Dr. Henhacker's Paradise

Installment #1:    NORMAL DAY AT THE CLINIC

    "Everywhere the infirm... acres of bobbling flesh." Dr. Henhacker could be heard muttering as he stepped out of his red Porsche and onto the hospital parking lot. He was referring to the hobbling misshapen invalids that already seemed to be gathering for his amusement and deification. It was a normal day at the clinic, and the good Doctor was in rare form. He walked past a fenced-in area stacked high with barrels. On the fence, a radioactive symbol with a warning to keep away, yet you had to pass within a few feet of the barrels to stay on the path.
    "Hookin' a rich, poodle-totin', cancer-ridden old dame to a barrel full of poison; then chargin' it to some insurance company, is a hell of a way to get in a few good games of golf!" The Doctor checked his mail, then sat down behind his desk. He was on the seventh floor, commanding a great view of the city. He pulled out a little locked silver box from a secret place, opened it , and began laying out a long and thick line of coke. He dipped his head and filled both nostrils, kicked back, and uttered loudly:
    "Sweet Jesus!"
    "Did you ring, Doctor Henhacker?" asked the intercom.
    "Yeah," stammered the Doc, "come in here would ya Miss Penny?" In walks his carefully selected secretary, selected for discretion as well as looks. Wearing a short white nurses outfit, but with a lot of makeup and perfume, she sidles over near the desk.
    "Have a seat, Miss Penny," says the good Doctor, patting his left leg. Miss Penny obediently sets herself down on the doctor's leg, and he proceeds to molest her, his hands like octopuses disappearing and reappearing from within her uniform.
    "Doctor! Someone might come in!" she yelped, just as the Doctor found her G-spot with one hand.
    "You're right," panted Dr. Henhacker, allowing Miss Penny to stand up and straighten her outfit. He walked to the door and locked it.
    "Assume the position, Miss Penny!" he said as he walked back toward her.
    "But Doctor," she protested, as she nevertheless bent over the edge of his desk.
    Doctor Henhacker lifted her short skirt, pulled her panties down from her quite ample and very sexy buttocks, and in a split second was pumping away furiously, both of them moaning in concert.

Copyright 2005
by Penrose(W.S.Rose)

Tales and Stories from Skunk Hollow - “The Christmas Play”

    A wild and wacky Autumn moon rose full and bright over Skunk Hollow. Rolling meadows spackled sparsely with solid Oak and paisley parsley, and nary a soul can be seen. Wait... there is something, or someone... down there by that Juniper tree. Can you see? You have to look hard, maybe squint a little. No? OK, maybe we can zoom in on things (author magic). There... that any better?

    Why it’s a rabbit! What is he up to, I wonder.

    Danger Bunny had on a long nightshirt that reached past his knees, and a night-cap with pompom on the end. He carried a candle in a silver holder, and seemed to be looking intently for something. Everyone else had long since gone to sleep, except Chewy, who had been battling insomnia of late. Yet even he had enough sense to stay down in his burrow, and not go traipsing around in the dark. Must be something real important ol’ Dange was lookin’ for.
    Down by the lake, Shrimp-Squirrel was tossing about restlessly in the shallow water near the shore, making little rippling waves that washed up on the sandy beach. He too was having trouble sleeping.Dange wandered down near to the lake’s edge. He held the candle out in front, and saw his friend Shrimp-Squirrel wallowing in the moonlit water.
    “Yo... Shrimpy!” shouted Danger Bunny, hoping to be heard underwater. Shrimp-Squirrel wriggled to the surface, his face a curious blend of rodent and fish, and his curved body like an edible mermaid.
    “What’s up, rabbit?” asked Shrimpy, treading water.
    “Have you seen my notebook? I left it out last night, and I think someone swiped it.”
    “Nope,” said the little fish-squirrel, whipping his finned tail to stay afloat, “but I heard Psycho-Beaver mumbling something about a notebook this afternoon. I think he was talking about that pesky little boy that’s been hanging around. Do you think he took it?”
    “Lordy I hope not!” said Dange, “I sure don’t wanna have to go lookin’ for it in Man-Town!”
    “Word-up,” said Shrimp-Squirrel, always tryin’ to be cool, “that’s no picnic down there. Nosirree.”
    “Well,” said Dange, “goodnight there Shrimpy my man. No sense in looking any more tonight. Hope you can sleep.”
    “It would be the first night this week,” answered Shrimp-Squirrel.
    “Wonder what’s got into everybody?” mused Danger Bunny, as he loped back to his burrow. “People fussin’ around at night, can’t sleep. Somethin’ unusual is happening around here, that’s for sure.”
    Dange went back into his little underground home, and spent much of the evening reading some old Russian plays by Anton Chekov. He stayed up almost until the sun rose, which was unusual even for him, and very unusual for any other rabbit.

    Next mornin’ Dange crawled up out of his burrow, and looked around. First person that caught his eye was ol’ Bashful Bear, who was scratchin’ his-self on an old tree stump.
    “Hey Bash,” says Dange, lopin’ over towards him.
    “Hey Dange,” says Bear, swattin’ flies off his ears.
    “You seen that pesky kid Tommy around here lately?” asks Dange.
    “Nah,” says Bashful, “he ain’t been round here all week, near as I can reckon.”
    “Well,” says Dange, “ol’ Shrimp-Squirrel thinks the kid might a marched off with the script to the Christmas play, and there’s only one copy.”
    “Well,” says Bear, turnin’ over to scratch his other side,” we got rehearsal tonight, don’t we? Surely the boy will bring the script along, he’s probably jest studyin’ his lines.”
    “Well, nobody told him he could walk off with it,” says Dange, obviously disturbed. “I got work to do on it too. Lotta work. Well... later, Bash.”
    “Keep cool, there Dange,” says Bashful, “It’ll turn up I reckon.”
    “Yeah, well... it better.. “ Dange hardly heard him as he stomped off muttering to himself. The next place to go was obvious (if Psycho-Beaver hadn’t left for work, yet, that is). As it turned out, Dange caught Psycho just as he was hoofin’ it to the mill.
    “Psych, ol’ buddy,” yells Dange, “got a minute there?”
    “Course not,” says Psycho, who’s always early for work but always thinks he’s late. “Late for work again... what’s up, Dange?”
    “Shrimp-Squirrel tol’ me you saw Tommy walk off with the Christmas play script last night.”
    “Well,” says Beaver, “...didn’t actually see him take it, but he was carryin’ it around, he was. Say, how’s Shrimpy like livin’ on the lake? Does he miss his cage over at Farmer Big-Buckle’s place?”
    “He’s fine. Says the only thing he misses is the free food. He got real tired of bein’ gawked at by all those tourists.”
    “Well,” says Psycho-Beave, “he is the only Shrimp-Squirrel in the free world. But ya can’t blame him for wantin’ a little privacy. Anyways, Tommy the kid will show up tonight with the script... don’t sweat the small stuff, Dange. Gotta go, late for work.”
    Beaver scurried off to work, and Dange moved on. Well, he thought, that’s easy enough for Psycho-Beave to say, but he’s gonna be the first one to freak if the script isn’t there. We can’t be cancelin’ rehearsal neither,... too close to D-day. Dange walked on feelin’ gloomy. He had planned to work on a part of the script that was particularly weak, but it wasn’t worth messin’ with man-town. A thoroughly bizarre place by any standard, thought Dange, pullin’ on his ears. He began to imagine rehearsal without the script. Psycho would wind up in a brawl, Chewy would wander off and eat a tree, and Panic Pigeon, well... she’d do just that!
    Anyway, Dange decided to eat some breakfast and then head down to the stage area, which was still under construction. He passed Panic Pigeon on the way to Toady’s Coffee Shop, and knew at once the news was out.
    “No script, oh my gosh, play is ruined, thewholethingisgoinstraightto......” Panic jabbered this and more as she scurried across the path and into a bush.
    “Oh boy,” said Dange, “you can bet she’ll have the whole town in a panic by tonight.”
    Apparently though, she hadn’t been out to the stage site yet, because there were several villagers working on it, and they seemed fairly calm. The townsfolk were really pitchin’ in this year, and most of Skunk Hollow’s animal population as well. This was actually the only time of year the animals and the humans got along fairly well. Psycho Beaver and his relatives cut down the necessary amount of trees, and Chewy did some of the detail work. Bashful was unmatched for simple grunt-work, and Dange of course mostly supervised, whether his opinion was asked for or not.
    Stage is comin’ along great, thought Dange. He smoothed his ears out and stepped onto the 10’ by 20’ platform, and watched as Harried Hen squawked orders to a village woman concerning the hanging of the stage curtains. Yep, lookin’ good, Dange thought. All but the script, that is. He couldn’t imagine why Tommy would take it, so he asked the villagers, but noone had a clue.
    “We’ll be wingin’ it tonight,” muttered Dange to nobody in particular, “And it’ll be real interesting, that much is for sure.”
    Dange had told everybody at Toady’s to be at rehearsal by 5:30, except for those who worked a bit late, like Psycho. Although the townsfolk were helpin’ out, it was strictly an animal play... no people allowed. Just too hard to coordinate the two, language barriers and such. Hard enough to communicate the stage construction. Anyway, the animals just wouldn’t go for a mixture on the set. Let the humans do their own play.
    Everybody showed up on time that night, except Psycho, and unfortunately, Tommy. Dange said he could remember enough of the script to direct, but nobody looked particularly comfortable with that. Dange decided they would work on the Manger scene, and they set it up as quickly as possible. They had to wait for Psycho Beaver, because he was one of the Three Wise Men. Harried Hen was the young Virgin Mary, and Chewy was Joseph, her husband. The other two Wise Men were played by Bashful Bear, and Chuckles the Chicken. The Innkeeper was of course Toady, who was also late due to lingering customers, and for the part of the precious baby Jesus, the Christ Child... Who else? Little Shrimp-Squirrel of course! Fit right into the little bassinet that Harried Hen brought. All swaddled and cute, if a might twitchy. The overall effect was... why completely hilarious, except it wasn’t supposed to be a comedy. Dange saw the humorous aspect of this odd hodgepodge of characters, but he had to work with what was available. He tried not to even imagine the scene with Santa and the reindeer. Chewy the red-nosed woodchuck? Oh, Mary!
    At last Dange gave up on Tommy, and began to set up the Manger scene. Everybody took their places without any problems, and Dange set up the scene. He told everyone what their character was about, and urged them all to ad-lib their lines, keeping it all as simple as possible. With that done, Dange stepped offstage to watch the action, and the first take of the Manger scene began.

    Toady stood at the door of his “Inn”, as the “two” Wise Men approached (Psycho-Beaver still hadn’t showed). Chuckles ad-libbed the first lines.
    “Lookin’ fer Shrimpy.”
    “Baby Jesus! .. The Christ Child!” prompts Dange from the wings.
    “Right.. hee hee.. sorry,” chortled Chuckles, “Jesus, the human God-baby.”
    “Inna barn,” croaks Toady. “No room inna Inn.”
    “Thanks,” says Bashful, and off they lope to the Manger scene. This is setup by removing the door that signified the Inn, and pushing the basket with Shrimp-Squirrel in it onto the stage. All swaddled up but his head, he looked like a normal squirrel. It was his lower half that was fish-like.
    “Blessed art thou, Mary, mother of Jesus, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb,” yammers Chuckles to Harried Hen, who is trying to look like a Madonna. This wasn’t the right line by any means, just something Chuckles had heard in church. Dange shook his head and tugged at his ears, yet he knew it could be a lot worse.
    Psycho showed up just then, and got mad that they had started without him. He started to get into it with Chewy, sending Shrimp-Squirrel into convulsions. Panic Pigeon appeared out of a bush, yelling some nonsense about a mob coming. Harried Hen tried to calm Shrimpy by rocking the bassinet, which tipped over and dumped him onto the stage floor.
    “Yep,” said Dange, “a whole lot worse!”
    As it turned out, Panic Pigeon wasn’t just babbling. The whole of Man-Town had come to watch rehearsal, and with them little Tommy. He had taken the script to show it to the town’s Minister, who had offered up a few ideas and corrections. Dange made him promise not to take it again without permission.
    Shrimp-Squirrel was returned to his basket, and the play resumed, with Dange prompting the characters, script in hand, and feeling a might more confident. It went fairly well this time, although the Song of Praise at the end of the scene was a bit off, particularly when Toady joined in. The townsfolk thought things were going well, and gave the cast a resounding round of applause. Dange decided to run through the sled scene and then call it a night. He had decided to play Santa himself, since noone else could be trusted to steer the sled. The sled itself was real, donated by the villagers. It was set up off to the side of the stage, and the idea was to actually have it move a ways. This would have to wait, however, until it hopefully snowed. For now, they would fake it.
    The whole cast, of course, would have to be reindeer, and then some. Chuckles, Bashful, Psycho, Chewy, and anyone else they could round up, since the sled was huge and very heavy. Everyone got into harness OK, but then the logistic nightmares began. Chewy took up the lead, with his fake red nose. Then Bashful and the assorted pigeons and chickens, followed by Psycho and Pete Porcupine. Shrimp-Squirrel and Toady road in the sled with Dange, since they wouldn’t be much help with pulling it. The first problem was that there were only a few feet actually touching the ground, due to the size variations. The chickens and pigeons were strung up like Xmas lights, dangling above the grass with their feet kicking. Everyone would have to be arranged according to size, Dange realized. He stepped out of the sled to accomplish this, when all hell broke loose.
    Pete accidentally bumped into Psycho, pricking him in the butt. Psycho swapped Pete with his paddle-tale, resulting in a flurry of porcupine quills, sticking not only Psycho, but two of the chickens as well. Pandemonium resulted, with everyone pulling in every possible direction, and finally tipping the sled over, nearly crushing Panic Pigeon, who was running frantically in and out of the scene, around the legs and claws of everybody, and screaming hysterically. Toady hopped off in time, agile enough to land on his feet, while poor Shrimp-Squirrel was tossed roughly to the ground, for the second time in one night!
    The townsfolk, although sympathetic, found all this too much to resist, and broke into general laughter. Dange gave up on the whole mess, and sat on the ground with his head in his hands. It was decided to call it a night.

    Two weeks and ten chaotic rehearsals later, the fateful day grew near. Next Thursday evening was D-day. Now almost noone could sleep, and Panic Pigeon was out of her mind, as was Harried Hen, and Frantic Fowl. Dange was pretty much resigned to whatever cruel or fortunate fait awaited him. Down at Toady’s Cafe’, all talk was of the play, and everyone gave much credit to ol’ Dange for even attempting something so risky. Why, this could cement relations between Skunk Hollow and Man-Town for years, or make a laughing stock out of the whole crew, if it hadn’t already. So, nerves were on edge, but spirits were high as the big day approached.
    The hens were working on costume changes, but everyone else had the next two days off. Dange thought if he gave ‘em all a rest, then did one final rehearsal, that would about do it, as much as it could be done that is. So those not working went up to Chewy’s meadow for a picnic, while Dange went over the script again.
    The following day, Dange took it easy too, wandering up over Bearskin Hill and avoiding everyone he could. He tried to see the whole picture, but he mostly felt nervous.
    “Well, it’s almost out of my hands now,” Dange muttered, wishing he could believe that. It was on his head, and he knew it.
    But the day of final rehearsal went off smoother than anyone could have imagined. The sun shone, everyone remembered most of their lines, and spirits rose as the performance almost seemed possible. Afterwards, everyone went down to Toady’s to celebrate, but not Dange. He felt so relieved he went right back to his home, and fell asleep within a few minutes. On Wednesday, the whole cast walked around reciting their lines, while the squirrels, including old Squeaky, delivered little flyers to the town. That night, it began to snow. This meant the sled might even move, and the whole mood would be downright Christmasy!

THE SHOW

    A light snow was falling the day of the Skunk Hollow Christmas Play. Spirits were very high, and everyone was excited, and of course nervous. There were two sets of bleachers, one for people, and the other for the denizens of Skunk Hollow. This wasn’t out of animosity nor prejudice, it was a practical maneuver. I mean... for instance, who’s gonna set next to Stinky, and his cousins. And skunks weren’t the only problem neither... there were porcupines, large and clumsy bears.. small little chipmunks, even smaller crickets and frogs... I bet you’re getting the idea.
    So the stage was set, and around three the townsfolk started arriving. They were bundled up, but it wasn’t really too cold. Refreshments were shared, and hot cider passed around. Then, about 4:15, just after sunset, the stage lights went on, the curtains parted, and out stepped Danger Bunny, dressed as formal as his wardrobe allowed. He walked to the edge of the stage, tapped the mic, and the crowd grew quiet.
    “Ladies and Gentlemen, Chipmunks and Squirrels (this drew a ripple of laughter), welcome to the Skunk Hollow Annual Christmas Play. At least we hope it will be a yearly event, and someday even an honored tradition. We also hope it will be remembered as a time when the animals of Skunk Hollow gave something to the town, and the town felt enriched by the experience. And so, without further ado... I give you.. the Skunk Hollow Players!”

    Dange walked gracefully backwards off the stage, bowing and gloved hand outstretched. The curtains, which had closed, now opened again. The scene began with Harried Hen and Chewy seeking shelter at Toady’s Inn, to give birth to the blessed baby Shrimp-Squirrel Jesus. Toady remembered his lines, and things went well. The rejected Holy couple padded and clucked offstage, and the three “Wise Men” appeared. Toady sent Chuckles, Bashful Bear and Psycho-Beaver off to the stable, which appeared as soon as the door was pushed aside. And there in the manger, in his little bassinet, lay Shrimpy, just as cute as a button.
    The Wise Men left their gifts and blessed the little baby Jesus, and then all began to sing a lovely Christmas song, a bit from Handle’s “Messiah”, and the townsfolk joined in. Things were really going well, and you could see the relief on ol’ Dange’s face. Noone had even needed any prompting from him.
    Yes indeedy, it was going fine. They moved through a few more minor skits and songs, including a beautiful rendition of “Oh Holy Night” performed by Harried Hen, backed up with a powerful chorus of hens, chickens and pigeons, and then the lights were turned onto the sled, which had been prepared offstage, unbeknownst to the crowd. The “Reindeer” were hooked up in a workable order this time, with all feet on the ground, and there in the sled, in a great looking Santa suit, was Dange. The idea, since the sled would actually move in the fresh snow, was to pass in front of the bleachers, and Dange, Toady and Shrimpy would throw presents to the crowd.
    A great idea, were it not for a certain mischievous little tike named Ralph, who had secretly brought his slingshot, and without further ado, launched a stone right at the reindeer. He caught Chewy on the nose, which made him look a lot more like Rudolph! Chewy swerved to the right, pulling Psycho-Beaver, and then the rest of the team along with him. Right into the bleachers they plowed, the bleachers that held the towns-folk, including bad little Ralph. What followed cannot even be described. People are emotional enough, but animals are downright chaotic once aroused. There were several minor injuries, and some horrible confrontations between man and beast, beast and beast, woman and skunk, etc. Finally all the lights were extinguished, and the crowd slowly dispersed in rage and disappointment. In all fairness, there were a few, mostly children, who found the ending quite delightful.
    Dange, and most of the cast were shattered. Chewy and Psycho were too angry to be depressed. Shrimp-Squirrel had to be put back in the water, due to massive convulsions. Only little Tommy stayed behind, and fortunate this was, because he learned what had caused the fiasco. He promised to find out who the culprit was, but noone cared much, as the damage was done.

    The next day was to be the day when everyone went up to Chewy’s Meadow to decorate the giant pine tree, a time honored tradition. And by mid-afternoon, most of the animals had sauntered over. There was little talk, and it was a gloomy affair. Noone even glanced in the direction of man-town, although the townsfolk were expected to join in. Dange knew better than to try to cheer up the animals, and he too worked in gloomy silence. Then suddenly, Chewy shouted to Dange to look where he was pointing. Dange looked up, and there, coming up the path, was little Tommy, followed by the entire village! It turned out that Tommy had done some inquiring, and mean little Ralphy was soon a suspect. It took a bit of prompting, but he eventually confessed, and the Townsfolk spent the morning in conference, until it was resolved that there was no reason to blame the animals whatsoever.
    Yes, a few noses had been bitten, and one arm broken by a clumsy bear, but the animals had suffered too. Panic Pigeon had been stepped on several times, and someone had kicked both Chewy and Chuckles the Chicken. Chewy had of course retaliated with a ferocious bit of nipping, and Psycho-Beaver had gone bizerk. Yet the real culprit had been discovered, and the play had been superb up to that point, so the villagers decided to forgive, and eventually forget. And so, the Skunk Hollow Christmas Play did become an annual event, and the animals and humans were brought closer, which in the end was a good thing for everyone.

    And noone was more pleased than good ol’ Danger Bunny, who had worked so hard, and taken such risk. He continued to direct the Christmas Play for many years, until he passed on his abilities to his beloved son, who was named... what else? Reckless Rabbit! But that takes us into another story, and this is the end of this one.

THE END
copyright 1997-2005
Penrose (W.S.Rose)

The Driftwood Mermaid - part 2

   In the water, maybe ten feet away, was a piece of colored driftwood, waving a single branch at Tommy. Maybe a piece of wreckage from a painted sailboat, that washed ashore from so very far away. Somewhere mixed in with the salty ocean spray on his face, there were tears now. Soon, however, he wiped them aside with his hand, and returned to the soul-killing, fake-toughness that got him through his strange life.
   At home, Tommy’s mom was snoring loudly. Their little beach-house property had two rooms and a small kitchen, and a fenced-in lot about fifty feet square. He got himself ready for bed, and in the morning everything was the same, except his mother had stopped snoring. He made his own breakfast (peanut butter and jelly), and packed his own lunch (same). He remembered to lock the door so as not to get yelled at, and off he went, still feeling low about the “driftwood mermaid”.
   Tommy daydreamed his way through school, then went down to the beach. Maybe he’d tell mom about the mermaid, maybe not. She wouldn’t mock him, he knew that. No matter how drunk she got, she never made fun of him, and yelled at him only out of frustration, or in abortive attempts to be a nurturing and protective mother. Deep within, her intent was pure, and Tommy knew that. He knew she wasn’t mean, only in great pain. He remembered how they had once laughed, and played weird games with strange made-up names and rules. She had taught him about the world, his father, herself, and what he could expect. There was no way out for mom, and they both knew it. She still tried occasionally to make him laugh... on her way out. On her way down.
   He didn’t see his mom at her usual spot, so he sat down to wait for her. He stayed there until the sun sank behind him and the evening tide washed in. He wondered if there would be surf-lights tonight. “Or fake mermaids”, he added, with a sneer.
   Tommy’s mother had died the previous night of either a stroke or a heart attack. The coroner would tend toward the former, then spend quite some time finding out which it indeed was. Tommy found her when he went home. It was “lucky” he went to check on her, or she’d have laid there even longer, but he could see something was wrong. The blanket was on the floor, and she was all weird and twisted. There was no snoring, and when he got closer, no breathing either. And her eyes were wide open.
   He put the blanket back on her, and went to the little kitchen. He made himself another sandwich, put his little jacket on, then he went out, remembering to lock the door. Tommy headed for the beach, eating his sandwich as he walked. He went to the spot his mother had frequented, and sat down to watch the crashing waves. The tide was going out now, but it was still high. In the waves, he saw the surf-lights twinkling. He watched them for a very long time. In fact, he fell asleep right in that spot, and slept there until dawn.
   Sometime during the night, Tommy had a dream about a mermaid, who looked at him kindly as she was pulled out to sea by the receding tide. She never spoke, she just looked at him until she disappeared.
   But she never turned into driftwood either.

The End
copyright 1997-2004
Penrose (W.S.Rose)

Sheila and the Wolf - part 2

    Sheila woke that morning with a sense that something had changed. She had heard nothing from Tim, although the phone was working again. The radio was of course still dead, and there was no TV. There hadn’t been for two years, since William left. She hated TV, but she wished for it now. Not for herself... it was Tim she was nervous about. Although there were plenty of logical explanations, her heart told her that Tim should have made it back. And she somehow felt guilty, without knowing why. Sheila went out and braved the cold. The animals needed tending, and she was too upset to sit around any longer. It was still very cold, but the wind had lessened.

Epilogue:

    The heart is like a pond, it’s surface covered with fallen leaves. Push them aside, and there’s a world underneath. Yet most of us take the leaves for reality, and look no further.
    At nine PM, the county Sheriff called. They had found Tim about six-thirty, and had brought his body back to what passed for a town. Sheila sat in the wood-backed chair near the wooden table beside the wood-burning stove for the next two hours. She had not cried. She saw the clear-edged moon rise over the barn, and just before midnight she heard the sad howls of the pack returning.
    Without thought, Sheila went to the living room, and took Tim’s rifle from it’s wall mount. She walked across the room to his desk, and found the box of shells. Dry eyed, without fear or feeling, she unlocked and opened the door, and stepped into the cold, crisp moonlight. There, on the East hill, the pack stood in a group. They had stopped howling, as if on command. One dark, shadowy figure broke ranks and moved forward in the snow, down the hill toward her. The others remained behind.
    As the Grey Wolf approached, Sheila stood tall and silent, her rifle still low at her side. The wolf strode to within ten yards of her, then stopped. He stared deeply and intensely into Sheila’s eyes. For a long moment they stood thusly, some secret communication passing between them. Then, as if on cue, as if the bright moon was directing the drama, the wolf growled low and menacing, then leapt forward, fangs bared, his eyes wild. And Sheila raised Tim’s rifle and fired quickly, knowing she would not miss at this range. The wolf howled in pain and fell into the snow, not ten feet from her. He moved convulsively, still alive.
    Sheila walked over to him, and they looked at each other. The wolf stopped moving, and just looked into Sheila’s eyes. His expression was impossible to read, as was hers. Sheila raised the rifle and shot the wolf in the head. Then she turned and went back to the house.

    The rifle returned to it’s mounting, Sheila made some coffee, and brought it to the chair by the window. She opened the curtain, so as to watch the moon sink toward the western sky. She sipped her coffee, and then she began to cry... a little at first, then in heart-wrenching sobs. She cried for a long time, then sat up for an hour or so. Finally, Sheila took her cup to the kitchen, and herself to bed. She did not dream that night, nor for quite a while thereafter. She slept long and deeply, and in the morning, Sheila awoke to a clear and warmer day.


The End
copyright 1997-2004
Penrose (W.S.Rose)

Sheila and the Wolf - part 1

      It was snow... crested to the rafters again, and Sheila wanted no part of it. Her eyes darted angrily up at the bitter Montana sky. Small and fragile as they were, they shone in utter defiance of the pitiless and frozen heavens. The stars, impossibly beautiful, winked down at her mockingly, as she kicked the back of the old, stuck Ford pickup truck.
    “No way out,” she said to herself. The screen door banged itself shut in the bitter wind, but nary a cat nor a mouse nor anything else stirred. The cows were locked in the barn, as were the horses. No news came now, from anywhere, since the car battery, which powered the car radio, which was the only working radio at present, had died. The phone line was out as well, so she would hear no word from her husband Tim either.
    Tim was a trucker, interstate of course, and there was no tellin’ how he was farin’ in all this. Then again, truckers usually made out OK, if they had any sense at all. Still, that was small comfort, since Sheila was essentially cut off from any possible aid, should she need it.
    Back in the house, an ample supply of wood for the old stove was indeed comforting, for it was bad-assed weather to be choppin’ any. She kept the fire roaring, and sat down at the little wooden kitchen table, near the only window. Her eyes still flashed in anger at the limitless, limiting sky. She placed a quilt over her legs, and opened a book of photos, a scrapbook.
    There, before her dark eyes, was all the history she would ever need. Her first child, William, now halfway through Harvard, and hardly ever came back. And Sandy, Sandra Dee Cummings, much like her mother, a farm wife, but several hundred miles away, across the Rockies. With no phone working, and in this wild weather, there would be no word from her, either.
    There they were, baby pictures right on through school and marriage. Two cute kids grown big and independent. And Tim, well... his independence was a given. Don’t let any man fool you, she thought; driving a truck is for those who can’t settle down.
    This would have made Sheila a farm wife without a farmer, except it wasn’t really a farm. They didn’t grow anything, just kept a few head of livestock, and tried occasionally to grow wheat or corn to feed them, but there was never anyone around to harvest it, so the crop usually died, if it got planted at all.
    The wind was really howling now, and Sheila pulled back the thick curtains to peer out. Snow whipped up in banshee spirals, and everything that could move was in motion. Her eyes showed something other than defiance now, there was a hint of fear. She stared out for a long time, and occasionally it seemed like there was another howling, hidden within the wind.
    “Hore-shit!” she said aloud, “No wolves around here, not a one!” But she peered further out into the snow-covered landscape, scanning the horizon for something she knew was impossible. After a while, she closed the curtain and got up to brew some coffee, muttering to herself. Only in a God-forsaken place like this would a 37 year old woman be seen talking to herself.
    The leader of the wolf-pack was a solid grey color, with eyes intense and beautiful, fixed intently on the light in the window of the farmhouse a mile or so below. There were eight others, almost in formation upon the Eastern ridge overlooking the valley below. They had quit howling now, and instead sat quietly in the cold, watching the farmhouse, waiting for a sign from the Old Grey One.
    He moved casually forward and down the mild slope coming off the ridge. He never took his eyes off the light in the window, and he paid no heed whatsoever to the rest of the pack, yet they followed him, none daring to step out ahead.
    Sheila went to the radio with her coffee, and tried it futily, knowing full well it would not work. It didn’t. She went back to the chair and tried to read something she was not that fond of. Now the wind seemed to be reaching some kind of climax, the highest of pitches. Things rattled and shook, things that needed and should have had repairs. Thank God the house itself was secure, she thought.
    There was another sound now, a scraping and scuffling, a snuffling too. Just outside it was, barely audible, yet somehow she knew... she knew exactly what it was. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she stood up to face the only door. It wasn’t a dog, or a bear... it couldn’t possibly be wolves, but it was... it really was. And Sheila felt very much alone, and very very frightened. Yet it never occurred to her to get Jim’s gun from off the wall.
    She fell asleep with the gas lantern near the bed, fearing the dire wolves more than the danger of fire. In the night, she dreamt of a dark, dark man, with burning coals for eyes. He glared at her without pity, and in the end, he came for her, and she submitted, knowing full well there was no escape.
    The morning was clear and cold, the stars flickered and died like tinsel in a fire. The wolves had gone, but there was a single set of large canine tracks leading away from the door to the ridge. One had stayed all night, she realized, and all the other tracks had been covered by the blowing snow. Her mind moved forward like gears in a clock. The man in her dream, and the wolf, were one and the same. He had come for her, and he was no ordinary wolf. Now the fear she still felt was mixed with excitement, with fascination, and other things. That night she watched the moon rise crystal clear over the barn, and even dared to step outside. There was no sign of them. For three more nights she kept watch, almost yearning for the chilling howls she knew would bring them back, bring him back. But they did not return.
    The night’s wall crumbled inward as the talcum sky raced forward into another day. The bright lovely blue sky rained little wispy white clouds sideways across the Nebraska landscape. Tim was headin’ home. The storm had blown over, and the roads were plowed off pretty good. He had spent two nights in a motel waiting for it to clear up, ‘cause it just didn’t pay to drive in such weather. Stretches of the Interstate had shut down anyway, so he had no choice. Now, however, he was anxious to get back and check on Sheila. She was stranded, he knew, because he had tried to call her, and the News as well as the CB both had described Montana as an ice box, clamped down and cut off.
    Tim knew Sheila had plenty of supplies at the “farm”, but that didn’t set him much at ease. A woman cut off alone in a blizzard is not a good thing, as far as he was concerned. And he had a good eight hours of driving ahead, even pushing the limit most of the way, which he would, if the roads were clear enough. So Tim barreled the big semi back toward the Montana line as the afternoon sun glared across the snow-drifted country. It was quite a wonderland, all right. And a deadly one to get caught out in, thought Tim. It was still only ten degrees, that much hadn’t changed. Bone-chillin’ Midwest fuckin’ weather. The wind had eased off for now, bringing the chill factor possibly above zero. Tim tried not to feel nervous about Sheila, but he did anyway. He eased the truck up to eighty, the fastest he dared go with patches of ice and packed snow still on the highway. He pushed it hard all afternoon, even slidin’ a little a couple of times. You start slidin’ in a semi, an empty one at that, he thought, and oftentimes you kept on slidin’, until you hit sumthin’.
    Tim hit Montana about four PM, and the sun was already setting. Late November it was, and the first big storm of the season. There was more snow here; it blew across the highway and forced him to slow to seventy, and even that was high. It was an eerie, snowbound wilderness, but Tim had seen it like this many times. If you didn’t want this kinda stuff, you didn’t have to live up here, he always said. Actually, everyone says that in Montana, and in five or six neighboring states as well. It could be rough on a family, though. He was glad Sandy was out of the storm’s path, and William... he was settin’ in some brew-pub with his cronies, sippin’ expensive ales. Tim was proud of William.
    “Better than this fuckin’ life,” he muttered. Still... he liked the freedom.
    Tim was less than an hour from home now, and he felt an excitement. Sort of like nervous, but different. He threw her into a lower gear as the semi crested a little hill and the road veered to the right. Over this hill he’d be able to see the flat country where he and Sheila lived, although he wouldn’t see the farm for another twenty minutes or so.
    Something darted out into the road from the right. It looked like a large grey dog. Tim swerved and hit the brake at the same time. He was a dog-lover. The semi slid in the dry snow that blanketed the highway, and he knew he’d lost it. It’s not hard to know if you’ve been drivin’ a while, which he had. Damage control was the name of the game at this point. He tried to straighten the rig out, to aim it somewhere soft, but it went straight off the embankment, jack-knifing and then rolling over on it’s side. The cab was crushed against the road, and so was Tim. His last image, before he blacked out, was of a large grey animal, running off across the snow. Tim never woke up. He died quickly, and without much pain... alone.

part 2 available now - return to postings list
copyright 1997-2004
Penrose (W.S.Rose)

The Driftwood Mermaid - part 1

    Tommy’s mother hated the sunrise... the soul-killing, eye-stabbing light of day. She turned over in her too-small bed and pulled the curtains shut. She had no patience with the light... she was an alcoholic.
    Every day she rose as late as possible and bought a quart of Gin, as soon as possible. Then she would drag her fat old middle-aged arse down to the beach, and would hide the bottle in her little beach-basket.
    Tommy went to school in the morning. He knew what his Mom did all day, and he made his own breakfast. Tommy is ten years old. He is in the fifth grade. Some of the other kids know about Tommy’s mom, and sometimes they kid him in cruel fashion. He doesn’t feel too hurt when this happens; sometimes when a pain is that big, you may feel nothing at all.
    Tommy’s mom dug her lounge-chair into the hot New Jersey sand, and settled her unlovely body into it. She has a cup that fits in her purse, and from this she always drank, and always Gin, or nearly always. By late afternoon she was soused beyond reason, her hair mussed by the ocean wind, eyes fearful to behold. In this state she would spend the hot afternoons, neither reading, nor ever nearing the cool water, nor heeding nor mindful of passing hot-dog humanity. Her world was aloof from the one surrounding her. In God-knows what sordid space, she dwelt within.
    Tommy wished to be an Engineer. Not a train driver, silly... a Mechanical Engineer. He studied hard, and anxiously waited for High School, when he could start applying at the fine American colleges. MIT... Rensselaer... Cal Tech... names he had read about in the library. He would need a scholarship, because there would be no money. His mother would obviously not be of much help. His father... not much to say there. Gone, gone, forever gone, a long time ago. Called his mom a dirty whore and walked out on both of them. No reason to... she never did anything. He was a sorry asshole, and Tommy wished he could miss him, but he didn’t have it in him.
    Tommy saw a strange thing last night. He had walked down to the beach after making a sandwich for himself (mom was sleeping it off). He walked along in the sand, kicking anything that was in his path. He had felt angry all day. A young punk had mocked him again, saying something about his mom, and Tommy didn’t slug him because he was a gigantic sixth grader. So he felt ashamed, sad, and mad all at once.
    Tommy liked his mom. She wasn’t really like a mother; it’s a wonder they didn’t starve. The house was paid off, or they’d have been on the streets by now. She wasn’t very friendly anymore, either, yet she had been different once. Before his father left, that is. She used to be very funny, and even now sometimes she’d smile at him, in a way that said: “I love you, under all this crap.” Tommy knew she did, he felt it. But she was a lousy mom, no denying that!
    He looked up at the bright clear stars, and watched the waves crash in in curving lines along the beach. Tommy liked to walk right at the edge of the incoming surf, to watch the complex curving patterns. Water and sand. And he liked to look at the little lights he saw sometimes in the breaking wave faces. He called them “surf lights”. They were like little fairies in the water, maybe some trick of the moonlight. A glittering sparkle, little points of light that flickered briefly in the wave, then vanished as the wave crested. They weren’t always there, but they were there tonight.
    Tommy thought of them as little pixies, friends for him to play with. He was a lonely kid, and he knew it. He only spoke to his mom in the morning, briefly if at all. And her tone was rarely pleasant these days. He wasn’t very good at making friends at school, either. He was afraid to let anyone in close, because of his family situation, or lack thereof. And so, Tommy studied hard, and lived in fantasy as much as possible. And when he thought he saw something move in the water, he wasn’t really surprised at first. He saw lots of things in the “fantasy mode”, and tonight he was in it. But when it grew larger, and reappeared twice more, Tommy did a double-take and realized it was something real.
    It was a mermaid. She came almost to the water’s edge, and supporting herself somehow in the shallows, she stared at Tommy. The crashing waves kept him from getting closer than about twenty feet, but he edged right up to the surf, not feeling afraid. She had long black hair, and a lovely, child-like, exotic looking face. He felt her eyes were green, although he couldn’t see that. She moved very gracefully, even half out-of-water, and Tommy stood quietly, seeing the most wondrous thing in all his young life. Then, within his mind, he heard her speak, although her mouth did not open, and her lips did not move. Yet he could see her smiling as she spoke:

part 2 available now - return to postings list
copyright 1997 - 2004
Penrose (W.S.Rose)