In This Issue
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If you just can't wait to read this month's stories one at a time, here they are - all the tales!
All the Tales
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Judgment Hill
by Erik Martin
My name is Cyrus Sturgis and I was in a bad spot.
On the top of a barren hill, my wrists and ankles were tightly shackled to an elevated
X-frame. The folks who had put me there intended for me to die; only, being good
Christians, they were going to let God do their dirty work for them.
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Ozark Child
by Pamela Jones
The air carries the first soft hint of Spring, warmer than past mornings with a promise
of awakening red dirt. I scramble out from under the Double Four Patch quilt my mama
sewed specially for me from calico sacks as soft against my skin as the white flour they
held.
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The White Oak's Tale
by Nancy Hartney
The white oak tree had grown on a sweet grass knoll at the edge of the plains for
more than a hundred years. It stood against endless wind, grew great and unbending
through drought-brown summers and savage, slashing winters. It tolerated these hardships.
But, the ancient grandmother suffered mightily under the meanness fostered on it as a
hanging tree.
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Last Rider: Working The Line, Part 1
by J. B. Hogan
After his narrow escape from the vigilante mob down in Nopal, Texas, Mose Traven drifted
back north into Indian Territory on his sturdy mount Buster, crossing the Arkansas River
southeast of Ft. Gibson. Frazzled, hungry, dirty and trail-weary, all he had to his name
were the clothes on his back, his bedroll, and the old pistol and twenty-dollar gold piece . . .
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Ozark Child
by Pamela Jones
The air carries the first soft hint of Spring, warmer than past mornings with a promise
of awakening red dirt. I scramble out from under the Double Four Patch quilt my mama
sewed specially for me from calico sacks as soft against my skin as the white flour they
held. The pine boards are cold on my bare feet as I pad to the window. When I was little,
this here window was bigger than my whole head and I could stand flat-footed and look
out onto the hills that are the silent guardians of our life.
In Spring and Summer my morning greeting is thick green, each Fall my view is
speckled with oranges and yellows, and in Winter I see black trees that reach their naked
branches to heaven as though they're praying to God for an end to the infernal cold. This
morning I hike up my nightgown so as not to get it dirty before kneeling and pressing my
face against the cold glass.
The mud puddles in the yard shimmer like old silver reminding me of my mama's
candleholder - the one she packed with her all the way from Illinois when she and my
daddy came here nine years ago. Beauregard is already in the field behind the barn, his
black nose to the ground, his stubby tail aiming for the sky. I can hear my daddy on the
front porch stomping his boots on the bottom step. The milking done, he's coming in to
breakfast.
I pull my nightgown over my head quick as I can but the cold air still tickles my skin
with goose bumps before I can pull on my last year's Christmas present (I pretended it
was a surprise even though I watched my mama knit that green sweater for practically
every night the whole month of November). Mama says next year, when I turn ten, I have
to start wearing dresses, but with one more year of freedom promised me, I step into the
overalls mama cut down from daddy's after he wore them plumb out at the knees and
seat.
I am itching to get outside with Beau but I know any exploring will have to wait until
after breakfast and chores. I climb down the stairs barefoot, knowing my boots and socks
are waiting warm as toast beside the wood stove where mama is just now lifting a
flapjack from the cast iron fry pan to my plate.
By the time I've helped clear the breakfast dishes, swept the front porch, and filled the
kindling box, the sun has melted the silver puddles into ordinary red slush. Mama is
kneading bread for dinner when I reach inside the front door, snatch my jacket from its
hook and wave to let her know I'm headed for the woods. She flutters a floury hand of
dismissal at me. Beau and I don't wait for her to think of any more chores. We make our
escape across the hard packed dirt of the yard.
Daddy is stringing fence. I stop a while and watch a flock of young crows as they
make themselves a torment to him. The shiny black birds squawk and caw and fly in a
disorganized circle just over his head. Then, as though encouraged by an audience, a few
of the birds begin dropping like rocks from the sky, pulling up in a sharp arch inches from
his head. When Daddy removes his wide brimmed hat and waves it in the air, they leave
off that fun and begin swooping down, stealing the shiny hog rings he's using on the
fencing.
"If you're gonna stand around and encourage the devils, you may as well help me with
this here fencing."
I press my mouth into a trembling line to stop the laughing and Beau and I take
ourselves down to the creek.
Deep in a pile of musky leaflitter, I find a brown and orange salamander. Just about
the time I'm done fooling with that creature, Beau discovers a black millipede wiggling
its way over a pale green patch of moss. After that I skin both elbows and one knee
stealing an empty sparrow's nest from the branches of the Sweetgum tree that angles
itself out over the summer swimming hole. With the nest secured in the bib pocket of my
overalls, Beau locates a lumpy hop toad which we imprison for a while in a cage of creek
stones.
My belly is beginning to rub up against my backbone and this is generally a clear sign
that my mama is going to be wanting help with putting dinner on the table. Then Beau is
tearing hell bent for leather, his nose to the ground headed up the rocky bank that marks
the border of our land. By the time I scramble up the embankment, Beau is digging
frantically at the roots of a Scaly Bark Hickory unearthing what looks like a small den.
It's not that I don't know better than to stick my head into the home of a wild animal.
I even hear a still small voice, that sounds remarkably like my mama's, shouting for me to
step back. But Beau is digging like a fiend, leaf mold and black dirt is flying and I simply
cannot stop myself from pulling the slobber faced dog away and squeezing my face into
that hole to see what we've found.
I'm looking into the round face of a baby badger. There is a scream. I can't say with
certainty whether this squeal came from me or the badger, both of us being about equally
surprised. Without his mama for protection this tiny creature hesitates not one instant
before he lunges, connecting one knife-sharp front claw with my surprised face. When I
jerk my bloody chin out of that hole, Beau rushes in.
"I bet we could tame him down. Keep him for a pet," I tell the dog, who lifts his own
torn face from the ground, cocks his head to the side, looks at me like I've lost what little
sense I possessed at the beginning of this day.
It's not like I don't know that messing further with this formidable creature is what my
mama would call, 'a failure of reason.' But with both Beau and I running blood, our
dander is up and there ain't no way we're backing away from this here challenge.
Between the two of us we manage to get just under a pound of soft fur, ripping claws
and evil teeth up out of that den. The badger is making a shrieking racket that brings to
mind the crying and gnashing of teeth that Preacher is fond of describing. I take off my
jacket, drop it over soft fur, slashing claws, and snapping teeth. Then, with a growling
ball of badger pressed tight, flattening that bird's nest against my chest, Beau and I use
the cawing of young crows as a beacon and we pump our legs as fast as we can to get our
prize to Daddy.
It takes a buckboard ride into Fayetteville and twenty-one stitches to put me and Beau
to rights again. The dog got the worst of it with sixteen. His left ear hangs a little crooked
but I believe it gives him a jaunty look. My chin is sore from my own meeting with
Doctor Swanson. I swear the sewing hurt a heap more than the original damage done by
the baby badger. Worst of all was my daddy's scolding and my mama's crying nearly the
entirety of the hour long trip to town.
Right now Beau has been given special permission to sleep on my bed and the two of
us are tucked in snug under the soft quilt. Daddy made me a promise that he would return
the badger to it's den, but he told it to me in the exact same voice he used last Christmas
Eve to convince me to go to sleep so as Santa could come. Mama has declared that,
starting tomorrow I will be wearing a dress every day of the dang week and that I'll be
doing my exploring within sight of the front porch for a goodly long time.
I rub Beau's right ear gently between my thumb and pointy finger, kiss the top of his
whiskered face, fall into a dream of unruly crows, warm flapjacks, and the discoveries to
be made under nearly every mossy rock and rotten log in Northwest Arkansas.
The End
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