Desmond "Deetz" Mac Innes - I'm a proud Jewish Welshman with Druidic abilities living just outside of Cardiff with my husband, Angus Reese. This blog is a diary covering my thoughts on politics, sex, random celebrity gossip, and stuff that happens in my relationship. It is DEFINITELY NSFW and you need to be 18+ just to understand it. Also check out my Tumblr, THE MUSINGS OF DEETZ MAC INNES. My biographer is looking for support so she can retire from the 9-5 and join Angus and me on our adventures. Invest here: Patreon
Want a chance to win $150 in literary prizes? CLICK HERE and complete my 5-minute survey. Your name will be put in a raffle where you have a chance to win three prizes:
3rd Prize: a copy of "The Roswell Discrepancy: a human romance in three parts" (a $15 value)
2nd Prize: a copy of "The Roswell Discrepancy: a human romance in three parts" and an exclusive copy of the new novel (due out in time for the holidays) "Project Iceworm: a human marriage in three parts" (a $30 value)
1st Prize: A Deetz and Angus Snack Pack, featuring items found in the story - a copy of "The Roswell Discrepancy: a human romance in three parts", Deetztini-a martini made with Bombay Saffire gin, one martini glass (Deetz doesn't drink, remember?!), bag of Snyder's Pretzels, rolling papers, a toothbrush, a tube of lube, bottle of sandalwood essential oil, and an original short story exclusive to the winner.
Sorry to take so long getting this to ya'll! It has been sooo busy at slave driver's office and, well, you know, the rent's due! Please enjoy. BTW, keep in mind this is a rough draft!
It’s a ten-hour flight from D.C. to Cardiff. Angus spent the first two playing daddy to Alpert. Unbeknownst to me, Angus had texted our personal flight attendant, Daisy, to “clear out anything from the airport stores appropriate to a 3-year old”. The boy had more fun opening and getting Angus to assembly them than actually playing with them. Angus didn’t seem to mind, likely he was taking mental notes for our next session of pillow talk – you know, the laundry list of what one isn’t going to do with or to their children. Maybe if I’d paid attention to his mental wanderings then I wouldn’t be in the pickle I am with him now. But, that’s another story.
They had Natasha locked in a waiting room guarded by two secret service looking blokes – black sunglasses, earpieces and all. The two outside didn’t give us a glance but the couple inside stood straighter, trigger fingers twitching. The room was 1980s drab, with faux steel reception seating bolted to the floor through factory #3345 carpeting. The rows of matching chair clothe must have been discarded from a local DMV. Entering the room, to my right, cross-legged atop of an innocuous foam cushion was a figure folded over itself, with hands on the back of the neck and fingers tightly knitted together. The posture was so twisted and seemingly uncomfortable that I could only assume the figure had to be either a ballet dancer or a yogi. She lifted her face to us as we got closer and I realized it was the latter – that was a face of a Russian ballerina whose depression is so entrenched that she forgot that she could eat normally now. Her passport likely said she was 35 or 40 but her resting sad face pushed that number to 60 – in Russian years. But getting even closer, I saw those cool, steely blue eyes, fierce and determined. She may be frightened, overwhelmed even, but she knew her endgame. Before we were nearly upon her, a low growl came from between painted red lips, “Where is my son?”
Just like when she was writing The Roswell Discrepancy, my biographer occasionally likes to highlight the stories that don't or won't make it in the books. This is one that, on a timeline, is between The Roswell Discrepancy and Project Iceworm, which is due out in the fall of 2018. For those who have read the book and other stories from this site, the first two paragraphs may be redundant but please bare with me as I welcome newbies to the world of the Glamorgan Progeny. UPDATE: I did some editing to the original portion that was posted and then added another section to the story. Look for additional sections over the next few weeks.
I couldn’t wait to see my husband. It had been a long, cold semester in this flat – really nothing more than a grad student hovel decorated in masculine minimalistic chic. But, I cleaned up for tonight and threw up some goofy Christmas lights on Hannah’s, one of my fellow rabbinical students, suggestion. I told her that I needed to get laid (“laid real good”) and tell him something, something really important. She giggled then asked if I was pregnant and if so, was it our “terribly hot” Prayer and Interpretation teacher? No, and . . . well . . ?
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