Fall of the Cowboy

Fall of the Cowboy by Frederic Sackrider Remington

The gun glinted in the noon day sun, and its barrel was aimed directly at me.

"I thought I could trust you," he said.

I stared back while my knees melted in a puddle at my feet and my heart rat-tat-tatted down the street. Why did I think I could two-time a cowboy? Okay, I came across a lot of cow pokes at the Red Dog Saloon and it used to be I wasn't interested. But lately I'd been feeling lonely, ever since Mr. Brinkley died, or as I liked to call him, Mr. Sugar Daddy. Once he was gone, my female needs went crazy on me. Maybe it was grief, I don't know. But I overextended myself, flirting and hanging onto every trail-worn stranger who wandered in the saloon. That was how I met both Bart and Rusty and on the same night.

I'd been careful not to let one know about the other, but they must have gotten together and compared notes. Because soon I had two angry cowboys facing each off on the main street on a sunny day in February, Valentine's Day to be exact, their hands fixed over their holsters, fingers trembling and flexing.

"You been cavortin' with ma woman?" Bart's face flushed red under his grizzled beard. His voice rang out, baritone and nasty.

"She's my woman." Rusty sounded like screeching train wheels. Even so, he mouthed the words slowly, weighing them down with gravity. 

Snowflakes fluttered from the sky making one think of children at play rather than a shoot-out. But it went on.

"I seen her first."

"Did not. I done seen her first. First thing we walked in the Red Dog on Thursday I seen her hanging on the bar, throwing 'em back." 

Okay. I've been known to drink a bit when I'm lonesome. It helps me loosen up to meet people; ergo, my cowboy problem. Their  angry tones worried me.  I worked my way further back in the crowd, stooping to keep from view.

"Yeah, we had fun that night. You and me. As I recall, neither of us played her no mind once she said howdy."

"I went to see her after. Woman winked at me as I went to leave, slipped me her room number, a note right there in my palm,  'Room 3 above the bar.' She said I was the only man she wanted." Rusty blushed.

"I went to see her, too. And she told me I was the only man she wanted."

Swinging around on their heels with such a jostle their spurs jangled, guns now drawn, the cowboys searched the crowd. Bart spotted me first which brings us around to where you came in.

"I thought I could trust you," he said.

I was scared. But I didn't intend to let them know it. "Lots of men thought they could trust me, Cowboy."

I guess he didn't expect that answer. Lowering his gun, he shot a glance to Rusty.

"You both thought you could trust me...and you could. I certainly didn't do anything to hurt either of you. I was simply a friend to you both." I blew each a kiss.

They were speechless.  

"Come on, boys...friends."

Rusty broke down first. "Ah, sure, Miss Jo. I'll be your friend."

He rushed over crying and slobbering, giving me a big hug. Bart was quick to follow. 

 

Buried in cowboy muscle, I managed a muffled thank you and backed away. Smiling, I watched the boys return to their poker, then I sidled up to the bar. A handsome stranger sat there, drooped over his whiskey. I hate to see sad cowboys. 

I tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned, I winked, and slipped him a note.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Writing Challenge--Bluebirds

I took part in a writing challenge and my piece has been published there--Bluebirds in the Cold. Please stop by and give it a read. I promise you it will be a refreshing pause in your day.

Beautiful Trinkets

Little Girl Sitting in Blue Arm Chair by Mary Cassatt

Beautiful Trinkets

I want things, you know. I may not have finished high school, but I do okay for myself. My small apartment is cheap, and I'm happy with it. I can't afford to drive, so I take the bus, but that's okay, too. The thing is, though, I want stuff--you know, the good stuff--the things that glitter, the jewels that bring a feeling of ease and comfort to life...the trinkets and adornments that make people turn their heads and admire you. With the money I make cleaning houses, those items are way out of my reach. So, I find work in the finest homes in town, so I can be near these lovely treasures.

That's where the trouble comes in. How can a maid resist slipping a glittering diamond necklace in her pocket when she comes across one?

They always trust me and never suspect a thing, but I don't stay long in any one household's employ. That was the plan when I arrived at the Hempstead house, a beautiful Victorian on Fifth Avenue, to work a short while, grab some booty, and move on. My first impediment, however, was their daughter, Claire, a little girl who always hung around watching me work. I needed to be alone to search for the goods.

"Would you like to help?" I asked one day, waving my feather duster at her.

"Hell, no!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me! We pay you to do the shit work." With that remark, she sauntered from the room. It was time for her favorite afternoon snack of cookies and milk.

I went about my business, flitting the duster about, keeping an eye out for nooks and crannies where a lady might hide her jewels. It was then I spied the glitter of gold in an ornate box tucked in the corner of a closet. The lid was askew to reveal its shiny contents. I checked for the hell child before grabbing up the container. Rifling through it, I picked out a beautiful gold chain with a diamond pendant and held it up to glimmer in the light. It could be months before they missed it.

"What are you doing with my mother's jewelry?" The child stood in the doorway, her face set in stone.

"Just admiring it," I murmured.

"Like hell."

"You know, hasn't anyone ever taught you to respect your elders?"

"I do. But not you. Cold day in hell before I kiss a maid's ass."

I lunged at her. She jumped out of the way, and I landed face first on the floor. The jewelry box I'd been clutching smashed down with me, sending necklaces and rings gliding across the shiny floor in all directions. A movement in the doorway revealed her mother. I needed to think quick.

"Mrs. Hempstead, I caught Claire trying to take some of your jewelry. When I attempted to stop her, well, you see what happened." I nodded to her precious gems all over the place.

"I was not!! THE MAID WAS THE ONE STEALING!"

Mrs. H. stood, foot tapping, thinking. "Claire, you are a bad little girl. I've told you never to touch my jewels. And now, you've practically become a thief. I knew it was only a matter of time...Off to boarding school with you!"

They hauled Claire out of the room, squealing and wailing.

"I'll clean this up," I said.

"Thank you. Please be sure to find all the jewelry and put it back safe and sound."

As she left, I picked up the gold chain necklace with a diamond pendant...and slipped it in my pocket. I love beautiful trinkets. I want things, you know.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Chess Set

It was lonely. Only he and the king on a sea of checkered squares, red and black as far as the eye could see, stretching out in a dizzying array. Beyond that ghostly figures hovered, just beyond his control, waiting to pounce. To pounce and snatch him away to horrors unknown. Where did his comrades go when captured? He didn't know. They simply disappeared. The little white pawn missed his friend, the bishop, who was advising him on the rigors of war before this frantic altercation started. Then the blast of lighters in the sky and the slosh of red wine rivers started the mad dash of pieces in all directions. The bishop was taken with the rest; even the lovely queen was gone. The king remained at the rear, shuffling from square to square, seemingly traumatized by the events.

First his buddy to the right was taken, then the soldier to his left, both captured in a frightening display of monster machinery, a giant hairy scoop that whisked them up and away with agility to marvel at, no matter what counter-maneuvers they tried. Now he stood alone with the king and the enemy closing in. He could see the black army coming closer.

"Hey, a-hole! We're coming to get you!"

It was a voice in the darkness. A shadowy figure emerged three squares away, sliding into place with ease and grace. The black rook glared at him, an anger of war in his eyes, his parapets rattling, a well-honed war machine, reveling in the dance.

"Never!" the little pawn replied. "You'll never take me alive!"

"You're not alive, you twit! You live only in the imagination!"

The pawn took pause. "Whose imagination?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. That's like asking who God is, you know. It might be the players' imaginations or it might be the wacky mind of the writer of this piece."

"Wow, that's deep."

"Word. But hey, I didn't mean to get all existential on you...whoa, do you smell cigar smoke?"

That was when the little pawn relaxed his guard, nose extended sniffing the air, as the giant hairy machine propelled a knight through the smoky haze and scooped the little fellow away. And what happened to the little pawn next? Well, I'll leave that to your imagination.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

To Soar the Seas

On Deck - Painting by Charles Sims

She was a bright, cheerful child, wise beyond her years. Intelligence shined a light in her eyes and added a smile, all mellowed by adult perceptions, this in a girl twelve years old. She stood on deck that afternoon, her hand grasping the rail as the ship rocked and she studied me.

"You're old," she said, a tiny pout accentuating the remark.

"Well, in a manner of speaking, I suppose--compared to you, at least."

"I'm older than my brother. He's four." She paused again, her eyes traveling across my face to rest on my gray, shaggy beard. "You've got gray hair," she observed.

"So?"

"Aren't you too old to be captain of this ship?"

"Of course not! Ships' captains are always gray, and wise I might add, from our years of experience on the sea."

"What do you mean?" She moved closer, curiosity filling those remarkable eyes.

"Well, we stand on deck and study the stars while all is dark and quiet. We breathe in the aura and magic of the sea, listening to the waves splash against the sides of the boat. The sea can't help but tell us its secrets."

"What secrets?"

"Well, if I told you, they wouldn't be secrets, now would they?"

"If I listen, will the sea tell me?"

Before I could answer, her mother appeared on deck rushing to her daughter while wringing her hands.

"Becky, what are you doing up here?"

She grabbed the girl and pulled her away. "So sorry, Captain! I hope she wasn't a bother!"

"I don't want to go!" the girl whined.

"Young ladies don't belong up on deck in the middle of the night." The woman shot me an awkward smile and proceeded to drag her girl away. Becky gave me a sad look. She had no choice but to leave the sea and its secrets behind and go below.

"Landlubbers," I murmured, turning and leaning against the rail. "They have no idea of the magic." As I spied a shooting star soaring across the inky black sky, I grasped a premonition of that girl decades from now, captaining her own ship, her hair as gray as mine, but her soul even more inspired...in a time when women were, indeed, finally free...to captain their destinies and soar the seas.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Beacon in the Night

Corner of the Table by Paul Chabas

Beacon in the Night

Look at her! That shameful black dress with one strap, both bare shoulders exposed. And she's pinned one lonely pink orchid on her bosom, like a beacon in the night drawing attention to her breasts. Look how she leans forward to expose them.

She poses attentively, supposedly enamored with that man's company. Honestly, these old grey-bearded fellows wouldn't know what to do with her. But she certainly knows what she wants to do with them!

"Emma, wouldn't you agree?"

Oh, what did she say? "I'm sorry, dear. My attention wandered..."

"I asked you if you didn't agree the banquet was going very well."

"Of course!" I reply, lifting my glass for a sip, mindful not to spill even a drop of red wine on my with white lace gown even though my hand trembles. Going well? I'm not sure if we are making money for our orphans' charity, but certainly that gold-digger of a tart is having a good night.

"Well, Charles...I mean, Mr. Forsythe, and I have an announcement to make." She nods to that gentleman, who had her attention all evening. He rises, lifting himself supported by a cane he keeps latched on the table.

"Ahem, well, Ladies and Gentlemen!" he says, turning to launch a feeble smile all around the room. "Miss Bancroft has graciously accepted my proposal for marriage. I have asked for her hand, and she has accepted."

The whore! She's caught herself a millionaire! "Miss Bancroft, may I have a word," I murmur, nodding to the old geezer next to me to help with my chair. "...in the other room."

Startled and fumbling, she rises and follows, I, myself. already being halfway to the cloak room. I spin on my heel and confront her as soon as she closes the door behind us.

"I was just wondering," I say. "May I borrow your pink flower?"

Without a word, she takes it off and hands it to me. I pin it to my gown and pause to admire the effect. It droops the fabric low, exposing my cleavage. Perfect! I nod to her to go.

Smiling, I head back to the banquet. Time to catch me a millionaire!

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Water Sports

Boating on the Seine by Ferdinand Heilbuth

She rowed while he brooded. Lifting an oar and splashing it through the water, Mary Beth wondered why she had ever agreed to this excursion on Placid Lake. A white swan glided by. Perhaps even the bird viewed her with disdain, what with its head held high in a haughty inclination.

The day was hot, yet cloudy, not a breeze to be had. The stillness made her stir-crazy. It was as if they were stuck in a jar and nothing existed beyond the waters on which the canoe floated. Just her and him in a capsule.

She splashed the oars again and the canoe budged a few inches. With her rowing, they would never get back.

"Can't you move any faster?" The expression of discontent on his face worsened. "I'd like to get back in time for supper."

"Bradford, I'm doing the best I can." She dipped the oars in again and pushed them through the water. Her arms ached from an afternoon of this torture. Her face and hands burned from sun exposure. She watched as he moved the rug under him to keep his sparkling white trousers dry. A glance to her frock revealed the full blossoming skirt was drenched from water splashed by the oars.

The damned swan came back again. She considered swatting it with the oar, but Brad would be outraged. So why not? So what if he got outraged? She took a hearty swing and sent the bird flying in a crazy cacophony of squeals and scattering feathers. It set Mary Beth roaring in laughter.

Brad bolted up in the boat in alarm, sending the canoe rocking side to side with water splashing in. Mary Beth held on for dear life as he lowered himself in slow motion to sit once again. Four inches of water now swished in the bottom of the boat, thanks to his raucous action.

"See what you've made me do? Now my feet will get wet!" He grunted and pulled the rug up under his trousers more to keep the seat dry.

Mary Beth studied the boat grime stains on her skirt. Skittles of black grit danced between the eyelets of its fancy lace trim. It was her favorite dress. She lifted her eyes to spy Brad's silly hat, a three-cornered preponderance popular at the time. Black and weighty, it must have been very warm to wear on such a stuffy day. She took the oar and with a deft motion swiped the hat off his head and sent it flying across the lake.

"My hat! Mary Beth, are you mad? Paddle over there so you can get it."

"No."

"No? Now look here! You're my wife. You'll do as I say!"

"No, I won't."

His face flushed a vibrant red as beads of sweat collected on his forehead mixing with leftover splashes from the dripping oar. He eyed the hat with worry.

"Mary Beth, that's my favorite hat. I demand you row us over there so you can fetch it before it sinks."

Mary Beth studied him, her eyes turning to stone. He waited, a stubborn expression steeling his face. She hated that look. It was childish, like a little boy about to hold his breath until he got what he wanted. That's all he was, a little boy. Why should she let a child push her around? With that cold rationalization, she raised the oar and aimed at his chest. With all her might she jabbed it at him, knocking the fellow helter-skelter, arms flying, until finally with a girlish scream he fell over the side of the canoe splashing into the water.

"MARY BETH!" he roared, his arms flapping.

"Brad, dear, while you're in the water...your hat...get it yourself!"

That said, Mary Beth rowed. She rowed as fast as she could to get away, until finally Bradford was just a dot in the water behind her. She left him there...for good, and do you know what? She never looked back.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

My Girl Katie, Pt. 2

The next time I saw Mr. McBride, I didn't recognize him at first. The clean-cut fellow sitting across from me at Clancy's Bar might have been a salesman or a well-to-do retired gentlemen. Hair neatly trimmed and combed, a fresh yellow shirt smiled beneath a neat, brown sweater--it was only when he spoke I recognized his voice.

"More ginger-ale when you have a chance, Chuck." He slid an empty glass toward the barkeep.

"Here you go, Jack." The bartender slid a fresh supply his way.

Curiosity got the better of me and I moved over close. "Hi, Mr. McBride," I said. He glanced my way with a puzzled expression.

"We talked a few months ago here in the bar," I explained.

"Oh, no wonder I don't remember you. I was doing a bit of drinking back then."

"You were a little tipsy." I took a long sip of my beer. "Have you spoken to your daughter lately?"

His hand slipped on the glass. He shot me a glance. "You know my daughter?"

"I know her a little. You mentioned Kate before."

"Well, if I spoke about her before, then you probably already know she never speaks to me." He drained his glass and slammed it down, followed by a carbonated belch.

"Well, I was thinking maybe things had changed."

"Yeah, well, it hasn't. I sobered up, got cleaned up. I went to her place and knocked on the door, and she wouldn't open it. I felt like an asshole standing there in the hallway, She was yelling at me from behind the door. Her neighbors started poking their heads out, gawking at me. I had to get out of there. I don't know what she wants."

"I see." I wondered what Kate McBride wanted, too. I watched as Jack McBride ordered a double Irish whiskey.


Several months later, I read Jack McBride's obituary. Funny how you can feel pangs of sorrow for someone you barely knew. The man touched me. His loneliness, his disappointment--he wore it like a penitent's burlap sack. The daughter who wouldn't speak to him reduced the man to nothing.

Not long after, I ran into Kate at a party. Well, to be honest, I went looking for her. I knew she'd be there. I wanted to know what made that girl tick. Surrounded by admirers, I found her mesmerizing a crowd, discussing a fine point of law one minute and flirting with feckless first year law students the next. In the back of my mind a thought nagged that I was one of those feckless youths endeared by her charms once.

When the crowd thinned, I approached. Her glittering eyes blinded me, but I pressed on. I had questions.

"Jim! How are you?"

Her sultry smile ran circles around my heart. That's what I always loved about her. She was smart and damned sexy, too.

"Kate, you're looking fabulous."

"I thought you hated parties."

She had a good memory. It was a gripe of mine when we went out. I'm a stay at home kind of guy.

"Well, I made an exception tonight. Actually, I heard you might be here."

Her surprised expression threw me off balance. I'd made it look like I was stalking her. I hurried to explain myself.

"I wanted to talk to you about something...someone." Ever since I'd read the obituary, that man's haunted eyes kept coming into my head, the eyes that glared at me in the bar when he spoke of his daughter. She waited, expecting me to explain.

"I met your father."

Her eyes widened. Then she looked away. "That's impossible."

"I came to know him at Clancy's Bar. I know he died a couple months ago, He told me a lot about how proud he was of you."

Her face hardened. "That was bull. He wasn't proud of me; he couldn't even stand me." She blinked and wavered on her feet. I helped her to a chair.

"Are you all right?"

"It's just the heat in here. Could you get me some water?" She placed her wine glass on a table and leaned back. I dashed off and returned with water to find her resting comfortably.

"Here, darling," I said, offering the glass.

She smiled at my endearing phrase and accepted the drink. "You may as well have my wine. No more drinking for me tonight."

Gratefully, I washed it down as our eyes met. Hers reached at me in curiosity and mine glared her way, simply adoring her. The spell burst as I remembered the purpose of my visit, to find out why she hated her father so. She smiled at me knowingly.

"Jim, dear, my father didn't merely pass on. I was with him when he died... I poisoned his tea.

She watched as I fell backward in alarm.

"Oh, and Jim, dear, I also poisoned that wine you just drank."

I choked and fell to my knees. My last vision was Kate's disarming smile.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Part One can be read here.

My Girl Katie

My Girl Katie

It wasn't my habit to drink after class. But my calculus mid-term was a ball buster. I slammed my books on the bar and demanded a draft. Sloshing it down, I was wiping the foam from my mustache when I spied him sitting at the end of the bar slouched over a mug of brew, eyes half closed, ready to nod off. Spotting me, he perked up.

Grabbing his mug with one filthy hand and gliding the other along the bar for balance, the guy stumbled over. Wonderful! As he crashed into the seat next to me, a whiff of body odor and stale beer filled my nostrils. I couldn't tell if his jacket was camouflage or simply olive with splotches of colorful grime decorating it. His bird's nest hair was black sprinkled with gray, longer than it should be if he never intended to comb it. The lines of his face dragged down. I wondered if he had a perpetually sad face or if the alcohol made it droop. Perhaps both.

"Well, look at you!" he said, eyeing my textbooks, his words drenched in sarcasm. "So you go to the university." A dissatisfied grunt ended the remark. I didn't answer, so he spoke again. "My daughter goes to the university."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah." He took a long gulp, then slammed the mug down. His eyes, tragic and pleading, met mine. "I haven't seen her for ages. She never calls just to say hello. You know, a little friendly conversation."

Small wonder, I thought.

"Do you know what she gives me for Father's Day every year?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

"Nothing. No card. Nothing. She doesn't even call." He belched. "You can forget Christmas, too. Shit! Ain't seen her in years." His head drooped, and in the ensuing silence, I wondered if he'd dozed off.

The bartender appeared. "Hey, McBride! You want a refill?"

His head rose. "You bet I want a refill."

I was still thinking about the name, McBride. "Say, Mister, is your daughter's name Katie?"

A smile spread across his face. "Yes sir! That's my girl."

Katie McBride, the most brilliant and popular student I knew. A true success story if ever I'd seen one, destined to be a lawyer to be reckoned with. Everyone knew Katie McBride, a legend in the making. I dated her once, and when I asked about her family, she said she had none.

"Do you know her? Could you tell her to call her old man once in a while?" When I didn't answer, he scowled. "Ah, you're right. She's better off without me."

Maybe so, old-timer. I don't know.
...Part Two

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

White Lace and Top Hats

Dinner at Les Ambassadeurs by Jean Beraud

Why did I marry her? I watched as the red liquid gushed from the goblet in a blasting torrent down her throat. A few drops, fleeing the glass in utter despair, took flight ultimately to land on the bodice of her white lace gown. Such abomination! I bought her the frock especially for this special dinner at Les Ambassadeurs, the annual awards dinner for my men's club. I wanted my new wife to look respectable. Ha!

I also bought her that beautiful hat. Now it rested askew on her head, knocked about when she threw her arms around yelling at me moments ago.

"Why can't we go to the cabaret?" she'd screamed. "I'm bored"

I grabbed her hand and rubbed it in soft soothing motions. Why I would treat her so humanely is beyond me. She deserved to be smacked about like the tart that she was. In recent months I tried everything within my means to refine her, and this boisterous outrage was the result.

"James, I see you have arrived with your...ahem, lovely wife." It was Harold, an associate from my job at the bank, hovering over our table like an ominous monster.

"Ah, good evening, James. Yes, we have arrived." I smiled faintly and caste a doubtful glance at my wife who had poured herself another glass, emptying the bottle of Cabernet.

Harold leaned close to whisper to me. "James, don't you think you should take her home before she embarrasses you?"

His remark slapped me in the face. Indeed, my cheeks burned red.

A tiny sob issuing across the table broke my stunned silence. I glanced over and saw the hurt in my wife's eyes. She'd heard him, and now, even in her drunken stupor, felt ashamed. Her pain struck my heart. Big brown eyes pleaded with me to defend her, the eyes I'd fallen in love with months ago. My heart danced in my chest and my soul reverberated with the youthful exuberance she so well inspired. I pushed Harold away.

"Certainly not," I replied. "In fact, I believe we'll have another bottle of wine."

We had great fun that evening, she and I. But we were never invited to another formal function. But that's all right, really. We're much too busy dancing nightly at the cabaret.

©2008 JO Janoski

Christmas Visit

Twilight in Gloucester by Paul Cornoyer

My carriage rattled down the old city street at a snail's pace. There was no hurry, really. I'd been to a Christmas party at my employer's, the usual raucous affair -- turkey with trimmings, fiddlers playing, and wild dancing. Wine ran like water, but I chose not to imbibe. I am a simple man who enjoys his pleasures, but the silliness of drunkenness is not one of them. There was flirting and laughter, but I kept to the sides biding my time until I could take a carriage home. Such is my life these days, somber, quiet, alone.

I studied lavish homes as we journeyed down the long main street. The swish of the carriage wheels in the snow blended well with the gentle falling flakes I spied out the windows. So peaceful, so much better than that noisy party. Nature is like my religion, really. I take great comfort in its varied manifestations, all of which make me feel part of a greater whole, just one work of art in a colossal masterpiece.

I turned, and she was there, sitting next to me.

"Hello, James!" Her bright eyes twinkled a warm welcome.

"Rose. It's you again."

"Of course, darling. I love being with you."

"I'm certain there are other places you need to be." I felt my heart two-stepping in my chest. My hands, moist and clammy.

"James, it's Christmas eve. I want to spend it with you." She cast me a sidelong glance, her sweet red lips parted in a pretty smile.

I felt aroused. I missed my lovely angel, but at least she came to visit on occasion.

"Haven't we always spent Christmas eve together?" she asked.

Truth be told, I wasn't certain. I had no memory of it, but certainly we must have. She'd been gone for such a long time. I remembered the sensual information...her smile, her touch, the way her lips tasted...but dates and times--they were just too long ago. Her visits with me were hasty and at unexpected times, warm and loving, but flighty and never to the end of an evening. My love was like a tiny bird flitting into my life and out again. The carriage stopped.

"I must go, my dear!" She said it in a soft whisper that wrapped around me and caressed my very being like a kiss. And she was gone...

In the pouring snow, the old woman reached out for assistance. Rose accepted the gloved hand of the driver, moving her old bones as gracefully as she could, dismounting the carriage with great care. Eighty years of life slows a person.

The driver noted her sweet smile. "Miss Rose, your ghost came to visit again. I see by your happy expression."

"Yes, Wilford, he came. Just as he always does...every Christmas eve. It wouldn't be the holiday without him."

Down to the Wire

Down to the Wire by Trish Biddle

Just a little fun for Christmas, taking one of the older prompts and writing a Christmas story for it. Reach the original here.

"Darling, we really should gather up our coats and woolies and head back east for the holiday." Mitzi made the remark as she took another sip of wine and watched her horse, Black Lightning, speed by. The track was hot and sunny, a warm day for December in California, a day riddled with excitement as the horses pounded their way to the finish.

"GO! Black Lightning, go!" her companion, Trudy, bellowed as both women clutched the rail with white knuckles showing, wine glasses tossed aside, and their wide-brimmed hats knocked crooked on their heads.

"GO-O-O-O, BLACKIE, GO-O-O-O!" they screamed, only to fall back in dismay as Black Lightning stumbled and fell off to the side while his nemesis, Brenda's Baby, took the lead. That horse passed the finish line to cheers of adoring fans. Amidst the rumble of applause, Mitzi and Trudy sat back in a pool of grief.

"Well, now we're out of money. I guess we have no choice but to head back east for Christmas," Mitzi murmured.

"Yeah, but we'd have to apologize to a lot of people back there."

"Oh yeah!" Mitzi blushed. "My little incident with your cousin, Tony... I wonder if he ever got over it."

Trudy glared back. "I doubt it, Mitzi, he was only twelve years old at the time!"

"Yeah, I shouldn't have. But what about the time you posed for those nude pictures?"

"The firemen told me I was posing for a charity calendar!"

Mitzi chuckled. "You enjoyed it."

"YEAH," Trudy gushed. "You know, if we go back east, they're going to make us stay there 'for our own good,' and we're going to have to bow down to a lot of people and behave ourselves."

"No more fun. No more going to the track."

"Yeah, we'll have to get day jobs and open savings accounts and save our money for the future...like other people." The last few words left Trudy gasping for breath.

"You know...I've got a couple bucks left. We could bet on the next race, and maybe we'll get lucky."

"It's either that or write to mother for plane tickets."

"If we win today, they're having extra races Christmas week. We could come back and win some more."

"Right." Trudy sighed. An inspired smile brightened her face, as she bolted off at a gallop toward the betting windows, blaring out a Christmas carol, "Gawd rest ye merry ponies, run!"

"Let get out there and play!" Mitzi caroled back chasing Trudy in hot pursuit. They never did go back east, ever again.

Copyright 2007 JO Janoski

A Proper Christmas

A Friendly Visit by William Merritt Chase

For a Workshop Challenge to write a Christmas story for this painting.

A Proper Christmas

"My dear, there's been talk." Mrs. Willows looked like a heavenly apparition in her dazzling white outfit, complete with fake flowers on her bonnet and lacy frills, right down to her spotless parasol which she tapped on the floor to emphasize each syllable.

"There's been talk of this rooming house, your unsavory clientele, the filth." At the word filth, she turned her nose up at the dusty table tops and grimy pillows scattered across the floor. "And the blood stains," she added. "There are blood stains on your floor, and you offer no explanation for it."

The other woman said nothing.

Mrs. Willows again. "There have been people missing around town. People who used to board here, people who walked through your doors and never came out again."

Still nothing.

"Really, Miss Peoples, you must have some explanation." With that, Mrs. Willows sat back, waiting to listen.

The other woman shook her head as though to wake herself. She looked to Mrs. Willows, surprised to see her as though it were the first time. "Christmas is coming," she murmured. "I must get ready for Christmas."

"Christmas!" Mrs. Willows said. "Really, Miss Peoples, do you honestly consider yourself a good Christian?"

"A Christian? Yes, I consider myself a good Christian. Do you consider yourself one?"

"Well, really! Of course. I'm a pillar of the community."

"Well, as a 'pillar' of the community, I feel it is my duty to inform you the blood stains on my floor are from a wounded Negro I helped. He arrived here beaten by some of your other 'pillars,' and I nursed him back to health. The other 'unsavory' characters who disappear after coming through my doors are the unwanted poor and homeless you people cast aside. You kick them out of the alleys, chase them out of the taverns, and push them from the churches, because they wear ragged clothes or they smell bad. They come to me and I nurture them, feed them, and find them homes away from here. Far away from here..."

"Well, perhaps you are no better than the renegades with whom you commiserate."

Miss Peoples glared back. "Mrs. Willows, the one thing I'm certain of is that those 'renegades' are Christians. As for yourself, I'm not so sure."

"How dare you?"

"Get out of my house. I have to get ready for Christmas. There is food to cook for them, and tiny gifts to assemble, anything to brighten their wretched lives. Go home to your perfect house and your perfect family, clean and white, yet empty and clueless. Go home and wash your hands of the poor and homeless. But by all means, enjoy your holiday.

Mrs. Willows left in a huff. She had a house full of guests to tend to, and she needed to check with cook and make sure dinner preparations were in order. She'd be showing her family a proper Christmas. Yes, a proper Christmas, indeed!

Copyright 2007 JO Janoski

Chain Fiction - New Post

Stop by and enjoy my next chapter at Chain Fiction, where I'm writing a story with another writer. Here is a snippet of my latest chapter:

Janey studied the sorrowful lump of a man. He certainly didn't seem as dangerous now as when he dragged her screaming from her home. Now he was small, wounded, defenseless, defenseless like her. She relaxed. "Could I ask you something? Why did you kidnap me?"

In the dim light his body went rigid. "It was all about your dear hubby, lady. I needed to control your dear hubby."

"Why?"

"He was getting too close. That's all. He was getting too close."

She and Bud never thought his work would put his family in danger. A medical examiner normally doesn't delve into the violent side of police work. But then, Bud was no normal medical examiner. "Did you commit a crime?"

"YEAH, I COMMITTED A CRIME! Now back off!"

"It must have been a terrible crime. I'm just saying, kidnapping me was an extreme act."

He bolted up. "Are you trying to make me insane?" Read more...

The Painter (The Yellow Blouse)

This is the second part of a writing challenge to interpret this painting with both a poem and a story.
Please see the poem for the first part.

The Painter

The Yellow Blouse, part 2

She's posing for me. The love of my life, tightened lips, eyes that turn away from my gaze. Does she find me abhorrent? Her mother insisted... insisted on this portrait. For I, lame troglodyte that I am, could never have summoned the courage to ask her to sit for me.

I'm just a simple man, an artist, but I have gazed upon her beauty all my life, since we were mere children playing together on the streets of this little village. Even as a child, she was sprightly and determined. And I, poor soul that I am, laid back in fear of her awesome light. Indeed, as young people, she was known to bully me a bit.

And then, we grew older, and her attention waned. When I entered a room, she bustled away, averting her gaze as though I came bearing the plague as an unwelcome gift. Soon I found her disregard cut me to the quick as I moped away in sorry rejection. I never had the courage to act on my love, so I deserved the disdain of her avoidance.

She looks so lovely today in her yellow blouse. It hangs over her sweet bosom in folds of beauty like an angel. Ah, and the cross reminds my lustful cravings to retreat and heed her virtue. Alas, I shall never have my precious. I cannot even keep the painting, as I must deliver it to her mother forthwith. I shall never possess even the slightest trinket of her being.

Verily, I don't believe I can survive this life with such agony in my heart. Today, I shall gather my paints, present the canvas to her mother, nod goodbye to that lady and her sister, with nary a glance at my love. I shall go home and retrieve the revolver from my desk drawer...and end this wretched sadness forever.

Copyright 2007 JO Janoski