The Ocean Goddess and The Home Run Queen
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About this ebook
Softball legend. Proud Yooper. Breathes underwater.
Vanessa's strange gift has gotten her nowhere in life, stuck in a sad amusement park and surrounded by death.
Regan Wolfrom
Regan Wolfrom (born at the tail end of the disco era) has come a long way from his 1986 debut novel Harry the Adventurous Hamster (currently out of print due to having never been published or completed). After a break from writing to attend puberty, and to eventually sell six packs of Molson Canadian to his misnamed crush, Moosehead Girl, Regan returned to the craft with reckless abandon and a gallon jug of iced tea with just a smattering of extremely cheap rum. Regan is now the author of numerous short stories and an upcoming post-apocalyptic novel series with only one mention (so far) of zombie erections. Regan hopes to one day write a novel set on Mars while sitting in his boxer shorts on the actual Red Planet, and everything that comes before that is really just his way of saving up for the one-way trip. Though Regan has been shafted by residency requirements in his pursuit of the MacArthur genius grant, his current fiction is considered to be of high caliber, reflecting a marked improvement in style and grammar from the aforementioned thing with the hamster. It also has far fewer graphic scenes of pound puppy plushes having sex in the back of a shoebox with paper wheels. What does Regan have to say about Regan? "I recently passed up the chance to hassle Samuel L. Jackson." "I've always wanted to change my name to something boring, like Hugh Howey." "I know how to cook six things. None of them are oatmeal." "I write stories that are weird, a little dark, and definitely inappropriate for my children. It could be tough to keep that going when they get to be as old and weird as I am today." "Oh... and my dog is in love with me... like... in a disturbing way." Please read one of Regan's stories for a more in-depth tour of Regan's unresolved childhood issues.
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The Ocean Goddess and The Home Run Queen - Regan Wolfrom
The Ocean Goddess and The Home Run Queen
a short story from Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men
by Regan Wolfrom
Copyright © Regan Wolfrom 2012
Book Cover Design by Christine Ko
Stock from Conrado/Bigstock.com
E-Book Distribution by XinXii - www.xinxii.com
DANGER, MY goddess would whisper softly to me whenever The Wolfman would approach. Danger.
His thick and brown-black facial hair, his wet-dog musk and throaty New York accent, his ivory-white fake fangs sticking out against his yellowed smokers’ teeth.
He was my kind of danger.
My goddess would always tell me that The Wolfman was legit, that there was something supernatural about him. My goddess told me he was just like us.
But the rest of me knew it was an act, plastic wolf teeth and all. I’d met many fakers like him on both sides of Freak Alley, people so bored with being ordinary that they run straight to being monsters. I knew that The Wolfman had been a nobody before he'd gotten dressed up. But that didn't bother me. Real or not, The Wolfman was exactly the kind of guy I’d like to bring home and check for ticks.
Not that he was the type to go home
with anyone; he’d always been an open air kind of guy, preying on the fudgies mostly, sniffing out the prettiest tourists and taking them out to the woods like any authentic wolfman should. On occasion he’d go for one of the girls who worked at the carnival, but he hadn’t gone for me just yet.
I guess you have to work your way up to the Home Run Queen of The UP.
I saw him with Anastasia once, right before she left town without a word; I was pretty sure no one missed her. He’d swooped in and picked her up in his arms, carrying her like a golden-haired sack of potatoes dressed in a polyester-blend fish tail and plastic coconut bikini cups.
I’m not going to admit to watching them together, making love or whatever you’d call it, but I will say that they did it outside like the others, somewhere out in the forest that stretches from The Bridge to Cheboygan, and that when I’d closed my eyes it was me who was pretending to be a mermaid getting pounded by that broad-shouldered half-wolf, twenty feet away from the spot where they dump all the grease from the deep-fryers.
They’d still been going at it, when after twenty minutes I’d decided to go back to my camper and do something just for me. I no longer had hot water for my massaging showerhead but