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401 pages

English

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“Okay, Herb, bring in your intro, ready on the horns. One, two… One, two!”
Beatense sang the piece a few times, but her voice sounded too cynically jaded to succumb to a desolate heart. She then sang Papa Say Do No Do six times.
“Ah, yes-yes, marvelous. But we need a more peppy tone, Miss Colwell.”
“Well, this is the way I sing. Don’t you have any morbid songs I can do?”
“Benton, give her Hey, Don’t Wake Me Up! Herb? From the top.”
Beatense began to worry about the sun out there. This was ridiculous. Why all this horsing around? She hated how people could be so content to be pale.
Under mounting high stress, she sang Hey, Don’t sounding like she didn’t care either way. Her weary sad voice put a new twist into this lighthearted tune, giving it a cheap slum hotel and broken hopes pathos that was haunting. Maverick was booked for any possible recordings, but this was a take. She signed the papers and left at noon with a surprising $20,000. First the bank, then a far too delayed hot bake.

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Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)

Adventure

Fiction

Action

Fantasy

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Publié par	Xlibris US
Date de parution	28 juin 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9798369401910
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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LIFE WITH BEAT

The Book Girl

Sim Elgin

Copyright © 2023 by Sim Elgin.

Library of Congress Control Number:
2023911892
ISBN:
Hardcover
979-8-3694-0189-7
Softcover
979-8-3694-0190-3
eBook
979-8-3694-0191-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/27/2023

Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
849278

CONTENTS
1: Atmospheric Testing
2: One Girl‘s Obsession
3: Age Nineteen
4: College, 2nd Year
5: Her Reservation
6: Consolidated Depot
7: Departure
8: Disastrophe
9: Black Thunder
10: Train Life
11: Lost Again
12: Xanthallado
13: Commodore
14: Hogan Forth
15: Monday
16: Tuesday
17: Cocojo
18: Wednesday
19: Thursday
20: Friday Am
21: Friday Pm
22: Saturday Am 10k
23: Garden Center
24: Main Beach Cruise
25: Erotic Passage
26: Tony The Crude
27: Pizza Again
28: Dancing Binge
29: Mall Trip
30: Interview
31: Jungle Ride
32: Wild Ride Home
33: The Party
34: Cardiff Shores
35: Light House
36: New Implant
37: Shattuck Visit
38: Longlead-Up Evening
39: Pool Side Sun
40: Wild Ride Home
41: Airport
42: Boarding Pass
43: No Spayah Bayd
44: Cable Car
45: Nightmare
46: Gunter Interlude
47: Packsaddle
48: Catching On
48: Spinnaker
49: Aquarius
49: Interlude
50: Last Run

T he winds swept back in. Cocojo’s rocky south shore glided by at a lashing speed. The catamaran flew by Le Tournepier, that stood atop a tall sea-side cliff. The uncombably out-of-control pile’s Beatense said to sail in close to this sheer rock, but Shean told that the surf would smash them into it like tomatoes. Lorraine, nervously, asked all that tumbled hair how she picked Emeraldeye for her visit. Working the jib, eyeing her spindly legs, the beach blonded, beanbag bellied, bamboo built and bitch blacked body believer looked up. Formed cheeks, wide placed processing eyes.
“Hah? Oh, it was this advice letter, in Chez Health. Me being me, vidi veni.”
However the microphone Me, no baddy, timid and paint store right now, format also forces the teensy, but sea breezes and consult with their very insecure to spill were just $600 away! So staff to find the best their deepest and most one jet and shuttle van colors to put up. Plus agonizing insecurities later I was a backpack don’t forget wallpaper to the entire room. It hostel initiate! It was as you shop! The newer can be of help to some right on the ocean, and types go up easily, so people, it gives a new lazed back! This sunbug in a few hours you can angle. But facing your Elee ran me down to the creatively revamp your pain, where this creep fabulous Cocojo lawless apartment! Fabrics can is spying on you, this beach! All week we made also be used to a nice wouldn’t be advised. A chocolate mad at us! effect, and you can do quiet life is all you The hostel let us both great things with them need, this will slowly go nude! Party Saturday to liven your digs up!
bring healing. I thank night, danced hips hot, Come home from work to you for writing, all lost all control, got your fancy pad! Wadya victims can relate and fooked, again! Prim me! waiting for? Send us a
(Cont’d pp 159, col 2) (Cont’d pp 201, col 1) picture! Ch ez Health

1
ATMOSPHERIC TESTING
D espite their shore summers the olden wealth juniors were fearfully, passively pallid. They were jeered at as sissy, but their later bomb-test era cousins were raved over taut and tan god perfects. The isotopes granted too their forceful cheeks, direct eyes and tuffeted peeky-ears hair. Us impressed less-money lessers all envied their toasty arrogance, but we never tried for that free prestige ourselves. And unlike …
The finer-breds we failed in mind and make, we had buzz cut hair and we went baggy jeans and T-shirts un-prestiged. But with 1965’s Varsity 10-speed advent, the nascent atomical athleticals saw lethal prospects. In a twenty year nation-wide romp on sand, grass, street or court, these self exalting warrior slims, just in their cuffed-up butt-cut cut-off shorts, were proudly feared for their sun clashy long waist uppers and sun clashy long legs lowers, as they strafed saddlery shined. Until the winter fade.
But the sea or ski jetters stayed demoralizingly ever luxuriant. Low folk resented their striking ostentation, but then 1970 these betters went shock ennobling with two, three or four year hair, inter-shifting spilly thick. Decadent, overtly extravagant, even more demoralizing, but aso free. For the low folk this excess meant societal ruin.
This Cannot Be . But overlooked, many of their own sons went plentiful to look insolent, only to look innocent. But for me, no appeal : Clumsy, nerdy, underweight and anemically buck-toothed pale. I died seeing Roblon, a pepsi cola saturated (not exaggerated) terror, who gave swim meet fame to our local Woodvue pool. His games play with his admiring but befuddled friends stressed in his leaned lines, while Erick’s chlorine crispy blaze also gave a race team edge. And down-the-street sun pro Jeff flashed a breathtakingly metallic nose to toes shatter. Pre-teens also shattered.
We saw this deity in Barton Park. Mark griped, “Lucky brat’s ski boat hosing.” Barty Park, that upper realm where both his stellar sizzle and stellar shape were for that enclave necessities. In white knee-cut deck jeans on his banana-seat Stingray bike, slouching with belly sunken, he viciously glared. So did an in-shorts ball-player just ten, already by June ice cream bar fatal. For those older the sun vicious Scott of the trim tennis shorts. At the time girls weren’t responsive to the bomb genetics, but Scott, his little brother Nack and whole youth armies were sun sadistic.
Or a neighbors and parents revered sun star, a flagrant distractor on a look-at-me walk, and swim class Bob, each superbly fifteen and pan fudge slathered. Or prodigy Essen’s sinister sun session slayings : Sullenly sensational ten-to-two torchings.
But others simply loved that sky lantern. The lazily lanky Lang, a burned copper no-shirter, his muscles flexed only upon need, like tossing rocks in his uncle’s torrid quarry. On grey days, morbid. The limber Paeter’s fervor conferred his bran velvet blur, or neck-beads Dryden washing the car, also fudge blurred, with sudsy chest.
Also sand specters, park lagoon fawns, teen scantlings, boater hawks, avid new sunners, miracle sun farm lads, a tail-gate seated corn seller and a hot day rural bike boy , all pristine brilliant and dense deep radiant. But with their capri-kini lay-outs and lordly sailing-shorts strolls the monieds deep radiated too, and they were martial arts, dirt bike, steep ski, ice hockey and surf or skateboard radicals.
Many elaborated their rebelly anthems with pretentious mid-back cascades, and the ten speed resplendents flaunted scruffy haystacks or abundant dried shucks.
Also during the 1970s, the worshipful mothers on their own enabled provocative, spirally unsnipped garlands for their gifted, creamy pure or sun kissed celestials.
Back in 1965, that Barton bomber was a fellow Woody. Yes, we belonged, but I wasn’t otherwise distracted, the girls there were plainfully doughy bland, and wore their ugly orthopedic swimsuits complacently. They didn’t follow the lead of their vivid sun crazed brothers, so the doughs were later eclipsed by the nuked next generation.
These spontaneously lightweight selects, in their 1970 spring tropic travels, even the academics, on maddened impulse, dared to wear the criminal new string bikinis. And back on campus they faced the Hey, Peanut Butter! razzing of their friends.
Dorm-plaza hot baking (a few bravely blatant) they presided with a peach, pelvic and patella agitation. As the old prude rules were upended, in their spurning the 1950s of dim memory, their first effulge stay-overs got them the response, Well why not.
Those tie bikinis edged ever more risky, until in public settings, some in nothing. July of 1983, a boy-tough pretzel with white breasts pressed out, lay blithely bared on her sand cot within a beach mob, in startling teasy view. Willfully relaxed, chaste she decided to be not. Staring as I walked my bike by her she elbowed up …
To give my butt-cut shorts, tan beating and my sailboat’s spiffy rudder upon my shoulder an appraisal. Her proclivity went back to when her library love fell to the alluring 70s itch, and her hitting beach or pool in her birthday twelve top-patches and banana peel. If fun parents, pills too. When I saw her as a collegiate, life for her and all skinny adventurists was a wanton hoot. But actually thei