Honour Among Thieves by Robin Wrigley, Coffee

                                                         

The first sense that came in to play when I awoke from what felt like a drug-induced coma was that of smell. The dreadful odour that immediately signifies the presence of unwashed, human flesh. It has an unmistakable stench. I leaned over and blindly retched. It was that dry retch that produces nothing beyond bringing the taste that belonged in my stomach into my mouth. As my eyes became accustomed to the light and a state of semi-consciousness it was clear that the space next to me was, fortunately, free of anybody. However, I was not alone in this fetid cell – and the smell was not just me. I counted seven other figures at random intervals around the walls as my eyes adjusted to the light. Now, I started to recollect to my best ability just how I became to be in this shit-state. It wasn’t easy or quick. First, I looked at my watch. That wasn’t helpful as all that was there was a band of pale skin. This meant I was unable to calculate how much of my life was currently missing. ‘Anyone speak English in here? Please,’ I announced to the room. It took several moments for a reply to answer back in what I took to be a Dutch accent.

‘Yes, I do. What’s your problem?’ It wasn’t obvious which of the seven owned the voice. ‘Any idea what day it is?’ ‘Yep,’ he replied. ‘Do you mind telling me?’ It was essential to contain my anger that the guy could be such a smart arse but no point in falling out over something so trivial. ‘Sure, it’s Sunday.’ ‘Any idea of the date?’ ‘Jesus, you’re more fucked-up than me man. It’s the 24th, June that is, 1976 to be precise.’ ‘Thanks.’ With this important information I was able to get the cogs in my brain to turn and endeavour to calculate and understand just how I managed to be in this current situation. Friday, I had caught the first bus leaving from Peshawar bus station for the Afghanistan border on my way to Kabul and eventually England. Rummaging through my pockets for scraps of evidence my worst fears were realised. My watch wasn’t all I had been stripped of. My pockets were bare, not even my bus ticket but most importantly, my passport. But, from wiggling my toes inside my boots I was pretty sure my money was intact, so I wasn’t exactly destitute and possibly able to buy my way out of the next sticky situation and perhaps even this one. ‘Do you know where we are?’

‘Jalalabad, or close to it,’ the Dutchman replied. ‘Did you take one of those pick-up taxis at the border that stopped at that big truck-stop?’ That was it. ‘Yes – or at least I think so.’ ‘Well, Englishman, join the club. You’re up the Khyber but not very far!’ ‘Thanks. How long have you been in here?’ ‘Since yesterday, so less than you.’ ‘That’s some slight relief for me, I suppose.’ Just at that moment my attention turned to the door, it was obviously the sound of it being unlocked with crude and unoiled mechanisms resisting the turning of a, presumably, large key. As the lock eventually gave and the door swung open, light flooded into the room making it impossible to see the jailer clearly. However, I was able to feel him as he kicked me rather hard in my right upper thigh and ordered me to get up in broken English, barely understandable, then turned and more clearly growled, ‘Come.’ Holding the wall, I managed to get to my feet and stagger after him as best as I was able. My head started into another spinning action and my hand on the door frame saved me but only just as I had to quickly remove it before I nearly lost my fingers as he slammed the door shut and relocked it. The corridor we entered was constructed of rough-hewn stone, filthy and un-swept and lit with skeleton electric light bulbs.

‘Can I get a drink of water please?’ I asked at his back following him up the cobbled passageway, but he ignored my request. Probably he either didn’t understand me or more likely chose to ignore the request so I went without. It was all I could do to keep up with him even though he was shuffling quite slowly. At the end of the passage, he unlocked another heavy wooden door studded with rough wrought-iron bolts, stood aside to allow me in and locked it again. A few paces after that he opened another door to the right, made of heavy metal and ushered me in and walked away closing the door behind him. The whole scene seemed extremely ominous, and I started to shiver with fear and general alarm. The room was sparsely equipped with a large plain, empty wooden desk and a single chair behind it. It was lit with a single, bare electric light. On the wall was what I took to be a Koranic quotation. Apart from this the room was both empty and intimidating. I leaned back against the rough stone wall and willed myself not to faint. It was all I could do not to slide down the wall and sit on the floor. After what seemed an eternity when in fact it was probably only a few minutes the door opened again and a tall bearded man in a badly creased uniform, presumably a police officer of sorts, of no distinguishing rank, entered. He handed me a glass of water and sat down behind the table.

I attempted to sip it slowly but gave up and gulped it down in one. ‘So, Mr Gregory or would you like me to address you as Michael, or David as your passport describes you? Eh? Which do you prefer as I’m not familiar to your customs. Here in Afghanistan, we always use our father’s name before all others. A matter of respect, something your people would not understand.’ His command of English startled me and for a moment my initial fears subsided slightly. ‘As you like sir, Michael would be fine. But as you like.’ ‘You are the luckiest traveller to pass through this town although I doubt you realise that fact. You see, I have been following a gang of infidels who operate in the rest-stop you chose to seek food in on the road from Pakistan for several weeks now. Unlike the rest of the prisoners in the cell you have been lying in for the past few days. You didn’t knowingly take the drugs that caused your unconsciousness. The bandits arranged for it to be put in your tea. My men stepped in and arrested them before they had a chance to strip you of your possessions and throw you into the road as they normally would. I was only interested in what they did to you to give me good reason to grab them, as they have kidnapped my brother. Now I have them I will exchange them for his return. If I’m honest I have no interest in the likes of you. So many young people come here looking for drugs, and disappear, but you did not and appear to be a genuine traveller. A rare beast I can tell you.’ This was all too much to take in, in one go. That and the state my head was in. ‘Whatever it was that caused you to be looking over my shoulder I am very appreciative. Can I ask one more thing of you please?’ I did my best to look as humbly grateful as I could. ‘Certainly. I imagine if I have your passport and am I’m going to let you go? Correct?’ ‘Yes, sir on both those accounts a positive answer would be good as well another glass of water please?’ ‘The answer is yes. You never asked about your watch? It will be returned to you. Timex is not a very desirable make, and my sergeant has a better one anyway. I assume your money is still on you. We didn’t search you and the bandits who drugged you didn’t get a chance, luckily for you. The man outside will give you your possessions and another glass of water. You’re free to go Michael.’ He stood, shook my hand, then placed his large powerful hand over his heart, and allowed me to stagger out, still as if in a dream. A bad dream. It took some considerable time and the cold clean Afghanistan air for my befuddled mind to fully appreciate just how lucky I had been that my capture just happened to coincide with this policeman’s search for his brother. My guardian angel had certainly been working overtime.

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About the author

Robin short stories have appeared in CaféLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed.

Family values by Isaac Berlau, red eye

 

            Yesterday, I lied to my father. After the words had left my cracked lips, he observed me. He took account of the way I licked my lips, hoping to add moisture to their flesh. He saw the bead of sweat that was crossing the finish line of a race down my jaw line. He stared deeply into my eyes to see whether or not I would hold his gaze or if I would break away, searching desperately for something that didn’t exist. When saw my eyebrow twitch, he snapped, his hand moving faster than the deafening crack of thunder.

            I began putting the pieces back together after they happened, while my ears were chiming bells, and I was counting the stars dancing around my head. He moved before I could even blink, but now I remember him winding back with his left hand open. The hit came so fast, the tips of his fingers broke the sound barrier. The crisp snap that sounded as his hand swung through the air I will remember for the rest of my life. This was not the first time I tried to lie to my father, nor was it the first time that he struck me.

It was the first time, in a long time, that I had not anticipated the impact. I thought I had him. I believed that he would believe the lie. Is that not the foundation of an effective lie? Is it not true that before I can convince anyone of anything mustn’t I believe it, I mean truly believe it, myself? Maybe I simply wasn’t as convinced of my truth as I thought I had been. Perhaps, on the walk home, in the situations and scenarios I had with myself in my head, I had convinced myself that I truly believed the lie which I was about to feed my father. Perhaps my willingness to believe the lie itself overshadowed the fact that deep in my soul, I didn’t actually, truly believe what I was about to say.

Subconsciously my hand reached for my cheek to check the damage which had been done to my face. I felt a slippery wetness which I initially misidentified as blood. When I pulled my hand away in order to inspect the substance I found there were tears streaming down my face. I was crying. I found the fact I was crying from this interaction to be intriguing. I had been hit much harder than this and had not cried. My nose had been broken, spilling a gooey crimson river down the front of my dress and I had not cried. I had been hit with a closed fist directly above my cheekbone which caused my right eye to be swollen shut for three full days and I had not cried on that occasion either. Last year I broke my ankle jumping off the roof of a two-story building. On that occasion I thought I might cry as I ran down the street, the approaching sounds of sirens a symphony reaching its crescendo. However, I still did not shed a tear, even as the frozen wind whipped my face.

I came to realize the tears were not in response to the pain of the impact. I can deal with pain. I have delt with pain my entire life. Every day is painful; this is not something that would have caused me to cry. Nor it is true that the tears came from the fear of my father laying his hands on me. Maybe at one point in my life I was afraid of him. Surely when I was but a child and I knew nothing about the world—and certainly nothing about my family— I was afraid enough to shed tears of fear. But this is not the case today. I looked up at my father’s face and was further convinced this fear was not the root cause of my tears. I was not afraid of him. I knew he did not act out of hate. I looked at the birds feed that edged the corners of his eyes and stared into the unblinking globes in his head and I realized why I was crying. No, it wasn’t the realization that I had disappointed him. Like pain, I was used to that feeling.

The truth is I was crying because I thought I had won. I thought I had pulled one over on my father. Finally, after all these years of being caught lying and answered with hits, smacks, slaps, and punches, I was convinced that today I was going to get away with the lie. I wanted it so badly to be true that I overstepped and blew up with overconfidence. That overconfidence had been my downfall I was sure of it. I was much too excited and he could see it. He could feel it when I entered the room.

My father never taught me to lie. I had to pick the pieces up as I watched other people. A young man at the convenience store telling the clerk he was only buying one bundle of firewood, only to go outside and load up two bundles as the clerk was busy helping the elderly woman who was next in line count her change. The waitress at Waffle House telling the man at the register they were out of eggs, when she was just too lazy to go to the back of the store and open up a new case. The bartender telling the overly inebriated individual that the drink he was giving him was a double rum and coke when in fact it was just a regular coke.

Lying isn’t just something that you can do haphazardly. It has to be thought out or you will certainly trip over your own lies. Nor can it be overly complicated. If you are asked one too many questions that you don’t know the answer to you lie will quickly fall apart, like tugging at a loose thread on a new dress. For good measure, to make a lie truly believable, sprinkle in a grain of truth. The more truthful a lie sounds, the more someone is likely to believe it. I don’t believe that if you follow these three aspects of lying you will get away with saying anything or that a believable lie cannot leave out one of these elements. However, from my experiences, my observations, these are the foundational tenets of a good lie.

So today I am putting these pieces together. To challenge my father once again to this game of wits. I spent the whole night last night thinking of a lie to mix with truth. Once I settled on something I thought was even remotely believable I spent all day thinking about the infinite possible questions that he could ask me about the lie. Not that he has ever asked me a question. Every single time I have attempted to lie to my father he has done nothing more than look at my face for a brief second before striking me. But as the Boy Scouts say: Always be Prepared. I didn’t have a distraction I could use to keep my father’s attention away from the truthfulness of my lie, but like I said, I think a successful lie can be hatched without every foundational aspect of lying.

When I entered my house, my father greeted me with a soft smile and the same cheery eyes he always did when I got home. I could see the shimmering look on his face, as always, he was genuinely happy to see me. I exchanged pleasantries and for a time we talked about our day. As I was approaching the moment when I would fling my lie, unannounced from my trebuchet, I could feel my knuckles grow white on the arms of my chair. I forced myself to loosen my grip before he noticed! My heart was now pounding out of my chest, and I felt like the protagonist of Edgar Allen Poe’s masterpiece The Tell Tale Heart. My favorite story, I never understood why he caved at the end and spilled the secret he was hiding. Now, though, I could feel the pressure. I had yet begun to sweat, a tell tale sign that someone is lying, but I knew it would surely be soon, I could feel my insides heating up like a pressure cooker on the edge of bursting.

It was time to make my move. With the nimble slyness of a lyrical seamstress, I wove my lie into our conversation and continued to talk. I had fed my father, now it was time to see if he would keep it down, or if he would explode and burst forward striking me like a cobra once more. To my surprise he continued talking about his work for the next few minutes. I chimed in here and there, but with each passing moment I thought it was my time for punishment.

I began to let myself find comfort in the fact that I had finally successfully lied to my father. I wanted to burst out of my skin and scream in his face. I dreamed of dancing on top of him singing my own praises for after years and years I had finally found success with my words, but I didn’t dare. Not enough time had yet passed and if I broke now, the lie would have been worthless, because there is no point in a lie if you reveal the truth moments later.

Suddenly he stopped. His mouth grew small. What had moments before been a chattering father, opening up about his day was now a cold and calculating machine. I could see him studying me. I could tell he was withholding an emotion, but when my father entered this calculating state, he was impossible to read. He stood up and approached me. When my father was seated he gave the impression of being fragile and weak, but when he stood any observer could see this was a lie. He radiated confidence, power, and strength. Now, he was towering over me. I braced for the impact I knew was certain to follow.

“Did you just fucking lie to me?” He asked. Never before had my father acknowledged my attempts at lying to him with anything more than physical violence. I met his gaze. My body grew cold for I was in uncharted waters. I didn’t know what to expect. Should I tell the truth now and accept the beating? Would it be worse than usual? Should I stay silent? No. I was confident. I felt it in my veins. I doubled down.

“No.” He stared at me for another moment longer. Then faster than my eyes could track he was on me. His hands wrapped around my body like the mighty anaconda, and he squeezed. An eruption that would put TNT to shame came from his mouth; laughter. He was hugging me.

“Honey!” he yelled into the other room. “She just lied to me and I had no idea!”

Over my father’s shoulder my mom popped her head into the living room. She reminded me of a meercat the way they keep an eye out for the pack.

“That’s amazing sweetie,” she said to me, “I’m so proud of you.” I thought she might be on the verge of tears and I became exceedingly proud of myself for this monumental achievement. Finally, I allowed myself to bask in my accomplishment and I hugged my father back. After our embrace he looked at me with a newfound appreciation.

“Get your coats ladies, we’re going to get ice cream.”

Ice cream, in our family, was a desert which was reserved for celebrations of the highest importance.

 

Bio:

Isaac Berlau is an attorney in Massachusetts. He lives with two dogs, one leopard gecko, and a handful of fish.

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Shimmer the hinny by Darrell J Wiens, Café Mocha

 

Jackie startled awake when she felt a breath of warm moist air blow across her face and heard a loud snort near her left ear.  Then she felt something soft but heavy nudge her left shoulder.  But the sensations stopped.  Now another snort a little farther away.  What the heck?  She opened her eyes.  Dark all around.  Where am I? she wondered as she shrugged out of grogginess into quickening alarm.  Realization:  she was at the Philips County fair in the horse barn––the warm air, the snorts, and the nudge were all from her small hinny Shimmer.  Guess I fell asleep a few hours ago, Shimmer.  What am I going to do now?  I’m wide awake!

She stood from the pile of straw and touched her phone.  Twenty past midnight.  She reached over and rubbed Shimmer where she liked, up along her mane to between her long ears.  Jackie looked around in the scant light––no sign of anyone, only a few horses now quiet in their stalls.  Shimmer, I’m going out to take a walk and look around, okay? The hinny turned her head to look at her and huffed her permission.

As Jackie emerged from the horse barn she looked up, taking a deep breath.  The air was fresher outside, the sky starry.  The county fair landscape in this town was dimly lit by a thick crescent moon in the Montana night sky.  She struck out cautiously toward the midway, her boots thudding softly on the hardened dirt.  Soon she passed between rows of fair amusements:  guessing game booths, strength and skills games, rifle gallery, a toy shop.  All dark and quiet.  Then she turned toward the carnival area and passed the beckoning venues:  Forbidden Canyon, House of Mirrors, Jurassic Island, and Madam Cortavan’s Cabaret Erotica.  Their garish signs now looked serene but a little frightening in the moonlight.  She came into the carnival area where pathways weaved among the rides, none of which she had been able to take this year.  They seemed to be the same ones she’d ridden in past years, in the same spots too.  She had always liked the Cobra and the Wild Mouse––certainly the scariest––and always the double Ferris Wheel, because she could see most of the whole town from her seat pitching worryingly at the pinnacle.  She secretly wished she had a boyfriend to take in that sight together.  Despite her reverie she felt a little frightened in the pervasive stillness now enveloping the amusements. Everything seemed weirdly surreal.

Jackie stopped short when she heard a soft noise.  It sounded like footsteps though just faint, but when she stopped, the noise stopped.  She took a few more steps and stopped again but heard nothing.  When she reached the Wild Mouse ride a little farther on, she heard the steps again.  She decided to walk on but then turn around quickly to look.  When she did, she caught sight of a movement.  Hard to be sure, but it seemed to be a boy ducking in behind a ticket booth.  ‘Who’s there!’ she shouted.  A slightly sinister echo shadowed her voice.  Cautiously she began to walk toward the booth.  Then a young boy darted out from where he was hiding there.  He ran back toward the Merry-Go-Round.  He ran hard, but Jackie judged him to be young, maybe eight, and she was an athletic country girl fast enough to catch him.  She broke into a run, closed in, and grabbed his collar.  It surprised him enough that he lost his balance and tumbled backward onto a patch of dry grass, breathing hard and kicking.  ‘Let me go you bitch!’

Incensed, Jackie pinned him on his back, then sat astride his chest and held his wrists to the ground.  ‘Just take it easy, kid.  I won’t hurt you if you’ll settle down.’

‘Let me go!  I’ve got a knife and I’ll slice your face into bloody strips!’  She held him to the ground.

‘You might have a pocketknife in your jeans, but I won’t let you up unless you calm down.  Don’t make me hurt you.’  He tried to kick her off with his knees, but that was useless.  Then he spit up into her face.

‘Okay, kid, that’s it!’  She shifted her left knee to his right arm and swept her left hand quickly to grab his left arm with both of hers; then she twisted his forearm back until it hurt just enough...

‘Ow!’ the boy screamed into the night air.  ‘Let me go bitch!’  Jackie’s eyes widened and she twisted harder.  Finally, he relented and went limp.  She eased the pressure.

‘You’ve got a foul mouth for a little twerp––you will apologize right now!’  She resumed the pressure on the arm.

‘Okay, okay...damn it, I’m sorry.  SORRY!’  She let his arm go and stood over him.  He reached toward his pocket, but she quickly pinned his wrist with her boot.  Then she looked down at him sternly and gradually lifted her foot away.  She saw tension leave his body.  His breathing slowed and tears flooded his eyes.  He lay defeated.  After a momentary pause she reached down, took his hand, and pulled him to his feet.  He stood looking down, rubbing his left arm.

‘You must be about eight, right?  What’s your name and what are you doing here in the middle of the night?  My name is Jackie.’

‘Name is Jamie Duke’ he mumbled.  ‘I got lost this afternoon from my big brother.  And if he shows up looking for me, I’ll have him beat the snot out of you!  He’s fourteen.’

‘Well I’m fifteen and I can probably handle him.’

‘I think he just wanted to be with his buddy Amos when we ran into him waiting to get on the Wild Mouse.  I don’t think you could handle two guys.’

‘Maybe not.  He doesn’t sound like a very nice brother going off and leaving you here.  Can’t believe he hasn’t come back looking for you.’  She paused fixing him with her eyes.  Her voice softened.  ‘Have you eaten anything since he left you?’

‘Well, no, I spent all my money on the Wild Mouse...rode it three times.’  He wiped his eyes and looked away.  ‘I love that ride.  I didn’t even want to go home––this is my ultimate dream world!  I’m gonna ride it again as soon as it opens in the morning––I swiped a dozen tickets from that booth.’  Jamie looked up at her, his face now more innocent.  ‘I am damned hungry though.’  He was defiant but calmer.

Jackie’s angry face melted into a look of sympathy.  ‘Listen here, Jamie.  You and me are gonna walk over to the horse barn where I’ve stabled my hinny––that’s an animal a lot like a mule––she’s my 4-H project.  I have a couple of sandwiches and a bag of blue corn chips.  So you’ll have something to eat.  Your pocketknife is gonna get locked in my horse barn locker.  Then maybe we’ll try to get some sleep on the straw.  And tomorrow when the rides start up again we’ll go back to the Wild Mouse, and you will turn in those tickets you’ve stolen.  Then we’re gonna call your brother or your parents... or the police if we have to.  You got all that?’  Jamie nodded reluctantly, thinking about his empty stomach.  Jackie turned and reached out for his hand, but Jamie kept his hands down.  They set out on the path she had come.

‘You from around here?’ Jackie asked in a kinder voice.

‘I’m from Havre, but I have an uncle who lives here.  He lets Jake and me stay with him when we come to the fair every year.  He runs the Cattleman’s Bar and Grill on 1^st Street.’

‘Do you have his phone number?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Okay, just askin’.  She paused a moment.  ‘You gonna go to the rodeo they have here tomorrow night?’

‘No... I would, but I don’t have enough money for that stuff.  Guess I’d like to see the bronc riders someday.’

‘I hope you do.  I love it––I kinda root for the horses though.’  She looked up.  ‘Have you ever been in any of these livestock barns?’  She gestured to the row of long barns coming into view.  ‘They’re all free.  You can go into any of them and we’re a friendly bunch, happy to show off our animals.’

‘Kinda stinks around here.’

‘Yeah, but you get used to it.  Here we are, the horse barn.  It’s dark and quiet in here now.  So you just stick with me.’  She reached out her hand again.  He took it nervously.  They walked in slowly.  As they passed the hindside of a large Shire stallion it snorted loudly.  Jamie jumped back, squeezing Jackie’s hand.  ‘It’s all right... he’s just telling us he hears us.  He won’t kick.  They moved on cautiously and came to Jackie’s stall.  Gradually their eyes adjusted to the dim light and Jamie could see the small equine turn its head to look.

‘This is Shimmer.  She’s a hinny––the hybrid you get when you cross a horse stallion and a jenny mare.  If you breed ‘em the other way, you get a mule.  Hinnys are strong, agile, and highly intelligent.  Shimmer’s sire––that is her father––was a flaxen chestnut Connemara stallion.  That’s an Irish pony and he was brown with white feet, mane, and muzzle stripe.  Her mother was a bay donkey; bays are medium-to-light brown.  I named her Shimmer for her coat because it shines in the sunlight.  Hinnies are raised by their donkey mare mothers, so they behave more like a donkey than a horse.  Mule colts are raised by their horse mothers, so they act more like horses.   Shimmer is small, brown with the white markings, and friendly.’  Jackie draped her arm on Shimmer’s shoulders.  ‘She’s the only one here and I thought I’d win a ribbon yesterday in the judging.  But I didn’t.  Could be I didn’t show her well.  I was pretty bummed.  But Shimmer’s just fine...she didn’t care.  Go ahead and rub her between her ears––she loves that.’  She pulled his hand up and placed it.  He couldn’t stop his smile as he scratched, and Shimmer huffed in contentment.

‘She is a friendly one, isn’t she?  Where’s her momma now?’

‘Her momma is Willow and she’s at home on the ranch.  But Shimmer is all grown up now––this is as big as she’ll get.’

‘Ranch?’ Jamie asked as he looked down to the straw and noticed her broad brimmed hat.  ‘Are you a cowgirl then... you have horses and cattle out there?’

‘Yep, Montana cowgirl born and raised, though I’m about an eighth Blackfoot Indian.  An’ we have a herd of Red Angus and nine horses, plus three mules and five donkeys.  My little brother is twelve and him and me, we help take care of all our stock.  I don’t ride broncs, but I can rope and tie a calf pretty good.’

‘Wow, no wonder you took me down and pinned me back there.  Hey, I have a question...  you said a hinny is born from cross breeding a donkey with a horse... how do they... you know, do it... with a big horse and a short little donkey?’

‘Well, you just sit down here on this bed of straw and make yourself comfy.  And give me your pocketknife.  I’m gonna pull out the sandwiches and corn chips so you can get some grub in your belly.  Then we can talk all that over.’

The two sat down on the straw with the food, Shimmer watching as Jamie ate.  They talked into the night, Jamie launching many questions and Jackie providing her best answers.  Eventually he began to yawn and then he leaned back on the straw.  Sleep came quickly.  When he was sound in slumber she brought out a blanket and covered the boy up to his chin.  Then she locked away the pocketknife, found another blanket, and went to sleep on the other side of Shimmer.

 

 

Jackie and Jamie shivered a little standing in the cool Montana morning, first in line at the Wild Mouse ticket booth.  Jamie looked up into the cheerful face of an old man behind the window.  He put his strip of tickets down under the window arc.  ‘I am sorry Mister.  I stole these tickets from your booth last night and I’m giving them back.  I love this ride too much for my own good, and I wanted to ride it as much as possible today.  But I was wrong to take these.  Like I said, I’m sorry.’  He looked the man in the eyes and then averted his gaze to Jackie.  The man looked at him, then at Jackie, then back at Jamie.

            ‘Your big sister here get you straightened out?’

            ‘She ain’t my sister, but you got it about right.  She caught me.  I can’t pay for them, and I did get three rides here yesterday, so that’ll have to be enough until I can get more money.’

            The man looked around them and back along the growing line of customers.  He leaned forward.  ‘Tell you what, kid.  You see that concessions stand over there sellin’ drinks?  If you would go over there and fetch me a cup of coffee, I’ll let you take a ride.’  He slid a five-dollar bill through the window with two tickets.  He winked at Jackie and smiled.  Then he looked back at the boy.  ‘And you bring me the change, okay?’  Jamie’s face broke into a big grin, the first one Jackie had seen.  He looked more like the little boy he was.  He nodded, grabbed the bill with the tickets, and trotted off to fulfill the errand.  After delivering the coffee and change, he reached into his pocket for the pair of tickets and gave one to her, striding toward the ticket-taker in high anticipation.

            Jackie had ridden the Wild Mouse a few times before, and she remembered it as thrilling and scarry.  But she had never ridden it with an eight-year-old boy who, despite his repeats, went wild.  This kid she had come to know as a vulgar and feisty thief, then as a defeated insular ingrate, and then as a curious child with many questions about animals, 4-H, and ranching, had transformed into a wailing cyclone of writhing ecstasy.  The short little car came up to ninety-degree turns at full speed, then zipped around them like a demonic mouse with a cat on its tail.  Jamie screamed through them continuously at the top of his lungs.  When it was over her ears were ringing, and her first steps were unsure from the dizzy feeling in her head.  But Jamie danced and skipped his way out in delirious joy through the gate in the surrounding fence.  He would have skipped right back in line for another ride, had that been an option.

            ‘Jamie,’ came a voice from an obnoxious looking boy. In a maroon hoodie, a pair of earbuds around his neck vibrated visibly as they thumped out a steady drum beat.  His expression was rude, though he had a face that could pass for ruggedly handsome, framed by greasy dark hair.   He stood only an inch taller than Jackie.  ‘Where the hell have you been all night?  You were s’posed to stick behind me an’ Amos yesterday.’

            ‘I tried.  But when you guys went into that cabaret side show they wouldn’t let me in.  So I went back to the Wild Mouse.  You shoulda looked for me.’

            ‘Well, Shitface––ya coulda just waited for us.’  He looked at Jackie.  ‘So who are you?’  His eyes drifted down and up again, taking in her form.

            ‘Jackie.  I found your little brother hiding here in the night, upset and hungry.  I took him to the horse barn where I’m staying with my 4-H animal, and I got out something for him to eat and a place to sleep. 

            ‘So what the hell were you doing here in the night?’  A creepy smile slowly curled his lips.

‘Taking a walk after I slept a while.  My animal woke me up just after midnight.’  AND, I was taking care of a lost boy who was supposed to be your responsibility, right?’

            ‘I ain’t gettin’ paid to babysit.  The little dork took off when he was s’posed to wait.  What can I say?’  He looked her over again.  ‘Looks to me like he did okay––found himself a sweetie big sister to board him––even if she’s a hot cowgirl with a sassy attitude.’  His face traded into to a creepy grin.

            Jackie pushed her hat back from her brow a little and sighed.  She turned to kid brother.  ‘Jamie, you have your uncle’s phone number, don’t you?’  The boy looked at her and nodded.  ‘Let’s go back to Shimmer.   Seems like she’ll be happier to see you than your brother is.  She’ll even let you ride her around some.  Then you can help me get her ready to load up...and we’ll get some lunch too.  We’ll call your uncle when my dad comes to pick up me and Shimmer, and then we can drop you off at his bar and grill.’

            Jamie looked at his brother and considered for a moment.  Then he reached up to take Jackie’s hand and the two started off toward the livestock barns.  ‘Could you show me how I can join a 4-H club before we leave?  By the way, what do the four H’s stand for again?’

            Jackie stopped.  She turned back to glare at the feckless brother.  ‘Sure Jamie, and that would be Head, Heart, Hands, and Health,’ she said.  And they walked away.

 

Bio:

Darrell Wiens is Professor Emeritus of Biology in Iowa, now living in Kansas City. He creates stories involving believable characters facing various issues. An award-winning teacher and mentor, he is author of 27 scientific papers and 53 presentations with students from his laboratory. He has eleven published short stories.

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yra - Bristol Poetry Festival (17th - 26th April 2026)

 

ri 17 Apr 2026 to Sun 26 Apr 2026 Lyra Festival is back in Bristol this April with a full 10-day programme of readings, open mics, slams, workshops, walking tours, family events + more. Headliners include Musa Okwonga, Shara McCallum, Michael Rosen, Travis Alabanza, plus many more writers, performers and brand new poetry collections, and theatre shows from Joelle Taylor and Inua Ellams. Events can be attended both in-person and via live stream, and there are Zoom Webinar workshops with Nikita Gill and Sasha Debevec-McKenney. Find out more and book your tickets here.   Additional Information: Location: Bristol/Livestream Region(s): South West England

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In The Name of by N. T. Chambers, bloody mary

 “Oh come on… you’re making that up…no guy is really named Rhett!”

 

 

     Without saying a word, he took his driver’s license out of his wallet and handed it to the very cute

 

redhead dressed in a Cat Woman’s outfit he’d just started talking to at his friend’s Halloween party.

 

Smiling at his photo, name and physical description, while grinning and shaking her head from side to

 

side, she bowed slightly while beating her chest and commented, “mea culpa, mea culpa,” as she handed

 

it back to him. She commented he looked different with a pitchfork and horns at the party

 

 

     “Ok, Rhett Doyle, what brings you here tonight? On the prowl, or just wanting to ‘Party ‘til you

 

 puke?’”

 

 

     “Well, Cathy…whose last name I’ve never been given,” he said with one arched eyebrow, “I’m just

 

out and about trying to burn off my millennial angst. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do on weekends?”

 

 

“It’s Mellotti, and I suppose that’s the plan for a lot of the folks here. Me, I’m just here to people

 

watch and be wingman for a friend out there dancing who has a hard time sitting still when music’s

 

playing.”

 

“Mellotti, huh? Well, that explains the ‘mea culpa.’ Italian last name, probably Catholic…not many

 

folks know Latin these days. Am I right about that?” She shrugged her shoulders while sipping a Sprite.

 

 

     “Half right. My dad’s Italian, my mom’s German – it made for some interesting holiday food choices.”

 

 

“No doubt.” He took a swig from his beer and thought about what he wanted to say next. She watched

 

his uncertainty and uneasiness and smiled to herself.

 

 

     “So, Cathy, you don’t dance, or are you just not one to mingle with the masses? Inquiring minds

 

wanna’ know.” The smiles were simultaneous this time.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                

 

     “Hey, what do you mean,” she feigned punching him on the arm, “I’m mingling now, aren’t I?”

 

 

     “Okay, I suppose so, but I was surprised you were just sitting here all by yourself when I came

 

over. You’re an attractive woman and usually guys will …well, I’m sure you know what I mean….”

 

 

     “Oh, you mean, hit on me? Kind of like you just did?” She laughed and reassured him by grabbing

 

his arm. He could feel his ears getting exceedingly hot the longer she looked his way. He had to turn his

 

head. Priest or not, he was first and foremost a male and she was extremely easy on the eyes.

 

 

     “It’s all right, Rhett, really. You’re the first guy I felt like talking to tonight. Actually, you’re the

 

first guy I’ve felt like talking to in a pretty long time. My friends keep telling me I have this knack for

 

sending out ‘Fuck-off’ vibes in social situations.” He stiffened a bit at her statement. “Oh my God,

 

you’re blushing! Haven’t you ever heard a female say that before?”

 

 

     He was and he hadn’t. It was at that moment he should have told her he was a priest; he chose not to.

 

 

     “Well, let’s just say my experience has been a bit limited in that area, but I get it, I do. Sometimes

 

you just want to be left alone and cool out a bit.”

 

 

     “Wow,” she joked with him, “what century are you from – that’s a golden oldie.”

 

 

     “Yeah, I know, I grew up surrounded by a bunch of old hippies. We kids used to call them ‘hippos’

 

because they never left the 60s and 70s. Guess it rubbed off on me more than I realize.”

 

 

     “I’m betting there are several other worse ways to grow up than yours. At least there was probably

 

some really good weed in those parts, huh?”

 

 

     “Actually, no. My folks and their friends lived in a small commune in eastern Colorado. They settled

 

there because they couldn’t afford the land prices anywhere near Boulder or Estes Park. They worked

 

any odd job they could find to help keep things going. That didn’t leave much time for anything 'recreational' especially drugs. They weren’t very good at farming, so things went belly up near the the year mark. It was sad, really, since they were all good friends and very sweet, moral folks who just wanted

 

to live quiet, peaceful lives.”

 

 

     “So how did you wind up in Chicago?  It’s a long way from Colorado and an even longer way from

 

any mountains.”

 

 

     “If you really want to hear all this, I’ll tell you – on one condition.”

 

 

     She looked at him a bit suspiciously. “And that condition would be ….?”

 

 

     “You have to tell me your story, too.” She smiled as she nodded and simply said, “Deal.”

 

 

     “Both my folks had relatives here in Chicago. In college my dad had driven a bus, shuttling  

 

students around campus. When we arrived here, he went down to the Merchandise Mart and applied

 

at the CTA. He had previous experience putting up with passengers and driving similar vehicles, so he

 

was an easy hire. My mom had a friend at CPD who got her a job as a crossing guard. Not too long

 

after that, with all the sudden economic stability, for the first time in a long time, they got religion. Go

 

figure. Before I knew it, I was sent to an all-boys Catholic school and my idyllic early years were in

 

the rear-view mirror.”

 

 

     Grabbing his arm, she told him, giggling, “Poor baby, I’m so sorry. I feel your pain.”

 

 

     Her comment surprised him and it must have shown on his face. Cathy tried to shift gears by

 

saying, “I mean, sure, you were probably socially retarded, but I’m guessing your S.A.T. scores were

 

through the roof.” That cracked him up and he nearly spewed the slug of Heineken he had just

 

swallowed.

 

 

     “Actually, it wasn’t all that terrible – we had ‘visitation’ right with the all-girl Catholic high school                                                                                                                                            

 

and nature has a way of being …. well, nature.” That remark brightened her smile and they clinked

 

their drinks together in a mock toast.

 

 

     “Okay, how about you. Where are your skeletons hanging?” She smiled and took a deep breath.

 

 

     “I grew up in the suburbs, southwest of the city, closer to Joliet than Chicago. Mom, dad, a dog and

 

two younger brothers. Family life was more like Malcolm in the Middle than Leave it to Beaver.

 

 

     “Sounds perfectly normal to me.”

 

 

     “But wait, there’s more!” Rhett laughed at her allusion to an old local television commercial.

 

 

     “I did ok for grades, hung out with all the right cliques in school – became the newspaper editor

 

and cheerleader; dated my share of asshole jocks … actually, too many asshole jocks. They seemed

 

to like redheads a lot and I seemed to like their attention – also, a lot.”

 

 

     She stopped, took a deeper breath than normal, and then continued.

 

 

      “It was the extended family members who were a problem, my hormone-crazy cousins. They were

 

a big problem. Guy cousins, who, even after we were in high school, wanted to keep playing doctor with

 

me. These guys were pretty much thugs. At only 5’1”, there wasn’t much I could do to stop them.

 

Eventually, my semi-pro football player uncle, their father, found out and stopped them. Unfortunately,

 

he wanted to become Mister Humbert to my Lolita. He figured I ‘owed’ him. I knew if I told my dad,

 

he’d wind up in prison for killing my uncle. So, I kept quiet and prayed for senior year to end – quickly.”

 

 

 

     She stopped talking for a few seconds. Taking a quietly spasmic breath, she sighed so deeply it seemed to shake her entire body before resuming her story.

 

“A week after graduation, I was looking for a job in Carbondale, Illinois, waiting that fall at S.I.U. I never came back home once during the four years I was down there. During my freshman year, I made a life-changing decision. I was done with men, completely and forever.”

     Rhett swallowed hard at her last statement. He understood the decision she had made, but it left

 

him feeling sad. He chalked up that sentiment both to his Irish upbringing and his Catholic sensibilities.

 

After recognizing the root of his emotional response, he mindfully buried it without a second thought as

 

she continued.

 

 

     “It took me a while to explore the idea of dating women – it was a completely new territory. Sure,

 

there were some poor choices at first, but that happens to anybody in that sort of situation. Overall,

 

though, I found that, at least for me, women were gentler in the way they spoke, the way they touched

 

and the way they looked at life in general. I was no longer an object, I was a person – and that’s what

 

made life livable again for me. They also seemed to be a whole lot more honest”

 

 

     Throughout her monologue, Rhett’s eyes grew bigger with each revelation while his mouth kept

 

opening wider in disbelief. Given his original assumption about this attractive, petite, bright young

 

woman, he found himself wholly surprised by all of it. In his head, the phrase that kept coming to him

 

was, How typically male of me! When she finished speaking, there was a pronounced silence – as if no

 

one else was in the apartment – no voices, no music, no noise – just basic, muted shock. He studied the

 

pain and sadness still locked in her face – especially behind her eyes. It was the pain of lost time, lost

 

possibilities and, more than anything else, lost innocence. He noticed how her narrative seemed to have

 

diminished her body as well. She was looking at the floor when he walked over to her, gently touching

 

the left side of her face.

 

 

     “Cathy …. I’m …. I’m so sorry you had to go through any of that … nobody should ever have to ….”

 

 

     She shed the tiniest of tears.

                                                                                                                                                                                    

 

     “I don’t know why I told you any of that … I don’t have a clue. I’ve never confessed that to anyone

 

before …. my friends, roommates …. certainly not my family …. you’re just so comfortable – so easy

 

to talk to.” She took another deep breath. “I’m sorry …I’m becoming a blubberer and I hate people

 

who blubber…”

 

 

     Trying to lighten things up a bit, he quipped, “Blubberer? There’s one I haven’t heard in a while.”

 

 

     They gave each other a weak smile and he found himself holding her hand trying to reassure her.

 

 

     “Wow, and I thought my commune story was a load to handle, but sheesh, Cathy, truly, I’m in awe

 

of your resilience and strength. Whether you realize it or not, you’re a force of nature, kiddo. I probably

 

should have told you this upfront, but you should know I’m ….”  

 

 

     With a break in the music people started drifting around the apartment in search of friends and

 

drinks. Looking through the crowd, Rhett recognized a girl with waist-length brunette hair whom he

 

had met about six months earlier in a professional setting. She was dressed as an Indian squaw, complete

 

with a feathered headband, and was heading straight towards Cathy and him. Bad timing was the first

 

thought that popped into his mind.

 

 

     The girl, whose name he could not remember at all, had met him at the planned parenthood clinic

 

where he weekly volunteered. She was totally indecisive regarding what to do. She was fairly certain

 

she was at least a month into a pregnancy, and admitted there were a few paternal possibilities, none

 

with whom she was interested in raising a child.

 

 

    By doctrine, Rhett knew the way he was supposed to steer her decision. By instinct, he felt that this

 

person, who already had made some questionable life choices, would most likely make a few more as

 

a mother. He decided to put doctrine on the back burner and allow her to make her own decision. After

 

their third counseling session, she never returned.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                     

 

 

     Working her way through the other costumed guests, the girl came closer. Seeing her, Cathy smiled

 

broadly and greeted her friend with a longish hug.

 

 

     “Ah, the ‘dancing queen’ has returned! Janis, I want to introduce you to a new friend, Rhett Doyle.

 

Rhett, will you please meet my significant other of three months, Janis.”

 

 Not missing a beat, Janis extended her hand and greeted him with the sweetest of smiles. At the same

 time, her eyes were looking at him plaintively.

 

Well, he thought, this should be interesting.

 

Bio:

N.T. Chambers, former teacher and therapist, writes about the emotions, events, and experiences intrinsic to the huma condition. The author has had over 60 poems, short stories, and essays published in more than 50 different venues.

 

   

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)