Tag Archives: fiction

Montana Rural Sneak Preview

images (10)This post could very easily be an addition to The Barroom Chronicles, except that this is a fictional story, even though the Humming images (10)

Bartender may or may not be inspired by someone who is destined to receive his own episode of the nonfiction series. The voice is James Morrison, the narrator of Cemetery Street. Montana Rural is the continuation of his story. Enjoy this sneak preview of my work in progress, Montana Rural.

By the time we reached the bed and breakfast all I wanted was sleep, but my father insisted on buying me a beer. The three of us trudged down the street and slipped inside the semi-crowded bar. We plopped ourselves around a small table and within moments we were accosted by a humming bartender with an alien tattooed on his neck. “Hmmmm…  Welcohmmmm to Boyd and Chadwick’s, where the beer’s warm and glasses are dirty, tonight’s special is if you don’t like it you can shut the fuck up! Hmmmm… What can I get you? Hmmmm?” he asked.

Diane and my father looked at each other and I tried not to laugh. I had firsthand knowledge of Reginald’s antics and until I noticed him when we walked in I never thought of subjecting my guests to his whims. When we hesitated, he said in a fairly good English accent: “Come on now mate, hurry the fuck up, I ‘ave other inmates to attend to.”

Dad and I ordered two beers and Diane ordered a Cosmopolitan.

“Hmmmm, I’ll be right back… Hmmm,” he hummed and shuffled away.

“That was rude,” she commented and then added: “He’s kind of a strange bird.”

“You can’t imagine,” I told her.  “He’s name’s Reginald and he’s a local legend. People come from miles around.”  What had me interested was what kind of drink he would whip up for Diane. I was fairly certain he had never made a Cosmopolitan before and he wouldn’t waste his time looking it up; he was known for throwing concoctions together and demanding that you finish it.

A few minutes later he returned with our round. “Hmmmm  Two Beers and a Cosmo – politan.” He somehow managed to switch accents from gay to English between syllables.

Diane looked from her drink, which almost glowed neon green, back to the bartender.  “Ummm, this isn’t a Cosmopolitan.”

“Hmmmm… What do you mean? It’s good enough to be on the cover of any magazine. If you don’t like it, take it to the compliant department.” He pointed to the front door where a Compliant Department sign hung over the doorway.  “Now if you’ll be kind enough to pay me eight dollars I won’t complain. Hmmmm”

My father handed him a ten and told him to keep the change.

“Hmmmm… Blessed plenty,” Reginald said in a southern accent before humming and shuffling off.

“Wow,” Diane said watching Reginald again switch gears attending to someone else.

“The best part is that he believes he was abducted,” I said.

“By?” My father asked.

“Aliens.”

“Wow,” Diane repeated before turning her attention to her cocktail. “I’m afraid to drink it.”

“And you thought there wasn’t any culture in the sticks.  You wouldn’t find someone like that in a city,” I said.

The both of us watched as Diane sipped her drink. “It’s not bad.” She couldn’t contain her fascination with the bartender as he bounced about.  It wasn’t long before he came back to the table to check on us: “Hmmmm… ’ow’s your drink m’lady?”

“Good, what’s in it?” Diane asked.

“You like it? Hmmmm.”

Diane nodded.

“That’s good, because it’s Alien Piss with a pinch of Spanish Fly…  Someone will be busy tonight. Now if you’ll excuse me… Hmmm” He clapped twice, pirouetted one-hundred eighty degrees and shuffled off.

I sniggered.

“He’s unreal,” Diane said half-amused, half-insulted.

When we turned in for the night, I couldn’t help burry my head under the pillows. Just in case Reginald wasn’t lying and he did spike her drink, I wasn’t sure how thick the walls were and I didn’t want to hear the results.

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Flash Fiction… Mike Tyson’s Carrot

images (9) A while back I was interviewed for the inaugural issue of the online magazine Write Mag. During the interview, Anthony Vernon asked if I could write a good flash fictionimagesCACEJK1Z story that could make Mike Tyson eating a carrot seem interesting:  Here’s the result.   For the rest of the interview of more info on Write Mag, click here.  Enjoy!

Q- If I forced you to write a story about Mike Tyson eating a carrot do you think it would be a good story?

A-     Why don’t I write one and you be the judge?  This is off the top of my head, so let’s hope it makes sense.

“Eh, is that Mike Tyson walking down the street?” Yellowfeather, asked.

“Where?”  Tom Hawk asked.

“Are you blind?  Right there,” Yellowfeather said pointing with his chin across the street.  And he’s munching on a carrot.”

“Nah, you’re crazy. That ain’t Mike Tyson. And that’s no carrot, now, is it?  It’s George Foreman and he’s smoking a cigar.

“Caw, you can’t smoke a carrot.”

“You can’t eat a cigar,” Tom Hawk insisted.

“He’s getting away!  HEY MIKE! MIKE TYSON! WHERE YA GOING?” Yellowfeather shouted.

The man across the street kept walking, either not hearing or ignoring the voice calling after him.

“You fool, I told you that wasn’t Mike Tyson, it’s George Foreman.  Watch and learn.”  Cupping his hands about his mouth, Tom Hawk bellowed: “MR. FOREMAN, HEY MR. FOREMAN.  I imagesCAK7WA1BLOVE YOUR GRILL. MY MOM COOKS ON IT ALL THE TIME.”

The man seemed to not hear Tom Hawk’s cries and slipped inside a bar. Being too young to drink, even too young to go inside, they sat outside the bar and waited. Every time the door open the two friends jumped up only to be disappointed.  Soon the sun dropped lower in the sky, and a chill settled over the town.

“Hey,” Yellowfeather asked a drunk stumbling out of the bar. “Is Mike Tyson in there?”

“Huh? Oh yeah, sure kid.  And he’s belting ‘em down.”

“See, I told you,” Yellowfeather told his friend.

“Naw,  you gonna believe a drunk?  Let’s ask the next guy.  I still say it’s the grill guy,” Tom Hawk insisted.  Just then, the front door swung open. “Hey mister, is George Foreman inside?”

The drunk laughed. “Yeah, he’s in the kitchen flipping burgers like a champ.”

The boys bantered back and forth until the sun sunk beneath the hills and the chill turned cold. Soon their teeth were clacking louder than their voices.  Yellowfeather spoke up: “Hey listen, I’m getting cold. I don’t really care if it was Tyson or Foreman, I want to go home, how about it, eh?”imagesCA9CT7GZ

“But what about finding out?”  Tom Hawk asked.

“Let’s flip on it.”  Yellowfeather said.

“Okay.”

“Heads it was Tyson, tails it was Foreman.”

“But was it a carrot or a cigar?” Tom Hawk asked.

“We’ll flip on that, too?”

“You have a quarter?”

“Nope.  How about you?”

“Nah, don’t have one.”
“Man, now we’ll never know,” Yellowfeather complained.

“What do you mean, I’m telling you, it was George Foreman,” Tom Hawk insisted as the boy’s shadows slipped from the streetlight’s glow.

Guest Post – Jason Derr

Tonight I’m stepping aside to make room for Author Jason Derr, who has graciously agreed to give it a go with you, my dear followers. Please be nice and give him your attention and don’t throw any vegetables in my blog. Thanks to Jason, I can take the evening and work on my chess game, write another chapter and consume copious amounts of popcorn.

Take it away Jason:

Adventures of a Guest Post
By Jason Derr
Author: The Boston 395

I want to woo you, Gentle Reader, with tales of my own wit and creativity. Seduction, really, is the game. I must seduce you into wanting to read my book. But, alas, I am out of perfume and I, male that I am, never perfected feminine wiles.

But, before I leave you to your own devices, I will instead talk to you person to person. After all, I have your attention, so why should we talk.

I want to talk to you about the craft of writing and of my own book The Boston 395.

Who isn’t a sucker for seduction?

Tom Hanks once said that his job as an actor was to hit your mark and tell the truth. Telling the truth, as an actor, though involves lying. It involves taking on another persona, telling a story that is not your own to people you will never meet.

So it is with writing. Our job is to fill the page and speak the truth. We speak the truth by telling lies.

For instance – I know of no trains that bend the rules of space and time, whose every stop exits into a broken life. If such a train does exist please, would someone point me towards it? I would like to ride such a thing and find out if my description of it were accurate.

So, my train is a lie.
But I hope it tells some sort of truth – about being broken and being

Author Jason Derr

transformed. About healing and wholeness.

So it is Gentle Reader that I will leave you with those thoughts. More of a sketch really, some words to invite you into thinking and, I hope, reading.

Fill the page of your life, tell the truth

 

 

 

 

Thanks again Jason.  I have to say, when I’m done my current fascination with Updike, Boston 385 is next on my kindle.

Good luck and please stop by again in the future!