YELLOW BRICK WALL - A very, very short story.

https://www.booksie.com/597968-yellow-brick-road

I've just written a  short story for a contest. Check it out and let me know if it is worthy or not. Please like or better yet, leave a comment at the contest link listed above. Cheers, eh!

WELCOME BACK THE MESSENGER

          I woke up this morning to the sound of a skeeter about to dive bomb me and sink its proboscis into my wrinkly flesh, which made me crankier and meaner than a gut shot grizzly bear with two sucking cubs. Instead of blaring air-raid alarms and bright spotlights on the ceiling, I reached for the flyswatter lying next to the bed. Ah, ha I thought, gonna get you now, you blood-suckin' flying insect. Madly flailing the air around me until my arms tuckered out, I'm not sure if I was relieved or not, when I finally realized the noise I was hearing wasn't a mosquito but my ringing ears. Like my eyes and the rest of this tired old body, I guess they're plumb wore out too.
          Life here on our 50 acres of semi-wilderness land, where often is seen a deer, a moose, a bear or a lot of other forest creatures in the back yard, saddens me when I think about our government in New Brunswick headed by an Irving bean-counter. Their combined dinosaur brain attitudes is destroying the very earth we're standing on. Spraying the forests with poisonous glyphosate kills not only trees but kills everything else that lives within and outside those areas. It flows into the streams, rivers, lakes and even the ocean. 
          I dread going to Saint John, not because of my cancer treatments but because it's quite possibly one of the most disgusting smog-filled cities I've ever been in - the pollution is incredible. I'm surprised that the residents aren't protesting but then again, since many of them are probably employed by the industries, which are causing the pollution, it's understandable. 
          I'm amazed by a lot of people's lackadaisical thinking towards the very apparent destruction occurring in their own backyard. They say things like "if I don't do it, they'll just hire someone else", "whatever will be will be" and "I can't change anything". But that's all wrong; there are lots of things people can do - one of the main things being to vote for the right cause, which is not the economy - the economy to me is all a smoke screen, a load of propaganda. However, saying that, sustainability probably offers up more jobs that protect our environment than the ones that are being offered by the largest industrial polluters on the planet, which are destroying us - climate change is real - you only have to step out your own door to realize the weather is not performing like it used to not so long ago. The ice is melting at a devastating rate and the seas are rising - even the permafrost is beginning to melt, which will release dangerous amounts of methane into the atmosphere. The good Lord may have made a covenant that He wouldn't flood the world again, but He never said He wouldn't set it ablaze - methane is highly flammable. And if you don't think this is true, pull your pants tight against your ass, strike a match and watch the flame shoot out of your ass.  
          Before I was diagnosed with cancer, my energy level dropping day by day, I had to give up The Messenger, a publication, which came out once a month for three years. Up until the final issue, May 2017, "Good-bye" was published I tried to inform people, open up their eyes to the things that were happening on their own doorstep. Not that I'm in good health these days, most likely never will be, I'm considering republishing The Messenger.  I don't know how many of the people that read this blog and had read The Messenger but I'd be interested in your opinion on its revival. If I decide to publish it again, please keep in mind, although I do all the prep work for free, that it does cost to be printed and distributed Although it is free to the public, any advertising, donations or subscriptions will be a big help. Also, people will be able to read the monthly issues online for free as well. The first issue will be released in September 2019, so all ads must be in place and paid for a month before.
            I don't feel like I have the right to rant about a lot of things unless I'm prepared to actually do something and I like a good rant so I guess The Messenger was a good sounding board for me and could be again...cheers, eh!

WONKY-EYED PAINTER, POET but not a PHLEBOTOMIST

2'x4' acrylic painting 

          Despite my eyes being wonky - seeing double and blurry - I managed to finish the Ottawa Senators train painting. It's a good thing I painted the train first before the eye surgery otherwise I doubt the painting would have been finished - the logo and wheels would have driven me to drink, which would've be a good thing because I'd really love a beer. However, that being said, alcohol is taboo - haven't had a drink for 2 years - can't take the chance. That's one of the pleasant things I miss - a nice cold beer with a bite to it. 

          Now that the painting has been completed, I'm not quite sure what I'll do next. Perhaps I'll take up bull fighting, sky diving, car racing or become a jockey. Actually, since I've laid around for so long, I could probably get a job as a professional mattress tester or a portable paper weight. I've brought taking a crap to a whole new level as well, I've become a porcelain throne king - now if only I had a kingdom to reign and a crown to wear - mind you, the toilet paper rolls stand to attention when I enter the bathroom. Seriously though, I need another project, just one that doesn't need good eye sight - anyone have any ideas?

              I've been a rambler, a gambler

              A midnight lover, didn't blow my cover

              A writer, a fighter and a toenail biter

              I've been a painter, a fainter

              A know it all poet, don't you know it

              I've been poor and slept on the floor

              Nothing to eat, not even a purple beet

              And I've been rich, called a son of a bitch

              But what's a name in the life game

              I've been knocked down, a not so funny clown

              Laughed at, a cool cat and even a brat

              Over my shoulder, into the wind I've spat
              And I've been an optimist but never a phlebotomist 

              So take a chance, dance, prance or make romance

              My advice is to roll the dice

              Seven come eleven, not everyone goes to heaven

              But take a risk, tisk, tisk

              Don't be a wannabe, a cry baby or a wallaby

              Life is what you make it, grab hold and take it!

               Hmm... I'm at a loss for words, for something to say, so I wrote that quick little poem. I think there's a message in it but I can't really say what it is. But sometimes it's good to be a bit of a scribe, prescribe, describe and if possible, imbibe...cheers, eh!  

               

                     

MARAUDING MOSQUITOES

Kamikaze Mosquito

          I awoke this morning, not to the clap of thunder nor the crack of dawn but to the scream of a mosquito, like a Japanese kamikaze pilot dive bombing towards my face. When it landed lightly on the tip of my nose, it sneered at me and said, "I dare you to swat me! Go on, I dare you!" 

          Of course, having been rudely awakened, my senses not yet untangled from it's spiderweb of tentacles, and becoming cross-eyed watching the menacing mosquito about to probe my nasal protuberance with its proboscis, I let fly with my mighty right hand! Hardly a slight swat, myriad of stars swirling in tandem with my stinging nose from the result of my foolish blow, I was now fully awake. 

         Being the size of the gigantic ape, King Kong, in comparison to that pesky squeeter, I was on a mission. Holding out my left arm like a long landing strip, instead of tarmac, made of flesh and blood, I waited like a patient sniper, my sight set and my aim true. While I waited and I waited and I waited until the weight of my arm felt like lead, that minuscule winged insect hovered like a drunken helicopter pilot, one eye out for a landing and the other, eye to eye with me. However, like any tasty buffet, my arm laid out like a  juicy rare T-bone steak, the mosquito overwhelmed with the meal set before it, couldn't resist temptation. Wrapping a bib around its skinny throat while licking its chops, and after maneuvering and re-maneuvering several times, realizing the dangers in setting down, the pesky pest finally alit on my hairy left arm. As it was saying Grace, thanking the Great Skeeter in the sky for what it was about to devour or perhaps imbibe, I waited with the patience of Job, my right hand cocked and ready for the colossal swat to be delivered. Hunkering down, its spindly long legs spread out, I waited until its pointy stinger containing six mouths (you heard right - six mouths) speared my flesh. Then, as it began siphoning out my red blood, confident it had eluded danger, I slowly brought my slaying hand into position, the impact of the swat like a crack of thunder flattening that tiny insect into oblivion! Besides the broken wreckage of that crumpled insect, a splotch of red blood, my blood could be seen. Proud of my achievement, about to be rewarded a Purple Heart for being wounded under fire, I began to hear that alarming Eeeeee sound, not just one but many. The only trouble with mosquitoes is that they seldom fly solo and soon swarms of them, I'm thinking on a quest of vengeance, sent me cowering beneath the covers. 

          The other day, desperately having to take a leak, (when I have to go - I have to go) upstairs to the bathroom is a long distance for a shuffling old man. Unable to get there on time, rather than wetting my pants, I stepped out the backdoor, unzipped my fly and let fly. Well...no sooner had the yellow piss hit the grass, the air turned grey with mosquitoes. Swatting mosquitoes and holding on to my ding-dong at the same time, trying not to spray all over my slippers was more than a little unnerving but believe it or not, I stayed dry and didn't get stung.

          Although here at the base of Green Mountain in New Brunswick, we have been invaded by hordes of mosquitoes, the most I've ever seen was while I was in the northern hemisphere, the arctic. Wearing mosquito netting over my head and my entire body clothed, like a knight wearing armor for protection, I proceeded along the shoreline, each footstep flushing up clouds of mosquitoes. Thousands upon thousands of them were attached to me as if they couldn't dine on me there, were going to airlift me to their tundra domain for a leisurely feast. Although a prowling polar bear could have been lurking behind a nearby huge slab of ice and I should have been wary since we're on their menu, they were not on my mind at that time. Hmm...I wonder which would be a worse way to go - eaten alive by a hungry polar bear or bled to death by throngs of blood thirsty mosquitoes. Hopefully I'll never know...cheers, eh!    

RANSOM - Artist, Lover, Adventurist - Part Two and Conclusion

             Rosy could scarce believe her ears; two men were fighting over her and when she smiled at the thought, it was directed at Ransom. 

          Returning her smile and in a cavalier manner, as if he was challenged to a duel everyday for rescuing some maiden's honour he said, "It matters not to me sir. Choose the place, the time and the weapon and I'll be there." My God! What have I said, he thought. I've never handled a sword or a musket in my life - charcoal and paint have been my tools.

           "Fine! 4:00 tomorrow afternoon at the top of Duelist Hill. I'll supply the dueling pistols and do make sure to bring your second."

             "My second?" Ransom inquired.

             "Yes, your second. A friend if you like, to make sure the duel is held properly and adheres to the rules - it's the gentleman's way."

          "And what are the rules?"

          "If either of us decides to move from our spot or run, our second is allowed to shoot the coward."

          Time was passing quickly and since Ransom had slept in, hadn't crawled out of his cot until late in the afternoon, he decided to visit the Horse and Dog Tavern for a drink or two. He needed something to relieve his shaky hands and also bolster up his courage. What had he got himself into now he thought? I've had jealous boyfriends and angry husbands on my tail, barely able to escape through a window, and none of them ever challenged me to a duel to the death.

              As soon as he walked through the tavern's door and sat down on a bench, his back up against the wall near the fireplace, Rosy came over and sat beside him. "Drinks are on me my handsome hero. It's the least I can do, especially since..."

                "You needn't say it. I know, since it's my last day on earth."  

                "That's not what I was going to say. I was going to say, since you rescued me from that bastard's clutches. What would you like to drink?"

            "Something stronger than an ale if you don't mind."

             "A double shot of whiskey coming up. Anything for you."

             "Anything?" he asked.

             Realizing what he was asking and that it was highly unlikely he would survive the day, she looked into his eyes and smiling coquettishly murmured, "Anything. Anything at all."

              After downing several whiskies and not finding any of his friends in the tavern he sauntered over to Rosy and whispered, "I don't like to ask but can you do me a favour?"

          "Sure, I'd be happy to."

           "Are you a good shot?"

           "What do you mean?"

           "Are you a good shot; ever fired a pistol before?"

           "No. Gracious no. I wouldn't even know which end was which."

            "It doesn't really matter if you know how to use a pistol or not. If someone is apt to run away from the duel, that would be me, not that pot-bellied scoundrel. However, I still need someone for a second; it's the rule."

             Curtsying deeply, her apron in both hands she answered, "I'd be honoured to be your second kind sir."

               The path leading up to the top of Duelist Hill was steep and Ransom was chugging like a steam engine upon arrival, whereas Rosy hardly took a deep breath. Standing bent over, his hands on his knees and gasping for breath he heard someone say, "Is that you Ransom Peabody?"

          "Aye, tis me," he panted.

          "I'm Lord Geoffrey Stuart, the arbitrator between you and Sir Errol Standish. I'm here to make certain the duel is carried out by the accordance of the rules. I don't see a second with you."

           Straightening up and puffing out his chest, Ransom figured since he was most likely going to be shot dead, he might as well look courageous even if he was a coward at heart. Pointing at Rosy he said, "She'll be my second."

            "I'm not sure that the rules will allow a woman to act as second," Lord Stuart stated. 

           "Well...if that's the case," Ransom said, "Then I guess the duel is off."

               "Not so fast...if Sir Standish will accept your second, then I see no reason to halt the duel."

                Sir Standish, confident that Ransom was as good as dead replied, "It's fine with me. Let's proceed with the duel," and then sneering at Rosy continued, "I have an evening engagement with a real lady and I don't want to waste any time than absolutely necessary."

                  As soon as the two duelists had selected their weapons and were standing back to back, their pistols loaded and cocked for action the arbitrator said, "After I count off ten paces, you may then turn, aim and fire at your opponent."

                 "One...two...three..." The count was on and Ransom wasn't feeling very cocky at the moment as he looked at the flintlock pistol, which he was holding near his head and pointed skyward. He couldn't help smiling when he noticed that his hand was no longer shaking and thinking what can be so difficult about firing this gun. All I have to do is aim and pull the trigger - Sir Standish is so fat, how can I possibly miss.

          "Eight...nine...ten." Ransom spun around faster than the portly gentleman but he wasn't fast enough pulling the trigger. He heard a loud explosion and then felt the round lead ball from his opponent's pistol buzzing by his right ear like an angry hornet, taking a portion of the lobe with it. He couldn't believe he was still standing as he aimed his pistol at Lord Standish's heart. Wiping the blood from his ear he looked down at his hand as it dripped between his fingers onto the ground.

                The arbitrator, a puzzled expression on his dour countenance asked, "Aren't you going to fire your pistol?"

               "Do I have to fire it right now? Is it mandatory that I kill him?"

               "No. But I've never heard of anyone refusing to fire their weapon."

                 "Well in that case," nonchalantly gazing at Lord Standish's terrified face, his slumped shoulders and empty pistol sagging towards the ground he said, "What's your life worth sir?"

                 "What do you mean? Take your shot! You couldn't hit a barn door if you were ten paces away."

                 Hmm,,,he has a point there he thought but I'm still the one with the loaded pistol pointed at his heart so he said, "You may think I'm just a commoner sir but I'd wager that you don't know that I served in the Queen's Regiment and was a marksman of deadly aim. I once had the opportunity to shoot Napoleon himself."

          Lord Standish chortled and said, "Well we all know you missed, if you're even telling the truth."

          "Well...I didn't exactly miss. The horse he was riding lifted his head up at the sound of the gunshot and the ball hit it directly between the eyes. So what's it going to be? Are we going to palaver about the amount of money your willing to part with concerning your life or do I pull the trigger? Really makes no difference to me, I've killed quite a few men." As he watched Sir Standish pondering the question, he was hoping he didn't have to fire the pistol because in all reality he would most likely miss. Besides, he was no killer, the whopper of a tale concerning Napoleon was all a lie, he'd never been a soldier of any kind and had never killed anyone.

           At last Sir Standish said, "I don't believe anything you said but what's your price Ransom?"

             Breathing a sigh of relief he answered, "I know you're a wealthy man and not being the greedy sort, how does 5,000 pounds sound? Surely your life is worth that measly much."

          Sir Standish shook his head, which was beginning to turn as purple as a ripe beet and sputtered, "Certainly not; that sum is preposterous. 500 pounds seems more than fair to me."

          Squinting down the barrel of the musket lining it up with Sir Standish's head he continued, "Since you don't seem to put much value on your life, perhaps it's best if I put you out of your misery."

          "Now...now...hold on young man, let's not be too hasty. You're right, but 5,000 pounds is is still too high of an amount. I'll give you 2,000 pounds in cash today if you spare my life."

           Lowering his pistol, Ransom said, "I believe we have an accord sir and you are my witness, are you not Lord Stuart?"

            "Indeed I am sir."

            "Just one more thing before the final deal is struck sir, I'd like to keep these two dueling pistols. Not so much for me but for your sake sir. The last thing you need to be doing is challenging people like me, excellent shooters at duels."

             "Agreed. You may have the pistols as well. Is there anything else and if not, I'll meet you at the Horse and Dog Tavern in about an hour," said Lord Standish and smiled as he thought about how low a figure they had agreed upon. He would have given Ransom a lot more money: if he only knew.
          "Ah, aye. There is one more thing required to seal the deal so to speak. You must apologize to Rosy for your outrageous behavior towards her."
           "I'll do no such thing. Like I said before, she's nothing but a common tavern maid."
            "Then, Sir Standish," slowly raising his pistol to eye level, "You leave me no choice."
              Realizing Ransom was determined he raised his hands in protest and rolling his eyes said, "I'm sorry."
              Wiggling the pistol at Sir Standish Ransom said, "Not good enough sir. You must look directly at Rosy and apologize in a gentlemanly fashion."
            As much as it galled him to make such a gesture, Sir Standish reluctantly did as required.

          Ransom and Rosy lingered on Duelist Hill until Sir Standish, his second and the arbitrator had disappeared from view. Taking Rosy in his arms he quietly asked "Did you mean what you said about giving me anything I desired Rosy dear?"

          Realizing that the duel hadn't ended the way she expected,  she was ever so glad that Ransom had survived, even if it was purely luck. He had risked his life for her honour, a mere tavern maid and that was more than enough for her. Gazing into his big brown eyes, she nodded and put her lips to his. The kiss was sweet and urgent as he gently laid her down on the grassy hill and lifted her dress, only the trees, bushes and some nearby birds would witness the loss of Rosy's virginity...cheers, eh!

RANSOM - Artist, Lover, Adventurer - Part One

         

Flintlock Dueling Pistols

          Ransom Ichabod Peabody, on the verge of waking up, trying desperately to continue on with his dream muttered, "Not yet, damn it!" The tavern maid in his wondrous, semiconscious state was naked and his hands were filled with her voluptuous flesh, soft breasts the size of watermelons bouncing in his face as they thrashed about on a huge bed covered in cerulean satin sheets and matching thick pillows.

            Waking up he shouted, "Ahh!"

           "Hmm... that was jolly good. Nothing like a wet dream to start the day."

           As Ransom lay on his cot, a tiny shaft of sunlight glinting through a small and the only window and illuminating his dreary room, thoughts of Rosy the tavern maid, his dream come true fading into the dark spider-webbed corners, he dreaded the idea of getting up and facing the day. Memories of the past evening, drinking himself into a drunken stupor foremost in his thoughts, he recalled the events which occurred, which would most likely be the cause of his death.

          Sitting up, a sharp pain searing through his muddled head, he hoped his hangover would soon clear up because if he was to survive this day, he was indeed in need of a clear head. Noticing a crumpled cigarette butt sitting on the edge of a small beat-up wooden table next to his cot, he grabbed it and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. Striking a match, he waited for a flame and then lit the cigarette, a lung full of smoke was in order, help take the edge off his worried thoughts. Now, if he only had a drink. A wine bottle that was lying on its side was his only hope and as he reached for it, he noticed his shaky hands. This was at least a good sign because he wasn't, like beforehand on several occasions, seeing pink hippopotamuses wearing purple tutus that looked like overweight ballerinas spinning on their stubby toes. The bottle was dark, opaque as a stone, so he was unable to see if it contained any wine. Tilting it almost upright he sipped the last swig. Noticing a soft lump in his mouth, he dribbled the red wine into his open hand, which yielded a big black fly doing the backstroke. Flicking it onto the dirt floor with a finger, he then lapped up the wine, licked his fingers and said, "I can see this is going to be one of those days when I should have just stayed in bed."

          Ransom was as common as muck. While a boy, his family had been poor and now as a grown man, he was equally poor. However, despite being poverty stricken, he was a very good artist, had an abundant of natural talent. And that was how he survived. A well-known artist Maurice Creston who was busy with commissions from the church and the nobility gave him room and board, plus a few coins, a mere pittance in exchange as his assistant. Ransom was so good that his patron barely added anymore than his signature to the paintings he produced, of which there were many.

          Strolling through the studio, Ransom stopped in front of an easel and looked at a portrait that he was working on. The painting depicted a beautiful young wife of an aging duke. She was dressed in a low-cut, white satin gown, adorned with white lace and a string of emeralds matching her green eyes were strung around her dainty throat. Although the whiteness of her skin glowed like alabaster and made her appear cold, she was anything but as he recalled ravishing her during a posing session - their sexual frivolity actually flattening his cot.

          His head was still pounding as hard as a blacksmith's sledge hammer when he looked at himself in a broken mirror, that was  missing a few shards of glass and hanging on the wall near the easel. Although his eyes were bloodshot and his long black hair was very disheveled, he was still a handsome man. His boyish good looks combined with his artistic charms, a silver-tongued devil, turned many a maiden's eye and shed many a gown. He had fallen asleep, most likely passed out on the cot with his clothes on after his drinking spree last evening and had somehow lost one of the two straps holding up his pants. He looked like hell and as he tried straightening himself out, combing his long hair and tying a tattered ribbon to keep it in place, he recollected the events of last night that would most likely end his life at exactly 4:00 pm.

          As per usual, he spent the majority of the evening in the Horse and Dog Tavern with some friends and a well-to-do aristocrat who simply pulled up a chair and ordered a round of ale. Nobody knew the portly, well-dressed gentleman with the white-coiffed wig, but free ale was free ale and nobody contested his presence. He seemed pleasant enough, his round red face getting redder and redder with each ale he imbibed of which there were many. However, it was late into the evening, almost "last call gentlemen", when Rosy the tavern maid leaned over while placing full mugs of ale on the table, her ample bosoms almost touching the gentleman's face. As if he was entitled, he gave one of them a squeeze.

          Rosy was quite taken aback, not because some of the patrons occasionally tried to take advantage of her womanly charms but from someone who obviously had a position and wealth, his actions were highly unusual. The richer men generally treated her with respect while she was serving them and then just before the tavern closed, would ask how much she would charge for a private visit. As odd as it seemed, highly unusual in fact for a young woman in her position, although Rosy was a flirty wench and very playful, knowing full well the potential of her feminine charms, she was still a virgin. However, although she could not read or write, she was smart enough to know that if she gave it away or for money, she would have a harder time to marry and a family of her own is what she greatly desired. 

          The gentleman had barely touched Rosy's breast when Ransom leaned across the table and slapped him across the face yelling, "That's no way to treat a lady sir!"

          To which the aristocrat heatedly replied, "She's no lady! She's just a common maid. And you, you're just a commoner too and since you took it upon yourself to strike someone of my status, I therefore challenge you to a duel!"