Tag: short fiction

Posted on

The Devil

As Halloween approaches, I’ve decided to bring some of my seasonal stories back “from the grave,” so to speak. This one was from October of 2022. Although strictly fictional, it is based in part on some real events, attitudes, and behavior.

You’d be hard-pressed to find any seafarer, fisherfolk, or plain coastal types without some horror tale on the water. It just goes with the territory; salt water envelopes most of the world and is dangerous. 

Lurking beneath that calm tropical paradise you’ve vacationed in are currents, tides, rips, rocks, tidal flats, and reefs. These might all be known hazards, but that doesn’t mean that they are less deadly. Circumstances and bad luck can be the dividing line between inconvenience and tragedy. And that’s just the stuff you can make plans to avoid or correct.

There’s just a ton of stuff you can’t plan for: rogue waves, sudden squalls, or engine failures that put you at risk on lee shores. Then there are collisions with unseen objects and illness at sea. I could go on, but I think you get the idea. It’s no wonder that hidden in every sailor is a tiny little superstitious knot. It might not be as apparent as a refusal to sail on a Friday. Or no bananas on board, or not whistling while you set sail, but it’s there. But without a doubt, the most dangerous element at sea will always be the human element.

Name Changes? Oh No.

Where I lived on the coast, it was considered bad luck to change the name of a boat. But, if you did, many boatyards followed procedures that seemed more like heathen rituals. They sure didn’t come from anything Baptist, Catholic, Congregationalist, or Methodist.

Libations would be poured to Neptunas Rex and Davy Jones. Coins under the masts would be added. After repairs, they are carefully put back or eliminated in exchange for a completely new set. And of course, the boat would be thoroughly cleaned fore and aft. Sometimes this would not be enough.

Thrice Warned

One of the Allens from over to the cape purchased a very smart lobster boat third-hand. He did this against his wife, father, and brother’s wishes. He’d been thrice warned.

The boat had started life as a workhorse lobster boat built by a well-known builder out of Boothbay. She’d worked the waters of the mid-coast for years as the Hattie Carroll. Then, about 1974, she’d been sold to a New York City Banker. He had her gutted and fixed up as a fancy boat to tour clients around during the summer. She was what we call a lobster yacht these days. 

Then, without any to do, he’d had a signmaker slap some vinyl letters on her. The new name was ” The Cheek Of The Devil” in a fancy script. The boatyard had suggested that a bit of ceremony would be nice. But he wanted what he wanted, so he got it. No ceremony, but it was the talk of the harbor. Using the Devil in a boat’s name was not typical and not thought lucky.

He didn’t enjoy his boat long. A fire started offshore, and all aboard went into the bay. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been enough floatation devices aboard for all the guests, so he yielded his floatation vest and drowned. 

The boat survived with severe fire damage but was salvaged and put up for sale.

The Devil

She lay in Spinney’s yard for two years before being sold. I wouldn’t know if the reason was the fire, the owner’s death, the name, or a combination of all three. But she sat in the back of the yard, nevertheless. To locals, it was the Devil.  That should have been enough to discourage any local from buying it. 

History and name suggested that nothing but ill luck was involved in that boat. Wash it in a bathtub of holy water from Saint Jerome’s, or do whatever hocus pocus you wish, and none of that would help. My father-in-law, the Cap’n, put it succinctly enough, ” I wouldn’t allow any of my kin to sit in its shadow, much less step aboard.”

Lobster Boat Races

The Devil sat there until Jacob Allen went looking for a cheap boat with fast lines that he could pour a high-power engine into for lobster boat racing. The Devil fit the bill. And over a long Maine winter, he worked to rebuild the boat into his dream of a fast racer. 

During the spring, his trial runs seemed to indicate that he’d be a contender in any race he entered. Unfortunately, Jacob was not the type to go full speed ahead, only at a race. He’d run circles around other lobster boats in the local harbor gang he belonged to. He took pleasure in almost swamping small craft he considered to be in his way. Jacob wasn’t well-liked.

Jacob was known to infringe on the territories of nearby lobstermen. He was closely watched until, one day, he was caught. The first time you get caught, you will likely pull your traps and find a half hitch in your line. It’s a warning that your trespass has been noted. Do it again, and the penalties will go up. 

The Devil proved as successful as Jacob believed it would, and victory was frequent. Now I do not know how plush the prizes are these days, but back then, it was peanuts. You raced for the joy and pleasure of it. Jacob also raced because he loved to rub other skippers’ noses in how fast the Devil was. In a family of quiet Mainers, he inherited all the ego.

Thief

I was helping out at Spinney’s boat yard that September. It was time to be hauling out summer people’s boats, and I overheard Spinney talking to my father-in-law, the Cap’n. They both agreed that Jacob was heading for a fall. They quieted down when I walked up. But it was common knowledge that Jacob had been robbing traps, and something was bound to happen.

Things get slower as the weather gets colder. Lobstermen spend more time repairing and making new lobster pots ( or traps), repairing their gear, and taking care of their boats. But on Halloween morning, the blast rocked the entire harbor as the Devil blew up with Jacob Allen aboard. The official report said Jacob had ignited a puddle of gasoline while starting his boat. A death by misadventure, I guess. But knowing people understood that Jacob Allen had been a scrupulous man in caring for his boat.

Murder was suspected but never proven. There wasn’t enough of the Devil or Jacob Allen left for much of an inquest. Just the mutterings of people about the enemies he’d had, and someone finally canceling a grudge hard.

At the coffee shop in the morning, there were comments about how the boat had been ill-fated from the start. Then, more quietly, someone muttered that the Devil had certainly known his own.

Posted on

Baby do I feel high

Written for No Theme Thursday: 7/3/25

“Dry Martini, jigger of gin, Oh what a spell you have me in, Oh my, do I feel high!…”

The song was a request, and I struggled with it. It was just within my vocal range with a few careful adjustments. Afterward, there was a patter of applause from the audience. I’d used the Jazz-style standby for the closing number of my last set for the night. I was peeling out to go to Doug’s for a party. No stopping at Rienzi’s or the Minetta. Doug always stocked the best, and playing at his parties allowed me to eat and drink way above my pay level as a starving Basket House folksinger.

The scene at Doug’s was all uptown types out for a Friday night of slumming in the “exciting Greenwich Village.” Josh Cohen would be on hand to give an authentic Beatnik touch to the evening with his poetry reading. Good booze, food, Beatnik poet, and Folkie guitarist. The straights could go to work on Monday and talk all about how they had consorted with the hip world of the Village. A wee touch of the wild side to brighten up your staid middle-class style. A little coffee break conversation to tune up the day.

Around two a.m. I made contact with Sheila, she wrote copy for an ad agency, and cornered me for the rundown on all the lingo we used. She thought she could use it for an ad campaign. After my final set, she and I made the scene in Doug’s spare bedroom. Maybe I’d see you again, babe. But right now I gotta split.

On my way out, I grabbed my pay from Doug, a dime note. Not bad for free eats, drinks, and entertainment. Doug and I flipped the grip (shook hands) and I went back to my pad for z’s.

About a week later, Sheila and I both went in to see the doc for shots and a pill for a bit of the “drip, drip, clap, clap.” I thought I would work it into a song I was writing about life in the Village. Sheila thought it was cool, but wanted me to write a song about her. After she left, I looked through my love songs for one in which I could replace a two-syllable girls name with Sheila’s.

A week later, Sheila told me that the song was”endearing”, but we were over. That night I was back at the Cafe Why Not singing songs about lost love. Later at Rienzi’s, my sometimes squeeze, Sue, wanted to know who dumped me. She laughed at my anguish and noted that it hadn’t stopped me from eying that redhead in the front row at my last set. Hearing this Louie Lefkowitz pulled out his harp and began playing Mr. Jelly Roll Baker. I picked up my guitar and started singing an playing:

Hey, Mr Jelly Roll Baker, can I be your slave
When I’m dead and gone, I’m gonna rise up from the grave
For your sweet jelly roll, the best jelly roll in town
You’re the only man baking, and I’m gonna keep my damper down

Sometime around two, we got serious.

Posted on

A Close Shave

Written for the The New, Unofficial, On-line Writer’s Guild prompt

Navy barbers only knew one cut. Beg them to leave a little on the top, and you’d have pattern baldness at age 18. Insult the quality of the cut, and it would be like tossing their favorite razor on the sidewalk. These skills did not make them great candidates for becoming hairdressers, stylists, or even plain barbers after their enlistments.

Walk into his barber shop, and you’d see Buel’s Plank Owners certificate on the wall as well as the dearly beloved photo of him shearing his way through the locks of an entire recruit company at Boot Camp. Most of us former enlisted quake with dread seeing this photo. It’d be a cold and lonely day before I’d sit down in that chair. But needs drive.

Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits!

That day, we had a sacred duty. Claire had begged and pleaded with us to get Harry’s ten-inch locks sheared before the wedding. Her parents were en route to Boston from Idaho. Her father was already prepared to kill Harry for getting his only daughter preggo, and delivered of a beautiful grandchild. But Harry had avoided wedded bliss, and only reluctantly was willing to toe the line of matrimony. This did not include a shave and a haircut. So we were asked to help.

Our duty? to get this single father shorn in time for the wedding. Claire believed this act of appeasement would calm her father and please her mother. To do this, we took Harry first to the Harvard Gardens for an early stag party, one without any girls, but plenty of beer. Then, promising him an exclusive with the premier stylist in the entire Boston area for a “trim and styling”.

We walked him down towards South Boston to where Buel had his establishment within sight of the Navy’s Fargo Building ( ahhh, old memories). We didn’t have to prop him up much at all. He was still happy and out of it when we arrived at Buel’s—sitting him down in the barber chair, I greeted Buel in a familiar way, “Hey Chief, my buddy needs a trim. Could you leave a little on top?”

The Wedding and Aftermath

The wedding service was beautiful. Claire’s parents were enchanted during the ceremony when Harry, all of a sudden, seemed to snap into focus, start crying profusely, and run his hands through the very short stubble that was all Buel left on top. Everyone assumed it was a sign of forthcoming marital bliss. Claire just clutched her beloved closer.

Harry remained vague on how he had gone to a stag party with long locks, mustache, and beard, but wound up at the wedding shorn almost bald. Rather than enlighten him, we left the reception early. That night we drank for free at the Harvard Gardens with our friends who wanted to hear the story of Harry and Buel’s hair cut.

Posted on

Victrix

It was just the tiniest little sigil. The legend LEGIO XIV under a Capricorn could faintly be made out with a magnifying glass. Around it centered one of the bits of family lore. According to my great-grandfather, our family’s founder marched out of Pannonia in the early fifth century with the remnants of the famous XIV Legion. Described as the twinned legion and as Martia Victrix, it had been founded in Cisalpine Gaul by Julius Caesar. The Legion endured centuries of service. Then, at the final collapse of the West, he and his friends escaped as a tiny remnant.

The remnant, a bare company of legionaries serving as marines on the Danube, fought their way free with their dependents. Barely forty strong, the group was small enough to slip through the chaos. But it was large enough to fight even a larger, but less organized, barbarian grouping. Over the years, they straggled westward and reached the western borders of old Hispania, and what would become known as Provence. There they settled.

Pax Optima Est

By the tenth century the family was centered in what was becoming the County of Barcelona. Family members were among those who joined as mercenaries in the adventures of the Great Catalan Company in the Byzantine Empire. Only a few returned to tell the tales of plunder, betrayal, victory, and defeat from Asia Minor to Athens. They were victors and victims.

Thereafter, the family motto was a modest one: “Pax Optima Est.”

After centuries of warlike professions, they now leaned towards being jewelers, mariners, gardeners, carvers, and other trades. From the Costa Brava, they embarked on a dispersion that first took them to Cuba, Puerto Rico, and on to New York.

Always, the little sigil was passed on. The stories told, and the history repeated as though it were a magic incantation. Every Christmas time at the family party, a senior family member would direct a dedication of a portion of the evening’s feast to those who had hungered on the long march home. An empty place at the table was always set for one who might be a late arrival to the party.

The force of tradition

There were few, if any, mentions of the family tradition in any other month. Many outside the family didn’t believe that there was any power in the curious family customs. But the curious ritual seemed to hold the family together through the generations. This year, the sigil has come to our household, as part of the migratory circuit of ritual binding us all together.

Once again, all of us, women, men, and children, will stand in a line stretching back to our distant ancestors. My grandfather has told me that on occasion, the power of our love and dedication can make our past, present, and future material. A line unbroken by time.

The family legend continues.

Posted on

Lothario

It’s true. I coulda have been a contenda, I could have been someone. Instead, I’m running for my life! Oh, if I could only undo the error.

I had broken up with the girl of my dreams, and instead of tossing myself onto the rocks, I tossed myself into the arms of a series of short-term relationships. Alma, Suzette, Jena, Karen and Claire. It was wicked, and I loved every moment. My Ex called wanting to reunite. I chortled and told her of my excesses.

A few of my friends staged an intervention. Over coffee one morning, they warned me that I could not keep up with the physical demands. I insisted that it was a great sacrifice, but I was willing to make it. As the aroma of fresh coffee wafted about, I was warned that it wouldn’t end well.

Then, through casual correspondence, the girl of my dreams met Jena, who then contacted her friend Maria, who knew Alma. Before too long, there was another intervention, of a less pleasant variety. Soon, I made other sacrifices I was less willing to make.

Afterward, there was an awkward period where I couldn’t find a girl who’d date me. The terms Lothario and Lecher were bandied about.

I’d learned my lesson. Don’t let your girlfriends talk to each other.

Posted on

Wrong Man, Wrong Woman, Wrong Time

I had a nightmare the other night. It was many years ago, and I was younger. I was at a dance. In those days, I commonly fell for women who were poorly suited for me. And I tended to meet those for whom I was poorly suited. The results were some pretty sensual, but explosive relationships, thankfully far in my past.

But last night I had this very disturbing dream, and had to write about it. The past is never quite done with us.

I saw her. She was about ten feet away, had long, softly flowing dark blonde hair, diamond earrings, and perfect makeup. She was about five feet five inches tall and sleek, as always. Her face was animated, and she knew how to use her body to express herself.

As she turned towards me, I felt a shock of recognition, attraction, and fear.
No, I had never seen her before that night, but I had seen her many times over the years.

I steered away as fast as I possibly could. I caught a questioning glance cast my way from her. It seemed to say, “Have we met before?” I did not want to say the obvious, “yes many times, and the results have always been tragic.” I moved away further.

If some things are fated, we are fated to meet – slowly move together – dance a dance of careful seduction – melt into one another – clash, and then explosively separate, leaving shards of broken dreams behind.

That’s why I fled. I’ve paid the price several times; you have too. You move on to other lovers, as I do. – We stare at each other over the years- not ever quite over, but never together again.

Wrong man, wrong woman, wrong time

Posted on

Strange Love

Daily writing prompt
Can you share a positive example of where you’ve felt loved?
View all responses

Love does not always turn out to be what you get, want, or expect.

I was on a road trip to see Sophie for a surprise visit in October 1965. I’d hitched up from Boston to Montreal to surprise her at college. Her roommates were in on the plan and told me it was incredibly romantic for me to come all that way for a surprise visit. For me, it was an attempt to deepen a relationship that had started during the summer but became hung up on the long-distance nature of me in Boston and her in Montreal. The trip was an attempt on my part to show that the distance was not that great where love was involved.

The roommates had set up a meet spot at one of the campus coffeehouses. I arrived at the appointed time. An excited Sophie seemed surprised and pleased. After I arrived, the roommates retreated to another table, leaving us to talk, hold hands, and rather chastely kiss. The visit was everything I hoped it would be.

*a young woman with two toddlers in tow and a baby carriage walks in. She begins screaming and yelling, “There you are, you no good bum, you deadbeat dad!” I felt sorry for whoever got this treatment until she rolled the carriage up to our table and said, “I’m talking to you, Wes Carson! Jenny and Mark are hungry, and poor Todd hasn’t seen Daddy in, God knows, how long!”

The furious tirade continued without stopping. I put my hands up to protest and loudly claimed I had no idea who she or her children were. But the abuse continued. It was clear that she was enthusiastic about abusing me. Sophie was looking at me like I was a monster. Behind her, at the next table, her roommates were in hysterics. Sophie now picked up the tirade of how awful a father I was, a bigamist, an adulterer, and so on. I began to look for the closest exit to make a getaway before someone decided to attack me physically. Then the woman with the kids started laughing, the roommates began laughing, and I started getting mad. Sophie stopped amid her accusations, looked confused, confronted her roommates, and laughed.

It had been a terrible practical joke, and the round of apologies started flowing. Sophie seemed incredibly amused. I was just silent. I cinched up my pack, zipped up my jacket, and began to go. “Wait, Wes, can’t you take a joke? It was in bad taste, but nothing was meant by it.”

I turned, pulled out my wallet, and took out a thick stack of fresh bills. It was almost all ones, but it certainly looked like a lot of money. I began peeling them off one by one until a respectable pile was in my hand. Then I loudly stated, “Thanks for everything, Sophie, but your services won’t be needed tonight. Take this for your troubles.” I then tossed the money at her, turned, and walked out.

The screams started immediately; how dare I suggest that Sophie was for hire? I laughed all the way back to the train station.

  • As you may suspect, this did not happen to me. But something very similar happened to a friend. The girls had seen something like it on TV and thought pulling it on a friend of mine would be a hoot. You could say that it “remodeled” and reshaped my friend’s levels of trust. It took a few years for him to trust a girlfriend again. We were all part of the gang that hung around at the Harvard Gardens in the old days, and one friend later told me that he always told the story to prospective girlfriends. He cooled the relationship as fast as possible if they laughed too loudly at it. But I’ve always felt that turning it around on the other sex was just as revealing. Reveling in someone else’s misery and discomfort is a plain awful thing to do to anyone.
Posted on

The Phobia

“Haunted wind chimes? First, it was the ripples on the water, then the stirring of leaves. What gives, Frank?” Frank looked uneasy. Being this far away from his apartment in the city was having an ill effect on him. Looking over at Sadie, he smiled. “It’s nothing, Babe. I’m just not used to being out in the country.”

She smiles. “Out in the country? This is Central Park in New York.

He grimaced. “Okay, I have a severe case of Acrophobia—fear of moving air and wind. It always makes me feel like I’ll be blown away, and I’ll be in a situation where I can’t touch the ground as I float out over the Hudson to New Jersey! Are you happy?” “Frank, why would I be happy that you have a serious problem. Is this why you work just two blocks from where you live?”

“Sadie, you have no idea how hard it is to travel on the subway where gusts of wind always blow through the tunnels or sit in the air conditioner draft in the one bar that’ll give me credit. I continually fear being blown away. Being in the vast openness like this makes it worse.”

“I’m sorry, Frank. I study psychology at Columbia, right? Well, you have Casadastraphobia, the fear of falling into the sky. And evidently, there is more than a touch of Agoraphobia too – fear of open places,” Frank looked closely at Sadie. An uncomfortable silence fell. Then he said, “I think this date was a bad idea. Before it, I only had one fear; thanks to you, I have three. The more I think of it, though, I worry now that I’ll develop a fourth, a fear of Psychologists, and a fifth to cover them all – Phobiophobia, a fear of phobias. “

He reached back, pulled up the hood of his hoodie, deployed his umbrella, and, facing into the breeze like a hurricane, carefully trudged back to his apartment. The night sky loomed so large above him.

Posted on

Blue in the Corners

When I left El Paso, I was roaring drunk. The entire trip had been a frolicking detour to see an old Navy buddy and his wife. The visit had been too much of a success to some extent. I’d met up with Shara, fallen fast, and could not get up. 

Years later, an old Patti Smith song would start flashbacks. Because The Night is still not a song I can easily listen to, snatches of memory come back: Shara painting in her studio, me telling her that the portrait of me she was doing needed more blue in the shadows, and the bottles of tequila lined up like dead soldiers.

What came together so rapidly decayed just as fast—the fights and accusations. It was like nasty scenes from Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton’s movie Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf. I found myself drunk, on the road with only my pack and guitar. I headed back to the east coast in one fantastic hell ride with some dude who must have been transporting. But I was beyond caring.

So it was a surprise last week. I was hanging around the local Barnes and Noble, browsing magazines. I opened the most recent Arts Quarterly and found my face staring out at me. Shara had put more blue in the shadows.

Posted on

Sweet Harmony

I gave up on Harmony sometime in 1965. She was beautiful, Beaudacious, and sexy. She also gave me, and my three roomates the “crabs.” Yes she was seeing all three of us on different nights. It was A-200 Pryinate for a week, wash all the laundry multiple times, and hope the the crabs were all she gave us.
She thought we were being rather draconian in breaking it off with her. But it was that damned nickname she gave us that settled it. You’d have thought she could come up with one for each of us, but calling all three “Boopsy” was just the final straw. We all loved Harmony, but we couldn’t accept that.

You could say that for the sake of harmony around the house, we gave up Harmony.