CRIT ALERT!!! “Because Mommacrit has been inundated with submissions, the Crit Me! Column will close to submissions
until further notice. Mommacrit thanks those writers who sent bribes with their submissions – unfortunately, the chocolate
melted. Mommacrit will continue to post honest critiques on work previously received, with or without chocolate.”
Page by B.Davis - one writer who dared send work to Mommacrit!
From the novel, Thomas Jefferson Loves Emily Dickinson
“All good Americans, when they die, go to Paris”—Thomas Gold Appleton [1812-1884]
with reincarnation, Fletcher Denson insisted he was Thomas Jefferson, and Sister Amadeus was Emily Dickinson. He plied her
with the poet’s words, Wild nights, wild nights! Were I with thee, wild nights
should be our luxury!
Sister Amadeus channeled Emily’s response, Say
it again, Saxon! Hush, only to me.
She was the lone woman ever to enter the Fletcher’s quarters on the upper floor
of the gardener’s cottage at the Dominican convent of Notre Dame de Fischermont. Then, it was to battle the dark alien
he carried in his lungs. Back from the cordial grave I drag thee. He shall not take thy hand. Nor put his spacious arm around thee.
Ungrateful, he was. “All good Americans, when they die, go to Paris,” Fletcher had said, complaining she
was merely delaying his departure. So smug. As though St. Peter had issued him a golden passport. But she had no doubt he
was there now. In Paris.
to Fletcher’s rooms disappeared with his demise, resulting in the inconvenience of summoning a locksmith. Sister Amadeus
had the lost key. She used it for secret visits on occasion when seeing the gardener leave. She watched his Deux Chevaux beetle
down the cobbled Rue de la Croix to Chaussee de Bruxelles. Turning north, to scuttle towards Brussels. But
soon after Fletcher’s death, the gardener moved, fleeing memories and reminders.
Sister Amadeus visited whenever she wanted, still surreptitiously. In his tiny bedroom, she took communion from Fletcher’s
hiking boots. Scarlet laces binding her heart. She would raise a boot to her face - inhaling the intimacy of leather and perspiration.
She would thrust a hand in. Her fingers sought the depressions his toes left. Finding them sent small chirping creatures up
her arm to tumble into the cavity behind her breasts.
Finally, she would slip her feet into the boots. Fletcher climbed the arterial trellises
of her calves and thighs, and she gave her virgin self, recalling Emily’s passion. Intact,
in Everlasting flake. Oh, Cavalier, for you!
Reaction from Mommacrit
First off, has B.Davis
followed the guidelines?
“Send Mommacrit the first page of your story or novel. It must be less than 501 words. Label it clearly with its title,
your name or a nom-de-plume, and its genre.”
B. Davis sent less
than 501 words. B. Davis sent the title. B. Davis made no mention of genre. B. Davis did not include her/his name or a nom-de-plume
in a clear label. Mommacrit’s assistant found it on the email.
READ THE GUIDELINES! FOLLOW THE GUIDELINES!