The Bully Minder

THE BULLY MINDER

by

Shannon Michaels

What did you say? My daughter has a boy’s name? Listen, you might want to lay off of her. And, not just because I think you’re a couple of snot-nosed little brats. My kids, you see, they have a protector, a kind of body guard. And he already knows your names.

Late at night, after you and your parents are all tucked nice and snug into your little beds, he watches you. From the sidewalk in front of your house. People driving by think he’s just a guy walking his dog. They drive by him in the dark, on their way home from the movies or maybe a basketball game. Sometimes they even wave to him, like they do every other neighbor around here. Who knows, maybe they already know who he is. Maybe he’s waiting for them, just like he’s waiting for you.

This guy, he isn’t just some ordinary man, though. He’s an angel. Not the kind of angel who has beautiful wings and sings praise to God. He’s the kind that was cast down from Heaven and holds the hand of the devil. He’s the kind of angel you really don’t want watching over you. And he does watch over you. You know that shadow you see in the corner of your room sometimes, when you wake up in the middle of the night because you think you want a drink of water? Yeah, well, it might not be just a shadow.

Why you, you ask? Because you come onto my street and tell my daughter that she has a boy’s name, you take her friend’s toys and heat up his face with embarrassment and shame. And from the very first time you picked on my little ones, our angel showed up in front of your house. Only you didn’t know it because you were asleep.

See, he knows the ones who pick on the little kids, the ones who push them down and call them names. He has all bullies’ names written on his black heart and they – you -- belong to him. That’s right. The first time you say a bad word, he will smile. The first time you lay your hands on another child, he will laugh with delight. I bet you’ve done those things already. You bet he knows your name.

Know what he does? He waits for night from the woods behind your house. He drinks from the stinking creek and flicks his smoldering cigarette butts in the mud. He watches you and your family cut the grass and blow bubbles in the back yard. Whenever you go near the creek, when the sun is high in the sky, he sinks just below the surface. If you look closely, and the creek’s not too muddy, you might see the top of his head, his greasy black hair floating near the top of the water, or a couple of bubbles. But don’t get too close – he can smell you. Sometimes, when you’re close, he wonders what you’ll taste like.

What happens is this: He picks out the bullies in the neighborhood, and he watches them. And he waits. At night, when he’s out in front of your house with his dog-creature, he’s counting the minutes until you’ll be with him in the big White Room that is neither Heaven nor Hell but somewhere in between. His dog-thing sits next to him, stomach rumbling, drool running from his lips in fat strings. When the sun starts coming up, they’ll slip around to the back of your house and take their place next to the creek.

Wherever you move, whichever college you go to, wherever you live when you grow up, he will be there, watching you, minding you. When you are thirty years old, sitting behind your desk, working at your soul-sucking accounting job or whatever you’ve fallen into, thinking to yourself what a crummy life you’ve got, just remember: things are going to get a lot worse when you die. He’ll be there. He won’t forget.

When you die, he’ll take you to the White Room. It’s where all the bullies go. You’ll do the waiting, then. You’ll see that his dog really isn’t a dog at all – its mouth is just a little too wide, its fur a little too thick, and its eyes just a little too human. And you’ll smell them, the fallen angel and his dog-thing. You will gag on the stench. You and the other bullies will be so scared you’ll be peeing in your pants. And, of course, the other bullies, watching the dark stain spread across the front of your pants, will laugh at you, because, after all, that’s what bullies do.

And he will take you. The angel, the Bully Minder. One by one, the other bullies will disappear into what you think is a closet, holding his bony hand. You won’t know what happens in the closet until it’s your turn.

And your turn will come.

I know what happens.

The Bully Minder will turn to face you and he will clear his throat. He will open his mouth, unhinging it like a snake, and his pointed teeth will rip the mouth right off your face so you can’t scream. He will laugh at you, push you down, tell you that you have a sissy name and need a diaper. Then he will look deep into your wide eyes, smiling his horrible smile. You’ll try to look away, but you won’t be able to. He will drink your soul right out of your eyeballs. When your body is completely empty and he’s full of your spirit, he will feed your shell to his stinking dog-thing, who will gobble you up with the most horrible bone-cracking lip-smacking noises you could imagine.

And he’ll go back down Walthour Road, over the creek, to Captain John’s Drive, searching for other bullies to fill the empty space you will leave.

So, you see, it’s really in your best interest to stay away from my kids and their pals. They are friends with the Bully Minder. He watches over them like a guardian angel. He loves them.

He’ll be back to watch you tonight. Count on it. You’re already in his heart.

Now, what was that you were saying about my daughter’s name?

_______________________________________

Shannon writes: "

I am a working writer living in Savannah. I have had a couple of horror stories published earlier this year (one in Static Movement, the other in Sonar4), and my first novel is making the agency rounds as we speak. Novels number 2 and 3 are in progress. B.S. from Drexel University, M.A. from Emerson College, lived in Moscow, Russia for a few years, then moved to L.A., where I worked for Dick Clark, Ridley Scott, and CBS."

_______________________

Shannon is not a Southerner by birth, but spent two years of college at Tulane, and moved to Savannah when her husband for work. She continues her education in the NASCAR experience in her spare time.

Drowning In Pairs

Drowning In Pairs

You're carrying your puppy
past the skunk cabbage and pokeberries,
the one with the terminal condition
a missing branch off the heart,
you'd glady give her yours
but you're only a Southern girl

of Georgia Knowles and cricket dreams,
a girl with damaged blood supply,
a pink shell of a heart
at times
a loss of pulse.


You gently hold her above the brook
that reflects the aspens and cassias
the deep blue maddening of the sky.
Damn God. And damn his shunted creations.
You swore you'd never get this close
to such a creature in need.
Your plan is to drown her,
but the thought of bubbles
stirring, clamoring to the surface
and your own reflection
you'll try hard to avoid
and you know
you'll be drowning
together.

________________________________

Kyle Hemmings lives north of the Mason-Dixon Line in what is called New Jersey. He skateboards near Branch Brook Park, falls, and sometimes doesn't get up.

N'Awlins Evening

N'Awlins Evening

drunk on five dollars worth

of blues and jazz

you sweat blood jasmine

eyes sting and focus

every ghost you've ever met

waits to pick your pocket

for the tenth time you think
this would be a good place

to die and spring roses

the devil simply winks

mama bree offers jambalaya

eyeballs replace shrimp

as you eat, you find yourself

humming a song about murder

sadness is a strong perfume

so is a smoking gun

***originally published in The Legendary

______________________________________

Written by : Derek Richards

After performing for years, as both a musician and poet, in and around the Boston area,

Derek Richards has recently decided to begin submitting his work for publication. So

far he has been accepted for publication in Ghoti Magazine, Lung, MediaVirus, Word Riot, Right Hand Pointing, Tinfoildresses, The Legendary, Breadcrumb Scabs, Shoots

and Vines, Cantaraville, Soundzine, The Centrifugal Eye, Strong Verse, Underground Voices, River Poets Journal and Halfway Down the Stairs. His poetry aims to be direct and honest, brilliant and lucrative. He is currently residing in Gloucester, Mass., happily engaged and cleaning windows for a living.

PUMPKIN RAIN

PUMPKIN RAIN

There are two things I love most in my life: pretty women and winning contests. Yes, absolutely in that order. So when I tried to get the attention of my neighbor up the road, Mrs. Elroy, I couldn't believe she wasn't interested in me at all. Most single women in our little town thought I was good-looking. My looks, my charming ways, plus the fact that I'm not attached to anyone I think is why they always treat me like Im pretty special.

I knew Mrs. Elroy's husband was recently deceased by listening to the women gossip at Clarks dry goods. They also said she was only twenty-one, just a little older than me. I'm nineteen. Mrs. Elroy was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Her eyes were violet and she had long hair the color of a shiny blue/black raven.

Everyone in town thought of her as uppity. When she went there to shop, or got gas or a bite to eat, she always looked straight ahead. After a while the folks just started to ignore her and figured she was suffering in some way they couldn't understand plus now grieving over the loss of her husband. I took it for shyness myself.

The annual county fair of 1932 was coming up in a few days and I planned to participate. I knew I was a bit old for contests like this, but I just liked winning so much I'd enter just about anything. The one contest that I thought I had licked was for the biggest pumpkin. We had been getting a lot of rain here, so I expected my competition wouldn't be too stiff. The way I took care of my pumpkin was exceptional. I turned it, made sure the soil was perfect and, heck, I even talked to it. Figured that couldn't hurt, and it sure didn't. It grew bigger than a hay stack and not a mark on it.

It was what my mom would call, "the cat's pajamas." I know that doesnt make much sense, but it's her highest compliment.

I ran into Mrs. Elroy at the postal boxes yesterday. Ours are right next to each other, but the chances of being there at the same time are about one in a hundred, I figured. As I approached her I have to admit I was nervous as a rabbit. She looked up at me and grimaced.

I said Hi, anyway.

"Hello, boy," she replied, and pulled her mail out of the box.

This was my big chance and I knew I had to say something exceptional.

"My name isn't boy, it's Alvin. Alvin Hendricks, and I live on the same road as you, I said, in the white Victorian house. My mom and I are your only neighbors for miles."

Not exceptional, I knew.

"Can you imagine that, and here I thought I was surrounded by loads of friendly neighbors. You learn something new every day." She was shaking her head, like she really was surprised at what I said.

Of course, I knew better. This woman was plain being mean. My interest in her was quickly fading. Didn't matter anyway, I don't think she even saw me.

"Truthfully, I don't know what you would do with friendly people, Mrs. Elroy, maybe shoot them and eat them for supper."

I was mad, and my pride was laying somewhere on the road. I don't normally talk out of line, but I can't stand sarcasm coming from anyone.

"Grrrrrr," she responded, and walked off.

I stood there stunned. This was the woman I dreamed about? Well, that was about to stop.

Id gotten a couple friends to help me take my pumpkin to the fair grounds, but the fair was a flop. The weather was overcast that morning and they were calling for rain and thunderstorms. I still went, even though the grounds were almost empty.

I was inside a tent leaning on my pumpkin when the wind started to howl. Lots of the tents fell, and the one I was in partway collapsed. The rains came down hard. I was drenched and about ready to head for home when I heard something strange coming from the hill nearby. It sounded like a baby crying, or an injured bird. It was hard to tell with all that wind.

I headed toward the crying sound, fighting the wind and being pelted by the rain. As I got closer to the hill, I couldn't believe what I saw. It was Mrs. Elroy up there, standing under a maple tree, holding a baby close to her. Her blouse was open and I figured she was trying to cover the baby with it.

I worked my way up the hill. When I finally reached her, I took off my raincoat. "Put this on," I ordered. "Put the baby under it so you both can dry out a little. What are you doing out here anyway?"

She was shivering and her face had a terrified look on it.

"I had no idea this storm was coming, she said. I was going to watch the fair from here since, you know, I don't mingle that well." She spoke very quickly and her breathing was heavy; we had to get out of there.

"Come on, we'll go to my house since its closer. My mom will help us." I took her by the elbow and led her down the hill. The wind tore at our clothes. The rain was still coming down strong when we reached home.

"Mom, this is Mrs. Elroy, our neighbor. She and her baby got themselves caught in the storm; they're cold and wet to the bone."

Mrs. Elroy broke down crying. It must have been hard for her to feel so helpless, independent as she was. My mother brought in clean, dry clothes for both of us and a blanket for the baby. She put on a tea kettle so we could warm up inside too.

"Wow, I'm glad that baby has such strong lungs, or I might never have seen you." I said this with a smile on my face that probably looked like I was flinching. I was ready for anything from this woman.

"She's only a one year old, but she has my personality already--loud and stubborn."
Both Mrs. Elroy and the baby were smiling.

"My name's Edna and this is Melody. We are both very grateful to you, Alvin."

She remembered my name. I couldn't believe it.

Mom brought us steaming tea in large mugs and a plate of cookies.

"Its still awful out there so you'll stay here tonight, Edna," my mother said, "and don't even think of saying no. No one refuses Mildred Hendricks."

"I wouldn't think of it," Edna responded. She took a cookie and looked right at me. "By the way, Alvin, what ever happened to your giant pumpkin?"

She saw my pumpkin! I'm not invisible!

"It's sitting under a half fallen tent at the fair all by itself, I said, waiting for the blue ribbon."

We all laughed, longer and louder than might be normal. It felt warm and safe around that table, and I loved it that Mrs. Elroy was now Edna.

____________________________________

Eileen Elkinson

Eileen has been living in Asheville NC for the past three years. For twenty years she worked as an abstract artist in Key West, Fl. and has discovered since arriving in Asheville that her true true passion is writing. She is published in Bewildering Stories, Western Carolina Womans Journal and is an editor for MezzoMagazine.

A Fine Line

A Fine Line

Well, it was my sister’s first wedding
I was less than thrilled about the groom
the bubbly was flowin’ freely
so I decided to partake.

A few glasses later
I was in rare form. Always fancied
myself as a cute, giggly drunk
but there’s apparently somethin’
about champagne that just
flat makes me mean.

What’d you get from the Shaws?
Is that a casserole dish? I slurred.
My sister is givin’ me the evil eye.
Is that from the whole family?
Okay, now I’m the center of attention-
With all the money they got you’d think…

That’s when I heard Mama yellin’
politely as she could, Stacey Anna!
Now, in my neck of the woods,
when you hear your first and last name
back to back, unless it’s Rosemary
or Betty Sue or somethin’ like that,
you’re walkin’ a fine line.

Everyone at the reception is silent
waitin' to see what I’m fixin’ to do.
At this point I figure, what the hell?
I’ve gone this far so I ice the cake,
Well damn Mama, they got more money than God…

_________________________________________

Stacey Dye
Stacey has previously been published in the Camroc Press Review, Here and Now, Mused - BellaOnline's Literary Journal and will be in Cafe Del Soul in November.

Poopie @ Pecan Lane Strikes Again!

(Ya know, the Dew cherishes beautiful Southern scenes - all ya'll can send us a few photos now and again - we love to use them in between the stories....hint.)

A Maple Tree

A Maple Tree

All buckled up for autumn

In a yellow raincoat of leaves

With rubber boots for roots

Standing in a mud puddle

And arms swinging all about

In the wind in a burst of sun

A maple tree just having fun.

----------------------

Written by Danny Barbare

LITTLE THINGS

LITTLE THINGS

It is the wee hours of the night, sleep is a stranger, and a past middle age woman wanders from room to room, in a house too long silent, devoid of children, but filled to the ceiling with memories so vivid, they seem like only moments ago.

She finds herself in front of a closet, the place where keepsakes from her life are stored in neat shelves of small boxes. Reaching up, she pulls the chain of the overhead light and scans the handwritten description of each ones contents. She seems to be having difficulty making a decision as to where she wishes to journey this night. How far back over the years will she travel?

She picks a large, round hatbox marked "Jan's Keepsakes", turns out the light, closes the door behind her and walks slowly into the kitchen, clutching the hatbox tightly to her bosom.
Once the lid was removed, she began to empty its contents, one article at a time, handling each one tenderly, as if made of the most delicate material known to mankind. A babies rattle, a pair of tiny, bronzed shoes, a small, silver spoon. She would pause for a moment or two as each item was withdrawn, as if she was reliving some instant in time, place it gently on the table and go on to the next piece of treasure. Treasure is exactly what she saw before her, more precious than the rarest of gemstones.

As she removed a smaller box from that cardboard treasure chest, she sat down, opened it, and found herself twenty-two years in the past. Her facial expressions would have told any observer what she was feeling, a knowing smile on her lips and a twinkle of excitement in her eyes as love remembered consumed her emotions completely. Tears pooled up in the corners of her eyes and made trails of sparkles upon her cheeks as she unfolded and read a handmade Mother's Day Card.

What value would these little things have to another? How much of ones self is invested in a few loving words expressed simply and honestly? A few moments of a single lifetime, a sheet of paper and a line or two of heartfelt words, whether scribbled by a child's hand in crayon, typewritten, or in pen or pencil are somehow transformed, as if by magic, into something priceless, cherished by the recipient.

When the years of human life are spent and the time remaining is short, most people will cling to that which is most valued by them, those things with which they are least willing to part. They are not seen clutching a Bankbook or bundles of money, nor will they desire jewels and such. They would have friends and family by their side, the ones they have come to love, and in their hands is a photograph, book or letter, something to gaze at and remember how it felt to know you were loved by another.

Clarence Bowles

The Times They Took Him

Note to our Readers:
The below story does contain strong profanity and violence. This is not typical Dew fare, but we also feel that domestic abuse is a subject that should not be hidden or ignored. If a story such as the one below helps even one person to be more aware, it's worth it.
Idgie

_________________________________________

The Times They Took Him

They took him in handcuffs at about ten in the morning. She took some muscle relaxers soon after, giving in to the overwhelming exhaustion. Sobs jerked Kelly’s small body. Katrina stood by stoically. Louise knew this daughter was not heartless, but she hated Damion. She was older, more outspoken, and when he was not around, made it clear she could do without her mother’s latest boyfriend.

They took him at eleven at night. The neighbors, hearing his pounding and threats, called 911. He had come home after the game, drunk. Damion was not a happy drunk. Her father had been one of those. He got sweet and silly, and peed on the floor, but he wasn’t mean. Damion was of the other bent. He yelled that time, waving the brochure from Piedmont adult school, “Bitch, I am going to ram you through the walls. How could you do this to me?” Louise motioned for the girls to go to the back of the house, and choked out. “Please, Damian, you’ll scare the girls. I just wanted to take a computer class. I won’t do it, I promise. Just please calm down.” When the police came, he swung his arm at the officers. Two of them turned him over, handcuffed him, and lay him on the ground. Drunk and unsteady on his feet, he was easy to take down. “I love you, Louise,” he called as they led him away. “I love you, honey.”

There were the pamphlets; a shelter - a place they could go where even the police wouldn’t know where to find them. Someone from the shelter would come and get them, keep them safe, and help them start a new life. Each time they talked to her earnestly about the shelter, but each time she said no. It was not something she could do. She would be there when he came home. She was able to forgive, and if she hadn’t asked about that course, things would have been alright. Besides he was a little drunk. He was reasonable when not drunk. He would do better.

They took him Tuesday at five, when he came home after being fired from work. Louise worried about money, but Damian busted down the door yelling what he would do to his boss. She stood by nervously, scared she would irritate him. “What are you looking at, Bitch?” He lunged forward and smashed her cheek. Louise screamed at the impact. Blood and broken teeth filled her mouth.

They took him on the weekend after he had held the gun to her head. The girls disobeyed her rules and called from the other phone in the house. “Please, Damion,” they heard, I’ll do anything you say. Just please put down the gun.” He clicked the trigger and laughed at her terror. It was not loaded.

Ben got mad at her after that. “Leave him. Leave him now. He is going to kill you.”

“No, he knows where Mom and Dad live. He will hurt them. I can’t do that to them. Besides, he’ll find us. He is very smart. You never believe that about him.”

“Then, don’t talk to me, again, about this.” Ben was short. “I don’t want to hear this anymore.”

In the public bathroom at church, there was a sign in the woman’s room. “Love shouldn’t hurt. Is someone you love hurting you? Call 1-800-576-2429.” Louise looked at it, but did not jot the number down. Her situation was different. She could make it better.

They took him on a Monday afternoon. He was angry because he had lost big at poker down at the Goldmine. “Damion”, she had said softly, seeing it in his posture as he entered the house, “Can I get you something to eat?” “NO FUCKER, QUIT THE MOTHER ACT. I AIN’T ONE OF YOUR GODDAMN KIDS.” “Damion, honey, please be quiet. The neighbors will hear. The kids will come out. I know you want your peace and quiet.” Damion pushed her aside roughly, and went into their bedroom. Louise hovered nervously by. What could she do to calm him? What could she offer besides her pleas, and maybe, some coffee. Something to drink. The blood drained from her face as she saw Damion come out. “Damion,” she said softly, “Put down the gun.” He aimed it at her. “Bitch. Messing up my life. Giving me rotten luck. Bitch.” “Damion,” She pleaded, “Put down the gun. You don’t mean it. Put down the gun.” He laughed. “But, I do, Motherfucker. I do.” He laughed harder as the fear she tried to hide surfaced and filled her face. She heard sirens. The girls had called again. “Damion,” she took a step forward. “Sweetheart.” The gun went off.

That was the last time they took him. They took her lifeless body, too.

______________________

Written by: Nomi Liron

Nomi writes Flash Fiction and is currently working on her first novel.

Summertime Ain't No Time to Sing About

Summertime Ain't No Time to Sing About

My friend is so Southern she thinks catfish is a food group. She usually has something simmering on the stove, a pot of collards or pole beans, complete with slabs of fatback big enough to cause a cardiologist to run screaming into the night. She hails from rural South Carolina--she really says, "hails," although it sounds more like, "ha-yulls"--from a town so small, she swears "if you blink you not only miss the town but the whole danged county."

Her accent makes molasses seem watery and once she has a drink or two, she tells stories about the Baptist ladies in the church she grew up in that would make a vaudeville comic blush.

But even she's been finding summers here in Georgia oppressively hot. So hot "the devil moved on back to hell, just to cool off."

She visited with my wife and me the other day. There's nothing like cold beer and summer heat to get a Southerner talking. "Whenever I'd whine about how the heat was making me sweat," my friend said, "my mother would straighten her back, till I feared she'd break a vertebrae, wrinkle her forehead till she had one eyebrow, and pinch her lips so tight I wondered how she managed to squeeze the words out: 'Horses sweat, dear. Young ladies glisten.'

"Well, Mama. This summer I'm sweatin' like a damn horse," she says.

"Maybe Al Gore's onto something. To tell you the truth, I used to think he was just on something." Like a good storyteller, she allowed time for us to laugh and sip our beers before continuing.

"Now I don't know about the globe warming, but it's sure a lot hotter nowadays than it was once upon a time. Why it's only June, and the thermometer outside my porch says it's nearing one hundred. We expect that in August, but June? Hell's bells. It's like the in-laws showing up Saturday for Sunday dinner.

"I can't do a lick of work in the garden without feeling faint. The greens bolted so fast I hardly had me a salad. If I don't pick the squash everyday they get so big and tough the boys use 'em for baseball bats. And the tomatoes? They're exploding on the vine, like some damn terrorists loaded them with dynamite.

"I got me a new hobby. Skinnydipping. I haven't done that since I was little and mama give me such a whupping I couldn't sit down for weeks. Now I sneak down to the creek at the edge of my property, strip nekkid, and sit in the water till I turn blue."

We all laughed and sipped more beer.

"It ain't natural, I tell ya. Something's wrong. I might have me a heat stroke come August. Or worse. I may have to move north."

###

Bio:

Wayne Scheer has been locked in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available as a free download at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net. Wayne can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.

Walking Away from Gomorrah

Walking Away from Gomorrah

Walking away from Gomorrah
you sense crack lines under your feet
the boll weevils in your cotton dreams
have transformed themselves
into proper citizens
who greet you at the outskirts
of strange cities.

Without compass or job prospects
you've given up everything,
the remnants of your life
are contained in an alligator suitcase
and all you really want now
is a cup of coffee-
the hard won serenity
of a soldier come home from a war
of barbed chalky skies, trench fevers.
Atlanta itself is a city

that rose from ashes

a patina of throbbing life,

Chattahoochie clear waters

now swirl inside you.

In an underground cafe,
a stranger exclaims the news:
Gomorrah has fallen!
You do not reveal
that you helped to engineer its fall
how the fire came so close
with some part of you
still burning.

_______________________________

Kyle Hemmings lives north of the Mason-Dixon Line in what is called New Jersey. He skateboards near Branch Brook Park, falls, and sometimes doesn't get up.

Would you know a Southerner if you saw one?

I was settin' here staring at the computer, deep thoughts rolling thru my brain (heh.) when I starting thinking that a lot of my faithful readers are not from the South and might not know a real Southern man or woman if they ran into one. Not that they're hard to mistake, but ya never know.

So I've decided today is "lesson day" here at the Dew.

--------------------

Let's start with the womenfolk.

There are 2 main types of Southern women, and then there's an in-between version. Now hush up like I jes tole ya to and pay attention right quick!

The first type of Southern woman is the one depicted most in the movies. These women truly exist. As a matter of fact I went to school with several of them and they astounded me with the determination to put forth a proper front at all times. These women always have the "done" hair, the perfect make-up, the clothes just so. No one, since they were 5 and started in the pagents, has ever seen them without their make-up. Not even their mamas. They can wear heels, big poofy hair and real lipstick (not gloss) in 110 degree heat. They ALWAYS have shoes on. They actually say things like "I swan", Well, I neveh", and the such.

But beneath their glossed over exterior and their simpering, eyelash blinking ways, they are pure steel. They will smack you down in a heartbeat if you peeve them off in any way. Be it verbally to your face, or something let loose thru the halls of the local church - you will be dragged down and stomped on before you can say "boo". If that doesn't work, well all I can say it watch out for snakes inexplicably using your car for a nap.

The Special Forces of the Government should all recruit these girls.

The second group of Southern women are the Redneck Women. You know just by looking at them that if you tick 'em off you're pert much doomed. If you live through the first phase of retaliation, you'll never show your face at the Piggly Wiggly again.

These woman look "country", but they are very comfortable, and yes proud, of their look and their heritage. There is no shame in being a redneck. I want to say that now. One, because I truly believe that and admire them for their stand, but two, I also don't want my butt kicked to Tupelo.

Redneck women are most comfortable in tank tops and tight jeans - and they look good in it! They also tend to have full make-up on at all times. Truly I will admit that this is my one strong failing as a Southern woman, far too many people see me without make-up. Redneck women often do not have shoes on, but if they do, they tend to be boots. Boots and tank tops look really cool to me. Redneck women LOVE trucks. (I am about 75% redneck, if not more!) Who needs a wussy SUV when you can throw all the kids into the back of a truck. They love to duck the branches on the way to the store - it's a fun game.

Finally, there is the in-between Southern Woman. These are the women that watch a lot of t.v. and see how the rest of the world lives. They decide to give it a try. They try Yuppie, or Grunge, or Sophisticated Bitch. Just by looking at them you can't tell they're Southern. These are the ones, that be it for a short or long period of time, try to hide their Southern-niss. But then they open their mouth and just can't pull it off.

No, not the accent, the words. They still call people Honey and Sugar - even if they say it with venom in their voices. (Some gal called me Sugar the other day and my stars, if that one word had poison in it, I'd be dead now.) They may be snotty and short tempered, but they'll still remember to ask after your mama. They all know how to make a funeral casserole. They too usually have full make-up on. Shoes are optional on this bunch. I might point out that a majority of them come back home before too long. I know, I did.

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Now, let's discuss the menfolk.

Now, I will start out by saying that on the whole, I adore Southern Men! Be they rednecks or true Southern Gentlemen, I love them all. There's just a general sweetness there. Sure, sure, there's assholes everywhere in the world and these guys certainly aren't perfect, but on the whole, you jess wanna give them all a little ole bit of sugah.

There is, of course, the Southern Gentleman. He is well groomed, fond of seersucker suits (Of course Matlock ruined that and the trend is waining.) This is a man that will stand at a public door holding it open for up to 1/2 an hour if he sees a woman anywhere in the area that might just possibly be heading that way. Then will apologize sincerely when his arm is so tired he can't hold it up anymore, or he's now running terribly late for his gout surgery. He tips his hat, he carries items, he tells you when it's safe to cross. Granted, if you are a strong, feminist type of woman, he will drive you insane with his soliticious attitude. You will be smacking him away from you.

This type of Southern man firmly believes that women are the delicate flowers his mama always told him they were and that they need to be consetted and cared for. He does not think less of them, he just thinks they need careful handling. When one turns on him, he is truly stunned.



The next type of Southern Man is of course the Redneck man. He tends to look much different than the Southern Gentleman. He favors Levis or Wranglers, workboots, and t-shirts. I tend to put the men in the "wife beater" shirts into a different category so we'll stick with t-shirts here. He ALWAYS has a ball cap or trucker hat on (basically same hat, but one says John Deere or some such tool company and the other has a local baseball team on it.) Some of these guys, in certain parts of the South, are very fond of cowboy boots instead of work books. Still wears a cap though. For special events, he may show up in a cowboy hat. He of course, drives a truck.

Unfortunately, Mullets still appear to be an optional hairstyle for Redneck men.

Now these guys are more fun then the gentleman type, but still very caring of the Southern Women. They too hold doors open and tote stuff. They will wipe the coonhound hairs off the truck seat before hoisting you up over the giant tires and setting you down into the cab. Then they'll take you off-roading through the mud, to the beer and bonfire parties, a little cow-tippin' here and there.... all the good ole' boy stuff. They'll go line dancing with ya.

There really isn't an in-between type of Southern Man as they don't get all wierded out like we women do when we decide to hide our "true roots" (and doesn't that phrase have SO many different meanings!) So if they're Southern, you pert much know it. They may wear Izod, but they may also have chaw in their cheek. They may look suave and sophisticated, but they'll still wander into whatever hole in the wall luncheonette has the best chicken fried steak.

With a Southern Man, you know what you're getting your hands on. And I do appreciate that.

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You will note that on both the men and the women, I just ignored that last niggling category - White Trash. I like to try to say something nice about all the categories, but that one I gave up on. It's just nasty and I chose not to go there today. Anyway, since living in different parts of the country - well, white trash is everywhere, it's not just southern.

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There ya'll go, a lesson on Southern men and women. I hope I've given ya'll some educational information today.

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Idgie has once again pulled out some old stuff of her own, from the days I had time to write!

Another Beautiful Photo by Poopie

Diamonds in the Grass

Diamonds in the Grass

by Gina Below

The early morning breeze played with the tree branches and the sunlight danced with the shadows on my bedroom wall. There was no particular sound that seemed to have awaken me, all was silent, but the smell of hot homemade biscuits and bacon was a strong lure to leave my cozy bed. As silently as possible I stole out of my shared bedroom, careful not to wake my sister and I made my way to the kitchen. Surprisingly I found it empty, but the evidence that she had been there was overwhelming. Hot buttered biscuits, warm crisp bacon, coffee brewing, grits warm on the stove, fresh eggs waiting to be scrambled and homemade strawberry jam ready to be spread.

A buttered biscuit in one hand and a slice of bacon in the other fortified me as I quietly pushed the screen door open with my shoulder, careful not to let it slam and wake the others. The morning breeze greeted me and tickled my short brown hair as I stepped off the back porch. The bright sunlight had chased the pink and purple of the early dawn away, leaving dew drops to sparkle like diamonds in the grass. The flowers draped in their own jewelry, swayed slightly to the music of the morning. Bird songs accompanied me as I meandered past the garden. Corn stalks towered over me reaching for the blue southern sky and added their music to the symphony as their long leaves rustled in the breeze. My bare feet wet and coated with bits of grass went unnoticed as I finished the last of my breakfast. The brilliant strands of a spider web caught and held my attention at the end of the corn row. The dew creating strand after strand of intricate sparkling prisms. The large black and yellow garden spider was motionless as I admired her work and she seemed to care little of my critique.

I did not inherit her Native American stealth and I did not know she was there until her shadow fell across me. "It's good luck to have a garden spider in your garden" she said. "Really" I asked? She nodded and her free hand stroked my hair. She took my hand as we silently walked back to the house, the milk bucket swayed in her other hand. We let the music of the morning sing to us and it was as beautiful as the diamonds in the grass.

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Gina grew up on a farm in rural Cullman Alabama, which is North of Birmingham. She is one of seven siblings, number five to be exact. A truck drivers daughter with a heavy dose of Southern Baptist upbringing on her Mother's side thrown in for good measure. She and her husband of 25 years live on a farm in central Alabama where they raise cattle and their four children. Her husband Steve will be publishing his book next month "Pigskin Dreams".

Days of the V8 Chevy

Days of the V8 Chevy
by Barry Basden

Remember that rainy afternoon when you stood in the driveway and took a hammer to the windshield? I gripped the steering wheel tighter when water began to leak through the holes. The young cop later thought they were made by gunshots.

I unlocked the door and was out the other side by the time you got under the wheel and bounced the hammer off the passenger window instead of my head.

Standing there, I didn't feel the rain or the cold, but I saw the Chevy rock as its engine roared to life, and I heard the squeal of burning rubber as you slammed through the back of the carport and into the kitchen, pinning the refrigerator against the sink. Someone could have died that day.

But that's not the day. No, I'm thinking of one long before, when we pulled that Chevy off an empty country road, climbed a fence, and made love on a blanket in sun-dappled woods.

That's the day.

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BIO: Barry Basden writes mostly short pieces these days. Some have been published in various online and print venues. Some have not. He edits Camroc Press Review at www.camrocpressreview.com

Crossing the River

Crossing the River

I was riding from there to here when I came to a river. It wasn't a little creek of a river, but a huge, rushing, wide, rolling river, with steep banks lined in willows. There was no bridge, and I could see right away that my horse wouldn't be able to swim across.

Of course I had to build a bridge. There were lots of willows, but I had no axe. I could have woven one out of willow withes, but the willows weren't agreeable. When I tried to cut some branches with my pocket knife, those trees just ganged up on me, waded through the mud like herons in water and beat me black and blue with their branches. Eventually I hollered “Uncle” and we made a truce, wrote it on the riverbank and signed it with drops of blood and sap. But I still needed to get over the river.

I decided to build a rope bridge – one rope to walk on and one to hold onto. I gathered up a whack of those big field spiders and pulled silk out of their behinds. Then I twirled the spiders over my head, twisting those strands together. The spiders put out more and more silk until I had a rope long enough to reach across the river. Then I guess they just ran out of silk. All those spiders came off the end of the rope at once and flew out in different directions, just like water drops off a dog shaking.

So that was my rope to walk on, and I had to do it all again to get a rope to hang onto. Then I had to get those ropes across the river. I tied one end of each rope to a rock and smeared a little cheese on the rocks, and waited for some crows to fly by.

Pretty soon two crows came along, and caught those rocks when I threw them. Right away quick I handed the other ends of the ropes to two of the willows, and they twined their branches around and hung right on. The crows flew across the river. By the time they'd got across, they'd figured out all they had was rocks and not cheese after all, so they dropped the other ends of the ropes. The willows on the other side caught them and hauled them tight, one above the other.

Of course my horse couldn't walk that bridge, so I folded his legs up and tucked him in my backpack. Then I crabwalked across that silk bridge as slick as you please. When I got to the other side I thanked the willows very politely. I took my horse out of the backpack, coiled up those silk ropes and stuck them inside.

No, I don't have them any more. I had to give them back to the spiders. About a thousand of them came after me, wanting the silk back for webs. I stood them off all night before I had to give in and give back the ropes.

But that's another story.

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Elizabeth Creith has written flash fiction for the last four years. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Linnet's Wings, Flash Fiction Online, New Myths, Silver Blade, Tuesday Shorts and Grey Sparrow.

She is currently working on a novel based on one of her flashes. Elizabeth lives, writes and commits art in Wharncliffe, a little place you've never heard of.

ADVERSITY AND FRUIT

ADVERSITY AND FRUIT

Spring! Spring! Glorious Spring! If it's so wonderful, then why can't it be trusted? It's like a yo-yo in March and April, warm and refreshing for a few days, then cold and blustery for a day. It is especially risky for an anxious bloom or bud, stirred to activity by climbing temperatures and increased sunlight, one can almost hear them breaking free from winter's prison. Then there is an abundance of frost and those promising buds or blooms are devastated.

With all the other hazards a young bud must overcome, it is a wonder most plants manage to reproduce. If they manage to escape insects, disease, fungus, blights, and raiding flocks of hungry birds or foraging squirrels, what might they turn out to be at maturity, stunted and knotty, covered with the scars of constant attacks? In that condition, most animals and people will reject them. They may ripen and just hang there until time forces them to release their hold, then fall to the ground. They lay bruised and battered by the impact and begin to decompose. That is nature's way, isn't it?

Adversity can have varying effects on the fruit of trees, just as it does on people, too. This is a valuable lesson I was taught a few years ago, just by observing nature and listening to that little voice within.

It was a crisp fall morning and I had gone for a walk in the woods. I followed a fence line down a steep hillside, crossed a dry creek bed and paused on the edge of the sparse woods I had just walked through. An open pasture lay before me.

In the distance was a small group of isolated trees, depleted of foliage except for a stubborn leaf or two. As I got closer, I could see some tiny, dark masses scattered here and there among the branches. I went a few steps out of my way to investigate. "It's fruit" I thought, possibly Apples. Now, standing directly under the tree, I still could not accurately identify what type of fruit I had discovered. It was light red in color, small, knotty and blotched all over. I picked the ones I could reach and placed them in my jacket pockets.

As the day wore on I stopped to rest. I stooped to sit on a fallen log and felt the bulge in my pocket and remembered the mystery fruit. The first thing I noticed, as I studied them closely, was how cold they were, and how heavy they seemed for their size. They were very hard and their skin was rough as sandpaper. I tried to polish one on my flannel shirt. No way! I couldn't have put a shine on that apple with a buffing wheel and some jeweler's rouge!

I took a bite out of the best looking side and was surprised by the quantity of juice it contained. It was an apple, I was sure of that. I can't begin to describe the flavor. It was simply delicious! I thought to myself, "it's almost as if that tree had tried to pack all of its goodness into those few, stunted pieces of fruit."

I nibbled round and round the tiny core, searching out the last morsel. I was tempted to devour even the core, then I realized there was more in my pocket and no need to get carried away. Still, I broke the core open and was astonished by the size and number of seeds it contained. They were dark and plump, gigantic when compared to a normal apple seed. Instead of eating another apple, I sat and mulled over my observations.

Some people are like those apples. Their whole life has been full of adversity and they have overcome all of it. They may be less than average in appearance, or even down right homely. That fact alone could cause them to be ignored or rejected by others. They have grown accustomed to isolation, seldom attempting to make friends. Yet, they are not soured on life, or bitter. They may look rough on the outside and not worth bothering with, but invest some time, along with a few kind words and a little consideration and you may be surprised by all their inner goodness and how refreshing they can be to those who put forth the effort to know them.

The lessons of life are all around us. Just observe and listen to your heart.


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Clarence Bowles