Boudreaux

“I’m not sure why I’m here. I dint do nuthin’”

“Well sir, if that proves to be true, you have nothing to worry about.”

“When can I leave?”

“Once you prove that you, as you say, ‘dint do nuthin’’.”

 “Sure, it be your show. Wha’chu wanna know?”

“Mr. Hebert, you want to talk about the Simonson girl?”

“Not sure what there is to talk about, I dint do nuthin’ to that girl.”

“But you know her?”

“Sure man, dat girl been on the block since she was jus’ a little wee one. You know, all dem kids they play in da street and in da empty lots. They even got themselves a fort over on Elm in dat big oak tree in the field ova’ by Chacharee’s place.”

“So you do know the Simonson girl?”

“Sure, I know her. She dat little pretty one with the silky brown hair, goes down her back in a long ol’ pony tail. She a real cute one dat girl.”

“Mr. Hebert, how well do you know the Simonson girl?”

“Call me Boudreaux, we may not be friends but dat no reason to not ac’ friendly. Marie Simonson, her daddy may not be Cajun, but her mamma be a bayou girl through and through, and little Marie, she take after her mamma, don’chu know.”

“How so Mr…”

“Boudreaux.”

“Boudreaux?”

“She got the olive skin and the dark eyes, and she already takin’ afta’ her momma, you know what I mean?”

“How so…Boudreaux?”

“Dat little girl got the fire in her blood dat make a man take notice. She what, only 11 I guess, but she already got her some woman titties, you know? She run home from the bus stop every day an’ I see her bouncing down the street. I think her’s gonna be bigger than her mamma’s and dat is sayin’ a lot, you know?”

“When was the last time you saw Marie Simonson?”

“Cain’t really say.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t rightly remember the exact day, the exact time.”

“Did you see her come home from school on Friday?”

“Ooh, yea sir, I do believe I did enjoy dat show on Friday. Bounce so nice they do, don’chu know? She was wearin’ her little shorty pants. They was so tight it was almost obscene, the way her little butt was showin’ out the bottom of her shorty pants. Little girls like dat, they shouldn’t be teasin’ dat way. They should be taught better at home than to prance around with their big woman-like titties and their cheeks showin’ out their shorty pants. The kids these days, they jus’ don’ know how to act anymore. I blame’s the parents.”

“Certainly.”

“She had to be taught some manners don’chu know? Cain’t be teasing a man like dat.”

“Of course not.”

“Man can only take so much teasin’, then it be time for action, you know?”

“Sure, I hear ya.”

“I’m getting’ tired. When can I leave?”

“Not for a while Boudreaux, not for a while.”

Copyright 2015 Barry Keller. All rights reserved.

Hollow

I should be feeling pain, I should, but I don't. I don't feel anything and I haven't in weeks, not since I came home early and found Joanie with my best friend and business partner, Carl. I lost my wife. I lost my job. I lost my meaning for living. They had had me completely fooled; I had no idea there was a problem in my marriage. Maybe...maybe that was part of the problem, that I didn't know something was wrong. How could I have been so sure about two people, the two people closest to me in all the world, and been so wrong?

 I can't eat, I can't sleep. I can't work, hell, I can barely function. Joanie filled my world with love and my partnership with Carl filled it with meaning and now both are gone, leaving me empty and hollow.

Copyright 2015 Barry Keller. All rights reserved.

Less Tasting

Matt pushed the cart through the crowded store as his friend Chris led the way, “Over here dude, the beer aisle. I know what would be great for the party; let’s get some Miller Lite!”

“Chris, seriously, why would you want to get Miller Lite?”

“Dude, it’s less filling and it tastes great!” taking a bow as he did so, as if he had just quoted Shakespeare.

“Chris, calm down for a minute and think about what you just said.” Chris looked at Matt, a confused expression on his face.

“First of all, you said it was less filling, how do you figure that?”

“It’s got less calories.”

“So, it is still 12 ounces of liquid and 12 ounces of liquid, no matter how many calories it has, will still fill your stomach up with 12 ounces of liquid.”

“But the calories…”

“Don’t make it any less filling, just less caloric.”

“But…but…” Chris looked like someone had just told him there was no Santa Claus.

“And secondly, you said it tastes great, and we both know that’s bullshit. It tastes like watered-down Miller and when was the last time you drank Miller?”

“Well, uh, I…hum, that is, ah…”

“Exactly, if watered-down Miller tasted great, everyone would be drinking Miller and nobody drinks Miller. So, it isn’t less filling and it doesn’t taste great.”

“So you pick the fucking beer then!”

“I will,” and Matt picked up a case of Hanger 24 Orange Wheat and set it down in the cart. “Let’s go get some chips.”

Chris now lagged behind Matt and the cart, the wind seemingly gone from his sails, his face a cross between dejection and concentration. Something was bugging him. He suddenly ran forward and grabbed the cart, bringing it to a halt. “Hold on a second, you’re trying to make me look stupid; ounces aren’t always the same size.”

“Of course they are, Chris. What are you thinking?”

“No, no, no man, you aren’t fooling me. An ounce of gold is real small like, but an ounce of something like balsa wood or cotton is much bigger, and, and it’s the same with lite beer.”

“Yeash, Chris, an ounce of gold is a different ounce than an ounce of beer.”

“No it’s not man; now you’re the stupid one. An ounce is an ounce.”

“Chris, an ounce of beer is a fluid ounce, it is a measurement of volume, of size, as in ounces in a cup or a quart. An ounce of gold is a measurement of weight, like ounces in a pound. They are not the same thing buddy.”

“Don’t fucking ‘buddy’ me, you asshole! I’m gonna have my own party so fuck you!”

As Chris stormed off Matt just shook his head and started looking at chips. At least Ruffles did have ridges. 

Copyright 2015 Barry Keller. All rights reserved.

One Cool Cat

He was the coolest dude in the room. The collar of his leather coat was up high, providing a backdrop for his face. The coat was open and the collection of gold chains around his next sparkled in the light of the club as they danced in the tufts of chest hair peaking out from his silk shirt. He wore a smug expression, accented by his five-o'clock shadow and dark piercing eyes.

He wore one gold earring, a subdued bit for him; he didn't want anything to take way from his hair. It was blonde and spiked and at first glance looked disheveled and unkempt, but on closer inspection, every spike was neatly configured and in synch with the spikes next to it for optimal effect. Under the colored lights of the club it looked like his head was a flaming mass as he strutted towards the bar. Every woman in the room had her eyes on him, wishing he was theirs, every man did too, wishing he would leave and now. He was one cool cat.

Copyright 2015 Barry Keller. All rights reserved.

Monster

The coaster was a monster, not in size but in the amount of physical damage inflicted on your body. The wooden skeleton, groaned and shook and twisted and bent as the cars made their way around the rusted and worn track. The first big turn approached and, as Billy watched the front cars rumble through the bank, he saw two pairs of sunglasses go flying off of screaming faces. His back was already feeling the effects of the pulsating track transferred through the coaster's wheels, chassis and seat and right into Billy's spine. Good lord, it is only the first turn. This was going to hurt.

Copyright 2015 Barry Keller. All rights reserved.

Freedom

It was dark but Jason and the others stealthily made their way through the orchard of pecan trees. The moon had already set and the sun was hours from rising, Jason was tired, they all were, but they kept on moving. There was no time to rest, who knew when the massas would notice they were gone and when the hounds would be put on their trail.

 Jason heard a stirring behind him, back the way they had come. What was that? Horses! It was horses. He began to run, passing the other slaves in his group, pushing his legs and his lungs harder and harder, separating from the group. They were following him, but that would not do, As he ducked through a line of underbrush, he turned sharply to the left and headed for some trees in that direction and was down in a gully when the others broke through and headed on in the direction he had been running. He followed the gully till he hit the trees then blew through them. Up ahead he heard rushing water. Coming through some overgrowth he found himself in midair, the ground gone and only a rapid river below!

 This was good! The water would pull him down the river and any hounds would lose his scent. If only Jason knew how to swim! They didn't teach their niggers to swim for just this reason. Harder to escape. The water was rapid and pulled Jason along. He flailed, He sunk. He arose. He took in huge gulps of air and even bigger gulps of water. He hit rocks and rolled off them. Whenever his feet hit something solid he pushed forward, always forward.

 His body smashed into a massive boulder and the air was knocked from his lungs. He spun over the top of the rock and fell head first into the raging river. His head careened into the river bottom and he flipped his legs over his head and pushed off, gasping as he made the surface! He flailed about, trying to stay afloat but he was sinking again, the water seemed deeper here. He was pulled under and hit another rock. Pushing off he found the surface again. Then his feet hit something and he pushed forward once again and he was out of it. The rushing water was behind him as he made his way to the shore.

 He collapsed on the shore in some thick weeds unable to move any further. Suddenly, off in the distance he heard a number of gunshots and his energy returned. He got to his feet and headed north. North was West Virginia. North was freedom.

Copyright 2015 Barry Keller. All rights reserved.

Eighty-Seven Miles

According to the crumpled paper in my hand, my life will change in eighty-seven miles. The blue line on the map clearly delineates my destination. I've been practicing what to say for days, months...hell, years; almost all my life really. I have always loved the feel of cool air blowing on my face, but the air conditioner is sending a chill across my shoulders and down my spine. Is it really the air, or the coming words that brings the feeling of unease? First impressions as they say...

Twenty-three years is a long time to wait; I have to get it just right. In my mind I practice some more.

"Ronald Stansky? My name is Melinda Connors. Samantha Connors is my mother and I'm your daughter. Nice to meet you." OH crap that sucks. Eighty-six miles to go; keep practicing. What's the worst that could happen?

Copyright 2015 Barry Keller. All rights reserved.