The Bike Ride by John Coultas

This is a scene from a story Tripping over Murder

Janeane's hair flew out behind her; she inhaled the cool country air as she pumped at the bike pedals, swishing along the grass lined road. The green of the fields was broken by the occasional farmstead or the fiery colors of the woodlands. The track steepened forcing her to stand on the pedals, Stairmaster style, bursts of breath coming from her mouth. At the crest of the hill she stopped and looked down upon Somerset, the stiletto like white church spire, the somber brick town hall and further out on the cape the solitary lighthouse; she felt a warm surge from the picture card beauty, and from the exertion of the ride.

Putting her finger tips to her carotid artery she checked her pulse. If she was going to kill herself she wanted to know that the effort had been worth it. She smiled at the results, satisfied she had gotten a good workout. She flipped the bike around and headed downhill. The slope carried her along at a good speed, just coasting, enjoying the ride. She savored the g-forces going through the curves, and the breeze mussing her hair. And then, on the next curve there was a flash, something metallic on the road surface, then a bump, and a thump, thump, thump as she came to a halt with a deflated front tire.

Getting off she gave the wheel a spin, a thick screw was impaled in the tire. No spare tire obviously, no spare tube or tool kit, this was going to be a long walk back home pushing the bike. On the ride up she had not seen any cars, at one of those farms, she would phone. But who would she phone. Mary Smart? Officer Dan, he would give her a good chewing, going out without tools and a spare inner tube. She would have to get to a phone before that decision would be made.

She tried to make the best of the situation, there was warmth in the sunshine, the field exuded a fresh sweet aroma and the birds trilled from the groves. An explosion behind her shattered the quiet. She jumped. Turning she saw the source, bearing down upon her was a massive wall of yellow, splotched with flowers of multicolors, red, purple and blue. It screeched to a halt, smoke spewing from where the brakes probably were housed or not. As the window was rolled down, a sweet, heavy fog oozed forth; and a bandana wrapped head and sunglasses popped out to view the deflated tire, "Man, your bike is dead," The wearer suggested.


"Flat tire," Janeane countered.

"That too man," His head started nodding, it just kept going, it didn't want to stop. His hand came onto the scene with a funny, thin twisted cigarette, he sucked, and then it disappeared into the van. The head continued the bobbing, his lips pursed, "Yeah man, dead. Put it in back; give you a lift to town."

Janeane froze. Standing with the bike between her and the head bobber she could run for the field, maybe find her way to a farm before she became just another crime statistic. Bobber cracked his door open just as Janeane heard the drivers side pop as well. God, now she was in deep stuff. Two of them chasing her, she remembered the nature films where one pursuer comes on strong while the other holds back, then comes on for the kill, she shuddered. But then it was too late. Around the front of the bus came a figure, maybe six-four, muscular, denim vest, tight jeans, Harley cap snugged down over long flowing blonde hair. "Sweetheart let me help you with that." She gripped the crossbar with one hand, went to the back, flipped up the door and popped the bike in. Janeane's feet shuffled in the roadside grit unsure what to do; The Bobber just continued the bob, interrupted by intermittent drags on his smoke. Muscle girl/woman came forward to slide the passenger door open, exposing two children quietly sucking on their thumbs.

"Jump in," Muscles suggested. Behind the children there was space where camping gear and duffels were stacked. "We'll take you down to Somerset, that okay?" Muscles inquired.

Janeane gave this some quick consideration. They had her bike, there were kids on the scene, they wouldn't bump her off in front of the kids, would they? She summoned a wan smile and slid onto a low-lying duffle as the Bobber rolled the door closed. Then Mom and Dad sat themselves up front. Muscle Mom looked to her cargo, assured all was in order. From her vest pocket she pulled a cloth bag and a packet of Bugler roll-your-own paper. She pulled out a sheet, making a trough, sprinkled something from the pouch, folded and licked it sealed. Looking in the rearview mirror she held up her project, "Want one?" Muscles asked.

Janeane declined with a soft, "No thanks." She thought to herself, “Am I coming over prissy, Is that how I sounded...judgmental,” She tried to return a pleasant neutral smile. Mom lit-up, took a deep drag and then turned over the engine, it gave a pop, shudder and then the engine smoothed out to a gentle rumble. She eased on to the road, and the Bobber began rolling another, a family that ... well a family they are. Janeane was just glad to be on the way home. The open windows pushed the smoke to the rear, little wonder that children were so mellow. She ran her hand across her mouth hoping to avoid the smoke, somehow.

As the road descended into town the smokes were crushed, but saved to a pocket,

Janeane gave directions to the coffee house; she needed her drug of choice. The bus rattled to a stop. Bobs jumped out to open the side door and Mom got the bike from the back. Janeane gave thanks for her deliverance, and found her way to her coffee hangout.

The bike was pushed with one hand, Janeane's other held the paper sack with coffee latte and oatmeal cookies, that would be dinner, not nutritious but a dinner of sorts. Down the sidewalk to her house she went. "Oh, no!" Her interior voice shouted, at her house she saw the stakeout. Officer Dan in civvies camped on her front steps. She approached with caution, kicking down the bike stand, awaiting the critical assessment of her condition and that of her personal eco-transporter. He stood back taking in the disheveled hair and the flattened tire. "Appears you had one tough day," He exhaled as he stood, pulling Janeane close his nose twitched, and he pushed her back. "Where have you been and what have you been doing?" Came the gruff, professional cop voice. Frown lines grooved his forehead, hands on hips he hovered over her, and sniffed like a DEA drug hound.

Mona by John Coultas

Mona is a scene from my short story The Wheel

The tavern was empty save the presence of Dinky and Sanders. The proprietor, towel over his shoulder, elbows on the bar was attempting the posture of the listener. The customer sat opposite the barkeep, nursing a Seven and Seven, lamenting the life of the single man, living at home.

"My supervisor at the department, Mamma, they just won’t let me be...you know, make decisions. They are after me all the time. Do this, do that. Can't they just leave me alone let me do my job." Sanders whined. Dinky’s eyes squinted.

"And Mamma is always after me about getting a wife. Tonight she invited Mona over, you remember me mentioning my cousin Mona, the one I took to her prom and mine. She wants me to marry my second cousin. Mona the writer, went to NYU, writes stories for romance magazines. Goes to NYU for four years and the best she can do..."

Dinky would nod and emit a knowing grunt as the comments required. Sanders went on. "Mona's been after me for years, she's ok, she just isn't...you know, hot. Not the girl you dream about, the one you want to go home to at the end of the day, rip her clothes off and make love to. You know me Dinky, the way I am...respect women. I keep my hands off Mandie, not like Lenny. But it would be nice to have a hot wife." He snorted a laugh, and stopped to catch his breath, toying with his drink. Dinky leaned back, looked down the bar and around the room, slapping his bar towel against the counter.

Back to Sanders he asked. "Need a refill there." Dinky knew the answer, the one the kid always used. Sanders looked at the half filled glass.

"Better not, Mamma will know if I've had too much, better not."

Dinky smiled. "Gotta go in back a minute, verify a delivery I got this afternoon." He lied.


Sanders trudged up the steps to the brownstone, dreading the evening to be endured. Mamma yammering, extolling the talent and beauty of her favorite niece. Mona, bookish Mona, with the inch thick glasses and the steel mesh mouth. It had been two years ago, the last such fete.

As he reached for the knob the door was yanked open. There stood Mamma, all four-foot-ten inches of her. Her freshly permed curls, in their pink wash matching the chiffon gown that enveloped her diminutive form. "Archibald, how wonderful to have you home." Her arms reached up to her son, the falsity was the routine when guests were in the house. He bent to her, they allowed one another a quick peck to the cheek. She whispered. "You be nice to her." He sighed, the sigh of the depressed.

Mamma turned aside and motioned. "And Archibald look who we have here." Standing in the entry to the dining room stood cousin Mona. Dowdy, mousy Mona, replaced by someone having only a slight semblance of the previous incarnation.

Sanders stood transfixed. He was unable to take his eyes off the "little black dress", the dress all men fanaticize over. Mamma's little Mona was wearing that dress. The glasses, where were the glasses, she was blind with out them. Her eyes were blue, they had always been blue but the coke bottle lenses distorted the luster and sparkle he was seeing. Sparkle, that smile, where was all the metal, "Metal mouth Mona." That was my name for her he thought.

"Archibald, don't just stand there, say something to your cousin, give her a kiss."

Sanders faltered toward her, his lips twitching a vague smile. He pronounced. "Mona." And stumbled into her. His cousin steadied him, drawing him close, giving a full mouthed kiss. He was stunned, a deer in the beams of a Mack truck. It was the dress, the dark hair draping down to her shoulders, the deep "V" of her dress exposing small round breast, sumptuous, ripe ready to be picked. He inhaled her cologne, the room seemed to dip and swirl. His knees felt like they were going to slump.

"Archibald, what is the matter with you?" Mamma demanded. Tugging at his overcoat she turned him to her. She sniffed at him. "Have you been at that "Dinky" place again." She had her hands on her hips glaring.

"Now Mamma I just had one small highball." He motioned with his thumb and forefinger indicating a drink much smaller than that which he had imbibed.

"Mamma." Mona always referred to Mamma, as Mamma. "It' been two years since I saw Archie last. Let's enjoy being together" Archie, did Sanders hear that right, not Archibald. Archie was an improvement. She held his arm tight, she smiled up into his face. He was feeling woozy again.

"It's warm in here." Sanders began working at his overcoat buttons as Mamma and Mona guided him to a chair in the dining room, where he sat and removed the coat.

Sanders leaned back in his chair, Mona noted perspiration on his upper lip. "Mamma, Archie might needs some water, he doesn't look well." She patted his hand and ran her fingers through his hair. He relaxed and again exhaled a deep sigh.

"I've warned him about those places, and drinking." Mamma scolded as she went for the water.

"I've always admired your hair it is just so dark and thick." Mona cooed. Her eyes followed deep rich furrows her fingers created in his hair. Mamma returned, she stood in the doorway, the glass of water in hand, taking in her son, and Mona caressing his hair. Her dreams were fulfilled, her life was complete.


"Archie, you are such a gentleman to walk me home." Mona said. The snow crunched under their feet as they progressed down the sidewalk. "Why don't you hold my hand. We can steady one another, don't want to fall." Sanders reached for her hand, she giggled. "It is so quiet when it snows, the flakes muffle sounds. I guess that is why."

"I can't get over how different you are Mona. You are a woman now. You are just so changed." Sanders complimented. He was pleased with himself. And Mona rewarded him with a my hero smile. Just maybe he could strip away that little black dress.

Mona stopped. "This is my building Archie." She continued to hold his hand. "Thank you for walking with me. I would like to show my appreciation. Would you come up with me." She turned her face to him, she offered her lips. He hesitated, then moved to her, kissing her lightly, she slid her arms inside his coat, gathering him to her, pressing her open mouth to his.

She pushed back, giggling. "Come up Archie, we can have a drink, well chocolate, or coffee, Mamma would not approve of liquor."

Hand in hand they went up the steps and into the entry vestibule. A row of mail boxes covered one wall. At the far end a man stood, looking into his empty box muttering. "Guido had the winner, Guido had the winner."

As they took the stairs up to Mona's apartment Sanders asked. "Who was that?"

"Joe Ferrara, he owns this building and a hundred more in the city. This is the only nice one, he lives here."


Mona’s apartment was not small, but not large. It was neat and clean but modest in furnishings. Sanders was impressed by her accomplishment.

With an open hand Mona noted the apartment layout. "Here is my small sitting area, my dining table and kitchen nook. I am especially proud of this room. Mona slid aside two doors exposing a bedroom, large for the size of the apartment and a king sized bed. She allowed him to brush past her, her hand rubbing against him with intent. He sucked air and reddened. She moved to him, pulling away his jacket, tugging at his shirt, she slipped her dress from her shoulders, and with a free hand she slapped the light switch off. The room fell to darkness. "Archie do you want me." She asked.

"Oh, yes Mona. I want you, I have always wanted you."

She snickered. "Oh Archie you are just so big."

"Mona you are soft, so beautiful. Mamma would like it if we got married."

"Oh Archie, let me slip off your pants, you get your shirt. Oh, Archie. Now your shorts." Mona purred.

"Mona I've never met a woman like you." His voice cracked.

"You will never forget tonight Archie. Did you read my book?"

"Well...I...I was going to."

"Lay back Archie. Stretch out, relax. I want to be on top. You will enjoy me on top. I will be your master. I will entertain you."

"Oh, Mona you can do whatever you want." In the darkness there is a clicking sound...and then again. What is that Mona? My wrist I can't move my wrist." He protested. A metallic sound, metal scraping against metal could be heard.

"Shush Archie, you are going to hurt your self. It's a shame you didn't read my novel. It is all there. It's about us. I almost forgot I need to put this on."

"I think I need to leave now, undue the what...handcuffs, is that what they are?" There was a note of protest in Sanders voice.

There was a ripping sound. "In a while Archie, in a while you will understand. But first I'll put this on." Sanders felt something going across his face, he tried to turn away, fight it off, too late. Duct tape, the taste, feel and smell of duct tape. He pulled his wrist and twisted his head. Then she began pulling at his feet. Again there was the clicking sound. He was unable to move his legs. His body torqued up and to the sides.

"Ummff! Hlpfff! Mmmfff! Mmmfff!" His muffled screams and shouts became comic to Mona, she was enjoying her efforts.

"Too dark in here." She ran to the windows, flinging the drape open, allowing a gray glow from the street lamps to fill the room. "That's better Archie, I want to see you enjoying our time together." His eyes were opened wide, the defused light caught the terror within. Mona began removing the rest of her clothing. She flicked her finger at the tip of Sanders nose. "Now I remember you saying how you liked all the changes I've made." She turned in the light to let him see her body. Let him see what he was going to enjoy. "Do you like what I've done. Oh, and don't worry cousin, I've practiced with other men. I know how to give pleasure." She giggled her girlish giggle. "I'm good, every man I've had leaves with his tail dragging out of here."

“Ummmff! Ummmff! Sanders tossed sided to side arching his neck.

Her gaze returned to his eyes, eyes that expressed only fear. She was happy, the project was going well. She curled up next to Sanders kitten-like, her head on his shoulder, one hand toyed with the small patch of hair on his chest. "Archie do you remember my high school prom." Archie didn't respond. She lifted her head, he was studying the ceiling. She grabbed a handful of chest hair and yanked.

"Affffffff!" was Sanders only response. He thrashed for a moment then remembered resistance was useless.

"That's better Archie, I was afraid you had fallen asleep. Where was I. Oh, yes the prom. Do you remember?" She paused, there was no response from Sanders. Her grasp went back to his chest.

"Ummfff, ummfff." He responded. His eyes focused on her.

"Good boy, you are learning fast." She patted his head. "The prom, remember when you spent the night with the other boys, telling stories about me, reciting your favorite names for me. "Coke eyes, metal mouth, String Bean Sally." She rolled on top of him, leaning over him. "Not much of a string bean now. I saw the look at Mamma's house. You were taking me in, disrobing me, having your way."

She flicked the tip of his nose again, he winced. "How many years Archie, name calling, bullying, torment. Unfortunately Archie I only get one night. One night Archie is all I have, I have to make the best of it. Years of torment released in one night. I'm looking forward to it. Aren't you?"

"Nffff! Nfff!" Sanders protested. She stroked him. "Nfff!"

"Archie your a big boy." She examined his response. "Well not so big. You can handle it."

She stroked more. "Nffff! Nfff!"

Mona leaned forward, palms on his shoulders, stretching herself out, matching him head to toe. "I've had better Archie, well to be honest, much better. But you'll get the idea cousin, by morning most certainly you will understand."

Sanders body arched and quaked. "Affff! Afff! Afff!"

She was sitting on his chest again. "I don't think you will want to discuss this with your friends at Dinky's. It might be too, well too hard to live down. As for Mamma, I will have to explain that you were unable to fill my needs. She will be disappointed; she was so looking forward to grandchildren. She will understand, knowing you for the failure you are. She erupted into another burst of giggles as she brought Sanders back to life.

"Nfff! Nfff! Nfff!" He rocked back and forth on the bead.

"I'm enjoying it also Archie." She spewed more giggles.


Morning seeped into the room. Mona at the side of her bed stretched and yawned. She wrapped herself in a modest robe. Behind her lay an inert Sanders, surrounded by vibrators, stimulators, and other gadgets from the trade. All guaranteed to provide a good time. "Archie." Mona whispered. She touched his arm, giving him a slight shake. His bloodshot eyes shot open.

"Nfff! Nfff! Nfff!" He said.

"No Archie You are just too much a man for me, I couldn't possibly go another round with you." She patted his arm, he jerked away from her. She smiled a beatific smile.

"Archie you will really have to read my novel, and then you will understand the humor in this. I'm sure you will enjoy the story. The critics have just loved it." She smiled down at Sanders as she ripped the duct tape from his mouth.

Guido's Liquor by John Coultas

This is a scene from a work in progress The Wheel

Guido Lazzari was ringing up a sale at his old fashioned cash register, brass, huge keys and lots of noise as the drawer banged open. "Mrs. Cecchi, will that be all tonight?" He asked as he bagged the grey haired woman's purchases.

Mrs. Cecchi looked around, rubbing her hands at her sides. "Sure Guido, don't think I forgot nothing."

"How’s about a lotto ticket? Big drawing tonight, and I got the winner in her, I can just feel it." He encouraged with a smile.

"You know me Guido; never buy those things, waste of money." She pulled the bags forward, squeezing them in her ample arms. "Waste of money Guido, you know me; money comes too hard to waste on no lotto."

The door banged shut as Mrs. Cecchi went out into the cold night. A young fellow in grease stained coveralls placed a bottle on the counter. "Ciggies Guido." He requested.

Guido turned and pulled a pack form a carton, slapping it on the counter. "Marlboro Red, and a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, how ya doing Sal?" Guido asked.

"I'm ok. Give me five lottos, let the machine pick the numbers." Sal said. Guido went about ringing up his sale and tending to the lottos.

"Tonight’s the night Sal." Guido smiled as he handed the ticket to his customer.

Sal shrugged. "With you Guido, every night's the night."

The wind pushed a frail Joe Ferrara through the door, pellets of snow followed after. "Night Sal." Guido nodded, and stepped back as Ferrara approached the counter. He slammed a stack of bills on the counter.

"Count it Guido, two hundred and fifty dollars." Ferrara smirked.

"And what you want me to do with your two hundred and fifty dollars Mr. Ferrara?"

"Lotto tickets, I want you’s to start printing out lotto tickets." Ferrara turned to view the old Rheingold clock. "Aint got much time Guido." He chuckled.

"Your right Mr. Ferrara, not much time I'll print 'em out ten to a slip."

"No you won't Guido, each one separate ticket, you know how I do it." Ferrara protested. He made another pass at the clock. "Hurry it up Guido, shuts down in twenty-five minutes."

Guido slumped. "Sure Mr. Ferrara two hundred and fifty individual tickets." As he turned to his lotto machine he exhaled. "Ass hole."

"What's that Guido, what you say? I can go down the street, I can go some place else ya know."

"I didn't say nothing Mr. Ferrara, punch up your tickets just fine." Guido began pushing at keys.

Frankie browsed through wine bottles, reading labels and checking the prices. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, leafing through the few bills to be found. He pulled the cheapest bottle he could find from the rack, and walked to the front of the store. "Hi Guido." He called to the owner, whose head was down intent upon the lotto numbers.

Guido looked up and over to the clock. "Hey Frankie, how ya doin’? "His head returned to the lotto machine.

"I'm ok." Frankie responded to a preoccupied Guido.

Guido scribbled a notation. "Mr. Ferrara, Frankie here has a hot date. How's about I ring him up?"

Ferrar puffed up his small frame as best he could. "Frankie's hot date is gonna wait I need those numbers before eight, now get with it Guido." He snarled and glared at Frankie.

Frankie had difficulty not staring at the clock clicking closer to eight. He could envision Sadie slipping off her uniform, and leaving the diner. He wouldn't be able to see her until Monday. Monday was to damn far off, too far to think about. "Gotta see her tonight." He mutterd to himself.

Guido placed the two hundred and fifty tickets in front of Mr. Ferrara. "There you go Mr. Ferrara, two fifty, just like you wanted."

Ferrara's hand reached for the tickets. "How's about a bag, don't wanna lose one." Guido suggested.

"Don't need a bag, want to see the numbers, feel the paper, know that I got the winner here." He grabbed at his purchase.

"That's what I been telling my customers all day, got the winner here in my store."

Ferrara smiled. "No Guido, I got the number here in my hands." He shook the numbers at Guido as he left the store.

"I don't know why he buys those things; he is as rich as The Donald. Putz!" Guido shook his head and reached for Frankie's bottle. "What you got there Frankie." He looked at the wine. "You don't take this for a date with a girl, this you drink in an alley." He laughed.

"All I could afford Guido, that bad, huh?"

Guido rang up the wine. "How about a ticket, maybe Ferrara didn't get it, the big winner, never know?"

Frankie handed over all his bills to Guido. "That's all I got."

"Some hot date she is going to have." Guido laughed at his joke and Frankie’s predicament as he slid the bottle into a bag. "Night Frankie." Frankie nodded as he went to the door.


Joe Ferrara stood below the street light, lotto tickets fanned out in his hands; his lips moved as he read through the number series, squeaks of glee were emitted from his mouth as lucky series were found. He knew that this was going to be his day. He wasn't going to buy anything. He had his rentals, oiffice building. He could buy more, but more buildings, more headaches. He wanted to hold the money, millions, tens of millions in his hands, smell it and feel it. He was thinking of emptying that extra bedroom, filling it with money and just rolling in it.

The wind tugged at his collar, he reached up, turning up his overcoat just as a strong gust ripped at his ticket pulling them from his hand sending them skyward in a swirling eddy.

Frankie stepped out of Guido's just in time to see what appeared to be a flurry of snow sliding up to the street lamp. Ferrara stretched as high as his small frame would allow, his arthritic hands grasping at the ascending tickets. He stood for a moment, staring at his departing fortune. "Mr. Ferrara, can I help, wha's the matter?" Frankie asked.

Ferrara doubled up and sobbed. "My tickets, ever last ticket is gone." Frankie put his hand on the grieving mans shoulder. "Get away, Joe Ferrara don' need your help. Joe Ferrara needs nobody's help." He yanked his shoulder away from Frankie.

"I just wanted to help was all."

"Like I says, don't need no help." Ferrara straightened, and shrugged away from Frankie, shuffling through the accumulating snow down into the darkness of the receding sidewalk.

Frankie slipped the wine into his coat pocket, and buttoned his collar against the encroaching wind. “God, Sadie’s gotta be there.” He spoke to himself, striding off towards the diner.

The Barista by John Coultas

Billy balanced his Sharps .50 across the tongue of the wagon, the wind whipped and swirled the buffalo grass all the way to the horizon. His eyes blurred, he looked away, and then refocused on the sight and further out to the hillock, about a mile distant. Bat slipped in next to him, placing a handful of cartridges at his side. "Quanah still there?" He asked. Billy nodded in the affirmative, not moving his eyes off the hill.

"I heard gunfire in the store." Billy glanced to Bat and then back to the hill.

Bat snorted out a cynical laugh. "Olds had an accident, wife handed him a reloaded riffle, went off, his head is all over the place, take my chances out here, safer."

Billy gave a slight grunt, not moving his eyes...


"Sorry to intrude Mr. Wilson, will you want a refill." Frank looked up to Nicki, tall, thin, dark brown hair pulled back, large brown eyes and a small, neat smiling mouth, with deft hands she swooped up the empty cup.

Frank stretched, covered his yawn with his hand, he looked to his watch and Nicki, he enjoyed every chance. "You'll be open another hour. I get so lost in this. Yeah, another cappuccino would be great" He began typing as she walked away, he grabbed a furtive glance at her swaying hips as she receded across the room.


Nicki was cleaning up. "Almost done here." Frank was completing a few last lines.

Outside Nicki turned the key in the lock, Frank was to her side. "Mr. Wilson, I would be interested in reading some of your work, maybe what you were doing today."

"I'll bring in a copy tomorrow, that be okay?" He offered.

"I was thinking I could go by your place, I could read, we could discuss your work. It is just too noisy, too much activity here."

"Well, sure we could do that." Frank was surprised by her assertive ways.


Frank was sorting through a stack of manuscripts; an open beer was to the side on the coffee table. Nicki was next to him on the couch, sipping on her beer, legs curled under her. Frank pulled out the story he was in search of. "Here's the one, you can start with this one while I'm printing out my latest."

She took the work, flipping through it. "You have a lot of words in you, this and that stack there." She settled back to begin reading. Frank pulled out several other pieces.

"My latest chapter." Frank re-entered the room, dropping the chapter on the table. "Let me know when you are done there."

She turned the last page. "Done." She traded for the new chapter, and began anew.

"Another beer?" Frank asked.

"Sure, almost finished." She didn't take her eyes from the manuscript. "This is fun, got questions when I'm done."

Frank set the beer in front of her, then sat down next to her.

"This is great to see the creative process, you coming in the shop, working there, see the results, kinda special, different, seeing it before it is a book." Words were bubbling out of her.

"What did you think of the story?" He asked.

"Yeah, well, that was the big question." She leaned back, facing Frank. "Why do you do a story that takes place over a hundred years ago, and Texas, Have you ever been to Texas.

"No, I have never been in Texas, and the time period, I find it interesting, as my readers do." Frank rubbed his stubbled chin.

"Shouldn't writers use personal experiences for their stories?"

"Jules Verne, Anne Rice and J.R.R. Tolkien created worlds and creatures that didn't exist. They couldn't experience those creatures, those worlds, they were a creation of their imaginations."

"That's true."

Nicky read through more pages, turned to Frank again. "It's not very P.C., killing Indians and all."

"Stories of war, life and death conflicts allow the writer to show man at his most basic, what triggers action, what brings out the best in human beings. I try to be even handed in the presentation of my characters and events."

"How did you come up with this story?"

"Research, the history of that particular rifle, the Sharps .50 mentioned the Second Battle of Adobe Walls, I found it interesting."

"And this is exactly as it happened." She held up the chapter.

"No that is where literary license comes in. I'm not a photographer or journalist, its not a true picture or news report that we create, I will take facts and characters and embellish them, make the story more dramatic."

Frank leaned forward, straightened the stack of manuscripts. "The artist, the writer are destroyers, one reason they have difficulty blending into society, we observe and put those observation on a canvas or a piece of paper, we use creative license, distort what we have seen, rendering a painting or a piece of fiction with dramatic impact. Pablo Picasso's Guernica derives it's power, it's punch from the distortions of reality. A photograph of the city would have captured but a sliver of what happened there, Picasso shows the horrors of many days and many places in that one work."

"Wow, I never thought of art in that way before."

"The artist, not all, but many are solitary souls; they work alone to be productive as well as from an inability to find those that share their values, their outlook on life."


Frank was on the couch, Nicky curled in a chair, a manuscript on the floor; he stretched, yawned and shuffled to the kitchen. Grabbing a carton of eggs, coffee beans, plates and silver, he set up shop at the kitchen table. Pulling a hand mill from a cupboard, he poured in beans and began turning the handle. Nicky appeared in the doorway, combing her bed hair with her fingers, with little success. She cleared her throat; Frank jumped and gave her a quick appraisal.

"I know, not a pretty sight." She rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand.

"I didn't say that, it is Einsteinian, everything is relative. I'm glad you are awake, now I can make noise." He poured the half ground beans into an electric grinder. "That would have taken all day." Frank was looking at the hand crank.

She cleared her throat again, looking around the kitchen. "Not what I would have expected, so very neat, organized."

"Let me get you a clean bath towel, wash cloth, sure I have an extra toothbrush."

"Mr. Wilson, Frank..."

"Nicky, you need it."

"Frank, you don't have to be so blunt."

Frank was scooping eggs onto plates when Nicky returned. "Smells good, I'm hungry."

"Sit over there Nicky." Frank pointed with the egg coated spoon. "You look nice, not that you looked all that bad ruffled."

"You needn't remind me." She smiled.

Sitting across from her he poured coffee. "That's a funny little pot; I've never seen one quite like it."

It's a Bialetti, Italian pot; it was supposed to be a gag gift from a friend, bought in a second hand store, turns out it makes a great espresso.

Nicky spooned scrambled eggs onto half a bagel, examined the table and counter. "Tabasco, Frank? She asked.

"That's what I like a woman with spunk." He turned to get the sauce from the cabinet.

She sipped at the coffee. "That does make a good cup, maybe not as good as mine, but good and strong.

"I know better than to argue with a pro." He said with resignation.


Billy Dixon stood, sighted and pulled the trigger, the riffle butt kicked into his shoulder; he knelt down, slipped another cartridge into the breach. Masterson, eyes shielded with his hand, scanned the hill. "Big commotion in Quanah's camp, did you hit someone?"

"If I did it was only luck." Billy stood, rubbing his shoulder, squinting as he sighted on the encampment. "They might be moving back, I don't know, maybe I did."


Frank leaned into his chair, grinning with satisfaction. "Will you have another refill Mr. Wilson?" Frank looked up at Nicky, then his watch. “Sure, an hour to closing?"

She strode away, he stared, as he had stared so many times before, and then went back to the keyboard.


Billy and Bat stood before the post store, surrounded by ecstatic buffalo hunters.

"Boy you done it."

"Old Quanah is leaving for sure."

"Let's hear it for Billy."


"Nah, doesn't sound right, sophomoric." Frank commented to himself. Nicki placed the refilled cappuccino next to the computer

"Maybe I could read some more, we could talk again tonight." She suggested.

Frank lifted the cup, steam rising up before him. "I think you are just trying to keep me as a customer."

She smiled down at him.


John Coultas 2010

The Dungeon by John Coultas

The Dungeon is a scene from a novel, La Comedia that I am currently working on.

He sensed that he still occupied space amongst the living, he breathed with spasms, his head pounded with pain and the room he occupied reeked of human waste and death. Other than his breathing and the drips of falling water the room seemed muffled by a suffocating cloud of acrid vapor. He was either paralyzed or bound so tighly he was unable to move. A bone aching chill came from the stone floor upon which he lay.

Who had done this, why? Had Colombina been acting last night, has she taken vengence for his public humilations of her. His mind was in a daze, confused, he was frustrated by so many questions and no answers.

In the blackness, water dripped down the naked stone walls. Giovanni's body shook as he pulled his thin jacket tighter. He was able to push himself to a sitting position, his back against the wall. His chest ached as he coughed; his head drooped between his knees. From the corridor beyond his cell could be heard the infrequent clanking of a passing guard or the crazed scream of a destitute inmate. The windowless room blocked out any sense of time, it afforded an infinity of despair only. He forced himself to his feet, leaning against the wall he shuffled around the perimeter of the room, gaining a sense of its size and the impenetrable nature of the construction. He began to count to himself. "One, two, three..." He took up his shuffle again. "Fifty-five, fifty-six..." On he went, circumnavigating his box. "One-thousand-five..." He leaned against the damp wall, his head against the hard granite blocks, sliding to the floor, sobs escaped from his chest.

"Giovanni da Brendisi." A corse voice shouted. Keys could be heard rattling, the door creaking and clanging open. Giovanni's body, little more than a lump of cloth, kicked at with no response. "da Brindisi." Again the loud voice. Another guard entered, they pulled him into the air, feet dangling.

"da Brindisi." Giovanni spoke with a whisper through blood caked lips, his head attempting to nod the afirmative.

They transported him suspended in air, down dark tunnels, up stairs, through doors of wood and metal, who could escape, who would think of escaping this maze of death. "In here." The less rough of the two guards directed. The faint light from the doorway exposed a dark room, with a single chair in the center. Giovanni was dropped onto the chair and tied to it without grace. As the door closed on their leaving he tried at his bindings, both arms and legs held fast. He sat. His body ached. He attempted to see, to see something, to get a sense of what this room was. The effort fatigued him, his head dropped to his chest.

Moments or hours later he woke to a sound, a crisp sound, paper sliding against paper or the swish of linnen cloth. His head came up, eyes opening to the glow of candle light, he jerked his head away, just so faint a light was near to blinding. A chuckle came from behind the light. "So small a light offends your eyes Signore." The voice, almost a wihisper. Giovanni nodded, straining to adjust his eyes to the light. "The Signore has a habit of offending great men, is that not true Signore da Brindisi."

Giovanni grunted a response, twisted at his ropes.

"Signore Bounirota does not speak well of you. A mild man, not one easy to anger. The mention of your name..." Another cynical laugh. "His work on the Bassillica has been jeopardized by your lassitude." There is silence. Giovanni attempts to look through the light, trying to know the identity of his interrigator. "The master attests to your skills, however, your indifference to projects and introduction of conflicting styles could not be tollerated."

"I have been beaten, imprisoned and starved beacuse Signore Bouniroti would not consider a new artistic style." Giovanni, his voice almost inaudible, his eyes piercing at the light attempting to prenatrate the question and the man.

Another snicker. "No, no. You must not forget the affair of Cardinal Ippollito de Este's mistress. The cardinal is a powerful man, is he not?"

Giovanni's head rose and fell back to his chest. The light, the strain of the conversation was begining to wear away what little strenght he possessed.

The interrigator rapped an eagle crested cane accross the besk before him. The two guards returned. A hooded man clothed in a heavy dark robe came from behind the desk. "Have him cleaned and fed, new clothes, and find a clean cell for him. We will hang him in two mornings."

What energy remained in Giovanni, he exhaled with one breath.

"Do not think of us as fools, we know who you are, we know your talents and we most certaily know your vices. You will cooperate with us, or we send you into the next room where your hanging will take place. We are not people with whom one toys."

                                                                                      ***** * *

Giovanni was dragged to a gallery that looked down on an interrior courtyard. The clash of swords could be heard below, instructors bawling out orders. The whinnying of horses and pounding of the smith's hammer eddied upward.

"Throw him there." Bruno, the one with the rough voice ordered. He yelled for a lackey to bring water and a rag. "Waste of time, should just hang you." Bruno kicked at his innert body. Giovanni emmited a low moan and his legs flinched. The lakey returned with a buckett and a soiled rag.

Bruno took the water, tossing it on Giovanni, who went into a spasm of shock. "Clean yourself Singnore da Brendisi." He tossed the soaked rag at Giovanni, who leaned against the wall and began to sponge the blood and filth from his face and arms. Bruno tossed the empty bucket to the lakey. "Fill it." The guard watched Giovanni's feeble attempt to clean himself with his crippled arms. Again the lakey returned with water. "Throw it on him." Bruno order. Giovanni was prepared, but again nerves flared when the cold water hit him. Bruno was ammused by his reaction.

"Enough Signore, get up." the guard demanded. Leaning into the wall Giovanni pushed himself up to a standing position, the guard pulled him along, his feet tripping on the cobbles. They discended into the dark canyons, down to the depths of the dungeon, their way lit by an occaisonal oil lamp. Bruno opened a door. "Signore Giovanni da Brendisi, your immaculate cell." The guard taunted, and errupted in laughter. "For two very brief days. Your food and last wine." He gestured at a basket in the corner. Giovanni fell upon the food, a loaf of bread and several chunks of cheese. In vain he tried to limit himself, his hunger overcame his resolve. He fell back into the clean straw and slept.

Hours later, he assumed the time, he woke to sounds in the corridore, several voices, clamour of armor. The door was opened, a captain of the guard came in. "We have come for you, Giovanni da Brandisi."

"But why, where am I going."

"You are to be hung." The captained feigned concern.

"No, it is a mistake, two days, they said It would be two days."

"Yes, Signore, and it has been two days." The captain attempted to clarify.

"No, I'm sure that I didn't sleep that long. Tomorrow, come tommow it will be two days. Then I will be ready."

The captain stood firm. "Signore, your time has arrived, we take you now, they are waiting for you.":

"You don't understand..."

"Signore..." The captain took Giovanni by his elbow, leading him into the corridore, guards placed before and after them. They marched into the darkness, Giovanni's legs gave out several times, the guards were forced to pull him up off the floor. The captain reassured him. "It won't be long Signore, a tightness about the neck, a jerk of the rope, it will be over. Nothing more." Giovanni's legs gave way again. "The room!" The captain pushed open a door to a semi dark room with a high ceiling. A stiff rope hung down from a rafter above, and centered below the noose stood a stout barrel. The captain looked around the room. "Everything is in order." He commented. "Do you desire the services of a priest." He questioned.

"I doubt that he would provide the services I desire. No, thank you." He looked up at the noose and down to the barrel. "I am a coward, let's get this over with quickly."

"Most certaily Signore."

A guard looped the noose around Giovanni's neck and tightened it. They then helped him onto the barrel." The captain turned to the guards. Tie down the rope." One of the guards secured the rope to a bracket on the wall. The captain approached the barrel. "Adue Signore."He kicked the barrel out from under Giovanni's feet. The rope jerked, his feet dangled and kicked, he gasped for air and then the rope snapped. Giovanni fell to the floor writhing, fighting for breath and pulling at the rope.

A dark figure cast a shadow from the doorway. The captain turned to him. "We didn't cut the rope thin enough, next time we will know better." He shrugged.

"Bring him to me." The shadow requested as he returned to the corridore.

The captain looked down at Giovanni who regained signs of life. He directed the guards. "Take the rope off, the excellecy will see him now."

                                                                                          ***** * *

"I remember this, the candle, the darkness." Giovanni seated in front of a table in a darkroom, the hooded mamn on the other side of the candle. "Yes, your voice, the same." He stared into the blackness, finding no clues as to what the room or the hooded man were about. A scraping sound came from the table, looking back Giovanni found the cane with the eagle crest resting there.

"Enough Signore, you need not remember any of this, it would be best for you to forget. But first, I have an opportunity for you, an assignment."

"I am not inteerested in opportunities. I m only interested in leaving here."

"No, Signorre, you don't understand, should you not accept my offer I will send you back to that room, the one with the rope, and this time the rope will not break."

Giovanni rubed at his neck. "And what is the assignment?"

You are a man of many talents, are you not Signore. An artist of some merit, certainly Bounoroti felt so. An actor, so I hear, and renown as a man who is able to communicate with the ladies. Am I not correct?

"Yes, you have heard correctly. And the assignment."

"I will arrive there soon. I...we have many spies, the eyes and ears of our organization. At times it is necessary to spy on the spies, or have special agents for an important assignment. That is you Signore. The Duke of Ferrara is without an heir. He has recently taken a third wife, she is young, well connected and despite her age, she is knowledgeble as to court intrigues. Should the duke die without an heir Ferrara will return to the Papacy. We need someone in the court, we have many spies there already, we need someone who will have intimate access to the duchess, day and night." He toyed with the cane.

"But..."

"I am not finished Signore. Should the duchess produce an heir we must be certain that the duke is the father."

Giovanni rubbed at his neck, his lips began to speak, he then thought better of it.

"How will this be acomplished you ask. Your commedia del arte troupe will arrive in Ferrara for the festival in several weeks. You will establish yourself as an actor and artist. The masks that you fabricate for your performances have accumulated a level of attention, construct several, some with flare that would pique the interest of the duke. You will be taken to his court he will admire your work and you will let him know of your many talents, your connections with Bounorotti. The new duchess will require a portrait, you will suggest that your talents..."

"But..."

"No interruptions please. As you execute the portrait you will, establish a relationship, become privy to her thoughts and actions. We must know who she sleeps with...other than the Duke."

John Coultas     2010

The Closet

By John Coultas

A wood of birch, ash and oak created a canopy over the granite outcrop, the trees being home to warblers, thrushes and woodpeckers. Water spilled from the green, gray and gold lichen patched, rock face, a white froth, cascading over boulders and rotting tree trunks, flowing down and then settling into a broad pool surrounded by cattails and bayberry. Translucent minnows swished their way across the graveled pond bed, while a trout, leaped at a negligent dragonfly, fracturing the glasslike surface and the afternoon calm.

"Aunt Mary, was that a fish?"

Mary yawned and stretched, rolling on her side to view her niece. "I was reading Polly, what was your question?"

"A noise, there was a splashing sound in the pond, was it a fish?" Polly was on her knees, anxious to experience more activity.

"Well, maybe we should explore, perhaps we might spy a fish." Her aunt suggested. Mary took Polly's small hand, leading the way along a rock jetty at the waters edge, they crouched, Mary created a visor with her meshed fingers, Polly mimicked, they stared long and deep into the water.

"Nope, no fish Aunt Mary." Polly tilted her head, giving her aunt a disappointed face.

"Hot!" Mary pulled her scarf from her pocket, padding her forehead, bending low she scooped water with her hands, splashing her face, rubbing the back of her neck. "The water is so cool, so Refreshing."

"Aunt Mary?" Polly asked.

Mary focused down at her; there was something small and shiny in her hand. "What do you have there Polly?"

She held it closer. "Is this the key you have been looking for?" Polly smiled up at her, offering the object.

Mary's hand shook as she reached for the key but it was gone, Polly had vanished, it was now, hot and dark. She stood, rotated the handle, clockwise, counter clockwise, she wrenched it back and forth, she pounded on the door, she screamed, "Help me, Help me." She pounded and screamed. There was no answer; she slid back to the floor.

Slumped in the darkness, she couldn't see the perspiration, she couldn't see the grit that covered her, she could only feel and sense the damp and dirt.


Mary and a couple her own age were standing before a white, clapboard beach cottage, in the distance a pelican had swooped down, skimming just above the breakers and further out sailboats could be seen racing for their home ports. "I will be fine; I am going to revel in the isolation, this is my opportunity to finish those last chapters."

Hank opened the door of his new Packard. "Joan, Mary will be just fine, and we can't be late for your showing." Joan slipped into the passenger side, Hank closing the door, turned to give his sister a hug. "We should be back by early Monday."

"I am going to appreciate the sea air and quiet, you two enjoy the city." She waved them goodbye as the car crunched down the gravel drive.

Mary straightened her typewriter on the kitchen table, her manuscript was to one side and her stack of typing paper on the other, a breeze whisked at her neat stacks, she scanned the kitchen counters and then the pantry, returning with two cans of soup, she placed one on each stack. Going to the window she pulled back the sheer curtains, taking in the sun spackled ocean and inhaling the cool breeze with a broad smile. She stood over her place of work, then moving to the stove, filled the kettle with water, setting it on the burner. She commenced a search through canisters on the counter, and then the pantry. A breeze furled the window curtains, followed by a gust that slammed the pantry door shut.


A breeze blew across the harbor, carrying the scents of tar, varnish, fish, and motor fuels. Jim shoved off from the dock and jumped aboard. Mary, her hand on the tiller brought the boat into the wind, the sails snapped and pulled them out, into the channel, passing sloops, cutters, gaff rigs and brigantines, cruising yachts, the working boats, tugs and fishing trawlers draped with nets, plied the crowded estuary.

Mary placed both hands on the tiller, bracing her feet, as they progressed out into the ocean; Jim let out the jib line and Mary the main. A fine spray of salt water came over the bow; they zipped their jackets and pulled their caps down low. Jim, sitting next to her, began whistling, and pulling a leather pouch from his pocket, extracting a pipe, which he filled with tobacco.

"I'm glad you only smoke on the boat, indoors it would be intolerable."

"My dear, our accommodations, one to the other is what makes us such a smashing good fit." He responded with a flourish.

Mary had bent down to avoid the smoke. "Why is it Jim you smoke that, it doesn't have a pleasant aroma, some tobacco does, but not that one."

He shifted to the other side of the cockpit, his smoke drifted away from his mate. "It is all about family tradition, the same brand my father smoked, as did his father." He puffed away. "Breeding and tradition go hand and hand as you so well know. A sail just wouldn't be a sail without a pipe."

"You don't inhale; I know you don't enjoy it..."

He gave her a good scowl. "Now you have done it, you have ruined my smoke."

"I will never understand!"

He tapped the pipe against the rail, clearing the bowl. "Quiet, we don't want the tradition gods to hear such blasphemy, you missed the point, my father always smoked on the boat as did grandpapa, Captain James must carry on."

The sails began to luff, Jim leaned foreword to view the jib. "Let's tighten her up." They began pulling their lines in, the boat heeled into the water the railing submerged, Jim shifted back to Mary's side. Jim nodded, "Mary, without tradition where would we be, the world might fly apart for all we know." They both laughed.

"Ad hoc ergo praetor hoc." Mary intoned.

"Precisely, I don't smoke the pipe and a huge hole might develop in the hull, then where would we be."

Jim was running his tongue around his mouth, making a sour face. "Maybe I should give it up; food just doesn't taste right afterwards, burns my mouth." He massaged the pouch in his pocket.

He bent down to get a sighting of the horizon. "Storm clouds to the east, we better take her in." Mary pushed hard on the tiller bringing the bow around. The winds began to strengthen and the swells became deep troughs.

"Jim you better take over." Mary suggested. Jim took the helm, he stood to better observe the waves that began to break over the small cabin, Mary held tight to the wood railing. A squall enveloped the boat, pelting them with a heavy rain. Water was soaking through their jackets and clothing to their skin.

"Water, water." Mary lay on the floor, stretched out, semiconscious, mumbling. "Water, water."


"Where should we go for dinner?" Mary asked.

"Dinner, is it that late?" Jim had his arm over Mary's shoulder, his chin resting on her head; he eyed the window and the twilight sky beyond. "Do we have to eat?"

"Yes we do, if we try later everything will be closed. Our last dinner needs to be special."

"Sh!" He has returned his chin to the top of Mary's head.

"Don't sh, me!" Mary frowned.

"This is the way I want it to be, just us."

"It will be us always." She leaned her body into his embrace. "We will go down to Luigi's and then work off dinner with a walk to Washington Square." Mary insisted.

Jim pulled her closer sniffing her hair, lightly kissing her lips. "Signore Luigi's it is." He agreed.

"Maria and Signore Jim welcome!" Luigi called out from the kitchen door, and across his crowded dining room.

Jim had a malicious grin on his face as they seated themselves, Mary scowled at him. "Luigi, how are your Yankees?" He questioned.

"They break my heart, those Yankees. My Joe, Joe DiMaggio, he knows how to hit, that boy. Fourth place they are in, break my heart." Mary picked up her menu, shaking her head, Jim smirked.


"Here, we stop right here." Jim demanded, with a laugh. They sat at the edge of the fountain, the lighted arch at a distance.

Mary's teeth chattered. "I should have known to bring a heavier coat." She pulled it tighter, Jim putting his arm around her. "Who's going to take care of me while you are gone?"

"You will find someone." Jim gazed down at her. "You promised no tears."

She wiped at her eyes with her hand. "I'm trying."


A gray dawn entered Mary's apartment window, she stirred and whispered. "Are you awake?" Jim's arm was draped over her, his hand resting on her breast.

"I couldn't sleep." He moved closer to her. "I wanted to soak in every moment with you, the sound of your sleep, your warmth, your softness." Jim explained. Mary turned and kissed him. "There will be time to sleep on the train." He said. She kissed him again.

"I want to go with you, down to the station, to see you off." She pleaded.

"No, this is all I ask, right here, this is what I want us both to remember, this is what will get us through our separation." They kissed and sank deeper into the bed.

Mary stood at her window, viewing Bleeker Street below, only a few cars passing in the early morning hours, tires sloshing water from the morning rain, a young man in military uniform waited at the curb, his duffel at his side, a taxi pulled to the curb, Jim glanced up and waved just as he stepped into the cab.


Mary smiled at Ben, any elderly gentleman, gray spider like eyebrows, clothed in tweed; his chair squeaked as he leaned back, he sucked on the well worn stem of his pipe. "You smiled." He observed.

"Your pipe, made me think of Jim. Yours has such a pleasant aroma, Jim's is noxious, smells like burning trash or something equally vile" She commented.

Ben moved a stack of manuscripts to the floor. "And how is Jim?" He asked.

"Convoy duty is repetitious, they haven't been involved in any action, and being a junior officer he is assigned the jobs no other officers want to take on. He does feel that his men respect him."

"The Canadian military probably is no different than the American. I saw duty in Europe for the war to end all wars." Ben emits a gruff, cynical laugh. "The peace is probably what brought this on, laid the German's so low, and devastated their economy and self respect. We made it possible for a madman to become their savior." He shook his head with disgust.

He reached across the desk. "What do you have there Mary." She handed him a thick manuscript. "Is it good?" He smiles. "Of course it will be excellent; I know to expect the best from you."

"That is only the first half of the novel, by New Years I should have it completed. Not good timing for publication." She settled back in her chair.

"Next fall I'm sure that we will have it in print and bookstores will have difficulty keeping it in stock." He pronounced.

Mary took a shortcut through the park; the oaks, the yellow locust and ash were aflame with their fall colors. As she passed the fountain a young couple sat hand-in-hand, looking off to the arch, light from the declining sun painted the surfaces and angels with a reddish-gold hue. The wind swirled leaves at her feet, forcing her to turn her collar up, her bag swung at her side. Her gaze moved upward to the darkening sky, drops of rain splashed against her face, she lengthened her stride.

Mary darted into Luigi's, out of the rain, hanging her overcoat and sitting at her favorite table. "Good evening Luigi, Cinzano Rosso please." Luigi placed a menu on the table in front of Mary, she picked up her mail, began sorting through the envelopes, one caught her attention, she hesitated, and then took a knife from the table, slitting it open. The letter shook in her hands, her head dropped to the table her shoulders shaking. Luigi rushed to her side, placing his hand on her arm.

"Miss Maria, what is wrong, how may I help you?" Luigi implored.

Mary looked up at Luigi with red, tear-filled eyes, responding, "I'm sorry." She rushed from Luigi's leaving her mail scattered at the table.

Luigi glanced down at the open letter, with sadness he faced his wife uttering, "Signore Jim is dead."


The door slammed behind Mary she pivoted in the dark, trying the handle it turned, she pulled, there was no give. She let the handle go, she tried again, the door just wouldn't budge. A bit of force maybe, she put her shoulder to the effort, no give. Stepping back she paused. "Huh!" She said to herself. Inhaling a deep breath she tried again with no success. She surveyed the door hardware with her finger tips, finding a keyhole. "So, if we have a lock maybe we have a key in here for such accidents." She muttered. Placing her hands on the wall she methodically covered the surface from floor to, as high as she could reach. Both sides of the door were searched, nothing. She twisted to face the shelves of canned foods, and canisters of sugar and flour. "You don't hide this sort of key. Joan what have you done to me, damn." She shouted.


"Joan, it is just so daring, so avant-garde. I will send Michael around to purchase that little one, you know, the one with the yellows and blues." This was from Mrs. Winnie Van Demeer, the grand dame with too much makeup and too many jewels.

"Do let Grace know, she will reserve it for you." Joan was forcing an insincere smile. The dame in question strolled away leaving a wake of perfume.

Hank nudged Joan, whispering, "She didn't understand any of your pieces, just wants to make a show of her good taste."

"Don't complain Henry, we will now be in a position to payoff that new car of yours." She smiled. "Before you ask, I found it necessary to invite her to the party."

"God, how dreadful, she'll keep us up all night drinking and telling about her latest affairs." He sipped at his drink with no enthusiasm. "Such a bore!"


Mary had searched through the pantry, everything was caned with the exception of two canisters, one of flour, the other of sugar, she daubed at the sugar, then the flour, it made a thick paste in her mouth.

Mary twisted in a coughing spasm, her elbow knocking the flour canister crashing to the floor, a cloud of dust enveloped the cramped space; she covered her face with her hands to filter out the befouled air. She coughed, choked and sobbed, again yanking at the door, pounding against it with her head.


"And there we were at the Metropole, he is just too demanding." Madame Van Demeer winked, the one with the jewels. "He demonstrated his expertise at the baccarat tables as well."

"With the war…" A young fellow attempted to insert.

"Tsk." She wanded the air with her beringed hand. "What is this little conflict to me? Michael, maybe a new young fellow will accompany me to Monaco, perhaps the Riviera this season. One never knows." She laughed with hauteur.

Hank was leaning against Joan; both were half asleep, glancing at his watch. "Five o'clock." He yawned. "This party is over, and she is unfazed." He leaned Joan back against the couch, standing with effort and a wobble. "It is with great sadness that I must adjourn this session of our drinking society." He announced with an air of professionalism.

"Oh pooh, and I was just warming up." Mrs. Van Demeer patted her sagging face with a lace handkerchief.

Hank pulled and tugged attempting to get his shoe off. Joan observed his strenuous efforts. "You might want to untie your laces first dear."

He stared at the laces, and began undoing them. "Never again Joan, never." He insisted.

"Hank, that's what you say every time we have one of our soirees. Come here and unzip me."

Hank grumbled as he thumped his way to Joan's side of the bed, one shoe on one shoe off. "I mean it Joan, never."

"My next showing could pay off the mortgage." She commented.

Hank pulled off his other shoe, he was focused off into space, he swiveled to face Joan. "Well, maybe just one more. I almost forgot, Judge Holbrook has invited us to his farm, it's on the way home."

"Not the stuffy old Holbrook's, she is so opinionated, and she will give me a tour of her begonia garden for the umpteenth time, and he is such a dolt. Hank, Mary was expecting us early Monday afternoon."

"Keep in mind, that old dolt is my beloved boss you are denigrating. Mary will be fine, she is resourceful." Hank insisted.

"Well, if you think so dear." Joan was unconvinced.

"She had those chapters to complete. I'm exhausted." Hank yawned, and threw his fully dressed body to the bed where he fell off to sleep.


Polly was using both hands to squeeze the flour sifter, there was a spot of flour at the tip of her nose, and her apron had a thin sheen of the white dust. "This is hard Aunt Mary." She put down the sifter, shaking her hands.

"Yes it is Polly." Her aunt responded. Mary was cracking eggs into a bowl. "I'm done with the eggs; do you want me to finish the sifting?"

Polly exhaled a deep sigh. "Yes Aunt Mary, I think you should!" She took a fork and began poking at the egg yolks.

"Why don't you beat those eggs for me Polly?"

"Do I have to?" Polly whined.

"You do, if we are to have this baked for our picnic."

"Well I guess so." Polly began whisking the eggs with the fork.

"I'm full Aunt Mary." Polly heaved a sigh of satisfaction and lay back on the picnic blanket, her small hands patting at her stomach, staring at the sky. Mary began packing plates and utensils in the hamper.

"And what did you enjoy most Polly?" Mary asked as she closed the basket.

"Well." Polly was deep in thought. "I would have to say the fried chicken, hmm, but maybe the biscuits and honey. To be honest Aunt Mary it was all just so yummy." Mary smiled down at her niece who was closing her eyes, and began breathing deeply.

Mary pulled a notebook from her tote bag, jotting thoughts, sensing the cooling breeze, and observing the movement of the trees, and the song of the lark in the upper reaches. She leaned back to let the sun warm her face.

A shadow crossed over her, there above her was Jim inspecting the scene. "What are you doing here?" She smiled and asked.

"I came to see my girls. It would appear that Polly enjoyed her lunch." He sat down next to Mary, glancing at a sleeping Polly.

Mary opened the basket. "We left you some chicken and one or two biscuits, Polly always enjoys the biscuits."

"They feed us well on the ship, I didn't come to eat, I needed to be with you, if just for a short time, I'll have to get back." He placed his hand on her shoulder, she wrapped her arms around him, they murmured, sighed and kissed.

"How is it Jim, the ship?" She released him to take him in.

"It is a good crew, good officers, my men work well together, maybe we are just resigned to what our mission is. Cold and damp is the only complaint, constant fog, clothing just doesn't keep the cold out." He rubs at his chin.

"You seem thinner Jim, pale."

Jim was watching activity down the hill, something cought his attention. "Skipper's down there, he's calling me back." Jim studies Mary for a moment, they kiss. "I'll be back." Mary watches Jim march down the hill with military bearing.

Mary called out. "But Jim, when will you return for good." Staring up into the darkness of the pantry she asks, "When will you be back?"


Mary was lying on the floor, covered with flour dust, her breathing labored; she rolled to her side, rose and once again tried at the knob, her head hit against the door with a hollow thunk. She began to unbutton her blouse, and removing it, with care she attempted to brush off dust and wrinkles, placing it on an open shelf. She then removed her skirt and repeated her efforts. She returned to the floor, lying with her mouth and nose to the gap at the threshold, breathing in a thin layer of untainted air. Her hand brushed at perspiration running down her neck and between her breasts.


Jim was leading Mary into a waltz amongst a very staid and proper gathering, a country club crowd. He had a broad smile, Mary is suffering. "You are the most beautiful woman here, smile." He complimented. Mary responded with a sour squint.

Mary made a point of scanning the room. "I don't believe there is a person in this room I would want to bring into my circle of friends, nor attempt to converse with."

"Moi, you are including me." He responds with mock hurt.

"No Jim, not you. This is not the way I want to live; these are not the people I would share my thoughts and feelings with. And as for beauty, that is very thin, as with effervescence it too soon vanishes"

"Mary, you know I meant the inner you, your mind, that is what I find exciting, attractive about you."

"Well you better!"

He has his broad smile again. "Now what?" She interrogates.

"Will you at least let me enjoy the effervescence while it is with us?" His attempted compromise was accepted with a slight twinkle in Mary's eyes. They swirl off into the crowded floor.


The lights from the Packard played across the front of the cottage. "Strange." Joan commented.

Hank steered onto the drive. "What's that dear?"

"There are no lights on inside the house."

"Mary might have gone to bed early." He responded.

"Knowing Mary she would be up all night working on her book, odd." She frowned.

Hank pulled the car to the end of the drive. "Mary!" Hank called out to his sister as he flicked on the kitchen light.

Joan observed the table, typewriter, manuscript and paper all neatly arranged; she looked to the sink and stove. "Hank, there is something terribly wrong here. Other than this," She pointed at Mary's work area. "And the kettle on the stove, nothing has been disturbed; everything is as I left it."

"I'll check the guest room." Hank offered, as he ran from the room.

Joan took a soup can from atop the manuscript and walked to the window, viewing the phosphorescent breakers and then refocusing on the kitchen as Hank rushed in. "She never unpacked." Hank blurted, out of breath.

"No! The pantry." Joan shouted. "Hank, get the key."

Hank fumbled with a collection of keys on a wall rack, raced to the door, unlocking and pulling the door open, Mary's crumpled, soiled body rolled onto the kitchen floor. She swung her floured hand to shield her eyes. "Light." A soft exhale came from Mary.

Birds

Birds
Copyright © 2012  John Coultas


"He's doing it again." Mrs. Lester Howard shook her ladle, flecks of oatmeal flying about the kitchen. Mr. Howard, her husband was attempting to enjoy his last cup of coffee and finish the paper before going off to work. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the offending fowl.

"There's not a thing I can do, that's his property and God only knows who owns the birds in the sky." He lifted his paper, creating a thin barrier between himself and his wife as she stomped about the room cleaning oatmeal from cabinets and floor.

"A nuisance, that's what it is," as she straightened, "and I'm the one home all day, having to listen to the chatter, they swoop down over my head, no end to it." She was on a tear. "I'll phone the police, again." Ranting to her husbands unlistening ears.

Mr. Howard stood and escaped with, "Won't do any good." The slamming of the door was his final retort.

Going to her phone Mrs. Lester Howard dialed with care, waiting for her connection she wiped dust from the instrument. "This is Mrs. Lester Howard." Listening. "Yes, it is me again. He has no business feeding those filthy birds." Again she listened. "If there isn't a city ordinance, there most certainly should be. Nasty, dirty; if I had a gun I would go over there and shoot every last one of them. If I had a gun I would be tempted to shoot him." She pulled and twisted at the cord, at last shouting, "No, I do not own a gun. Mr. Lester does not either. But I could, I could go right down to the Western Auto and get a nice new gun." She frowned as she was interrupted. "Well I haven't shot him so I guess you just can't do a thing about it now can you. Hello, hello." To herself she mumbled. "How dare he, hang up on me. I'll have a word with his superiors." Placing the receiver back in the cradle, she walked to the window, squinting out she sniffed at the air, scrunching her face and slamming the window fast.



"Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith". Mrs. Lester Howard shouted to her neighbor across her freshly painted, white Pickett fence. Sitting in a unraveling rattan chair, Mr. Smith was tossing bird seed out onto his weed covered yard, although weeds were hardly visible for the hundreds of birds gathered about him, cooing and pecking. He did not respond to her entreaties. "The birds Mr. Smith, you have too many birds." Her shouts went unheeded. "That man!" She mumbled. She makes one last effort, "I have contacted the police, the authorities will take action!" She bluffs. Mr. Smith continues to throw seeds to his hungry wards. A beatific smile is welded to his face.

Standing over her Maytag, wringer washer she squeezed the last bit of water from her husband's white, long sleeve work shirt, tossing it into the laundry basket, she then peered out the service porch door, across the yard, and out to the clothes line. All was quiet, all was safe. Carrying her basket outside with cushioned footfalls, with purpose she avoided glances to the sky or over to Mr. Smith domain, not wanting to bring a curse upon her head or laundry. With skill and speed she pinned the laundry to the line; finishing she looked upon her work with satisfaction. Returning to the house the same way she had come, with equal silence, quietly closing the service porch door with a sigh and a smile.

Mrs. Lester Howard leaned back in her overstuffed chair, her feet on her footstool. On the radio she listened to "The Guiding Light." She sighed, then smiled, falling asleep. She wakes to a loud squawking sound. Jumping to her feet, she tripped over the footstool, breaking her fall with the arm of her couch. Running to the back porch door, looking out, her over- active fears were realized. Birds, hundreds of birds were hovering, hanging, dangling, clinging but most importantly, soiling her laundry. One large bird, a bird the size of a pelican was entangled in one of Mr. Lester Howard's white, long sleeve work shirts, ghostly arms flailing.

She was irate, grabbing her broom she ran, slipped, slided, and skided her way to what as left of her laundry. In a fit she began hitting at the birds foolish enough not to have departed. The large entangled bird as her focus, she beat and beat upon the trapped creature, blood began to stain Mr. Lester Howard's white, long sleeve work shirt. The apparition had gone limp. She screamed, roared and bellowed; tears streaking her contorted face.

Running to here freshly painted, white pickett fence she expressed her vehemence. "My laundry, you have ruined my laundry." She raged at Mr. Smith who sat in his chair, smiling, feeding his birds. "I will kill your birds, every last one." She screamed. "Do you hear me, Mr. Smith, I will kill your birds, if you get in my way I will kill you."



Mrs. Lester Howard was pelted by rain as she darted to the house, tossing her bloodied weapon to the side as she went. Several minutes later she reappeared, composed; she wore a jacket, a wide brimmed hat and white gloves. She started her car, driving off down Main Street. Next to the Piggly Wiggly she pulled in front of the Western Auto store.

As she approached the clerk at the sporting goods counter; she was greeted with an, "afternoon ma'am".

Mrs. Lester Howard responded with a glower.

"Raining outside?" The clerk continued with a smile.

"I hadn't noticed." Mrs. Lester Howard responded. She dropped her wet purse on the counter; he attempted to divert water off the counter with a swish of his hand..

"How may I help you?" The clerk was getting the sale back on track.

"A gun, I want a gun." She demanded.

He smiled, unsure what this lady would be doing with a gun. He interrogated further, "And for what purpose did you want a gun."

"Birds, I want to kill birds." Was her strong, reasoned response.

"Ah," he nodded, "birds, how many birds are we talking about." He inquired.

"Hundreds, I'm going to kill hundreds of birds."

His face creased with a wide grin, he was a happy man. "Right this way, that will be a double barrel shotgun and quite a few boxes of birdshot."

Mrs. Lester Howard pulled away from the Western Auto in a pouring rain. She attempted to view the road between the slow sweeps of the windshield wipers. Pulling into her driveway she saw that police cars and an ambulance were in front of Mr. Smith's house; lights were flashing, officials moving about the residence. She crouched low to protect her packages as she ran to the back door. Entering the house she heard a knocking at the front door.

Mrs. Lester Howard opened her door to a towering city policeman who looked down upon her. She was standing in a puddle of water on her highly polished hardwood floor. Strands of wet hair hung along the side of her face, below her wide brimmed hat. Her white gloved hands were holding the brand new, boxed, Western Auto, double barreled shotgun.

"Officer Blaine." He introduced himself as he flipped through a small note book. He began, "Mrs. Howard."

"Mrs. Lester Howard." She corrected.

He attempted to continue, "Yes, I see here you phoned our office, made complaints and threats concerning Mr. Smith, is that correct?"

"Well." She exhales. The weight of the gun began to weaken her arms, it dropped lower and lower.

He again paged through his notes, "A neighbor reports hearing you threaten Mr. Smith's life, in a rage, is that correct?"

She offered a fatigued smile as the the box slipped through her hands to the floor. The Western Auto, double barrel shot gun rolled from the box, through the puddle of water, resting at the feet of officer Blain. He rapidly flipped through more pages of notes.

He sighed, "You reported this morning that you didn't have a gun in the house." His statement was met with a dazed glare. "Your neighbor, Mr. Smith is dead, you have a gun you said you didn't have; we need to take you in for questioning."

A very limp Mrs. Lester Howard was walked through a now light rain and darkness to a waiting patrol car. She cast a somber look upon her home as she was driven away, on the clothesline the wing of the large, broken bird waved goodbye.


Chief Franklin called Patrolman Blaine into his office. "What ya got there Blaine." The chief croaked.

Blaine referred to his notes. "Neighbors say Smith spent most days and nights under that pergola, always feeding the birds. Most of the neighbors hated him, because of the birds, messing up everything, scaring kids and pets. Birds were always on the roof of that thing, the pergola. City engineer will have to look at it to be sure. It looks as though with all the rain and the bird buildup."

The Chief interrupted, "Bird shit, call it what it is Blain."

"Yes, sir; anyway it appears that with the rain, the accumulated weight brought the structure down on Mr. Smith." Blain relaxed.

The chief growled, "send the broad in, I'll explain the situation to her."

"Chief, it's Mrs. Lester Howard." Blaine inserted.

A Bad Day

It had been a bad day for John. It started with a phone call from the library, an e-mail had been received about his wife, attending an international conference on hunger. Her purse had been stolen, she owed a huge hotel bill, and how was she going to get home, and how was he going to scrape together such a large sum and send it off to Nigeria. But the oddest part of all he though that he had breakfast with his wife this morning. Strange! International conference, they gave to the food bank and the mission, but an international conference?

Then there was the second e-mail, the presenter for this evening’s workshop could not fulfill her obligation, an ill child would come first. More drama! Working with library staff, some quick changes and resolutions were found.

The presentation had some problems, somehow John mistook himself for Professor Moore, the mother with the sick child, he was frazzled by the, DRAMA! He failed to point out this. And that as well. The attendees were surely confused?

He noticed that Kevin was there, along with a long suffering woman, that must have been his wife, poor woman. Roberta was there, she had brought along Val. The attendees went into breakout groups. Relief arrived in the form of an open reading session. There was a humorous story of a cat having its first bath. Kevin read his poem recounting an amorous interlude, oh, how he embarrasses his wife. Val told of her experience visiting a Jewish concentration camp.

John looked around the room, he saw Val and Kevin and…what happened to Roberta, she was, or had been with Val. How is Val going to get home if Roberta has left without her? There was next a prologue to a mystery novel concerning a farmer and mysterious green lights, followed by another romantic interlude. But the real mystery, what happened to Roberta?

John had offended several of the writers by skipping over them; the artistic ego is easily bruised. He scanned the table to see if he had missed anyone else. A silent gasp, an intake of breath, mystery solved, Roberta had been sitting next to him
all this time. Without exposing his mental deficiencies he asked Roberta if she had brought something to read. She complied with a piece on memories slipping away. John could only think of his mind slipping away, So much drama. So much frazzle. If only he drank.