Tag Archives: Marty Pitchford

A New Life (Part six)

Time. Surreal when I think about what just transpired a couple hours ago. I lie here, the rise and fall of my chest lending her lovely head the appearance of a yacht lazily floating a calm, rolling sea. How did I end up in the company president’s bed?

That’s the surreal part. One minute I’m a nobody who sits in on her board meetings, the next we make love and crash in her plush penthouse apartment. She probably has more cash in her dainty purse than I have in all both my bank accounts –  savings and checking.

We have connection, though. There’s a “rightness” to her that compels me to dream of more nights like this. Even more so, even as I lay here dreaming, I’m thinking of all the incredible things the two of us can accomplish.

I have some pretty cool theories on a major project that could use the power of Marci’s research savvy and, of course, her financial backing. I feel conflicted now, because I don’t want to ask for these things having just romped her around in the sack for a couple hours. That feels crass.

I can surely dream, though. I can dream at least until the softness of her body  overtakes my ability to resist the temptation to wake her up. As soon as the thought hits my brain, I’m off on the various, incredible ways to bring her back to life. But what about my research project?

I’m a mess. There’s not many men who would be too concerned about offending the beautiful, naked woman sleeping with her arm draped over me like this. Hell, I’m wondering why I don’t just get back to heating up the bed again. Tomorrow will take care of itself…right?


A New Life (part four)

Board members swim around us, hungry sharks sniffing for blood. Marci’s red dress doesn’t help erase my dark thoughts. I never noticed before. The member of IntegraLink’s board don’t much care for her. The feeling falls completely mutual from what I gather.

Marci and I went our separate ways shortly after our arrival. I relegated myself to the peons on the outer periphery of importance. Nevertheless, notable people sought me out, like Penelope, one of the VP’s of something or another.

“So. Marty. You escorted Ms. Rader to the ball. Did the two of you suddenly become an item?”

The eyebrows of my fellow bottom feeders told me I now consisted of four parts radioactivity and one part plague. The all scattered as my response stumbled from my lips. “Um, well, no, we just walked in together that’s all.” I hate it when I can’t think of anything clever to say.

“Looked like more than just a chance meeting at the door to me.” She paused, then added, “It appears I underestimated you.”

“Wow, I was never aware you’d even noticed me.” I turn and show her my back, nearly knocking over a young lady sporting a tray of hors d’oeuvres. While Penelope may hold a ton of clout, the conversation appeared headed for no good place. I caught back up with my kind, but they stood wary of every higher-up that strolled by.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Marty. You don’t understand the politics of this place yet. Ms. Rader is not someone to ally yourself with just yet. Since her old man died, she’s taken a lot of heat for changes she’s implemented.” John Merriweather from accounting. For some reason, he appears to want my friendship.

“Hey, John. I’m the least political person in this room. I don’t give a crap about all that stuff. I let everyone else play the games.”

John looked unconvinced. “You better brush up on your tact. Here comes Bathesda. You won’t blow him off as easy as Penelope.”

“I didn’t blow her off. I simply didn’t care for the conversation.”

“If you want to keep your job, you better give this conversation a better shot.”

John walked away just as Mr. Bathesda stepped into my field of vision. Hell, he took up my field of vision. He had to be six-eight and all muscle. His forty-ish look told me he most likely nestled into fifty a couple years ago. He works hard at appearing virile.

“Good evening Mr…ah, my apologies, I didn’t quite get your name.”

“Funny, you had it the other day in the board meeting when you shot down my idea.” Off to my right, John shook his head and frowned at me.

“Yes, that’s right. Pitchford. Let’s walk.”

“No thanks.” I didn’t care for his tone. John’s now red-faced and storms off into the crowd.

“You don’t care for me much, do you Pitchford.” Bathesda’s steel gray eyes attempt to bore through me.

“Why should I Bathesda? You’re pushing some political power play on me like an actor from some bad B-movie. If you don’t have the balls to say what’s on your mind, then let’s go enjoy this soiree.”

The slight tinge of color to Bathesda’s face rewards me for my efforts, although I’m sure I’m in deep shit now. I suppose I drifted a bit too far from my old ass-kissing persona. “Pitchford, whatever you’re up to, you better hope you have someone covering your back.”

“And why would that be, Dan?” Marci slipped in beside me. “Go plot your little power games elsewhere. Father told me you’d be a pain in the ass.”

Bathesda turned on his heel, his face now a bit brighter.

“Marci. I, uh, I apologize for stirring him up…”

“Have you had enough of this party yet?”

The question didn’t sound like a question, and by the tug on my elbow, I didn’t need a map to figure out what she meant.


A New Life

I slip around the hallway corner into another long corridor. She reaches out her left hand to a doorknob, and in my mind, I freeze every detail about her. I marvel at her beauty. To list her attributes would require endless description. Far simpler to note her flaws, which in essence, only support her elegance.

A small section of her hair tends to fall across her left eye when she becomes agitated or animated about something. She dresses not to compliment. She does not smile nearly enough. She’s my boss.

I chuckle at the ‘long list’ of her flaws. I also look back at what happened over the past year and I realize I never really lived while with Jessica. I constantly put out fires on one hand and attempted to start blazes on the other. Now, for the first time in my adult life, I understand the meaning of desire – its subtleties, its ability to unseat logic, and its nuances that sneak into the heart.

My job switch definitely came at a critical turning point, shortly after Jess and I divorced. I knew the moment my eyes received the gift of her face my destiny lay with Marci.

Marci. I roll the name over my silent tongue a few times as I make my way past her door. I feel stupid. A schoolboy smitten by the class vixen. I feel teenage angst yet I’m thirty two. I dread opening the door to this meeting. I like the sound of the name, ‘Marci’ bounced off my name, Marty. They feel like the perfect match.

Some manner of miracle must occur to keep the wrong words out of my mouth. I desire to dazzle her with brilliant repartee, but I know my tongue will stumble and some garbled blurb will proceed from my throat and the snickers will flit around the table like evil butterflies that taunt their counterparts in my stomach.

In R&D, the unstated rules of the game demand professionalism, sharp observation, and an ability to focus. At least these make up the rules I’ve observed the past eight months. I’m not a scientist by trade, but I do love to tinker with concepts and possibilities. To be honest, I still wonder why Human Resources chose my resume and then chose me for this position.

I feel like a wildcard, a joker among royalty. Outranked at every turn, I know I offer little to these meetings other than ‘out there’ possibilities. HR must covet my knack to question anything, along with my ability to back up assertions with sound logic.

When Marci’s in the room, though, I tend to lose my competitive edge. I’m a bit too laid back for this crowd anyway. Just wait until I spring my theory of out-of-body time travel on them. No, maybe the time is not right just yet. I may have survived eight months, but something so nutcase-sounding as that could pink slip me real quick.

No, I’ll stick to the script of the mundane and throw in my outlandish observations. Who knows, maybe today I’ll get the chance to impress her. Did I mention she owns the company?


Delivery Rooms and Dads

This Method Writers blog posting comes to you from the hands of  Marty Pitchford, one of the characters in the book “The Method Writers”. The fictitious characters from the book continue to work on final edits of their own book – “Fictitious Fiction”.

I realize the writer who created me, Michael Ray King, wrote his own book on fatherhood. Heck, he should! He only has six children! For me, fatherhood came as a shock-wave that did not settle down until Annabelle turned two-years-old.

The midnight feedings I heard so much about were actually midnight, three-in-the-morning and six-in-the-morning. Jessica did not want to get up in the middle of the night much. I didn’t either, don’t get me wrong, but this was our precious daughter. I cannot tell you how many times I fell asleep in the easy chair with her on my chest.

The sleep I got ended up very shallow, as I feared she might roll off. I placed couch pillows on the floor around the chair just in case.

I nearly got fired from my VP job because I dragged into work sloppy and half out of my mind. If my boss hadn’t been a woman, I’m not sure I would have received the benefit of the doubt. She knew Jessica, and she knew me, of course. Not long after Annabelle’s birth, my boss sat me down and gave me a boatload of tips. Most I didn’t remember, but I was thankful that she understood what I was going through.

The diapers seemed to fall my way most of the time. I suppose I’m grateful for that as well. Whenever I changed a diaper Jessica had put on our daughter, I noted the carelessness. I should have begun adding all these signs up, but life had me running its gauntlet. There were many times I asked for more help, but Jessica felt I needed to carry my fair share of the load.

Yeah, I go to work, come home and Jess hands Anabelle off to me and disappears for five or six hours. The upside to this, of course, is Annabelle and I developed a strong bond. My little girl would smile and giggle at me and I knew there could be nothing more beautiful.

Oh yeah! I was supposed to talk about the delivery room a bit. So I’m in there, right? Jess is cussing enough to make Poseidon blush. I’m sure the nurses are going to boot us out, but they simply ignore her. I’m helping helplessly with the Lamaze breathing.

The doctor walks in, exhorts Jess to push after he inspects the situation, and the next thing I know, this purple creature is being held up to me. Scissors somehow get placed in my right hand, and I cut the chord to the most beautiful purple being on earth.

I soon note Annabelle’s skin changes to a much more normal looking pink. I’m glad I didn’t ask. I would have felt stupid. Since my baby was not exposed to air those forty weeks, of course she would come out some strange color. Once the light and air did their thing, poof! Normal baby.

Except nothing was normal about this girl. She was/is perfect. I believe I cried more than she did. Maybe not as loud, but I wept. Birth is one of the most amazing experiences we ever get to witness. I’ve been there for my girl ever since, and that will never change as long as I live and breathe.

 

Rogues Gallery Writers Books:

Writing is Easy

More Writing is Easy


Ficticious Fiction and the Quest for More Characters

Good day readers. Marty Pitchford at your writing service once again. At this point in the editing process, the Rogues Gallery Writers (the real-life Rogues) remain tied up with all their re-writes. This leaves we fictitious characters writing this blog. Like we’re not busy ourselves…

One of my duties this week is to nab a pic that relates to the short stories I penned for the upcoming book, Fictitious Fiction. These searches can be time consuming. For some reason, I cannot locate the pic I really want. Believe it or not, I need a provocative pic of a hot babe posing on the hood of a red convertible.

Yeah, somehow I’ve pigeon-holed myself as the fictitious writer most likely to wax on a sex-related subject. It’s just a phase. Nonetheless, my search has fallen into disarray. I found the perfect model to depict one of the characters in one of the stories, but having that red convertible would be icing on hood, so to speak.

Here she is. Quite the attractive lady, eh? In the story, she’s a blond who lives in Texas near the Gulf of Mexico. It’s a scorching hot day. But hey, I don’t want to give away the story line, now do I?

When coming up with the idea for the story line, I thought it would be cool to take a song lyric and make it into a full-fledged story. I used an old Bobby Goldsboro tune. In the end, I think it came out really well.

I’ll keep looking for that convertible though. After all, I have until Ground Hog’s Day to have my final choice. Picking out pics for a book cover is a critical chore. Actually, I don’t look at it so much as a chore, but the search does gobble up the time. The pic must possess some outstanding appeal.

In our society today, for good or ill, attractive models grab attention. This most likely will not change anytime soon. But you can’t just go grab the first shot you see and slap it on the cover of a book. There needs to be a tie-in to what’s written inside.

In Fictitious Fiction, this lady needed to be blond, attractive, near the Gulf (or some body of water) and it would help if she was out on a sweltering hot day clad in a peasant top or halter. Looking over all those pics of attractive women sure was a tough job, but hey, I take my work seriously, right?

I’m wondering how Dorian, Georgie Mae, and David are doing in their quest for character pics. I can only hope they glean as much enjoyment out of the process as I. The Fictitious Rogues work hard, probably harder than the Real Rogues. We should all be able to enjoy these small but important aspects of putting a book together.

Time to run! I’m off for another half hour of scouring the internet for a tantalizing woman on the hood of a red convertible. It’s a rough life…


Couples Kissing in the Rain

Hello. Marty Pitchford, fictional character, at your service! Yes, it appears I now shoulder the load writing this blog for all the Rogues as well as their fictional characters. Usually I get some help from Dorian, Georgie Mae, and David. (singing…) No body knows….

My writer lost it a few weeks ago. What did he lose?

His mind. The poor sap melted down and fled blogging like an elephant in the sewers of an Indiana Jones movie. Yep, tons of damage to the inner sanctum of my writer’s psyche. I could not fathom what made him snap, so I took a trek along the synapse’s of his mind. Here’s what I found.

Loads of projects, all way behind, pounding at his creative core like Orcs in the Lord of the Rings movies. He overloaded himself to the point that writing a simple blog became the powder keg that would blow Helm’s Deep to smithereens. So instead of self-destructing, he opted to do nothing. I suppose that is akin to Aragorn shushing everyone and saying, “If we’re really quiet, maybe they’ll go away.”

I also strolled through my writer’s more analytical side. There, a few quality tidbits peeked out from the rubble of destruction. One such tidbit came from hits we’ve received on this blog searching for “kissing couple” and “couples kissing in the rain.” The cool thing about these searches? They are not text searches, but ‘image’ searches. Back on November 17, 2011, I ran a post titled Rainy Days and Thursdays which contained the pic you see above.

Being the curious fictional character I am, I decided to bring that pick forward again along with the text and blog title to see if I can jump our hits. Yes, this may be a bit underhanded and calculating, but hey, I’m a fictional character and can do anything I please. My writer is not all that engaged with his brain these days, so it’s up to me to do the thinking, as it were.

So if you’re wondering where this post is going, it just went. Maybe, if the hit total is significant enough, I’ll let you know how my experiment turned out. By the way, I’m also using those search terms in my tags. Hey, might as well go for broke, right?

As for my writer, Michael Ray King, you can find him on Hub Pages. It seems he does not have any problem posting to that site, but won’t lift a finger here on this blog. Of course, with me standing in for him, he may be far too intimidated to ever return. After all, he’ll never be able to match my wit and brilliance.

Oops, that last statement may have caught his attention. I better run before he goes back and edits this post…

Sssshhhhhh!

(Whisper): While you’re here, consider purchasing one of the Rogues’ books – Writing is Easy


Character Hijacks Blog! Details Here!

Welcome to the blog written by book characters rather than the authors themselves. Hey, in this world of automated everything, why not create characters strong enough to write their own blog, right? Gotta tip my virtual hat to our creators for having this foresight.

Hah! I missed my posting slot last week, so I’m stepping in and hijacking this blog! Hey, characters have lives too, you know! Yeah, I got busy doing things like running around in my creating writer’s head for a while. While my usual post slot is Thursdays, days are only of importance to corporal humans. We characters twist days around to our needs. This week I needed Thursday to ruminate.

We’re not nearly as complicated as you writers tend to be. As a character, we can change at any time and we don’t mind as long as we get our fair share of face time. By face time, I mean readers soaking in our brilliance, whether that brilliance is our villainy or stupidity, or humor, or heart-string tugging abilities.

I’ve written a couple short stories that will appear in an upcoming anthology. Probably January. Yes, I know, you know this. That info has been in the blog now for weeks. What you don’t know is that we’re in edit and the stories are progressing nicely.

I also am peeking into my creating author’s mind for the sequel to the upcoming novel (of which I am one of the main characters) titled The Method Writers. Upon tiptoeing around in that writer’s brain of his, I see many cool twists and turns on the horizon.

I am actually feeling closer to my creating author (ok, ok, I’ll go ahead and name him. Michael Ray King. There, you happy?). He appears to be looking out for me by dragging me through tons of muck and tribulation.

Hey, that’s what a strong character loves. Didn’t you know that? When we go through hell, we come out stronger in the end (or dead, but we won’t go there, will we? Will we? WILL WE?)

My apologies, I just got carried away. I do fear, though, that my author may have caught a whiff of that idea. Death. Not so good…

I think I’m going to be sick. I’ll see you folk later…I hope…


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