The Savior of the East

The Savior of the East

by

P.L. Ellars

“Quick Sheriff! Ya gotta come quick! Mad Mongo the malcontent musician is a tearin’ up the town somethin’ fierce!” screamed the Old Prospector.

“No Way, dude!” replied the Sheriff, his eyes darting around the room, anxiously watching the door in case Mad Mongo the malcontent musician decided to come crashing through it looking for him. “I ain’t a goin’ down there to that there a saloon. Why, Mad Mongo the malcontent musician might jest take it into his pointy little head to use me as a percussion instramint! No sirree Bob! I jest ain’t a gonna do it!” he whined.

“But Sheriff, he’s a tearin’ up the whole town, startin’ with the SALOON! Why he’s already had four, an’ I say that agin fer effect (only this time in capital letters) FOUR sassyparillas. You know what an ugly cuss he turns inta when he gets all sugared up!”

yelled the Old Prospector.

“Ain’t that the truth. But I still ain’t a goin’ ta do that. You all ‘member what he did to the town last time after only TWO sassyparrillas!” yelled the Sheriff. “Why, we jest only recently got it rebuilt in time for our big ol’ Musical Mayhem Madness in the Mud shindig!” the sheriff said in a pathetic whining voice.

“Well, if’n you all ain’t a goin’ to do YORE JOB, which we, the poor, overworked, overtaxed, over abused and down trodden peasants is a payin’ you all for, than what in tarnation are we all a goin’ to do, if I might be so bold as to ask yore Brave Sheriffness?”

“OK, OK, yore remarks is a drippin’ with sarcasm and has shamed me into action, you old hedgehog. Jest hand me over my double pistol buscadero rig, that there 4-barrel shotgun, that big ol’ ellyfant gun, that there Gatlin Gun, mebbe a couple of them there knives, about 4 miles of that there 1-inch rope, six pair o’ handcuffs, that there tranquilizing gun, that whale net made outta stainless steel, then go out and round up about 49 hombres to make up a posse fer me and I’ll go and talk to Mad Mongo the malcontent musician and see if’n I can’t make him settle down.” said the Sheriff.

“OK, Sheriff, I’ll get right on it!” said the Old Prospector with joy and hope in his voice.

Meanwhile down at the saloon Mad Mongo the malcontent musician was juggling four big old cowboys with one hand and with his other hand he was shooting his six-shooter pistol into the floor making 10 more cowboys dance a hornpipe.

“YEEEHAAAWWWW!!!! yelled Mad Mongo the malcontent musician at the top of his lungs which caused eight more cowboys to get blown over, some crashing through the window and some getting flung through the swinging doors of the saloon.

“BY GOLLY, I AIN’T A HAD NEAR THIS HERE MUCH FUN SINCE YESTIDDAY!” he roared.

“M.. M.. M.. Mr. M..M..Mon…Mon…Mongo? Sir?” the Sheriff cried in a pathetic little sissy boy whispering voice.

Mad Mongo the malcontent musician did not hear the Sheriff. He was too busy reloading his six-shooter and punting Barky the saloon dog out through the swinging door.

“P..P..Please, S..S..S..Sir, Mr. Mongo. I’d a like to ask a real big favor of you all.” the Sheriff said in a syrupy sweet voice.

Mad Mongo slowly turned around. His evil eyes, glowing red, narrowed and his nostrils flared open. The Sheriff was sure he saw flames coming out of Mongo’s nose, just like a dragon.

“IS YOU TALKIN’ TO ME?!” he roared like a lion. Mad Mongo the malcontent musician slowly bent over close to the Sheriff who was cowering and quaking and shaking and quivering on the floor like a worm on a hot sidewalk.

“P..P..Please, sir, if’n you all would be so kind as to sorta keep it down cuz, believe it or not, some a these here townfolk is mighty, mighty terryfied of you all and they is a having a real tuff time havin’ their lunch, if’n you all know what I mean.” the Sheriff said in a broken, wavering voice.

“HAVIN’ TROUBLE WITH THEY LUNCH, IS THEY?” Mad Mongo bellowed.

“WELL, BRING ‘EM ON IN HERE. I’LL HELP THEM CHEW IT UP AND DIGEST IT REAL GOOD!” he roared laughing at the same time. He then put his six-shooter away and hung the cowboys he was juggling up one by one on the candle chandelier high up in the middle of the room with the idea of resuming his juggling fun later. He then bent over and picked the Sheriff up by his boots and started swinging him around and around in circles going faster and faster. Mongo was laughing so hard that the saloon started to shake. Sassyparrilla bottles started to dance on the shelves and then fall off and break on the floor. After spinning the Sheriff around about 92 times he let go of his boots and watched as the Sheriff went flying out the saloon doors on an ascending arc and disappear over the top of the building across the street. Mongo fell on the floor laughing so hard that the rest of the bottles of sassyparilla, root beer, lemonade and (my favorite) Ol’ Squeezed Squirrel fell and broke on the floor making quite a mess.

Well, old Mad Mongo the malcontent musician was laughing so hard that the tears were flowing like a river from his eyes. It would have made him mad to know that he was actually cleaning up the mess he made with his tears as they flowed and washed everything out the front door into the street, turning it into a river which is still there today and is known as “Sweet River”.

When all of a sudden a single musical note is heard. Mad Mongo wasn’t sure he had heard it at first so he quieted down just a little. There! He heard it again. And another note. The corners of his mouth started to curl up in the tiniest little smile you’ve ever seen. Mad Mongo thought his face was breaking up. He had never smiled. Ever. Not ever in his entire life. Not even once. Oh sure, he laughed a lot. Usually when he was treeing a town. But to smile? No way. Not no way, never! It was such a new and unusual experience for him that he got real quiet and started to listen.

Suddenly the musical notes started to flow and pour forth like Niagara Falls. It was the sweetest, most delicious sound Mad Mongo the malcontent musician had ever heard. He pulled over the nearest cowboy and used him as a pillow as he lay there on the wet saloon floor listening to the prettiest music he had ever heard in all his born days. He felt so calm, so quiet, so peaceful and happy. His mouth curled up even more as his smile grew bigger. He liked this music. After a few seconds he felt so good that he had to get up off the floor and find out where this wonderful, soothing music was coming from.

He listened real hard and decided that it was coming from outside the saloon. He tip-toed to the swinging doors and peeked outside for a look. There, across the combination main street and river, on the wooden sidewalk in front of the building the Sheriff so recently flew, over he saw a little girl, as pretty as an angel, sitting and playing a harp. He stood there transfixed, as if he were nailed to the spot. The little girl continued to play her harp and Mad Mongo’s smile grew bigger and bigger. He had to hear more. Crashing through the saloon doors he dove into the river making such a big splash that the whole town was washed clean. He swam to the other side and, climbing out, sputtered “WHO ARE YOU AND HOW DO YOU MAKE SUCH PRETTY NOISE?”

“I am Harp-A-Long Angelise and I’ve come to show you the evil of your evil ways, you evil malcontent musician.” and she strummed a few more chords on her beautiful harp.

“Take that, Mr. Mad Mongo the malcontent musician!” and with that she got down to some seriously fancy finger work. Mad Mongo’s eyes sort of glazed over, his size 26 rhinoceros-skinned cowboy boot started tapping in time with Harp-A-Long Angelise’s music. He was smiling from ear-to-ear. It would have been shocking to see except these townfolk were used to seeing wild animals smile.

Harp-A-Long Angelise continued to play and with each note Mad Mongo the malcontent musician got mellower and mellower and his smile grew bigger and bigger. After playing for about 10 minutes Harp-A-Long Angelise decided that Mad Mongo was just where she wanted him. She stopped playing and, reaching into her music bag, pulled out a book.

“Mr. Mongo, I want you to do a favor for me now.” she said.

“OH, YES! PRETTY LITTLE MUSICAL ANGEL, ANYTHING, ANYTHING. YOU JEST SAY THE WORD AND IT’S AS GOOD AS DONE! he said trying very hard to keep his voice down to a dull roar but not being very successful.

“I want you to take this book I’m going to give you and take it home and not come back until you have read ALL OF IT!” the little harp playing angel said with such determination and fierceness that Mad Mongo’s eyes opened wide.

“BOOK! WHY, I KIN BARELY READ! IT MIGHT TAKE ME A LITTLE WHILE, BUT, OK, A PROMISE IS A PROMISE, EVEN AMONGST US MALCONTENT MUSICIANS.” he said with a little pride in his voice. “WHAT’S THIS HERE BOOK ALL ABOUT ANYWAYS, LITTLE ANGEL?” he asked, not able to hide the little bit of fear that was creeping into his voice.

“It’s an excellent book on nutrition and the effect sugar has on moods. I think once you get started on it, you’ll find it a fascinating study in human emotion as well as dietary requirements. You know what they say, don’t you?” she asked watching his face develop a puzzled look.

“WELL, NO, NOT REALLY, I AIN’T GOT NO IDEAR A’TALL OF WHAT THEY SAY. IS IT GOOD? HOW MANY GUESSES DO I GET? IS IT SOMETHING I MIGHT A HEARED AFORE? IS IT SOMETH…”

“They say” she said interrupting his blathering “that: Good Nutrition is its Own Reward. Now, once you finish reading this book, I want you to put that saying in a needlepoint wall hanging, using 4 different colors with some very nice vines and flowers around the border and hang it on the wall over your bed and every night before you go to bed and every morning when you get up I want you to look at it and recite it: Good Nutrition is its Own Reward! Get it?”

“GOT IT.”

“Good.”

Harp-A-Long Angelise then commenced to play on her beautiful harp again and Mad Mongo the malcontent musician curled up at her feet on the sidewalk, his feet hanging over the sidewalk into the river below.

And there is where we shall leave them. Harp-A-Long Angelise, the Savior of the East, playing the sweetest music this side of heaven and Mad Mongo (now known as Mad Mongo the Merry Musician) sleeping peacefully at her feet, an angelic smile on his face.

THE END

This here a story is a dedycated to anuther little angel. One that koinsidentally also happin’s ta play the harp beeyootifully – Annelise Ellars.

sined, The Old Prospector, eyeball witness to the happenin’s above faithfully re-recorded in glorious detail and no prejadice (well, mebbe jest a little).

To Travel

This little story is one I wrote in response to an on-going travel urge by someone I know. I hope it does not come to this.

To Travel

by

Paul L. Ellars

“So, my little darling, where would you like to take me this year?” Jacki asked.

“I don’t know. Where would you like to go?” Paul replied looking down at the floor.

“Somewhere we’ve never been before?” she said. This was a scene played out very often with hope on her side and sadness and despair on his. He had no money to take her traveling and traveling was the one thing she had not done much of in her life. He was an Army brat and grew up traveling back and forth across this country and all of Europe. And now that she was approaching retirement age she was passionate about traveling before she lost the energy and desire to do so. Each passing year home seemed more comfortable. “It is just so expensive to go anywhere and I’ve not made the money I was hoping I would.” he thought to himself.

Another year has passed.

“So, my little darling, where would you like to take me this year?” Jacki asked.

“I don’t know. Where would you like to go?” Paul replied and, like last year, looked down at the floor. He knew they would not go anywhere and it made him sad. Jacki never complained. She had a bright and cheery smile and always said the money would show up somehow and they would travel then. He always gave her a sad smile and nodded his head.

A few more years passed. They both aged and began to slow down. Their energy was gone. Home had become too comfortable. They went nowhere yet still talked about traveling somewhere, anywhere.

A few more years passed and her health began to deteriorate. She still talked about traveling and still had a bright and cheery smile and always said the money would show up somehow and they would travel then. And he gave another sad smile and a nod of the head.

The following year she died. She never did get to travel while alive and it was his biggest regret. If only he had money.

He found a crematorium he could afford and afterwards took her ashes back to their home.

That evening he made copies of his favorite photo of her and one of them together. Below the photos he wrote: This is my late wife Jacki; it was always her passion to travel but we did not have the money. Please take the enclosed ashes you’ll find in the envelope and take them to ___________ and cast them to the wind. Thank you.

And so he put a spoon or two of her ashes in an envelope along with a copy of his favorite photo of her and the one of them together. Then he filled in the blank line with the local landmark or historical site.

That evening he mailed out three envelopes. He sent her to Iolani Palace in Honolulu, the Great Pyramids of Egypt and Machu Picchu in Peru. The following night he sent out another three envelopes; one to the Eiffel Tower in Paris, one to Buckingham Palace in London and one to Heidelberg Castle in Germany. Sometimes a tear would roll down his cheek and land either on the copy of the photos or on her ashes. Each night for the next few months, until her ashes we all gone, all except for some he kept in a small glass vase he placed on the mantel, he would send her to a far-off corner of the globe.

And so, in his own way, he was making it possible for her to travel.

In Ernest

This story, for and about, Ernest Hemingway is my entry in San Luis Obispo's 55-word short story competition in the New Times periodical.

IN ERNEST

by

P.L. Ellars


The writer wrote one true sentence. And then another. And afterwards he got up and stood in the doorway and placed his mouth loosely around both barrels of the shotgun and then closed his eyes and pulled both triggers and at the last instant opened his eyes wide.

The Samaritan

I saw a kid on a motorcycle just as described in this story one day...


The Samaritan

by

P.L. Ellars



Sometimes you’re in the right place at the right time. If that’s true, then somebody’s got to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The kid on the scuffed up old BMW GS motorcycle was definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was Saturday morning. I had seen him about twenty minutes earlier as I was driving downtown to drop some letters off at the Post Office and do my banking. He was racing up and down the streets standing up on the pegs in baggy shorts, tank top, hightop sneakers and an equally scuffed up old off-road helmet.

I was on my way home and had just gone past the elementary school when I saw him again, this time in my rear view mirror and coming up fast. In front of me, coming from the right, was a kid about 12 or so on his bicycle leaving the playground of the deserted schoolyard. I slowed down to let the kid on the bicycle cross in front of me from right to left. The guy on the motorcycle didn’t. He must have seen my brake lights, but instead of slowing down, I heard his engine speed up and saw him pull out into the oncoming lane to pass me. The kid on the bicycle and the guy on the motorcycle couldn’t see each other through my car; I could only watch what happened in the next few seconds in what seemed like slow motion.

First it was the sound of the motorcycle’s rear tire screeching as the guy locked it up at around 50 miles per hour after he finally saw the kid. I continued braking and came to a complete stop as I watched the heavy motorcycle’s back end swing fast and violently around to the right, swatting the kid on the bicycle like a baseball bat. They both went down hard. The kid and his bicycle were knocked over to the curb on the far side of the intersection, the guy and his motorcycle sliding along on the pavement after him.

It was over in an instant. I drove my car through the intersection, pulled up next to them, got out and was aware of total silence. I looked around to see if anyone heard the accident. No one came out of their house to see what all the commotion was about. The nearest house was about 100 yards away, on the other side of a stand of trees next to the school, so they must not have heard anything. I watched for a few seconds more to see if anybody came out. No one did. I then looked down at the kid on the bicycle. His left arm and leg were obviously broken by the unnatural bend to them. His helmet had been ripped off and blood was streaming from his head; he wasn’t moving. The guy on the motorcycle was starting to move a little and I heard him groan. He was lying face down and his helmet was pushed up to where the chin bar covered his eyes. I walked over to him; he must have heard me because he said:
“Hey man, is somebody there? I need help, man! I need it now! Is somebody there? Come on, man, say something! I think my collarbone is broken, I can’t move my arm. Dude, is anybody there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Call an ambulance, man. My fuckin’ ankle feels like its ground off. It hurts like hell and I can’t move my arm. Do something, man!”
“The kid you hit is dead.” I told him.
“Yeah? Well, it was an accident, man. An accident. I didn’t mean to hit him. Shit happens. Come on, dude, call the fucking ambulance. I’m in some serious pain here and it’s gettin’ worse.”
“Shit happens? Is that what you said? You killed that kid and all you can say is ‘shit happens’?”
“Hey look, man, he shoulda seen me comin’, you know? How was I supposed to know he was in front of your car. He shoulda seen or heard me, man. Come on, please, call the fuckin’ ambulance. I’m bleedin’ to death here. I need some fuckin’ help, man.”
I walked over to him. The blood had stopped flowing from the dead kid’s head. His eyes were open and he stared off down the road seeing nothing.
I squatted down behind the guy on the motorcycle. He was still lying face down with his helmet pushed up. He could not see me.
“You don’t seem too concerned about the kid on the bike, friend”. I told him.
“Hey, man, look, right now I got to get some help myself. I can’t do shit for him right now. Maybe later, you know, when I get better.”
“And when you get better, then what? Back on the road and on to your next victim? That would hardly be the right thing to do, to turn you loose on the world again. I don’t think you feel much remorse for the kid here.”
“Remorse? I don’t even know what the fuck that means, man. Quit stalling and preachin’ this philosophical bullshit and call the fuckin’ ambulance, man, I’m in pain and need help!”
“But if I help you, I would not be helping the rest of the world.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, man! Just call the goddam ambulance. You know, man, I’m going to report you. You know, it’s against the law, to not help somebody at an accident. You got to…”
I put my knee in between his shoulder blades and pushed the chin bar up higher making sure he could not see me.
“HEY! What the fuck are you doin’, man! Get off me! Are you fuckin’ crazy or somethin’? Get the fuck off me!”
“Maybe the world would be a better place if people like you didn’t drive anymore.” I told him.
“What the hell are you talkin’ about. It ain’t for you to decide, man. Some fuckin’ old judge will do that. I know, I’ve been in court before and I know how this fuckin’ system works, man. I might get some time, but probably not, so get over it and call the goddamn ambulance.”
I put more of my weight on my knee, pressing him closer to the pavement, immobilizing him. I could hear him struggling to breathe. Reaching around, I found his chin and started working my hand up his face under the helmet.
“What the hell are you doing, man! Goddamit! You’re not supposed to move the helmet after an accident. Every fuckin’ asshole knows that!” he gasped.
“Have you ever seen a blind person ride a motorcycle?” I asked him.
“WHAT! No, I haven’t. Oh shit, please don’t! No! man, don’t do that, come on, man, no!”
I kept working my hand up his face, spreading my first two fingers until I was just past his nose. I could feel my fingers were just under his eyes.
“Oh, God, please, mister, please don’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill that kid. It was an accident. I swear to God I’ll never…”
Putting all of my weight on my knee, I heard the breath rush out of him as I rammed my two fingers deep into his eye sockets. His eyes popped and covered my fingers with warm, thick, slimy mucous. I heard him gasp air in quickly and then start to pant. He continued to breathe in short, fast pants and started sobbing at the same time. I looked around and still no one came out of their house. I walked back to my car, got in and drove away. Looking into the rear view mirror I could see him try and roll over on his back, his shoulders shaking convulsively.

Sometimes the work of a Samaritan is not easy to understand, I’m sure there are gray areas, but I feel that the true Samaritan, the true Samaritan, works for the greater good of all.




Well, a medieval solution to a modern problem, eh?

Quentin the Queer Quail

I've never been able to look at quails, or any bird for that matter, the same after writing this.


Quentin the Queer Quail
by
P.L. Ellars

Rural England, The Year 1746

“Quentin’s called a meetin’ tonight. At the ‘Tickle Yore Arse Wi’ A Feather Inn’. Pass it on”. Gully the Ghoul told a flock of feathered fiends hanging out in the town square.
“Right, Gully, see you there, then.” replied Bazza the Buzzard winking conspiratorially.
The feathered fiends flew off in separate directions to spread the word. Something big must be up; Quentin hasn’t called a meeting in over 6 months.
Later that evening…
“Arright, ducks, I’ve called…”
“We’re not all ducks, Quentin. Some of us are…”
“I know, Reg, I know! It’s just an expression!”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“As I was sayin’, I’ve called this ‘ere meetin’ becuz we’ve got to do sometin’ about Farmer Abattre. The barstid ‘as gone and hung nettin’ over his crops and it’s already killed a couple o’ the boys. I got it on good word from Choker the Chicken who lives out at Farmer Abattre’s. ‘E’s seen the old barstid stringin’ it up and yestiday Bazza the Buzzard was flyin’ over and saw Sammy Swallows, Wilson the Warbler and Bushy Bushtits all hangin’ deader ‘n hell from the fookin’ nettin’. We got to do sometin’ boys, and do sometin’ quick before we all end up hangin’ from it like a Christmas goose.”
“WHAT!” yelled Gander the Gooser.
“Relax, Gander, it’s just an expression. Nuthin’ personal.”
“Well, Quentin, you might’ve chosen some other expression! Oi don’t loik that one a’tall!” retorted Gander the Gooser.
“Anywize, as I wuz sayin’, we’ve got to do something, and we’ve got to do it quick. So’s here’s what I propose…”
The fiends all huddled closer to hear Quentin’s devilish plan. There was much murmuring, squawking, cooing, head bobbing, wing fluttering and ground scratching. The fiends were all in a sweat after hearing Quentin’s plan.
“Crikey!” exclaimed Gully the Ghoul “I think it’ll work. It’s brilliant! When do we do the fooker in and the rest o’ his spawn from hell?”
“At dawn, day after tomorrow. That oughta give us enough time to “stock up”, shall we say, and give the barstid something he’ll never forget. Thinks he can kill us and get away wit’ it…well, no fookin’ way!”
At that, there was a loud chorus of agreement from all present. The rest of the night the feathered fiends spent drinking.
Dawn came early two days later. The feathered fiends had spent the day before scouring the countryside gorging themselves on everything they could find to eat. That night, they quietly roosted in the trees next to Farmer Abattre’s house. Farmer Abattre, his plump wife, their two sons and one daughter slept peacefully, little suspecting what lay in store for them the next day.
At daybreak Quentin had positioned himself at the peak of the barn to better lead the attack. Then they waited.
The little girl came out of the house first and headed for the chicken coop. Quentin whistled sharply two times…the signal for Choker the Chicken, who was lying in wait in the coop with the rest of the fowl fiends, to be on the alert; the little girl was on her way. Quentin gleefully watched from his perch, his topknot twitching uncontrollably with anticipation.
The little girl, dressed in calico with a clean, white apron around her, skipped merrily to the door of the coop, her basket swinging at her side in time to the sweet song she was singing.
She pushed the door open, skipped in and wondered why it was so quiet. As it was her job to collect the eggs each day, she was used to hearing the chickens chattering softly away. It was a familiar and comfortable sound to her. She loved the chickens and collecting the eggs was her favorite farm chore.
Choker and Shanghai the Rooster waited until she had gotten well inside the coop and had closed the door before making their move. Positioning themselves next to some eggs, they watched and waited. She finally was before them and, bending down to pick up the eggs, said, “Oh, thank you, thank you, dear sweet chickens for providing us with…” when Choker and Shanghai flew at her face pecking out her eyes. At that, she dropped her basket and fell to the ground shrieking. The rest of the chickens in the coop swooped in on her, continuing to peck at her eyes, her ears, and every part of her little six-year old body they could reach.
In the meantime, Quentin had given the signal for Bazza the Buzzard, Gander the Gooser, and Creepy Crow to fly down to the porch and quietly wait by the front door. The poor child’s hysterical shrieks brought her mother racing out of the house. When the three large birds waiting on the porch heard the front door open, they scurried in front of it. Mother Abattre, unaware of the birds at her feet, focused only on her child’s screams; the birds easily tripped the poor old woman.
“Take that, ya old hag!” yelled Bazza the Buzzard.
“Yeah, kill us, will ya, bitchy!” echoed Creepy Crow.
Mother Abattre crashed hard at the top of the steps, her head going over the side and smashing her face into the top step. Her weight and momentum kept her body moving on down the steps while her head was firmly wedged at the top, bending her neck backwards until Farmer Abattre, who was now standing in the doorway, heard it snap like a handful of celery being twisted.
He raced down the steps and stood next to his wife’s crumpled body. He could hear his daughter’s screams from the chicken coop growing fainter and fainter. By now the two boys, aged 8 and 10 had appeared on the porch and were staring in disbelief at their mother, then father and then at the chicken coop.
“Da! Da! What’s goin’ on? Is Ma arright? Da!”
Quentin whistled and a dark cloud erupted from the tree next to the house and headed straight for the dumbstruck old man and his two boys. The first pass of the birds covered Farmer Abattre and his boys from head to foot in thick grey and white and brown excrement.
“Ducks! Do your worst!” ordered Quentin, now looking down at the scene below him from his new position above the porch.
The ducks came in low and fast, releasing their load with deadly accuracy. Now Farmer Abattre and the boys were completely whitewashed with slimy, foul smelling duck dung.
“Da! Help me! Help Da! Help!” screamed the two boys.
“Run boys, run, back into the house. Quick now!” yelled the father.
Both boys, covered in duck dung and unable to see, ran in the direction of the house only to trip over their mother.
“Now, Gooser, Now! You and the other geese have at ‘em!” bellowed Quentin, his topknot quivering with rage and joy. Gander and five other geese left the ground at a run from nearby. Two of the geese dropped their loads as they flew over Farmer Abattre’s head scoring direct hits. Gander and the other three geese headed for the boys who, not being able to see, were trying to stand up but kept stumbling over their mother and the steps. The foul fowls released their loads with unerring accuracy.
“Aye! Take that, ye shitheads!” thundered Quentin. “Maybe ye’ll think twice next time afore ye string nettin’ out!”
Farmer Abattre and the boys could barely breathe after the goose attack. The excrement was so thick on their heads and faces that they were inhaling it and spitting it out, gasping for air.
“ARRIGHT! THEY REST OF YE, HAVE AT ‘EM! AND SHOW NO MERCY!” commanded Quentin.
At that hundreds of birds took to the air and proceeded to unload the previous days digested engorgement on the helpless farmer, his dead wife and the two boys. Several of the larger birds pushed open the door to the coop and let the chickens free. The poor little girl lay there in the straw, pecked to death; her face unrecognizable even to her own family.
All the birds now converged on Farmer Abattre and the two boys, pecking at their eyes, ears, and throat. They withstood the onslaught as long as they could, swatting away at the birds, but now blind, gasping for air and bleeding from hundreds of wounds, they finally collapsed in a heap on top of Mother Abattre where the feathered fiends continued the attack until there was no sign of life left.
“Right!” boomed Quentin “Smells like the old bitch was makin’ breakfast. Let’s go in and have a looksee, eh?”
Quentin led the army of birds up the steps, through the door and into the house.
“Arright, ye knows what to do. Start breakin’ the fookin’ place up. Knock over anything and everything ye can.”
Quentin left the birds to the destruction of the farmhouse and went into the kitchen. He was right: Mother Abattre had been in the process of making breakfast for her family and had just got the fire started in the stove. How convenient. How bloody, marvelously convenient.
“Creepy, look here, in the old hag’s haste to save her smelly little kid, the bitch went off and left the firebox door open. You and some of the boys keep feedin’ as much tinder and kindling into it as ye can. I want that fire big and I want it to spill out on to the floor.”
“Right, Quentin, she’s as good as done”
“Arright, my fine feathered fiends, I want a few of ye to grab those napkins off the table and get ‘em burnin’. Then fly ‘em out to the chicken coop and the barn and drop ‘em in the hay. We’ll burn it all down, all of it! Think they can kill a few of us and get away with it, do they? By God and the devil’s twisted tail, the stupid barstids don’t know much about birds!”
All was done as Quentin ordered. The birds then flew back to the tree to watch and make sure the fire consumed everything. Three thick black columns of smoke rose high into the sky. Looking up the road, Quentin could see Farmer Abattre’s neighbors running to help put out the fire. His lips curled up in a tight little smile and he cocked his topknot over at a jaunty angle.
“Well, well, me lads, would ye look at that? I don’t know about you, but I have an overpowerin’ urge for some target practice.”
And with that he took off in the direction of the road.

The Road

The Road
by
P.L. Ellars


Col. Kelley and the rest of the 1st Virginia Volunteers must be on their way back to Grafton by now. We’ll catch up with them soon enough, I hope. I don’t like being lost out here in the woods like this. Damn, but that was an ugly and funny little skirmish this morning. I had to laugh, though, when I saw Johnny Reb running
away, some of them still in their nightclothes. Already they’re talking about callin’ it
the Philippi races; it was a race all right. I figure they must of been more scared
than we were, the way they took off running. I reckon I shouldn’t have let the boys
chase after them like we did ‘cause all it did was get us lost.

“Hey, Sarge, which way we goin’ to go, to get back with the 1st?”

“Well, Tom, I reckon they’re all on their way back to Grafton, so that’s what we’re
going to do. We’re going north. Everybody, get your gear, we’re headin’ out now.”
That Tom is the youngest one here, but he stood tall this morning. He’s no coward.
They all did. Not a one of us has had much fighting experience before this morning.
With any luck, Johnny Reb will give up this foolishness and we can all get back
home. I know I’m ready. Three months of this and I’ve had more than enough
already. What a hell of a mess.

“All right, men, let’s go. We’re movin’ out.”

They all look as tired as I feel, but if we don’t get going now, we’ll miss our best
chance to hook back up with the 1st Virginia. Damn, that was sure a confusing
morning. I never knew fighting could get so many people mixed up so fast. They
damn sure didn’t tell us about that back in training.

“Tom, you take the lead. Just go on ahead about fifty yards and follow that road
ahead; it seems to be goin’ in the right direction. Keep your eyes peeled and your
ears open, and make as little noise as you can. If you hear anything, you scoot on
back here with the rest of us, quiet like. Those Johnny Rebs that ran off this
morning could be anywhere. We’ll be right behind you.”

“Right, Sarge.”

I'm down to six men, six men out of twelve. I guess the others are all right. I
reckon they’re headed north, too, by now. I didn’t see any of them fall wounded or
anything, so I’m hoping they made it. Now what’s Tom running back here for?

“Sarge! There’s a road up ahead that’s headin’ off northwards. Do you want to take
it?”

“Maybe. Kennedy, you come with me, we’ll go have a look. The rest of you wait
here for my signal. Keep a watch out. Johnny Reb could be anywhere in these trees
just waitin’ to ambush us. I’d bet my last nickel they’ve collected themselves by now and are probably madder than wet hens at the way we routed them this mornin’.
Come on, Kennedy.”

That road does look like it heads north. I reckon we’ll know better when we get to it.

“Kennedy, spread out some and keep it quiet.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

Well, I’ll be damned. Man, would you look at that! That’s about the straightest road
I’ve ever seen. It ain’t much wider than a cart trail, but it looks like it just goes on
forever; I can’t see the end. Those trees coverin’ it seem to grow straight into the
horizon. Man, I ain’t never seen such a beautiful road; the way the sunlight comes
streamin’ in sideways through the trees like that, makin’ the leaves glow with some
kinda’ divine light. It reminds me of the church windows back home. I almost feel
like I know this road; like I’ve been on it before, maybe in a dream.

“Sarge!”

“Keep your voice down, Kennedy, and get over here!”

“Sarge, this road don’t seem natural. I ain’t never seen a road that straight
and…and beautiful before. It looks like it just runs on into tomorrow. Look at the way
the sun comes slantin’ down low through them trees, and that breeze makin’ the
leaves dance like that. It sure as hell looks natural enough, Sarge, but it damn sure
don’t feel that way, ya’ know? Maybe we ought to try another way, Sarge; this road
is givin’ me the jumps.”

“You probably got jumps left over from Philippi this morning. No, Kennedy, this road
is runnin’ due North, and we’re going to have to take it. It’ll be the quickest way
back to Grafton.”

I have to agree with him, though. It was almost supernatural the way this road, this
beautiful road, made me feel. Peaceful and quiet, like the war never made it this far,
and never would; death was as far away as next year, and yet, there is an eerie
feeling to it that we both felt. The road did seem to run on into tomorrow, then
beyond tomorrow, into eternity. I wanted to sit down right there in the dirt, and
stare down that beautiful road until this war was over.

“Kennedy, go back to the junction and signal the other men to come on. Tell ‘em to
be quiet, too. This road will take us where we want to go.”

I watch him trot back to the junction and then turn to look down the road again. I
can picture Lily and me walking hand-in-hand down a road like this; laughing and
talking and saying nothing, watching the shadows of the leaves dance before us;
listening to the mockingbirds singing their songs. I think about her all the time, and
wonder if I’ll ever see her again.

“Sarge, we’re ready. It sure seems quiet here.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Well, enjoy it now boys, who knows when we’ll have
another quiet moment like this once we get back to the war. All right, these trees
and bushes along the road would be a good place for Johnny Reb to get a little revenge on us, so we’re goin’ to go forward at the ready, rifles up. Tom, I want you
to take the lead, again; you’re the youngest and the fastest. If you see, or hear,
anythin’ in front of you, you tear off runnin’ back to us; if you hear it behind you,
take off runnin’ forward on down the road as fast as you can. With luck, you might
be able to outrun ‘em and make it back to Col. Kelley and the 1st Virginia in Grafton.
The rest of you spread out along either side of the road. I know it ain’t wide, so stay
close to the edge, don’t bunch up and keep low. There ain’t enough of us to make
much of a fight, so the same thing I told Tom goes for you, too. We’ll run back to
the junction if there’s anythin’ in front of us, and straight on ahead if it’s to the side
or behind us. Two bits to the first man that catches up and passes Tom.”
I was glad to hear a couple of them laugh at that.

“All right, Tom, go on ahead, and be sharp!”

I watch Tom move out and wait until he had gone about twenty-five yards before I
give the signal to follow. I don’t know why, but here we are on a road that is as
peaceful and soothing to be on as you could ask for, and I am starting to sweat and
my mouth is dryin’ out; my eyes start to dart left and right like a pendulum on a
grandfather clock. It was the same thing this morning at Philippi, waitin’ for the
battle to start. I take a quick drink from my canteen and that helps to settle my
nerves some. I watch Tom ahead and for a moment he is no longer a young soldier
carrying an Enfield rifle down a road he’s never been on before, ready to shoot down
and kill somebody he doesn't even know; instead, he is what he should be in life, a
16 year old kid carrying a fishin’ pole out to try his luck down at the river, catchin’ a
mess of fish to proudly show off to his mama. I can see the youth in him start to
come out; he is no longer staring straight ahead and watching the road ahead for
trouble, instead, he's walking a little more relaxed, not being cautious. He, too, is
probably dreaming about going fishing in another place, another life. It is too easy
to dream about things other than war on this road; it is just too beautiful. How can
men, complete strangers, try and kill each other on a road like this? The sun is
playing through the leaves and it feels warm. The shadows of the branches
overhead swaying gently back and forth on the ground, and the breeze is carrying
the scent of corn, sweet peas and alfalfa growing in the neighboring fields. I watch
birds flit down to the ground and then back up into the trees. I feel like I am on the
road home again. Lily will be there, waitin’ for me, and the smell of fresh baked
bread and stew will fill the house.

I see the cloud of smoke up ahead first, followed by a deep boom, and then hear the
ball when it hits Tom. A .58 caliber lead ball makes a horrible, thudding sound when
it hits a man. It goes into Tom’s stomach and spins him around, knocking him down.
He lies on his back in the road, dying, his heels kicking and drumming out his death
dance in the dust. He will not die quickly, poor bastard. From behind and to the
side I see and hear more shots. O’Reilly and Kennedy are hit several times before
they can get off a shot and fall silently and lie motionless in the road. Flynn and
Thomson, behind them, fire at the smoke and then start running as fast as they can
back towards the junction. They had not gone far before a volley brings them both
down. Before I can run into the bushes, I feel a ball go through my left thigh. It
spins me around and I, too, lie in the road looking up through the trees to the blue
sky beyond. The next round slams into my shoulder. Turning my head in the dust, I
look over to where Jameson, the last man in our squad, is kneeling in the road,
quickly trying to reload his rifle. Thank God, he never felt the ball that takes the
back of his head off. I can feel the blood flowing warmly over my leg and shoulder,
it won't be long, now. Turning my head, I gaze past Tom, and looking up the road, I can just make out Lily, running to help me; her long, white dress flowing around her
and the sunlight making her hair shine. I try to reach my arm out to her, but it
won't respond. I want to touch her one last time. She is coming closer. The warm
sunlight starts to feel cold; the blue sky is turning gray, and the bright, divine light
of the leaves is starting to dim. I smile up at her as she comes near, holding both
arms out to me. I hear footsteps and angry voices quickly approaching me from
behind. I look back into her eyes, smiling and...

"Hey, Sergeant Taggert, this here Yankee sergeant looks like he might still be
alive...naw, he's dead. They all dead."

Shakespeare Brings Home the Bacon

What you can do when you rearrange the world's greatest writer's words (besides embarrass him beyond the grave!)




SHAKESPEARE BRINGS HOME THE BACON
by
P.L. Ellars


“Good morrow, Master Shakespeare, I pray thee well?”
“Good dawning to thee my friend Albada, pray away.”
“In my perambulations and peregrinations this day I have had the good fortune and pleasure of coming across Master Bacon’s…”
“Master Bacon, joyfully, dost not have the same effect on me, Albada. Seldom cometh the better, eh?”
“Er, no, sir, I do not mean it in such a way. I was merely mentioning that I have this day, as I was saying, in my wanderings through the city, discovered at Master Libros’ Booke Shoppe and, glad indeed to have had my purse with me, was able to produce said amount required to purchase Master Bacon’s most recent and, therefore current, folios with which I may retire at some future point in time to peruse, at my leisure, with, may I be so bold as to say to thee without offense, Master Shakespeare, no small degree of joyful anticipation.”
“So, thou hast purchased Bacon regurgitations, eh, Albada?” inquires Shakespeare. “Well, happy man be his dole.”
“Well, yes, sir, but…”
“But me no buts, Albada, things without all remedy should be without regard: what’s done, is done. Haves’t with thee? Say no and then I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. Say yes, and produce, and I shall say: This is a sorry sight.” says Shakespeare.
“Yes, Master Shakespeare, I have it here.”
And so Albada reaches into his doublet and pulls out Master Bacon’s most recent work and hands it to Shakespeare. Untying the ribbon, Shakespeare takes notice of the fine quality of paper used in printing.
“Well, Albada, Bacon has’t spared no expense in the production of his nothings. This surely must have cost more than a pound of flesh. ‘Tis soft indeed; soft words asleep on a soft bed. If you will excuse me, Albada, I feel a touch of nature; too much of a good thing last night at dinner.”
Shakespeare rises out of his chair and leaves the room taking Master Bacon’s folio with him.
“Where goest thou, sir?” inquires Albada.
“Away, but tarry you here, I am not infirm of purpose and shall not be long; for brevity is the soul of shit.”
“Take’st thou Master Bacon’s folio, sir?”
“Aye, I will peruse it and return anon.” and with that Shakespeare strides quickly out of the room.
Some five minutes later he returns.
“Ah, our revels are now ended. Here, Albada, here is thy Bacon. Wondrous soft it is. Tis such stuff as dreams are made on. It is a hit, a palpable hit, my friend.”
“But, Master Shakespeare, the frontspiece and dedication are missing. Hast thou forgotten it somewhere?”
“No, Albada, I have not. I have discovered a new use for Master Bacon’s folios. I found his work very absorbing; his frontspiece makes an excellent backpiece.”
“I do not follow you, sir, you talk in riddles.”
“Then, Albada, I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver. Master Bacon’s art is beneath me. Truly, his folios first moved and then impressed me; I was impressed with his art, deeply impressed. He hath made an impression on me. Oh, hell-kite, Albada, be comforted, as I have been, never have I removed more matter with less art at one fell swoop and swipe! Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more and I was finished with the job at hand! I must tell Master Bacon and congratulate him.”
“You used Master Bacon’s folio to… to… are you mad!?” Albada asks incredulously.
“Mad? By the Lord, fool, I am not mad. I am but mad North-Northwest. When the wind is Southerly, I know a hump from a handjob. O, my offense is rank; it smells to heaven, it hath the primal eldest curse upon’t, a critique to be sure. Master Bacon’s frontspiece and dedication now liest in the vasty deep and thus in the whirligig of time! Albada, you are thinking too precisely on the event. ‘Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed.”
“But…but… “ stammered Albada.
“BUT ME NO BUTS! I have told thee! Listen closely, Albada, and I shall explain: there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune, my fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie. O, I am fortune’s fool not to seize this offered opportunity. If I act upon it, then the world is mine oyster which I with sword will open.”
“Offered opportunity, Master Shakespeare? I do not understand”. whimpers Albada.
“To make my fortune, Albada, to make my fortune! Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t. Master Bacon’s folios, as I have just discovered, are good for nothing but cleansing oneself. The people will use this to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. Why woulds’t anyone go back to the old or Turkish or Roman style, having once tried this! O, what men dare do! What men may do! What men daily do, not knowing what they do”!
“I am not sure, Master Sha… “
“O, Lord, what fools these mortals be. Albada, be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. My own fortunes fall in the latter three categories. You must away now for, coincidentally, I have this day a meeting with Master Bacon. Though I dote on his very absence, he shall be here shortly”.
“Master Shakespeare, I cannot believe that thou has used Master Bacon’s folio for such…”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Albada, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Expand thy mind! Get thee around it. Get thee over it! Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. Still, it would be best, perhaps, for thou to not mention this at present to anyone, eh, Albada? So swear. Swear by my sword never to speak of this that you have heard. ” demands Shakespeare.
“Yes, Master Shakespeare, I do swear not to speak of this. Who would be foolish enough to believe me anyway?” says Albada. “I shall take my leave, sir, though I be out the cost of my now ruined folio!” replies Albada.
“O, thou are much condemn’d to have an itching palm.” chides Shakespeare.
“I, an itching palm!” retorts Albada.
“Yes, Albada, and know thee this: That way madness lies. Never fear, Albada, I shall put money in thy purse. I say put money in thy purse. And since money is the be-all and end-all for thee, I shall act as swift as a shadow. Here, here is thy outage and then some. It is money well spent for me. As for thy purse, Albada, spending should not be so painful. Remember, there never was yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently. So is it with spending. Who steals my purse steals trash; ‘tis something, nothing; ‘twas mine, ‘tis his, and has been slave to thousands.”
“Thank you, Master Shakespeare, and now I shall depart.”
“Parting is such sweet sorrow, Albada.”
Later that morning.
“Francis.”
“William.”
“Well Francis, we have seen better days; yet you wear your vale of years well, like a valiant dust. Come, and therefore sit you down in gentleness, and take upon command what help we have that to your wanting may be minist’red.”
“And to which chair shall I dodder, William? Thou hast a rascal’s wit and tongue! Part of thy charm, I suppose.”
“In thy shadow Francis, my wits faint!” says Shakespeare.
“I see thou hast a copy of mine latest work, William. What thinks’t thou upon it? How now and what’s all this then!? The frontspiece and dedication hast been ripp’d away. How came this outrage to pass, this tragedy of tragedies?”
“What the dickens, indeed, sirrah! We came crying hither at first notice of the loss ourselves! We two writers, you and I, Francis, are like a pair of star-crossed lovers, two households, both alike in dignity, yet I must confess an indignity to thee, Francis. ”
“An indignity? To me, William? Speak man, I will hear it!”
“The purest treasure mortal times afford is spotless reputation, and I’m afraid that I may have tarnished mine and put a brown spot on yours, Francis.”
“Speak clearly, William.”
“Aye, I must be a tower of strength. You wait with bated breath while I must find strength to enter a brave new world, cousin, because you, by chance may crown me!”
“William, I know less and less as you speak more and more!”
“Yea, verily, I see I must be cruel to be kind, Francis; so this bad begins and worse remains behind. I do repent, Francis. You see I have used portions of thy folio for… O, the room is grown too hot! But enough beating about the bush, Francis, for you and I are past our dancing days. I have this morning used the missing portions of thy folio, more as a statement of critique to my friend Albada than as a personal attack on thee, Francis, to wipe my ass!”
At this Sir Francis Bacon starts to jump up out of his chair, but falls back into it in a slump, his shoulders sagging.
“William, this is too much! Even for you. I know we have had our differences in the past – but this! I am finally at a loss for words.”
“Francis, cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend. I must have had one of life’s fitful fevers; I would better be with the dead.” sighs Shakespeare.
“I knowes’t full well, as does the world, that thou hast, on many occasions, purloined my words, William, but this…this is the end.”
“Then this would not be the time to offer thee cakes and ale, Francis, or caviar to the general?”
“Oh, thou art a thieving, insulting rogue, William!”
“Enough whining, sirrah! Your words read as dull as the backside of a knife; therefore, your folios are only good for backsides! I, on the other hand, with writing, am able to breathe life into a stone, quicken a rock, and make you dance canary with spritely fire and motion, whose simple touch is powerful to arise King Pippin, nay, to give great Charlemagne a pen in’s hand and write…do you hear! To write!” Shakespeare thunders.
“Everyone knows you have stolen from me, William, stolen words, ideas…I could write a book on the words you have stolen from me; nay, I will, I SHALL write that book, William!” Sir Francis is shaking with emotion as he rails away at Shakespeare.
“Promuses, Promuses,” says Shakespeare.
“Very clever, William, you literally take the words out of my mouth!”
“Go hang yourselves all! You are idle, shallow things; I am not of your element.”
With that Sir Francis arises and storms out of the room saying over his shoulder
“I shall cut out your tongue!”
“I wrote that first, but, ’tis no matter, I shall speak as much as thou afterwards.” replies Shakespeare.
“I will see you hang’d like clatpoles ere I come any more to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools!” yells Sir Francis.
“Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you, thou plagiarizing poltroon! I WROTE THAT FIRST, TOO!!! Come sir, are you ready for death? Hanging is the word, sir. If you be ready for that, you are well cook’d. Go, and a good riddance!”
“I feel for you, William, more in sorrow than in anger, pathetic creature!”
“Damn your eyes, Bacon! I wrote that too! Off with his head!”
Sir Francis slams the door as he makes his exit. Shakespeare goes to the side table and pours a large goblet full of wine and quaffs it down.
“Damn that insufferable, egotistical, plagiarizing, self-centered…wait, that gives me a thought. I will have more to say to him!” Shakespeare races to the window, opens it and looks below just as Sir Francis is emerging from the door.
“BACON, THOU ART A HAM!” screams Shakespeare and slams the window shut.