BEST FRIENDS

The last sparse leaves of autumn had been swept away by the winds.  Winter had arrived and snow was falling lightly.  However, it was no longer a bright white; it was light-grey in colour and looked like ashes floating down from the sky.  Wars and anarchy had finally taken its devastating toll; the extreme weather conditions that followed wiping out all but the hardiest of men and creatures all over the world.  In the low rolling mountains of what used to be known as the Canadian Maritimes existed such a man and his adopted family, which consisted of a much younger woman and two small orphan boys.  He had deliberately destroyed his once beautiful home when the poisonous winds from the south drifted across the mountains and through the valleys; his whole family dying before his very eyes.  He had no idea why he was spared and at the time had wished that he'd died with them.  But survival is the backbone of our very being and like it or not, no matter how destitute life may appear, we cling to it with all our remaining tenacity and strength.  After burning his home, his dead wife and children all laid comfortably together on the living room floor, he constructed a small shack not too far from his house near a stream amongst what remained of a once vibrant forest.  He knew, since most everything had been destroyed in the nuclear catastrophic event of three years earlier, whatever survivors remained were continually on the prowl for food - cannibalism was not unheard of.

The man was middle-aged, almost 47 years old but he looked like 60 or older - his face was thin, coursed with deep wrinkles, his eyes were deep-set and red-rimmed and he had very little hair remaining.  Although he stood 6' tall, as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, because of his stooped posture, he now stood about 5'8".  The young woman was only 18 years of age and she too looked much older and slightly stooped but it was because she was pregnant; she was carrying the man's child.  The two boys were not actual brothers, nor were they related to the pregnant woman; they were all that remained of several families who had once been the man's neighbours.  There were a few other small groups of people living in the not too distant vicinity.  However, since food was very scarce, they too were struggling to survive.

The man had several weapons, which consisted of a shotgun, two hunting rifles, a .22 and a pistol he had found on the body of a dead soldier.  He still had plenty of ammunition since there was very little game to be found and although he'd had several close encounters with ruthless marauders, he'd never been forced to defend himself.

A friend, a man of similar age, someone he'd grown up and gone to school with and shared many life-long experiences, had also survived.  He lived about 2 miles away in a similar small shack, but with an older woman and no kids.  They would sometimes get together, especially if one of them had miraculously bagged a deer; although even a coyote or a fox was considered tasty.  Recently, the man had noticed a slight change in his friend.  He couldn't put a finger on the problem, just intuitively knew something wasn't quite right, especially when he glimpsed him looking at his pregnant woman in somewhat of a lecherous fashion.

To be continued - cheers - eh!

CLEO ON THE NILE

CLEO on the NILE - in progress

Close up of Cleo's pet fish Julius

Close up of the barge's stork - Egypt

There is still a long way to go before Cleo on the Nile is finished.  It seems to be taking as long as a one-armed Egyptian building a pyramid for a pharoh - kinda difficult picking up those huge, heavy stones and piling them up on his shoulders - let alone carrying them.  Ramona the "belly-dancer", who posed for my Cleopatra, will most likely be an old woman with about 6 grandchildren bouncing on her lap by the time it's completed.  But I'm enjoying it - watching each brush stroke bringing the painting to life is somewhat rewarding - an accomplishment of sorts.     

A CYNIC; A NEGATIVE; NOT PART OF SOCIETY - YOU BE THE JUDGE

I wouldn’t say that I am a result, but I was born during WWII.  Fortunately for me, I was a long, long way from zinging bullets, stabbing bayonets and exploding bombs, unlike thousands of other babies who were born in the middle of that fiery holocaust.  And, as I grew older unscathed by the horrendous violence of the war; the 50’s – a boyish carefree era; the 60’s – a young man’s fuzzy-drug, peace and love; all that bullshit era; the 70’s – trying to achieve the American dream (and I’m a fucking Canadian – how stupid was I); the 80’s – much the same abandon; still trying to get rich so I could sit on my ass by a pool sipping margaritas in some third world country when I retired – a high interest and lose-your-ass era; the 90’s – still with my head stuck so far up my ass I could hardly breathe era; and finally, the year 2000 and beyond – older and no wiser – the signs, omens of chaotic and utter destruction heading my way (no, not just my way; everyone’s way) will make all the World Wars and every war that has ever occurred, since man first slunk out of the mire and stood on two feet, look like a Halloween fireworks display.  My God!  If there is a God and a real heaven, one that’s supposed to be this huge beautiful place of perfection, I would think that it’s shrunk down to the size of a one-room shack by now – only a handful of people really belonging to such a place as magnificent as God’s heaven have truly existed.  I’m not an evil man by any means but I know His door is slammed shut in my face and I don’t blame Him.  Like an unseen poisonous gas, my silent ignorance like so many others has helped promote what this Earth has become today.

Many people have called me “negative”; a “cynic”; I “don’t count” since “I’m not part of society” and they may be right to a certain degree.  But I don’t need to be hit on the head with 10lb. sledge hammer to know that I’ll feel pain.  The reality is: as I sit dreaming up short stories and splashing paint across a canvas; the oceans are dying; the creatures of the earth are permanently disappearing; the forests are being laid bare; the lakes, streams and rivers are polluted and the very air I breathe is poisonous. 

I’m a very stupid man that’s somehow floundered his way through life.  And then again, maybe I’m not so stupid –eh?  I brought my dinghy clear across Canada on top of a 3/4 ton truck to the base of Green Mountain and when the ocean starts lapping around our property, my family and I will paddle to a higher mountain.  Strange; Mount Ararat (Noah's refuge from the deluge) is not really very high so clinging to Green Mountain may not be such a stupid idea as one may think; perhaps it will be the next salvation, the next place of refuge once the Earth is swallowed up again by the rapidly rising seas - and hey, since all the animals are rapidly vanishing, I can probably build a small raft to tie behind the dinghy for the ones that manage to survive.

It’s hard to believe that the world leaders have shoved the Earth’s dilemma so far up their asses; no wonder their views are so constipated and we’ve lost faith in them – they’re so full of shit, I’m surprised they don’t self-implode with the amount of methane they’ve got stored away in their tight-ass anal canals.

I’m not saying I could do a better job than our ILLUSTRIOUS  leaders and I’m not really complaining because I’ve done my part to elect my share of them over the years, even though it’s always felt like a wasted vote; just a vote for big business and futility.  I don’t have any happy answers to all the events that have amalgamated over the centuries and are still being haphazardly welded together as these letters hit the keyboard.  Everything that’s occurred through the centuries has been shaped into an enormous hardened steel ball and it’s been rolling out of control down a very steep incline for a long, long time; its momentum cannot be stopped; not even by a superhero or an overpaid rock star, TV talk-show host or actor; cartoons, singing, adlibs and high-blown egos are only illusions and unfortunately, our world has been erected on columns of fakery with a Jell-O base.

But then what do I know – I’m just a negative, a cynic; not part of society – cheers –eh!

FACEBOOK COMMENTS:  

Sarah S: It is you and you are telling it like you see it ! ;) Be fun to see what if any response you get! 

Len Sherman:  Looking forward to hearing my Blog follower's comments.

THE TARNISHED KNIGHT - Final Exciting Episode

When the young woman arrived at her father's vast estate, she told him about the encounter on the road and her near escape from being defrocked or possibly slain.  Every time she mentioned an exciting highlight her father would remark “My word!”  However, it wasn’t until she mentioned the knight’s name that her father really gasped, “The Tarnished Knight thy say.  It must be he - it’s just as thy described him; he wears a battered suit of armor and rides a black stallion.  He’s a legend known far and wide and like thee said, no one has ever seen his face.  He’s been known to save many a traveler from harm; why it’s even told that he ran into a lodging that was engulfed in flames and saved two small children.  Rich or poor; it’s no concern for him because he’s never asked for even so much as a penny.  It’s odd, whenever someone is in real jeopardy; he seems to appear out of nowhere and vanishes just as fast.  Thy were most fortunate that he rescued you because I fear the four highwaymen you mentioned were none other than Bastard Jack and his thieving, murderous gang.”

After the young woman had related her tale of the knight rescuing her she asked her father, “Is there to be a jousting tournament very soon as the Tarnished Knight spoke of attending one?”

“Did he now?” her father mused.  “Then we must go.  We must meet this  this legendary knight.  Yes indeed – there is a tournament being held in the town of Middlefork within a fortnight.”

The days went by very slowly; the young woman dreaming every night of her gallant brave knight.  In her dreams he removed his helmet but he always turned his head so that she never saw his face.  But even so, his voice was enchanting, as mellow as a hypnotist and just as compelling.  And, although she couldn’t see his face, she felt that he was a handsome man as she rode behind him on his black stallion across the country side, leaping over streams and at times like Pegasus, gliding through the sky and over rainbows.  She was a princess and he was her princely knight.

Since Middlefork was a fair distance away, the young woman and her father left three days before the tournament.  They wanted to arrive early and take in the full event, perhaps even meet the mystery knight before the joust.  Her father got them rooms at the best inn and he, more than she, enjoyed the evening festivities of swilling back mugs of frothy beer and listening to the ribald tales told in the local tavern, which was located just a few buildings down the cobble-stone street from the inn.

At last the big event of the year arrived; knights and their pages could be seen making sure the weapons and horses were up to the challenge.  The mayor and many of his dignitaries had their own special seats but the best seat in the house so to speak belonged to an actual princess; she was going to reward the winning knight a great deal of gold and his own estate.  There was also some special seating arrangements for people who could afford the price and this is where the young woman and her father were sitting.  The town folk and farmers gathered at each end of the tournament field, which was the starting point; the knights on their fiery steeds clashing somewhere near the centre.

Finally, after much anticipation, a long, slim brass horn sounded the beginning of the tournament.  Pages led the colourfully decorated and armored chargers around the field; the knights sitting astride them in their shining armor, their lances held high; banners and ribbons blowing in the summer breeze, were a delight to all the attendants.

“That’s odd,” said the young woman.  I didn’t see the Tarnished Knight; did you?”

Stroking his short beard thoughtfully, her father replied, “Nor I.  Unless…Perhaps he has a special set of armor that he wears for such an esteemed event.”  

The young woman and her father watched as many a knight was carried off the field; the pages retrieving their horses and leading them back to the stables.  The event was nearing an end but still there hadn’t been an announcement of the Tarnished Knight and they were growing more anxious because it didn't look as if he was going to be a participant.  

A hush came over the crowd when it was announced that the final joust would soon begin.  It was the tournament's main event because the two knights jousting would be using real lances and not the wooden ones that just knocked the knights off their horses and for the most part did very little damage.  However, when the final trumpet sounded the beginning of the event, the Tarnished Knight was still no where to be seen. 

The young maiden was so disillusioned at this point after longing to see her knight once again, she barely noticed when the horns blared and the final two knights, their armor shining in the bright sunlight, sharp lances pointing at their opponents; their horses thundering down the grassy field towards one another.   

All of a sudden the spectators gasped in unison when a little boy suddenly darted out between the charging knights.   The young woman could scarce believe her eyes and neither could the crowd when a knight attired in gleaming armour, without any weapons or a shield, riding a big black stallion, suddenly plunged out into the field and raced between the rapidly closing combatants; blocking the boy from harm.  However, although the little boy was saved, one of the lances speared the unknown knight squarely in the chest; penetrating his armor; the other lance, piercing his stallion's heart.

The people in the stands were all wondering which brave knight had given his life on the tournament field but the young maiden sitting with her father knew who he was; the long purple and gold ribbon, which was tied to the helmet, gently waving on the green grass;  was none other than the Tarnished Knight.

THE TARNISHED KNIGHT - Part 2

The leader, suddenly cluing into the impending danger, spun around to meet his adversary but it was much too late.  Skewered like a shish-ka-bob through his chest at the pointy end of a long lance, eyes bulging with intense pain, he looked up at his opponent dressed in a suit of armor.  As the dying robber toppled onto the dry dirt road, his blood seeping through his grimy hands tightly grasping the lance, the knight threw his long-chained mace at the highwayman on the top of the coach where it wrapped instantly around his neck, the spiked ball bashing out whatever brains he had.  The highwayman holding the horse’s reins caught only a glimpse of the knight as he slid his sword out of its scabbard and swung it with all his might, sending the robber’s head flying through the air and then bouncing down the road, tendrils of blood spurting everywhere.  Pulling hard on the black stallion’s reins, his gallant steed came to an instant halt; a huge billow of dust swirling around the two women. The last of the four highwaymen was still inside the coach; his musket drawn and aimed at the women, he coldly said, “Looks like we got what you call a stalemate.”

“I think not,” replied the knight; a knife as sharp and slim as a stiletto seeming to appear out of nowhere, such was its speed, went zinging through the air striking the surprised highwayman right between the eyes, its point slicing its way through skull and brain; killing him instantly.

The women gasped at the sight of so much blood and gore; the older one close to feinting.  The younger and much prettier woman looked up at the knight.  Breathing quite heavily with excitement and in a state of shock; she smiled somewhat coquettishly and said, “I thank thee for coming to our rescue sir knight.  I fear what those dastardly men would have done to us had thou not shown up.  My father will be very pleased indeed when he learns of thy bravery and I’m sure he’ll reward thee grandly if thou would accompany us to his estate.”

In a melodious voice, deep and resonate, pleasing not only to maidens in distress, the knight replied, “I thank thee for thy kind words but I have no need of money.  ‘Tis reward enough that I aided such a beautiful woman” and bowing slightly continued, “Two beautiful women.”

Blushing a brilliant red, demurely gazing up at the knight sitting astride his big black horse; the young lady thought, he doesn’t appear to be rich; his armor is badly rusted, deeply dented, severely scratched and has a huge hole near his heart.  He must have been on King Richard’s crusade and had to have been in many battles to have his armor in such a poor state.  “If thy will not accept any monetary reward sir knight; would thee at least accompany us on the remainder of our journey?  I’m sure even a knight such as thy self would enjoy a feast and some merriment.”

“I must take thy leave sweet maiden though my heart would enjoy such a kind offer.  I have a fair distance to travel; a jousting tournament awaits me before I’m able to rest.”

Imagining the knight, because of his pleasant manly voice and his undaunted courage was most likely very handsome as well, trying to peer through his helmet's visor, the young woman said, “Then, if thy won’t accept any money, feast and merriment, if I may speak boldly but not wantonly in any manner, would thy please except a humble kiss upon thy cheek as a reward?”

The knight visibly flinched in the saddle from such bold words and replied, “I thank thee for thy kindest offer but being a gentleman, I must sadly decline.”

“Then you must be married sir knight or at least have a sweet lass waiting for thee?” the young woman probed.

“Neither,” the knight replied.

Untying one of the long purple and gold ribbons she had braided in her black shiny hair she said,” Well, since thy are not married and don’t seem to have a woman in thy life and won’t take any kind of a reward, would thy at least let me tie my ribbon to thy helmet to show my gratitude – no knight should go into battle without a maiden’s respect and adoration.”

The young woman was about to hand the ribbon to the knight but the desire to look upon his face, fearing that he would ride off without her ever knowing what he looked like, she said, “Please take off thy helmet and let me tie it on for thee.” 

The knight sat quietly in the saddle for a moment or two.  Then, leaning down he said, “Thou may tie the ribbon on but I’ve taken an oath that no man, or in this case, no maiden as well, should ever see my face.”

Squinting into the visor, trying desperately to see the man inside who had most likely saved her from being raped and killed, she began tying the long purple and gold ribbon to his helmet.

When the ribbon was secured the knight said, “By thy leave, I must go now.”

After receiving his spiked ball and chain and sharp knife from the coachman, then yanking his bloody lance out of the highwayman’s dead body, the knight spurred his black charger onward and as he rode away, the young maiden cried out, “At least tell me thy name sir knight!”

Before disappearing in a cloud of dust he yelled back, “I am called the Tarnished Knight!”

THE TARNISHED KNIGHT

A bright yellow sun was shining in the sky as a light summer breeze blew across the green rolling hills and through a copse of slender maples and birch trees tucked beneath the smoldering brow of a rocky cliff.  Although many birds were flitting about the hills and through the shady glens, none could be heard here amongst the bushes and trees; they had all flown away; only the sound of rustling leaves, the occasional snapping twig and whispering men hiding within the shadows were distinguishable.  A slightly rutted dirt road cut a path across the hills before winding through the trees growing within the verdant thicket.  Four men, hidden beneath the mottled tree tops and amidst the bushes, were anxiously waiting for an approaching coach, which was being pulled by a handsome team of grey horses.

A man wearing a dirty red bandana tied across his face, only his cruel eyes showing beneath his thick, black brows and tricorne hat exclaimed, “They’re almost ‘ere!   I can ‘ear the ‘orse’s ‘ooves startin’ to come ‘round the bend. 

Let’s go lads!” he hollered.  Brandishing a sharp sword in one hand and a loaded musket in the other, he strode into the middle of the road, followed by his band of armed cronies. Lifting his weapons high above his head, showing the driver of the coach he meant business, he yelled, “Pull up the ‘orses or I’ll put a ball of lead ‘tween your eyes!”.

As the coachman hollered whoa to the team of horses and began pulling back on the reins and applying the break, his two passengers, a young woman and her maid inside the small, ornate coach, were wondering what was going on; why were they stopping in the middle of nowhere.  As the four big wheels were rolling to a halt, a cloud of dust whirling and swirling about the coach, one of the highwaymen took hold of the reins to control the team of horses.

As the leader of the surly band of highway men, kept his musket trained on the coach driver he ordered, “Throw down your weapons and keep your ‘ands where I can see ‘em! 

While the worried coachman was doing as he was commanded, the highwayman, motioning to the top of the coach with his sword, said to one of his fellow robbers, “Up you go lad.  Toss down the luggage and the big chest that’s lashed to the roof!  Make certain the coachman isn’t armed too – we don’t need no ‘ero’s.”  And, pointing again with his sword to the last of his men he said, “Get the passengers out of there – we’ll see if they’ve got any valuables on them.”

When the two very frightened women, holding each other’s hands, had climbed out of the coach and were standing next to it, the leader’s cohort sneered, “Looky what we ‘ave here – one ol’ crone and one tasty bit o’ fluff.” 

Making rude smacking and licking sounds with his tongue while looking up and down the younger woman’s body, undressing her as he did so with his eyes and about to do more, when noticing what the ruffian was up to, the leader screamed at him, “Not yet you big gob – first, take their jewels and whatever else is worth anything; then we’ll have our pleasure with them directly!”

Reluctantly and grumbling under his wrinkled, greasy, soiled bandana, the churlish robber climbed inside the coach and began searching through it.

So engrossed were the highway men in looting the coach and robbing the frightened and whimpering female passengers, they failed to hear the approaching hoof beats; a horse and rider, the bright sun at their backs, were rapidly bearing down on them.

FACEBOOK COMMENTS:

Ruth M:  I finally found your new website ( impressive) by going to your face book page ....I was wondering why you hadn't written more stories after the adventurous trip back east. Didn't imagine for a second that you could keep all those tall tales stuffed up inside!

Len Sherman:  I guess you've been reading my tales and am glad that you're enjoying them. Hey - I'm always looking for new "followers" on the Blog (there's a place to sign up) and I just hooked up the email thingy so people can get a message as soon as I post a story, so if that interests you - sign on up.

THE OLD MAN AND THE FAT CHICK - Final Episode

Karen was shaking her head; she didn’t think she’d be able to sing tonight – maybe never again. 

Seeing that she was almost on the verge of tears and realizing she couldn’t possibly take another big let down so soon, especially in a dive like this, Sammy said, “Karen’s not really up to singing tonight; she’s had a sore throat for a few days now.   However, even though it’s been quite a long time since I was on stage, I can play the piano and sing you some tunes.”

Karen looked at Sammy with a surprised expression on her face and said, “I didn’t know you could play the piano and sing Sammy?”

“You sure as hell don’t look like an entertainer to me either.  You’d better be good and since there’s only you entertaining, I’m only going to pay you two hundred bucks,” exclaimed the bartender.

“Fair enough,” said Sammy.  “But first I have to use your washroom facilities.”

Pointing over to the right the bartender said, “Next to the juke-box; the door that says HOMBRES on it.”

As Sammy weaved his way through almost a full-house of people towards the Men’s Room the bartender asked Karen, “Is he any good?  He sure as hell doesn’t look it.  What did you mean when you said you didn’t know he could play the piano or sing?”

Stuck for an answer, a bewildered Karen stammered, “If Sammy says he can do it; I’m sure he’ll put on a fine show for you.”

“Well he better,” exclaimed the bartender running his hand through his thick light brown hair.  “He’s been in the can for a long time.  Can you go check on him while I pour some drinks and announce to everyone that we have some live entertainment tonight?”

While the bartender was announcing to his customers there was going to be some live entertainment shortly, Karen asked Sammy through the washroom door if he was alright and he assured her that he was – just needed another minute.

When Sammy walked out of the door and took Karen’s hand in his and was leading her up to the stage, she could scarce believe her eyes.  What a transformation!  The old man dressed in overalls had miraculously metamorphosed into an exquisite butterfly; his whitish hair was slicked back tight against his head and he was wearing a grey tuxedo; a charcoal bowtie fastened snugly at his throat.  Except for the creases from being folded in his suitcase for such a long period of time, Sammy looked like a million bucks – but could he play the piano and sing was what really worried her.

While Sammy and Karen were standing hand in hand in front of the microphone, looking out at the audience, he made the introductions.  “The leading singer, the lovely, beautiful and talented Miss Karen Jones, who many of you have most likely heard sing before, has a bad vocal condition this evening and won’t be able to sing.  However, since we usually perform together on stage, I’d like her to be near me at the piano.” 

Sitting down at the piano, tossing the tuxedo’s tails out behind him, he motioned to Karen to sit next to him by patting the seat and smiling.  As she sat down next to him, lifting his hands in the air, flexing his fingers a few times, his audience watching his every move, Sammy commenced to play the piano.  The sounds were melodic, a rhapsody of glorious beauty, each note with each finger tip played as it should be played; George Frideric Handel’s ears would have rang with pleasure if he could have heard Sammy’s rendition of Joy to the World.  However, very few of Sammy’s audience appreciated his playing ability or the beauty of classical music.  Sensing he was losing their interest, he suddenly quit playing and stood up, much to the amazement of Karen and the bartender who was rapidly regretting that he had hired Sammy.  Extending his arms and flexing his fingers once again he said, “There; that feels much better.  I think my fingers have had ample exercise, time to play something a little more to my fancy and hopefully yours as well.  The audience was riveted and looked rather confused as they watched him undo his collar, disconnect his bowtie and stuff it into his jacket pocket.  Continuing to smile, Sammy took off his jacket and threw it on top of the piano and then nonchalantly rolled up his white shirt sleeves. 

If Sammy didn’t have the audience’s attention before, he had it now; everyone was quiet, following his every move as he sat down at the piano and said, “My name is Sammy – Smokin’ Sam the Piano Man and I’ll start this session with a little song I wrote called – Mamma was a Blues Lady.  Karen and the whole bar full of patrons swayed to and fro as they listened to the smooth rhythms of the keyboard and Sam’s soulful voice (similar to Leonard Cohen).  By the end of the evening, the audience was more than just in his hands; Sammy had had them dancing, shouting, laughing and even crying; such was the depth of his music. 

Karen couldn’t believe her ears and the sensations that had been rippling throughout her whole body; Sammy had taken her and the audience to a whole new level – an experience none of them would ever forget.  She had no idea this shabby old man that she had been working and living with for five years was filled to the brim and beyond with such magnificent talent.  How and why had he put up with her mediocrity, her complaining and her obesity but when she looked into his eyes as he announced that this was his last song of the evening and he’d written it especially for Karen – her eyes blurred with love upon seeing the love he felt for her.  Tears flowed down her cheeks as she listened to every note and word that Sammy sang; it was as if they were alone in the crowded, smoke-filled room and when he finished his song, the audience standing and applauding, he whispered to her, “I love you.”

As the audience continued clapping, Sammy scooped up his jacket and put it back inside his old suitcase.  After taking a deep bow and thanking everyone for being such a wonderful audience, he took Karen’s hand and they walked to the bar where the beaming bartender handed him $400.00, telling him it was the best show ever and he was worth every cent. 

As the Lucky Buck Saloon door closed behind them, the old guy kissed the fat chick; putting his arm around her (at least as far as it would go) they walked together into the desert’s starry night.

THE OLD MAN AND THE FAT CHICK - Part 2

As they strolled along the highway, the old man put his arm around the fat chick’s waste (well as much of it as he could reach anyway) when she mentioned she was still cold.  He thought about the woman walking next to him and knew that Karen, or Kare as he called her, wasn't the best singer in the world, but there was just something about her that touched him deeply when he first laid eyes on her, while singing her heart out to a bunch of the local boozers in a small town.  Although his affections had grown for her over the past five years, their arrangement had always been strictly business and platonic - he'd never once made any advances towards her.  And, as odd as it may seem, they'd never signed any documents proclaiming that he was her manager and agent, they just shared the endless motel rooms, traveling expenses (usually Greyhound) dinners (local greasy diners) the modest income; never an issue.

Sammy and Karen had no idea how long they had been walking but finally they heard an engine in the distance behind them, and eventually a pair of bright headlights came into view.  As the vehicle approached, they stuck out their thumbs and felt somewhat dismayed when the half-ton truck drove by.  However, when it came to a screeching halt a short distance away and began backing up, they looked at each other and smiled - perhaps their luck was changing.  After the truck's window rolled down half way, a grizzled old man leaned over and said, "Git in."  And then looking at the size of Karen he continued, "Hmm...One of you may have to ride in back."

Sammy said, "That's alright.  I'll take the back." 

As Sammy held the door open and motioned for Karen to get into the truck, she said, "Oh no.  We’ll both ride up front.  I'll get in first and you sit on my lap Sammy; we'll be just fine."

The truck driver looked a little amazed when Karen climbed into the seat and Sammy squeezed in on top of her lap, his face almost touching the rear mirror and windshield.  They all laughed, after struggling for a while trying to get the door shut Karen said, "I don't think your seat belt will reach around us; do you have anything larger; something about the size of a hammock should do nicely?"

As the old half-ton truck jostled down the highway, the truck driver asked,” Where abouts yuh folks headin’?  And what in the world were yuh doin’ smack dab in the middle of no where in the middle of the night?”

When the introductions were made Sammy said, “It’s a long story.  If you could drop us off at the next large town you come to, it would be much appreciated – we’re both pretty beat from walking down the highway, especially Karen in her high-heels.”

After an hour of chit-chatting, impossibe for Sammy and Karen to doze for even a few moments, the half-ton slowly climbing out of a very dark valley and around a bend in the highway, they could see the lights of a town flickering in the not too far distance.  When they reached the town, the truck driver dropped them off in front of a bar, a huge neon sign pulsating Lucky Buck’s Saloon.  Sam said, “I don’t know about you, but my legs are almost numb from being all cramped up in the truck; let’s take a break.  I’ll buy you a drink.”

“That’s a great idea,” Karen remarked.  “I could use a good stiff drink after what we’ve been through tonight.  I hope you’ve got some money stashed in those cover-alls because I haven’t got one red cent – didn’t even get a chance to grab my purse.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it.  I’ve still got enough cash for something to eat, a few drinks and a place to stay for the night; its tomorrow night, I’m not too sure about.”

When they entered the bar, everyone turned their heads to see who had just walked in and they continued to stare – especially the men – their mouths gaping wide open, when they noticed Karen; her huge boobs looked as if they would explode through her low cut blouse at any moment.  Making their way between the tables and leering customers, Sammy and Karen sat down on a couple of tall wooden stools with padded backs in front of the bar.  The bartender, who was actually the owner of the bar asked, “What’s your poison?”

Sammy ordered a tall Coke and ice (he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol for five years) and Karen said, “Make mine a whiskey; on second thought, make it a double-shot straight-up; it’s been one hellova night.”

“Comin’ right up,” he replied.

While Sammy and Karen were sipping their drinks, the bartender, his curiosity concerning the odd looking couple finally getting the better of him, he asked, “Where are you guys from?  I’ve never seen you in here before.”

Karen was about to answer when Sammy motioned, “Let me.” 

“Well, it’s not the way it may appear.  I just want you to know that although my woman (at the mention of the words, "my woman", Karen’s eyes opened wide and her brows lifted with surprise) is scantily attired – she’s not a hooker; she’s a professional stage-singer and we’re just passing through on the way to her next gig.”

Half believing what he heard, the bartender said, “My piano player and singer didn’t show up, most likely sleeping it off somewhere, and my patrons are more than a little pissed-off because there was supposed to be some live entertainment tonight.  I don’t suppose you'd put on a show for us?  I’ll pay you each $200.00; I realize it’s probably less than what you usually work for, but that’s all I can afford.”

The exciting conclusion will be posted tomorrow...cheers - eh!

FACEBOOK COMMENTS:

Cheryl B:  Got me sucked in ...keep writing!

Len Sherman:  Glad you're liking the stories Cheryl - I'm always open to ideas for a story - sometimes just one line will produce one, so if you've got a line, let me know and I'll see what I can do - no promises though. 

THE OLD MAN AND THE FAT CHICK

An old man and a fat chick were standing at the edge of the highway as a shiny black convertible, tires squealing, made a sharp U-turn in front of them; the driver yelling out the window, "An' don't come back if you know what's good for you!" 

The last thing the couple saw before the convertible zoomed down the highway and disappeared into the desert darkness was the back license plate, which read: SNAKE-EYES, Las Vegas, Nevada.

As the distant convertible’s engine droned into complete silence, looking up at the stars shining overhead, the old man quietly said, "It could have been worse."

"What do you mean worse?" the fat chick exclaimed.

"Sometimes people just don't get left in the middle of nowhere alongside the highway, they're found in the middle of the desert with a little hole in their shiny white skull."

"They wouldn't have dared!  I'm a big star - the best damned singer they ever had or ever will!"  The old man rolled his eyes in the darkness but didn't say a word as she continued, "What are we going to do now?  I've barely got anything on; just what I was wearing when they yanked me off the stage and threw us into the back seat of the car.  I can hardly go walking down the highway wearing nothing but a flimsy top, a skirt just barely below my crotch, fish net stockings and high-heels unless you've got something in that beat-up, little old suitcase you always carry around with you?"

The old man took off his shirt and draped it over her shoulders and said, "I'd give you my over-alls but then I'd be walking down the highway wearing nothing but a smile and my ding-dong bouncing off my knees."

Looking at the old man with a peculiar expression on her face, the fat chick asked, "It's that long?"

"Well, not really.  It's just an expression I use."  Whether or not she saw him wink or not he said, "But it aint that small either."

The fat chick chuckled and said, "We can't stand here all night."  Buttoning up the old man's shirt, wrapping her arms together just below her heavy breasts she said, "Brr, I'm beginning to get cold; let's start walking.  Hopefully a car will come along soon and we can catch a ride to the next town."

Picking up his small battered suitcase, the old man and the fat chick began walking down the highway, the white lines on the black pavement barely discernable in the darkness.  Dark spooky shadows, most likely tall cactus growing near the side of the road, looked like a gathering of highway men about to charge out of the darkness and rob them.  They walked in silence, except for a curse now and then from the fat chick as she stumbled in her high-heels.  She had fallen once and was surprised when the old man stooped down and picked her up off the road quite easily.  He always seemed so frail when he stood slouching back stage while she sang her heart out.  How long had Sammy been her manager and faithful companion she wondered - must be at least five years she thought.  Five long years; and she barely knew the man.

As they trudged along, kicking the odd stone bouncing along the highway or into the dried out ditch, she remembered meeting him at a bar where she was performing.  At first she thought he was hitting on her when he told her he had some connections in the entertainment world and that he could probably get her some better gigs than what she was accustomed to and was very surprised when he did.  She was thinner and younger then - a very sultry and sexy looking woman. Where did those years go when he found some high-class lounges for her to perform in and the pounds - when did she start piling all the pounds on?  At 47, she was still an attractive woman, even though her best friend was a bottle of dye.  But who was she kidding, although her voice was quite good, she knew she was just a mediocre singer at best and getting yanked off stage finally hit home; her singing gigs were numbered.  How Sammy managed to get her a gig in a big Las Vegas night club was beyond her; he just told her he knew some people and they owed him.  She thought she'd hit the big-time, she was going to finally be a big star with her own Vegas act when the curtain lifted and the spotlight was directed upon her but she hadn't even began to sing the second verse to one of her best songs when they dropped the curtain, drove them out of town and dropped them in the middle of the desert.

To be continued...cheers - eh!

CLEO ON THE NILE

CLEO ON THE NILE

I'm going to take a break from forcing my fingers from doing a tap-dance on the keyboard and give my brain a little time off from thinking up stories to write about and start splashing some paint around on this 32"x60" canvas - attempt to finish the painting over the remaining winter months. 

My Cleopatra is actually Ramona the Belly Dancer all decked out in jewels, posing in her Cleopatra outfit.  As you can, see she is very beautiful and in my personal opinion, Mark Antony would most likely have rather floated down the Nile with her and made her the mummy of his twins.  Historically, I believe Cleopatra wasn't noted so much for her beauty (believe she was on the plain side; right up there with Bertha Butt; she had quite the honker).  And her voice - apparently it had the lilting qualities of a warbling goose during mating season - perhaps that was the attraction because she went to bed with both Julius Caesar and Mark Antony. Rumor has it that her barge was gilded in silver and painted purple (being the royal colour - any other local yahoo wearing the colour purple was beheaded without ceremony). 

Since my mind is often times spaced out, I've placed Cleopatra lounging on her barge, drifting around the world and moon.  And it's not just a barge; it's her own personal a satellite.  On a very clear night after knocking back about a dozen bottles of wine, you just might be able to see her if you have a good telescope. The bird and fish, including her pet fish Julius situated in the corner of the painting, are residents of the Nile or Red Sea.  Would have been silly to have painted an orca and bald eagle - I don't think her barge ever made it as far as the west coast of BC.

I'll keep those of you who are interested in the painting, posted as it progresses - cheers - eh!            

THE BROKEN TEAR DROP - Part 2

Wally Bruniski raised the extremely sharp razor very close to his face and peered at the long slim reflection of his eyes.  Staring back at him, they looked tired, listless and old, older than his 42 years; the dark brown irises surrounded by a host of red veins; the bags beneath them as saggy as his muscles.  Tilting the razor downward he focused on his pocked reddish nose, then his mouth, which was purplish and very thin; a deep line running from each corner emphasizing his jowls and double-chin.  His face was stubbly; the beginning of a thick black beard, peppered with white hairs.  He didn't need anyone to tell him he looked like hell; he could see that for himself.

Wally sat up in the tub exposing his hairy black chest with a few white hairs fighting for existence and began swishing the thick bristly brush around the bowl of foamy soap, then spreading it on his face and throat.  He chuckled when he thought about the joke he'd heard at one of his favourite drinking establishments, "Real men don't shave; they punch the whiskers through their cheeks and then bite them off."  As the keen long blade slid across his face, under his nose and through the deep cleft of his chin, it made a scraping sound.  As he began carefully shaving his throat, he noticed a vein within the hollow of his collar bone pulsating to the beat of his heart.  As he drew the blade across his large jugular veins and under his chin, he nicked himself; droplets of red blood pooling in the soapy bath water.  How easy he thought, to just slit myself from ear to ear and then just lie back in the tub and watch what's left of my pitiful life drain away.  However, something within, whatever was remaining in his burnt-out troubled mind told him, Not yet!  Once his face was shaven and smooth, he grabbed the floating bar of Ivory soap and began briskly scrubbing the top of his thick hairy head, his hairy chest, under his hairy arms and hairy balls and between his hairy toes.  After he pulled the plug, stood up and rinsed off under the cold shower, he was as squeaky-clean as a new-born babe.  Although he didn't feel brand new; he did feel a whole lot better either.

After looking at his worn out scruffy looking face, Wally didn't dare look in the full-length mirror; he was beginning to feel much better and didn't want to ruin the feeling.  He only checked just below his chin to see if he was still bleeding but just a small clot of hardened blood could be seen.  When he was all dried off, his hair slicked back, he went to his large, walk-in closet and dressed himself in his most expensive suit, white starched shirt, favorite tie and pair of alligator leather shoes.  He tried sucking in his paunchy tummy when he slipped his leather belt through the loops of his pants and began tightening it, but his expanded stomach wouldn't budge.  He whistled as he went downstairs to answer the doorbell - his black paint had arrived.  He told them to place the 20, 5-gallon buckets of paint at the rear of the house near the patio doors leading out to the Olympic-sized swimming pool.

Feeling a little tired from his hot bath, Wally decided to sit down in his easy-chair for awhile and let his body cool off a bit more.  Out of habit, he almost went to the liquor cabinet but caught himself in time.  As he sat relaxing in the chair feeling his body temperature get closer to normal, he thought about the task at hand and why he'd decided to do what needed to be done in his mind.

When Walton Bruniski had began his business with his wife, they were both very happy and working together seemed to be a real treat; at least the perks were great; they'd lock the office door and sometimes make love on the thick shag carpet.  However, Wally wasn't happy with just making a good income; he wanted to be rich; he wanted to retire in the style of a king.  As the business grew, they had two children so his wife stayed home to look after them, which seemed like a good plan.  She was replaced by another employee and soon other employees had joined his firm.  Wally worked like a mad-man; 14 - 16 hours a day and weekends too.  He barely saw his wife and kids and because he was so full of energy, when he quit work for the day, he often went to a night club to drink, dance and play with younger women he met.  At first, his outings were harmless but then he began taking the odd woman to bed; he figured as long as his wife or anyone else didn't know, it didn't really matter since he didn't have any real feelings for them.  As his business rapidly expanded, his friendly banker beaming whenever he walked through the door asking for money to increase his productivity and cash-flow; it was almost at the point where he was spending more time with the banker than his wife and family.  However, eventually all good things reach an end, the bucket of gold at the end of the rainbow is empty; Walton Bruniski, his life chaotic and out of control by his boozing and womanizing and bad business decisions he made; in a rapidly failing economy, he lost everything he had worked for.

As Wally sat in his easy-chair, he looked around at all the beautiful things he'd acquired.  Then taking a deep breath, he strolled through the entire house and wondered where he'd gone so wrong and caromed off the right path into a spiral downhill slide of despair.  When he entered the 4-bay garage and looked at his flashy new cars and motorcycle, he realized they didn't mean a good-God-damn to him.  He wasn't sure where his life was going; he'd finally landed in the bucket of shit at the bottom of the rainbow and couldn't care less.  He had a statement to make; perhaps the last statement he would ever make.  He felt like a well-known accomplished artist as he dragged the air compressor out of the garage, plugged it into an outdoor electrical receptacal by the swimming pool, screwed in the long air hose and attached the spray gun to the end of it. Finally, he hooked up a big 5-gallon container and squeezed the air-gun's trigger; a huge spray of black paint shooting out into the afternoon air.   After tying the air respirator securely to his head, catching a glimpse of himself in the glass patio doors as he entered the house; he looked like a warrior and he liked the way he looked.

Humming to himself, he squeezed the spray gun trigger and began spraying everything in the living room jet black until the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the furniture and everything, I mean everything in the room was completely black.  Looking at the once beautiful, intricate artwork that hung on the walls, he chuckled to himself and said, "I'm an artist too.  Perhaps I'll invite all the people who really count to my first exhibition.  I'll title the paintings, Dark BlackWith Swirls of Light Black, Ebony, Neutral Black No. 231 and Black as My Soul."  He roared with laughter as he went from room to room spraying everything black, even the windows and the light fixtures.

Before going upstairs, he decided to paint the outside of the house too so after he pulled the extension ladder out of the garage and propped it up against the eaves, he sprayed the entire roof and chimneys black too.  After he'd sprayed the outside walls, doors and windows he went out into the yard, looked at his masterpiece and rejoiced with fulfillment - it was as if the weight of the world had suddenly vanished from his shoulders.  He felt so intensely elated, that before he went back into the house to paint the upstairs, he signed his name with big black letters on the pink marble patio.  He hadn't felt this happy in years as he sprayed all the rooms upstairs including the closets and everything in them.  Giggling to himself idiotically he thought the realtor is going to have a fun time showing this place and fuck the bank and its mortgage.

When he finished spraying upstairs, touching up the odd spot he'd missed, he somehow tangled his foot (possibly because the house was now as dark as a tomb) in the air hose and tumbled head-first down the stairs.  He lay at the bottom as still and quiet as a corpse lying on a slab in the morgue.  He couldn't hear the birds singing outside, nor the dripping bathtub faucet he hadn't turned completely off because Walton Bruniski was dead to the world; he had knocked himself out at the bottom of the stairs.

When he came to, the house appeared even darker than when he finished spraying because it was dark outside too.  He had a bit of a headache as he walked out of the house and down the driveway, not bothering to look back, I mean it would be pretty hard to see a black house in the black of night.  His suit was a mess and he suspected everything about him looked that way as well but he didn't care as he unlocked the marina gate and headed down the ramp towards his sailboat.  He knew that a strong possibility of going to jail existed but as he untied the sailboat's mooring lines, shoved it away from the dock, jumped aboard and hoisted the main sail; he figured they would have to find him and the Pacific Ocean was a vast amount of water.

After months had gone by, while basking on a tropical beach with no news from where he once lived, his sailboat bobbing in the turquoise blue sea, Walton Bruniski would have been proud of his artwork.  Because of the times, the plunging economy, through-the-roof interest rates, many people who had experienced the same losses as Wally, painted their houses completely black inside and out - like monuments they speckled the landscape of many cities throughout the country.

FACEBOOK COMMENTS:
  
Paula S:  I hope to read more stories. I really like the humorous chuckle that you can entice to bring about in your writing. My cat and dog always make me laugh and they don't even talk in words. Do you think they think in words? And if they do what they would say would probably give me a chuckle. I'd love to read a story from your perspective of what a dog or cat might have on their mind. I'd like to think that they'd be intelligent and maybe have some kind of power that we dont. (like trusting their intuition, believing that living with love is heaven, or mabye even something more unbelievable like premonitions).
Len Sherman:

I'm really glad that you're enjoying my stories and thanks for the line to get me started on THE BROKEN TEAR DROP.  Cats and dogs - hmmm - I'm sure that they think in some sort of language and most definitely by their actions.  And, the one thing I've noticed a lot about animals that make them similar to us, is that they actually dream.  I've seen many a horse and dog sound asleep, sometimes with their eyes wide open, lying on the ground, their legs moving as if they are running and actually making vocal sounds, as if they were talking in their sleep.  I believe every animal has their own special instincts and are intelligent in their own way - like us, there are smart ones and dumb ones.  I'll have to give a little thought to their "intuition, believing that living with love is heaven" and "premonitions".  Maybe give me another line and a short blurb about it and I'll see what I can come up with - but no promises, it seems like a very tall order.           

THE BROKEN TEAR DROP

Walton Bruniski was sitting in his thick, comfy, pig-skin easy chair when he felt a single tear well up at the corner of his eye and like a piece of clear glass, it broke into two pieces when he attempted to wipe it away.  One fragment cut his eye lid slightly and the other fell to the floor where it broke into a thousand shards; the broken tear drop's reflection, revealing the sad countenance of a broken man.   

Walton or Wally, as his closest friends called him, was an art collector and as he looked around the large living room, his eyes taking in each delicate brush stroke, every colour imaginable and distinct, precise nuance of the paintings, which were tastefully hung on the walls, he felt like crying more than a single drop even if each sharp tear cut his face to ribbons.  However, he was tired of feeling depressed and knew that even if he did have a really good cry, just let the sobs wrack his ribs until they cracked, he wouldn't feel any better - feeling worse was a given.  Walton Bruniski had hit bottom and whether he would ever climb out of the hole he'd selfishly dug; he had absolutely no idea.

Wally was a self-made man; not one of the silver-spoon variety.  Up to a few months before, he'd had a successful business; it was on the small size but more than moderately successful.  He owned several new cars, a motorcycle and a sailboat and of course the very expensive art collection, all of which was housed on his two-acre estate, which was located at the edge of a busy city.  However, like many people during the early 80's, he'd been over-financed, over-budgeted and over-confident and with interest rates climbing faster than the space shuttle on its way to the moon, Walton Bruniski lost everything; he was more than just broke; he owed hundreds of thousands of dollars.  He didn't regret losing all the money, extravagant toys or even the valuable art collection; they were just accumulated baggage  - no - no regrets there - not until his wife and kids left him only moments before the single tear had broken in two pieces at the corner of his eye did he realize that he'd lost the most important and most valued objects in his life.

Stumbling and swaying over to the well-stocked liquor cabinet, an intoxicated Wally unscrewed the top off another bottle of Crown Royal and poured himself a triple shot of whiskey.  He looked like hell; he hadn't shaved, showered, combed his hair or even changed his clothes in almost a week since his family had left.  As he swirled the amber reddish liquid around, sunlight streaming through the window, made the booze look like a bonfire burning inside the glass.  Lifting the glass to his lips, he looked at his reflection in the ornate mirror hanging next to the liquor cabinet and said, "Walton, you look like shit."  Then looking at the glass of whiskey he held in his slightly trembling hand he continued, "You're the reason I'm in this sad, decrepit state, that I lost every fucking thing I own."

Lifting the glass high, glaring into the mirror with bloodshot eyes he said, "Here's to you; the seducer of my mind and soul.  Without your continual guidance my ego inflating friend - yes - thanks to you - I put all my energies into accumulating valuable objects du art, a fine mansion and several well-endowed mistresses (can you believe my wife was disenchanted about that - after all, in quite a few other countries, men have several wives)."  He hiccupped and continued, his anger building into a rage, "Where were we?  Ah, yes.  My seductress, my one true mistress - this one is for you!"  And, upon saying that, he threw the glass of whiskey at the mirror, shattering it into hundreds of pieces that glittered like jewels all over the dark hardwood floor.

Slurring his words, through a maze of expensive one-of-a-kind furniture, picking up the phone along the way Wally sloshed clumsily into his easy-chair.  Smiling to himself, the first one he'd had it seemed in years, he punched in several numbers on the telephone, then holding it to his ear he said, "Hello.  This is Mr. Waldo, er, Walton Bruniski and I believe, I still have an account at your store.  I'd like you to deliver 500 gallons of flat black acrylic paint to my residence - ah - on second thought - let's make it shiny black; your finest enamel will do nicely.  And, if you could deliver the paint today, it would be much appreciated."

Wally then climbed, or perhaps staggered up, would be a more apt description, the circular staircase leading to the second level where the master bedroom was located.  Upon arriving, he entered the en suite bathroom.  Looking at the disheveled appearance of a broken man in the mirror, a reddish-brown dot where the blood had clotted at the corner of his eye, he began humming to himself when he turned on the gold-plated hot water tap and placed the big rubber plug in the jetted, round bathtub.  He enjoyed hot baths more than showers and liked it when his skin turned lobster-red.  As the water plunged into the tub, he reached for his razor and ran his thumb along the edge of the long sharp blade and watched in amazement when some blood trickled out.  Sticking his thumb in his mouth, he sucked on it like a baby for a few moments and then held his hand up over his head to help halt the flow.  After adding some cold water until the tub of water was the desired temperature, Mr. Wally Burniski placed the sharp razor and the fluffy brush with a bowl full of shaving cream near its edge.  Chucking his soiled clothes in a heap on the marble floor, he climbed into the tub and gingerly eased himself into the hot water.

Lying in the tub up to his neck, only his head exposed in the hot water, Wally looked up through the rising steam at the ceiling where a mural depicting two cherubs flying amongst the clouds could be seen  It had been a birthday gift for his wife; she loved cherubs and had quite an ornament collection of them throughout the house.  As he breathed in the hot steam through his nose, he sighed deeply when he smelled the alcohol leaving his whiskey sodden body.  Beginning to finally relax; his mind, drifting like the fresh bar of Ivory soap floating around the tub, to a place of contentment; his worries were absorbed and lifted away as lightly as the steam.

How long he'd been soaking in the full length bathtub, he didn't know, but the water was still very hot when his pink, wrinkly hand came out of the water and reached for the long, sharp razor lying near the edge of the tub...to be continued.

FACEBOOK COMMENTS:

Cheryl B: Love reading your short stories Len ....must have plenty of time for writing in New Brunswick. Guess winters are a bit harsher than Nanaimo?

Len Sherman:  I'm glad you're enjoying the stories and at -20 degrees, the snow dang near up to my crotch in places, I do have more time on my hands, which is great, because I'll soon be busy again.

Brandi S:  Last night, I caught up on your blog.. I don't seem to be getting an automatic response when you post on there. REALLY enjoyed reading it and especially liked the ones that were about the track.. and the picture of your dad too.

Len Sherman:  Apparently you do receive an update on the Blog but it goes to the Gmail buzz spot or some other place or another. However, I could send you the connection via email if you like.  I'm glad you're enjoying the tales about my racetrack days - although some of them are bitter-sweet, they are still very colourful and wonderful memories to me - will write a few more stories about those days later on.

THE LEGEND OF PRINCESS TIMBER-KITTY

High in the wilds where the rivers run pure and free, the mountain tops are adorned with lily white snow and the fir trees are forever green and gigantic, could be found nestled in a verdant valley, the booming town of Timberland, in the year of '98 - 1898 that is.  Besides the gold that old grizzled prospectors sluiced from nearby pebbly streams, grew a vast forest, a wealth of trees that were so wide and tall, they seemed to reach the heavens above.  And although loggers from all over the country naturally migrated to and congregated in the area, there was none tougher, rougher, meaner and down right ornery than Spruce-Topper-Jack Malone.  He could climb a tree, swing an axe or wield a saw faster than any lumberjack; why hell, he was so strong; he could almost pull a huge tree uphill better than a team of bald-faced Clydesdale workhorses.

Jack Malone was a big man: he stood 6'6" and weighed 240 pounds.  He was devilishly handsome, his swarthy complexion and shock of thick black hair that swung down across his forehead caught many the lady's eye.  His eyes were the colour of cold grey clouds and when they darkened, you best beware because one fist was made of granite and the other was steel.  His nose was slightly twisted from a kick in the face by a wild mustang but legend has it, that when Spruce-Topper-Jack drove his fist into the horse's head, he killed it instantly - yessiree - Jack Malone was definitely a man's man.

Like Samson had his Delilah, Jack Malone had a weakness; her name was Princess Timber-Kitty and she was the owner of the Golden Timber Saloon.  She was a tall woman; stood 6' in her bare feet and her skin was as white as Grecian marble.  Her long red hair was as crimson as a morning sunrise just before a storm and her eyes were as green as emeralds; they sparkled just like jewels.  Her nose was slender and slightly upturned with a host of freckles abundantly sprinkled across the top of it and just below her eyes.  Her sensual mouth was full and firm, much like her body; a lumberjack's fantasy; come true.

Princess Timber-Kitty had a peculiar but sexy accent.  She told everyone she was highly educated and that she had been forced to flee from a foreign country where she had lived in a palace as a princess.  (In actual fact, she came from the east coast, a New York City girl that got her education out behind the barn and in the barn.)  However, regardless of where she got her education or where she came from, Kitty (as her steady customers called her) was a classy slut and had a heart of pure gold - she staked many a down and out prospector and helped many an injured lumberjack get back on his feet.

It's not surprising that Spruce-Topper-Jack had a real heart on for Princess Timber-Kitty but no matter how hard he tried to loosen her girdle, she wouldn't have anything to do with him; he was unkempt, uneducated, unrefined, unfriendly, and most of all: underpaid in her eyes.  As many times as Kitty rejected Jack Malone's advances, he was determined to make her his gal, even if it meant picking her up, placing her over his knee and giving her a good spanking in front of all the Golden Timber patrons before carrying her upstairs and having his way with her in her personal boudoir.

Now, as legend has it, one Friday night after being paid his hard-earned wages and living out in the bush with a bunch of surly, manly lumberjacks for four months straight, Spruce-Topper-Jack came to town.  He was in a snarly mood when the lumber wagon dropped him and the rest of the logging crew in front of the bat-wing gates of the Golden Timber Saloon.  He'd had lots of time to think about it and he'd made up his mind that Kitty would belong to him that night or she'd never sing again in her peculiar-accented voice.  He'd boasted to his logger pals about making Kitty his gal and they believed him, or even if they didn't, they weren't about to contradict him.

As soon as Jack Malone entered the saloon, many of the patrons left - they could see in his dark grey eyes, that a storm of trouble would soon be underway.  While the piano player pounded out a lively tune and Kitty warbled a bit off key in her oddly-accented voice, Spruce-Topper-Jack and his thirsty followers were pounding back the booze.  He never took his eyes off her even when he turned his back, because then he could see her every move in the wall length mirror above the bar.  They drank many a bottle through the night until one by one Jack Malone's comrades fell to the floor and were thrown out into the street.  As usual, he'd drank every last one of them under the table and was still yelling for more whiskey; not the cheap, watered down stuff either.  He'd leered at Kitty off and on through the evening and also made some very rude comments about when and how he was going to have his way with her.

At closing time, the only ones left in the Golden Timber Saloon was the bartender, Kitty and Spruce-Topper-Jack but outside, a lot of curious eyes were peering through the windows to see what might happen.  The bartender was a big man and could handle almost any ruffian but as he reached for the shotgun resting on a shelf under the bar, Jack Malone grabbed him by the front of his white, starched shirt and hit him with such a powerful uppercut that it broke his jaw in three places and sent him crashing into the full-length mirror above the bar, and falling in a bloody heap amidst the broken glass, he gurgled once and died.

The spectators outside the Golden Timber Saloon were sure that Princess Timber-Kitty would come flying through the bat-wing doors and go running down the street screaming for help from the local sheriff.  But no, she stood her ground on the little stage where she'd been singing most of the night and when they looked into her eyes, they didn't see any fear.  In a voice as calm as the eye of a hurricane she said with her peculiar accented voice, "I don't know why they call you Spruce-Topper-Jack when just plain old Jack-Ass would be more appropriate."

Spruce-Topper-Jack looked a little stunned by her comment and rolled his eyes.  "I gotta give yuh credit fer havin' the guts to stand up there all brazen like and insult the likes of me but yuh got shit for brains is plain to see.  Now are we gonna go upstairs all purty and perfect an have us some fun or am I gunno have to come over thar an' pick yuh up like a gut-shot hog and carry yuh up dem flight of stairs?"

Kitty's stare was as cold as ice when she peered straight into Jack Malone's eyes.  Determined not to back down, she spread her legs apart and standing akimbo she said, "I've climbed those stairs with many a man but you aint no man.  I'd sooner have a frolic on my soft-feathered mattress with a grizzly bear than the likes of you."  And on saying that, she turned her back on Jack Malone and looked out the window.

"Why yuh ugly bitch!" he bellowed.  "I'll show yuh what kinda man I am!"

Not only could Kitty hear his big boots stomping across the sawdust covered floor, she could see his reflection in the window.  And just as his huge hands were about to grab her, she drew her tiny one-shot Dillenger from within the folds of her shiny green satin gown and fired a bullet straight between his eyes.

The look of shock in Spruce-Topping-Jack Malone's eyes as he hit the floor is still talked about today.  Princess Timber-Kitty forgot or had intentionally forgotten to mention that besides being a princess from a far away country and a highly educated woman, she was also a crack-shot with a pistol.

FACEBOOK COMMENTS:

Darla D: I liked this one, had me wondering what was going to happen in the end. I thought it was funny how she turned his name around, to Jack ass lol

Len Sherman Hi Darla - Good to hear from you - I'm glad you enjoyed the story.

Darla D:  You do a great job...I think you should make a short story book so people can read them while they sit on the toilet. lol

Len Sherman: Hey - and if they don't like the stories, they can use it for toilet paper - hahaha

TINY FLAME-DANCER

Sitting against a wall of rock, I lit a match and waited for a flame.  Time passed as slowly as eternity, until like a newly born soul, the flame kindled and came to life within the darkness.  Like a sensual, sexy dancer it swayed to and fro; its brightness intoxicating my senses and hurting my eyes.  I watched in awe the mystery of its being; the colours and the movements of the flame as it twirled and swirled its way across the wooden matchstick like a circus, high-wire acrobat.  Unaware of the burning sensation as the tiny fire licked my finger tips, I held the remainder of the matchstick until at last the flame flickered and bowed out at the finish of its dance.  I stared at the red glow of the fading red ember until all I could see was blackness and as I sucked the lingering smoke through my nostrils, I sighed; the aroma of the tiny flame-dancer's perfume; exquisite.

However, now that my fantasy had ended, it was time for me to face the reality of my situation once again.  At times, I didn't know if I was awake or asleep because even if I held my hand a few inches from my face, such was the darkness, the encapsulating blackness; it could not be seen.  And, when I held my breath, if it weren't for the constant dripping sound I heard, being dead and imprisoned in purgatory as payment for my sins was a distinct possibility.  But I wasn't alone; I was in the company of several dead men; silently, they shared my warm black cavern, which was over a mile deep beneath the surface of the earth.

I was a coal miner and I emphasize the word "was" because I shall die here with my fellow miners in this underground mausoleum, which was exquisitely carved out by muscle and blood, especially a great deal of red blood, by men who were paid only a mere pittance by insensitive businessmen, who only felt fulfilled when their fingertips touched bales of dollar bills.  But I'm not angry at them; it was me; me alone that marched these size 12 boots into this dark pit, picked up a pick and began hammering at the walls and breaking out large chunks of coal.

I've no idea how long I've been trapped in this black pit beneath the earth's surface; time is as evasive as daylight.  The last light I remember seeing was an explosion that charged through the tunnels like a stampeding elephant knocking everything ass over tea kettle.  When I came to, I have no recollection how long I'd been unconscious, I was stretched across what felt like a large rough boulder.  The only sound I could hear was a ringing noise inside my head; the actual surrounding silence was deafening.  After easing myself off the rock, I crawled through the darkness on my hands and knees until I reached one of the tunnel's walls where I could assess my injuries, which to my total surprise were none or at least none that were life threatening.  I yelled to see if there was anyone else who was left alive but all I could hear was my own hollow echo; everyone else who had been working near me were either still unconscious or dead.

Self-preservation is our strongest instinct and hope is the strongest fallacy we all follow, so after the blast, with those two in tow, I slowly made my way down the tunnel, using the wall as a guide.  Every now and then I stepped on something soft and when I reached down to feel what it was, even though I knew it was the body of a man, I'd check to see if he was still alive but each one I came across was dead.  Now, some may think me insensitive, uncaring about my fellow man but when I was assured the person was dead, I searched through his clothing for something that might aid me as I tried to find my way out.  As a result, my pockets were once bulging with matches, which I occasionally light - the flame - my only live companion.  I also scavenged a badly dented helmet with the candle still intact.  However, on the dark side, I also got to view the remains of my fellow coal miners, some of who were shredded and blown apart by the explosion.

I've eaten the last of the food I ransacked from several lunch kits a long time ago and my hunger pangs no longer exist.  I imagine the flesh of my blown apart comrades is still edible, some of it even cooked to perfection but I am not the eater of men, so now, I starve alone in this desolate cavern deep inside the bowels of the earth.  Both ends of the tunnel were completely sealed off as well as the openings to any other connecting tunnels; there is no way out.  Sometimes I still hear noises and at one time I used to rejoice - the rescue-workers were very close - I was going to be saved.  However, I've since stopped craning my neck, whenever I hear any little noise, I expect it's the earth just shifting itself; I know the digging for men is not as enthusiastic as digging for coal.

I'm not sure if starving to death is any worse than dying of thirst but so far, water seeping through the cracks has been plentiful so it looks like starvation will be my salvation.  There's only one match left and the candle burnt out long ago.  My breathing has become haggard and I'm so weak, I can hardly lift my hands.  I think the time has finally arrived to strike the last remaining match and be bewitched one last time by my tiny, intimate flame-dancer.

A PIMP, A HOOKER, A TRAINER AND A JOCK

During my 10 years, working at the racetrack, besides my dad, I worked for several other trainers as a groom.  I imagine that after I graduated from the Vancouver School of Art (Emily Carr), if I hadn't found a good job using my creative skills, I most likely would have become a racehorse trainer too.  However, hopefully not like Bob, or Bob-A-Needle-Bob as he was known around the track.  He was a nice enough fellow but a smile doesn't always camouflage the dark side of a person.  He'd been banned from the track for several years for doping horses and had just been reinstated when I went to work for him.  However, instead of drugging horses, I noticed when his jockey showed up in the mornings, he was usually in a foul mood until he and Bob went into the tack room and closed the door behind them.  It was obvious he was shooting the jock up because whenever I gave the little guy a leg up on a horse, his eyes were very shiny and his mood had changed considerably (not always for the best either; because sometimes, the belligerent little bugger was even more of a pain in the ass).

Bob trained 8 horses and they were all owned by this big, good looking guy who wore a black wide-brimmed fedora low over his dark eyes that matched his black hair, black suit and shiny black shoes - I'm surprised his name wasn't Mr. Black or perhaps it was in the world of mobsters.  He usually arrived with this absolutely drop-dead, stunning, gorgeous blonde - she just took my breath away every time I looked at her and she had a voice like husky-honey that made my knees wobble.  I have no idea how much she cost per hour and I doubt that a month of my wages would have been enough.  However, my good friend Sam at the time, climbed up the outside of an apartment building and had her for free on a bearskin rug, which was apparently lying on the living room floor - lucky guy - in more ways than one because if Mr. Black had known, I doubt that Sammy boy would have been around very much longer!

With a trainer on the bottle and a crooked, junky-jockey in his hip pocket, for reasons his real name best not be known, I'll call him Mr. Black, you'd have thought his horses would have won a lot of races but not so.  One horse I rubbed (groomed) was a real class equine - a No. one horse - he'd raced for $60,000.00 purses in California and often won.  He was always entered in Handicap races at Exhibition Park in Vancouver, BC that had the highest purses, but my heavens, that horse was the sorest horse on four legs that I ever worked with, especially the front two.  After one of his morning work outs, the horse pulled up so sore, he could hardly walk.  I had to cool him out in his stall because Bob-A-Needle-Bob didn't want anyone watching him limp in agony around the shed row, especially since he'd entered the horse in a race.

But it was no secret, everyone, including the track steward, knew the horse was in more pain than a beat up hooker but I guess the pimp's girl wasn't earning enough money when I took him to the paddock that day.  About four hours before the race, I held the horse in his stall while he stood with two bags of ice up to his knees that were looped together over his neck.  The horse's legs must have been almost frozen solid because when I wrapped his legs with running bandages, he didn't even flinch.  Why they didn't scratch that poor broken down son of a bitch is beyond me, and what surprised me even more, was when we were in one of the small paddock stalls and the track vet lifted the horse's front legs to see if he was sound enough to run and the horse groaned in pain, he still gave the go-ahead.

Of course the 6 furlong race was a disaster for this classy horse; he'd barely left the starting gate before he pulled up lamer than a one-legged, drunken sailor.  The jockey was forced to dismount and had to lead the horse over to the outside rail so he wouldn't be in the way of the other horses when they came charging around the last turn.  Of course, the pimp, the jockey and the trainer were upset about the race when they gathered together that evening and what really amazed me (perhaps they were all on drugs) they blamed me for the horse's condition and why it didn't win the race.  Needless to say; I was fired that night but I can't say I lost any sleep over it.  However, I did feel sorry for the horse because I was probably the only one that cared about him and looked after him when he could barely walk, let alone run in a race.

MEMORIES OF A TEQUILA SUNRISE

I've had a lot of horses go trotting through my life - mostly thoroughbreds; the racing variety.  When I left the racetrack after working as a groom for ten years, even though my track buddies told me, "Once a race-tracker; always a race-tracker", I knew I'd never return, other than to occasionally bet on them.  And as the years went by, I thought for sure I'd never have another horse in my life.  However, my daughter Paula when she was 14 years old, fell in love with a horse named Kelly when she was working during the summer at a dude ranch in Lantzville, BC.  What she saw in that nickle-bred, knocked-kneed, cow-hocked, half-broken down old nag, I'll never know.  And then again, yes I would.  Many a horse that couldn't run if it's life depended on it, once I started working with it and its disposition was lovable; the horse always became one of my best buddies.

The man who owned the Kelly told Paula she could buy it for $1,000.00.  She was of course very excited because she'd saved up $400.00 (I think it was) and I'd told her, I'd pay the difference.  However, when I checked out Kelly, I could tell there was going to be some problems with the horse (vet bills can add up real fast).  Although Kelly was a nice enough horse, gentle and good natured and Paula was able to ride him just fine, his gait was bad; I could see fresh sores on his back legs where his hooves had clipped them.  Also, his coat was dull and he didn't have that real bright eye; that sparkly glint, intelligent look, true grit or spirit I always looked for in a horse or for that matter, any type of animal.  My wife and Paula really wanted the horse but being an old race-tracker, I just couldn't see spending that amount of money for the horse.  I figured the guy selling the horse was trying to take advantage of my daughter and as much as I didn't want to hurt her feelings, I had to said "No."

Well, when I said that, her bright smile suddenly changed to tears; and oh boy how they did flow, if she had kept crying for 40 days and 40 nights, it would have been time to build another Ark.  And her mother was upset with me too, which didn't help the situation either.  The drive back home to our small acreage was pretty gloomy to say the least.

Realizing Paula was very determined to have a horse, which I didn't mind the idea, I decided to go horse-shopping.  I looked at several horses over the next few weeks before I went to check out a gelding a young woman was selling - told me she didn't have the time for it any more.  The horse was on the older side, about 20 years of age but I could see that it was sound and the look in its eye was what I was looking for.  When she rode the horse around the corral, I could see that it had been very well trained; it would turn in the direction the rider wanted by simply touching its neck with the reins and when running, stopped immediately on command.  As I ran my hand over the horse's body and checked out his legs, even lifting them one by one, I could tell that it hadn't been abused and had a good disposition; the horse would let a person do almost anything.  The last thing I wanted was for Paula to get kicked or bucked off; it was important to me that the horse was safe to work with and ride.  And, what really sold me on the horse was when the young woman let me take him for a ride because I can't ride for shit and when I rode him and he did everything I asked, I knew he was the one; he was a good choice and even $200.00 less than Kelly.

However, Paula was still upset and mad at me when she found out I'd bought another horse, rather than her Kelly.  But all that soon changed because she fell in love with that horse, just like I knew she would.

I believe when we bought the horse, it's name was Cheyenne but Paula changed it to Tequila Sunrise.  (Good thing changing a horse's name isn't like changing the name on a boat, it's considered bad luck.)  I don't know how she came up with his name, perhaps it was because we had a big Saint Bernard named Whiskey or because the horse was full of spirit.  Besides being a gelding, Tequila was part quarter horse/Clydesdale but leaned more towards the quarter horse side.  His coat was the colour of an evening sunrise with white patches (one looked like the map of Canada) and he had four white stockings, a white blaze on his forehead and white tail and mane - he was a beautiful and vibrant animal.

Since we only had two acres; really just a barn and a very small corral for the horse, Paula would ride him to a neighbour's place each morning, where Tequila had 10 acres to roam and graze on fresh grass.  She told me she would fall asleep on his back, her head resting in his thick mane until he shook his head after a few minutes, as if to tell her it was time to go to school.  The horse and the girl became one.

Paula used to race Tequila against her friend's horses and even though they were more svelte, he was always in the lead.  I guess without my knowing it at the time, we'd bought a racehorse - not that I'd bet on him if he was in a real race but he was a good runner just the same.  I remember once he got away; I think the gate was left open.  He was heading up the road at a pretty good clip.  Yee-Haw - Just like a cowboy, I grabbed a rope, saddled up my motorcycle and went in hot pursuit.  I can still recall the way he was looking at me when I pulled up alongside and yelled, "Whoa!"  I guess he thought he'd gotten away, was going to join up with a herd of wild mustangs until I pulled up.  But he was good about it, he just stopped running, let me tie the rope to his halter and then lead him back home behind my motorcycle.

Another good friend Tequila had was a little cat Paula brought home one day.  She named it Ti Me (Latin for Little Me) and it lived out in the barn too.  At night, the cat was often seen curled up on the horse, asleep in its mane.  Those were good times as I recall and for me, there's just something very special about animals and especially a horse.  They're so big; they're so powerful and yet they can be so gentle and loyal - it's great to have at least one pass through your life because they can be a very good friend  and that's what Paula and her Tequila Sunrise were - the best of friends.

This short tale is just for you Paula - thanks for the memories - love you a lot - dad xoxoxox

HERODE'S BOY - THE RACEHORSE THAT SELDOM LOST UNTIL...

One of the first racehorses my dad bought was named Herode's Boy; a steel-grey, four year old gelding.  Herode was one of our favourite horses because almost every race he was entered in; he may not have always came first, but he usually brought home a paycheck.  I used to really enjoy watching him race because when the horses we're beginning to scramble around the last turn before heading down the mainstretch to the finish wire, he was generally in about 7th position and hugging the rail.  The jockey could often be seen then, half standing up and holding onto the reins tightly with both his hands, trying desperately to hold him back, so he wouldn't make his charge too soon.  It was great, when the jock slid atop the tiny saddle, slackened his hold and waved the crop along side his head; Herode didn't need a whip to get moving, just know that it was there.  Didn't seem to matter if the track was lightning fast or thick mud, Herode's Boy would just start rapidly gaining on the leaders and passing them like they were standing still.  His races were always very close at the wire; often a photo finish to determine the winner.  I'd be so excited, my heart pounding in my chest as they thundered towards the finish line; I couldn't help but yell with many of the other screaming punters, "Come on Herode!  Come on boy!  You can do it!"

Herode was a one of a kind racehorse.  The gelding was so high-strung and nervous, even when he wasn't racing and just relaxing in his stall, whenever he heard the starting gate bell ring; the horses charging down the track, the jockeys yelling in their ears, the cracking of crops; he'd rush to the half-open stall door and start weaving his big head from side to side; unlike Sweetie Pie (previous story) he loved to race.  Even before I'd put the bit in his mouth and slide the bridle over his head to lead him to the paddock, Herode knew he was going to race and he'd proudly prance alongside me with his long light-grey tail swishing back and forth.  I think he must of had a lot of racing fans because his odds were never very high and my dad and I always bet on him too.  He was usually entered in the 8th race, the last race of the day and  many the time I cashed in my tickets - even won the Quinella (need to pick the winner and the second horse) - he almost always put some jingle in my pocket.

I can still recall Herode's Boy's last race, which was at Lansdowne Park in Richmond, BC.  He didn't seem quite right to us, not the usual spunky get-me-to-the-races sort of a horse that day.  When the 8th race was held, it was usually beginning to get quite dark, so the flood lights were always turned on; couldn't have ten horses racing in the dark at close quarters and gambling spectators not being able to see them - never know what sort of hanky-panky the jocks would get up to.  As per usual during the race, Herode's Boy was in about 7th or 8th position but when the jockey urged him to run, even gave him a crack or two on the ass with the whip, he didn't make his usual gallant charge; he finished last that day.

Herode still seemed pretty frisky when I picked him up at the end of the race and walked him back to the stables.  He even jumped around a bit when we washed the sweat and grime off him.  However, after we put the heavy horse blanket over him and I began walking him around the shed row, giving him a sip of water every time we came up to his water-pail in order to cool him out; I knew there was something wrong with him; he just wasn't the same old Herode's Boy I'd walked so many times before.  For some reason or another, he kept passing a lot of gas and wanted to lie down.  Each time he tried, I'd have to yank up his head and jab him in the ribs with my elbow to keep him walking.  I asked my dad if I should put him in his stall and wipe him down with straw, which was sometimes another way to cool out a hot horse if he had pulled up too sore to walk after the race but he said no.  I could see the worried look in my dad's eyes; he thought the horse was perhaps suffering from colic when he said, "Keep him walking and whatever you do, don't let him lie down."

I remember walking Herode around the poorly lit shed row for about another 15 minutes, frantically trying to keep him on his feet, when my dad sent for Doc Talbot, the track veterinarian.  When the doc arrived, he told me to take the steel-grey gelding (his stomach was quite bloated by this time) into his stall and face him towards the back wall.  After checking out the horse very quickly, he then filled a syringe with 10cc's of some sort of liquid and plunged it into Herode's neck.  After extracting the needle and wiping the horse's neck with a bit of alcohol dabbed on a puff of cotton batten, I remember looking at my dad as the doc said, "Turn him loose."

I didn't like the idea of letting go of Herode and I could see in my dad's face that he felt the same way.  I felt as long as I kept him walking, even if I had to walk him all night long: he would get better.  Whether Doc Talbot knew what he was doing or not that night because we knew he was a drunk, I'll never know, but almost as soon as I turned the gelding loose, he laid down in the stall and began trying to roll over.  It was heart-wrenching to watch Herode thrashing in the thick straw and when he tried to stand up, we could hear his pitiful groans.  It wasn't long before his struggles ceased; his long legs stopped moving and his big, dark chocolate-brown eyes finally just stared at the ceiling after he'd twisted his bowels and died.

I can't say that I'd ever saw my dad cry, but he cried that night - we both did after I shut the stall door and we held each other.  It wasn't because Herode was worth ex-amount of bucks or that he'd never win any money again; my dad and I both loved that high-strung, weaving and get-me-to the races, steel-grey gelding with all our hearts.