Tag: Fiction

He Rode Tall

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excerpt

“I am sorry to hear that. I was hoping that they would see it the
other way—that having Circle H horses at their sale would draw
even more buyers. And the right kind of buyers.”
“Afraid not. Guess that takes us to Plan B.”
“Plan B?” Joel asked.
“Exactly. The way that I see it, you really don’t have any option
but run your own sale. The Ramage Ranch Sale is the last Saturday
in September—has been going forever. Brings in big crowds
from all over. Let’s do your sale on the Sunday right after. That
way, people are here already and may want to stay for your sale.”
“Would that work, Roy? Aren’t you concerned about upsetting
the folks at the Ramage Ranch by working with me the day after
their sale?”
“As it happens, the Ramage people aren’t a client. Used to be.
They bring in a crew from Denver to manage their sale now. It
really hurt when they dropped us. Had been good clients for
years, or so I thought.”
“I guess that would work. But who would want to stay over and
go to your auction yard for only . . .”
“Hang on right there, cowboy. I learned a long time ago that
there is only one place for a ranch horse sale. And that is on the
ranch.”
“Okay, I guess that makes sense, but who would want to come
all of the way out here for only a dozen horses? Hardly seems
worth it.”
“Need to talk about that too: how do you feel about putting a
few of your weanlings, yearlings, and two-year-olds in the sale?”
“Well, I guess I could. But I need that young stock for future
years.”
“The way I see it, if we put a small offering of your younger
horses in the auction in addition to the three-year-olds, you
would really increase the appeal. Young stock might be what
some folks need to stay one more day and attend your sale.”
“Let me think about it, Roy. It sounds like I need my own sale,
but I don’t know if I want to sell any of the younger horses.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897955

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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He had more canvases made that together measured twenty-five feet,
eight inches long by two feet high. By anyone’s standard, this was an immense
painting: by Ken’s yardstick, it was a miniature. However, the size
was ideal, as it allowed him to sketch in every detail and nuance he wanted
to convey.
He worked eighteen hours a day, but time had ceased to have meaning.
He physically barricaded the studio to discourage visitors. Several weeks
later, when the large model was complete, he started to calculate what it
would take to paint a portrait that was twelve feet high one hundred fiftytwo
feet long. He estimated that he would need thirty-eight panels twelve
feet high by four feet long, butted seamlessly together.
He had immense issues to deal with. First, he had to find a supplier
who could stretch canvases of that size. He also had to keep Rocco supplied
with paintings, and he had to complete them on time. And, he had
to finish the Reichmann and Yellowknife Airport paintings. In addition,
he was once again doing presentations at schools. Common sense told
him to say no to those requests, yet he felt an obligation to talk to the
children – to fire their minds with dreams. Although he should have been
tired, he was bursting with energy. It was as though the furnace of his
heart was being stoked with a fuel that burned endlessly – a fuel more
potent than food, drink or rest.
He could find no one who would stretch the canvases. Those he approached
thought he was mad. He talked to the company that supplied
their framing material, explaining that he needed stretchers double kiln
dried so they wouldn’t warp. They also had to be bevelled so that when
the panels came together the seams would disappear.
Ken wanted all the materials he used to be made in Canada. It wasn’t
possible. No one in Canada made canvas, so he ordered several rolls from
Brazil, each roll weighing hundreds of pounds. He also had to import
brushes.
With leftover canvas from the Reichmann painting, he and Diane
stretched the first panel using the device he had invented that was a combination
of canvas stretching pliers, Vise-Grips, and a torque wrench. Every
part of the canvas had to be stretched to precisely the same tension.
The canvas was perfect when he could lay it on the floor, toss a coin
on it ,and have it bounce off like a bullet. If it wasn’t right he started over
again – and he began afresh many times.
Keeping in mind his insight about quantifying the painting, he made a
precise list of every item he needed. How much glue would he need? How
much gesso for four coats on each of thirty-eight panels? How much paint?
Ken met with Mr. Stevenson, of Stevenson and Company paint manufacturers,
“I think I’m going to need two tons of paint,” Ken said.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562830

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

In Turbulent Times

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‘With Liam Dooley?’ Joe’s face took on a puzzled look. ‘You could have had your pick of every young man from here to Kerry. Why Liam Dooley of all people?’
‘Oh Joe, don’t say it like that. It just happened. I don’t know how. Something I said. We were both upset. And then we were consoling each other.’
‘In bed?’
‘Please, Joe. Don’t make it sound worse than it is. God alone knows how much I have paid for that one sin. And I shall go on paying for it till the day I die. God is very severe on sinners sometimes, Joe. His punishment seems out of all proportion to the sin. But He has His reasons, they say. And for some reason He has been severe in his punishment of the Carrick family.’
‘But Nora, going to bed with a man doesn’t mean you have to marry him. Nor does it mean that the one you might eventually want to marry is going to hold it against you if he knew about it.’
‘What if I was pregnant?’ Nora asked. ‘What if I was carrying the first man’s child? Wouldn’t that make a difference? Wouldn’t the man I might eventually want to marry hold that against me?’
Joe looked away and said nothing. A harshness, a bitterness, in Nora’s voice was new and discomfiting. But the more he thought about it the more justified it was. Fate—or God—had treated Nora cruelly.
‘Can you be sure?’ Joe asked. ‘Can you be sure you’re going to have a baby?’
‘I’m not,’ Nora replied.
‘You’re not sure?’ Joe cried. ‘Then why did you …?’
‘Oh Joe, please!’ Nora shouted in exasperation. ‘I didn’t mean I’m not sure. I meant I’m not going to have a baby.’
‘Nora, I’m confused. I’m not thinking too clearly.’
‘After I slept with Liam I was a month overdue with my period.’ Nora gushed out the words. She was embarrassed. It had been easier to put this in a letter. These were matters a woman did not discuss with a man. But Joe had rights to a full explanation. She had to tell him everything, if only to make herself feel less miserable by justifying what she did. ‘That never happened before. I was always regular. I was frightened, Joe. I was sure I was pregnant.’
‘Did you talk to your mother about it?’
‘I couldn’t, Joe. I wanted to. I tried to. But I was so ashamed, so frightened of what she’d think of me. I couldn’t do it. I suppose I kept hoping …’

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763270

The Qliphoth

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For I must concentrate—I am making a strong black record for eternity.
Lucas will know it, one day soon. It is my legacy.My uttermost Will. This time
I must get it right.
So I sleep with the black notebooks as my pillow. It isn’t easy to reconstruct
my Holy Lore. I need the resources of the British Museum Reading Room, the
Bodliean Library, whatever. But the Oakhill doctors think that mad people
prefer Readers Digest. I have rely on my hand copied archives; my dictations
and visions from the Inner Plane; or memories of memories. I’ve been starting
all over again for years.
For Poll Pottage dispersed the treasures of the Lore. So shall she burn by
aeonic fire and be crushed by thunderstones in the End-Times! That woman
has caused me so much extra work, it’s worn out my astral body. It’s not just
the scriptorial battle fatigue, an ague in my old claws. No, this channeling is
hard and bitter work.
But today the woodentops must have under-dosed me. I’m still functioning.
Herewith a taster, a private view, just one sample of my wares drafted from the
black notebooks, a typical Nicholas Oscar Beardsley production. My methods
are multifarious. Last night I got up to no good underneath my smelly blankets.
This sample of the Teachings happens to take the form of an unusual
radiophonic transmission from the dead.
I do this trick as follows: take one transistor radio—the British-made “Roberts
Rambler” is probably the best, because of its plywood chassis, good for natural
vibrations—and hide it under your pillow. Press your ear very close to the
speaker. Tune close to BBC World Service on long wave, but allow the signal
to drift on the edge of intelligibility. Keep the volume to the minimum of audibility.
Listen for the radio years.
Soon, beyond the urgent twaddle of world events, the stratospheric squeal of
lost souls, the muezzin wailing from their burning mosques, all the rest of the
global anthem, you will hear, filtered through hiss and static, a voice. It is
clipped, brisk, extremely British,military, dry as sherry, so very reassuring . . . it
is getting louder already . . .
“. . . in 1910, I made the acquaintance of a military attache, posted to Central
Asia in the service of one of the great European powers. Despite our inevitable
differences, we shared the comradeship of bearing arms, and a common
interest in arcane matters. I was intrigued by his knowledge of esoteric
Tibetan beliefs and practices, especially when he told me that at a ‘gompa’ or
spiritual college north of Lhasa there was a ‘gyud pas’ or ‘high teacher’ who
had the gift of astral disembodiment.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186508

Jazz with Ella

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Paul shook his head and glanced up at the statue’s grim face. “It’s illegal to use a false passport.”
Jennifer didn’t believe she had heard the words correctly. “You’re talking to me about illegal! You’ve done lots of illegal things lately—jump ship, stay in non-permit areas…you don’t know how many Soviet laws you’re violating.”
“But, Jen, I’m the only one that gets in trouble for my actions—and I’m prepared to take that chance. You’re wanting me—and others—to take part in a conspiracy. Defrauding border guards, smuggling illegal aliens. And if he replaced me for the rest of the trip, then all the students would be involved. Is that fair to them?” He glanced over at Ted and Maria who returned his look anxiously.
“So that makes it worse than what you’re doing?” Jennifer found that her breath was coming in gasps. “You’re putting us all in jeopardy by leaving. They’ll ask us who knew and we’ll have to admit that we could have stopped you…or we have to lie about it.”
“No, you couldn’t have stopped me.”
“Keep your voice down. I understand now that nothing we say can stop you. I’m prepared to take that chance, too. Will you help us? Will you talk to Vera? I couldn’t in all conscience walk off with your passport if I thought it would get you in worse trouble.”
“As crazy as that seems, you may have come up with something. At least I wouldn’t be interrogated. If I can get a Soviet passport no one will ever know.” Jennifer could feel herself relaxing a little; this scheme was so right for everyone.
“I’ll talk to Vera,” he went on. “She’s supposed to meet me here—somewhere. She said she’d find me.” He glanced about nervously.
“Thank you, Paul, thank you. This could change my life.” As Jennifer said it, she knew it was true. She had cast her lot now—with the man who up until two weeks ago was a total stranger. Of course, there was still her marriage to Michael back home in Canada. The divorce would be inevitable. She resolved not to think too much about that until she returned.
“You can’t tell Natasha anything,” she said. “Just come on the tour today. Act normal. And we’ll have to huddle with the others who know you’re leaving. I’ll need their help.”
“Whoa…this is happening way too fast.” Paul staggered a little, then found his footing.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

In the Quiet After Slaughter

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Sgt. McManus, as promised, delivered Fender to hismotherwith the
promptness of a pizza. Mrs. Rhodes, when she opened the door that
night, thought she was hallucinating. Reeking of animal scent, face and
hands coated in a layer of slime, Fender had the beginnings of a moustache
and appeared to have grown a few inches. And though he had
been in hiding for most of the summer, he seemed especially vigorous.
His weight gain puzzled the policeman considerably.
It later came out that Fender had used the hour The Fugitive aired
on Tuesday evenings to switch hideouts, moving from one refuge to
another as the populace gathered around their TV sets. Employing a
stealth rare in one so young, he inhabited an abandoned car and then
a child’s treehouse. He camped out in the brambles that grew along
the banks of Still Creek and took advantage of the Bartons’ garage
hideaway. The night of his apprehension, Fender was returning to his
new abode, a raccoons’ lair under the school portables. In his pocket
they found peanut butter cookies baked by the Widow Nighs.
Fender Rhodes accompanied the social worker Lois Daniels to the
group home. He stayed two years. It was said he learned to tolerate
the routine there and that he became a talented billiards player.
Eventually, however, the approach to mental health care evolved. It
was now thought progressive to integrate Fender into the community
that had formerly sought his detention.
A young man now, tall and broad in the shoulders, Fender has
returned to his old street corner. He has re-established business relationships.
I understand he leaves telephone poles alone, although he
has been seen anxiously eyeballing the heights of an old favourite.
If you take a drive through the Project you can see him most days.
He’s probably there now. Maybe you’ll find him discussing hockey
standings. Or — not that anyone would believe him — describing
what it’s like living with a family of raccoons.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562874

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00731WSPE

Fury of the Wind

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He had fallen silent again, and Sarah felt too weary to bother
with small talk. She had done her part – the rest was up to him. She
could not understand him, and surely had not expected this indifference.
Had she done something wrong?
She wondered if his reticence was caused by nervousness. If so,
he certainly did not show it. His long, lean hands rested easily on
the steering wheel and his lanky body slouched in the seat.
Sarah sighed and turned her head to watch the passing landscape.
Mile after mile of wheat fields rolled by the window, their uniformity
broken only by an occasional stand of poplar trees. Reddish
bristly spikes of foxtail lined the roadside, and clumps of Russian
thistle struggled in the wind to be free of the barbed wire of the
picket fences. Poking their heads above the couch grass on the borders
of the fields, and dotting the billowing carpets of grain, were
numerous yellow flowers of the wild mustard plant.
She marvelled at the flatness of the prairie. The horizon seemed
to stretch to infinity, the sky so big and blue that Sarah felt she could
float up and into it.
A lone gopher emerged from the underbrush and skittered across
the road. A hawk wheeled and dived overhead. Sarah wondered idly
if the rodent’s flight was an effort to escape the mechanical menace
bearing down on it, or the winged menace from above. She turned
her head to mention her observation to Ben but the set of his lips
did not encourage conversation. She focussed again on the scenery.
They passed two or three farms, and Sarah noted with astonishment
that none of the houses or outbuildings showed signs of having
been painted. They stood out on the prairie like beacons but,
rather than giving a sense of welcome to the traveller on the road,
they appeared drab and cheerless.
The roar from the old motor and the stifling air inside the pickup
were making Sarah feel ill. She closed her eyes but they were jolted
wide open by Ben’s sudden announcement.
“Mrs. Thompson can’t come ’til tomorrow.”
Sarah stiffened. Her mouth went dry and she felt her stomach
heave. “You said she would come tonight.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073530

Savages and Beasts

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a few minutes to pretend of listening to their pleas and needs,
then the elections are over the politicians disappear as they have
done before and the Indians carry on living their substandard
life with no light anywhere to be seen. These are the people the
Anglos have to give a voice and a sense of what freedom means
by way of example and by way of re-distributing part of this
country’s wealth and share some of it with the Indians. However
I can’t see the Christian Anglo ever getting to that point
of psycho-spiritual advancement that he’ll accept this idea as
something doable. Then, they talk of racism and that they stand
against any form of it but not by example: only in their hollow
talk and the promises which they don’t keep.”
Anton’s father sighed and stirred in his chair. Then he
continued.
“Here we have two different cultures, totally opposite to
each other and each of them preaching their ways to the members
of their society and the hatred one feels for the other which
results only to a short-lived victory for either side thinking they
each make some progress while in reality the fundamental differences
remain and are perpetuated and all this because there
is no dialogue. None of the two sides truly want to sit down and
talk since each side distrusts the other and as long as that distrust
exists between them there won’t ever be a dialogue, there
won’t ever be an embracement. The only way forward is that
small room for dialogue, the exchange of ideas, views, thoughts,
images, and perhaps one day something positive will emerge; this
is the chance both sides must take because there isn’t any other
way forward, except of hatred, enmity, endless doubt, hell.”
He stopped again and took a deep breath; yes it was much
to take for anyone; besides the truth always hurt the ones who
didn’t like it.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763602

The Unquiet Land

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a while, but we don’t get along all that well. She’s a straitlaced Puritan like many here in the village. And I hate Belfast, don’t you? There’s a brother and his wife in Liverpool, but I’m never going to England. I have a good friend in Derry. You know her. Molly McEvoy. Her husband was killed last year. She has often said that she and I should live together.”
“Derry’s not much improvement on Belfast,” Finn pointed out.
“No,” said Mother Ross, “but it might have to do. I don’t have a great deal of choice.”
“Come home with me, Jinnie,” Finn said impulsively. “I need someone to look after the twins. They’re nearly six years old now, and Una Slattery’s finding them too much of a handful with four children of her own. Caitlin’s a self-willed little imp who needs some of the wildness spanked out of her. Hard to believe they’re sisters, let alone twins. My house is comfortable, and there’s plenty of room. Come on. I’ll take you up there right away. I’ve the pony and trap on the road beyond.”
That was twenty years ago—twenty-one come June—and Mother Ross had lived in Finn MacLir’s house ever since. Six months after moving in as the keeper of his house and the childminder of his two young daughters, six months of slander-scandaled tongue-wagging in the village of Corrymore, Mother Ross became the second wife of Finn MacLir. Arthur Hamilton, as justice of the peace, married them in the dining room of the large, stone house. A party began on that first Friday in December, 1898, that people still talked about two decades later. And the first Friday of every month since then, whenever he was home, Finn and his friends met to celebrate yet again the night he married the widow, Sinead O’Neill, otherwise known as Mother Ross. Though she was Mrs Finn MacLir by law, she was, and remained, Mother Ross by custom. Even Caitlin never stopped calling her by the only name she had ever known her by.
“My mother was Annie Hogan before she married Jimmy Ross,” Mother Ross once related to Caitlin. “She was the midwife here in Corrymore for many years. I was the youngest of her seven children and I used to help her at the birthing. I was with her that terrible night when you and Nora were born, Caitlin. When the arthritis crippled my mother’s fingers, I took her place. I never had any children of my own.” A sad, faraway look had come into her eyes. “I was pregnant when my husband was drowned at sea, and I lost the baby in a miscarriage. I survived on my own after Jimmy’s death using midwifery skills learned at my mother’s side. I not only took

over her job, I was given her name at the same time. Mother Ross. It has stuck to me ever since.”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

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lobsters and many varieties of fish. Francisco would light a fire on the
rocky floor and the smoke would rise through the gap overhead while
we prepared a feast. Monsieur Desjardines thought this secluded spot
was heaven. We’d spend the day fishing, eating lobster over an open
fire and sharing stories. There was something deliciously daring about
being in a place feared by the locals—if the weather blew up a storm,
as it could easily do, the magical hiding spot could well become a
watery tomb.
Ken’s young life was idyllic but Portugal was changing. At the close
of three decades in power, the once-benevolent dictatorship of Antonio
de Oliveria Salazar was losing favour. In an effort to maintain control as
opposition coalesced behind the dissident Henrique Galvoa, Salazar’s
secret police grew more and more vicious, and by 1956, the country was
under siege.
Lisbon was the kind of city that attracted unusual people: the brilliant,
the demonic and those who drifted on the fringes of society. Spies abounded.
Ordinary people were recruited to inform on their friends and neighbours,
and paid according to the value of their information. Many innocent people
were ruined and the ensuing chaos heightened Ken’s determination to get
himself and his family out of the country.
Although his employees revered Kirkby, Sr. his position as a major
industrialist was unpopular with the authorities. It was no secret he had ties
with the exiled Galvoa. The contents of their ongoing correspondence was
less public and this was a double-edged sword: the Salazar supporters were
suspicious of his connection with the agitator, but totally unaware of the
extent to which Kirkby, Sr. was being kept apprised of problems brewing
within the country.
By early 1957, the Kirkby business empire was showing signs of
imploding under the intensified attentions of the secret service. Sixteen-year-
old Ken had an extensive network of friends at all social levels. When
he realised that time was running out for his dad he managed, with their
help, to orchestrate his father’s escape via a private plane in the gloom of an
early morning with government enforcers hard on their heels.
Monsieur Desjardines arranged the necessary paperwork for Kirkby, Sr.
to enter Canada. However, it took many months and the official intervention

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562902

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CB8W4CG