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    Red
    Red
    Red
    Ebook98 pages1 hour

    Red

    By Cat Oars

    ()

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    About this ebook

    What's red? Blood? Roses? Wine? A dress? Lipstick? These stories have lots of red things in them. But nothing of any other color. There is a lot of red in these stories. You could say this book is red, redder or maybe even the reddest book that's ever been written. Meet the red dragon. Meet mean museum guard Toby. Meet the loves that were struck out of your life story by the red pencil of fate. Meet the red dragon on a trip to China. Meet the doctor who wears a red hat. And at the very end, meet a man who thought these red stories were stolen from him.

    An excerpt from The Rooster Redd Show by R Toady:

    The chemtrails are just crazy today, my eyes are freaking killing me, they must be redder than red. See, I knew it, there’s a plane now. Man, would you look at that chemtrail spread. Most people these days don’t want to hear about it. They’re content to just keep on living in their own little bubbles.
    God it’s nice out though. Red roses everywhere, all these girls strutting through the park in their little dresses. Used to be women had some modesty but not anymore. God, would you look at Miss Thang in the little red skirt. Maybe it’s time to try Internet dating again. Gary keeps trying to get me to try but I just can't bring myself to do it. Not after last time.
    Shit, smoke break’s over already. Can’t be late getting back, Toby is just dying for an excuse to rat me out. Dude needs to get a life.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCat Oars
    Release dateJun 29, 2016
    ISBN9781311182333
    Red
    Author

    Cat Oars

    Cat Oars has rowed the rivers and stalked the squirrels. Cat Oars has sang, danced, laughed and loved. We are a group of like-minded writers of all shapes and sizes, colors and creeds and what we've written will change the way you feel about the universe and the life you've already lived and the life you have yet to experience.

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      Book preview

      Red - Cat Oars

      RED

      –––} {–––

      A CAT OARS

      PUBLICATION

      SMASHWORDS EDITION

      Copyright 2009 / 2016 Cat Oars

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and lending to friends as commonly allowed. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

      Editor: Francais

      Cover: Daniel

      Dedication: Don H., David A.W.

      Table of Contents

      Introduction

      Seeing Red

      Laiadevorah

      Sixty-Seven Shades of Red

      Wyatt Burp

      Ruby’s Valentine

      Silvercharm

      Deadwalking

      Toyota Corolla

      Red Land

      Cufflink

      Red Lace

      Sandshovel

      Roy and the Red Hat

      Zendog3

      My Red Loves

      Francais

      Red Dress

      Silvercharm

      In the Garden of Eva

      CGT

      Broken Glass

      GSVMach

      Hong Cha Lu

      Cufflink

      The Rooster Redd Show

      R Toady

      Prairie Storms and Crinoline

      Sandshovel

      Red Fury

      Swann

      Dedication

      Introduction

      I ASKED THE CAT OARS WRITERS to create Valentine’s Day stories in the key of Red. That meant: Put a lot of red things in the stories. As many as possible. And don’t mention any other colors.

      This book is a collection of the stories and poems that resulted. Most were posted on the Craigslist Literary & Writing forum on February 14, 2009.

      That afternoon, I had to go get a tire fixed on a red Mini Cooper. The countertop at the tire shop was red. The racks that held the tires were red. The window frames were red. The plastic couches in the waiting area were red. The tile floor was red. To paraphrase Godard: Had my dream become a world or my world become a dream?

      Ten years from now the Cat Oars writers will be able to pick up this book and say: I got together with some of my friends on the Internet and we produced one of the strangest books ever written.

      So thanks to everyone for participating. It’s been an unusual and unforgettable experience.

      Francais

      Los Angeles

      March 2009

      June 2016

      Seeing Red

      Laiadevorah

      RED-RIMMED EYES from crying, mourning the loss of nothing and hoping for the gain of daydreams. Last night’s fortune cookie said Your imagination is preparing you for the future, keep dreaming. How does one look to the future when one is stuck wondering about the present? Why can’t I get him out of my head?

      I’m trying to remember how he looked the last time we were together. My lips were cracked and I had a slight red wine mustache. I sat down on a stoop and then he left. He took off down the street with the stupid hussy girl with her red lace thong peeking out from her jeans but not hiding the stretch marks. She was all over him that night. I played coy, demure, pretended it didn’t bother me at all and drank too much. I made friends with everyone else at the party and tried not to stare or show my feelings while the red built up inside and later came out on the floor of Penn Station and all over my pants. What was I thinking?

      It’s been weeks, months really, and our only contact is through cyberspace. I look at my red cell phone all day and wonder if he’ll ever use that number. I don’t know if I should push forward or pull back.

      Yes I do – its over. I’m done. Nothing can possibly come of this.

      Maybe he’s gay. Maybe he’s going through his own identity crisis and seeing red lines on his own pages. Maybe he’s forgotten me completely. Maybe he’s into the silly red-hat wearing thong-showing dancer with the easy eyes. That’s probably it. Maybe I’m too difficult. Maybe my baggage is just too much to bear. Though I’m really much lighter then I’ve ever been before. I’m capable and creative, beautiful – so I’m told – and even wise – sometimes. I make mistakes, but I don’t complain and I don’t share my inner ugly details. I cook really well with fire.

      I’m a student of life learning all over again. The rope burns and welts are raised and itchy but the redness can be soothed with salve. Damn, this single thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I don’t remember it being so hard the first time around – but then, I was easy. What’s changed in the world? How come a girl with glossy red lips and a warm beating red heart, smarts and skills, self sufficient and strong, a girl who’s ready and wide open can’t find an opening?

      I’m picky. Yes. I know I’m picky. I could go to any local bar and get red sticky candies and a wrapper with the flick of my fingers. I could lap up artificial flavoring and loudly proclaim how fabulous the cherry tastes. I could lie in bed wrapped in red-hot heat and revel in falsity and probably enjoy myself even while I lie. I keep asking myself – why?

      Why don’t I give into to the merlot and the cherries?

      The answer is obvious.

      He put this spark in me and I need to wait and see if the fire burns. I need to flick myself and revel in the welts and keep writing. I need to stop crying, wipe my red nose and eyes. I need to paint my nails and my lips and celebrate the fact that I feel this passion – even though it’s killing me. I have to wait.

      I should be good at waiting. After all I waited for my child to turn from toddler to teen before I left the cold and loveless bed of my marriage. I waited years and fought for my return to academia. I wait online for tickets to my favorite concerts. I wait for the gloom of Monday to fade out and be replaced by Friday’s light. I wait for the full moon and look for the beautiful red florescent ring around its orb. I wait for a glow to light the deepening sky so I can I absorb its flames and bleed.

      Really, I do have patience.

      But also, I’m ready.

      Sixty-Seven Shades of Red

      Wyatt Burp

      THE GENE FOR INVENTION runs in my family, with a few lusterless, dirty, dusty old patents spread through our last few centuries. For the era of the flappers, Scott Fitzgerald’s age, my great uncle Roy invented a series of pigments.

      Roy was one of our more straight arrow types, if our type is ever all that straight. He was a chemical engineer by trade, working first in a paint factory and then in processed foods and cosmetics. He was ahead of his time in science, but his understanding of color as it works on the person on the street was at least as much genius as the chemistry behind his sixty-seven hues of red. I met him once, when I was five years old, and he explained to me then what would come to be called a pheromone. He didn’t call it that: He described his certainty that people responded to each

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