Greg and Lorenzo

(Part 1) [This week's "as the Pegasus Flies"] Reader's Digest was growing and expanding fast. International editions, ads in the magazine, the purchase of the Guest House, and now French, German, and Italian versions of Condensed Books, set to debut in the new year--1955. Lorenzo accompanied Greg, Condensed Books senior editor, to work as an interpreter while Greg put together the first edition with their Italian colleagues. Sitting in first class, smoking a cigar and sipping champagne, Lorenzo said to Greg, "I left Italy almost two years ago with nothing, just a dream of finding my lost love Ethel in a magical place called Pleasantville. Now, I have all this." He gestured with his hands--spilling some champagne--as if he owned the airplane. He was also embellishing the story a little, or maybe it was just the alcohol talking, but he wasn't broke when he came to America. He had $50,000 cash with him, $10,000 of which was later stolen by Margaret the mail clerk (in the very first As the Pegasus Flies story.) "The American Dream," Greg said to be polite, though he was really thinking about all the beautiful Italian women he'd heard so much about. He was looking out the window, picturing all the babes that awaited him below. Why would Lorenzo ever leave Italy!? Was he crazy? Lorenzo was still blathering on about his great new life in the U.S. when suddenly it got a little more interesting. "...so that's when I sold all my furniture and took off for America, leaving my wife behind." Greg turned to Lorenzo. "I thought your first wife died?" Lorenzo looked worried. "Oops. Don't tell Ethel, okay paesan?" "Okay," Greg said, thinking, Maybe this won't be just a boring business trip after all.

(Part 2) Both Greg and Lorenzo nodded off during the long plane ride. After the in-flight meal and the drinks, sleep came easily. Greg dreamed of money, for some reason, jumping in piles of it like kids would jump in a pile of leaves during Autumn. The dream was so vivid, he could actually smell the dollar bills. Of course, this was just Lorenzo's cologne intruding on Greg's unconscious mind. When Greg woke he was momentarily disoriented; then he looked around and remembered where he was. It was a red eye flight and Lorenzo was still asleep, as were most of the other passengers. Greg thought of the work ahead of him, the important task he was given of launching the condensed book series in Italy. He was hoping for a promotion and a good raise when he got his next review. He had his eye on a little house in Pleasantville selling for $12,000, not too far from work. He was close to affording it too; an increase to three thousand five hundred a year would put him mentally at ease, at least financially. Then all he'd have to do is find a woman to share his new home with. He didn't have any delusions of bringing a wife back with him from Italy. But just the fact that he was ready, he was open to all possibilities was a good sign. His star was on the rise, he could feel it. He was confident and optimistic; nothing could go wrong now. Suddenly the plane jerked and dropped violently as it hit an air pocket. Lorenzo woke and grabbed Greg's arm. The plane jerked again, causing several bags to come crashing out of the overhead compartments. Once again the plane dropped. "Madone!" Lorenzo yelled, "We're all gonna die!"

(Part 3) Many things become apparent to you the moment you are faced with death. Everything becomes clear. Important things. For Lorenzo, he realized just how much Ethel meant to him. He'd have to end things properly with his Italian wife Maria, get a divorce and make it official. Ethel was his first and true love. He'd do this for her. When the plane landed—safely—in Rome that morning, Lorenzo said to Greg, "I need to go to Napoli right now." Greg said, "But we should check into the hotel. We have a meeting this evening." Lorenzo said, "We have plenty of time to drive there and back." "What's in Naples?" Greg asked. "My wife Maria." Lorenzo ran out of the airport and began flagging down taxis. Greg, struggling after him with his suitcase, said, "Shouldn't we at least drop off out luggage first?" "No time! I saw the light when I thought we were going to die. Life is short, I have to do this NOW!" A taxi stopped and Lorenzo hopped into the back seat. "Do what?" Greg said, jumping in after him. "Ask Maria for a divorce." Lorenzo gave the driver the address and the taxi took off, driving wildly through the streets of Rome. Greg had never seen anything like it. Soon they were out of the city and the roads became more country-like. But the driver didn't slow down; he smelled money and wanted to get his customer to his destination quickly. Before long they stopped in front of a small, cute stone house with a nice vegetable garden in front. Maria had great tomatoes! Lorenzo told the driver to wait, then hopped out of the car and went inside. After he'd been inside for a while, Greg began to look at his watch. What was taking Lorenzo so long? Finally Greg got out too, and approached the house. The front door was open and he could hear Lorenzo and Maria talking. Lorenzo said, "My cousin is a lawyer, he can get all the paper work done fast." "So, I'm guess I'm not your little braciole anymore?" Maria said. That's the moment Greg walked into the room, the moment that everything that went before ceased to matter. Maria turned to look at Greg. Their eyes met. She was the most beautiful woman Greg had ever seen. The legendary Italian thunderbolt struck both of them at that instant. Without taking her eyes off of Greg, Maria said to Lorenzo, "Where do I sign?" "Uh, well, I don't actually have the papers yet," Lorenzo said, and turned to look at Greg. Lorenzo, well he knew the look of the thunderbolt when he saw it. Maybe everyone would end up happy. He said, "Maria, this is Greg. Greg, Maria." Greg had the moment of clarity that Lorenzo had had on the plane. That little house in Pleasantville didn't seem like such a good idea after all. A stone cottage in Napoli seemed a whole lot better.

(Part 4) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Greg and Lorenzo made it back in time for the meeting that evening. Their two Italian colleagues, Gianni and Luigi, took them to a local restaurant that kept the food coming and coming. After the antipasto and two bottles of wine, the three Italians slipped comfortably back into their native language, making Greg feel a little left out. He excused himself and found a phone booth in back, went inside and closed the door. He called Maria and after several minutes of baby talk and kissy sounds, they made plans to see each other the next day. When Greg returned to the table, Lorenzo said, "There you are! We were just about to do a shot of Sambuca to honor our great company!" Lorenzo poured out four even shots. "Reader's Digest, she is known around the world. May her name live forever!" Lorenzo raised his shot glass, and the other three men followed. Then they all downed their drinks. In halting English, Gianni said, "Everybody loves Reader's Digest. They smile when they hear who I work for." Luigi didn't know English at all, but Lorenzo translated. He said, "Other companies would kill to have such a global brand name." Lorenzo poured out four more shots, and they toasted the great name of Reader's Digest. The entrees arrived, followed by salad, then dessert. Espresso and a bottle of port wine ended the night. The next day they got to work, closer now, having bonded over the meal and drinks. When Lorenzo and Greg left at the end of the week, they left knowing RD was better for their efforts, stronger, a new series of condensed books launched in Italy. The company was growing and they would be part of it, rewarded for their efforts. On the return flight to New York, Lorenzo was happy, the divorce paper work filed, the rest of his life with Ethel ahead of him. Greg knew his life was just beginning. There was much to do. Sell his furniture, give up his apartment, transfer to the Italy office, buy an engagement ring...

February 22, 2010—Foliomag: RDA reportedly was expected to announce a new corporate name around the time of its emergence. An RDA spokesperson did not immediately return a request for comment about a name change.

As the Pegasus Flies, reviewed on Amazon

5.0 out of 5 stars
Part Mad Men, part The Office, all fun!, July 23, 2010
By susan_d
Amazon Verified Purchase (What's this?)
This review is from:

As the Pegasus Flies: A Reader's Digest Soap Opera, Volume 1 (Paperback)

This book is a riot! It's a collection of short stories set in the '50's at Reader's Digest. Each story is inspired by a picture from that era. Sometimes, just the combination of the picture and the character's name was enough to get me giggling, "Boom-Boom Bernadette," priceless. The recurring characters cracked me up -- what chick wouldn't love skirt-chasing Lorenzo? And the antics! So few writers know how to do actual, vintage screwball and yet keep it funny by today's standards, and Sue Nami is definitely one of the lucky few who can pull it off. Homemade helicopters, cyrogenics, corporate espionage, shark attacks and plenty of hanky-panky will keep anyone amused. Full of action! intrigue! romance! and laughs on every page, this book is SO cool!

Sue Nami Rolls with the Changes

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Call me Sue Nami. Some years ago--never mind how long-- having little or no money in my purse, I thought I would sail about a little on the publishing ship. It was SO lucrative back then! I've been on the ship ever since. In fact, I've always been at Reader's Digest, and I always will. I was there in the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80, 90s, 00s, today. I'm not a person, I'm an idea. A watcher. A worker. An orphan. A cog. Sometimes male, sometimes female. Necessary--and sometimes unnecessary. I can be eliminated, or replaced, but there are many more like me. I'm an idea, remember? Understand? The one not eligible for bonuses. The one not part of the inner circle. The one without the blonde hair. But one of the ones that drives the company. That does the work, that produces the product. Censorship on the intranet? I'm Fast, Accountable, Candid, and Engaged. I'm SMART. But I'm not telling anyone anything they didn't know. This is my story. This is your story.

(Part 2) So the ship pulled into the Port of White Plains. It's a bustling, commercial, historical city. General Washington had his headquarters here during the American Revolution. Sue Nami was not around physically then, not even the idea. Well, maybe the idea. The rebellious spirit. The rebels were fighting the British military, with their huge warships, fancy-ass uniforms, warm boots, ample weapons, and sheer number of soldiers. But they didn't have what the ill-equipped revolutionaries had—heart. The British soldiers just wanted to go home, not fight a rag-tag army shooting at them from behind trees, instead of the proper, civilized, man-to-man combat they expected. Picture shoeless rebel soldiers warming their frostbitten feet over fires at Valley Forge. Hunger. Dysentery. We don't have garbage cans in White Plains. We had them on the first day, then they took them away. Now we have to sit with our balled-up tissues, our used napkins, our banana peels, our cardboard coffee cups on our desktops, waiting until we have a chance to walk them down to the allotted receptacle. If you're lucky, maybe a generous soul will offer to throw away your trash if he/she is headed in that direction, and your trash isn't too gross. Maybe not. Sue Nami has to make a garbage run now. I only regret that I had but one bin to give for my company.

(Part 3) Sue Nami sits in traffic on I-287, heading east, contemplating censorship. Ironic that she was censored by the publisher she works for; publishers should not engage in censorship. They should fight it at every turn. Back in the 50s, Lorenzo once said to her, "Freedom of the press. I LOVE it!" Even though he worked in the cafeteria, and not in editorial, he was proud to be part of the American press. Giddy even. Sue inches forward. The move to White Plains troubled her from the start. She knew this would be her daily commute, 25 MPH tops, sitting here on the parkway instead of at her desk. She looks to her left and sees a young man texting when he should be holding the steering wheel with both hands, not to mention actually looking at the road. Sue sighs. It occurs to her that that could be the title of her memoir, if she wrote one. Sue Sighs. She can envision the book's cover, a black and white photo of a woman with her head resting on her hand, the picture cropped just below the eyes. Maybe the image is slightly blurred to make it even more intriguing. There is a momentary break in traffic and Sue gets up to 32 MPH before the traffic suddenly grinds to a halt. Sue looks to the right and sees a woman holding a cigarette in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, and the steering wheel in none. Sue wonders where the Pegasus is now, wonders why the company forsook her (yes, forsook is past tense of forsake). Eventually, Sue nears her exit, and she gets into the right lane. She sits at a traffic light, then makes the turns until she is at the parking garage. She waves her transponder at the reluctant gate until it opens. Then the hunt for a parking spot, the long walk to the lobby, the wait for the elevator. She gets stuck on the local, stopping on nearly every floor until she reaches the 18th. She makes it to her desk, looks out over the city below, thinks of George Washington, the Battle of White Plains, the fearless soldiers, the rebel spirit. She opens the intranet, and checks Oh, Snap! She drinks a cup of coffee, leaving her empty cup on her desk until she can make a garbage run. She works. She goes to lunch. She returns and works some more. She feels under-appreciated. She stays late for summer hours, then leaves and does the reverse commute. She sits in traffic. She contemplates censorship.

(Part 4) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Sue Nami uses her old I.D. card to get onto the campus of the former headquarters of RD. She parks her car in a far lot and strolls along the rolling grounds, the landscapers still trying to keep nature from reclaiming the land. Grass still needs to be cut, bushes trimmed, trees pruned, flowers ripped out and replaced with different flowers. She goes up to the garden area, where in years past employees could sign up for a plot and grow vegetables. It is nothing but overgrown weeds and grass now. This is the perfect spot. She sits down Indian-style, takes a button of peyote from her pocket, and pops it in her mouth. She closes her eyes and waits till it takes effect. The Native Americans used to go out into the desert to have their visions. This place isn't the desert, but it is deserted. After a little while, Sue sees the tall weeds begin to shrink back into the ground. They are soon replaced with towering sunflowers, tomato plants, peppers, cucumbers. Sue stands and runs through the garden, twirling as she goes. She heads toward the Rotunda entrance, way off in the distance. The vines start to pull back from the bricks and disappear. The annex on the right side of the building is deconstructed brick by brick. A black 1952 Plymouth stops in front of the building, picks someone up, then leaves. Sue makes it to the building and enters the wide doors. A woman—Ethel—is behind the front desk. "Mr. Wallace will see you now," she says, and points. Sue goes to the office. DeWitt Wallace is sitting on top of a huge oak desk. He's tall and extremely groomed, that's what impresses her the most. "Hello, Sue," he says. Sue sticks out her hand and he shakes it. "Mr. Wallace, it's a great pleasure to meet you." "Sit down," he says, motioning to an armchair. He sits behind his desk. "I think you know what you have to do," he says. He turns and opens the window behind him. The Pegasus arrives and sticks her head in. "We need you," she says in Pegasusese. Sue understands her. Mr. Wallace continues, "The company has been chipped away at for years. The art—sold. The building, this glorious estate that Mrs. Wallace and I had built—sold. Now they want to change the name of the company too? What's left?" "I'm sorry all this happened, Mr. Wallace." "Well, if they don't want the name, you should take it back. Form a new company with the same name, heart, and spirit of the original. Rent space here at this building until you can afford to buy it back." Sue says, "How?" "Come closer," he says, "pet the Pegasus." Sue stands and tentatively reaches out a hand. Then she feels the soft white hair, feels the strength and the magic of the Pegasus pass through to her. An image forms in Sue's mind, an image of a new Reader's Digest built on the original ideals. Employees treated like they were under the Wallaces. Surprise bonuses. Unexpected days off—with pay. Christmas parties. Sue knows how to accomplish this. It is all crystal clear to her. She knows all the secrets. "Go now," Mr. Wallace says, "restore my company." Sue feels the drug begin to wear off. She sits, cross-legged on the floor. Closes her eyes. She knows perfectly well what needs to be done. She has all the answers. When she opens her eyes, she finds herself in an empty office. No furniture. The window is closed. She stands and leaves the office, wanders the hallways. She can feel the ghosts, but can't see them. She knows they wait for the return of the company, and the return of the Pegasus. Sue gets to her car, drives to White Plains. She sits in traffic, not contemplating censorship, but contemplating rejuvenation. Restoration. Rebirth. Revolution.

As the Pegasus Flies book now on sale!

As the Pegasus Flies is now on sale! Only $7.50! Available on Amazon.

Now, for the first time in print—the Reader’s Digest intranet sensation, As the Pegasus Flies. Follow the antics of all the lovable misfits in Sue Nami’s nostalgic 1950s soap opera. Memorable characters such as Lenny and Stu, who are fearlessly determined to build their own helicopter on the Reader’s Digest grounds—during work hours; Edna Wilkins, who has a very Rip Van Winkle-esque experience; Lorenzo, everyone’s favorite skirt chaser; and don’t forget Martin—good old, money-hungry, murderous Martin. Look for special cameos by Reader’s Digest founders DeWitt and Lila Wallace as you’ve never seen them before!

But wait—there’s much more! This print edition is loaded with extra photos, a foreword by the reclusive author herself, expanded text, and paragraph breaks! Also included is a spanking new Sue Nami yarn, the controversial "The Butler." 14 stories in all. Enjoy!

EAN-13 9781453671238

UPDATE 7/20: Sue Nami and As the Pegasus Flies are catching on! Check out this blog mention. And keep your eye out for the upcoming, exclusive interview with Sue Nami!

UPDATE 7/22: Fly on, little Pegasus!

UPDATE 7/23: As the Pegasus Flies, the press release!

UPDATE 7/28: Sue Nami is currently being interviewed. Stay tuned to this blog!

Dorothy

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Dorothy once vomited over the side of the boat during a booze cruise. That was when she was young, single, and carefree—a recent college grad—with her whole future ahead of her. Now she was not so young, but still single and somewhat carefree. And she was making good progress professionally. Reader's Digest was lining up their first ads, which were slated to start running in 1955. Very soon! And Dorothy had landed the Timex account, which she was celebrating now at the company Christmas party. It was TIME to celebrate, was the joke she had been saying all night. The more she drank, the funnier the joke got, at least to her. She knew a whole new world was opening up for the magazine, ads for products and companies that could help shape readership, lead RD into a cooler, modern future. She envisioned full page advertisements with sporty cars, movie stars, athletes, cigarettes, alcohol—there were no limits! The only limits were the ones you put on yourself, and she was never one to do that. The Christmas party was at a swanky Manhattan restaurant, and people from Madison Avenue were popping in, trying to make some contacts so they could advertise in the world's most-read magazine. One thing she loved about RD was they never scrimped on their holiday parties. And this year's celebration attracted outsiders, people like Mr. Frederick, who sidled up to her now. He said, "I represent a product, but I'm not sure if it's too racy for the pages of Reader's Digest..."

(Part 2) Mr. Frederick knew he had piqued Dorothy's interest with an opening line like that. Even if his product was too racy, it could at least open the door to a flirtatious conversation with her. And he'd been around the block enough times to know what that could lead to. His scotch on the rocks had gone straight to his head, what with dinner not having been served yet. And he could tell Dorothy wasn't sipping Shirley Temples. That Reader's Digest was now taking ads at all was a shocker; but their readers had spoken, and they'd prefer ads to an increase in subscription price. Dorothy said, "I'm the gal to talk to about advertising. And let me determine if it's too racy for RD." Mr. Frederick--Freddie to his friends--smiled, and knew he had the fish hooked. "You know, I could use a little fresh air before dinner," he said. "Let's pop outside for a minute," Dorothy said, "the frigid air should clear our heads." Once outside, Freddie fired up a cigarette. He offered her one, but she shook her head. "So tell me about this product of yours," Dorothy said. He exhaled a perfect smoke ring. "Well, it's not my product. But I represent it. I'm an adman, you know." "Yes, I've heard all about your type." Freddie didn't know if that was good or bad. He forged ahead, "I've learned that hands-on experience is the best way to demonstrate something. Wouldn't you agree?" She sipped her Manhattan slowly, looking at him over the rim of the glass. She said, "I guess that depends on whose hands, and what they're on." Freddie thought, The fish is definitely on the hook.

(Part 3) "So, whatcha got for me?" Dorothy asked. "Well, I'm in advertising, and I'm dedicated to my clients. But I don't walk around with every product I sell in my pocket," Freddie said. "What about those Camel cigarettes?" Freddie laughed, said, "Yeah, well, those are different. And they fit in my pocket!" Dorothy said, "So, where do we have to go to get our hands dirty?" "Hands ON," Freddie said, "not dirty." Dorothy said, "Uh huh." "Well, my office is just a few blocks from here, over on Madison." Dorothy looked at her watch, considered this new development. She said, "Mr. Wallace is giving his speech at eight, before dinner. I need to be back for that." Freddie smiled--a cat that ate the canary smile--and said, "I'll get you back in time. I promise." They grabbed their coats and walked the few blocks to the offices of his advertising agency. Once inside, Freddie flicked on some lights. Dorothy said, "Wow, so modern! Not like the stuffy old-fashioned offices we have." "This way," he said, leading the way to his office. "Have a seat." He sat behind his desk and pulled out a marker comp mounted on foam core board of an upcoming ad campaign. Before he showed it to her, he said, "There's a revolution going on in France. On the beaches, to be more specific." Dorothy said, "Is that so?" "It is. And this is what I'm talking about!" Freddie turned the board around to show an illustration of a curvy young woman wearing a bikini. Dorothy gasped, then said, "A bikini! I've heard about those. Seem pretty skimpy." "Would you wear one?" "I don't know. Is that what you want to advertise in Reader's Digest?" "Well, I know that's a long shot. But let's get back to you wearing one." She laughed. "Well, this isn't France, and I don't have a bikini." Freddie opened a desk drawer and pulled out something skimpy and blue. He tossed it to Dorothy. "Now you have one. Why don't you try it on?"

(Part 4) Dorothy shimmied into the bikini, and felt a little naughty. She had gone into an empty office to change, while Freddie fixed them some fresh drinks back in his office. She was reluctant to try it on, but Freddie had convinced her by saying, "Just pretend you're in France." The five Mahnattans she had at the party helped, too. She admired herself now in a full-length mirror, admired the way the blue bikini showed off her curves, highlighted them, in fact. She felt practically nude; maybe because she was practically nude. She spun around, checking herself out from every side. Not bad. But even if you're happy with your body, it takes a lot of courage to walk around in public like this. She was still looking in the mirror when, in the reflection, she saw the door open. Freddie with the drinks. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes," he said. She turned around to face him, reflexively covering herself with her hands. It didn't help much. She was embarrassed, but not surprised; she had known it would probably come to this. The only thing she could think to say was, "So, is there a male version of the bikini?" Freddie moved a step closer. "No, French men just go naked." She dropped her arms and said, "So, aren't we supposed to be pretending to be in France?" "Oui," he said. He began to remove his clothes. "I have to be back by eight," she said. "Bon jour," he said, the only other French he knew. Dorothy interpreted that to mean they'd be back in time. "Oh, Freddie," she said, removing the bikini...

Louis Reard, genius inventor of the bikini

(Part 5) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Dorothy and Freddie made it back to the party just as Mr. Wallace was raising a glass and toasting the subject of his speech--Dorothy. For all her great work selling ad space in the upcoming issues of Reader's Digest. "Where is she?" he said, squinting into the lights. "Dorothy, come up here!" All eyes were on her now as she approached Mr. Wallace. She felt disheveled after her romp with Freddie, mostly because she was disheveled. In fact, she still had the bikini on under her dress. Freddie, for his part, paused tucking in the back of his dress shirt to applaud Dorothy as she accepted the Pegasus statuette for all her hard work. She shook hands with Mr. Wallace as they kissed each other's cheek. Then she raised the trophy triumphantly. "Here's a toast," she said, "to the Pegasus!" People cheered and drank, and she drank too, downing the liquor in one pull. Her head was swimming from the whole night: the drinks, Freddie, the bikini, the award. The point is, she was drunk on more than just alcohol, but let's face it, the alcohol was the most effective, noticeable, and judgement-impairing. She bathed in the glory of the moment, all eyes on her, people smiling, the Wallaces looking on like proud parents. She couldn't hold her secret in any longer; if they thought the sales she had made were good now, wait till they hear of the account she just landed. She held up a hand. "Wait," she slurred. She leaned forward to place her empty glass on the table, nearly stumbled, and grabbed onto the podium. "I have even bigger news!" She ripped off her dress and stood there, swaying, wearing nothing but the blue bikini. Stunned silence. Someone dropped a glass. "The French bikini! My new account! Reader's Digest magazine is going to be SO cool and hip!" Freddie ran up to the podium then and draped his suit jacket over the drunken, excited, misguided Dorothy. He whispered to her, "Not a good reception. Tough crowd," and led her away, outside into the cold air. Back inside, DeWitt said to Lila, "This ad thing may have been a bad idea."

Lila and DeWitt Wallace, founders of Reader's Digest

A Reader's Digest Timeline:
1922: The innovative and forward-thinking Lila and DeWitt Wallace publish the first issue of Reader's Digest magazine.
1939: Circulation of Reader's Digest magazine passes 1 million mark, reaches nearly 1.5 million.
1939: Reader's Digest moves into its huge Georgian-style headquarters in Chappaqua, NY.
1981: DeWitt Wallace dies, aged 91.
1984: Lila Wallace dies, aged 94.
2004: Reader's Digest sells the headquarters, leases back office space.
2009: Reader's Digest files for Chapter 11 bankruptcy.
2010: Reader's Digest emerges from Chapter 11 bankruptcy.
2010: Reader's Digest relocates to White Plains, NY and New York City.
2010: Sue Nami censored on Reader's Digest intranet.

Christina and Douglas

NOTE: The RD intranet police have now added a 150 character limit to the caption posts. That's characters, not words. This has pretty much killed the story postings on the intranet. I'll try to continue it here. And don't forget the book is coming out soon, which includes the controversial new story "The Butler." If they wanted to cut me off before, wait till they read this one. Why would they cut off As the Pegasus Flies from the intranet? Probably because it's better than anything RD actually publishes. Stay tuned.

UPDATE 12:09: OK, I followed their rules and broke Part 4 down into 150 character chunks. I began to post as 4a, 4b, etc. I got up to part H, and they began to delete these sections almost as fast as I could post them. I followed THEIR rules, and they still censored me. Stay tuned.

UPDATE 2:10: They've deleted Parts 1-3 now. Stay tuned.

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] "There you are," said Christina. They were on deadline and Douglas was shirking his responsibilities and running off to the company library to waste time. Again. Shirk. Shirk shirk shirk. She'd used it so often when thinking of Douglas, it didn't even sound like a real word anymore. It was nearly the Christmas week break, and they needed to get their project out before then. She had plans, gifts to buy, family waiting, cooking to help out with. Working with Douglas was so frustrating. It was a love/hate thing for her. He was a talented little bastard--and he knew it--but he was living in his own world, on his own schedule. He was a dreamer. Which was all well and good, but not when it infringed on Christina's personal life. She had to drive back home to Connecticut with a clear mind so she could enjoy the holidays without thinking about work for nine days. Or Douglas for nine days. She wasn't a babysitter. Christina tapped a fingernail on the face of her watch. "Time's a wasting," she said. He looked up and around, as if surprised to find where he was sitting. "Sorry," he said, "deep in thought writing." "That's nice, Doug, but you should be EDITING, not writing. Those books aren't going to condense themselves." "I'm tired of doing that," he said. "I want to write my own novels, not chop up the work of others. I'm an artist!" Christina grabbed him by the hand and pulled him up. "Condensing novels IS an art," she said, "And no one does it as well as you." She turned and walked back toward her office; he reluctantly followed. "And what about you?" he asked. "Surely you must have dreams bigger than this. I know you do. Didn't you want to be a —?" "Douglas..." She stopped and turned back toward him. "My dream is to finish this volume and get to my family house for Christmas." He nodded his head, said, "Okay. And while we're on the subject, can I hitch a ride to Connecticut with you? My clutch went, and they can't get the part until after the holidays." Christina sighed and shook her head. Douglas pushed the glasses up on his nose and gave her his puppy dog look. "Saturday morning, 9 a.m. Don't forget, and don't be late," she said.

(Part 2) Douglas took the train home after work, walked the five blocks to his apartment, and gave his broken down Woodie a dirty look before going inside. He was anxious. Christina was SO frustrating! Couldn't she see that he was in love with her? Or, more importantly, that SHE was in love with him? Women! She was always so serious, all business, breezy in the way she moved about the office so efficiently. Not a minute wasted. Always multi-tasking. She was hard to keep up with! Well, one day she would see the obvious. He knew he was a bumbling fool in front of her, though. Self-conscious and nervous, always saying the wrong thing, not coming off confident enough. He knew he should get pointers from Lorenzo--like Hank did--but frankly, Lorenzo made him a little nervous. With his open shirt and no tie, his money-scented cologne, his prowess with women. That was NOT what Douglas was striving for. Not the image he wanted to portray. He had to go with HIS strengths, not Lorenzo's. He could write, could impress her with words the way other men would impress her with their handyman skills, or their way around an engine. Or, as in the case of Lorenzo, his way around the kitchen--not to mention the bedroom. No, Douglas would write her a letter, or a poem, or a story, or a novel. Something. Anything. Words were his strength. And he would not condense his work. He wanted Christina to see him whole, not abridged and shortened. He had three days before they left for Connecticut, time enough to write her something good. He sat down at his typewriter, cracked his knuckles, and began to pound away at the keys, the words coming into his head faster they he could type them. Wow! This was good, he was getting it all down. And without any typos! This was a hot streak for the ages. What's the opposite of writer's block? This was it! Everything he had ever felt about Christina, had ever wanted to tell her, was just flowing out. He loved it! This was a masterpiece. He worked till midnight, completely forgetting to eat. He awoke at 6:30 in the morning, arms thrown over the typewriter. He felt rumpled (because he was), and his mouth was dry. Dehydrated. He saw the huge stack of paper next to him and got excited when he remembered his hot streak. He picked up the first page and began to read. Oh, no! It was horrible! How could he have thought this was any good? He began to doubt himself. Maybe condensing WAS easier. Doug sighed. He needed coffee. He needed to work on this more. Only two days left.

(Part 3) Christina parked in front of Douglas's apartment on Saturday morning at 9:00 precisely. Doug always had a way of saying the wrong thing. Or maybe it was the right thing, and that's what made it so irritating. Plus it was always done so innocently. Dreams. What did he know about her dreams? Yes, she had always wanted to be a——. But how did he know that? Christina shook her head and beeped the horn. Of course he was late. And it was starting to snow. She turned the wipers on and tapped the horn again. They needed to get on the road as soon as possible before the snow became a problem. She worried about her tires, how she hadn't yet put the snow tires on the rear wheels. She sighed. Was she going to have to get out of the car and drag him out of the house? Probably inside shirking off again. Just as she was about to beep once more, he emerged holding a small suitcase. She didn't even know where he was going. To visit relatives? He never spoke of them. He got in the car, nodded toward his own broken down automobile. "My old '46 Mercury Woodie," he said, as if that explained everything. Christina shook her head. "Cars should not be partially made out of wood. It's like driving a tree." Doug leaned into the back and carefully placed his suitcase on the seat. The suitcase contained the full "manuscript of love," as he thought of it. The only copy. His ode to Christina. This time he had gotten every word right. He'd give it to her when she dropped him off at his aunt's house, and she'd have plenty of time to read it over the holiday, plenty of time to realize her love for him. She'd pick him up the following Sunday, and they would return to New York as lovers (or, maybe not lovers yet, because, you know, nothing would have been consummated). Christina was talking, and it snapped him back from his thoughts. "Doug? So where am I taking you?" "Oh, right. My Aunt Lucy in Bethel. I'll tell you how to go once we get close," he said. Christina headed for Route 22, with plans to take that up to Route 6. But the roads got bad quick; they were driving into the snowstorm. They lowered the windows to keep the windshield from fogging up. Route 22 was rough going. Only two thin tire lines on each side where cars where clearing a path for others behind them. No plows were out yet. The wind was blowing strong, the snow dancing and swirling in front of Christina's headlights. Occasionally she would hit a pothole hidden by the snow, rattling the car and jarring her and Douglas. On one of these occasions the suitcase--which hadn't been latched properly in Doug's haste--popped open. A moment later, the sheets of paper found their escape through the open windows. "Stop the car!" Doug yelled, his arms flying in circles in a desperate, useless attempt to catch the paper. He was frantic. "No! My words! Stop the car!" Christina--frightened, as well as blinded by the sheets of paper, not to mention the near white-out conditions outside--jammed on the brakes, sending the car into a slow-motion slide toward the shoulder...

(Part 4) Christina held onto the steering wheel, not knowing whether to steer into the slide or away from the slide. Not that it mattered anyway; it was like driving on a skating rink. Time seemed to slow down. There was nothing to do but wait and see. Strangely, she remembered ice skating as a little girl on a frozen pond with her father and sister. Paper was flying around the inside of the car while Douglas tried to snatch the sheets out of the air. What the hell was all that paper doing in a suitcase? She could see the path they were headed, could see the bank of snow leftover from the last storm on the shoulder getting closer and closer as the car accelerated on the slick road. She knew they were going to crash, it was just a matter of what side of the car would get damaged. She felt sad for her car, in these precious last moments before it was wrecked. She braced herself. She caught Douglas's eye then, and he looked so frightened, so vulnerable, so...guilty. But this wasn't his fault. Then everything sped up and they slammed into the hard, frozen snowbank. She felt her head bang off of something--the steering wheel? the dashboard?--biting her tongue in the process, filling her mouth with the iron taste of blood. She wasn't sure of the passage of time, or if she had been knocked out, but when she opened her eyes, the car was still rocking and settling into position. Steam rose from under the hood. Besides the hissing sound of the radiator, it was eerily quiet. She looked at Douglas. His eyes were closed and blood streamed from his mouth. A deep gash was above his right eyebrow. He had a scrap of paper clutched in his hand. She could see some of the words "...and it was apparent from the start, we were meant..." "Douglas!" she cried. "DOUGLAS! NOOOO!"

(Part 5) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] In the ambulance, Douglas mumbled, "Manuscript of Love..." "He's awake," a paramedic said. "What did he say?" asked Greg, a second paramedic. "I think he said 'Marmalade'," said John, the first paramedic. "Marmalade? What does that mean?" The roads were still bad, and the ambulance was going slow. Christina stood up and leaned over Doug's stretcher. "Miss, please, you should be sitting down," said Greg. "Doug," she said, ignoring Greg. "Doug! Please be okay!" She had retrieved a few pages of the manuscript, including the title page, which she clutched in her hand now. She knew he hadn't mumbled the word marmalade. She hadn't read much, but had gotten the gist of the text. He looked so different without his glasses, which had been broken in the crash. His eyelids fluttered open briefly, and it struck her how she had never really noticed before how green his eyes were. John leaned over the other side of Doug and asked him simple questions. His name, the year, the president. Doug answered these successfully, satisfying John's concerns. Doug said, "Christina..." "Doug, I'm here!" He continued, "My manuscript..." "I saw it. Well, some of it," she said, nodding. "Where is it?" he asked. "It's gone, Doug." "No!...Only copy. We must go back for it." Christina said, "Doug, forget words on paper. Tell me now how you feel, now, in person, from the heart." She put a hand on his face, pushed his hair back, then tenderly kissed his forehead. Her hopes, her dreams, her fears, all were rolled into one confusing ball of emotions. She could have found her love, and then lost him all in the same day. He pulled her close so he could whisper in her ear. She felt her heart begin to beat faster. Then he began to talk, the words coming slowly, but assuredly, telling her how he really felt, saying it better than he ever could on paper...