It's a New Month, and time for a teaser...

Wow! Where has the time gone? It is November already and the New Year is looming on my calendar. I was looking at the stats to this blog and saw that friends from Europe were the most plentiful viewers in the last two weeks. I just wanted to remind you that "Ghost of the Black Bull is available at all Amazon outlets in Europe and I believe that it is available on Barnes and Noble there as well. Thanks for being such loyal followers.
Here is a short excerpt from "Black Bull":

  
"Pappy went to the mine because he knew that although JR was strong enough to work there, he was terrified of being underground. It wasn’t just the damned stories that miners told while he was around, Tommy Knockers and such, but on one trip underground the miners had put their lanterns out. It took all of them to hold JR down after he started screaming and running into the walls of the mine."

The Black Bull is Loose! Rampaging on Amazon and Nook.

 

The Ghost of the Black Bull is a story of bad luck and trouble for two families that have little in common. Yet their lives intersect in a collision that will leave you breathless. The Black Bull is a real and ethereal symbol of evil and violence that haunts them until the shocking conclusion. Available at Amazon   & Barnes and Noble

 

 

 Undaunted Publishing, LLC is proud to announce the release of "Ghost of the Black Bull" a novella by Michael D. LeFevre. He is a native of Utah and incorporates the awesome geography and rich history into his stories. The following is a short synopsis of the story.

Bitter memories of Mrs. Burnett’s past come to her mind as she stands on her porch. Recollections bring tears that quickly evaporate in the hot, dry air of Skull Valley. Miles away, JR, a big, thick kid is running to shelter behind his beloved Pappy, a fat chicken swinging from a thick fist. Cruel fate pushes the two families together in a shocking collision that will test the universe, its ironies and whims. Four people with a life of sadness, grief, and death. And yet, happiness can and does intrude into their lives, only in small and rare flashes.
But, you take joy where you can find it…don’t you? 

The Black Bull is finally on the loose! You can pick up a copy in the Amazon Kindle Book store and through Barnes and Noble's Nook store. Both of these booksellers are online. Readers of this blog may recognize portions of the story from posts under the title "Death in the Valley. I think that you will like the finished story.

Check out  Undaunted Publishing webpage. Just click on the highlighted text and follow the link.

And GOD said...

 

#1

Short play adaptation from 2001

From out of nowhere, the voice of GOD, sounding suspiciously like James Earl Jones, said,

“LET THERE BE LIGHT!!!”

James and Chris sat at a small round table in the food court of the Mall. On the table in front of them was two cups of lemonade, refreshment against the extreme heat of outside. They jumped a mile at the voice and both started to say “DID you hear…” and then realized what they were about to say. Two mouths clicked shut in unison. Nervously they looked around. Surely everyone else had heard that, but everyone else was going about their own business as if GOD hadn’t spoke at all, if indeed HE had spoken. Shaking off their confusion, they sipped their lemonade.

James changed the subject, “Whew! It sure is a hot one out there!” Gesturing towards the windows in the far wall, “This lemonade really hits the spot.”

Well, Chris, who was still shaken from the faceless voice, didn’t quite catch the context that James was striving for. “What spot is that?” he said, looking around.

“You know…the spot!” James was now becoming confused at Chris’ wandering eyes.

This really messed with Chris whose mind was racing for a way to save face. He continued on. “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What spot?”

Suspicious that Chris was messing with him, but a bit irritated as well, James forcefully answered, “Jeez, are you being obtuse on purpose or what? The spot! The spot! The place where everything is just right! A giant figure of speech. The spot! This lemonade hits the spot, it is so friggin’ hot out there!” His voice almost rose to a shriek, then thinking the other people in the food court were looking at him, he lowered it to a normal volume but still forceful.

Chris had focused on the “on purpose” part of James’ tirade. He decided to play the clown as he so often did. “You are so easy, I was just screwing with you. Hell, bro, I think I invented that figure of speech. If not me, then somebody I know.”

Indignantly, James retorted, “Yer ass! You can barely talk, let alone invent a figure of speech.”

Chris’ hands went to his chest and he slumped in the chair, “I’m wounded! Skewered by the barbed tongue of my best friend. Oh the pain!”

This drew a smile from James. He was well acquainted by Chris’ shenanigans, but even so, they were almost always funny. He often fell into the verbal trap of being the butt of Chris’ quick wit. He had decided that he could play the straight man in the joke. James thought that maybe he could change the subject so he asked, “So, what’s up?”

Chris straightened up, running his hand through his hair trying to tame the spikes raised when he rolled around in his chair, he answered with a shrug, “Just hanging out, waiting for Fall semester to start.”

“How’s your folks?” James carried on.

Chris grimaced, “The same. Nothing changes there. They are always gone to work or at the club after work. I sometimes wonder if they will ever have enough bread, money I mean.”

“I hear you. Mine haven’t changed either, I thought they might fly the coop after I moved out, but no, they’ll be here for the rest of time. Ha! Mom read one my essay’s for English class last semester. She just shook her head. I asked her what that was for and she said, “I wonder where you came from.” James paused, “I didn’t think I was that weird.”

Chris jumped on this, “Weird! Man, you’re the strangest cat I ever saw. Bent, real bent.”

“You know the pot shouldn’t call the kettle black. You’re not the straightest arrow in the quiver.” James snorted.

Chris chuckled, “Speaking of pot…You ever? You know, inhaled?”

“Me?” James said with a poker face.

Chris leaned forward intently, “Yeah, you.

“Like ol’ Cheech says, ‘a little magic dust for you, a little magic dust for me, a little more magic dust for me…’ then Farrrrr out, man.” James laid it on thick for effect.

Chris wasn’t impressed with the act, so he asked again, “So?”

“I made the mistake of my life. It’ll never be the same, my life I mean.” James’ eyes settled on a point over Chris’ head, up towards the ceiling. He kind of drifted off like he was somewhere else.

“So?” Chris waited for James to tell his story.

James snapped to and looked Chris in the eye. “You never let up do you? Remember the kid we called Fats?”

“Wasted dude, real skinny?” Chris squinted trying to remember. There were a lot of kids they hung out with that were not on the “A” list. School had been pretty well segregated by class and clique. He and James had been on the borderline of the “B and C” list. They had had friends in both groups.

James went on, “Yeah, he convinced me to smoke with him. He told me to hold the pipe stem up to my nose, then he blew on the bowl…mainlined the smoke right up my nose. Almost the last thing I remember…”

“Almost? What do you mean?” Chris was eager now, to hear the rest of the story,

 James was still in that place up near the ceiling, he went on automatically, “Well, I got to feeling funny. I decided to leave, and I ran into Julie who convinced me to go to the movie with her. It was bad, real bad.”

“Julie? The movie?” Chris interrupted.

James hardly paused, “The movie…it was Jonathon Livingston Seagull. I steer clear of ‘em to this day, I’m afraid they’ll start talking to me and lead me off into another dimension. Besides I couldn’t breathe.”

“Couldn’t breathe?” Chris’ mind was racing again, trying to find a way to make a joke of all this.

James took a deep breath, as if remembering that smothering feeling, “Yeah, my lungs felt like they were two walnuts dangling on a string in my chest. Never again.”

“It didn't affected me that way.” Chris said confidently.

James came out of his past, now curious what experience Chris had had. “Really. So did you get high?”

“So high, I could see T’peka.” Chris smiled in anticipation.

James took the bait, “Topeka, Kansas?”

“I’m tellin’ you, you are soooo easy! I think I invented that figure of speech too” Chris laughed at his own joke, pointing to James while he did.

James shook his head in chagrin, “Damn you.”

“Let’s have another lemonade before we go back out in that heat.” Chris patted his friends arm.

The Exotic Woman Book 2, Part Deux

An Irrational Dream continues...

My feet started moving of their own volition, walking directly over to where she sat, willing me to come to her with her eyes.  I felt as if I had no control.  I arrived to stand in front of her and reached down and took her proffered hand.  “Her skin is like silk”, I thought as I helped her to stand.  As she did, I took her other hand in mine and looked deeply into those dark eyes.  “What am I doing?” in wonder, I gently pulled her to me.   I leaned toward her, intending to kiss those scarlet lips. Just as our lips were about to touch, she lifted her head so that I kissed her chin.  Startled, I jerked back with a question on my face.  She chuckled low in her throat, lips curled in a smile.  She then let my hands go and took my head in hers and pulled our lips together.  An electric spark literally exploded fireworks in my brain.  The sweet fruity taste of the ruby lipstick filled my head, temporarily overpowering the clean, womanly aroma of her skin.  I wanted to crush her body to me, full length, welded together lips to knees; one hot, seething nuclear power-plant of desire.

            I held myself in check, I don’t know how, and pressed my lips back to hers a bit firmer and opened slightly.  She didn’t respond at first so I let the tip of my tongue caress her soft, scarlet lips and as she relaxed, our tongues touched in the real duel of love.  When our lips had first met, my eyes had closed in reflex to the bliss that had spread through out me.  As our kiss deepened, my eyes opened and found her looking at me, eyes dark, deep, and unfathomable.   Who knew what thoughts were flashing in their depths.

            As the desire in both of us increased to just this side of unbearable, our hands started roaming in a more passionate embrace of…how to describe what this was.  Out of nowhere, a rough hand grabbed my shoulder and jerked me away from this woman, rudely pulling our lips apart, leaving a tingling, yearning, coldness where only heat had been before.  As I stumbled back from the force of the hard treatment, my right arm drew back in an instinctive, defensive act, fist clenched hard, ready to pound the intruder.  “Get away from my woman!” this stranger’s harsh voice ground out.  “What in the hell are you doing?” he asked of her.

            The woman stepped in between, preventing us coming at each other.  My clenched fist ached to drive through the stranger’s face, it vibrated with the effort to restrain it.  The woman looked at me, shook her head slightly and turned to the stranger.  She grasped his hand and turned to go.  He turned and muttering threats, dragged this beautiful woman off like so much baggage.

            I watched them go; the clenched fist relaxed and my arm dropped to my side.  The stranger and the woman swept through the exit doors and at last, she turned and looked straight at me.  Her lips that had so recently held mine in an embrace of love mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”  Silently spoken, loudly received.  My shoulders slumped and my head drooped so that I was looking at my shoes.  “Oh my God Mike, who was that woman?”  Marla asked.  I looked back at the empty doorway, sorrow on my face, “I don’t know, but she called my name.” 

     

An Irrational Dream Begins…

The EXOTIC WOMAN Book 2

            I had gone to the theater with a friend, some trendy new play.  The type of play that seldom came to my home-town.  The kind of play that was original, verbal, situational and smart as opposed to glitzy, dopey musicals featuring a frustrated insane, physically repugnant monster with a nice baritone and an obsessive love for the hot chick.  You know, the ‘re-run’ that everyone pretends to “love”, but only because they really dig the music and ignore the dialog and plot.  Thank heaven this play hadn’t been like that.

            I was still sitting in my seat thinking about the quirky ending to the play when my friend got up to go.  “Going to the whizzer, see you outside, OK?”  I shook my head to clear the echoes of the last scene and nodded, “Yeah, I’ll see you in a minute.”  As my buddy left, I stood and stretched the stiffness out of my legs and back.  Turning to go, I saw my friends, Marla and her husband Dean talking to Phil, another of our group at the back of the theater.  Waving, I climbed the aisle and walked up to them, said hello and hugged Marla, shook hands with the guys, “How ya doing?”  They replied, “ Fine, Fine, Fine.”  Small talk broke out, each of us catching up on recent events, grandkids, dogs, gardens and the like when out of nowhere I heard my name spoken.  “Mike”.  In the noise of the conversation I couldn’t tell where the sound had come from or if it was real.  “I must be hearing things”, I told myself.  And then it came again a little louder and more insistent, “Mike”.  I looked around, trying to pinpoint the origin of the calling.  It had become important to find out who was calling to me, who owned that voice; that silky, alluring voice.  I scanned my memory for that particular sound, that exact tone of ‘come hitherness’.  Then, again the voice reached out to me, inviting, full of want and desire, “Mike”.

            At that moment the exiting crowd thinned and revealed a woman sitting in the aisle seat of the back row and she was looking directly at me.  I was startled, even though I had been looking for whoever had been calling my name. 

            The woman was beautiful, much too beautiful to be looking at me that way.  So naturally I turned around to see if someone else was standing behind me, someone else that she had to be looking at.  I was sure that I was misunderstanding her gaze.  No one was there, except my friends who were looking at me, puzzled at my actions.  I looked back at the woman who smiled slightly, just a quirk of the lips really, and she lifted one eyebrow in an invitation…question?

            She was gorgeous, sitting there a bit sideways, legs crossed at the ankles.  “What ankles”, I thought and continued to look her over.  “Lips”…had I said it out loud?  Lips, full and generous, red. Red with that favorite shade of lipstick that I like; the only lipstick that I like on a woman’s lips. Her hair was black, black as a raven’s wing, soaking up the light like a black hole, glistening only where the light was strong enough to escape the pull of the darkness. It was thick, and cut in a short flip that looked natural and inviting.  Her almond eyes were dark too, and from where I stood I couldn’t tell how dark, but they seemed to be saying, “Get over here you fool, I have got something to tell you.”  Just one more glance I thought and…”Oh my!” I sucked in my breath, “OH MY!”  My glance slid from head to toe and back again, “OHH MY! and in a yellow dress too. “

...to be continued...

Dread Prevents Action...?

 Have you ever been faced with a chore that you are absolutely dreading, and because of that dread you procrastinate until your dread builds and builds until it turns into anxiety? This is a bit dramatic I know, but this is what I am faced with right now as I come to the end of "Death in the Valley". Since the story has a real life ending and I can't bring myself to gloss over that in the fictionalized account...well, I know what's gonna happen. 

I once attended a writer's conference where Richard Dutcher (GOD'S ARMY, BRIGHAM CITY, STATES OF GRACE) was a keynote speaker. Afterwards, he signed copies of the book God's Army, that he had written from the movie screeplay. As my turn to get my copy signed I asked him if he had trouble writing the real tough scenes in his work (the loss of one elder's testimony, the death of Doc, etc.) and he told me that on the contrary, he reveled in them as it enabled him to experience the very real emotions of his characters who might be fictionalized to you and me, but to him, their creator, it validated his creation. 

I hate sad endings to stories. Even the ones that have a redeeming quality to them. Let me repeat, I hate sad endings to stories. You'll hear me repeat this often if you continue to read my stories and posts. The kicker is that most of MY stories have sad endings or sad endings in the middle before a new beginning (the redemption). There, I have said it, now after that spoiler alert, I still expect you to read my work.

Back to Death in the Valley. I have to finish this story and I am dreading the telling of it. I have procrastinated for over 5 days now, working on other stories, prettying up my social networking sites, etc. But every time I have sat down to the computer, the words describing the ending scenes of this story run through my head demanding to be birthed on to the computer screen. And every time my heart aches and my hands shy away from typing the awful words. 

The story will end, even if it is through teary eyes that I watch the rest of the story unfold. I hope you'll buy it (I am jumping the gun) and read it and appreciate the story even though it is a sad one. It has to be told. It has bugged me for many years.

Personal Essay

Starshine

            The morning rushed up like a steam locomotive, as the sun disk peeked over the Wasatch Mountains.  Golden sunlight rushed across the valley floor, chasing the mountain-shadow eastward at a thousand miles an hour.  A large, dark-haired man gathers up the hand of a young boy and walks him over to a battered old pickup truck.  After opening the dented, scratched door, the man bends down and engulfs the boy’s torso in his work-roughened hands, “Up you go, move on over.” he mock growls at the eager child.  The boy just smiles as he slides across the brown naughahyde, wincing slightly at the chill of the seat, “Where’re we going Uncle Arnie?”

            This day was preceded with a night that has been repeated countless times, but not, I must say, with the same eyes, ears, and brain as then.  I had been given the opportunity to spend a week with Uncle and Aunt, and jumped on it just as, well, just as a duck jumps on a Junebug.  My father was 10,000 miles away easing his divorce pains on a Navy destroyer in the western Pacific Ocean.  I lived with my Mother and little sister and had the man-hunger that all little boys have after a long sentence of exclusive female association.  Trucks, tractors, barns, machinery, irrigation ditches, hedges like castle walls, quail, and pheasants, all have greater attraction than a mother’s tender hugs and caresses.  Scraped knees, frogs, dogs, and bloody scabs, almost always, have more power to attract young male attention than dresses, sweet-smelling hair or soapy baths do.  And Uncle had all those things at his finger tips; he ran Grampa’s orchard.  I don’t remember Grampa being around much in those days, he must have been there, but the vivid memories of time with my mother’s older brother linger until today.  We played tag and catch with Babe, a velvet eared German Shorthaired Pointer bitch (there’s no greater sop for a child’s tears than the floppy soft ears of a dog- - others have verified my long standing belief), waiting for the day to pass.  “Do you want to go irrigating tonight?”  We get our turn at eleven.” Uncle breathes those magic words.  Words that no sane boy could ever turn down.  “What about my bedtime?”  I wonder aloud.  “I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go.” he answers.  Hurray, Hurray!  After supper, the pre-daylight savings time day came to its natural end.  My head sinks down, I wonder if sleep would ever come.  Of course it does, as after every typical kid day.  I was afflicted with that inexorable gravitational pull on fatigued eyelids.  As soon as I fell asleep it seemed like Uncle was shaking my shoulder to get up.  “Better take your jacket, it’ll be chilly on the ditch bank”, Uncle gently guides my sleep numb arms into a lender jacket (a loaned heavy shirt of Uncle’s).  We go out of the house, into a pool of porch light that barely holds the dark at bay.  Uncle lifts me into the truck shooing me over so that he has room to slide in behind the wheel.  We drive a short distance to the orchard, past the farmhouse, the ruby trunks of the cherry tree; driving on down by the barn, rolling past row after soldier row of MacIntosh, the Red Delicious and finally making a left turn down between the ordered ranks of the Roman Beauties.  The incandescent yellow light thrown by the pie dish headlights, bores through the thick darkness of these fruitwoods.  Startled, small birds flutter barely out of the path of the truck.  Suddenly, a right leg stabs at the brake pedal, “Whoa! don’t want to get us stuck in the mud.” Uncle reaches out and turns off the headlights.  Immediately the dark gathers around us like my coat, head to toe, wrapped tight around our chests’ tight enough to make breathing a burden, all of a sudden.  He turns the truck engine off and the silence adds its’ load to the darkness.  Suddenly apprehensive, I slide closer to the warmth of Uncle’s large frame, but in vain, as he steps out of the truck and gathers up his shovel and my hand.  “Come on boy, we don’t want the neighbors to take our water.”  And we’re off, gliding through that black velvet darkness, serenaded by the back scratch/fiddle playing insect residents of the orchard.  Five year old legs pump furiously to keep my toes from dragging furrows in the dirt.  Uncle saunters unconcerned (that my legs will surely be worn off right up to my knees) through unseen thickets snagging at my Levi’s, flashing his light here and there, unerringly moving to some pre-determined coordinate in that grid of living applesauce.  Although I now know the magician’s trick of finding your way across a familiar tract of acreage, it was a mystery to me then.  I was wondering what would become of me if somehow my hand became separated from the giant warmth of Uncle’s grip.  Would I wander endlessly through mega-acres (just 40) of Grampa’s kingdom, what would I eat (especially eat!), did anyone even love me anymore (where was my daddy?).  When, of a suddenness, my mind’s perambulations were brought up, just as short as those five year old legs, at the edge of a wet smelling, gurgling dark void.  The warm golden beam of the flashlight struck leaden jewels on the surface of the ditch that had looked so inviting in the daylight.  Now, the shining just seemed to be some malevolent invitation to stay away.  “I’m going over there, and it’s real muddy.  Why don’t you stay right here and I’ll be back in a minute.  OK?” Uncle asks me.  My head does a fair imitation of one those rear car window dogs, describing a side to side, up and down wag/nod, as I stammer out  my nervous agreement, “OK”.  The darkness gathers in around me as that warm spot of light moves off, up the flow of waterway.  I long to be with that small glow of security instead of standing by myself in the night, not knowing where my next meal is coming from.  Restlessly, I shuffle my feet in a small dance of childish fear of things unknown.  The serenade that seemed so great just moments ago, now seemed dirge-like as the reality of my aloneness washes over my slight frame.  I glance around as if I could see the cause of my discomfort through the inky blackness.  For some reason, I glanced up.  “Oh, My GOD!” my childish brain screamed, “Look at all them diamonds in the sky!” The clear night air of Utah Valley magnified the dome of stars that shone so intensely in the absence of Sister Moon.  They put the crystal brilliance of gems to shame that night.  My uneasiness faded away beneath the warmth of icy bright stars, millions of eons away.  The dance of fear turns instead to the primal beat of a dance-step known to every human being born on this planet, if only in the genetic code of their chromosomes.  Head back, mouth opens wide, or even slightly, hands at your sides, left foot steps sideways and right slides to meet the left in a twirl of bewitched circle.  Around and around, counter clockwise, Orion, Pleides, Big Dipper, Little Dipper, North Star..........Orion, Pleides, Big Dipper, Little Dipper, North Star, on and on until you think you may fall down full length on your back, star-struck and mute.  I revel in the wash of starlight that night.  Never before and certainly not since have “i” felt so small.

            My reverie is shattered as the suck and splash of size 12 gum boots intrude,  “Ready for home?” and my slack right arm jerks fishing-line taut as the missing warmth of Uncle Arnie’s big rough hand gathers mine up and heads for that old, battered pickup and home.  My interrupted sleep is quickly resumed as I am tucked into my spare bed nest.  My dreams change from frolicsome dogs and thrown balls to the cold, distant shimmer of stars.  I am changed, and I know that I am.  I will see hundreds of awesome night skies in the years that follow but never again with those five-year-old eyes. 

Michael D. LeFevre ã Copyright  24 April 1995

News

Family, friends and readers, there is news that affects this blog. I have joined with Derek Siddoway in a venture to publish e-books. The company is named UNDAUNTED PUBLISHING. You can find it at http://undauntedauthors.com or undaunted_books on twitter. If you go to the webpage there are two more links to undaunted publishing sites on Pinterest and google+. Check us out, Derek has one book published and on the website to view and buy if the mood strikes you and we all who are involved with the company have books in the works. We are at the intersection of indie and traditional publishing. We are approaching publishing like the process we would like to encounter so, if you have a story that you would like to see published contact us through the webpage it has all of the information to get started. Thanks for checking in to see if I have new stories here. There hasn't been for a while but promise there are many more to come.

Birdie

 It's been a while since I have posted to this blog, but the itch is getting worse. The itch to share a story. I entered this little tale in a contest last month, but unfortunately, it didn't win. Tell me what you think.

BIRDIE

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. That opening had haunted her all afternoon, overshadowing the pleasure of reading the book. Now she stood and squared her shoulders, ignoring the shiver of dread that shook her, and stepped into the hallway  beyond.

            “Watch where you’re going Birdie!” Fat Sally almost knocked her down. Birdie ducked her head and scuttled out of the way. Murmuring “Sorry” as the large woman hurried past her and down the hallway. They called her Birdie here, but her grandmother had named her Little Bird Woman when she first got her monthly flow. None of her family had called her anything else.

            Her rubber soled shoes squeaked, as she walked down the highly waxed concrete floors, further irritating her peace of mind, the “Birdie” comment stirring those feelings first. Her grandmother, Far Seeing Woman, would chide her for letting the world disturb her harmony, for distracting her thoughts of the book that she had been reading. Far Seeing Woman often corrected her behavior. She wasn’t called Far Seeing Woman for no good reason. Often, out of the blue, she spoke sharply to Little Bird Woman, pre-empting some bad act. Little Bird Woman was sometimes confused by Grandmother’s  foresight. At other times she was grateful for the help.

            No one here knew why she was named Little Bird Woman. Grandmother said it was because the little birds of the forest loved her. They flew about her whenever she walked in the woodlands of her homeland. They would land on her hands or her shoulders and look at her, twisting and cocking their head so that they could look her in the eye. The birds would chirp quietly as if they were sharing some daily gossip with Little Bird Woman. And maybe they were. She fed the little birds of the forest crumbs from the bread that her mother made from the seeds and grains that she gathered. Sometimes Little Bird Woman would find a special sweet green that she would tear into small pieces and share with her friends.

            These memories calmed the irritation that the squeaking shoes and Fat Sally’s cheeky disrespect. Although the shoes continued to squeak as she continued down the hallway to her room.

            Little Bird Woman walked slowly and deliberately. She knew that the faster she walked, the sooner her daily freedom would end. Every six steps would bring her to a doorway, openings to a room. Sometimes a woman would call out to her in greeting, saying “Hey, Birdie…having a good day?” Or if she passed groups of women, they would nod or speak or make rude gestures trying to provoke her, either to laughter or to anger. Little Bird Woman had little of one and plenty of the other.

            “Squeak, squeak, squeak…” her shoes counted that nasty cadence, each squeak bringing her closer to her room and captivity. Tension quickly built in her as the figure of Yellow Haired Mary came into focus. She was standing by the door of Little Bird Woman’s room. 

            “In you go, Birdie. It’s that time.” Yellow Haired Mary called, pointing towards the waiting door. Little Bird Woman growled softly as she entered her room. She turned so that she was facing the door and backed slowly until her back touched the far wall. Giving Mary one more angry look, she turned and faced the barred window. A pair of beautiful rosy finches awaited her, perched on the windowsill. Little Bird Woman smiled as the steel door clanged shut behind her.

New Short Story

Sorry to jump around so much, but I guess it just mirrors my brain lately. I have been thinking about a lot of different things this summer. I am working on the other stories so I won't leave you hanging. Getting out of College only has one more chapter...but that's the kicker...it is the most emotional one for me. Even if it is only a story. Nate and Josephine is about half complete but has plot issues, so I am thinking about that. If I have lost you as a reader because of the interlude, I am real sorry. Please come back. As usual, if you have comments, please feel free to share.

The Hummingbird Man

Chapter 1

         A ruby throated Hummingbird flitted by the old man’s window, straight for the fancy copper and art glass feeder hanging on the outside of the window. It was hung just right so that the old man could watch the little birds. In the summer that is. Later, when the birds made their annual flight to the southland to escape the cold of winter his grandsons brought a little cedarwood seed feeder so that he could watch a whole different set of birds. 

         The old man looked up when the motion of the little bird caught his attention. He watched as the rapidly beating wings carried the bird up and down, side to side, until it was sure that there was no threat. Then it slowly slid forward and dipped its long beak into the faux flower blossom and sucked the sweet liquid. A dark streak flashed in from the side and the gaudy ruby throated cock bird backed out of the fake flower and chased after the dark bird. They flew in dazzling circles and zig zags, both trying to intimidate the other.

         “Damn, if they wouldn’t fight so much they both could get a bellyful of syrup. Just selfish, that’s what they are. Just like people.” The old man grimaced and shook his old bald head in disgust.

         The door to his room flew open. Hummingbird man! Let’s get your sorry old ass into your chair and go to supper.” The wild looking young man who was the attendant for the men in the ‘home’, walked over to the closet where the wheelchair sat waiting.

         “Shut the hell up, and bring the chair over here! And quit calling me the Hummingbird man.” The old man swung his tired old stick legs over the side of the bed where he sat. Legs that had carried him over tall mountains and many miles in search of far horizons, now wouldn’t hold him to walk across the room, let alone to the dining hall. Arms and shoulders that had lifted 1000 bales of hay in one day, now could barely push the wheels on the chair. But there was nothing wrong with his mind, well not too much anyway. He did have a hard time remembering some of his friends’ names but, he never forgot his family.

         “Hurry up!  Wait, take me into the bathroom first. I got to go.” The old man said impatiently. He secretly liked the boy, but he didn’t let on that he did. The attendant was strong as a bull and he handled the old men in the home like they were made of cardboard. He was a happy-go-lucky kid, but he had a smart mouth. It got him in trouble with some of the other old farts in here, but the old man liked it. It kept his mind sharp, trying to keep up.

         The old man reached out his hands expecting a pull up and an arm around his shoulder to help him over to the bathroom, but the kid bent down and picked him up with an arm under his legs and one around his back.

         “Man, you’re as light as one of those hummingbirds that you watch. No wonder I call you ‘Hummingbird Man’.” The young man carried him easily to the bathroom and set him upright next to the toilet.

         The old man was embarrassed, he was the guy that used to show off his strength. He had carried his father exactly like this in the last days of his life. The thought of that gave him a chill that travelled up and down his spine.

         “What do you think you’re doing! I didn’t tell you to carry me like a baby! Get out while I go to the bathroom! Now!” The old man used anger to cover up his embarrassment.

         “Do you need help with your zipper?” the young man offered.

         The old man sputtered in outrage. “No one but me has touched my zipper since I was a tyke. Except in fun. And you ain’t gonna be the first. Now get out!”

         The young man smiled at the old man’s feistiness. He nodded and turned his back to the old man so that he could have some privacy, but the rules wouldn’t allow him to completely leave the room with the old man standing as wobbly as he seemed to be.

         “I’ll be right here, but I won’t look, rules you know. Say something if you feel like you’re about to fall.”

         The old man grumbled, but he went about his business. When the dribbling sounds of the old man’s weak stream stopped, The young aide turned back and helped the old man to his wheelchair. As they were wheeling down the hall to the dining room, the young man started whistling like a bird. The warbling rose and fell in a lively rhythm.

         “What kind of bird is that?” the old man queried.

         “Shitbird.” The young man deadpanned.

         “For Hell’s sake, you are a smartass aren’t you. For real, tell me.”

         The young man smiled broadly. He wanted to laugh. But that wouldn’t be cool. So he deflected the old man’s attention.

         “Look there’s your girlfriend, Mrs. Terwilliger. Do you want to sit next to her?”

         “I don’t have a girlfriend.” The old man growled. “Just friends that are females. Yeah, take me over there, I might as well have some company that isn’t so full themselves like some I might name.” He said this last bit pointed right at the young man.

         “Alright Hummingbird Man, here you are. Howdy there, Mrs Terwilliger, looking for some company?” the young man pushed the old man up to the table in the place next to the woman. He left him there and went after his other charges.

         The old man smiled nicely at Mrs. Terwilliger. “Good evening, Melanie. Is it alright if I sit next to you?”

         Mrs. Terwilliger snorted indelicately. “It’s a little late to ask for permission isn’t it? You’re already here.” Then with a smile, “ Of course it is okay. How are you today?”

         “Just fine, thank you. And you?” the old man winked at her. They had a close friendship. Friendships in the ‘home’ were hard to maintain at their age. Between illness, senility and death, time to develop relationships was often short. Melanie and the old man, had both been in here for about 4 years. They had the good fortune to be alert and mostly well, even though they were both approaching 95 years old.

         “Why does that young man call you the Hummingbird Man?” Mrs. Terwilliger asked.

         “I don’t know, everyone knows that I feed the birds. Hummingbirds in the summer, all the other little birds in the winter. I like watching them better than looking at TV. Maybe he has a nickname for everyone in here.” The old man looked perplexed at that. He hadn’t thought of that before.

         “I don’t think so,” Mrs. Terwilliger offered, “I haven’t heard him call anyone else by a nickname, just their real names. Have you?”

         “No I don’t think I have.” He answered. The staff started to serve supper.  

Death in the Valley-Chapter Three

Chapter Three

         Mrs. Burnett had finished making dinner and setting the table. She walked out onto the porch staring up the hill to where her husband was plowing. Or had been anyway, a cloud of dust marked his progress towards the house. He seemed to know exactly when supper was ready and showed up, tired, sweaty and hungry.

            As she watched the drifting dust cloud, she thought of how they had come to be here, in the valley. How she was still excited to be living on their own place, working for themselves, not some miserly owner who begrudged even the little bit that they were paid. Her thoughts drifted back over their life…

         The Burnett’s had been married for a long time. Long enough to raise two girls and a son. The boy had been killed by a bad bull on a hard scrabble ranch in Nevada. The two daughters had married and been carried away by their men to far away Colorado where they both worked on the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Mr. Burnett was a hard worker, he knew how to plow a field or castrate a litter of pigs. Usually for someone else, seldom for his own benefit. Mrs. Burnett couldn’t complain however, he had always worked enough to keep the wolf from the door and shoes on the kids. She worked hard too, there was a hot meal on the kitchen table every night when Mr. Burnett came in from a hard day at work. Mrs. Burnett washed their clothes by hand in a washtub every Monday scrubbing the worn clothes on a corrugated board that often wore the skin from her knuckles, leaving her hands raw and bleeding for most of the week. She maintained their clothing so that the work clothes were more of patches than the original fabric. She was skilled with a needle and thread. She sewed all of the girls’ dresses when they were at home. Mrs. Burnett teased them that they wouldn’t have caught a man if it hadn’t been for the pretty dresses that their mother made for them.

            One day after the girls had been married for a year, Mr. Burnett came home with an exciting proposal. How would she like to have their own place? The boss had told him about a ranch, just 100 acres over in western Utah, Skull Valley, that had belonged to his wife’s brother.  The lazy so-and-so had planted a dozen apple trees and built a lean-to shack for his wife and kids then skipped the country. The boss had bought the property from the woman and sent her back to her folks over in Manti. He offered the place to the Burnett’s for just what he had paid for it; they could pay him some every year when they sold their harvest.

            Mrs. Burnett took about 30 seconds before she grabbed Mr. Burnett in a bear hug and asked him why he had even waited to ask her. He should have shook the boss’s hand before he changed his mind and sold it to someone with cash.

            The next day they both went to see the boss and accept his offer. They signed a note for $2000 and shook his hand. Joyfully making plans they went home and started to pack their meager belongings. They had accumulated an old grain wagon with a canvas cover that looked like an old prairie schooner. Two middle aged geldings to pull it, a riding horse for Mr. Burnett to use when the boss had him chase the wild cattle on the bi-annual roundups. Mrs. Burnett had a half wild milk cow that gave enough milk for their meals and to sell a little butter made from the cream. There was a calf every year to sell, and her two dozen hens laid enough eggs that the extra was sold to add to her kitchen fund. Mrs. Burnett’s household goods were old and worn like their clothing, the only furniture worth anything was the marriage bed that Mr. Burnett had made for her and the beautifully carved Hope chest that her Scottish father had given her on her thirteenth birthday, no doubt goaded by her mother into action. He had used his considerable skill to make a wonderful chest that she had cherished all of her life. She had protected it from 3 rambunctious children and a dozen moves.

            Mr. Burnett asked his wife to help push the wagon from its’ place by the shed to the front of the little cottage where they could load it with their belongings. They tugged and pushed to get the heavy wagon rolling, then Mr. Burnett rushed to lift the wagon tongue and directed it so that the rear of the wagon was even with the doorway.

            “If we get it loaded today can we leave tomorrow?” Mrs. Burnett asked. She was eager to move to a place of her own. She had lived in line shacks and old cabins at every ranch that they had worked at since they were married. She couldn’t count the dirt floors and empty window frames that she had fixed to make a home for her man and her children. Their only son was buried on a lonely ridge overlooking the ranch where he had died. The owner had felt so bad that he had ordered a white limestone marker for her son. He had slaughtered the bull that killed him and placed the severed head on the grave, Two days too late, but there it was. After things were settled and they were sure it would work out, maybe she would move his grave to the new place so that he could lie next to her and his father when their turn came.

            Mrs. Burnett shook her head; the thoughts of the past had taken her mood down. Or the heat, she couldn’t tell which. Where was that old man? Supper would be burnt to a cinder if he didn’t get here soon. She searched for sign of him getting closer, the dust trails were settling. “I guess he’s behind the barn” she said to no one in particular. The sudden sound of a whistling old man trying to sneak up on her caused her head to swivel. “You couldn’t surprise a marching band you old coot! Not with that tune.”

            Mr. Burnett laughed. “Damn! I was hopin’ to catch you sleeping.”

            “Not likely. If I didn’t hear you, I could smell you a mile away. Why don’t you wash off and put on a clean shirt, supper’s ready.”

            Mr. Burnett laughed again, “I will ol’gal, just for you!” He slapped her behind as he walked past. “Just for you!”

I'm Back!

Hey, here is a new story. It is based on true events that occurred a couple of miles south of where I now live. I have misplaced the rest of the story (it is hand-written), so this is it until I find the notebook where it is written. Please let me know what you think. I found out a while a go that I have an unexpected connection to the events. The names have been changed and the details have been fabricated as the actual murders have never been solved as far as I can tell. So, Here it is "Death in the Valley".

Death in the Valley

 Death in the Valley

Chapter One

            It was a hot August afternoon in valley. Mrs. Burnett had opened all of her windows and doors hoping for a cross breeze that might cool the house off. The only drawback to that was the flies seemed to congregate in the house hoping to escape the heat of barnyard and maybe score a bite of the supper that she was making for her husband.

            Mr. Burnett was out in the south field plowing the wheat stubble under hoping that the late summer thunderstorms would settle the loose dirt before winter. His team of horses were working hard even though the soil was sandy, with a little gravel. There was no big rocks. The horses perspired freely and hot dust stirred up by their feet stuck to their wet hide making muddy streaks around the leather harness. He decided that they had worked enough for that day and kicked the lift pedal that used the mechanical force of the McCormick sulky plow to lift the plowshare from the earth. When the plow was up, he turned the team and headed for home.

            The heat of the stove almost unbearable, Mrs. Burnett had made only enough fire in it to fry some potatoes and warm up the left over chops from breakfast. The rest of the meal was fresh vegetables from the little kitchen garden that she worked so hard to make produce. Mr. Burnett seldom helped in it, usually just helping her with the spring cultivation and hauling fertilizer from the corral. He did grow an acre of potatoes that they used for their winter storage. She set about putting out the plates, knives and forks on the square table that was situated on the cool side of the house. Mrs. Burnett made a trip outside to the little spring box that Mr. Burnett had dug out in the shade of the north side of the house. He had directed the small stream of water that had been brought down the hill in a ditch dug by a horse drawn plow and cleaned up with a shovel. It fed the spring box and the watering trough for the animals around the home place and she irrigated her kitchen garden with it. They had dug a shallow well in the yard for their drinking water.

Chapter Two

            Carl Schwartz, Jr. was big, 25 years old and built heavy. He looked like a man but he was still a boy in his mind. Carl, his father called him JR because of the Jr. that his Ma had tacked on, was full grown and thick. Thick in body and in mind. He looked just like his Pappy, but Pappy was old and smart. Carl Schwartz Sr. said he was smarter than JR so that made it so. It must have been true because when JR was hungry, Pappy brought food, and when his boots wore out, Pappy brought him some new ones. Well, new to him anyway. JR could tell that somebody else had worn them from the rancid sock smell. He didn’t worry too much where they came from, just so they fit and and he couldn’t feel the rocks through the soles.  Pappy took care of JR.

            He said it was his bounden duty ‘cause he had promised JR’s Ma that he would. She was real sick when Carl Sr. made the promise. Ma had died, JR guessed that was true because they had put her in a hole and stuck a cross made from some crooked sticks in the soft earth after she was covered. A preacher came and said some words about Jesus and how Ma was just sleeping until the morning of the ‘rez-r-wreck-shun.

            This had caused a big to-do when JR started crying and wailing, saying, “If she is just sleeping, then wake her up! I want my Ma!” Over and over again. Pappy had said a cuss word, then gave the preacher a dollar, a paper one, not silver, and then he grabbed JR and shook him until he stopped weeping.

            “JR” he said, “your Ma is dead and she ain’t gonna wake up. That damned preacher shouldn’t have said that!” Then lower, he mumbled, “At least he said the right words over your Ma and he ain’t one of them damned Mormons hereabout!”  

            They wandered a bit after that. One boomtown or mining camp after another. They would stay until something happened that would make Pappy curse, then sigh; every time he would say, “JR pack up your kit and kaboodle and let’s mosey.”

            One time, he had whined for an hour about being hungry, so Pappy told him to go find something to eat. So JR did. Down the road a piece, Old Lady Jones had a flock of fat hens that were nearly tame. Whenever anyone walked by the house the chickens gathered at you feet looking for a handout. JR was getting angry at trying to wade through the flock so he raised his foot, ready to kick them over the roof an idea flashed through that thick head.

            “Hungry…food…chicken…food…hungry!” Instead of booting the feathered annoyances out of the way he lowered is foot and bent down to grab the first begging  chicken that he could reach. By the head. He lifted it up squawking crazily. He gave the whole bird a twirl around his meaty paw, separating several vertebrae and severing its spinal cord. Amazingly, to JR, the squawking stopped abruptly to be replaced by a frenzied flapping of its wings. JR watched curiously. So did the living hens. A horrible screeching came from the house where Old Lady Jones lived and the door was flung open by a bellowing woman.

            She didn’t stop hollering until she came to a stop face to face with JR. He looked dumbly back at her. The noise brought Old Man Jones from the back shed where he had been sampling Booter’s latest try at brewing beer. Alarmed at all the noise he imagined that a stinking coyote had gotten into the old woman’s chickens. So he grabbed a long handled shovel to bash it in the head.

            When he turned the corner of the house, he saw that big thick kid of Schwartz’s standing in the road with a limp chicken in his hand and the old woman dancing in outrage and shrieking curses at the poor dummy. JR caught the motion of Old Man Jones running towards him with a raised shovel in his hands and for once his brain worked fast enough to realize that he had better run on home. 

            Home was a shack on the edge of the mining camp about a hundred yards away. When he thundered into the dooryard, Carl Sr. looked up to see his frightened thick son running towards him holding a dead flopping chicken in his big beefy hand and realized at once the source of his son’s fear. “Go inside and shut the door JR.” Pappy told him, “And don’t come out unless I say!” JR usually did what Pappy said to do. Fifteen minutes later, Old Man Jones and the town Marshal walked into the dooryard and started yelling at Pappy. They pointed at the shack and yelled some more, but Pappy just shook his head. Then they left walking back the way they came, Old Man Jones turned and pointed his finger at Pappy and yelled at him to “do something about it!”  Pappy just shook his head again and watched them walk away.

            When they were gone, he called JR out and pointed at the dead chicken that his thick son was still holding by its broken neck. “Pick the feathers of that bird and pull its guts out, then pack up your kit and kaboodle and let’s mosey some.”

More of Lord, Lily shows off!

ACT 7

            Lily had last of their belongings packed and her tears were dry when Lord went back into the room.  Her eyes were reddened from the crying but there was a determined set to her jaw that hadn’t been there earlier.

            “Let’s go.” She said flatly and carried her stuff out to the pickup.  Lord picked up his bundle and the guitar and followed her out. They climbed into the truck after loading their stuff into the bed and drove out of the motor court. Lily saluted the nosy motel clerk with a raised single finger as they passed the office. Lord chuckled, but he didn’t want anymore trouble so he told her, “Hey, easy there, we don’t want the ‘bird’ police chasing us down. We’re good.  Let’s drive for a while and find somewhere to eat later.”

            Lily gave him a dirty look, but she nodded in agreement. They hit the highway headed north. Lily took in the scenery on both sides of the road. She had never been this way before. The desert gave way gradually to taller brush and more grasses and the land began to rise.  Lord didn’t gawk too much as the truck wandered a bit and he had to concentrate on keeping it between the lines. He did let his mind wander back to Lily’s situation and his experience along the same lines.

            Slick drank so much and so often that if he and Charley timed it right they didn’t have to see much of the son of a bitch. Mom didn’t have that luxury. Lord thought that she diverted his attention whenever she could so that her boys didn’t get in his way and suffer for it.  Reflecting on it now, Lord wondered why she put up with Slick. If Lily met Mom now and then I explained my experiences with a violent step-dad and his abuse of her, Lily would have a hard time believing it.  Mom had regained her dignity and strength but it had taken a lot to get her there.

            Lord had run afoul of the sheriff one afternoon. He was wandering through the drug store, fingering the candy, touching the sunglasses, just generally acting like he was casing the joint for a shoplifting run. Old man Jones had spoken to him twice about looking and not touching but Lord ignored him.  He didn’t ignore Lord, he called the Sheriff’s Office for some help.  Unfortunately for Lord, Sheriff Olsen answered the phone. He came right over. Sheriff Olsen was a big, blonde, blue-eyed, not-so-dumb second generation Swede.  He had hands as big as a catcher’s mitt and the biceps to lift anything that they grabbed a-hold of. That day they grabbed a hold of him.

            “Boy, I need to talk to you.  Mr. Jones can I use your office?” the sheriff dragged/led him back into the office when Mr. Jones nodded yes. When they got in there the sheriff shut the door with a crash. Lord jumped. “Turn your pockets out, then turn around.” he barked. “Put your hands above your head.” Lord did what he was told. His legs began to shake as the implications of this getting back to Mom, and the beating that Slick would give him if he heard of it. The sheriff watched as Lord did as he was told and then stepped up behind him, pinched his hands together and stretched him up so that he was on his tiptoes, and then patted him down, carefully not touching any private areas.

            “Now, tell me why you were trying to steal Mr. Jones’ merchandise. He told me that he asked you not to touch and you disobeyed him. Twice. What do you think you were doing?”

            “I was just wishing I had money to buy something, so I was pretending to be shopping!” Lord’s emotions finally got the best of him, he broke down and cried. The sheriff let him go until he stopped and dried the tears and wiped his nose on his forearm before he said, “Tell me what’s going on at home.” And Lord did, everything, except about Slick’s violence.

            The encounter with the deputy had distracted them from their hunger and so Lord had just driven. Lily had been silent for about an hour then broke the quiet, “I got to pee, can you find a restroom? And hurry please.”

            Lord jumped, startled out of his dreaming. He chuckled nervously. “You spooked me. I was thinking of something else.”  He looked over at her, her hands were holding her pregnant belly and she grimaced, like she was in pain. “Are you all right?” Lord was suddenly serious, he hoped it wasn’t the baby’s birthday.  What did he know about that?

            “The little beggar is kicking like a mule, I am trying not to wet myself, so hurry! Lily was rubbing her stomach trying to calm the baby down.  “HURRY!”

            Lord was desperately looking for signs of a rest area or truck stop but all he could see was greasewood and cholla . He decided that the brush would have to do. He slowed the truck and pulled off on the shoulder and stopped.

            Lily looked over at him with a question on her face. “What?” she asked.

            “The bushes will have to do, there isn’t anything in sight. I won’t look.” Lord grinned, after he turned his head. She was going to be lucky if she hurried, the traffic was pretty thin today.

            Lily’s lips pursed in a pout, but she knew that she had no choice. She decided that rather than wandering out in the spiny brush, she would stay close and lean against the side of the truck.  Looking both ways for oncoming cars and seeing nothing but empty road, she undid her jeans and squatted.  Relief was instantaneous, the pressure of her bladder and the baby kicking it like a football had been nearly unbearable. Just as she was about to stand up and pull her pants up, a semi-truck crested the little hill behind them with a roar. Scrambling, stumbling, she struggled with the reluctant jeans. Lord watched the trucker in his side mirror, the driver’s eyes widened as he took in the scene of the skinny pregnant girl struggling with her pants that were down to her knees. Lord saw his left arm raise as he grasped the string that controlled his air horn. “WWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! The horn wailed in appreciation of Lily’s dancing try at covering her bare behind.

            Lily cursed.

            Lord’s ears burned.

            The truck passed with a couple of tributary toots as it sped on its way.

            Finally clothed, Lily climbed back in the pickup grumbling all of the way. “Let’s go. I’m hungry, aren’t you?” she changed the subject.  When she didn’t get a response from Lord, she poked him in the arm. “Let’s go!”

            He put the truck in gear and let the clutch out, checking for traffic in the side mirror. “Toot Toot” Lord couldn’t resist the joke. He broke out laughing as the truck started to accelerate down the road. He chanced a look at Lily, she was smiling broadly. For some reason Lord thought this was hilarious and he laughed harder, nearly missing his shift to a higher gear.  Lily let loose and laughed with him.