Hector Running Wolf and Billy Youngston

dontravis.com blog post #366

  

A Running Wolf -
Courtesy of Free Images

Wow! Got a lot of hits on The Voxlightner Scandal last week. Hope every one of them buys a copy of the book.

This week, a piece of flash fiction by my fellow Oklahoman Mark Wildyr caught my eye. It’s short and pithy and gets its point across in a hurry… which is the object of such short-short pieces. At any rate, it’s something he posted on his web site in July of 2016. He’s given me permission to post it on my site.

Here goes. Hope you enjoy the read.

*****

HECTOR RUNNING WOLF AND BILLY YOUNGSTON

By Mark Wildyr

“Billy?”

“Huh?”

“You wanna do it?”

My back went cold from goosebumps while my groin caught fire. We were out in the woods at the old lean-to we’d made back when we were kids. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about what he was saying. Not by a long shot. But Hector was a coyote, which was a trickster in his culture. Sometimes he’d come out with these outlandish suggestions and then make a joke of them. Mostly they were for fun, but sometimes they bit.

I didn’t even know why we were best friends. Sons of a white farmer and a Creek carpenter, we were an unlikely pair. White sugar and red pepper, my mom used to say with a shake of her head. But friends we were, ever since we’d laid eyes on one another in middle school five years back.

I remember the first time we went skinny dipping together the summer after we met. We came out of the water with him examining me like I was a mule he was intent on buying, while I snatched furtive glimpses of his equipment. That pretty well summed up the difference between us.

As time went by, our friendship strengthened. On my part, it was almost exclusive, but he was lots more social than I was. I admit to being jealous of his other friends. Seemed like they shared lots more with him than I did. Of course, they did… an entire culture. But it gradually dawned on me that I got more of his time than any of the others. Shoot, than all the others, and that was what counted.

I didn’t know if half a minute or half an hour had passed since he asked his question, but I answered it anyway.

“Don’t make no difference to me one way or the other.”

The air seemed charged with electricity like when a storm’s approaching. The surrounding pines dropped their sharp scent on us like it was a tangible thing. I grew aware of strange things. The toes in my boots. A beetle crawling over the back of my right hand. A squirrel fussing from the oak tree overhead. And the long, lanky form of Hector Running Wolf lying beside me.

The world turned normal again as disappointment rose within me. I took a breath and tried to relax my taunt nerves.

And then he reached for me.

*****

I wonder what they did? Was it fumbling kid’s stuff? Or did Hector Running Wolf turn it into a real experience for Billy Youngston. Mark’s story allows you to finish it according to your own fantasy. Have at it!

The following are buy links for The Voxlightner Scandal.

Dreamspinner: https://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/books/the-voxlightner-scandal-by-don-travis-11285-b

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-voxlightner-scandal-by-don-travis-537-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Voxlightner-Scandal-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B07VL33P99

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-voxlightner-scandal-don-travis/1132632844?ean=9781640809260

iBooks: https://books.apple.com/ca/book/the-voxlightner-scandal/id1473985039?mt=11&ign-mpt=uo%3D4

Google: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=H3ilDwAAQBAJ

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/the-voxlightner-scandal

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/u/4AxPDo

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE THAT ONE.)

                                                                                                    

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:

https://www.dsppublications.com/books/abaddons-locusts-by-don-travis-486-b

https://www.dsppublications.com/books/abaddons-locusts-by-don-travis-487-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Abaddons-Locusts-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B07JLHKJLY

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/abaddons-locusts/id1439968525

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/abaddon-s-locusts

Google: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=R0Z0DwAAQBAJ

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/abaddons-locusts-don-travis/1129769593

See you next week.

Don

Irving, Zelda, and Horace

I failed to make a fool of myself this week (at least that I’m aware of), so it’s time to go back to using the imagination a little. The result is some flash fiction.

*****

IRVING, ZELDA, AND HORACE

Irving liked Zelda. Zelda liked Horace Hastings Miffin. Horace Hastings Miffin liked Horace Hastings Miffin.

At least that’s the way things seemed to me when I met the trio of UNM underclassmen at The Bongo. The Friday night crowd, mostly kids from the U, carpeted the place wall-to-wall. Brew in hand, I plowed through the hubbub, punctuated occasionally by laughter and a strident voice, in search of a seat. The only unoccupied chair I spotted was the extra one at their table. After asking permission, I sat down. My fingers on the cool, glossy Formica tabletop contrasted pleasantly with the warm humidity of the tavern.

The lay of the land became clear during introductions when everyone stuck to first names except for Horace who gave all three of his. When people do that, I wrack my brain trying to figure out if they’re someone I ought to remember or if they’re just striving too hard to be memorable. Within three sips of my beer, I knew Irving was Zelda-struck, Zelda was Horace-struck, and Horace was struck by all three of his appellations.

They were a squirrely bunch—squirrely-looking and acting. But somehow they fascinated me. Irv wore ragged dungarees—not the kind with expensive, deliberately placed holes—while Zelda wore a peasant blouse and skirt, probably from Gap rather than Wal Mart. Horace Hastings Miffin was all buttoned up.

Unwilling to put up with all that malarkey, I told him to his face he was gonna be HHM to me. I got the feeling he kind of liked that. Put him up there with MM and JFK and luminaries of that ilk. Little did he know that in my mind he was already relegated to a hhm… you know, a hum.

While I was sipping and absorbing the atmosphere, Irv asked Zelda to dance. She shook her head and claimed Hum had already asked her. From the look on his face, that was patently untrue, but he manfully rose to his feet and assumed a robot-like stance while she fitted herself into his outstretched arms. Then they were off like two wind-up toys. Old Irv’s eyes followed their every step.

“Where you from?” I asked through the lingering residue of Zelda’s perfume. Or maybe it was Hum’s cologne.

Huh? What? Umm…Clayton.”

I savored the flavor of yeast and hops and alcohol on my tongue with another draw on my brew before prying facts from him while he watched Zelda. “What year you in?”

“Huh? Uh, sophomore.”

“Major?”

“What? Oh, liberal arts.”

I mentally rolled my eyes. “Zelda your girlfriend?”

“Huh?” Then he snapped to my question. “Oh, no… well.”

“But you’d like it that way, right?”

His ears lit up our semi dark corner of the club. I expected him to say “aw shucks,” but he fooled me. “Wouldn’t mind. But she’s pretty independent.”

“Independently stuck on old Horace, I’d say.”

“Naw, that’s just…. Well, maybe.”

“You gotta be more aggressive, guy. You want her, go after her. Cut in on the two of them. Right now would be a good time.”

“I couldn’t do that.” He paused for a long moment to scratch the tip of his nose. “You think I could?”

“I could, if I wanted to. Which I don’t. So can you.”

“I can, can’t I?”

“First, you have to stand up. Then charge.”

By the time he managed to get to his feet, the song was half over. “Robin’s Egg Blue” by Kenny Keeback and the Four Kennies. Too much alliteration for me. He made his uncertain way to the couple but hesitated before making his presence known by tapping her on the shoulder. Her not him. Fortunately, no one took that as a sign he wanted to dance with Hum. The couple parted—he rather eagerly, she less so. As Irv awkwardly shuffled across the floor with a pouting Zelda in his clutches, Hum made his way back to the table.

He sat and fixed me with a stare as a wide grin split his fleshy lips.  “Thank God, Robert.” He winked. “Now we can have some time together… alone. It is Robert, isn’t it?”

“Bob,” I corrected automatically as an old Jimmy Durante expression my father used to quote flashed through my head.

What a revoltin’ development this is!

*****

Hope you got a giggle or two out of this story… or perhaps a memory or two. Feel free to contact me at dontravis21@gmail.com. Oh yes…thanks for being readers.

New Posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Judas

Had a couple of positive comments on the two flash fiction pieces, so thought I’d give it another try. Hope you like it.

###

The little dog was one of them butterfly beasts. A Papillion, or something like that. Cute little tyke. Mostly white with black markings. Long snout, perky ears, and a bark somewhere between a yip and a yap.

“Hello, guy.”

He turned and trotted off toward the woods before halting and facing me again. When I hadn’t budged, he dashed back to yip/yap in earnest. I’d have sworn the fur ball wanted me to follow him. Maybe I oughta steal the bugger. Expensive dogs from what I’d heard.

Nah, I was a bad-ass, not a dognapper. The little guy led me across the barrow ditch and disappeared into the trees. I paused a moment before following. Wasn’t any problem locating him; he kept up a constant yammer, like he wanted me to hurry.

I pushed my way through a thick clump of mulberry bushes into a small glade and found him standing beside a body. The mutt’s bug eyes seemed to plead for help.

“Whata we got here?” I knelt beside a young man lying face down, his left hand flung out. A big ruby set in yellow gold on his ring finger caught my eye. His other arm was beneath him. “You okay, fella?”

I wasn’t much interested in his answer because dead or alive, I was gonna have that ring. I poked the shoulder of his soft suede jacket. Expensive. This guy might be a treasure trove.

Catching me by surprise, he rolled over onto his side, exposing a black revolver hidden beneath him. “Just stay nice and still.”

The good-looking guy with a pleasant voice got to his feet. He shoulda been playing soccer on the other side of the big park, not waylaying suckers in the wooded section. A trickle of sweat rolled down my left side, but it was excitement … not fear. Amateurs. This guy had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

 

“Take it easy, fella. You got no trouble from me. But I ain’t got nothing worth stealing. You picked the wrong mark this time.”

The kid waggled the revolver. “It’s not a robbery, man.”

I frowned. Maybe I oughta be worried. “Damned good imitation. I like the way your dog brought me to you.”

The bastard’s smile got even bigger. “Neato, huh? Took a year to train him. He helps me get my kicks. My thrills.”

My eyebrows climbed like I was scared. “No, man. I … I got a family. Wait, let me get my wallet. I got something in it you’ll like.”

With my left hand stretched in front of me as if to ward off a bullet, I slowly reached behind me. But it wasn’t a wallet I whipped out. It was my trim little .25 semi-automatic. It barked twice, and two spots appeared in the middle of that fine suede jacket. Crap. It was ruined.

The kid’s mouth gaped. His eyes went round like he couldn’t believe it. Then they went as dead as the rest of him. I went over to slip that ruby off his finger and check my marksmanship. Two heart shots. Had to be with a little .25, else he’d be able to yank the trigger on that big cannon.

A whine drew my attention to the dog at my feet. Maybe I oughta take him along to lure suckers for me. I examined the tag on his collar. JUDAS. A hell of a name for the little guy.

I heard a strangled gasp and whirled. The kid stood with two cups of coffee in  one hand and a big six-shooter in the other. No, that wasn’t right. The yokel lay sprawled on the ground, still dead. But there he was, standing wild-eyed and pointing a revolver at me.

“You killed my brother to steal his dog?”

I raised my .25 … but I didn’t manage to get off a shot.

###

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone. Please take time to check out some of the other pages on this site and let me know how my flash fiction hits you.

Thanks,

Don

 

Next week: Depends on how industrious I feel.

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.