Jonathan Wesley Bell has won recognition as novelist, short story writer and journalist. He has published both in England and the USA. His fiction work tends toward the fantastic and dark, yet remains based on a strong story and unforgettable characters. Raised and educated in Kansas he now lives in France. Father says this to me. Protestant Bell says so to me. Reverend Dr. Mancil Bell is naked. His Milky Way butt stills mid hump.
Red hair drips sweat from his finely modeled forehead onto his Galaxy of freckles. Mother alone bears witness as he comes floridly, fondly in the threadbare room. The box spring plays a wacky soundtrack just for me. Something by Spike Jones. Grandmother Bell always called him Mancil and so he was.
Nevertheless he was also one hell of a fiery red headed man, still mad. Sometimes jolly, sometimes morose. Prone to an indifferent cruelty. Mancil jerks his head up into an ultimate intimate eye rolling throe. Being religious he does not use profanity as do many men when they arrive. Some in my experience being quite uproarious. But they were rich in names like this one. His diminutive being Manky. Pet monkey name. They were illiterate with only my grandmother May Skinner bringing a lamp of awareness to shine on their dark minds, folk left out of rural electrification..
This giving me birth woman is mother, an educated, middle class yankee. Her mother, grandmother Laverna Louise, also had a BA from back in the dawn of education for American women. They never spoke of these matters as that would have been vulgar. Pride too was shunned which was ridiculous because no people walking the earth were ever more proud than my Bells.
Proud, ignorant, self destructive, but the men had big dicks, were fiercely proud of them too, and too of their big red low hanging balls. The women were tough, robusto cunts. Tropical black coffee feigning blandness.
