Thursday, April 2, 2020

Punk and Shorty, Post #113

Courtesy of
I have more Hawk, but it’s time for something new. The following is a little thing I put together this week. It has an air of innocence about it that our friend Curt Huntinghawk lost a long time ago. Enjoy.



          Shorty stretched out on the grass beside his best friend Punk., enjoying a lazy afternoon in their own private glen up in the foothills. A cooling breeze played in the pine and fir tops and occasionally dipped down to brush his face and bring the pleasing odor of wildflowers. One day he’d learn to tell the plants by their aroma, but this wasn’t the time for it. He’d lost his daddy this past month, and the sting of it hadn’t let up much. That was what was good bumming around with Punk. Older by half a year, Punk was there for support but never got nosy.
          “He died in heaven,” Shorty blurted suddenly without meaning to. That was what his older brother had said to him when Shorty asked what took Daddy.
          “What’s that?” Punk sounded half-asleep. Probably had been.
          “That’s what my brother said. Daddy died in heaven.”
          Punk sat up. “That don’t make sense. A fella dies to go to heaven.”
          “I know, but that’s what Oren said.”
          Punk didn’t answer, but he laid down, and Shorty knew he was puzzling over the thing. Pretty soon, his friend grunted. “Oh!”
          “Oh, what?”
          “Oh, I see,” Punk said.
          “See what?”
          “What Oren meant.”
          “You do? What did he mean?”
          “Him and your mom was doing it when the angels came for him.”
          “Doin’ it? You mean…?”
          “Yep. Screwin’.”
          Shorty’s gorge rose. He scrambled to his knees. “You stop that. My mom doesn’t do things like that.”
          Punk gave a howling laugh that scrambled the birds and sent the squirrels running for tree holes. “How do you think you and Owen got here?”
          Shorty’s face turned red, but he settled down on the grass again. “Well… I guess. Yeah. Back then.”
          Punk craned his neck to the left and looked at him. Shorty always wondered how those eyes got to be so green. Like the grass they were lying on when it was wet. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
          Shorty shrugged. “I guess it’s just something they do sometimes. You know, because it’s expected when a guy’s married.”
          Punk didn’t let out a guffaw that time, but his grin got so big Shorty thought his lips would split.
          “He died in heaven,” Punk said. That means he was getting a real bang out of it. A whooping and hollering big time.”
          Shorty guessed he frowned because Punk shook his head. “You still don’t get it, do you? I can show you, if you want. Part of it, anyway.”
          “Y-you can?”
          “Sure. Nothing to it.”
          “You can send me to heaven, and there’s nothing to it? Will I be dead like Daddy?”
          That did get a hoot out of Punk, flushing more birds out of the trees. “No, it ain’t gonna kill you. You wanna do it?”
          “Will it hurt?”
           “Does heaven sound like hurtin’?”
          Shorty shook his head.”
          “Well? Yup or nope?”
          “I-I guess so. What do I have to do?”
          “Nothin’. Not a thing.”
          “O-okay. Show me.”
          “I gotta touch you, so don’t get your back up, okay?”
          “Yeah, sure… I guess.”
          Within seconds, Shorty knew it sure wasn’t his back that was getting up. He lay there, his toes scrunching up, his fingers dancing on the grass while the most indescribably delicious sensations raced all over him until he though he couldn’t stand it any longer. Then whatever wonderful thing it was quit scrambling around and grabbed him right where it counted. He let out a grunt and got transported somewhere… he didn’t know if it was heaven or not, but it was sure somewhere he’d never been before.
           Shorty sprawled on his back, panting heavily, and saying nothing for a good two minutes flat.
“I don’t know if Daddy made it to heaven or not, but if that was any measure, I’d say he died a happy man.

Were you ever so innocent? I suppose we all were back in the day. Does this make you recall any fond memories of your juvenile past? I hope so, and I hope they’re sweet remembrances.

Please consider ordering Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns from Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to convince them to publish the rest of the Cut Hand Series, including the unpublished manuscript Wastelakapi… Beloved, It’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:
Website and blog:
Twitter: @markwildyr

The following are buy links for CUT HAND:

And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.


New post at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of the month.

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