And I'm seeking opinions. I don't think that I have it in me
to write a novel, but a story from time to time about a character
that I call Max. I'm kinda hoping that I might develop this thing
and maybe sell a few stories when I retire (which ain't gonna be
too many years from now).
Max is not a hermit, but a recluse. He's a Vietnam vet and for
several reasons, checked out. He inherited a substantial sum of money
and a section of land in the Kiamichi Mountains of SE Oklahoma and at
this point, has been living alone there for over 30 yrs. This little
vignette would have occurred around 2005. Lyndol owns an adjoining
piece of land and Kate is Max's dog.
Oh... Not proofed, please overlook spelling, format and punctuation.
What Year is This?
Lyndol hobbled up the steps to the porch and plopped down into the empty rocker. He had bad ankles and was out of breath. He had been a dedicated smoker since his early teens. “Dang, Max – you look bad. You’re as pale as my underused wienie and you’ve lost weight.” Lyndol said after he had regained his breath.
“It was a rainy winter. I didn’t get much sunshine and I’ve not been eating the way I should. I’ve grown weary of my own cooking.”
“No, I mean it. You really ought to consider seeing a doctor.”
“You know better than to suggest such a thing to me. Let’s talk about something else.” Max leaned over the arm of his rocking chair and pulled a tick off Kate’s ear.
“Alright then – what topic suits you this fine morning?” Lyndol asked.
Max squashed the tick between his thumbnails before answering. “What year is this?”
Lyndol thought he had misheard Max. His ears were failing right along with all his other body parts. “Did I hear you right? Did you just ask me what year is this?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you asking me that now? For thirty years you’ve insisted that you don’t want to know. Hell, you even make me park at the creek and walk the rest of the way to the house – for fear that you might see my license plate with the year on it.”
“There’s a purpose for the question, Lyndol, there’s a reason behind everything I do.”
“Why, it’s 2005, and the date is March the third. What else would you like to know, since you’ve suddenly become so ****ed inquisitive?”
Max pursed his lips and looked off in the direction of the horse trap. “What seems to be the main focus of the world right now? I guess the better way of putting would be… What is the State of the Union?”
“Well, we’re at war again.” Lyndol answered. “I expect that doesn’t surprise you though.”
“Where are we fighting the godless communists now?” Max asked.
“Iraq, and it ain’t communists”
“Why are we fighting in Iraq?”
“A bunch of Arabs hijacked some passenger planes and flew them into some skyscrapers in New York City. They dive-bombed one into the Pentagon too, killed a whole lot of people”
“If it was Arabs – why Iraq and not Arabia?”
“The people running things say that Iraq is a breeding ground for terrorists. A terrorist is – “
Max interrupted, “I know what a terrorist is, Lyndol, I nearly married one – remember? Was Debra Jan driving one of those airplanes?”
Lyndol chuckled. “No, she wasn’t no Arab, she was a Choctaw Indian mixed with French. But she is dead though.”
“What happened to her? Tell me about it.”
“Her third husband killed her. He shot her on the dance floor of the Texoma Club. He walked in, snatched her out of the arms of the cowboy she was dancing with, spun her around and drilled her right between those perfect titties with a Colt Python .357, killed her forever dead.”
Lyndol continued, “You didn’t know the husband. He was from out of state. Hack Welch was DA at the time. Hack knew he couldn’t win a jury trial, it would have been impossible to impanel twelve people that didn’t know her. He offered the man a plea, five years in MaCalester. He took the deal. Nobody’s seen or heard from him since. I think that occurred in 1984. Yeah, that’s when it was, I had just bought a new truck.”
Max leaned over and said something to Kate that Lyndol couldn’t hear.
“That is some bad news, sure enough – the war part I mean. Debra was long overdue to get killed. What else has happened? Does it get worse?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’m braced.”
“Elvis died. He died in August, nineteen and seventy seven”.
Max had been sipping some whiskey from a tin cup while listening.
He choked. The whiskey went down the wrong pipe.
Thanks,
Bob Lee
to write a novel, but a story from time to time about a character
that I call Max. I'm kinda hoping that I might develop this thing
and maybe sell a few stories when I retire (which ain't gonna be
too many years from now).
Max is not a hermit, but a recluse. He's a Vietnam vet and for
several reasons, checked out. He inherited a substantial sum of money
and a section of land in the Kiamichi Mountains of SE Oklahoma and at
this point, has been living alone there for over 30 yrs. This little
vignette would have occurred around 2005. Lyndol owns an adjoining
piece of land and Kate is Max's dog.
Oh... Not proofed, please overlook spelling, format and punctuation.
What Year is This?
Lyndol hobbled up the steps to the porch and plopped down into the empty rocker. He had bad ankles and was out of breath. He had been a dedicated smoker since his early teens. “Dang, Max – you look bad. You’re as pale as my underused wienie and you’ve lost weight.” Lyndol said after he had regained his breath.
“It was a rainy winter. I didn’t get much sunshine and I’ve not been eating the way I should. I’ve grown weary of my own cooking.”
“No, I mean it. You really ought to consider seeing a doctor.”
“You know better than to suggest such a thing to me. Let’s talk about something else.” Max leaned over the arm of his rocking chair and pulled a tick off Kate’s ear.
“Alright then – what topic suits you this fine morning?” Lyndol asked.
Max squashed the tick between his thumbnails before answering. “What year is this?”
Lyndol thought he had misheard Max. His ears were failing right along with all his other body parts. “Did I hear you right? Did you just ask me what year is this?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you asking me that now? For thirty years you’ve insisted that you don’t want to know. Hell, you even make me park at the creek and walk the rest of the way to the house – for fear that you might see my license plate with the year on it.”
“There’s a purpose for the question, Lyndol, there’s a reason behind everything I do.”
“Why, it’s 2005, and the date is March the third. What else would you like to know, since you’ve suddenly become so ****ed inquisitive?”
Max pursed his lips and looked off in the direction of the horse trap. “What seems to be the main focus of the world right now? I guess the better way of putting would be… What is the State of the Union?”
“Well, we’re at war again.” Lyndol answered. “I expect that doesn’t surprise you though.”
“Where are we fighting the godless communists now?” Max asked.
“Iraq, and it ain’t communists”
“Why are we fighting in Iraq?”
“A bunch of Arabs hijacked some passenger planes and flew them into some skyscrapers in New York City. They dive-bombed one into the Pentagon too, killed a whole lot of people”
“If it was Arabs – why Iraq and not Arabia?”
“The people running things say that Iraq is a breeding ground for terrorists. A terrorist is – “
Max interrupted, “I know what a terrorist is, Lyndol, I nearly married one – remember? Was Debra Jan driving one of those airplanes?”
Lyndol chuckled. “No, she wasn’t no Arab, she was a Choctaw Indian mixed with French. But she is dead though.”
“What happened to her? Tell me about it.”
“Her third husband killed her. He shot her on the dance floor of the Texoma Club. He walked in, snatched her out of the arms of the cowboy she was dancing with, spun her around and drilled her right between those perfect titties with a Colt Python .357, killed her forever dead.”
Lyndol continued, “You didn’t know the husband. He was from out of state. Hack Welch was DA at the time. Hack knew he couldn’t win a jury trial, it would have been impossible to impanel twelve people that didn’t know her. He offered the man a plea, five years in MaCalester. He took the deal. Nobody’s seen or heard from him since. I think that occurred in 1984. Yeah, that’s when it was, I had just bought a new truck.”
Max leaned over and said something to Kate that Lyndol couldn’t hear.
“That is some bad news, sure enough – the war part I mean. Debra was long overdue to get killed. What else has happened? Does it get worse?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’m braced.”
“Elvis died. He died in August, nineteen and seventy seven”.
Max had been sipping some whiskey from a tin cup while listening.
He choked. The whiskey went down the wrong pipe.
Thanks,
Bob Lee
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