Bears in the Hibiscus is a a book about Mary, a divorced woman in her late thirties who is resisting the dating scene. When her ex-brother-in-law Mark, a Montana Park Ranger, lets her know he’s interested, Mary’s life becomes complicated because getting involved with him would also mean becoming a part of her ex-husband’s family again. When fate puts Mary and Mark in Hawaii at the same time, romance begins to bloom. However, Mary still struggles with her initial feelings about her ex-in-laws. Will she be able to overcome her fear of pressure from Mark’s family and make a new life with Mark?

You can read Chapter 1 of this novel on this Janelle Meraz Hooper’s Web page.

What follows here on The Blue Rose Bouquet is:

Chapter 3: The Montana Kahuna

Mary was so busy getting her ducks in order so she could get out of town, she didn’t have time, at first, to think much about Mark spending the night at her house. When she did, she wondered why had he picked her house, when he had a brother nearby? Actually, he had his own place a few miles away, on his parents’ compound. Why was he spending the night on her floor?

Before she went to bed the night before his visit, she made sure he could find the floor. All of the old newspapers, newsletters and mail-ads were either banished to recycling or put into a box in her car trunk so she could take them to Ray, who ran the layout department. Other peoples’ magazines were a gold mine for layout and design ideas, not to mention leads for new clients for the advertising department. Mary would almost sooner throw away money than old magazines.

A rental car was in the driveway when she got home the next night, and Mary had a rush of guilt for not offering to pick Mark up at the airport. What was I thinking?

She forgot her guilt when she got a whiff of something wonderful. Something only vaguely familiar. Something—trout! She raced upstairs, not sure which sight was more welcome, Mark or the trout he and Kate were cooking in the skillet.

“Mark! You brought the fish, I could have at least cooked them!”

“That’s okay, sis,” Mark grinned. “Kate wanted to learn how to cook fish that aren’t named Charlie.”

“It smells wonderful! I love the way you cook fish with just salt, pepper, and flour. I hate all those Frenchy sauces.”

“When there’s sauce on the trout, lookout!” Mark cautioned, “It’s probably covering up a fish that’s older than you are.”

“I guess being frozen kept them fresh on the trip.”

“Actually, I got up early and caught these before I left the park. You’d been without so long I figured you were due. Kept them cool in an old Styrofoam ice chest.”

“Did you get any strange looks at the airport when you checked your Styrofoam luggage?”

“No, the floor was covered with ice chests bigger than mine that belonged to people who had been fishing for Kings in Alaska. My little chest looked kind of pitiful next to theirs.”

“The best things come in small packages, they say.”

Mary left the cheerful cooks to change into a boxy pair of khaki walking shorts and a forest green tank top. She had a closet full of similar clothes. Her outfit was fine for the Northwest, especially since she was having dinner with a Montana Ranger, but she had trouble picturing it on a Hawaiian beach. She’d have to dig a little deeper into her closet and see if she could find something a little brighter.

Before she returned to the kitchen, Mary gave herself a quick look in the mirror. What looked back at her was a woman with long brunette hair and a medium frame. She was a few pounds lighter than the last time Mark had seen her, and she’d lost her tan. Both changes could be attributed to an increased workload. She hadn’t stopped any cars lately, but she thought she looked as well as she could without the benefit of one of those instant facelifts she kept reading about in the women’s magazines.

How she hated being the ex-wife. What would this ex-brother-in-law say to Brian the next time they spoke? Maybe, “I saw your ex, she looks pretty good for her age, but your new love is a real knockout.” It distressed her to imagine other people commenting, “I saw your ex, she had wrinkles all over her face! No wonder you’re shopping around for a trophy wife.” Well, she doubted that people would actually make those comments out loud, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t think them. Mary hated most to hear, “When I look at Kate, I can see just how pretty Mary must’ve looked years ago.” Mary loved her daughter, and they did look a lot alike, but who could compete with someone half her age?

Well, she was hungry, and she doubted that her two cooks would deliver fresh, pan-fried trout to her bedroom door. “There she is!” greeted Mark when Mary entered the kitchen, “How about some wine?”

“Oh, you must have found my cardboard box in the fridge,” Mary said as she held out her glass.

“Yep. Park rangers know how to find their quarry. It was marked Wednesday, so I thought it must be fresh.”

“Very funny. Actually, I’ve got a box dated Thursday; I’m giving you the old stuff.”

“It tastes good to me.”

Dinner was delicious. Mary looked down at a plate of fresh trout, green salad with raspberry dressing, and lightly buttered and toasted Como bread, and thought she was in heaven.

After Kate downed her trout like it was a burger at Dollar’s and left with a carload of friends, Mary and Mark settled down with fresh glasses of wine on the sundeck. Mary cringed as a whole flock of fruit bats flew into her big cherry tree. The crows stripped her fruit trees in the daytime and this was the night shift. Not surprisingly, she preferred the crows.

“So, how’s it going, sis?” Mark asked as he eased into a deck chair that had seen better days.

“Not bad. How about you?”

“Good. I’m really looking forward to getting away for a few days. I didn’t get much rest this year after the forest fires started.”

“Kate and I watched the news every night. It was the worst we’d ever seen.”

“That’s for sure. We were lucky we didn’t lose any of the firefighters.”

The niceties were over, and Mary asked what she really wanted to know, “Mark, you know you’re welcome here, but why did you come here instead of the compound or your brother’s?”

“Mom is letting company from Minnesota use my house at the compound while they’re here on vacation. And I didn’t feel up to spending the night staring at the bare chest of Brian’s latest Seahawk cheerleader. I think he should start carding those girls. Besides,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “I thought it would be tacky to sleep on my brother’s floor when I was thinking about dating his ex.”

Mary choked on her wine, and reached for a tissue from her pocket before wine came out of her nose. “Mark! Don’t go there!” Mary said with surprise.

“Too late! I’ve already bought a ticket! What’s wrong? Have someone else?”

“No…”

“I have cooties?”

“No…Mark, I like you, but I’m just not sure if it’s smart for me to get involved with a Bergstrom again. You’re a great guy, but I don’t think I fit in with the rest of your family.”

“Mary, you fit in just fine. Don’t be intimidated by the Bergstrom money. It has nothing to do with me or us.”

Mary was still wiping wine from her nose when she said, “I can’t help the way I feel.”

“Well, I always like to leave a woman in a state of shock, so I’ll go to bed now,” he said with a grin. “Thanks for the hospitality, sis. I’ll be gone when you wake up, so I’ll call you in Hawaii to see if you’ve managed to get your mouth closed yet.” Mary felt him hesitate as he walked behind her, but he kept walking. Is he going to touch me? Pat me on the head? What?

Whatever he almost did, Mary was glad he hadn’t. Her brain was occupied trying to list all of the reasons why their dating wouldn’t be a good idea. Mark had already left the sundeck, so whatever thoughts she had remained unspoken. She was left with an empty deck chair, half a glass of wine, and a big full moon that she was sure was laughing at her. Or was the laughter she heard coming from the bathroom where Mark was? She vaguely felt a mosquito chewing on her bare arm and swatted it with one hand while she finished her wine with the other. She groaned when she heard him turn on the shower. There was no question that Mark was a hunk. Knowing he was less than ten feet from her made her knees tremble. What would Roxanne do? The answer to that was easy. What was Mary going to do? “Nothing!” her friend’s voice ridiculed from the darkness.

The next sound Mary heard was Mark shaking out his sleeping bag. And fluffing his pillow. He made a big deal out of fluffing his pillow. There was something else. She was sure she heard another laugh when she scooted to the bathroom to get ready for bed. He was laughing at her. She was sure of it. And why shouldn’t he?

Kate was due in at any time, so any thought of giving in and crawling into Mark’s sleeping bag with him was pointless, even if she could find the nerve which, of course, she couldn’t. By the time Kate’s friends dropped her off in her driveway, Mark was already fast asleep. How could he do that? How could he make a pass at me and then just go to sleep? Mary was in her bedroom, wide awake, curled up into a tight, fetal position, with her pillow over her head so she couldn’t hear the soft gentle breathing of a man who was totally at ease on her living room floor. For now.

The next morning, Mary heated up the coffee that Mark had left in the pot and swore that it, too, was laughing at her. The living room was neat as a pin, and only a slightly wrinkled pillow rested in the easy chair. She resisted the urge to stop and fluff it.

The Montana Kahuna is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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Phases of the Moon fans now also have a FaceBook Fan Page.

Phases of the Moon fans also now have their own t-shirt and gift idea design! (Notice how the wolf has imprinted on that special someone’s heart.) Please take the time to visit the Phases of the Moon T-Shirt and Gift Ideas Shop.

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This issue’s Critique Corner: See the author’s bio at the end of the story regarding how to contact him to comment on his story.

It is hard to say how long it has been since Muriel has heard the voice of another human being. The last time she thought about it she suspected it had been a few weeks, at least. As Muriel sat on her blue satin pillow next to the window watching the rainfall she wished for another voice aside from her own. Perhaps Harold would telephone and ask how she was, but that was just wishful thinking and nothing more. Her son Harold had not called in more than five years, yet every time the phone would ring she held onto a glimmer of hope it might be him. Three years ago during a rare telephone call with her brother she had found out where he was. Harold had found himself a job managing a fancy new restaurant on a long pier in Florida. She suspected he was doing just fine. Harold had always loved people and he always loved the sun and sea. He would be happy there as there was little for him to smile about in Vancouver.

Muriel tried her best to look through the rain but her eyes are not once they once were years ago. There had been a time when she could have shot a marble of a post from a distance.

As far back as her memory would recall her father had loved guns. He polished and cleaned his favorites daily, stroking them like a lover and purring to them like they were his babies. Muriel sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor in her yellow dress would stare up at him awestruck. Her father never said a word during his gun cleaning rituals, which usually lasted a few hours. Many long hours had been spent with her teaching exactly how to handle and shoot a gun safely. Muriel learned every inch of her gun and was able to strip it down, clean it, and reassemble it before she ever fired her first live round. Now, at age sixty-five, she was lucky to see more than a few feet out into the rain.

All life on her block had seemed to have come to a complete standstill. There were not even any cars on the street as far as she could hear, which was rather well. God had, so far, been kind enough that if he was to start taking her sight from her he would leave her hearing alone. The lack of sound made her feel more alone than ever. At least with the sounds of life carrying on outside of her world was some comfort to her old bones.

Why do you look so sad China Doll?

“You know why I am sad, please don’t make me explain. You know how I hate that,” Muriel said to the voice and rested her forehead against the cool glass.

Why do you do this to yourself? You sit in front of that window day in and day out yet you cannot see anything. Why not listen to one of your records or play a book on tape. You know you like those. Just please dear do not sit there like that all day. It breaks my heart.

Muriel was not listening to him, forgetting all about her earlier wishes for the sound of another voice. Instead, she focused more intently on the rain. Finally the sound of a car, likely one of those boxy mini-vans (her son had told her about them in one of his last visits) that everyone was buying lately. The only car she had ever owned was a Cadillac, the same make and model her father had driven. Her father had loved Cadillacs almost as much as he had guns, so Muriel loved them as well. It was always that way, her father’s likes when she was a little girl quickly became her own and his enemies were always hers too. They were inseparable from the age of four until she turned eighteen and he passed away suddenly. The doctors could not give them a clear reason why he had died. All they could say with any certainty is that he did not suffer when he went. Muriel thought that her father had missed her mother too much to continue on anymore, constantly wishing she were still there. She had read the statistics when couples reach a certain age and one passes away, that the other generally follows soon after. Living alone and thinking of her husband every hour of every day, that scenario never left her mind.

I can see that tear you know, you cannot hide these things from me. The voice from behind her spoke again.

“It is my house I am allowed to cry as much as I want to,” Muriel said, sounding rather indignant. After all she had worked very hard to have a home while others she knew moldered in old folk homes.

This is far from a party, if you happen to be crying about that, but if it is your party. I guess you can cry if you want to.

She thought she could hear soft laughter following his comment.

“Very funny. Now please dear, no more jokes today.”

Muriel sighed and looked away from the window to the voice, at the body of her husband who not have been there but was. “You look well I guess, all things considered.”

All things considered, yes I do” He smiled and she looked into his soft gray eyes with a clarity that was impossible. The rest of the room was its typical blur but her late husband was clear as day and crisp as a photograph. He was a ruggedly handsome man, very stocky with extraordinarily broad shoulders. She had noticed him back in college from a seat thirty rows up at a football game. Her college had been very much a football college as it was all that mattered to most of the students. The stadium on game nights was always filled right to the rafters with screaming, hollering intoxicated fans.

How she had been so blind not to see him until then she never understood and they would joke about this throughout their marriage. Vincent would laugh so hard sometimes that he would double over in his chair saying he had decided to turn on his blinker that day. Whatever it was, blinker or not, she had seen him the moment he stepped out onto the field that day. He was much larger than the other players, who she later found out all affectionately called him ‘the bear’.

She had asked a girl sitting beside her who the large man was near the bench. There was just something about him that even from a distance had deeply intrigued her. At the time it was only budding curiosity. It took another year for it to evolve into something as potent as love. The girl beside her had looked at Muriel like she was from another planet and told her it was the bear! That and where the hell had she been for the past three months of the season?  It was a valid question as after all she had been to every game so far that season.

She had found out that Vincent had been just that, a bear, when she met him a week later behind the school near the faculty parking lot. Only he had no aggression in him off the field and she saw that his eyes were much too small for his large cranium. It truly gave him the look a stuffed, chubby bear. However Muriel had seen the streak in him, the kernel inside that allowed him to explode on the field and tear a hole through anyone in his way.

The man had been stubborn as well — so very damn stubborn as most men are by their very nature, she supposed. It had been a struggle to win his eyes and a long battle to get his heart. If her father had taught her anything, and she felt that even after a lifetime of her own experiences that he had taught her a lot, it was to never give up.  Muriel did not give up and another year rolled by when she finally got her prize.

“Are you putting on weight again?” Muriel asked the portly wavering image of her husband. After graduating from college, he had weighed in at just over three hundred pounds. This was taking into account that for a man of his size and stature, two hundred and twenty-five is average.

Me? Vincent asked and ran a hand through his ash-colored hair, what was left of it anyway. I will eat as much as I please! You know that as much as anyone that no doctor ever did manage to tell me what to do.

“Yes dear. You were thickskulled all the way and it got you far it did,” Muriel said, now standing a few feet from her husband.

Yes, Vincent said, letting his head hang down like a bulldog accepting scorn from its master.

“Oh come over here love, I am sorry,” Muriel said and walked toward her husband until she came into contact with the wall beside the fireplace. She looked back to see that he was still standing there and saw a tear in his eye. They each stood together in silence and looked at each other hands at their sides like department store mannequins. The room around them might have looked like a painting if you were to have stood back against the window and looked at them.

There came a knock at Muriel’s door a few minutes later, which received no immediate answer.

Harold stood outside in the rain wondering how long it would take his mother to answer the door this time. It had been some time since he had visited, much too long, but even back then it took her a year to respond. He continued to knock awhile longer, then tried the door, which was not locked.

Harold stood in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights. He was afraid to move. Never in his entire life had he ever known his mother not to lock the door behind her. It had just become a habit to lock the door when he came home and to triple check that it was locked whenever he left. The fact that at this time of night, at least eight-thirty or so, and in this weather that her door was unlocked meant only one thing.

In his mind he could clearly see her lying in the middle of the living room floor. Her eyes opened wide staring up at her carnival glass sculptures that littered its landscape. Many years had pointlessly gone by without contacting her, even so much as a few minute telephone call never happened. He would have very much liked to have a solid explanation, but he did not. The rain was soaking through his clothes as he stood on the threshold staring into the dimly lit front hall. Soft light streamed from the living room as well as the sound of what was likely a radio.

As Harold took his first cautious step into the house, he immediately felt like turning around and going back home. Whatever it was he was going to find, he felt would be easier to handle if he received it as a phone call rather than in person. His eyes looked to the living room to the door and back again. Harold was about to turn around when he heard voices coming from the living room.

“My dear bear, now look who is crying.”

It was the voice of his mother.

Then came another voice he had not heard in a long time. His father’s. And, while it had its old familiar edges, it sounded very old.

I do not know where to start love. Too many things to say.

“We have all the time in the world,” he heard his mother reply.

My China Doll.

Harold walked into the living room feeling more frightened than he ever had before in his life. Everything up until that point in his later years would seem nothing more than a blur. He saw his mother sitting beside the window with her eyes closed and a smile across her burgundy-colored lips, a small brown teddy bear with tiny blue eyes clutched tightly in her arms. He could see no one else in the room or signs that anyone had ever been there.

“Mother?”

He asked quietly at first, not really hearing himself. “Who were you talking to?”

She gave no reply or even turned her head and opened her eyes. In fact, she seemed to be perfectly still, like an old doll or a mannequin from a department store.

Copyright © 1999-2008 Bryan Dobson
All rights reserved.

Author bio:

Bryan Dobson aka PeeJay is an author from North Vancouver, British Columbia Canada, who says that “once I manage to finish editing my first novel, I may make it somewhere. Any day I can go through less than seven cans of coke to make it through another two pages of text is a good day.” Peejay spends much of his time online in the #Authors on the Undernet chat channel, where he is an op. You can learn more about Bryan at his Web site. Bryan welcomes your comments about his story; send them to him via email.

Muriel is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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Mickey swore loudly as he jerked his unpolished, size eleven winklepicker boot at the side of the jukebox, trying for yet another free play.

I sat transfixed by Lorna’s steady, dark gaze and faintly challenging smile, lusting after her more than she could ever have realized. But Lorna belonged to Mickey – it was like that in those days – and if he picked up even the faintest idea of what I was thinking, I was a dead man. I tore my eyes away from hers and stared at the floor.

His kick was as well-aimed as usual and some new bloke called Cliff Richard started singing about his Living Doll for the third time; Tom shot a daggers look at us, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he shoved a cup under the espresso coffee machine and tried to drown the music with the equipment’s hissing and gurgling. Tom was the owner of the Bluebird Cafe and a bit of a hard-nut, but I think he was as frightened of Mickey as the rest of us were.

The Bluebird was near the bus station and was frequented mostly by drivers, conductors and delivery men during the day. But at night, it was ours. We’d strut and swagger, resplendent in our drainpipe trousers, winklepicker shoes and sleekly swept back DA hairstyles with the mandatory curly bit at the front. We’d straddle the chairs back-to-front like they did in the American films, and swig coffee or cola into the early hours.

None strutted and swaggered more threateningly than Mickey. He’d made menace into an art-form before most people had even heard of Brando, and it was common knowledge that he carried a cut-throat razor in his pocket.

‘Davey’s rotten quiet tonight,’ Lorna said suddenly. ‘Arncha, Dave? You all right?’

I’d been covertly staring at her breasts, sharply thrusting inside her angora jumper, and I nodded dumbly, wishing she’d not drawn her boyfriend’s attention to me just at that moment. He stared at me, Brylcreemed quiff quivering slightly above his heavy, pock-marked face, and a silence settled abruptly over everybody. It was a sort of expectant hush that I had dreaded being the subject of often enough.

‘She spoke to yer,’ he said with a kind of quiet sarcasm. ‘Aintcha gonna answer her, Davey?’

‘Er… yeah, ‘course,’ I mumbled. I could feel myself shaking and hoped it didn’t show. ‘Sorry, Lorna, I wasn’t thinking. I’m fine. I’m OK.’

‘I’m fine, I’m OK,’ Mickey mimicked, to sycophantic sniggering from the others. ‘Well, Davey, you make sure you stay that way, eh?’ Then, without any warning, his left foot smashed into the leg of my chair and I went sprawling to the floor.

I felt my neck reddening amongst the hoots of laughter as I scrambled to my feet and it was then, in that very moment, that I determined that I would somehow get even for this insult.

. . .

It was a week or two later that Mickey failed to turn up one night. His seat remained empty all evening and every play on the jukebox had to be paid for. Nobody seemed to know what to do; this was an unheard of situation and even though a few of us knew where he lived nobody was sure whether or not it was a good idea to call at his house.

‘Someone oughta find out what’s up,’ Lorna said, at about half-past nine. ‘Go round, like. What about you, Davey?’

I shook my head. I’d known Mickey since school days and was very much aware that you simply didn’t check up on him if you knew what was good for you. Anyway, I’d met his mother in the high-street earlier that day, and it was no surprise to me that he wasn’t there. But I didn’t tell the others what I knew.
‘I’ll go.’ It was Don who had spoken. He was a newish member of our crowd. ‘Anyone got his address?’

Lorna gave him directions, then fixed me with those dark eyes of hers. ‘Let’s hope nothing’s happened to ‘im, eh?’ she said, to nobody in particular. There was a kind of anticipatory edge to her voice which, for some reason, seemed to hold a promise that sent erotic thrills surging around my loins.

Don was back within the hour. ‘Oh, er, he’s in the nick,’ he said in answer to everybody’s question. I knew that wasn’t the truth, but kept quiet. Don would have his own reasons for such a statement. ‘He’ll be in for about three weeks,’ he added airily. ‘Maybe four.’

‘But why?’ Alec said, mystified. ‘What’s ‘e done?’

Don tapped the side of his nose and looked conspiratorial. ‘Can’t tell yer that,’ he said quietly. ‘You know Mickey. I’ll let ‘im tell yer, when ‘e gets out.’
The rest of that evening will stay in my mind for as long as I live. I flirted ardently with Lorna and she, in turn, flirted back, fluttering her lashes and hooking her elbows around the back of her chair, so that those wonderful breasts achieved even more prominence than usual.

. . .

It was the next night that Dawn arrived. Dawn was almost the opposite of Lorna; where Lorna had a sleek black beehive hair-do, Dawn’s golden blonde tresses hung in loose curls down her back. Her eyes were blue and clear and her lithe figure was flattered by the wide belt she wore around bottom hugging, white trousers. Thrusting bosoms, she had not, but there a promise of a softness and feminine warmth beneath her crisp linen blouse that was quite enthralling.

‘Can I join you lot?’ she asked, plonking herself down on an empty chair. ‘Only, I’m new in town and I don’t know anybody yet.’

Alec, Don, Bert and his girlfriend – I never could remember her name – and Johnny all stared; Lorna simply glared. Then the newcomer shot me a smile that turned my legs to jelly. ‘I’m Dawn,’ she announced.

I instantly wanted her more than I’d ever wanted anybody. My God, how I wanted her. It was exquisite.

But Mickey would be back in three weeks, maybe four, and he’d have her. It was the unwritten rule; he had to have first pick and if he wanted her, everybody else would have to pretend not to. And if she didn’t want him… well, that was most unlikely, because he seemed to have some hidden charm, some special power over females, that to my knowledge had never once let him down. That was how he’d got Lorna. But once he’d seen Dawn, Lorna would be history – unless I could think of something. I began to form a plan in my mind.

A week later, I went into action. It was a Thursday evening and everybody was there. First, I selected an Elvis Presley record on the jukebox; Elvis was persona non grata as far as Mickey was concerned and I got some odd looks from the others. But it was two-and-a-half minutes later that I really began to stake my claim. As the record came to the end, I strolled over to the jukebox to deliver a sideways kick in what I hoped was the right place.
It worked perfectly. Everybody stared in disbelief as the strains of “Blue Suede

Shoes” filled the room again, and even Tom forgot to be angry at this abuse of the machine. It was him, in fact, that started a very slow hand-clap and within seconds all the others joined in. ‘You ain’t arf gonna be in trouble when Mickey gets to ‘ear about this,’ Bert muttered, with a leer. ”e’s gonna paste yer.’

I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly and without a word, grabbed Lorna by the wrist and jerked her onto the clear bit of floor between the tables and the yellow laconite counter. As the others stared in open mouthed disbelief, I began to jive with her. The six easy lessons I’d had at Mimi Legrand’s dance academy the previous week paid off, and her stupefied expression gave way first to amazement, then impressed pleasure, as I spun her from one hand to the other.

‘Mickey’s gonna kill ‘im,’ Alec whispered.

The others nodded in agreement and Dawn looked from one to the other of them with a puzzled expression on her face; she didn’t yet know how it was with Mickey.

Dawn was truly nice. She even took the trouble to see where had Don had got to when he didn’t turn up for a couple of nights and loudly admonished everybody for laughing when she announced that he’d got measles. I noticed that she was grinning faintly herself, though, and was entranced when she caught my eye and the grin suddenly became a radiant smile. My plan simply had to work. It just had to. Dawn had to be mine.

For the next two weeks I lorded it over the rest. I kicked the jukebox every evening and was rewarded by Tom making the expresso machine hiss and gurgle even more loudly than he had for Mickey; I danced with Lorna frequently enough that we moved in a practised unison that was almost sexual in its own way; and I took charge of the evening meetings, setting the pace and the tone of the conversation. I even changed the sitting habits of the entire group, from the reverse straddle, to balancing precariously on the back legs.
Everybody seemed to accept my leadership without much question, even apparently growing tired of speculating how Mickey would kill me on his return. They began, instead, to idly contemplate how I might defend myself or maybe even try to maintain my new position, though the consensus of opinion was that this was unlikely and anyway, it was akin to blasphemy to even think such a thing.

My own stubborn refusal to answer any questions seemed to convince them all, Lorna included, that I possessed some special power like Karate or Judo, or something. But they were wrong. I had nothing but my wits.

All in all, I was having a wonderful time, and actually began to feel quite cocky. But all good things come to an end and one evening, Bert came bursting through the door, his eyes alight with excitement.

‘Mickey’s back!’ he yelled. ‘I was on the top of the bus an’ I saw him in the garage with ‘is bike.’ He grinned triumphantly around at everybody. ‘Gettin’ petrol,’ he added, unnecessarily. I had long been aware that Bert could scarcely wait for this moment and now his enthusiasm began to rub off on the others.

‘You’d better run, Davey!’ Alec advised.

‘You might as well just die now,’ Johnny said, to laughter.

‘Watcha gonna do, Davey?’ Bert leered.

In answer, I strolled to the jukebox and dropped my threepenny bit into the slot. I deliberated for a while, somehow controlling the shaking which had started in my stomach, then jabbed at the button to play “Blue Suede Shoes”. Then, to gasps from everyone present, I grabbed hold of Lorna’s wrist and jerked her onto the floor.

I had timed it to perfection. The door opened just before the record stopped, and Mickey stood there staring, open-mouthed; his gape became an angry snarl when I nonchalantly tapped the side of the jukebox with the side of my foot to start the music again, and I thought he’d burst a blood vessel when I began to twirl Lorna back and forth.

‘Oy!’ he yelled, finding his voice suddenly.

I let go of Lorna’s hand. ‘Stay there!’ I commanded her, and she obediently did so. As I said, that was how it was in those days.

I walked up to Mickey, staring fixedly at him, as the others looked on expectantly. ‘Everyone thinks you’re a tough guy who’s been in the nick,’ I said, quietly enough that only he could hear it above the music. ‘But if you hurt me, I’m going to tell them all that you’ve simply had measles. I saw your mum and she told me. And now Don’s got it – caught it from you, of course, so they’ll all have to believe it.’

It was touch and go. He glowered at me for what felt like half an hour, then his eyes narrowed. ‘Have you told anybody?’ he asked.

‘Not even Lorna,’ I answered steadily. There was a kind of honour in it, now I came to think about it.

He pushed past me, kicked the jukebox in a different place so that the record stopped with a screech, and glowered challengingly at me for a long moment before taking his usual seat and stabbing his forefinger at the chair next to him. Lorna practically fell over in her haste to get there, and everybody watched me, waiting for the next move.

But I had already achieved my objective. I had been seen to encroach on every single bit of Mickey’s territory and yet live to tell the tale. And more importantly, he had been seen to reclaim his property.

‘What on earth did you say to him?’ Bert’s girlfriend asked me in an amazed whisper. I knew that every single one of them was just as astonished as she was and I revelled in their awed silence.

I smiled mysteriously at her, put my forefinger theatrically to my lips, then went and sat down next to Dawn.

Copyright © 1996, 1999-2008 Terence Watts
All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Terence Watts is a writer and hypnotherapist.  Hypnosense, his web page, contains a wealth of information about hypnosis.

Drainpipes and Winklepickers is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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One moment Jess was laughing beside a tree, the next he was racing through hell with the odor of death all around him. Chunks of frozen earth erupted from the ground and pelted him. Jess’ lungs and legs ached in the bitter cold as he dodged plumes of black smoke. His rucksack bumped wildly against him with every stride while his fingers held a white-knuckle grip on his rifle.

His unit has just arrived from the states, comprised of a portion of the United Nations medical relief convoy advancing toward Kosovo. Every vehicle at the rear of the convoy had just been destroyed and the forward vehicles remained under heavy shelling. E. & E., escape and evade Jess thought, as he left the outskirts of the village.

He headed across a field, crouched behind a long, low stone wall. Wearing winter white camouflage and a helmet of robin’s egg blue, he felt like a moving target in his peacekeeping uniform. Either side of the armed conflict could have been firing. The lumpy terrain of the open field exhausted him.

With the shelling finally in the distance, he dropped to his knees, gasping for air beside a barn. His wary blue eyes darted toward the field beyond. Mortar craters scarred freshly tilled land. He quickly stood again and slid along the cold stone wall of the structure. The smoking remains of a small house sat around the corner of the building.

He cautiously peered through the doors. Smaller and without the sound of livestock, it reminded Jess of his grandfather’s barn in Wisconsin. Against one wall, vacated stalls sat beneath a loft full of hay, and on the opposite wall, forsaken white feathers sprinkled the earthen floor near the empty coops. For an instant, he marveled that something so far from home could look and smell so familiar.

Bolting inside to the darkest corner of the barn, he silently hunkered down with his M-16 pointed outward. Jess fearfully scoured the structure’s desolate interior. The whites of his eyes looked pronounced against his young face, blackened by smoke and dirt. He strained to hear something other than his own breathing and the periodic shelling in the distance. It was nearly silent, and he had never felt so frightened in all of his nineteen years.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the muted gray light. From the open barn door, a triangle of pale sunlight revealed wisps of straw littering the floor. Dust danced in a square of light from the opening in the loft above him. He tried to think of something comforting, like the clean white socks, warm from the dryer, or a bowl of hot tomato soup and crackers, but he could only think of dying.

With his back to the wall and his weapon at the ready, he walked around the entire barn. He kept looking to the loft but there was no ladder. Feeling momentarily safe, Jess removed his blue helmet. His fair hair exposed, he wiped his damp face and neck. He replaced the helmet with the chinstrap hanging loose.

The longer he remained in the barn, the less he thought about dying. Now his challenge was to get back to safety. The barn door only revealed the shelled fields and rugged mountains; the loft offered a better view of the opposite direction.

Back home, his grandparents both insisted he stay away from the loft. His grandmother feared he would fall. His grandfather just said he would ruin the feed. They often hid the ladder when he came to visit. Just like at home, the wooden beams forming each vacant stall supported the loft and he scaled them with difficulty, carrying the extra weight of his rucksack and weapon.

Once in the loft, he listened intently before crawling on his hands and knees to the open loft door. One corner of the roofless farmhouse was still smoking while a red ball waited in the yard.

In the long valley beyond the house, troops moved in ragged formation down a distant road. He wondered which side they represented. Was it better to be found by one or the other? He searched the landscape in the fading sunlight for any sign of the peacekeepers. Seeing none, he sat down to keep watch. He cradled his weapon to his chest, feeling a chill as the sun set.

Within an hour, small campfires and smoldering ruins became the only lights in the valley, like diamonds thrown by the hand of God. He placed his canteen in the straw beside him after a long drink. When he reached for it again, it was moving. He jumped to his feet as the canteen disappeared beneath the pile of hay.

Jess stabbed the thick straw with the rifle barrel. When it hit something solid, he shouldered his weapon to fire. Before he could, the canteen mysteriously reappeared. Small fingers slipped away from the base of it and returned under the hay.

He pushed the rifle barrel into the hay again and heard a muffled whimper. Jess remembered the red ball outside the little farmhouse. He circled the mound of hay, poking it twice more before he stumbled over a ladder hidden by the straw. As he fell, a shot when through the roof of the barn. A wisp of humanity rose from the hay and scrambled toward the loft door. Jess jumped to his feet and took aim at the skirted silhouette in the moonlight.

“Freeze,” he yelled, unable to pull the trigger.

“Asha-a-a-d! Where are you?” she screamed in her native tongue.

Her hesitation before jumping gave Jess time to grab her arm. Her legs sailed out of the opening but the rest of her slight body remained inside. With his adrenaline pumping, he easily pulled her back into the loft and tossed her into a corner.

“Don’t make a sound,” he demanded, pointing his rifle at her.

“Ashaad,” she whimpered as she sank to her knees.

Her frightened stare hit Jess hard though he wouldn’t show it. Standing above her, pointing his rifle at her heart, he waited for her to make the slightest move. The young girl looked up through strands of tangled, dark hair at her white-suited attacker. She knew what would happen next but she wasn’t prepared. A girl of fifteen is never prepared to be raped.

Jess thought she was scrawny, with dirty clothes made from rough fabric. She crouched in the corner, her matted black hair full of straw. He watched her tears make white paths down her filthy cheeks.

“Don’t move,” he ordered.

Never taking his aim from her, Jess moved toward the loft door and closed it quietly. When she tried to crawl away from the corner, he placed on hand on her shoulder and pushed her back.

“Stay right there,” he commanded.

She cringed when he touched her. She shrank back into the corner, gasping from fear until she vomited.

“Oh, hell,” he said with a grimace. He located his handkerchief and tossed it at her. She refused to touch it.

“Use it,” he said nervously.

“What?” she asked in her only language, wondering what he said.

“Just keep quiet,” he said in a forceful voice. “If anyone finds me here, I’m dead meat and you’re going with me.”

She stared at him with dark eyes but didn’t respond. They remained like that for five minutes, watching each other and afraid to move.

“I’m going to sit down by the door,” he said, finally breaking the silence. He continued talking though there was no glimmer of understanding in her eyes. “Don’t move. Understand?”

“What are you going to do to me?” She wept timidly, speaking in words that were only gibberish to him.

“Of course you don’t understand me,” he said, whispering to himself. “Why should you? This whole fucking day has been a big a blunder as the rest of my military life. I didn’t want to join; my buddy did. I just went along for a laugh. He flunked the physical. How’s that for a laugh? And now I’m here, in this God forsaken country. And what for? I mean, who’s fighting who here? It’s not even big enough to be a country. It’s like New York declaring war on Rhode Island and New Jersey.”

“Are you going to kill me or what?” she asked, when he finally stopped raving.

He raised a finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. She stopped talking. He sat down gingerly. The night was deafeningly quiet.

“Is this your barn?” he wondered aloud.

“I wish Ashaad would come back,” she whispered.

“What is ‘Ash-head’ anyway? Is that your name?” He pointed to her. “Are you ‘Ash-head’?”

“I won’t tell you anything. You’re a man, a soldier, just like all the rest, waiting for someone to kill.”

“I’m Jess,” he said, pointing to himself. “Jess.”

“Yes,” she mimicked in a questioning tone.

“Not ‘yes.’ Jess,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said again.

“Oh forget it,” he said, pausing for a moment. Then he pointed to here and asked, “Ash-head?”

“Marijtka,” she said quietly, placing her hand against her chest.

“Mareesha,” he tried.

“Marijtka,” she repeated.

“Look, you can call me ‘Yes’ if I can call you Mareeshka,” he said.

“Marijtka,” she corrected him again.

“Shit, we can’t even say each other’s names.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” she said in frustration.

“What did you say?” he asked.

They looked at each other in silence. She wasn’t even as old as he was; at least he didn’t think she was. He didn’t feel like putting himself in her shoes.

“Your house?” he asked, keeping his rifle trained on her as he nodded in the direction of the ruin outside. When she didn’t answer, he became more animated. “You, Mareeshka -”

“Marijtka,” she started but he continued.

“Mareeshka’s house,” he said, opening the loft door slightly and nodded toward it.

She hesitated, then pointed toward it and then to herself.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

She looked at him curiously when he used a soft voice. She started to say something when voices from outside interrupted her.

Jess lunged toward her, pressing his rifle barrel against her side and covering her mouth with his hand. To his surprise, she pulled a long kitchen knife from her skirt pocket and held it to his throat. They remained frozen with their weapons on each other, until the voices passed.

“Give me the knife,” he whispered once the voices faded completely. She kept a life-threatening grip on her weapon.

“For God’s sake, I’ve got an M-16. Give me the knife,” he said angrily, taking it from her forcefully as she was putting it back in her skirt pocket.

“Don’t touch me,” she said immediately.

“Give me the damn knife,” he said, grabbing for it and ripping her skirt in the process.

“Don’t touch my clothes. I won’t take them off,” she said, muffling her fear as her tears began. She ran to the corner and pulled herself into a ball as he continued to reach for the knife.

“Stop, stop,” she said, helplessly.

“There,” he said, pulling away from her with the knife. She looked up as he started to throw it out the loft door. At the last second, he changed his mind and dropped it into the long pocket along his thigh.

“You wanted the knife?” she asked in disbelief.

“I don’t have any idea what your saying,” he said, leaning again the wall of the barn but keeping his rifle on her. By her reaction to the voices, he could tell she didn’t want to be discovered any more than he did. They sat opposite each other in silence, his weapon still on her but relaxed.

“My grandfather had a barn like this,” he said, not expecting her to understand. He lifted a handful of straw to his nose and took a big whiff. “Same smell.”

“I hope Ashaad comes back soon,” she told him for no reason.

“I wasn’t supposed to go in the loft but I always did. How about you?” Jess asked.

“He should have been back by now. I don’t think he’s coming.”

“Mareeshka…” he said and she looked at him. “It’s kind of pretty. Mareeshka.” For no real reason, he smiled at her.

“Yes,” she said softly.

“I’m glad you agree,” he laughed.

“Yes,” she said, looking confused and pointing at him.

“Oh, that ‘yes.’ Hey, so you can’t say ‘Jess.’ It doesn’t matter now. Hey, are you hungry?” he asked, as if he expected her to answer.

“Yes,” she said again and again he laughed.

“Great,” he said, knowing she didn’t know what she said. Trying to hold his rifle steady, he fumbled for a candy bar in the side pocket of his rucksack. When he produced it, her dark eyes grew wide. He took a bite and offered her one. She nearly devoured the whole thing.

“Hey wait -” he objected. She looked up in fear and slowly handed it back.

“Keep it,” he said, pushing her hand away. “You must be starving.”

She watched his face closely. He lifted her hand, the one that held the candy bar, toward her mouth.

“Go on. Really.”

She took a small bite and watched his face. He smiled and nodded. She took another, then another. When it was gone, she began licking the wrapper.

“God, don’t eat the wrapper,” he said, and she stopped instantly. “I’ve got more.” Against his better judgment, Jess shed his rucksack awkwardly as he held his rifle on her. He unzipped the top compartment and pulled out a brown package, one of his field MREs with pork chops in white letters. He held between his knees and opened it with her knife. He handed her the square, dry entree.

“These taste like dog shit.”

To his surprise, she handed it back.

“Don’t you want it?” he asked, staring at the hunk of food in his hand. She started to move toward him and he lifted his rifle at her. She hesitated, then continued, slowly taking his hand, the one holding the food, and pushing it toward his mouth. He took a single bite and handed it back. She took one also, then tried to return it.

“No, no. It’s all yours,” he laughed, pushing her hand toward her. She devoured the whole thing, barely swallowing. He handed her the rest of the packaged meal. She ate it without hesitating. When she finished it, she opened the wrapper of the pre-moistened napkin and started to eat it as well. After the first taste, she stopped immediately.

“That’s the napkin, silly,” he said softly.

“This tastes worse than the candy wrapper,” she answered.

“It’s for this,” he said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with an imaginary napkin in a formal style.

She laughed at him and it sounded like music. She wiped her face and then her hands. With the three days of dirt removed, she wasn’t as ugly as he thought. In fact, she was almost pretty. She handed him the napkin and motioned for him to rub his own cheeks. He didn’t understand why she wanted him to do that and was surprised, when he did, to see the napkin turn nearly black.

For no real reason, he handed her the comb in his pocket. She looked embarrassed at first, then struggled to pull the comb through her hair. Jess looked for something to sit on. Finding nothing, he removed his helmet, put it on the floor near the wall, and sat. Her hair seemed to grow longer as she combed it. It took a while with his small comb but she finally finished. Her black hair reached the middle of her back.

She tried to return the comb. Jess ran his fingers over his short sandy hair and wouldn’t accept it. She tucked it into the ripped pocket of her skirt, looked up and him, as if trying to decide how to say thank you. She could only give him a shy smile.

For the first time, he took his finger off the trigger. He would have asked her for a date if she had understood. He blew warm air into his fists, one at a time, then fingered the trigger again. She pulled her knees under her long skirt, wrapped her arms around them, and shivered. She pulled some hay around her but it didn’t help much.

Jess wandered to the loft door and opened it a crack. He stared at the small fires in the long valley. It was too cold to stand there for long, not that he could see much in the darkness. He closed the door and walked back to her. She watched every move he made.

“I get the feeling you don’t trust me,” he told her.

“What are you expecting for the food and the comb?” she asked him.

“If I sit beside you we will both be warmer,” he said. To Jess, it seemed a peculiar request to make of someone you held at gunpoint. Still the whole day had been like that. He knelt down on one knee, then both, moving slowly toward her.

“Don’t try it,” she whispered, watching him intently.

He sat down slowly then scooted next to her. She moved away.

He waited, then slid next to her again. After they moved halfway across the loft that way, Jess began to chuckle. By this time, there was straw all over them. He picked up a handful and let it trickle on top of her hair. She brushed it off immediately. He did it again, smiling the whole time. She grabbed a handful and threw it at his face. He tossed some back at her. Gathering hay with both hands, she threw as much as she could at him. He did not intend to let go of his weapon but he held his own in his one-armed battle of straw tossing. She couldn’t help herself. She was laughing at him.

“Go ahead,” he offered, getting up on his knees and throwing out his chest. “Hit me.”

She picked up her biggest armful yet and bombarded him for all she was worth. He didn’t move.

“Hit me again,” he teased, pushed more straw toward her for ammunition.

She gathered a huge armful again, but instead of throwing it at him, she tossed it in the air. It came down on them both.

The battle was over. She sat back, exhausted, leaning against the barn’s stone wall. He moved beside her and propped himself against the wall as well.

“My grandpa would have swatted me for that,” he said with a laugh.

“You have a nice laugh,” she said.

He looked at her but she didn’t move away. He slowly, slowly put his arm around her shoulders. She was stiff at first but eventually allowed her body to conform to his. He touched her small hand and played with her pinkie finger. It felt good not to be alone.

“Who are you, Yes?” she asked in a small voice.

“I’m warmer. Are you?” he answered.

When she fell asleep, he felt her steady breathing as she slumped into his lap. He petted her hair and closed his eyes as well.

Voices awoke them both with a start. It was nearly dawn.

Jess put his hand over Marijtka’s mouth and readied his weapon. She listened intently for a moment, and then she covered his mouth. They weren’t her friends either. Marijtka looked down frantically, moving straw aside to reveal a knothole. They both lie down quietly on the loft floor to take turns peering at the enemy. When Marijtka first looked, there were six. When Jess looked there were ten. If he had been alone, he would have surrendered. With Marijtka, he was immediately put on a side, and from her reaction, not the right one.

With all he had heard about the atrocities of war, especially to women, he knew he had to defend them both. He suddenly began to pile straw over Marijtka. She resisted at first, then tried to help. At the last moment, he slid the kitchen knife under the pile to her. It disappeared from sight as Jess lay on his stomach and grappled for his helmet.

Jess watched through the knothole. The one in charge appeared to be the tall, dark man with three days’ growth of beard and a red kerchief at his neck. He tapped the three men closest to him, then pointed to the loft. They scaled the support beams, as Jess had, toward the loft. With Marijtka under the straw behind him and his weapon ready, Jess waited for their heads to appear. Jess shot the first one before he spotted them. A second head appeared momentarily, then dropped from sight. Jess let a round fly in the second soldier direction.

Before he could think, Jess was on his feet and blasting round after round down into the barn. In seconds that passed like hours, the men below at first considered returning fire, then opted for escape. Three lay on the barn floor, dying, while the others fled. Jess jumped to the loft window, hoping to see them flee but he didn’t. He held his breath, trying to watch down in the barn and out the loft window at the same time. In the quiet, he felt a sense of dread.

He got back on his stomach and crawled to the knothole. The three motionless bodies still lay on the floor of the barn.

The enemy vehicle, just outside the open barn doors, remained empty. Marijtka started to rise but he pushed her head down, recovering her with straw.

The silence gave way to a squeaking sound outside the loft door. Jess turned to see two men, hoisted by the others up the hay lift pulley rope, fly in the opening. Jess fired at the first, sending him back out the door. The second fired at Jess but missed. When Jess hit him, he fell on the pile of hay and Marijtka. He heard her muffled scream and turned as three more scaled the support beams into the loft. Jess was able to pick off the first two before the third one shot him.

Jess’s weapon flew from his arms as blood oozed, then flowed from his shoulder. As the soldier prepared to finish Jess off, Marijtka’s knife stabbed him through the calf. The soldier fell backwards in great pain, tripping over the ladder and careening out of the loft.

Jess was able to recover his rifle, and though dizzy, fired down into the barn to kill the soldier who shot him.

Marijtka shrieked as he did and when he looked at her, she was pointing toward the loft door. The leader and the last soldier were making their way into the loft. With a lousy aim, Jess fired and fired and fired and fired. Both soldiers leaped out the loft door to the ground. As they fled in their jeep, Jess keep up his volley until they were only a swirl of dust on the horizon.

Jess crept around the loft in a daze, trying to check both the barn, the area outside the barn doors, and then back to the loft door. After three checks of both, he dropped his weapon and fell unconscious on the floor of the loft.

“Yes?” Marijtka whispered from under the hay and the body of the dead intruder. She heard nothing.

“Yes?” she said again, pushing aside the hay and the body of the intruder above her.

She stared into his face but he didn’t respond, as the blood from his shoulder stained the floor of the loft and slipped through the slats in the floor to the barn below.

The first things Jess noticed when he woke were Marijtka’s tears on his hand and a burning pain in his shoulders. She had his canteen beside her, trying to keep him cool with the moistened fabric she ripped from her skirt.

“The rucksack,” he said, pointing to it sprawled open on the other side of the loft. She brought it to him. He tried three times to look in it, collapsing each time. Marijtka began removing items one by one and showing them to him. Each time he shook his head until she uncovered the box with the red cross on it. She poured antiseptic on his shoulder, which stung like hell. She covered his wounds with bandages, wrapping his shoulder over and over until the blood wasn’t quite so noticeable.

Just as she finished taping it into place, she froze. They both heard the sound of trucks pulling up outside. She crept to the loft door for a look. Jess attempted to follow her but the pain stopped him. She backed away from the opening in disbelief.

“What?” Jess tried to rise again, but was unable to do so. “Shit! How many?” he asked, showing her fingers. “Five? Ten? Fifteen?”

When she opened and closed both of her hands three times, he knew it was hopeless. She picked up his helmet, pointed to it, then pointed outside. He looked at her curiously.

She pointed to the helmet again and pointed individually to the each soldier below.

“Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes.” Then she pointed to him. “Yes.”

“Up here,” he yelled, then smiled at her. “We’re up here and we need help.”

Copyright © 1998-2008 Luanne F. Oleas
All rights reserved.

Author bio:

“Luanne F. Oleas aka LadyLu is the author of Wild Dancing and other novels. Her The Pirate and The Butterfly is one of The Blue Rose Bouquet‘s most popular stories. In addition, she is an op on the #Authors Undernet chat channel (one of the Top 10 channels on the Undernet). This California writer’s work has appeared in Reader’s Digest and other publications.”

A Night in the Loft is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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