Archives: Stories

[ Read time: 8 minutes | 765 words ]

“Robin,” Grandma’s voice floated from my cell phone. “I need you to take my place at Bingo tonight.”

“What? Grandma, it’s a 45-minute drive one way from my ranch to Cliff Rock Casino! You know how much gas costs a gallon now, don’t you?”

“I know. I’ll reimburse you for the gas. But, Chico has colic and the equine vet’s on her way now.”

“I’m sorry about Chico, but why do you need me to go to the casino? It’s after dinner, Grandma, it’s late!”

“Sweetie, I need you to spy on Old Man Wilson. He’s been winning the top prize every week for months. I think he’s cheating and others do, too. They’ve complained to me but they’re afraid to look into it. I’m a bit afraid but I’m also curious. He’s up to something.”

“Not Old Man Wilson? He’s one of the wealthiest ranchers in the county, Grandma. Why’s he at Bingo anyway?”

“I suspect he’s wrangling for spending money. His kids have him on a retirement budget now that they’ve taken over the ranch. He complains to everyone that he can barely buy a can of chewing tobacco.”

I let out a hiss. Old Man Wilson has never liked me because I’m the only woman in the county who competes in our local rodeos in what he calls “the men’s events”. Last year, my cousin Tom and I won the top prize in team roping. When Tom and I walked back to the stock pens, Old Man Wilson spit a stream of his ugly, diarrhea-looking chewing tobacco right on top of my brand-new boots. That memory jolted me back to Grandma’s request.

“Yea, sure, Grandma,” I said, bitterly. “I’ll go and spy on Old Man Wilson.” I love her too much to turn her down.

I drove my pickup truck down the dark, two-lane highway. My bitterness grew as I thought of Old Man Wilson. He and my Grandma go way back because they both used to breed and train champion quarter horses. Grandma’s ranch horses almost always won the top prizes in the reigning competitions. Not to be outdone by a woman, Old Man Wilson hired Ron Stargazer, a respected trainer from the reservation. It always stuck in Old Man Wilson’s craw that it took two men to win over my Grandma. So, he’d spread false, ugly rumors throughout the county about her training methods. Grandma just had a natural way with her horses, but she always had to fight back against those rumors to save her reputation.

I finally reached the bright lights of the reservation’s casino. Inside the Bingo hall I walked slowly down the aisle, in shock when I saw that Ron Stargazer was the official caller. I swallowed hard as I sat down next to Old Man Wilson. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like the hairs on a cornered javelina.

“What are you doing here?” He snarled. “Where’s your grandmother?”

“Chico’s sick. If you don’t like me sitting here, I’ll leave.”

I watched him watch me leave. I stood in the lobby, counted to 50, peered back into the hall, and saw Old Man Wilson hunched over his Bingo cards, his dauber held high. He listened to Ron Stargazer call out the numbers. As his voice faded, Stargazer slipped a quick look at Old Man Wilson who nodded his head, and then mouthed something back to Stargazer.

“Whoa! Those two are running a game!” I called Grandma and gave her my report.

“Maybe it’s not my place to shake things up,” she quietly sighed. Thanks for taking the time, sweetie. But, you know….”

We ended the call. I felt frustrated for making the trip, but I did know Old Man Wilson hated her, and he still had enough influence in the county to stir up some new, ugly rumors about my dear, sweet Grandma.

I moved my hand from the front pocket of my blue jeans to my lips. I walked back to my chair at the Bingo table and sat back down next to the old coot. I watched Old Man Wilson as he raised his dauber to land on his final Bingo card, destined to win the top prize yet again.

“N-13”, yodeled Ron Stargazer as he snuck a peek at Old Man Wilson.

Faster than a hungry rattlesnake striking at a field mouse, I opened my lips and sent an ugly, diarrhea-looking stream of chewing tobacco spit onto his Bingo card, onto N-13.

“Mr. Wilson”, I hissed quietly as I got up from my chair. “Bingo!”

Continue reading “Mission: Undercover Bingo”

[ Read time: 10 minutes | 934 words ]

Hey, Mama. I had a big day today, and I decided to email you, instead of calling you, because today was important. I needed to write my thoughts out and look them over, and really think things through.

As we drove into town, Mac’s old ’63 pickup bumping down the street, he told me that people were trying to shut down our beef operations. Put us out of business.

He said, “They make fake beef out of vegetables, now, son. I’ll take you to the local supermarket here and show you.”

“Well, Mac,” I said, “Some people can’t eat beef. Digestive problems. Or, they choose not to, and as far as I know, this is still America and they’re free to make choices, right?”

Mac looked left and right as we crossed the intersection and headed to the town’s central plaza. “Son, that’s not what I’m talking about. You’ll see when I turn the corner here.”

Mama, we drove toward the courthouse, and there they were, about a hundred people protesting on the courthouse lawn, holding up signs and banners condemning ranchers as evil murderers.

After Mac drove around the courthouse plaza, he headed to a grocery store. I hadn’t spoken a word the whole time I was in such shock about the protesters. Mac and I went inside the store and he headed toward the frozen foods section. There they were, dozens and dozens of frozen meals made out of plants, but pretending they were from animal protein. The chicken nuggets made from plants? They had the words “chick’n” on the front, without the “e”.

“Uncle Mac, don’t they have any real chicken nuggets?”

“Over here, son.” Mac walked over to a small section of the freezer case. Down at the bottom, almost hidden from view, were a few boxes of meals made from real chicken. Same with the beef burritos. I had to look real hard to find them.

We walked out of the store and drove to the post office, where Mac picked up the mail and packages for the ranch. That was the reason we came into town. I was quiet the whole drive over. Mac loaded the packages behind me, set the mail between us, and headed toward the highway.

The open rangeland came into view. Ravens and kestrels circled on the thermals, watching for prey. A coyote ran across the two lanes and disappeared into a dry wash. The thunderheads, hugging the horizon, turned the sky a robin’s egg blue and gave us a promise of rain on our parched lands.

Mama, what did our family do to cause such hatred in people? What did our neighbors and their families do? I asked Uncle Mac.

“Son,” he rubbed an eye with one hand. “We did nothing wrong, and I want you to hold onto that. It’s the truth. The world is changing, and it’s changing fast. People believe what they believe, and officials are trying to choke us out of our business. I don’t know why, but our folk did nothing wrong. We live a way of life that humans have lived for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. But, it seems, the world is changing against us based on new beliefs.”

“Uncle Mac, I don’t know how to be anything but what we do.” Mama, I felt my throat tighten. “We all care for each other. Look after our neighbors. We treat our livestock with respect, and we’ve always felt grateful that we were producing food for our communities.”

“I know, son, I know.” Mac rubbed his other eye with his other hand. “And your father would be so proud of you the way you’re growing up. I believe he’s watching from heaven. I know my sister is very proud of you and surprised at how fast you’re becoming a well-mannered, hard-working young man.”

So, Mama, I’m here at the ranch house writing this email to you because I have some questions. Mama, will they, those protesters and the officials, will they let me grow up to follow in your footsteps, to be a rancher like you, Dad, and Uncle Mac, and my grandparents? And their parents and grandparents? We’ve been good stewards of this land, of our livestock, for many generations. We’ve worked with other land managers to make sure we don’t overgraze, and we protect the watersheds and riparian areas.

We provide food for our communities. We help our neighbors through hard times, pulling together and getting things done through love and teamwork. We learn to work very hard when we’re only toddlers, taking on ranch chores you give us because we want to be like you adults.

Mama, if only these people would come visit us, get to know us, and learn about our way of life. We’re not evil people because we raise cattle. I’ve only known good people in our community, and I value our way of life. I love looking up at the millions of stars on moonless nights, my head resting on my saddle while my dog sleeps beside me after riding all day to the most remote section of Mac’s ranch.

Why can’t they have their beliefs and we have our beliefs? Why push us out of business? The family’s always told me that’s what’s good about America, living together with our different beliefs.

I’m missing Dad tonight. Wish he were still here so I could talk to him. But, I think all these protests would break his heart.

Mama, will they let me grow up to be a cowboy?

What am I going to do if they don’t?

Continue reading “Mama, Will They Let Me Grow Up to Be a Cowboy?”

[ 100 word flash – 1 minute read ]

I’m standing in dim light, a narrow passageway surrounds me.

“You had a medical event.” A voice addresses me. My confusion increases.

I was driving back home from coffee with a friend.

“You killed another driver, head on, and you killed yourself.”

My children. My grandchildren. The other driver’s family. What have I done?

My son begged me to live with him because of my seizures.

Mom, please, you won’t be a burden.

The passageway’s walls swim around me. I search for the voice. “I’m so sorry. Can I have a do-over?”

The silence crushes me.

What price my independence?

Continue reading “The Passageway”

[ 3 minute read – 302 words ]

Well, there goes Mama. My Mama. Riding her little commuter bike toward the harbor, dressed in a loose, red muumuu, old gray house slippers, her butt hanging wide over the seat.

Does she care about herself anymore? Our conversation on the park bench didn’t give me many clues before she took off on her ride.

When a drunk driver killed my sister and business partner Carly Dee over a year ago, Mama let it all hang loose. She quit her executive job at the bank and filed for early Social Security.

“You’re making big decisions in your grief, Mama.”

“Life’s short, son. Gotta live life to the fullest.”

She let her shoulder-length, copper-tinted hair grow out to a shiny silver. LaToya, her stylist, cropped it almost man-short.

“Mama, are you cutting Carly Dee out of your life?”

“Never, son. I’m just not the Mama I used to be. I’m different, now.”

She moved to Florida nine months ago from our affluent northern Virginia town where Carly Dee and I had practiced law together. Mama planted an organic vegetable garden in her new home’s backyard and started raising urban chickens.

“You used to fret, Mama, if you broke a French-manicured fingernail.”

“That’s not important anymore, son.”

Now she digs her fingers deep into the composted soil and pulls weeds, yanking them as if they were painful memories.

I sit on the park bench and watch Mama ride away. I loosen the silk tie I bought in London, haunted by our conversation a few moments ago.

“Mama, do I still matter to you?”

“Oh, son, don’t talk like that. Of course you matter. I’m just different, now.”

There goes my Mama, in her red muumuu, pedaling her little bike toward the harbor.

She doesn’t care about her old life anymore.

I wonder, should I?

Continue reading “There Goes Mama”

Mama doesn’t believe I hear the angels singing. I press a key, they sing to me. Black keys, low voices. White keys, high voices. Their songs rise and rise, high into the sky. Mama doesn’t believe the angels sing to me, but they believe in me. They sing to me in the music I play, so I sit for hours and hours pressing many keys. Mama doesn’t believe I hear the angels singing. One day, I know she will. And that is why I play.

Continue reading “I Hear the Angels Singing”

No Room at the Inn but We Survived

★★★★★

We had to make an unscheduled, non-essential-to-us trip to my hometown when the government required a census to get even more of our tax money. The timing of the trip was awful as my fiancée was nine months pregnant, and about to give birth. When we arrived, late at night, I visited every lodge in town. There were no vacancies. The manager of Bethlehem Manger felt sorry for us and put us up in a small garage. His wife, a doula, helped us welcome our healthy infant boy with clean bedding and warm clothes. We enjoyed our stay very much. But, their friends who came to see the baby kind of weirded us out. The scruffy, smelly boys with sheep were kind, and we could handle that. The kicker was their wealthy friends. One gave us lots of gold as a baby gift! Now, who does that? Five stars! Thanks, Bethlehem Manger Management. ~ Joey

Continue reading “Bethlehem Manger: Five-Star Review”

Harold ambled down the old country road to the barbed-wire fence. He rested his arms on the wooden livestock gate and admired his cattle grazing on the prairie, an undulating yellow velvet that rolled over the Nebraskan hills. His old cow Bessie walked to the gate, and Harold scratched her between her horns.

This is what decades working in Silicon Valley, and good investments, have given me. I saved my ancestors’ ranch.

Something caught his eye. He looked up and gasped. An unidentifiable object in the sky exploded in a flash that washed over the prairie like a cosmic wave, then disappeared into the clouds. His engineer’s brain kicked into gear.

What was that? How did it move so fast?

The cattle stopped grazing. They stamped their hooves and roamed around in desperate circles, moaning and mooing in distress.

Bessie turned toward him, her eyes bugged out and anxious. She opened her mouth, panting.

“Greetings, Earthling. Where’s the restroom?”

Continue for the story behind the story….

Continue reading “Home on the Range”

The body was cold inside the old motorhome. Anchorage Police Detective Susan Analiuk was not surprised. The power went out at one A.M. that frozen, February night at the tiny Caribou RV Park. While the five residents huddled around the pellet stove in the office, Analiuk typed her interview notes into her laptop.

Who shot Robert Service? Ivan Romanov was fast asleep until Analiuk woke him up. Sam McGee held a gambling debt grudge, but hated guns. Hunting guide Dan McGrew said he was at the saloon all night. Gold miner Jack London owns pistols, was home, but what motive? Lou Petty dated Service. He recently broke her heart, but what motive?

Analiuk entered clues and her thoughts with every click-click-click of her fingernails on the keyboard.

She felt the press of gun metal against the back of her neck, below her right ear.

“You ain’t gunna know whodunnit, copper!”

Continue reading “The Body Was Cold”

I broke a toe when I slammed my left foot into the 55-gallon oil drum. Watching it tumble down the steep hill toward the harbor eased the pain in my foot and the burning anger in my chest.

I drew a puff on my pipe, scratched the five o’clock shadow on my face, and pushed my fedora forward. I smirked as I cocked my head toward the clangs, bangs, and thumps as the drum slammed against rocks and decomposed logs, careening down to the water.

It was 2:00 a.m. in Port Angeles, Washington. Guiding my new, 1931 Ford Model A Coupe with care, I’d found a logging road that led to a section of the harbor where no one lived, worked, nor moored any sea-going vessels. A place as dead and lifeless as a cold body in a coffin.

My face relaxed as the container splashed into the murky tide water with a heavy sound and sank. I stared at the ripples until they disappeared. My anger vanished with them.

“Serves him right,” I muttered to myself as I pushed back my fedora and relit my pipe. I turned to limp back to my car, parked where the darkness of the forest mirrored the darkness of my heart.

“John, I found God.” That’s what my brother Luke told me when he got out of prison. He started butting into my moonshine business. He threatened to report my operations to the local Revenuers.

Well, he’s with God, now.

Continue reading “Serves Him Right!”