Rita Buckley aka Charles Maxwell's Blog
September 15, 2015
New Review for Mr. Chiardi & Other Stories
This time Raquel Thorne from the literary journal Cahoodaloodaling reviewed Mr. Chiardi & Other Stories.
She wrote that, "Maxwell has a fun narrating voice somewhere between Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends, William Goldman's The Princess Bride, and Douglas Adam's The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy...a steal at $2.99. Somber beware."
To read the review, use this URL:
http://cahoodaloodaling.com/review-mr...
She wrote that, "Maxwell has a fun narrating voice somewhere between Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends, William Goldman's The Princess Bride, and Douglas Adam's The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy...a steal at $2.99. Somber beware."
To read the review, use this URL:
http://cahoodaloodaling.com/review-mr...
August 12, 2014
A sample from Mr. Chiardi & Other Stories
Time for College
It was time for Junior to go to college. He’d sprouted pubic hair and was eyeing all the girls.
“I want to go to college,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied, “It’s time.”
His mother, my wife, was resigned to the fact that it was time for Junior to leave the nest. She sat on a stool at the granite kitchen counter, spiked coffee beside her, reading The New York Times. She looked almost real.
“I knew it would happen,” she said.
“Yes,” I said sadly.
“Do you think he’ll want the car keys all the time?” she asked.
Junior walked into the kitchen dressed in J. Crew jeans, an army green Che Guevara T-shirt, and boat shoes. He looked almost normal.
“Can I have the car keys, Dad?”
“No,” I said. “It’s time to go to college.”
“But I want to drive around town and troll for pretty girls.”
“No,” I said. “You have hair on your back. Where do you want to go to school?
“Northwestern, Southwestern, Columbia, Stanford, Harvard, Yale, Brown, Berry Berry Brown, Isle of Man, Isle of Woman, Transylvania Institute of Phlebotomy, Red’s School of Psychogenic Sciences, Ishkabibble College of Higher Learning, they all have excellent reputations.”
“Delicious,” his mother said.
“Nutritious,” I replied.
“I want the keys to the 325i.”
“No,” I said. “Take your tricycle and go play somewhere.”
“How am I supposed to pick up girls on that thing?” he asked.
“Very carefully,” I said.
“A pox on you,” he replied.
He slammed the door on the way out. The house shuddered and the birds stopped singing.
“Youth is wasted on the young,” I said.
“I wouldn’t know,” my wife replied.
__________
The Ishkabibble campus consisted of red brick buildings scattered here and there. No trees, no grass, no singing birds. Very peaceful.
“I don’t see any girls yet,” Junior said.
A pygmy from New Zealand walked by, followed by a large toad.
“They let you keep pets,” I said. “Dogs, cats, frogs, small lizards, amphibians of all kinds.”
“I don’t like it,” Junior said.
“We have to take the tour,” I said. “The president is escorting us.”
The president appeared on a dusty path heading toward us, surrounded by a crowd of secret service men with cell phones screwed to their heads. He was tall and lanky, with a short black beard and a high black hat. He took long strides along the well-worn trail.
“Fourscore and seven years ago,” he said, holding out a large grey hand.
I put on a latex glove and shook it. Junior did likewise.
“Where are the girls?” he asked.
“In the library,” the president said, “studying by candlelight.”
His retinue closed in around him. Kicking up a cloud of dust, they headed toward one of the red brick buildings. We walked close behind, holding handkerchiefs over our faces. An Aborigine strolled by, a midget at his side.
The president stopped and pointed in their direction. “We don’t discriminate on the basis of height,” he pronounced. “We also allow marsupials.”
“I don’t care about marsupials,” Junior said.
“Conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are…”
The library doors slid open automatically and we walked in.
“Ipso facto doralee doralie.” The president sang a little tune.
The girls were studying by candlelight. Some were lounging on sofas, others on beanbag chairs. Several sat in carrels, their laptops glowing in the dim, flickering light.
“Voila,” the president said, his large hand sweeping across a room with seven stacks of books and an old IBM Selectric on a stand by the door.
“Where are the guys?” Junior asked.
We walked into an identical room.
Young men, anywhere from 50 to 79 years of age, were planted at long wooden tables, hunched over textbooks.
Junior retched and ran out of the library.
“Ipso facto,” the president said.
“Fort Myers,” I replied.
______________
We were in the office of the president of Berry Berry Brown University. The commander-in-chief warmed up considerably once he had the donation check, and seemed genuinely happy to meet Junior. He came out from behind his overly large desk flanked by two American flags and held out his hand.
“Berry berry nice to meet you,” he said. “I hear you have hair on your back.”
Junior slipped on his latex glove and shook his hand. I did likewise.
“That’s a real plus here at Berry Berry.”
Junior nodded. I smiled.
“Shall we?” he asked, leading us toward the door.
A group of eight large misfits in black suits rushed into the room and surrounded him. We followed them down a long hallway lined with paintings of skinny old white men and went outside.
“This is the quad,” the president said, pointing to a student in a wheelchair.
“This is the commons,” he said, pointing to a patch of grass.
A naked young woman with thick golden locks hanging the length of her back rode by on a horse. She was followed by four Marines in full dress uniforms marching in formation. They stopped to salute the president, then continued on their way.
“ROTC,” he said.
We walked to the next building.
“This is the cafeteria,” he said. Coeds in skimpy shorts and halter tops were sunning themselves on the steps of a low-slung, mostly glass facility. Junior smiled and stared. The girls giggled and waved.
“Hi cutie,” one of them sang out.
“Ich bin ein Berliner,” the president said. He made his way toward an imposing grey marble structure covered in ivy.
“This is the library,” he said.
“This is a coed dorm.”
“This is a swimming pool.”
“This is a post office.”
“This is an ATM”
“This is a book store.”
“This is a stray dog.”
“This is a wandering minstrel.”
“This is an eremite.”
“This is an orgasm.”
“This is a rocket propelled grenade.”
The security detail closed in around the president.
“Ask not what your country can do for you,” he said, as they trotted back to the administration building.
The president’s secretary escorted us into his office. He was sitting at the desk, flanked by aides, with a pen in his hand. A photographer was setting up lights and other equipment.
“Hurry up,” the president said. “I have guests.”
He put pen to paper and a blinding strobe flashed. Young women in revealing dresses rushed in and out of the room delivering documents. The president eventually came out from behind his desk and sat down beside Junior.
“Well, Junior,” he said, “will we be seeing you in September?”
A young aide walked by in high heels. Junior’s eyes followed her across the room and down
the hall.
“Let the word go forth,” the president said.
“Cool,” said Junior.
“San Mateo,” I replied.
It was time for Junior to go to college. He’d sprouted pubic hair and was eyeing all the girls.
“I want to go to college,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied, “It’s time.”
His mother, my wife, was resigned to the fact that it was time for Junior to leave the nest. She sat on a stool at the granite kitchen counter, spiked coffee beside her, reading The New York Times. She looked almost real.
“I knew it would happen,” she said.
“Yes,” I said sadly.
“Do you think he’ll want the car keys all the time?” she asked.
Junior walked into the kitchen dressed in J. Crew jeans, an army green Che Guevara T-shirt, and boat shoes. He looked almost normal.
“Can I have the car keys, Dad?”
“No,” I said. “It’s time to go to college.”
“But I want to drive around town and troll for pretty girls.”
“No,” I said. “You have hair on your back. Where do you want to go to school?
“Northwestern, Southwestern, Columbia, Stanford, Harvard, Yale, Brown, Berry Berry Brown, Isle of Man, Isle of Woman, Transylvania Institute of Phlebotomy, Red’s School of Psychogenic Sciences, Ishkabibble College of Higher Learning, they all have excellent reputations.”
“Delicious,” his mother said.
“Nutritious,” I replied.
“I want the keys to the 325i.”
“No,” I said. “Take your tricycle and go play somewhere.”
“How am I supposed to pick up girls on that thing?” he asked.
“Very carefully,” I said.
“A pox on you,” he replied.
He slammed the door on the way out. The house shuddered and the birds stopped singing.
“Youth is wasted on the young,” I said.
“I wouldn’t know,” my wife replied.
__________
The Ishkabibble campus consisted of red brick buildings scattered here and there. No trees, no grass, no singing birds. Very peaceful.
“I don’t see any girls yet,” Junior said.
A pygmy from New Zealand walked by, followed by a large toad.
“They let you keep pets,” I said. “Dogs, cats, frogs, small lizards, amphibians of all kinds.”
“I don’t like it,” Junior said.
“We have to take the tour,” I said. “The president is escorting us.”
The president appeared on a dusty path heading toward us, surrounded by a crowd of secret service men with cell phones screwed to their heads. He was tall and lanky, with a short black beard and a high black hat. He took long strides along the well-worn trail.
“Fourscore and seven years ago,” he said, holding out a large grey hand.
I put on a latex glove and shook it. Junior did likewise.
“Where are the girls?” he asked.
“In the library,” the president said, “studying by candlelight.”
His retinue closed in around him. Kicking up a cloud of dust, they headed toward one of the red brick buildings. We walked close behind, holding handkerchiefs over our faces. An Aborigine strolled by, a midget at his side.
The president stopped and pointed in their direction. “We don’t discriminate on the basis of height,” he pronounced. “We also allow marsupials.”
“I don’t care about marsupials,” Junior said.
“Conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are…”
The library doors slid open automatically and we walked in.
“Ipso facto doralee doralie.” The president sang a little tune.
The girls were studying by candlelight. Some were lounging on sofas, others on beanbag chairs. Several sat in carrels, their laptops glowing in the dim, flickering light.
“Voila,” the president said, his large hand sweeping across a room with seven stacks of books and an old IBM Selectric on a stand by the door.
“Where are the guys?” Junior asked.
We walked into an identical room.
Young men, anywhere from 50 to 79 years of age, were planted at long wooden tables, hunched over textbooks.
Junior retched and ran out of the library.
“Ipso facto,” the president said.
“Fort Myers,” I replied.
______________
We were in the office of the president of Berry Berry Brown University. The commander-in-chief warmed up considerably once he had the donation check, and seemed genuinely happy to meet Junior. He came out from behind his overly large desk flanked by two American flags and held out his hand.
“Berry berry nice to meet you,” he said. “I hear you have hair on your back.”
Junior slipped on his latex glove and shook his hand. I did likewise.
“That’s a real plus here at Berry Berry.”
Junior nodded. I smiled.
“Shall we?” he asked, leading us toward the door.
A group of eight large misfits in black suits rushed into the room and surrounded him. We followed them down a long hallway lined with paintings of skinny old white men and went outside.
“This is the quad,” the president said, pointing to a student in a wheelchair.
“This is the commons,” he said, pointing to a patch of grass.
A naked young woman with thick golden locks hanging the length of her back rode by on a horse. She was followed by four Marines in full dress uniforms marching in formation. They stopped to salute the president, then continued on their way.
“ROTC,” he said.
We walked to the next building.
“This is the cafeteria,” he said. Coeds in skimpy shorts and halter tops were sunning themselves on the steps of a low-slung, mostly glass facility. Junior smiled and stared. The girls giggled and waved.
“Hi cutie,” one of them sang out.
“Ich bin ein Berliner,” the president said. He made his way toward an imposing grey marble structure covered in ivy.
“This is the library,” he said.
“This is a coed dorm.”
“This is a swimming pool.”
“This is a post office.”
“This is an ATM”
“This is a book store.”
“This is a stray dog.”
“This is a wandering minstrel.”
“This is an eremite.”
“This is an orgasm.”
“This is a rocket propelled grenade.”
The security detail closed in around the president.
“Ask not what your country can do for you,” he said, as they trotted back to the administration building.
The president’s secretary escorted us into his office. He was sitting at the desk, flanked by aides, with a pen in his hand. A photographer was setting up lights and other equipment.
“Hurry up,” the president said. “I have guests.”
He put pen to paper and a blinding strobe flashed. Young women in revealing dresses rushed in and out of the room delivering documents. The president eventually came out from behind his desk and sat down beside Junior.
“Well, Junior,” he said, “will we be seeing you in September?”
A young aide walked by in high heels. Junior’s eyes followed her across the room and down
the hall.
“Let the word go forth,” the president said.
“Cool,” said Junior.
“San Mateo,” I replied.
August 7, 2014
Mr. Chiardi & Other Stories
In case you haven't seen it yet, here's my author profile:
CHARLES MAXWELL is a former Army Airborne Ranger, demolitions expert, mountain climber, marathon runner, and inveterate seeker of new and exciting adventures. He's also a highly regarded graduate of the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. His work has appeared in print and online in numerous literary journals, including Bartleby Snopes, Danse Macabre, Monkeybicycle, Versal, and SNReview (SNR). It has been featured twice by FictionDaily and nominated for Dancz Books Best of the Web by the Wilderness House Literary Review.
To check out my Facebook page, go to:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mr-Chi...
Many thanks,
Charles
CHARLES MAXWELL is a former Army Airborne Ranger, demolitions expert, mountain climber, marathon runner, and inveterate seeker of new and exciting adventures. He's also a highly regarded graduate of the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. His work has appeared in print and online in numerous literary journals, including Bartleby Snopes, Danse Macabre, Monkeybicycle, Versal, and SNReview (SNR). It has been featured twice by FictionDaily and nominated for Dancz Books Best of the Web by the Wilderness House Literary Review.
To check out my Facebook page, go to:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mr-Chi...
Many thanks,
Charles
