Going Home

I lay on my bunk, looking at my picture of Julie. I encased the photograph in plastic, otherwise I would have worn it out months ago. The past year, all I have had is this wallet sized image from the senior prom. And her letters. I wouldn’t have survived without her letters. Looking at her, I think about the sweet smell of her hair and her soft, moist mouth. I’m going to drive myself crazy. I glance over to my short timer calendar, three days. Three days and then I ride the freedom bird home. Going home to Julie.

“Hey, you!” I’m startled by an angry voice. There is a hulking presence between my bunk and the outside door.

“Yeah.” I focus and respond. “What ya’ need Connor?” The guy isn’t noted for civility or brains.

“You the one leaving, shipping out.” He asks.

“Yeah, that’s me. Three days, then I’m out of here.” I put Julies picture in my wallet, slip it in my pocket and stand to face my visitor.

Connor’s body begins to shake, “No! You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” The M-16 he carries rattles against his body. “You got no right takin’ my place. I’m goin’”

“Connor, it ain't my doing.” He is pissed. But Connor is always pissed at something or someone. He has done twelve hours on the perimeter. Twelve hours up in a tower, heat bearing down, staring at rice paddies, and nothing happening. No Viet Cong, not even a farmer tending his crop. Just the occasional water buffalo plodding across the diked fields.

I'm going home. Connor is staying right here, until his number comes up. I didn't exist until he realized another guy is going to be leaving country before him. Now, I materialized before him. Connor’s muddled thinking, I pulled strings, I kissed up. He doesn't get it, you serve your time and then off you go. Home. There is no conspiracy here.

Connor is scarier than usual, glassy, red-rimmed eyes, shaky hands, drool at the side of his mouth. What's the drug of choice today? Some guys, it’s the only way they can get through the day.

“You ain't going nowhere!” Connor's voice trembles, the muzzle of his M-16 comes up, waving across my chest.

“Cool it man. No need to get upset. Let's talk.” My voice calm.

“Talk, nothin'. I'm taking your place. Freedom bird is goin'a take me home. Tha’s jus’ the way it’ll be!” Connor swipes at his mouth.

I watch his finger. It twitches over the trigger. “Damn you!” I reach out, grab the muzzle and begin to push it aside. Everything is going in slow motion. The flashes. The thump, thump sound. The burning heat. There is no pain. “Connor, you gotta be the world’s worst shot.”

I’m on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. Flat on my back. Boots are thumping on the barrack’s floor. There are shouts, “Call the medics!” “Waste of time!” “Get that weapon away from Connor before he kills someone else!” “Captain’s going to raise hell.” “Forget the Captain, he’s drunk as usual.”

I say, “Hey guys, nothing to worry about, probably just a grazing wound. Get me up from here.”

“Medics were in the mess hall, here they come.” Someone is saying.

Another shout. There is so much noise. Is that Connor I hear crying? I seem to be the only calm person in the hootch.

“Didn’t mean to shoot him. Thing jus’ wen’ off.” Yeah, that’s Connor.

Now the medics have arrived. Finally. One of the guys I know from back home. Motor City. “Hey, Richard.” We hung out at Earnie’s hamburger stand back home. Saturday nights we polished up our cars, cruised the boulevard and met for cokes and burgers. “Fix me up, Richard. I’m going home, Julie is waiting for me. You remember Julie.”

I look up at him, his hands pull away my fatigue jacket, his face goes white, his shoulders slump. With the back of his hand he swipes at his eyes. “Jones!” He calls to the other medic, “forget the bandages. Let’s get him on the stretcher.”

“Richard, I’m no medic, I know you gotta slap some bandages on somewhere. That’s what you do. But not today?” They toss me on the olive drab canvas litter and slowly carry me down to the field ambulance. “Come on, Richard, we can go faster than this. I gotta get back. Finish packing.” He and Jones don’t get the message.

In the ambulance we bounce over every pot hole and crater to be found, hardly V.I.P. treatment. “I’ll remind you of this when you get back home.” I call over the truck noise.

I’ve seen the dispensary Doc at work. He’s good. He’ll get these guys squared away.

The ambulance throws up a cloud of dust when we get to the Aid Station. They give me the same slow walk inside. “Richard, you know what it’s like. Wanting to see your girl. Speed it up, I’m going home.”

They put me in the corner, away from the action. Doc is finishing up, stripping off his gloves and looks at me. Hands on his hips, he does that mental triage thing. This I could see. “Over here. I’m next.” I demand.

“Jackson, Jones take care of our friendly fire fatality there.” The doctor calls out, nods at me. “You call this friendly fire. Drug crazed Connor popping off. Doc, you get over here! You fix me up.”

Richard has come back. Now he has a hefty pair of scissors. He begins cutting away my shirt. “Stop right there! What are you doing? I need this for just a few more days. Then I’m a civilian, no more need for Uncle Sam’s property.”

My old friend keeps up the cutting. He pushes me on my side, then pulls away my shredded shirt. Now the worst begins. They take my wallet out of my back pocket. Army ID, Michigan diver’s license, “No!” Don’t you dare touch the pictures. “Doc!” I yell. “Tell them not to touch the pictures.” Why should I expect anyone to listen.

“Yeah, this is his car.” Richard shows Jones the picture of my metallic blue, GTO. “Always had it polished to a high shine.” Now the picture of Julie. I don’t let just anyone look at her. She’s special. Richard shakes his head, looks at her blonde hair and blue eyes, her bright smile and the pink formal. “Prom picture.” He says.

“Okay guys.” Doc is hovering over us. “I’ll take over.” He wears a new set of gloves, he bends down, pushes and prods. He uses his gloved fingers to probe the wound.

“Hey Doc, not so deep. Connor just grazed me.” I protest.

Doc writes on a card with a dangling string, hands it to Richard, who ties it around my big toe. “What’s this all about. I’ve had enough. Take me back to my barracks. I thought you were better than this.”

Jones, the other medic comes over with a big bag, looks to be rubberized canvas, smelling of disinfectants. “Okay, Jackson.” Jones says. They lay the bag on the floor and slip me inside.

“Now what?” Why do I bother asking. No one has talked to me since this nightmare started. Jones pulls on the zipper, the bag begins to close. I begin shouting. “Stop! Stop! What are you doing? I’m going home!”

Anopheles: A World War II Tale

Final Scene

A frigid grey sky hung over the Atlantic, the ocean surface was a constant ebb and flow, whitecaps rocking up and down in a pulsing rhythm.  A slick of oil skimmed the surface along with bits and pieces of  wooden debris.  From the opaque sky drifted a sea gull, swooping down it took rest on one of the larger scored planks, the bird pecked at the edges.  The letters A-N-O-P-H decorated most of the broken timber.  Finding the landing place to offer little nutrition or interest the bird flew off, navigating closer to the coast.  It's keen eyes scanned the water's surface.  A glint of silver could mean a fish, a discarded tin, or a piece of a recently demolished ship.

Another object of interest attracted the gulls attention.  It began a downward spiral, coming to land on a large empty gas drum.  Pecking at the surface emitted a loud thrum.  The face of a man, drew the birds attention, he cried out with a skaw, spreading out his wings, and backing off a step.  This was not the place a human should be expected.  Two large brown eyes stared at him, the mouth panted and spat out water, teeth chattering.  Amos's aching fingers were grasping either end of the drum.

He had been praying for help, he couldn't see that this gull was going to be his salvation.  He kicked his feet, holding fast to the drum.  He could see the defused light from the west was dimming, a night of cold was his future.  He was unsure that he could sustain himself through the long hours of cold and dark.  Kick, kicking was the only thing he could do.  That and thinking.  He thought about Anopheles and Frank, attaching the gasoline drum to the hatch, jumping to the other side of the submarine, away from the schooner and swimming as hard as he could.  Then there was the explosion, something went wrong with the sub.  His intent was to flood a portion of the boat, slow its escape, not to destroy it.  When Amos turned at the erupting sound he saw Anopheles rising into the air and splintering apart.  Oil from the U-boat and broken timbers from the schooner covered the water.

Swimming to where Anopheles had been, there was no sign of Frank.  The gas drum was the only object he found to be of use.  For hours he kicked his feet, hoping he was moving closer to shore.  And he prayed.  Then this bird, useless bird, Amos thought.  He sits there staring at me.  His thoughts turned to his family, his wife Sarah, Amos junior, and Bessie, and now Bessie's daughter Mona.  I can't die like this.  I have my stories.  My collections, of birds, and animals, cloud shapes and sky colors, so many colors.  Babies need to have a grandpa telling them stories.  Amos couldn't tell if those were tears or salt water burning his eyes.  He kicked, he had to get back to Charleston and his family.

Night came on with subtle variations muting from grey and then to black.  The ocean swells continued the unending rise and fall, and the strong chop.  At times Amos could feel that he was being twisted further out to sea.  He had to let his intuition and sea sense take control, steering him to land, not to the ocean depths.  Kicking, unending kicking.

The gull's wings flapped with a woosh, bringing Amos's face up from the water.  He knew it was dangerous, resting, that way.  His neck ached, he ached all over.  His body wanted to let go, relax, float on the undulating ocean, but he knew better, letting go would be the end.  Then he remembered the noise, his helper had abandoned him, some help!  The coast and sky ahead was a ribbon of darkness.  Behind, to the east, he could sense that the sun was slipping higher, casting a dull yellow glow.  His arm strength was weakening, can't go much longer.  He was alone.

Then he began to hallucinate.  He remembered from the Navy, symptoms of exposure.  The mind falling into crazy dreams.  In a haze his thoughts were drawn to the Gullah folks, singing, dancing, and the food.  Most of all he heard Gullah voices telling family stories, Barrier Island genealogies.  The aching in his arms had become unbearable, he put his face down and wept.  He was going to slip into the water, the cold would accept him and pull him down to his final place of rest.

His head began to buzz, he felt a vortex pulling him down into the dark, mindless cold.  Then he was being tossed about, pulled at, and strange voices shouting, "Amos, Cousin Amos.  What you do'in out her floatin' in this big ocean with that ol' noisy sea bird." They laid their cousin back in the shallow hold, covering him with their heavy jackets.  Amos looked around to see his Gullah family, warm smiling faces, and out on the water he could see the gas drum floating away, and the bird returning to lite upon it with a Skaw.

Anopheles: A World War II Tale

Chapter 1

Frank Harper came awake with the slapping of the halyard against the main mast. He tasted the sourness of his mouth and batted at an intrusive fly. The day was starting as poorly as yesterday had ended for the skipper of the derelict coastal cruiser, Anopheles. The gaff rigged schooner bobbed on oil-slicked waters between the South Carolina coast and some nameless barrier island. He reached up to the boom, pulling himself to his feet, his joints, popped and creaked with the effort. The Captain, as he termed himself, scratched at his bare chest, and fumbled in the debris-strewn cockpit. Where's that damn bottle. He picked his way through empty oil cans, discarded cigarette packs, and partially consumed tins of tuna and baked beans. Old Grand-dad where are ya? He kicked at the litter and swore, "God damn mess!" grabbing a backstay he eased himself down, sitting on the cockpit locker, he felt the sun beating down on the mangrove canopy above. It would be another hot day. His head hung low between his knees, he shook his thatch of grey hair, "Take me now God, know your going to send me below anyways." He rasped out the words. "No man deserves damnation more than me. Can't git much lower than this. No Grand-dad, can't go on without Grand-dad." He rubbed the back of his hand across dry lips.

Frank and Anopheles plied the waters of the South Carolina and Georgia Intracoastal Waterway, carrying supplies to small unserved towns and villages on the barrier islands. When favorable winds blew he saved his fuel, when they didn't he relied on his balky, diesel consuming engine. The Captain glared at his tattered flag, Old Glory fluttered at the occasional passing breeze.  With an empty cargo hold he could not afford the expense of running the engine, with no wind he was going to drift with the currents and rot in the devils own hotbox. And he with no whiskey to ease his thirst.

The Captain pulled a plug of tobacco from his back pocket, using his teeth he chawed off an edge and returned it to its place of hiding. "Ain't gonna git to Savannah by just sittin' here." Frank moved forward to the main-mast where he began hauling up the sail. He grunted on each pull, his back muscles straining at the effort. Amos Cole his mate usually handled the rigging, but the birth of a grandchild had taken Amos off to Charleston. Family causes no end of problems. He spat off into the channel. A bachelor, relations were a hindrance to him. It was only because of his mate's skills, and his willingness to endure Frank's humiliations that he was kept on. "Family!" Frank shook his head, and heaved again at the weight of the main-sail.

The sail filled, and fell with the weak winds. Scanning the sky to the East, out over the island there was blue sky and a scud of cloud along the horizon. "It's early, 'bout noon might get some real wind." He set the wheel and went below. In the dark he found his way to the box of provisions, tuna and baked beans, no need to heat, spoon out of the can. He began grumbling as he hunted around some more, just hoping that he would find a bottle of misplaced whiskey, Old Grand-dad was strong and cheep, just the way he liked his.

Back in the cockpit, he opened the can of beans. Out on the water there was no concern with social miscues, not that Frank was hindered by such niceties. Now Amos would comment on the Captain's explosive gusts of wind, saying that they could carry the Anopheles to Savannah and halfway back again.  He rested his back against the cabin, shaded from the sun, spooning out the last bit of beans and the sweet brown syrup.

Standing he stretched at his muscles , he thought of bending over to take care of his back, but the last time he did that he was laid up for a week.  Out here without Amos he could die waiting for a waterman or a Gullah, better a waterman.  Frank had a way of offending the local Gullahs.  A steady breeze filled his sail,  now we can get underway.  He tightened up on the main, and went forward to raise the fore-sail and jib.  Returning to the cockpit The Captain tightened the lines, the sails filled, and the Anopheles sent a spew of white foam aft as she cut through the water.  He liked the feel of being under sail, the firmness of the wheel, and the billowing of the sails.           

Couple hours I'll be in Savannah.  Frank would fill his hold with supplies.  Village stores and town markets needed fresh produce and packaged goods.  Gullah towns ordered up special items, black beans, salted mackerel, and pecans.  There was always the person needing a worn part for their truck or the windmill.  And so it went back and forth between Charleston and Savannah, filling orders and getting requests for the next pass through.

The Anopheles sat low in the water below the Savannah warehouse, her hold was filled and Frank was itching to return north to Charleston.  Night would be coming on, only a few more hours of wind, enough for sailing.  Then I'll use that infernal engine and waste money.

Frank would navigate the Savannah channel as far as the Mud River, then head over to Turtle Island, finding a place to overnight about midnight.  That, if all went well.  It didn't.  Half way down the Mud River a storm blew in, Anopheles was battered by heavy winds and rain.  Frank lowered the sails and cranked up the diesel engine, it sputtered, and belched, refusing to turnover.  All the while the Captain thought over the many maintenance items he had failed to do with this vile, stuttering contraption.  He growled at, and along with the engine, Amos had bin here woulda got done.  One more effort and it took.  The motor thumped, and throbbed and at last took on something that sounded of rhythmic pulsations.

Under power the Captain of the Anopheles had better control of his vessel, It was still a battle with wind and rain, but attempting to tack through narrow channels in the dark was near to imposable.  Holding fast to the wheel he kept to the middle of the river, hoping that he would avoid sandbars or tree snags that could pull him to the bottom.

It was about midnight the wind subsided.  Frank could relax a bit, he still had the darkness and rain to contend with, and those snags.  He needed a place to layover for the night, he was getting tired, and tiredness could lead to mistakes.  He was wearing out his neck looking from one side of the river to the other, and peering ahead into blackness.  Out of nowhere hands were grabbing at him, he was being pulled from the boat.  His hands grasped the wheel, but the hands were too strong.  Just as he was going into the river he caught hold of the side rail, he ducked down freeing himself from the alien, and clawed his way aboard.  His chest heaved, he sucked in air, and pulled leaves and twigs from his hair.  He steered the boat away from the bank, and the overhanging trees.  Wake up you fool, he chided himself.  He whistled, he stomped his feet and he thought about what to do with Amos if he returned.

His head snapped up, he was drifting off to sleep again.  He slapped at his face and adjusted the throttle; anything to keep him awake. Ahead he could see a dim light come through the drizzle, "Gonzo's, I'll tie-up and get some sleep." A single light hung from a post at the end of the fuel dock, a curtain of rain angled-off across the cone of light cast below.

He cut the engine and let the Anopheles coast up to the dock.  Bang!  He went in too fast.  Gonzales would be mad as hell if he heard this assault on his property. Don't need no ol' Cubano gettin' on my ass, taking a looped line he lassoed a cleat and fastened it to the dock. He scanned his boat, pulled off his water soaked t-shirt tossing it on the deck and headed below. Clothing, magazines, and gear were pushed aside as he fell into the birth.  The Captain wouldn't hear the water lapping at the hull or the rain drumming on the transom (?), sleep overtook him immediately.

"Frank Harper! Frank Harper, is that your no-good-for-nothing ass down there?" Through bloodshot eyes all Frank could see was a massive shadow blocking the hatchway. But he knew the voice to be that of Gonzo, Enrique Gonzales. And why is he waking me so damn early.

"Go away you crazy Cuban. I was up all night."

"And you ran into my dock...should go get my gun and sink this old scow and you in it." Gonzo kicked at the refuse in the cockpit and mumbled as he stepped onto the dock, "Be concerned with all his rats coming ashore and attacking me." He shivered at the thought, and Frank supplied the food and goods sold in his small store, that and black-market fuel when supply was lean.

Frank hauled cargo from the boats hold up to a cart on the dock.  His back was pulsating as the last sack of rice was tossed atop the other supplies. The sun beat on his back, thin strips of sinew stretched and torqued below his brown skin  as the cart was pushed up the dock, wheels bouncing and the load shifting. He would stop, push, and pull to keep the load straight, didn't need to have a spill in the water, and lose income. This was Amos' work. Last time I'll let him off. The cart was pushed up a short ramp and into the store. "Where's Amos? I see you working for once, Amos run off on you. He finally have enough of your mouth."

"Amos knows when he's got a good job...an' he's like a brother to me."

Gonzo laughed. "Yeah, and that's why I never seen you with family."

"Amos' daughter is having a kid. First grandkid, an' wasn't bout to miss out." Frank spat out the window into the woods. "If he wasn't like my brother I woulda let 'im go."

"Last night I heard a tanker was torpedoed off Quincy Island. You see anything coming up?"

"Huh. Yeah, don't know the island, but lotta oil. Amos knows the islands, names who lives there, who lived there hundred years ago." Frank didn't understand the use for all those names and dates, who was married to who. Relatives.  He spat out the window.  His navigation charts got him where he needed to go.

"This damn war is gett'n to be a problem ration'n whiskey, tabacca and fuel, how's a guy sposed to make a living, have a little fun."

The shopkeeper shook his head. There was no reasoning with Captain Frank when he got into his rant about how the war was an inconvenience to his life. Gonzo thought about the men that died on the merchant tanker, the inconveniences this would mean for their families and friends.

"You better watch out for those German U-boats. Had fishermen in, said they've seen periscopes, even one said he saw a submarine diving out in the deep water off Tybee Island.

Frank chewed on that. Tybee, I got no reason to be out in the deep water, 'specialy not around Tybee. "I stay inside the islands, I ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout." Frank pulled at his belt, and walked down the dock to his boat. Damn war ain't doin' me no good. If Frank made money off the war, if it didn't get in his way it would be okay. But with rationing, military inspections of boat traffic, and limitation on where he could go and when, just rubbed his independent soul the wrong way. He spat in the water and castoff.

Dogs and Cats by John Coultas

This is a scene from Tripping Over Murder

Darleen pulled at a wayward strand of hair, twisting it around her finger as she read. “Darleen, did you read it?” Emma, tall, thin and blonde gushed. “Wasn’t it just the best?” Darleen head dropped, I don’t need this, not now.

Darleen pushed aside the remains of her lunch as she looked up to her friend. “Emma, have a seat.” How do I do this without hurting her feelings, but stay true to my beliefs? “Did you eat?”

“You know me, energy drink is all I allow myself,” Emma asserted her oft repeated mantra. Darlene should have known better. Yeah, one of the many sacrifices to be made while searching for Mr. Right.

“So, the book? Wasn’t he just such a man, strong, take-no-prisoners type.” Emma swooned a she sat next to her friend.

Darlene leafed the pages of the textbook she had been studying. “I’ve been working on my Trig assignment.” She rubbed at the side of her head to emphasize the mental demands of the work. Graduation just weeks away, major trigonometry test, and my good friend can only think of Mr. Hunk.

“Yeah…whatever…about the book?” Emma was not going to let an inconsequential trig test get in her way.

Darlene sighed. If nothing else Emma was tenacious. “Well, it was an interesting story.” Yes all those body parts flying here and there propelled by the macho hero, not to mention women tossed in and out of his bed chambers.


“Makes me think of dogs and cats,” Darlene offered.

“Dogs and cats? There weren’t dogs or cats in the story.” Emma was bewildered.

“No, something I remember…think it was Mark Twain…” Emma crossed her arms, knowing Darlene was on a major rant. “He said that dogs can be abused by their owner, time and time again, they stay loyal to the end. A cat, if abused just once, will never forget, and their loyalty is held back.”

“Huh?” Emma was puzzled. “That has nothing to do with the story…did you read it?”

“It has everything to do with the story. Your hero abused the heroine, cheated on her and she kept going back, pleading for more abuse. A woman should be more like a cat, not accepting ill treatment, being strong within herself.”

“Wha…but what kind of story would that make? That’s not interesting…not exciting.” Emma’s forehead crinkled recklessly.

“A woman should hold her head high, take pride in her self-worth. In a relationship she should be a coequal with her partner, they should respect and support one another.”

Emma was numb; Darlene’s response deflated her enthusiasm, what good was a story if you couldn’t share it with your best friend. Shoulders slumped, she drifted off to another table.

Darlene went back to her text book, flipping pages but not seeing the numbers and formulas. “That’s not exciting” kept echoing in her head. War, the clanging of swords, the ships scuppers flowing with blood, now there were images that over heated the brain. Living at peace within a community, or with a mate, how so very dull. She exhaled a sigh and went back to her study in earnest.

Down On the Farm

This is a scene from my Tripping Over Murder mystery, enjoy!

Janeane was unsure if this was such a good idea, stopping by Ian’s place unannounced. She found the turnoff that would take her there, a sign over the road announced Shangri-La. The sign didn’t seem to match the north woods; a tropical setting might be apropos. She paused to study the sign; it was a broad wood panel, the letters being composed of metal rosettes pounded into the wood. They appeared to be identical to the one in her possession; several of the metal ornaments were missing. She considered the implications, then shoved off down the hill.

She took her feet off the pedals allowing the bike to coast down the dirt drive to…well through the trees she could see a clearing and at the far end a manmade structure. The road opened out at the edge of a meadow, she identified orange hawkweed and the ever present lupine. Her wildflower study was progressing. And then there was the rustic cabin, nuzzled up amongst the trees. She got off, and walked toward the homestead.

“Hello!” He called out as he came on to the porch, hand waving a welcome. He extended his hand as she approached the steps.

“This is beautiful,” She looked around, in awe of the setting. “I don’t want to speak; I just want to listen to the quiet.” She kicked down the bike stand, and walked along the edge of the drive, she stooped to look at some of the small flowers hidden in the tall grass. “So small, so delicate,” her fingers reaching in to better view the varied colors and shapes.”

Ian crouched next to her, and whispered, “May I speak now?” He smiled, and she returned his.

“Yes, You may speak…but this is just so breathtaking, the openness, the colors, and the mountains off in the distance. To own this, to be a part of it is so special.”

Ian’s brow furrowed, “I don’t really own the farm, yes I have a deed with my name on it.” He stood, along with Janeane, “Some day someone else will come along, hopefully they will feel the same way about the land and the woods as I do. The farm should honor our ancestors, nurture those today who will eat our produce, and it should be fostered to sustain future generations.”

Janeane’s shoulders slumped, Ian had the habit of sucking air out of a rising balloon, or raining on parades, ever the philosopher. “Would you like to see our gardens,” He motioned with one hand. At a turn in the road, beyond an apple orchard stood acre after acre of vegetables. Janeane was able to recognize some of the basics: carrots, turnips, and spinach. Everything was so green, so tall, and so delicious to look upon. “We practice permaculture, no chemicals. The soil was thin here; we built it up with organic amendments, manures, and plant matter. Now we have soil that will produce quality produce as long it is cared for and loved.”

The word loved caught her attention, loving the land, is he a people lover, one who could have a relationship, Janeane wondered. “I hear you saying we.” She looked around, “Who else is involved with the farm.”

“I have a network of friends; you know that I write articles, for conservation and permaculture magazines? Friends will come up when I plant or harvest. We sell at farmers markets as well as bartering.” He chewed on the end of a weed. “It’s not about me; it’s about nurturing the land and having a community that lives in a sustainable way. It is all about we.”

Janeane nodded, damn he is a philosopher, one that likes to get his hands dirty in the soil, She had difficulty responding. “I know that you are from Boston, did you have farming experience before you came up?”

“No, I heard a lecture at my college that changed my life. My parents, many people I know strive to make change through politics; but nothing seems to change. This professor suggested that change needs to come from the bottom up. People should build communities that are autonomous, self sufficient. Everyone sees the big corporation coming to town as the answer, that only last a generation or two. Sustainable communities can go on forever, people nurturing one another’s needs. Buying local, building local, drawing upon local resources.”

God there he goes again, I need to keep my mouth shut. Her eyes glazed.

Ian stooped down, grabbed a handful of the dark earth, feeling it in his palm, “local resources for the local population.” Janeane noticed a tire track near his foot, that same tire, not with the rosette, but the same model. Mr. Flynn at the garage said it was a common tire for older cars, especially imports, like that VW van.

“You must have to do a lot of weeding, and spraying for bugs.”

Ian popped up like he was sprung from a jack-in-the-box, a frown on his face, “We have no sprays here, no chemicals.” Now she had done it, she had fallen down a deep dark well, and he would not help her out. If she hadn’t been thinking about that tire she wouldn’t have asked such a stupid question. Damn.

She melted back a step or two, his laser like gaze was more than she could handle. This was a wasted trip! There was the missing piece from the Shangra-La sign, and maybe that tire track. If only.

Ian realized that he had scared the hell out of the girl from the big city, she didn’t know any better. “I’m sorry.” He offered an apology. “And you made that long ride from town, you must be tired.” He looked up at the sun, “We can sit on the porch, I have juice in the frig.” He smiled.

Janeane gave him a tentative nod, and a sideways smile. “Okay.” Well I get a second chance here. Don’t blow it Janeane!


 Sitting on the steps in the shade Janeane thought about who comes and goes on the farm and what sort of vehicles might be involved.

“Here you go,” Ian handed Janeane a glass filled with a greenish liquid. She thought about asking what it was, her statistics with questions was abysmal. She smiled and drank. Then she gave an honest smile.

“Taste good.” But she was not going to ask, if he offered that would be fine, but no questions. She clicked the toes of her shoes together.

“It’s a natural fruit powder, from the health food store.”

Janeane nodded, deep in thought, “Do you use a tractor to plow your fields?”

“Oh, no, Mac Dill down the road has a team of mules. I do work for him and he lets me use his team. That kind of makes me a part-time mule.” He made a slight chuckle; the closest Janeane had ever seen him get to a laugh. Lighten up Ian.

“Have you had anyone helping you in the fields lately?” Janeane held her breath, she wasn’t sure if she was pressing too hard, asking intrusive questions. Please, please!

“Popper and his family have been here off and on.” There was another almost laugh, as he thought about Poppers work ethic. “Out beyond the gardens there are several camp sites, the Popejoy’s, Popper, his wife Natasha and the kids have been staying. I haven’t seen them for a few days. Like I said they come and go. He will help some.”

Janeane let that rumble around in her head. That’s it, no more questions; thank him for the farm tour, and the drink and you are on your way. She thought about what she had gathered from this outing: The source of the rosette, another tire track, and a name, the Popejoy family, not confirmed but possible.

The Picnic by John Coultas

This is a scene from Tripping Over Murder

Dan drove up past the old lighthouse, an abandoned cider mill and then into a parking area adjoining a meadow. He took Janean's picnic basket from the trunk, the detective leading the way along a trail through the knee high grasses and yellow sun flowers. He stopped, "This is the spot." Grabbing the ground blanket from his date he flung it out letting it settle onto the green stalks. She took in the setting, listened to the distant ocean and the calls of the seabirds.

Smiling at Dan she asked, "How is it you knew of this place?"

Taking on his professional face he imparted, "Many a time it was necessary to come up here to rescue an underage lover."

"Ah, so you brought me to a place where young women are known to be debauched." She feigned innocence for his benefit. "Some date this is." this

"One can only hope." He replyed with a shrug.

Janeane laid back on the blanket, staring at the fleeced clouds passing above. “Librarians are a lot like detectives,” She began her well rehearsed quest for details on Detective Kane’s investigations. “We need to be aware of the territory, what went before, what may be coming down the road.” Sitting up she looked at the seascape spread out to the east, pulling for elements to add to her waning train of thought. Her head nodded, deep in thought. “We need to look below the surface…” The tranquility of place, the grass, the bay below, the cloud dappled sky washed away her designs.

“And?” He asked.

Her head bobbed along with the fishing boat, her point of focus. “Hmm.”

“And?” His query came again.

“Oh, where was I?” She looked at Dan, surprised at her lapse in thought.

“I’m not sure where you were going; you were talking about looking deep, like below the surface; at what I am not sure.”

“Now I remember. Librarians deal with a vast amount of information, we sift through it, determine what is and isn’t relevant, and voila, the answer is found.”

“But you are searching for someone else, a customer. The customer asks the question and you find what they want, they determine the truth in a sense.”

“Truth, interesting, I never thought of it in that sense.” Her chin wrested on arms crossed at her knees, her eyes back on the bobbing fishing boat. “Hmm, truth is the answer…librarian think in terms or right or wrong, correct or incorrect…funny how truth carries such a strong, noble sound. Truth, justice,” Her head began the rhythmic bob, “They demand a lot of a person, of a system.” She looked at Dan who was rolling a stalk of grass between finger and thumb. He nodded.

“I try,” Was his somber response. “I work for the chief and the county prosecutor, they are my customers, they evaluate what I come up with.” He looked at the picnic hamper, “All these deep thoughts are making me hungry, how about lunch?”



Dan helped Janeane, putting the remains of their lunch into the hamper, a crust of hard bread, the last of the wine, and pieces of cheese rind. "I can’t imagine a more wonderful picnic,” She inhaled the ocean air, giving the officer-of-the- law a satisfied smile. He leaned to her, kissing her neck. Gasping she fell backwards and he on top. He rolled to her side, kissing her mouth, to which she pushed away. “No, not here. You never know who might pass by.” She sat up, and looked toward the parking lot.

“Are all librarians like this, so concerned with looking prim and proper?” Dan brushed grass from his slacks

“It’s just so public here; I mean someone could drive by.” She again stared at the road. “I don’t care for it, having to be circumspect, but it comes with the job. It feels hypocritical. Teachers and librarians are held to high moral standards.” She stood, “Help me with the blanket, and you can come back to my apartment, we will draw the curtains tight, finish off the wine, and what you started here.”

Dan offered a lascivious leer as he grabbed one edge of the blanket, “I think I can live with that.”



Janeane’s apartment was dark; she sat in the corner of the couch with Dan. He had returned to where he had begun, exploring her neck with his lips, moving on to her mouth; their arms and legs were entangled as the level of heat built between the two. She relaxed allowing the emotions to wash over her. “I’m going to be in need of help here.” He suggested. How could he need help, his practiced fingers lightly strummed her body?

“How is that?”

“I’ve never done it…you know…with a librarian.” He said. She couldn’t see his face but she could sense the wide grin.

“Well I have all the parts that other women have, and I hope they respond as they should.”

“They are,” He purred, “Oh, how they are.” His hands groped and her body arched and ached in kind.

“Oh Dan, I have never been stimulated like this before. Oh Dan, do it. Don’t stop.” Her body rose and fell against his.

“No! No!” Dan seemed to be losing control, “Damn!” His hands went to his pockets, Janine fell back panting; wanting more, not wanting the moment to end.

“Why did you stop it was so good, you were just…”

He pulled the cell phone from his pocket, “It was on vibrate.”

He scowled at the device, opened the clam shell and growled, “Kane!”

Barbarian Invasion by John Coultas

A scene from my Tripping Over Murder story

The nose of the skateboard skimmed along inches above the sidewalk, Grunge the navigator shot across the curb into Main Street traffic, avoiding collision with irate soccer moms and cautious seniors. There was the squealing of brakes and shouted epithets from startled drivers. At the opposite curb he jumped his board high in the air, spun and gave a flourish of the hand and a bow as he landed for the benefit of the not so amused motorists.

“Grunge!” Flyman called out, “Cool spin, and did you see that old broad flip you off, thought she was going to have one of those stroke things.” He snorted as he laughed.

Grunge flipped his board in the air, caught it with one hand and swiped at the hair hanging in his face. “That was Mrs. Egan, lives on my block, I'll hear about it from my Mom.”

“Not so cool dude.” Flyman offered. “Hey, there's Tops.”

Tops approached, and leaned back on his board bringing it to a stop, “What's going Dudes?” He mumbled, he was not a man of many words. “The cops chased me off Main Street, The big guy.”

“Officer Dan, he’s okay, didn’t write you up did he. I heard he knew how to raise hell in his day. He knows what it’s like.” Grunge informed, “That new librarian starts work today. I talked to her at the Burger Barn the other night, kind’a cute for a librarian I guess, lot nicer than those old ladies that work there now.” He shot out with his board, “Let’s go see what she’s doing over there, might be cool.” Flyman and Tops shrugged and followed.

They shouted, jumped and spun their way to the old Carnegie building. Stopping at the front, they eyed the eight steps leading up to the entrance. “What do you think, can we do it.” Grunge asked. Tops and Flyman thought it over looked out to the street and down the sidewalk.

“Don’t see that Officer Dan guy,” Was Flyman’s thought on the subject.

“Dude, don’t be such a weenie,” Tops didn’t care about cops; he had a reputation to maintain. They spread their legs wide on the boards and began a much practiced walk up the steps, shifting, twisting, and lifting the nose then the tail. It would have been quicker walking, but this demonstrated to the world who they were, and what they could do.


Miss Morrissey was behind the counter sorting cards. She took great pride in her work, for over sixty years she interfiled cards into the libraries catalog. Some would have considered such an assignment, “Cruel and Unusual Punishment.” The frail senior made of it an art form, not to mention it gave her lifetime job security. No other staff member could be convinced it was not a mind deadening occupation. Just as she was considering her next card, the broad oak paneled door was flung open. Standing in the door way, back lit by the afternoon sun were three imposing silhouettes. Boards in hand, gladiator-like figures stepped forward. Morrissey’s birdlike body shook, her quivering hands went to her face,” They’re here, oh my god they're here!” A trilling gasp could be heard reverberating around the sacrosanct reading room.

”Were here for the young librarian,” Tops proclaimed, his voice rumbling in his chest.

“Yeah dude, that cute one.” Grunge added giving a melodramatic effect.

Morrissey’s body verged on shaking its self to pieces, her lips formed words but nothing came out. At last she gained control of her mouth, “Rape, murder,” She screamed.

Miss Morrissey ran from the counter, past the parting boarders, screaming her way out the front door. At the top step, in front of Somerset’s venerable library the octogenarian shouted, “Murder, help, crazed murderers.”