Lewis Horton Homepage Category:  Humor Publisher: Aberdeen Bay ISBN-10:  1608300021 Type: Fiction Pages: 132 Copyright: 2008 ISBN-13: 9781608300020 Get a front row seat in "The Writing Class" to enjoy the entertaining dynamic between instructor Clara Burns and the unique characters seeking her literary wisdom. Several great stories all rolled into one! Excerpt Chapter Five Orgy At Thunderclaps Normally, I wouldn’t fly Proud Mary, my piper cub, when the temperature dropped below minus 100 degrees Centrifugal – that’s close to absolute zero. After all, Proud Mary was the flagship and sole operating aircraft of the LaDonna P. Larson Polar Bear Re-Location Company. The outfit was named after my ex-wife who hated snow and left me even before I got skis mounted on the plane. My only employee was Omoo, an Eskimo. Me and Omoo had some interesting times. Once we flew beyond the North Pole to the Van Stuppen Ice Shelf. I landed Proud Mary on an iceberg during a hurricane. The thermometer, mounted in a St. Christopher statue on the dashboard, didn’t even show a reading. There was no mercury left. It must’ve froze up so bad it changed into some other element – clear colored. And that’s without the wind chill factor. I knocked on the barometer a couple times, trying to get an accurate forecast. It was an old barometer shaped like a Swiss chalet with two small doors in front. Outside one door stood a lady in a summer dress, wearing a coolie hat. She was watering some peonies. Behind the other door, lodged inside the chalet, was a little man in an overcoat with an umbrella. The reason we’d take off in such dicey weather had nothing to do with polar bears. I’d gotten a fax from a villager on the Shelf. It seems a child had been bitten by a snake. The child attacked by the snake was the son of Chief Thunderclap. So there we were. “Omoo, old chap,” I shoved a large wooden box that once held twenty-four or so California oranges toward the cargo door, “take this crate of anti-snake venom medicine to the village and give it to nurse practitioner Werblen. I’ll stay here and keep the engine running. Listen carefully, Omoo: you mustn’t drink the serum. It’s bad medicine. I mean it’s good medicine if you’re snake bit. But, it’s not firewater. I know that’s what I said about the case of Royal Gate Vodka, but I’m not lying this time. All right, Omoo, save one bottle for the kid.” Omoo patted the crate. “Him plenty heavy.” The plane’s engine conked out. I climbed down and grabbed one end of the box. We went looking for Thunderclap’s igloo. In a storm of this magnitude even the mailboxes were covered with snow. I suggested we pop into the first igloo we saw and ask directions over a couple Benedictines and brandies. In case our hosts were out of brandy, a couple of Benedictines and snake serum. We found an igloo; Omoo carefully led the way on hands and knees down a long, dark ice tunnel toward the main igloo. We left the crate outside; we’d bring in the bottles as we needed them. Sled dogs slept in the tunnel. Kneeling on a paw or tail would send the vicious beasts into a rage, inciting the other mastiff, creating a violent feeding frenzy. The wolf-dogs would tear apart everything in the tunnel, finally even each other. Avoiding the dogs, we crawled into the main igloo. It was dimly lit by a bowl of seal oil. Each breath hung before us like a fuzzy, white balloon. It was so cold a brass monkey would be in danger of becoming a castrato. Possibly, it was colder inside the igloo than out. But, who knows? I’ve yet to find an Eskimo who owns a thermometer. Must be like the absence of clocks in Las Vegas; who cares how cold it is when you’re having fun. Penguins hung from the ceiling like black and white bowling pins. Ropes were tied around their necks in complex knots. Omoo pointed out certain hangman’s knots indicating his cousin, Mukluk, lived here. The kind of thing only an anthropologist, or another Eskimo, would notice. In the middle of the igloo Mukluk and three Eskimo wahines were playing hid the salami under a polar bear rug. Occasionally, a naked squaw would roll out from under the rug, laugh heartily, and crawl back under. I could see Omoo’s gorse rising. “Por favor, kabloona,” said Omoo, unpeeling the velcro thong that held his fur suit together. The shaggy mess fell to the floor and Omoo stepped out of the pile naked. Patches of diseased lichen grew on his shoulders, chest, and back. The smell was overwhelming, a prodigious stench of unhealthy rottenness. I gagged. Tangled pairs of legs protruding from the rug stopped flailing. I held my breath and wondered how fast I could duck walk through the tunnel. The mastiffs should be halfway to Seattle by now. I looked for the exit. Just then Omoo sprinted across the igloo and slid headfirst under the bear rug. The smell was gone. Ten legs were momentarily still, but laughter began again. The polar bear rug came to life. Omoo had the blackest feet I’d ever seen, or maybe he was wearing formal socks. Whatever ideas I’d had about joining the dog pile were gone. The amorphous mass pulsated, revealing an occasional arm or leg. The final fallen pile-up of the Flying Wallendas must have looked like this. There was probably a penguin under the rug with them, thawing out. The next thing to roll out would be the defrosted bird. I sat on a case of RC Cola Super-Jumbos. My watch was frozen at ten minutes to seven. It didn’t say morning or night. Omoo, Mukluk, and the wahines seemed to gain momentum in their furious exercise. A National Geographic article reported that sexual activity among Eskimos could reach a feverish crescendo where the organs took on a life of their own. The rest of the Eskimo became a sort of innocent bystander. This appeared to be where they were headed. Reluctantly I left. The storm was breaking up. My flight back was not unpleasant. When I got to the office, I put two signs in the window. One was my regular “SORRY! WE’RE OPEN!” sign. The other read “HELP WANTED!” Mr. Larson put the story back in his pee-chee folder. “That was powerful,” said Clara. “What do you think, class?” When the applause finished, Clara said, “How long did you live in Alaska?” “I never did,” answered Mr. Larson. “I read some books about it.”

Jill Cline
It is laughing out loud funny. The characters are so quirky and the dialogue is just hilarious...made me literally laugh out loud.

Rick DeMarinis
Humor, always in short supply, is abundant in Lewis Horton's "The Writing Class." I read it, chuckling constantly, and once in a while breaking out into rib-damaging laughter. Need some smiles in your life? Read this book.

Naida West
I am loving "The Writing Class." Wonderful concept, and well written with tongue in cheek humor. It kept me sane on a couple of dismal nights.