By Karen Szamotula

  I crouched behind a yew bush and watched the old man.  Dusk was falling in swirling shades of pink

and orange, pulling the impending night behind it.  What is he doing with that shovel?  I thought.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t working.  He dropped it, walked from behind the shed to the front and went

inside. I could hear him rifling around in the darkness.

   When he finally came out, he was carrying a large, heavy-looking pickax and carried it back behind

the shed.  I heard the rhythmic thumping of the old man’s ax, the scrape of his shovel and his

guttural grunts that followed each one. 

    When he was finished with both he slowly walked the short distance to his back steps, taking deep,

labored breaths along the way and carefully sat down (so he wouldn’t faint and break any bones, I

suppose).  The thick Carolina air was an ever-present presence, bothering and wetting us all. He pulled

 a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face and neck, blew his nose and rested a spell until he

caught enough breath back into his lungs.  He looked up at the sky in a searching way but I couldn’t tell

if he was judging the time or looking for God.  I think it might have been both.

     It wasn’t long before he got up and went back in the house.  When he came out, he was

dragging something big down the stairs, slowly, with a heavy thump and pause at each step below.

It was wrapped in heavy burlap and tied with jute rope. It had the shape of a body.  Holy Lord!  I nearly

peed my pants when I saw it and then I heard my mom calling my name and ringing the dinner bell.  I

laid as flat and still on my belly as I could and crawled across the ground like a Marine at Camp

 Lejeune.

    Five minutes later I was still crawling and mom was still yelling and ringing that damn bell, so I jumped

to my feet and ran the rest of the way home hoping the old man didn’t see me.

     I ran up onto the porch and into the house, slammed the door, set the lock, and slid down to the

kitchen floor trying to catch my breath.  My mother was standing over me looking down, hands on hips,

towel in hand, with a scowl on her face.  My entire body was shaking as I looked up into my mother’s

eyes and said, “He killed her mom! He killed her and buried her behind the shed!”

By Ed Baranosky 

            Zack was standing in the street with his feet apart facing Lon Quade in front of the Old Santa Fe Mission. The thumb of his left hand tucked in his gun belt. His right hand just a bit away from the butt of his holstered Colt.    

           “I’ve been on your trail since you left Cheyenne a month ago you dry gulchin’ back-shooter. If I said I was glad to see you I’d be lying.”  

           Lon standing about 50 feet away was almost a mirror image of Zack. Lon was left handed and it was his right thumb hooked on his gun belt. Lon snickered saying” I thought I saw the last of you when I parted your hair with the barrel of my .44 back in Cheyenne. I thought I gave you the slip when I doubled back in that wagon the greenhorn was driving over the Raton pass.” 

          Zack not being in a hurry to get shot or for that matter to do the same to Lon said “It did take me a while to figure that out when I didn’t pick up your trail. I just played a hunch and headed for Santa Fe.” 

         Lon chuckled and said “do you recall the pretty Senorita with the dark hair and green eyes who had her arms   around my neck?”

         “Yeah.” 

        “When she was close to me she told me about Calico at the top of the stairs in the saloon about to put a bullet in you. What did you do to make that Mex bushwhacker want your scalp?” 

         “We were up in the Palace saloon in Denver where they take your guns before they let you in to play poker. I caught him slipping a card from his sleeve. If I had my gun I would have shot him. The best I could do is bust his nose with a chair.”

            Zack said “let’s get down to why we’re here. Your telling me you saved me from getting shot in the back?” 

            “Yep.” 

            “Why didn’t you plug him?” 

            “This may to be hard for you to believe but I liked that Senorita a lot more than I like you. I wasn’t about to to let her get hit by stray lead. Besides it wasn’t my fight. The only thing I could think of was to cold-cock you and  get you out of there and I did. A couple of guys and I carried you to the Doc’s. I thought I better leave town.” 

           “The only thing I remember was waking up in the Doc’s office. He was stitching my scalp. He told me what had happened.  I was madder a hornet in a nest being poked with a stick. When I found out who hit me I came looking for you.” 

           “Well you did save my life that must be worth a couple of shots of tequila.”  

           The tension passed. Both of them walked toward the cantina.

             At the swinging doors Zack asked “what was the name of the Senorita ? “

                                                                                     #

By John-Paul Marciano

    Alan was quite the handyman. Crack in the driveway? Nothing a little asphalt filler and sealer won’t take care of. Didn’t like the light fixture in the kitchen? He installed a new one. Leaking faucet? Not a problem. Loose floorboard? No sweat. Lights dim when the wife turns on the blender? Upgrade to 200 amp service.

    There were very few things around the house Alan was incapable of maintaining himself. It wasn’t long before his neighbors noticed. They came by to introduce themselves and to ask his advice about things that needed fixing at their house. Alan didn’t mind. He was more than happy to drive a neighbor to the local hardware big-box store, pick up what was needed and, more often than not, do the repairs himself.

    But Alan knew absolutely nothing about septic systems. So when he started hearing gurgling noises in the plumbing he called his neighbor.

    “Hey, Jason, it’s Alan from across the street. I was wondering if you could help me out.”

    Jason considered himself to be all thumbs so he was a little taken aback that Alan would be asking him for help. “I’ll certainly try. What’s up?”

    “I’ve been hearing noises coming out of my pipes I’ve never heard before. Is that normal?”

    Good, Jason thought to himself. Whatever the problem, he’ll have to call someone. “That all depends. What kind of noises are you hearing?”

    “It’s like a slurping or gurgling whenever I run the water or flush the toilet. It’s weird. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

    “That’s an easy one. Your septic tank is full.”

    “I don’t know anything about septic systems. How does that happen?”

    “Well, you’re a family of five and you’ve been living there about two and a half years. I’m not sure when Harvey and Alice had the tank pumped last, but it sounds like it’s overdue.”

    “Pumped? Can I do that myself?”

    Jason chuckled. “No, I’m afraid not. You’ll have to call the septic guy and have him come and pump it out.”

    “Pumped out; is that expensive?”

    Jason was amused. “It’s about $300.” That was met with silence so Jason added, “All that work you’ve been doing around the house had to have saved you several times that amount.”

    “You’re probably right,” Alan replied unenthusiastically.

    “Look, Alan, when you own a home with a septic system there’s three facts of life; death, taxes and having your septic tank pumped. There’s no getting around it.”

    Alan still wasn’t convinced. “You’re sure about this?”

    “As sure as I’ve ever been about anything. Why don’t I give you the name of the guy I use? He’s reliable and I’ve been using him for years. Half the guys in the neighborhood use him. I’ve never heard any of them complain about him.”

    “Okay, I guess I have to do it.”

    So Alan set up a time to have his septic tank pumped. And, in typical Alan fashion, he took the day off from work so he could be around when the septic guy showed up. On the scheduled day at the appointed time, Alan was standing in the driveway to greet him.

    As soon as the guy stepped out of the truck, Alan peppered him with questions. The easy going guy introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Chris. Glad to meet you.”

    Chris was consulting a hand drawn map of the property he slipped out of a pocket in his overalls when Alan asked, “What’s that you’re looking at?”

    “I used to come here when the previous owner lived here,” Chris replied patiently. “I make maps of all the properties I service. It makes things easier to find when I come back. It saves time.”

    “That makes sense I guess.”

    Chris took the time to walk Alan around his backyard to point out where the various parts of his septic system were. He also explained that it would not be a good idea to drive any vehicles over those portions of lawn. When the tour was over, Chris walked back to his truck and grabbed a shovel and a muck rake.

    “What’s that for?” Alan asked.

    “I need to uncover the cleanout openings,” Chris replied. He pointed to a spot on his map. “You’ll notice there’s an area here where there’s no grass. The previous owner gave me permission to place a flat stone over the opening to make it easier to find.”

     Chris pulled up the stone and handed it to Alan. Using the shovel, Chris uncovered the cleanout opening. Peering inside he said, “There’s your problem. The tank is full. This would’ve gotten nasty if you waited much longer.”

    Chris walked over to the truck and turned on the pump. As he was dragging the hose over to start pumping the tank, he heard Alan say, “Those are weird.”

    Chris dropped the hose near the opening and peered inside. “What are we talking about?”

    “Those things that are floating around in there,” Alan said pointing.

    “Are you talking about the solids?”

    “No, no those other things floating around. They’re all over.” Alan walked over to a bush and broke off a longish twig. He came back and knelt next to the opening. Using the twig, he fished around inside the tank.

    While Alan was busy with his twig, Chris was apologetic. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what you’re referring to.”

    Alan didn’t respond. He was too focused on his mission. Eventually he pulled the stick out of the tank and stood. He was holding out his slimy catch dangling from the end of the stick.

    “This is what I’m talking about. What is this thing?” he said while shaking the stick. “There’s got to be 100 of them in there.”

    “Are you serious? You really don’t know what that is?”

    “I have no idea.”

    Chris raised his eyebrows. “That’s a condom.”

    “You’re kidding, right?”

    “No I’m not kidding,” Chris replied. “They’re not yours?”

    “Hell no, I’ve never used a condom in my life.”

                                                                  #