all mean? Was there any sense to it? Thousands of rounds into an abandoned house? Then they said, “C’mon down from the tree, Glenn” and they drove him home. He still couldn’t understand any of it.

The phone rang. It was Chrostine.

“You were just standing there for two hours, dear,” she said. “I was hungry.”

“I was…thinking about the war,” he said.

“You’re still there, aren’t you dear?”

“I suppose so.”

They resolved to see each other tomorrow. He poured himself a drink and stared at the moonbeam on the bed, illuminating where she had once been.

 Del Midnight has written over 500 stories about love, adventure, war and interior decoration.

Summer Thunder by Jill Candles

September 24, 2014 2 comments
By Jill Candles

By Jill Candles

A New Romance Series Exclusive to The Lankville Daily News.

Ken came to our little street in late June, the first night, the first night of the summer thunder. It rattled my windows and, later, it rattled my bed frame as though portending what would happen later in that summer, that summer of the summer thunder.

The next morning, he was standing on the Stevenson’s lawn next door, shirtless. The Stevenson’s had gone away for the entire summer, that summer of thunder. “Hi,” he said. “I’m here to do some raking.” I nodded and felt a palpable heat rise up from the sidewalk. It was the heat of summer, true, that summer of thunder, but it was another kind of heat that formed a bridge between Ken and I, though we didn’t yet know it.

I went to my summer job at the library. It was a morning of folding gigantic newspapers over gigantic rulers. It was tedious. I stared outside at the cascading summer sun. Would it thunder today? Would it?

Romance

“The thunder was right above us. We kissed passionately.”

My reverie was broken by the appearance of Ken in the library vestibule. He was still shirtless. I took notice now of his chiseled features, his glistening pectorals, his clean and pressed tan slacks. Old Miss Higgins, the head librarian approached him.

“Yes, I’m looking for a gigantic newspaper on a gigantic ruler,” he said. He smiled, showing off two rows of perfect pearly whites. “I would like to have a look at the weather report,” he added, puffing out his strong, clean chest. “The sky…it looks as though…well, I mean, I wonder if it might thunder tonight.”

And he looked right at me. For what seemed like a luscious eternity our eyes locked. And then I heard that inner voice.

You’ve urinated in your panty hose again, Jill. Better make a beeline for the ladies room.

I looked down. There was the initial spot on the dusty wood floor. I hightailed it out of there.

Later, I cut through back yards and alleys, hoping I wouldn’t see him. Distantly, I could hear thunder. Summer thunder. I passed the open lot where a gigantic pumpkin fire had been raging for two years. There was a strange man standing there with a handmade sign that read “SEX REVOLUTION”. I hurried. The thunder came heavier now. The summer thunder.

There was the gate. Mom was out there with a huge basket of wet white clothing. She heard the thunder. But to her, the thunder was merely a warning having to do with laundry, not love. It came again, it was closer. I began crying.

My hand was on the gate now. And then, another hand was over it. A strong hand.

It was Ken’s.

He was shirtless but had changed into a pair of pressed green slacks. “Don’t be scared of the summer thunder,” he said. Then, he gurgled something incoherent. The thunder was right above us. We kissed passionately. And there was the voice.

You’ve urinated in your panty hose AGAIN, Jill! You must find an excuse to break away.

But I didn’t. And Ken didn’t seem to mind.