Tag: music

He Rode Tall

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Excerpt

Sun-bleached and weather-worn grave markers of varying
dimensions dotted the plot. What the graves all shared, with the
exception of one, was that the prairie had overtaken them. The
old man’s grave, the only fresh grave, was already starting to be
blanketed by grass. The first thing Joel noticed was that there
wasn’t a marker for the old man’s plot so he made a mental note
that he would eventually get around to doing something about
that. But there was no rush. It was too late for any acts of kindness.
Much too late.
Even though Joel felt the way he did about the old man, essentially
being emotionally abandoned at such an early age, he still
found himself dropping to a knee at the side of the tiny grave on the
knoll in the middle of nowhere and saying a quiet prayer. It was at
this point, still full of bitterness and hatred for everything that the
old man had put his mother and himself through, that Joel recognized
that your dad is always your dad. No matter what.
Walking over to the horse, picking up the long thick leather
reins from the ground, and mounting the orange gelding, Joel
slowly turned the horse and headed back to the ranch yard. Drifting
along the ridges of the hills, the horse started to perk up as
they got closer to home and even broke into a bit of a trot which
Joel mastered by desperately hanging onto the saddle horn. Joel
thought that they probably would have broken into a canter if he
hadn’t reined the gelding back to a fast walk. Joel had always been
a good horseman as a boy, but that was a lot of years ago. He wasn’t
about to test his equestrian competency the first morning
back on the ranch. As they climbed the final hill and started to
drift down the coulee into the ranch yard, Joel was surprised to
smell the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the scent of bacon
from the forlorn-looking little ranch house below.
Looking down from the top of the knoll into the coulee below,
Joel could clearly see everything that was the homestead. The
buildings stood pretty much the way they did when he left that…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562862

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

Poodie James

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excerpt

This was bound to be about the Poodie James story. Sonny’s face
was reddening. That meant they had a problem, but Sonny ran the
newsroom. She would not jump in. She reached for the pile of budget
sheets on her desk and got back to work, envying the editor and
reporter wrestling with a story. My god, would the price of newsprint
ever stabilize? She sank into the pages of figures, enjoying the whir
and the rhythm as she cranked the handle of the adding machine.
“Got a minute?” Winifred looked up at Sonny standing in her
doorway, with Pease a step behind him. “Ned has something you
ought to know about.” She pushed the budget aside.
“Well, Ned,” she said after she had heard Pease’s story, “nice
work, I must say. Poor George Pearson, carrying that around all
these years. But we can’t go with it. Sonny is right, it’s hearsay. The
hobo, Clarkson, thinks he saw Torgerson that night. You say
Clarkson told you Torgerson denied it. This certainly could
explain the mayor’s hatred of Poodie James, but we need the other
man to confirm Pearson’s story. Even then, Torgerson may not
confess. Have you gone back to Pearson to try to get the name?”
“Yes. He’s terrified,” Pease said. He won’t tell me any more. I
think he has visions of prison. He probably doesn’t know the statute
of limitations on assault.“
“More likely he has visions of his reputation and his business
going to hell,” Sonny said. “And he has a point.”
“I don’t know any other way to find out who was with
Torgerson and Pearson that night,” Pease said.
Winifred straightened up and fixed her gaze on the middle distance.
“I think I might,” she said after a few seconds. She pulled a
scrap of paper from a desk drawer, reached for the telephone,
propped the handset on her shoulder, started dialing and shooed
the men out of her office. They watched from Sonny’s desk. After
she hung up, she waved them back in.
“Ned,” she said, “you’re about to meet your first madam.” She
gave him a look of appraisal. “I hope she’s your first.”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562868

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08W7SHCMV

In the Quiet After Slaughter

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excerpt

A widower, Dwayne Levine was the recipient of a disabled
worker’s pension. Those who had observed him flinging heavy
engine parts around his yard or stumbling home from the Kingsway
Pub most nights viewed with suspicion his claim of an irreparable
lower disc. Few car club members knew—as my pal O’Donnell did,
living across the alley from Ed’s garage—that Mr. Levine routinely
took the Dodge out after midnight. He also disappeared with it on
those occasions when a member was ill and the car at rest. He was
something of a philanthropist with the housewives, Mr. Levine was,
often loitering in the Shop Eazy parking lot offering free deliveries.
– Boys everywhere love two things, Dwayne Levine philosophized:
girls and cars. His sobs had been reduced to a snivel with a
second complimentary wedge of pie.
– If we had what these young fellas have today, he said, the war
never would have happened!
Back on patrol, Mahoney aired another possibility.
– I say the club’s a front for some kind of gangland activity.
Maybe one of us should go undercover. Whaddya think?
– Spit it all out, Mahoney! barked the senior policeman. The Huns
are scaling the walls!
– One of us — me, I guess — could pose as a potential buyer. I
could ask to see the vehicle up close. Maybe get inside the garage
without a search warrant.
The sergeant feared for the future knowing the likes of Mahoney
represented the next generation of law enforcement, although he
agreed the need for a search warrant was the most damaging invention
since the right to silence.
– People in this part of town, McManus reminded his young partner,
distrust strangers with crewcuts and the physique of a footballer.
Besides, he added, perhaps you hadn’t noticed? The Dodge
isn’t for sale!
McManus allowed himself a moment to despair.
– An Indian shaman said the Creator gave us two eyes, two ears
and one mouth, Mahoney. He reminds you of this so that you might
observe and listen twice as much as you talk.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562874

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897971

He Rode Tall

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excerpt

…flashy little palomino filly, she finished in second. Tanya was
beaten by young Cody whose grey stallion left everyone in awe.
Cody and the stallion put together a run that many a horseman
would remember years later. To say that it was flawless may be
an overstatement, but it certainly was as good as they get. “Hey,
nothing wrong with second place,” Joel thought as he heard
Cody’s score being announced. Reserve World Champion
sounded good to him.
The pretty little palomino filly had done it all. She had shown
the world what she could do, and so had her rider.
Twenty horses and riders entered the ring for the presentation
ceremonies. As they were called forward to receive their awards,
Joel kept waiting to hear his name. Sitting side by side, astride
their horses, Joel and Tanya kept looking at each other every time
someone’s name was called. Finally, the announcer called the
fourth place finisher, and it wasn’t Joel. He knew that the buckskin
had a good run, but he obviously didn’t know exactly how
good it was. And then, there was only the three of them. Joel,
Tanya, and Cody. When Joel was called forward to receive his
third-place ribbon he couldn’t help but cry with excitement, but
no more so than when his young friend Tanya was called to be
awarded the title of Reserve World Champion. As they watched
Cody receive the World Championship title and start a victory
lap of the arena astride his handsome grey stallion, Joel and
Tanya directed their horses for the gate and to the holding area.
With Cody celebrating his success, Joel leaned over to Tanya and
said, “You did a great job with the little filly.”
“Thank you Joel. I appreciate that.”
Cody exited the arena and walked the grey towards Tanya.
Turning the buckskin to meet up with Cindy, Joel whispered two
words to Tanya, “She’s yours.”
Joel acknowledged plenty of congratulatory words as he
approached Cindy. Leaning forward in the saddle, he gave her a
big kiss as she wrapped her arms around him. Dismounting to
stand next to her, he looked Cindy deep in the eyes and said…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562862

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

In Turbulent Times

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excerpt

‘And Dervla?’
‘Thriving.’ Danny escorted Caitlin into the yard and closed the iron gate behind them. ‘Motherhood suits her. And every day this week she’s had her friend from the cottage visiting.’
Caitlin stopped walking. ‘Her friend from the cottage?’
‘Connie. She and Dervla go way back. They were at school together in Lisnaglass.’
‘Didn’t Connie go home to Belfast with Robert?’
‘No. Robert’s coming back on Monday, so Connie decided to stay in the cottage. Have a short holiday. I would have thought you knew.’
‘Michael must have forgotten to mention it.’ Caitlin turned to the back door of the farmhouse, a frown on her forehead. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Danny. Regards to Dervla.’
‘Thanks, Caitlin. Yes, tomorrow bright and early. Good evening to you.’
Caitlin entered the scullery, placed the eggs on a shelf, and started to make tea for her and Michael. She paused occasionally to look up the hillside, but she could not see the cottage from the scullery window.
Michael came in an hour later, greeted Caitlin with a kiss, and washed and dried his hands at the sink. ‘We’ll finish the shearing tomorrow,’ he said. ‘There’s only a few left in the catching pen.’
‘I don’t know why you don’t hire a professional shearing team,’ Caitlin remarked. ‘There are enough of them around.’
‘I’ve been shearing sheep since I was seventeen,’ said Michael. ‘I can handle it myself. And Danny’s good with the shears too. If we had a bigger operation I might build a shearing shed.’
‘You’ll be glad the shearing’s all done, though, won’t you?’ said Caitlin.
Michael filled a tin mug with water from the tap and leaned his haunches against the sink. ‘Ay, that I will.’ Then he drank thirstily.
‘Danny was tired when I met him on his way home.’
‘He’s worked hard this week.’
‘You didn’t tell me Connie was staying in the cottage on her own since Robert left on Wednesday.’
‘Didn’t I? Didn’t you see her in the loaney? She’s been going down to visit Dervla every day.’
‘I must have missed her,’ said Caitlin. ‘Anyway, let’s eat.’
If Caitlin had had any suspicions about Michael and Connie Hanlon, remembering how Connie had come on to him in the square in Corrymore on Tuesday, she did not show them. She wondered how she would react…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

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

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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excerpt

“I mean no disrespect, whatsoever,” Ken said. “I know the symbol well.
But that is the wall.”
Albert exchanged a few words with Leon and then nodded. The painting
would go on that wall. Then Ken and Leon tackled the problem of
hanging the massive painting on a marble wall. The maintenance staff
concluded they would have to drill into the ceiling beams and suspend
the painting from thin stainless steel wires.
They hung the painting after business hours. Ken invited the media.
He had the panels delivered to the lobby where he bolted them together.
Salvador and his staff came along to help. Many members of the young
professionals group also arrived on the scene. The media asked how much
the painting had sold for. “No comment,” Ken said.
“Was it a lot of money?”
“No comment.”
“How did you contact Mr. Reichmann?”
“No comment.”
“You’re an artist,” one of them said. “How do you know how to do
all these other things? Artists don’t know how to be entrepreneurs. Who
helps you?”
“That’s a big question,” Ken said. “It’s a spiritual matter. I don’t wish
to discuss it.”
“What do you mean it’s a spiritual matter?”
“Just that. I get my knowledge, inspiration, and advice from a higher
authority and beyond that, I don’t want to discuss it. But, I will say one
thing – my advisor is Mr. Albert Reichmann.”
“Yes,” Albert said, when a reporter asked. “I am honoured to be Mr.
Kirkby’s advisor. He is doing wonderful work.”
Those few words gave Ken the credibility he’d been looking for. He had
achieved what his father had always had – the power to command respect
and attention wherever he went.
Later that night, when he was one of the last to leave, he paused to look
at the painting that he had envisioned hanging in that space so many
times. It looked exactly as he had imagined. It was in perfect proportion
to the immense lobby. It wasn’t until one walked closer to it that one felt
the full impact of its size.
His greatest debt was to Salvador, who had arranged the meeting, but
when he told him that he wanted to give him several paintings, he refused.
Ken painted several canvases regardless and delivered them to his home.
Before getting back to the task of Isumataq, Ken returned to the Arctic.
Keith Sharp, the burly Englishman, had moved to a parcel of land near
Rankin Inlet and extended an invitation. Ken included Michael as well as
Avril the photographer, and Roberto and Egidio, the filmmakers, in his
entourage; in mid-July, the somewhat motley crew – loaded down with…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562830

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

Prairie Roots

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excerpt

…watched her eat all the things that “were good for us”. Thank
goodness he liked perohy or we may not have acquired the fondness
for them that we did.
In fact, every Friday morning was perohy-making time, since,
as Ukrainian Catholics, we observed the meatless Friday rule.We
were roped into the perohy-making assembly line whenever we
were home from school. It was usually fun, invariably initiated
one or two squabbles about who was or was not doing how much
of what, but also included listening to Mom telling a story or singing
us songs. When she ladled those delicious little creations out
of the hot water into the cooling pot and then onto our platters,
and covered them with melted butter and crisply fried onions, a
morning’s work was known to disappear in short minutes! They
were so good!
I certainly well remember mother’s songs and stories that she
had brought with her from “the old country”. As she worked
away in the kitchen she forever sang those wonderfully sad
Ukrainian soul songs or told us stories of her early life. So many
times the tears would gather in her eyes and we would feel sad
with her, not really knowing what had made her sad in the first
instance. We must have been a comfort to her though, she being
so far from her family and almost certain that she would not see
any of them again. She at least had us to occupy herself with, leaving
her precious little time for self-pity.
I also recall the concerned exchanges between my parents as
World War II ravaged their birth areas and then as communism under
Stalin’s fist tightened its’ vicious grip throughout eastern Europe,
I wonder now what conflicting thoughts they had to endure. Their
life was not easy; however, what little news came through, devastating
as it must have been, would certainly have made them feel
thankful for getting away from that tormented region.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562900

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897920

The Qliphoth

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excerpt

verses the sun will go pop pop. But that’s in the multiplicity of sacred time.We
live in a single vulgar time, time for the butcher boy apprentices to come into
their own, swaggering out into the garden to escort me inside for tea. Soon
they will be shouting for Fuckbeard the Freaker.
I can’t complain about the name. I probably uttered it myself in one of my
ecstasies . . . These damned drugs have erased so much, so many cut-outs,
cut-ups, my golden memory chart is all such a tat album design, my head full of
flowers and stars and triangles and spheres and tits and bums and fiery swastikas.
Later I will carry on secreting all my secrets. Like a scared insect, I mean a
sacred insect . . .
And Lucas may make his annual visitation. Minded by PP, scowling in the
middle distance. I only want a flying visit, Icarus descending for a brief lesson
with Dedalus, nothing histrionic. Just a chat under the shelter of the Brain
Tree. To talk living eternities. I need help to implement the salvation, transformation
of the world. Why, Pol Pot, you bitch, you talking cactus in a pot,
why have you washed out my son’s brain, flooded it with your serums of
untruth? Why, why won’t he come?
I woke up this morning
Mr Blues all around my bed
Mr Blues he’s mean and evil
He done messed up my happy head
Rocking Rod was sprawled on a pile of cushions in the dayroom, strumming
his boogie on an old acoustic guitar, singing de blooze in a thin weaselly voice
with a Cockney Delta accent. I knew that voice. It had roots, long and tangled
as his hair, as his ratty moustache.
When he saw me, he leapt up, switched to a Stones riff, and began a
duck-walk around the ward. At the end of the room, a cluster of huge cardboard
boxes had been upended in a semicircle. The cartons displayed the logos
of great multinational drug companies—Wellcome, Bayer, Glaxo, Sandoz—as
if they were sponsoring this world tour. He stopped in front of the biggest box,
and made a jabbing bayonet thrust with his guitar. He whirled an arm to hit an
inaudible power chord and froze the pose.
“Get a load of that back line! Four five-hundred watt Marshalls.
Fanfuckingtastic, man! You can’t beat the old valve amps when it comes to
raunch, right?”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

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

In the Quiet After Slaughter

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excerpt

Back on the road, rain-streaked fronds slapping at the windshield,
parrots screeching in the jacaranda trees, Paco asks if Witherspoon
would care to meet his fiancée, Carmela.
– A little detour, he says. It’s not far.
They arrive after nightfall. The settlement is without electricity;
oil-fueled torches illuminate the village’s muddy streets. Witherspoon
unfolds a map on the hood of the Datsun and searches with his flashlight.
– What do you call this place again?
– Absolución, Paco says. It means — he consults his phrasebook
— forgiveness.
Carmela’s folks operate a popular eatery. It has a thatched roof, a
fire smoldering in the stone hearth. The food is superb and the
fiancée as lovely as Paco had claimed. She has copper skin that in the
glow of the charcoal embers shines like a newly minted coin.
– Carmela has two sisters, Paco says. Look.
There’s an enclosure walled in by mosquito netting at the rear of
the family compound. Witherspoon is able to make out a pair of silhouettes.
One sister sways in a hammock, an arm lazily draped over
the side as though her fingers trail through water. The other is
perched on a stool. She is raking a brush through her hair, the back
arched like half a parenthesis, thighs spread.
The Canadian thinks to himself: Forgiveness. What a strange
name for a village.
A backlog of vehicles has been idled by the roadblock. Lined up
around the bend are a few squeaky transport trucks, a second-class
bus with threadbare tires, a taxi painted with dust. Youngsters
trickle from the jungle to sell refreshments to the inconvenienced.
His guard off scrounging a cigarette, Witherspoon stole a glimpse
of the swelling crowd. Some huddled in the shade, readying their
bribes. Others made the sign of the cross, wincing with every blow
administered to Witherspoon’s new friend. The ballplayer supposed
all were as terrified as he—evidently the point of the delay.
The welts on Paco’s face were beginning to change colour.
Witherspoon wondered how much more his friend could endure—
wondered how much he himself could endure. And was he next?

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562874

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897971

In the Quiet After Slaughter

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excerpt

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