His gray shirt had room to spare and his pants were held up by suspenders.
He scratched his bald head when he saw me.
“Moe,” he grunted. “Figures they'd send you. What'd I do now?”
“No one sent me, Gus.”
He leaned against his shabby counter.
“What're you doin' here then?”
I gave him the cold stare.
He growled and stepped forward, wagging a crooked finger in my face.
“Listen, Moe, I ain't laid a hand on that... woman.”
“Only 'cause she hasn't been here, Gus.”
“You gotta give me another chance!”
“You've had five chances. More. Only started counting last year.”
His eyes moved to the sawed-off shotgun behind the bar.
“You can try for it if you want to, Gus.”
A car door slamming shut got our attention.
The law walked in a second later in the form of a big guy with a big hat and a big gun belt. He could've come in off the set of a western. All he needed was a pair of chaps. Maybe some spurs.
“Afternoon, Gus,” he drawled, looking me over. “You I don't know.”
“This is my old pal Moses, Zack. From back east.”
“Moses,” said the sheriff. He leaned against the door jamb and crossed his arms. “That's quite a name.”
“He's quite a guy,” chimed in Gus. “Aren't you, Moe?”
“If you say so.”
The sheriff fished a hand-rolled cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lipped it.
“All right,” he began. “I know what Gus was back east, which means I know what you are, Moses. I'm here to tell you-- friendly-like-- that we ain't back east. We don't go in for that back east foolishness here. Won't stand for it.”
He said it with a smile. And a hand on the butt of his Colt.
“So what's Gus done to bring you all this way, Moses?”
“He's beatin' my sister.”
His stare faltered.
“You're Leah's brother?”
“That's right.”
He nodded and ambled toward the bar.
“I know what you think you gotta do, Moses, but I can't let you.”
Before I could argue he slugged Gus. Blood and teeth hit the floor. He gave him two more in the face, then went to work on the body.
When he was through he let him fall and looked to me.
“Satisfied, Moses?”
“Almost, Sheriff.” I took my gun out of my pocket.
“Hell. Now look here.”
“You look here. Leah told me about you. Said she went to you three times. You sent her right back to
him.”
His hand floated above his holster.
“What about you, Moses? He's been at it for years and from the sound of it you knew. What took you so long?”
“That's a question I ask myself a lot. Leah stood it as long as she could. She's had it. I'm a level-headed guy. Seeing my sister step off the bus with a black eye and a split lip brings out the worst in me. All I can tell you is I'm here now.”
“Not good enough.”
“That's between her, me, and God.”
He relaxed his stance and gave me his best stare.
“You know what, Moses? I think you're all talk.”
He drew. I let him have it. He fell, taking half the bar with him.
I reloaded and put my gun back in my pocket, then hauled Gus up.
He slobbered and sobbed.
“You're through. She's gonna file and you're sign whatever she puts in front of you. Then you disappear.
And when you're gone you stay gone. Get me?”
I left him thinking it over as I headed back into the dust.
I stopped outside the barber shop on my way out of town.
“Hey,” said the toothless guy on the bench. “You find Gus?”
“Sure did. Thanks for the directions.”
I turned back a couple of steps down the road.
“Hey bo, you lookin' for work?”
“Everybody's lookin' for work.”
“Know anything 'bout owning a bar?”
“I like beer.”
“Close enough. If you head out that way you might just catch a runaway train. Tell 'em Moses sent you.”
********
Jeff Tsuruoka's life as a writer began at the age of six. He wrote stories based on the monster movies he watched on the 4:30 Movie after school. Thirty seven years later he still writes monster stories, though the monsters that populate his current work have a little more on the ball- at least in terms of conversation skills and the ability to drive cars- than Godzilla and his pals did. His first published story can be found in the Orange Karen Anthology- A Tribute to a Warrior. Buy one. Now. Rumor has it he's hard at work on his first novel.
Jeff blogs-- in the loosest sense of the word-- at thetsuruokafiles.wordpress.com
LIONHEART / Sommer Cooks
LIONHEART / Lisa Shambrook
Jasper dismounted and landed with a soft thud. Clouds of swirling dust eddied and clung to his boots, but his eyes were fixed on the foreboding mountain before him. Dawn’s pale light tickled the edge of morning, as Jasper strode purposefully towards the foothill.
Already exhausted from days of travel, nights beneath the stars, and years of battle across the border, he paused at the foot of the mountain and rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword. He took a moment to drop to his knees and bow his head. He rose with newfound strength, and stared up into the depths of the giant silhouetted before him. His neck arced as he traced the lines of the mountain, until his eyes picked out a tower cut into the side of the cliff, not far from the top.
He could have ridden up with ease in the saddle upon his dragon, but this was a journey that needed to be made by foot.
Jasper checked the straps on his pack and quickly downed a mouthful from his water skin, before glancing up again at the tiny tower. The sun rose behind the mountain and barely any light crept to the bottom of the track. He looked over his shoulder; his dragon was curled beneath a crop of rocks, soothing away the endless days of travel in heavy slumber. Faint rays shimmered across his scales, and Jasper smiled.
He was up the lower slopes by the time the sun peered over the summit, and moving onto the less traversed trail. The going was tough, but the pathway ascended and Jasper climbed.
Rocks and crags jutted across the path, and Jasper began to swelter in the midday sun as he ducked and vaulted under and over stony obstacles. The ruthless heat pervaded the shade, beads of sweat glistened on his brow and muscles complained. His ragged breath growled in his throat but he knew the journey was worth making.
He sank down onto a boulder and rubbed his calves. He laughed, imagining how good icy water would taste, but this mountain was dry and he gulped down a mouthful of tepid water from his skin instead. He stared up into the peak, the tower was hidden behind the stack of rock before him, but he knew she watched and waited, and he wasn’t about to let her down, again.
He tightened a boot buckle and rose from the ground, smoothed down his jerkin and pushed up his sleeves. The path got steeper and, as the sun baked, Jasper pushed on. Loose rock made the path harder and the heat beat down upon his damp hair. Red streaks shone through his auburn locks, and dark, wet straggles stuck to his face. Rivulets of sweat ran down his scarred cheek, down his neck and across his taut chest. He paused and loosened his leather tunic, releasing buckles and opening the neck of his shirt. As he climbed, Jasper sighed with relief as the relentless path cut through high tors and finally moved out of the sun.
Memories coursed through his mind as he rested; battles out on the field, the clang of sword and the weight of armour. Blood curdling screams and cries of triumph echoed, and he wondered if she’d forgiven him for leaving her?
He lifted his hand to his chest and fingered a scar running from his shoulder to his heart. The offe
nding sword should have run him through, but a side step he’d learned while sparring with her as a child had saved him. Now he was coming home, and nothing was going to stop him.
He climbed, even though the path was now gone and the trail nothing more than a narrow ridge on the edge of the precipice. He climbed through the glare of the afternoon sun, until a prominence blocked his way, and the ridge faded beneath his feet.
He balanced, hugging the bluff, his eyes scanning and his fingers feeling desperately around the protrusion for a notch, a nook, anything... Fear rose, a flame of dread curling within his belly, and he glanced back at the rock face stretching behind him. There was no other way, no other path, and yet, his way was barred and he had nowhere to go.
Beyond the overhang, the roof of the tower peeked enticingly, but the rock yielded nothing beneath his fingers.
His heart dropped, until a sweet voice spoke softly. “We can move mountains…”
He shook his head trying to rid his brain of delirium.
“We can move mountains…but we must move them together…” Her voice hung in the cloying air as he balanced, and his aural hallucination extended to other senses as the scent of honeyed neroli wafted on the breeze.
He hugged the cliff and stretched his hand around the lump of rock. A kiss settled like a butterfly on the back of his hand and then two strong hands gripped his. His mind whirled with impossibility and recollection of gymnastic moves learned when he was young. What he’d learned on the battlefield would serve nothing up here, but her gravity defying acrobatics filled his mind.
“Move this mountain aside…” came her command and he acquiesced, allowing her strength to pull and flip him as he jumped. His arm twisted, and his shoulder was almost wrenched from its socket as he rotated in the air with death-defying grace, but he landed beside her on the other side of the plateau.
She stood in glory, her lithe figure clad in leather and her golden hair a shining halo in the evening sun. Green eyes twinkled, “You do, indeed, have a lion’s heart!” her voice rang out, but before she could say another word, he leaned close, placed his impatient lips against hers and claimed his lioness.
********
A writer and dreamer with her head in the clouds...Lisa writes, scrapbooks, crafts & photographs. And she loves dragons...
Lisa's lyrical writing is emotional and imaginative, concentrating on description, colour and the visceral nature of life. Her first book 'Beneath the Rainbow' is available on Amazon.
A wife and mother, Lisa draws inspiration from family, life, and imagination. Born and raised in vibrant Brighton, England, she now resides in a small West Wales market town rich in legend and lore.
You can find her on:
Facebook: Lisa Shambrook – The Last Krystallos
Twitter: @LastKrystallos
Personal Blog: www.thelastkrystallos.blogspot.com
Photography Blog: www.theshutterworks.wordpress.com
HISTORY AND LOVE / Patty Castillo Davis
ANNIE AND ALFIE GRAY WITH AN A / Lizzie Koch
Sleep faded away despite Annie’s resistance. Her body ached, her head throbbed and her mouth was sandpaper but whilst she slept, those things didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Her eyes fluttered and light forced its way in. She tried to move her arm, now tingling painfully. Her legs were under a dead weight. She was hot. The bodies around her didn’t stir as she kicked one away and pushed the other, trampled over a third and stepped over a slumbering minefield. The toilet stank. There was no toilet paper. The mirror was cracked but Annie could see the hollow face staring back; eyes dark and smudged with makeup, cheeks sallow, lips pink and dry crusted with specks of white. Only one hooped earring hung in her tangled bleached blonde hair that sat on naked shoulders. She stared hard into the mirror but nothing changed. The empty, shallow face stared back, offering nothing.
“Hey Sugar,” Alfie purred, standing at the toilet. “Great night Babe.” Annie took his word for it. Every night for the past month had been one long drink and drugs orgy and not much singing. But then her heyday was fifteen years ago where she had achieved her dream; a number one album and single with a sell out tour. Then she met David, her husband. Fell madly in love. They married, had children, lived in the perfect home with perfect neighbors, the best school and fantastic holidays. The band and fame faded away. But Alfie never did. Alfie Gray, ‘Gray with an A’ as he always said turned up on her door step with promises of stardom on the reunion tour. Her star would shine again he had promised. She didn’t need persuasion. Suburbia wasn’t for Annie and nothing David said could keep her away from tasting success again or the noise of the crowd and the buzz of singing live.
She could hear the pleading words of David; reminding her of where they met and going on tour would just undo all the good work she had put in, the fifteen years without a drop to drink. Annie sloshed ice cold water on her face to rid the image of her sober husband, the smiling faces of her twins; their thirteenth birthday approaching. She had promised she’d be home for that. But David didn’t believe her, knew that once Alfie had his greasy fingers all over her, he wouldn’t see her again, not his Annie anyway. He might, if he was lucky, see her spread across the newspapers in a drunken haze or in a hospital bed waiting for a transplant. He suspected it would be neither; unlucky in seeing her in a coffin because of ‘Alfie Gray with an A’ and their addiction to each other which would do more damage than any drugs or booze concoction. Annie suspected he was right about Alfie and the coffin but it was her choice, her road and she couldn’t change direction even if she wanted to.
“Washing away the guilt?” Alfie observed, standing behind her. He had lost almost everything once Annie left all those years ago but he had never forgotten her, her voice, her body, her energy. Tracking her down had taken every last penny and all his sanity. She was no good for him, theirs was a volatile relationship that would only end in destruction but he lived when she was near and however short that was, it was worth every second. Annie smiled, following him back to the bedroom still littered with bodies, empty bottles and the tail- tale signs of a drug cocktail. She lit up a cigarette as Alfie passed her a bottle still holding the dregs of flat champagne; an unorthodox breakfast that fitted perfectly into her life now.
“When’s my next gig Alfie? I haven’t sung in over a week.”
“Well Annie, you kinda screwed that one up yourself. High on stage, forgetting your words. It got ugly. The audience started throwing crap at you.”
“Well I might as well go home then.”
“Is that what you really want?”
“You know what I want Alfie.” She threw the bottle on the bed, watching it bounce off a sleeping, naked body before rolling to the floor.
“Ok.” He leant across, grazing his mouth on hers. “I’ll get you the gig,” he mumbled, caressing her breast as he kissed her harder. She tasted the stale alcohol but it was Alfie. She combed her fingers through his matted hair. The body stirred next to her and she pulled away.
“The gig Alfie,” she reminded, pulling on a robe before locking herself in the bathroom for some solitude.
A shower and a plate of waffles filled Annie with vigor. But not as much as Alfie, when he came up with a gig for the next night. It had taken him most of the day but he had done what he said he would do which is what Annie loved about him. Alfie always saw her right whether it be a gig or a fix and he had come back with both.
“Sugar, it’s you and me all the way.” He popped the champagne then waved a sachet of white powder under her nose; all the goodness and ideas of cleaning up now gone as the night signaled party time. “Thought we’d celebrate in style now we have the place to ourselves.”
Annie eyed the prizes in front of her; Alfie Gray with an A being the main one. She looked out across the balcony under a sky full of stars and the brightest moon she had ever seen. She looked back towards the crumpled bed sheets and then to Alfie.
“Sweet dreams Sugar, our l
ast night in this dump.” Alfie smiled. She smiled back, tranquility settling over her. She rolled a twenty, her husband’s words echoing in her mind, knowing it was their last night. Period.
********
People called me a writer long before I admitted it to myself. With two novels (chic lit), another in progress (YA paranormal fantasy) and plenty of flash fiction, what else could I be, especially when notebooks and coloured pens excite me! Although unpublished, I am in the process of submitting my second novel (rewriting my first). Flash fiction has given me plenty more ideas, exploring different genres.
I live in Sussex, work in a primary school. Married to Ralph, have a teenage son and a bonkers cat!
Love Lizzie.
You can find out more about me and read my work at: Blog:
Website : www.40somethingundomesticateddevil.blogspot.co.uk
Facebook: Writing by The 40 Something Undomesticated Devil Lizzie Koch
Twitter @Lizzie_Koch
HERE WE GO / Christine McGraw
HERE WE GO / Samantha Geary Jones
The music house in Modesto is overflowing with excitement, buzzing through the crowd like a live charge. Tendrils of bitter smoke lick at my nose and sharp fingers of tequila tickle the back of my throat.
Ryan Russell makes his way offstage, echoes of “It’s Your Time” still hovering in the air. My friends and I went into this together—a collaborative concert celebrating our new album.
“Christine, you’re up! Knock ‘em dead!” Ruth cheered.
Here we go
The glaring lights obscure everything beyond this raised island. My voice clears--finger’s poised to pull the notes from eager strings.