Hall Owen Calwaugh

Bienvenue, mes amis!
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Oscar Wilde is reported to have said,
"Youth! Youth! There is nothing in the world but youth.
To get back my youth, there is nothing I would not do
- except get up early, take plenty of exercise
and become a useful member of the community."

Yeah. What he said.

(The above photo dates from near forgotten era when he was much younger and still cute ...)

Mr. Calwaugh, an urning, appears to be some sort of a writer?!
These must then be snippets from a few of his short stories.
As indeed they are.
Ahem.

. . .

From JONATHAN

Jonathan was an attractive lad in the usual way -- except for two rather startling attributes.
First, he was golden-haired. Literally. His natural hair color (he prided himself on its naturalness) was a mixture of blond and bronze tones that in the right light literally shone like dark gold. It was unnerving, extraordinary and quite naturally excited comment.
Second, there was his Purity. He always thought of it, when he thought of it -- and he thought about it a lot now that he was eighteen -- with a capital "P". Purity with a capital "P". For indeed, his Purity was something to be thought of. To be remarked on. Even in mixed company. It was exceptional, his Purity.
You see, unlike the rest of us poor mortals, Jonathan had never had a single impure thought. Never. In fact, dear old Father Liam felt obliged several years earlier to explain in the privacy of the vestry what impure thoughts were -- in order that the lad's innocence might be preserved. Indeed, in a veritable swoon of religious zeal, Father had even offered -- he was a generous man -- to provide Jonathan with a more practical example, but the demure Jonathan delicately declined. With a brass candlestick in his left hand, he assisted the good Father to his celestial rewards. In thinking back on it, Jonathan had to confess the experience had left him and his remarkable Purity remarkably unscathed, although in all honesty the same could not be said for Father Liam.

. . .

From POODLE

Alright, so I'm a poodle. Big deal. Big fucking deal. Yes, a miniature poodle. And before you make any of those quote witty unquote remarks I just know you're itching to make -- understand I didn't ask for it, I was born this way. Dammit.
You have no idea what a poodle has to put up with. It's humiliating down to the very core of your being. Foofy little coiffures that make you look like a piece of animated topiary. Foofy little old ladies endlessly fussing over you. Perfumed shampoos and ribbons. God almighty, yards and yards of foofy pink satin ribbons. No wonder we poodles are such nervous wrecks, you'd be too, if you had to put up with all that idiocy day in and day out. So when I understood that I was finally going to get a male master, you can just imagine I was in poodle heaven. A man -- thank you, a real man!
You see, I'd bit the old lady once too often. Yeah, well, it wasn't as if I hadn't been provoked. After all there's only so much marzipan a poodle can choke down before going mad in a sugar rush. And then there was the baby talk. God, I hate people who talk baby talk to me. It's damn insulting and I, for one, have had it up to my overly-styled earlobes with it. So anyway, she decided to rid herself of me and proposed to give me to her nephew, Arthur. It was either that, she whined to him over the phone, or have me put to sleep. "And I just couldn't bear to do that to Lil Pookums!" That's right, that's what she called me. Lil goddamn Pookums. It's enough to make you toss your cookies -- let alone your marzipan.

. . .

From AMAT67.JPG

Something about the eyes. The set of the jaw. The pale flesh. The curious tattoo above the left nipple. The round face, full-lipped -- boyish but tattered. The irrepressibly impish grin. The mixture of innocence and sleaze. Definitely hot. All right, so he had Alfred E. Newman ears, but Keith got off on that. Oh, yeah, and the red hair. A natural redhead, no question about that, giggled Keith. Not too amply provided for downstairs, but that wasn't a major issue in Keith's book. No, faces were his body part of choice. Faces like fine liquor. Faces you could riff on. Faces you need to revisit. Over and over and over again. And this one's face -- well, it was a piece of work. Not handsome, per se, but arresting. Yeah.
The eyes. Windows of the soul. They glittered darkly, those bottomless eyes. They laughed at the pomp and foolishness of the world. Danger sparked in them. Compelling. Eyes that jumped off the screen and grabbed at his soul. Eyes with a hint of the sneer through the laughter. A *shared* sneer -- that was it! "It's all bullshit!" they seemed to snigger and caress all at once, "You know it. I know it. Bullshit, babe!" Keith could drown himself in those endless, now-and-forever eyes -- lost in the rich, amoral laughter that exploded out of them. God, he was hot!

. . .

This particular story, amat67.jpg is to be found in
Alyson Publications' THE GHOST OF CARMEN MIRANDA,
edited by Julie K. Trevelyan and Scott Brassart.
It may be acquired by checking the Alyson Publications "Where to Buy" page,
or going to DIRECTLY to amazon.com and ordering it from them.
Another book with a contribution from Mr. Calwaugh is STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
- he designed the cover.

From GRISHKA

Thus it was with considerable excitement that I accepted one autumn afternoon my grand-uncle�s invitation to have English tea with him at the brand new and painfully fashionable Grand Hotel Europe on the Nevskii Prospekt. Uncle Sasha, ever attentive to dramatic effect, had sent to collect me from the school a coach � not merely a cab. Naturally, my fellow cadets were greatly envious. It was a deeply gratifying moment.
When I arrived in full dress uniform � I also was not unconscious of dramatic effect � Uncle Sasha was already in the process of ordering. They had just come from the audition. I could barely recognize the elegantly attired young man with him � it was Grishka in a beautiful new suit. He was understandably a little ill at ease in these opulent surroundings, but he looked perfectly splendid. Even his famously unruly hair had been newly clipped and greased down with a suave passion. I wanted to touch him, but could not of course. Not here. Not now.
�He did very well, I was proud to be his � patron.� Uncle Sasha waved the waiter away and patted Grishka on the hand.
�I was terrified,� volunteered Grishka sheepishly.
�Quite so, a soup�on of terror improves a performance. Like the dash of pepper that finishes the dish, it gives it an edge. You did well, you needn�t worry. So, nephew, you taught him to read � oh, shush, he said nothing to me, I worked it out on my own. It will come in handy at the Conservatory, eh? I�ve ordered English scones � haven�t had them in years � I hope they know how to make them here properly!� And off went Uncle Sasha into an abstruse and endless monologue about food and drink and the proper approach to both. I simply sat there and beamed at Grishka and he sat there and beamed at both of us. Later, my grand-uncle took us to a performance of the opera at the Mariinski. It might even have been an opening night. I was delivered back to school very, very late. Well past curfew. It had been a perfectly tremendous day. I don�t think I ever managed to fall asleep that night.
A few weeks later I received an abrupt letter from Uncle Sasha. Grishka had not been accepted at the Conservatory. They had judged him to be very good, but not good enough, and so he was turned away. I was crushed. I had thought it had all been sorted out.

. . .

From WLAD

The moonlight cast long shadows across the thickly carpeted floor. Through the open window, the faint sound of a military band playing dance music wafted in. Wlad suddenly remembered he'd never taken in the view of the castle. Delicately, so as not to wake the Englishman who lay sleeping by his side, the lad slid out from under the bedcovers and padded softly to the window.
The Castle was ablaze with light. Some sort of special event was being held there. In his mind's eye, he could just see the long line of carriages dropping off their distinguished owners. Handsome men in tail coats and full dress uniforms bristling with medals and well-waxed mustachios. Beautiful women in white gloves and delicate evening gowns, rubies and pearls at their throat and wrist. He could almost smell their perfume. How exciting! Wlad wondered if he might ever be invited to such a glittering affair.
Across the room, the Englishman stirred in his sleep. Wlad shivered. This was too good to last. With a start, he thought of Anton for the first time since he'd left the caf� so many hours ago. How Anton would make him pay for this. He wrapped his arms around his naked torso and leant against the window. "What a little idiot I am," he cursed himself.
He sank his gaze into a shimmering patch of the Danube peeping out at him from between the lindens, and with a conscious effort, he made his mind go blank.

. . .

LINKS

These last two shorts, GRISHKA (set in St. Petersburg, Russia in the 1870s) and WLAD (set in Budapesth in 1900), are excerpted from a series of interrelated stories Mr. Calwaugh is working on that follow a pair of gold and malachite cufflinks through their owners up to the present day.

. . .

With regard to me or my work, you may email me at calwaugh@geocities.com
But be gentle. I'm a sensitive lad.

I have to warn you though, if you're unkind - the bear's tits up in five with a broken neck and a thumb in his eye.

It's all up to you, really...

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	Mr. Calwaugh, an urning, appears to be some sort of a writer?! These must then be snippets from a few of his short stories. As indeed they are. Ahem.
*. . .*

From JONATHAN
	Jonathan was an attractive lad in the usual way -- except for two rather startling attributes. First, he was golden-haired. Literally. His natural hair color (he prided himself on its naturalness) was a mixture of blond and bronze tones that in the right light literally shone like dark gold. It was unnerving, extraordinary and quite naturally excited comment. Second, there was his Purity. He always thought of it, when he thought of it -- and he thought about it a lot now that he was eighteen -- with a capital "P". Purity with a capital "P". For indeed, his Purity was something to be thought of. To be remarked on. Even in mixed company. It was exceptional, his Purity. You see, unlike the rest of us poor mortals, Jonathan had never had a single impure thought. Never. In fact, dear old Father Liam felt obliged several years earlier to explain in the privacy of the vestry what impure thoughts were -- in order that the lad's innocence might be preserved. Indeed, in a veritable swoon of religious zeal, Father had even offered -- he was a generous man -- to provide Jonathan with a more practical example, but the demure Jonathan delicately declined. With a brass candlestick in his left hand, he assisted the good Father to his celestial rewards. In thinking back on it, Jonathan had to confess the experience had left him and his remarkable Purity remarkably unscathed, although in all honesty the same could not be said for Father Liam.
*. . .*

From POODLE
	Alright, so I'm a poodle. Big deal. Big fucking deal. Yes, a miniature poodle. And before you make any of those quote witty unquote remarks I just know you're itching to make -- understand I didn't ask for it, I was born this way. Dammit. You have no idea what a poodle has to put up with. It's humiliating down to the very core of your being. Foofy little coiffures that make you look like a piece of animated topiary. Foofy little old ladies endlessly fussing over you. Perfumed shampoos and ribbons. God almighty, yards and yards of foofy pink satin ribbons. No wonder we poodles are such nervous wrecks, you'd be too, if you had to put up with all that idiocy day in and day out. So when I understood that I was finally going to get a male master, you can just imagine I was in poodle heaven. A man -- thank you, a real man! You see, I'd bit the old lady once too often. Yeah, well, it wasn't as if I hadn't been provoked. After all there's only so much marzipan a poodle can choke down before going mad in a sugar rush. And then there was the baby talk. God, I hate people who talk baby talk to me. It's damn insulting and I, for one, have had it up to my overly-styled earlobes with it. So anyway, she decided to rid herself of me and proposed to give me to her nephew, Arthur. It was either that, she whined to him over the phone, or have me put to sleep. "And I just couldn't bear to do that to Lil Pookums!" That's right, that's what she called me. Lil goddamn Pookums. It's enough to make you toss your cookies -- let alone your marzipan.
*. . .*

From AMAT67.JPG
	Something about the eyes. The set of the jaw. The pale flesh. The curious tattoo above the left nipple. The round face, full-lipped -- boyish but tattered. The irrepressibly impish grin. The mixture of innocence and sleaze. Definitely hot. All right, so he had Alfred E. Newman ears, but Keith got off on that. Oh, yeah, and the red hair. A natural redhead, no question about that, giggled Keith. Not too amply provided for downstairs, but that wasn't a major issue in Keith's book. No, faces were his body part of choice. Faces like fine liquor. Faces you could riff on. Faces you need to revisit. Over and over and over again. And this one's face -- well, it was a piece of work. Not handsome, per se, but arresting. Yeah. The eyes. Windows of the soul. They glittered darkly, those bottomless eyes. They laughed at the pomp and foolishness of the world. Danger sparked in them. Compelling. Eyes that jumped off the screen and grabbed at his soul. Eyes with a hint of the sneer through the laughter. A shared sneer -- that was it! "It's all bullshit!" they seemed to snigger and caress all at once, "You know it. I know it. Bullshit, babe!" Keith could drown himself in those endless, now-and-forever eyes -- lost in the rich, amoral laughter that exploded out of them. God, he was hot!
*. . .*

From GRISHKA
	Thus it was with considerable excitement that I accepted one autumn afternoon my grand-uncle�s invitation to have English tea with him at the brand new and painfully fashionable Grand Hotel Europe on the Nevskii Prospekt. Uncle Sasha, ever attentive to dramatic effect, had sent to collect me from the school a coach � not merely a cab. Naturally, my fellow cadets were greatly envious. It was a deeply gratifying moment. When I arrived in full dress uniform � I also was not unconscious of dramatic effect � Uncle Sasha was already in the process of ordering. They had just come from the audition. I could barely recognize the elegantly attired young man with him � it was Grishka in a beautiful new suit. He was understandably a little ill at ease in these opulent surroundings, but he looked perfectly splendid. Even his famously unruly hair had been newly clipped and greased down with a suave passion. I wanted to touch him, but could not of course. Not here. Not now. �He did very well, I was proud to be his � patron.� Uncle Sasha waved the waiter away and patted Grishka on the hand. �I was terrified,� volunteered Grishka sheepishly. �Quite so, a soup�on of terror improves a performance. Like the dash of pepper that finishes the dish, it gives it an edge. You did well, you needn�t worry. So, nephew, you taught him to read � oh, shush, he said nothing to me, I worked it out on my own. It will come in handy at the Conservatory, eh? I�ve ordered English scones � haven�t had them in years � I hope they know how to make them here properly!� And off went Uncle Sasha into an abstruse and endless monologue about food and drink and the proper approach to both. I simply sat there and beamed at Grishka and he sat there and beamed at both of us. Later, my grand-uncle took us to a performance of the opera at the Mariinski. It might even have been an opening night. I was delivered back to school very, very late. Well past curfew. It had been a perfectly tremendous day. I don�t think I ever managed to fall asleep that night. A few weeks later I received an abrupt letter from Uncle Sasha. Grishka had not been accepted at the Conservatory. They had judged him to be very good, but not good enough, and so he was turned away. I was crushed. I had thought it had all been sorted out.
*. . .*

From WLAD
	The moonlight cast long shadows across the thickly carpeted floor. Through the open window, the faint sound of a military band playing dance music wafted in. Wlad suddenly remembered he'd never taken in the view of the castle. Delicately, so as not to wake the Englishman who lay sleeping by his side, the lad slid out from under the bedcovers and padded softly to the window. The Castle was ablaze with light. Some sort of special event was being held there. In his mind's eye, he could just see the long line of carriages dropping off their distinguished owners. Handsome men in tail coats and full dress uniforms bristling with medals and well-waxed mustachios. Beautiful women in white gloves and delicate evening gowns, rubies and pearls at their throat and wrist. He could almost smell their perfume. How exciting! Wlad wondered if he might ever be invited to such a glittering affair. Across the room, the Englishman stirred in his sleep. Wlad shivered. This was too good to last. With a start, he thought of Anton for the first time since he'd left the caf� so many hours ago. How Anton would make him pay for this. He wrapped his arms around his naked torso and leant against the window. "What a little idiot I am," he cursed himself. He sank his gaze into a shimmering patch of the Danube peeping out at him from between the lindens, and with a conscious effort, he made his mind go blank.
*. . .*

LINKS
	These last two shorts, GRISHKA (set in St. Petersburg, Russia in the 1870s) and WLAD (set in Budapesth in 1900), are excerpted from a series of interrelated stories Mr. Calwaugh is working on that follow a pair of gold and malachite cufflinks through their owners up to the present day.
*. . .*