Short Stories and Novels

Robert Jones

           Dickens’s London, Chimney Sweeps 1851

     Buttoned from waist to neck, my ill-fitting coat of filth has a length of ash-darkened cloth encircling my neck.  Single knot on encircling cloth holds coat collar up and in place to keep out the chill of this night.  End lengths of rope and rag knotted together hold breeches up; small tears need sewing; knee patches replaced; fraying leg bottoms trimmed.  Recently taken without payment a new pair of lace up shoes from behind a cobbler’s shop with no one in sight. Sizes too large, rags for socks, laces cinched to fit. 

     Shivering of winter from in my bones, the walk begins to where I will sleep and be dry this chilly, damp night.   Clouds cast over the moon, a long line of streetlamps of gas in need of repair offer no light, nor does candle or oil lamp from home or business to guide the way this late at night. Pitch-black night, vision not so great, I reach out to find a wall of brick and indent lines of hardened grout.  Forefinger on the indent of grout covered in layers of soot and grit becomes my guide until two corners meet.  Left turn on the same trail of grout, the walk continues until finding where to turn once again.  Finding gas lamps alight no longer is a fingertip needed to guide my way tonight.  

     Rivulets of water continue to flow between roadway cobblestones long after drizzling rain has stopped.  Pooling where many stones have gone missing over time, I bend scarred and painful knees and ankles to rest on stone.  Cupping palms, scooping up water, wringing hands of grit and grime then rinse residuals away, water is gathered once again.  Briskly rubbing over my face and swollen eyes for a cooling effect is repeated twice again.  Rising to stand on aching knees and ankles the journey begins again to where I sleep this night.  

     Food this night, found in marketplace trash, is a handful of small, scabby apples, half a turnip, peeled potato skins and an onion with soft brown spots needing trimmed-out.  There will be no pot of water or greased skillet sitting over a hot bed of pulsing embers to boil or fry tender what is found at marketplace site.  A cup of hot, watery tea will have to wait.  Rainwater barrel of oak where I sleep this night will do for washing down what is eaten raw this night.  

     Meals are heartier after set free by Master and wife having grown too tall, wide, and old by age nine.  Even though all is raw and difficult to chew it is better than living with and sweeping chimneys for Master and wife after purchase at age four.  Meals between ages of four to nine with brothers of tar, soot and ash was a pot of brown, foul smelling gruel with few vegetables and no meat served with chunks of bread with spots of green.  Drinking water, murky and bitter to taste was from rain barrels next to Master and wife’s dwelling where I once lived. 

     Clothes chimney brothers wore for weeks at a time were hand-me-downs Master’s wife collected from local Church Parishes.  Before giving clothes to us to wear, she sold the best to marketplace hawkers and traveling peddlers on the road.  What she could not sell at marketplace or to peddlers, she offered to workshops for cleaning rags at a lower price.  What marketplace buyers, peddlers and workshops refused to buy, thread thin in need of repair, Master’s wife gave us to wear until foul with soot, ash, and lice. 

    Clothing needing no repair that once belonged to children of the houses we chimney scraped and swept, we never saw. What was meant for chimney sweepers to wear, Master’s wife accepted at the backdoor from the Charwoman of the house.  She decided what to charge for each before taking all to marketplace to sell.  What marketplace buyers, traveling peddlers and workshops would not buy, she gave to relatives without charge.  All profits from sales were Master’s and wife to keep, not a halfpenny or farthing for us to share for what should have been ours to wear. 

     Thrashing of a child from Master after too many ales of beer can be brutal and severe after spending what children sweeps age four to nine earn chipping at tar, scrapping at soot and sweeping chimneys.  Something Master’s wife is capable of in the same state of mind.  Rare that it is, that child may not survive the night, body dumped in Regents Canal before dawn.

      A bath for chimney sweepers of soot and ash when owned by Master and wife, never given soap, bristle brush and a rag to wash, we used palm, fingers and fingernails to scrub and scratch at black soot, ash, and lice.  Water to wash and rinse was icy and cloudy in an old copper pot on an open air, backdoor porch, given rags to dry.  On cold wintery days of rain, fog, and wind we shivered from start to finish.  Now free from Master and wife, shards of soap, a bristle brush of stubble and rags found in marketplace trash I will wash with rain barrel water behind marketplace site, or where I rest at night, then dry. 

     Thoughts are never far away in mind and soul of purchase at age four working for Master and wife when living with brothers of tar, soot, and ash until age nine.  Work we did. Food we ate.  Clothes we wore.  Beatings we got. 

     I walk a short distance alone down an alley to an abandoned shack without a door or window of glass to spend the night free of Master and wife.  Roof intact, ground dusty but dry is better than Master and wife’s windowless basement of darkness, damp walls, dirt and stone with a short candle never lasting the night.  The basement floor where brothers of soot and ash and I slept on long, cold wintery nights we huddled dressed in thread bare clothes of filth and lice using empty soot sacks for warmth.

     Soot sacks for warmth at night, filled by day with what chimney sweeps and I chipped, scrapped, and swept, Master and wife sold to farmers for a fee.  Sacks of soot and ash emptied on fields of crops are returned to be filled time and again.  Master and wife kept fees for what we chipped, scraped, and swept.  

     Before resting this night, I will eat raw what was found in marketplace trash.  A scabby crabapple, skins of potatoes and an onion, rotting brown spots carved out.  Chewed raw before washed down with rain barrel water next to the shack where I sleep this night.  Leftovers wrapped in a rag until morning light, other times hunger still in my belly there is nothing unwrap. 

     Stepping up on a wooden box, removing stolen bedding of two quilts Master’s wife placed on an outdoor clothesline for beating with a wooden cane, ridding of dust and grit.  Spreading and shaking each of rafter spiders, beetles, droppings of rats and mice, includes rafter grime.  First quilt spread over fresh hay taken without consent from a nearby Carriage House, second to cover a prince of the streets for warmth.  It is better than Master and wife’s cold basement of darkness, damp walls, dirt and stone floor and sharing soot sacks for warmth. 

     Remnants of candle found on an open windowsill behind a merchant’s store I took with no one in sight.  Placing candle on a thin sheet of hammered copper is ready to light.   Striking flint on iron under a scrap of paper from market trash gives spark to flame.  Flame on paper to candle wick will flare to light.  Candle flame burns bright. Shadows of flame flicker dance on red brick walls give a hint that tomorrow will be better than yesterday and days before that. 

     At rest with candle for light, not every night will there be candlelight.  What little is left will not be wasted this night.   Snuffing flame with a bit of spit between forefinger and thumb there is a hiss to flame.  What remains of the candle is for another night.  I must find another to take with no one in sight.  Nor will there always be a fire to boil water or heat a skillet of grease to fry every night.  When there is, what is found in market trash will be cooked until tender, flavored with a nip of salt and pepper found in marketplace trash.  If fortunate with a plea to marketplace customers, a coin dropped in hand will buy a pouch of hot tea on a very chilly night. 

     Body at rest on a layer of dry straw covered with quilt, second for warmth, I look with limited vision through a windowless opening on a wall of brick.  Clouds dispersed giving way to blurry stars.  Waking thoughts come and go of days past when in pain from first light to setting sun when climbing bottom to top of chimney flues to chip, scrap and sweep soot and ash to fill another soot sack.  If a sweeper resists an order to climb, Master or wife will hold a flame to the soles of their bare feet.  Same flame can set chimney tar simmering.  Tar simmering hot, child breathing black soot and ash, chimney to narrow to wiggle and squeeze through twisting turns with jagged corners that scrap and cut will leave a child crippled in excruciating pain.

     Screams and pleas for life soon follow if not rescued from chimney flue when deposits of tar flare to flame.  Trapped child struggling, clawing at brick, gasping for air, screaming to be set free, will blister, burn, and suffocate on soot and ash alight in flame.  A grave in a potter’s field for a child of char and ash, age four to nine, will go without a wooden cross marking their name, year of birth and death.  Nor will there be a eulogy or prayer read for the death of the child by clergy or Master and wife.  If not buried in an unmarked grave in a potter’s field of dirt and stone near the River Thames there will be a splash, swift river currents carrying a forgotten child far to sea. 

     Must remember when Master or wife held flame to soles of our feet to climb, chip, scrap, and sweep to fill a soot sack.  Must remember brother sweeps stuck in chimney aflame, screaming in pain to be set free.  Must remember those by name and age who died in chimney flues of flame.  Must remember those who breathed fine ash from chimney flue, child coughing up sputum of blackened ash colored blood until their youthful death. 

     Those fortunate few freed from a chimney alive will be covered head to toe in soot, ash, and burns.  Blind, scarred and crippled for life, not able to sweep or earn a quid a day, Master and wife will turn out child to the streets before age nine.  

     Common sight at marketplace from first light to setting sun are chimney sweeps leaning on homemade crutches of wooden branch.  Each crippled for life with a deformed ankle, a shattered knee, a twisted spine, missing hand to elbow or toes to knee.  Vision blurred or completely blind and covered in burn scars before age nine will be begging for alms to survive each day complete.  Nights spent wrapped in rags sleeping in recessed doorways, abandoned buildings, horse stalls, under bridges and coal bins, life is short.  Warm summer nights often spent in an open-air square of dirt and cobblestones. 

     Years of working for Master and wife, age four to nine, has left burn scars from ankles to knees, breathing difficult and partially blind.  Without a doctor’s care, nourishment of food or coin in hand, not able to work another day, others and I must search market trash or beg for coin and food at marketplace site to survive one more day. 

     If not able to plead for pocket change or a bite of food, no one to take a crippled or scarred chimney sweep in or raise, we must steal to survive.  If caught stealing a loaf of bread, potato, carrot, or apple to ease hunger, beatings and broken bones from patrolling Bobbies’ will happen.  Placed in a cell with thieves, murderers and prostitutes, Lord Justice of the court will issue sentences of seven to fifteen years on a prison ship anchored on River Thames.  Infestations of rats, roaches and lice soon follow.  Hunger, beatings, disease and sexual abuse, life is painfully short.  If not surviving a prison term complete burial is on Dead Man’s Island in Kent.    

     I stole Master and wife’s quilts and tool sacks for chimney sweeping shortly after Master and wife set me free.  Tools of a chimney sweeps’ trade are metal scrapes, spiral screws and steel rods to chip and scrape at hardened tar.  Boar bristle brush loosens clumps of soot and ash.  Brooms of field straw, horse or badger hair sweep up leavings of soot and ash to place in soot sacks.  Rags clean soot blackened tools.  I will wake and rise before dawn, walk to the river thick in human waste, horse manure and hay.  Stolen sacks of tools and rags will drop to the river off a dock near Putney Bridge. 

     Putney Bridge hours away, I undo the knot of soot and ash blackened cloth rag holding coat collar closed.  Setting it aside, taking a deep breath of London’s noxious night air, I wrap myself in the second quilt from toe to nose for warmth on cushioned quilt and straw. Pulling chimney cap over swollen eyes before resting head on rags.  Eyes closed; nightmares visions begin.  Stuck in a narrow bend of a chimney gasping for a breath of air, clawing at stone, struggling to shimmy down or climb up.  Not able to find freedom in searing fire and flame, knowing death is near, I scream to wake for a breath of air, to escape fire and flame.

End

To follow will be two short rhythmic (hopefully) stories of children in the 1800s and early 1900s working coalmines  

Robert Jones

     A short poem of a young Scottish, disabled child’s wishful dream of traveling from his home over hills of heather to the Sea, build a ship and sail the world’s seas. 

            FROM WITHIN LOOKING OUT

                       HEATHER TO THE SEA

Bolts of lightning flash

Glass windows reflect 

Thunderclaps rumble

Near and Distant 

Winds bluster 

Rattling shutters  

Bending tree limbs

Turning leaves sideways

Rain pelts windows  

Washing grim away

Drums rhythm 

Copper shingles

Young boy 

Fast asleep 

Dreams of 

Heather to the Sea

Night’s stormy darkness 

To morning light 

Dawn skies, black to grey 

Storm clouds receding

White cumulus clouds 

Collect in the distance

Building castle domes 

On far horizons  

Lone stragglers scatter

Across blue skies

Morning sun rising

Over hills of heather  

Awake, morning light

Imagination across  

Rolling hills 

Heather to the sea

Mom’s morning hug

Dad’s smile

Help young lad   

A special chair 

Thick wool socks 

Tartan blanket 

Over legs keeps

Chills away

Windows of glass 

Frames of wood 

Wither away

In young lad’s mind 

Frame free of

Wood and Glass 

Chair for life 

Exists no more  

Imagination to touch

Outside life   

To run barefoot

Heather to the sea

Dampness of morning 

Dew under foot

Between toes 

Step after step

Running through

Heather blooms 

White, purple, pink

Brushing at ankles

Dash to the sea

End of meadows 

Of heather

At the sea

Crisp chill 

Salt laden air

Upon face 

Deep in lungs 

At cliff’s edge

Looking down

Ninety degrees 

Straight to sea

Hearing, seeing  

Surf crashing 

Rising, falling  

Back to the sea 

Down to the sea

Ancient trails 

Hairpin curves 

To the sea

Waves rising

Curling, breaking

Rushing forth 

Tidal wash over sand 

Receding back to sea 

Leaving salt laden 

Foam, broken shells 

Seaweed behind 

Seagulls a float

Holding in wind

Squawking, scolding 

For all to hear

Young Lad 

Wanting to walk 

Ankle deep

In cold, salty sea

Isolated 

Stretch of

Sandy beach 

Waves breaking

Run 

Heels, Toes

Impression 

In sand

Standing at 

Water’s edge

Cold surf tingling

Over bare feet

Bending, sitting 

Rising surf 

Surging over

Ankles 

Knees, thighs 

Rising up   

Splashing face 

Refreshing chill

Mouth open 

Taste of

Salty sea 

Bittersweet 

Splashing 

Over shoulders 

Returning 

To the Sea 

Tide rises, falls

Returning to sea  

Rises, falls

Returning to sea

In mind

A ship to build 

To sail seas

Near and far

Hull of craft

Deck, Cabin

Rudder, helm  

Of seasoned oak  

Masks fore and main 

Fir, cedar, oak

Square rigged 

Horizontal spars 

Seasoned woods 

Cut to form

Planed, sanded 

Fitted, oiled

Bronze  

Compass, bell

Riggings for sail 

Docking cleats 

No gold, no silver 

No kings, Lords 

No one of 

Self-importance

Captain, deck crew 

Ready for adventure

Sail seas of salt

Distant lands to walk upon 

Cast off

No Flags to fly

No country

To represent

Orders shouted

Bow to aft 

Canvas sails rise

Catching wind 

Bow of ship rising

Plunging 

Breaking waves 

Over bow

Ship rising

Cresting wave 

Falling to 

Trough 

Rising, falling

Crest to trough 

Rising, falling 

Crest to trough 

Albatross high above 

Wingspan 12 feet

Months at sea

Sleeps on wing

Sailing seas

East to West

South to North

Equator to Arctic Sea 

Deep the sea 

Dark its depth

Wide 

Forever it seems

No land in sight

One day soon 

Walk unexplored 

Lands 

Not to conquer 

Not to ravage 

Not to destroy 

Not to occupy   

Long  at sea 

No land sighted

Tiring, fatigue

Time runs out

In mind

Traveling at sea

Ship and crew

Vanish midair

Return home

Before night falls  

To loved ones 

Chair, tartan blanket

Dark skies

Once again 

Back from

Seas of salt

Windows of glass

Wooden frames  

Once again 

In place

Chair set 

Next to bed

Pajamas on

Prayers said

Mom opens 

Window a crack 

Outside sea air

Rushing in 

Cold sea breeze 

Over heather

From the sea 

Brushing at face

Mom turning 

Bed covers

Before placing 

Lad in bed 

Fluffed pillow 

Under Both legs 

Second to lay

His head on 

Spreading her

Hand-stitched 

Patchwork quilt

Over son

Mom kisses 

Son goodnight 

“Goodnight, sleep tight 

Don’t let the bed bugs bite"

Near midnight 

Mother, Dad’s help 

Turned to side  

Discomfort to comfort 

To sleep 

To dream of heather

To the sea

To dawn

Sitting on a sandy beach 

Rising and falling surf 

Flowing over ankles 

Knees, thighs  

Splashing face

Taste of salty sea 

Bittersweet 

Brushing at neck 

Over shoulders

Down back

Returning

To the Sea 

Sleep sunset to sunrise 

Without interruption

A new day 

On its way  

Morning 

Every morning

Begins a new journey 

Heather to the Sea

Robert Jones

Words: 5100

                  Last Emotions, 1941-43

     Gusts of ocean air burst across rusting ship decks, scaling corroded steel walls and staircases.   Hinges creak and groan on steel doors slightly ajar as wind whistles through narrow passageways. 

     Swirling eddies of heavy salt air twist upward encircling the smokestack, mixing with hot particles of burnt bunker oil before trailing behind the ship. 

     “Will we make this ocean crossing without incident?”  Sergeant Webb silently asked himself, keeping his balance with one hand on deck railing while taking short steps forward then back to keep from falling overboard as the ship continued rising and falling with each rolling ocean swell. 

     Closing his eyes letting cold, salt air stream across his face, he mumbled, “Late at night, if I jump to the Ocean deep, my soul is the Lord’s to keep.”

     “Sarge, got a smoke?” Webb heard behind him, recognizing Private Emerson’s raspy voice.

     Reaching in his shirt pocket, pulling out an open pack of Pall Malls, handing it to Emerson, he said, “Keep the pack,” letting further words to his poetic, suicidal thoughts escape his mind. 

     "Got a match?" Emerson asked, thinking how lucky he was to have such a fair and honest, no nonsense leader.  He trusted the Sergeant with his life. 

     "Inside the pack," Webb answered, wishing he had purchased a couple more cartons of cigarettes from a small delicatessen next door to the Port of New York. 

     Lighting the cigarette, Webb taking a deep draw, holding it in his lungs before exhaling, helped frayed nerves before exhaling.  As well, he wished he had gotten another two bottles of illegal whisky at the same time before shipping out to England days earlier, in ’43.  Strong drink helped him sleep a few hours when below deck.  

     “Breeze feels good,” Emerson said.  

     “It’s why I come up here when I can.” 

      “Know the feeling,” Emersion agreed. 

      When below deck, three-tier bunks attached to cold, steel walls with little space between each canvas hammock makes it hard to sleep more than a few hours with a constant variety of interruptions.  With six to eight men sleeping, smoking, playing cards, drinking or reading in close, overly warm quarters the rancid stink of humans intensifies when at sea for more than a week.  Other irritants are heavy breathers and snorers and constant twisting and turning from uncomfortable sleeping positions.  Smokers, underarm odors, stink from crotch and feet or cutting gas from lousy ship food, too.  Worse is the stench of urine coming from the latrine next door or the putrid smell of vomit from seasickness.  

     Unnerving is when waking to a rat traipsing lightly across a bare chest looking for a morsel of food or one of the black devils licking your sweaty skin for the salt.   

     Mess hall cooking and eating the foul slop aboard ship only makes matters worse when finding a roach belly-up on one’s meal serving, swimming in your coffee or skittering across a dining surface when readying to sit down to eat.  Disturbing and creepy is when a roach drops an egg sack holding 30 to 40 of its kind behind a grouping of condiment containers holding salt, pepper, tomato catch-up and mustard. On rare occasions, one might see tiny newborn dots from the egg sack begin spreading out in different directions.  A slap of a hand, newspaper or book usually takes care of the problem.    

     "I prefer fresh air,” Webb added.

     “How many ships in the convoy?” Emerson asked, seeing ships on the horizon in all directions under a full moon. 

     “Forty, fifty, maybe more,” Webb guessed, seeing a large number of ribbons of black smoke trailing behind each ship for as far as the eye could see in any direction. 

     Sight of the so many ships let Webb mumble a few lines of a longer poem he had begun manipulating in his mind to escape long hours of boredom and monotony that comes with long-term, shipboard confinement.

     A battle-line of ships 

     Under a midnight moon

     Each trails a line of ribbon black 

     In a soon to be blacker night 

     Once our only light of night sets”

     “Our unit headed ta England?” Emerson asked, ignoring what he did not understand of the Sergeant’s quirky verse on darkness and ships in the night under a full moon.  Thinking the Sarge’s poetry a bit bizarre and weird, he slipped a cigarette between his lips. 

     “We’ll be there at the end of the week,” Webb added. 

      “Can’t wait ta fight the Germans,” Emerson said as he widened his feet for stability after turning his back to the wind, cupping both hands as a windbreak to strike a match. Cocksure of himself, he felt the war would be a short and glorious victory for America and he would get a hero’s welcome parade upon returning home.  If lucky, he might get a kiss and hug, perhaps more, from his high school sweetheart. 

     Webb watched the naïve young man’s match flame out trying several more cupped, hand strikes before tobacco flared.  Inhaling, filling his lungs, Emerson enjoyed the nicotine sensation it gave before exhaling.  Webb figured Emerson being only nineteen years old and fresh off the family farm had an attitude of daredevil immortality as many young men often do.  Just as he did shortly after graduation from high school and boot camp in late 1940.

     “Don’t get too anxious or we’ll bury you sooner than later,” Webb said, looking seaward. 

      There was a sudden flash of white followed by thundering explosions.  Fire lit the night a short distance from their ship as Webb tightened his grip on deck railing to steady himself from the sudden, violent blast.  

     Emerson took several quick balancing steps forward then back as his cigarette slipped from between his lips, falling to the deck with a slight bounce.  Simmering embers of red scattered from the partially smoked cigarette before rolling over the edge of the ship to the sea below.  One internal explosion after another from the torpedoed vessel continued pulsing at the air around them, flame-reaching high into the night.  

     The torpedoed ship, rising and plunging with rolling seas, simultaneous explosions going off, Emerson stumbled backwards.  Letting go of the railing as their ship swayed from the close explosion, he fought for balance by reaching out for Webb’s shoulder.  Finding it.  Gripping it. Webb wrapped his arm around Emerson’s back as his other hand tightened on the handrail, giving the extra support and balance that he and Emerson needed to keep from falling overboard.  The open pack of Pall Malls fell from his hand. 

     Emerson, after regaining his grip on the railing and steadying his balance, Webb released his arm from Emerson’s back then looked seaward as their ship passed the burning transport when a second torpedo hit it.  Detonating, the ship rose slightly off the ocean surface for split seconds, metal flying in every direction.  Flame erupted upward as the ship settled back into the sea, its backbone structure bent at an odd angle leaving the ship with a visible twist to it.  Seawater begin rushing over its broken decks as warning systems – “ahooga, ahooga” – begin sounding off with background clangs of ship’s bells ringing and echoing across an endless horizon of water for all ships to hear.  Warning crewmembers and soldiers of the many ships to beware of what lurked under surface waters. Men topside of the burning ship leaped for their lives, their bodies covered head to toe in bunker oil and flame.  Each torso illuminated the night as a torch might when falling to a watery surface, extinguishing flames as icy seawater cooled their hot charred bodies. 

     Webb and Emerson could only watch, listen and do nothing.  The heavily damaged vessel hissed, popped and steamed from cold ocean water rushing in, splashing, over hot boilers and engines. 

     Stomach tight, heart beating fast, Webb’s lean body trembled, knowing what could and probably would happen to a number of the ships in the convey if the torpedoes kept coming through the night under a full moon. 

     "Goddamn’em!  Again, the night is theirs," Webb whispered of German submarine crews.  He knew the outcome for young men like Emerson under his command if a torpedo slammed into the hull of their ship. 

     “What?” Emerson asked. 

     “Expect more of the same before the night’s over.  There’s an unknown number of submarines waiting to extract a heavy toll on our convey before dawn,” Webb said, remembering what happened to previous North Atlantic convoys of ships sailing to England or Scotland from the United States.  

     Emerson searched black waters under a full moon for survivors, hearing painful pleas fading to whispers.  Then silence as distance grew between their ship and floating survivors.

     Internal detonations splintered what remained of the stern of the torpedoed ship’s hull as it begin taking on water.  What few lights remained on the heavily damaged ship began flickering before dimming to faint sparkles of luminance the deeper it sank.  Charges flashed and thumped, boiling upward before bursting on surface waters as the ship rapidly begin sinking.    Darkness of the ocean’s depth swallowed the ship complete.  One heavily damaged lifeboat floated upright as a small number of survivors swam for it through burning oil slicks.  A second ship assigned to their section of the convoy exploded, losing part of its stern, going up in a flash of white thunder and flame.     

     Webb knew from experience the words a number of surviving crew and young soldiers would soon be crying out, knowing they were on the doorstep of death with little or no chance of rescue from frigid waters. 

     "They're last words from young men I don’t want to hear.  Lord, please… please don’t let this happen to my men this night,” Webb whispered to himself not wishing to hear last words of dying men. 

     Master Mike, ship’s mascot and Captain’s constant companion, scampered aboard a secured lifeboat not far from where Emerson and Sergeant Webb stood.  The scrawny, scraggly haired terrier commenced yapping, giving German U-boat commanders a piece of its mind for so much noise and putting his master’s life in danger on its watch. 

     “Don’t you hear’em calling out!” Emerson said of the voices pleading to be saved in the dark waters.  

     "There’s nothing we can do,” Webb answered back. 

     “We’re leaving’em behind!  They’re pleading for us to come back and save’em!” Emerson raised his voice as their ship distanced itself from those needing rescued from freezing North Atlantic Ocean waters. 

     “We can’t!  It’s what the Krauts want,” Webb said, knowing they dare not slowdown, turnaround or stop for survivors.  “Captain needs to begin defensive maneuvers to save lives.”

     “They’re pleading to be saved! We have… ”

     “Goddammit!  Shut up and pray if that’s what you do!” Webb barked, having little patience with Emerson’s whiny ways recalling last words of drowning buddies off North Africa a year earlier, in ‘42.  The same last words being spoken at that moment from survivors floating in cold, dark waters not far from their ship.  Words Emerson and a number of those under his command might be crying out before this night became day if their ship was torpedoed. 

     "But Sarge, I…"

     “Have a smoke,” Webb said, handing Emerson the slightly wet pack of cigarettes after retrieving it from the ship’s deck.  “Sorry for yelling at you.”

     “I don’t understand!” 

     “Cry for’em. Pray for’em.  Don’t die with’em. Listen and learn from the mistakes of old men who have seen battle,” Webb said.  

     “But...”

     “A few ships will return shortly to pickup survivors when it’s not so dangerous,” Webb lied to ease Emerson’s mind, knowing circumstances often dictated otherwise. 

     Webb knew survival would be slim to none through the night for survivors in icy North Atlantic waters from scalding burns, bleeding out and drowning if any more convey ships were targeted.  From his own experience off North Africa, Webb understood the thinking of German Submarine Captains and exactly why they sank as many transports as possible.  First, it destroyed needed supplies for the war; second, it eliminated manpower to fight the war; third, it increased those needing rescued.  Rescue could mean a loaded transport might return to save crew and soldiers of a torpedoed ship, giving a submarine captain and crew the chance to rid of another ship carrying yet more needed supplies and troops for the war. 

     Emerson begin discarding wet cigarettes overboard one at a time, looking for a dry one to smoke and calm anxieties of seeing ships near and far being torpedoed and sinking, leaving struggling survivors behind.  He feared the same could happen to the vary ship he sailed on this night. Finding a dry cigarette, lighting it, he heard destroyer sirens screech and bleep warnings along the horizon of what silently lurked and prowled beneath the convoy of ships. 

     Standing next to Emerson, Webb recalled those faint cry-outs for help from young men who died close to a year earlier, in ’42, when left behind after their troopship had sunk off North Africa from a German Wolf pack of submarines.  Their pleas for rescue, for life, would be similar to those under his command and care this night if they took a torpedo hit before first light.  The young men then and those he sailed with this night were both fresh from a mom’s nurturing apron strings

     The words his men might be whispering or screaming this night after taking a hit with a torpedo would be the same heart wrenching words his father had heard on World War I battlefields in France from young soldiers. 

     Webb whispered to himself what his dad had told him of his own battlefield experiences in World War I.  “It's a death-song sung to moms for as long as man has gone to war and wasted the talents of youth.  Those few words will ring forever in your mind when you first hear a man-child's last dying words.  On your last breath of life, you’ll cry'em too.  I did more than once myself at Somme in ‘17.  If you hear those same words from comrades in arms and they die in your arms, so does apart of you.”

     A year earlier, in '42, on a convoy of supply ships and troop transports heading for French Morocco, North Africa, to fight Vichy French, the troopship Webb (then a Corporal) had shipped out on had taken a torpedo hit mid-ship. Sinking in minutes it had left those few alive floating in mid-Atlantic Ocean waters crying out their last emotions; heart rendering words each mom feels in heart, soul and mind thousands of miles away as her man-child takes his last breath of life.  Webb had called out those very same words as his dad had in Battle of the Somme when there seemed no hope or ships in sight floating in frigid waters off North Africa.  By dawn, Webb floated on a consortium of wood crudely lashed together using bits of rope, wire and clothing. 

     Rescued two days later by a British destroyer off North Africa, the US Army had shipped Corporal Webb, including a small number of other ship survivors, back to America for medical care in ‘42.  Only upon arrival back in the States did Webb receive notice of his mom’s death. After weeks of recovery and rehabilitation on base, constantly thinking of his mothers passing with tears and a broken heart, Webb received a promotion to Sergeant from Corporal.  Shortly after the promotion, he submitted a request to return to combat duty.  Within a month of release from a doctor’s care, he received orders to ship out on the next convoy to England.  The very ship he sailed on this night in '43  

     “Last words spoken by so many young men should have been a lesson to the world long ago.  Mothers cry and plead with politicians and wealthy entrepreneurs for wars to cease and treaties signed," Sergeant Webb said, seeing Emerson give him that peculiar look. 

     A destroyer passing off their starboard, rising and plunging in rhythm with each ocean swell breaking over the destroyer’s bow, washing over decks, sirens blaring, its crew began blasting depth-charge drums off its starboard and stern.  Each charge soared high before arching and falling back to the ocean surface, sinking to a predestined depth before exploding in a loud thump.  A rising plume of ocean water climbed skyward, pausing before returning from whence it came, leaving behind a thread thin line bending slightly for a moment under a full moon. Drizzling droplets of mist shimmered reflections of moonlight falling back to the sea.

     Depth charges thumping one after the other, mayhem everywhere, impossible to ignore the night’s action, Webb closed his eyes to reflect back to better times.  A favorite memory of a short distance outside Whitefish (Montana) came to mind.  At seven years old, he and his mom had hiked a short distance on a warm mid-June night under moonlight to a secluded waterfall near their mountain home.  Sitting on a blanket next to the waterfall both watched and listened to late spring snowmelt tumble and roar over a steep cliff as she pointed to the moon high above the crest of the waterfall.  

     "Look at the misting vapor rise.  See how it swirls and rolls, tumbles, rising again against a chalky white moon as a line appears.  See how it bends, arching over the waterfall under a full moon,” she had whispered in his ear, tickling it as she held him close on her lap in that moment of magic as only a mother can do.  

     “It’s a midnight rainbow under a full moon.  The roar of falling water is musical thunder to the excitement of a moon-bow bending as it readies to send its invisible arrow to where we cannot go.  To what we cannot see or touch but will fulfill your dream.  Make a wish before it disappears.”  

     On those long ago, warm Saturday nights sitting along the Flathead River after roasting wieners and homemade hotdog buns, his mom would read old Arabian fables from a book her mother had given her.  Lying on his back listening to her read tales of old, he would look for shooting stars with a background of many stars winking back.  Other times she would quote one of Rumi’s many poems, her favorite, “Saladin’s Begging Bowl.” 

     “Mom, what I wouldn't do for one of those tales of old and special hugs," Webb whispered, then smiled remembering how her eyes twinkled, crow’s feet wrinkles deepened and bridge of her nose crinkled when telling tales of millennia past.  When finished she would give him one of her addictive smiles followed with a hug and a kiss on his forehead.  

     “I miss your sweet smile and infectious laughter Mom.  Hope you are in a better place than where my men and I are going.” 

     Another ship erupted from a direct hit, second torpedo close behind, night sky ablaze exposing a convoy of nearby ships and profiles of others on the far horizon.  Newly fueled explosions quickly followed, flames reaching skyward once again to the heavens as if to touch the bottom of the moon, setting it afire.  The ship folding in on its self as a closing jackknife might, breaking in half.  Both ship halves sinking instantly.  There would be no survivors of such a violent explosion, torpedo possibly hitting the munitions magazine compartment dead center. 

     Young soldiers begin coming on deck crowding around Webb and Emerson, staring in awe and silence at what they had never experienced before.  Ships were going up in thunder and flame one after the other. Ships packed with friends they had trained with in basic training.  Friends they had shared three-day leaves with, going to town to hustle young women, drink, shout, laugh and dance the night away weeks earlier.  Friends they had introduced their younger sister to for a date to a town dance or movie.  Friends they had taken home during basic training for a weekend for one of their mom’s great meals.  Friends they would never fight battles with or see again.

     “Damn!” Webb said aloud, letting memories of a seven-year-old boy, a special memory of his mom, a wish on a midnight moon-bow and a partial poem evaporate with a violent explosion off their portside. 

     “Please Lord… please don’t let those last few words be spoken tonight.  My men deserve more than to be accidental heroes,” he murmured, not wanting to hear last words of dying men again, as in ‘42   

     “What words!” Emerson asked, searching the Sergeant’s face for an answer to his odd behavior.

     Caught off guard Webb turned, saying, “Just mumbling old memories. I do that a lot.  You will too before this war's over,” Webb said. “Finish that letter you started?”

     “Yah,” Emerson said, surprised when the Sergeant suddenly changed subjects.  “My parents and sisters, my fiancé is next. Plan to mail’em when we reach England.”

     The Sarge wanted to hit something. Anything! Instead he stiffened his arm at his side in tremors, fisting knuckles white thinking of the potential fate of men under his command, whispering, “Shadows on hills.  No daffodils.  Sun rising over barren…” 

     Letting remaining words of the verse slip away, he whispered, “If they survive this night and many more at sea, they won’t on battlefields in France or Germany. Maybe England if invaded.  Either way, many a family will mourn the loss of a beloved son before the war ends.  Long after war is over, the dead buried and forgotten, all that is left behind of a son’s death for a parent, siblings or wife and children are physical objects of wood, stone, metal or glass to visit, hold or view.  Crosses of wood to repaint a fading name; graves stones to touch and cry, place  a flower and say a prayer; photo frames to hold and recall of what was and will never be again.” 

     Destroyer sirens bleeped and shrieked taking a zigzagging course, releasing depth charges at phantom submarines, its watery shadow tagging behind.  Process repeating itself on a return trip, releasing more charges, destroyer chasing its own ghostly shadow.

     “Mom, you are still the most important person in my life as these young boys are to their moms,” Webb thought, his fingers stroking thick scars on his neck and right shoulder from splashes of burning bunker oil and icy seas off North Africa in ’42. 

     Fourth and fifth ships in front and to their right kept night skies alight in an inferno of flame and thunder.  Fourth ship breaking up before sinking.  Fifth dead in the water and heavily damaged waited its final fate as crew began offloading lifeboats. 

      More of Webb’s men began coming on deck from below deck.  Mesmerized, they watched the convoy destroyed ship by ship, human by human, under a moonlit night turned momentary day from repeated explosions.  Many swore, shaking a fist of vengeance at German submarine captains they could not see.  Others spewed threats of hate and death upon seeing so many boot-camp brothers going down with their ship.  Another yelled at a convey ship steaming away, leaving behind those needing rescued behind, its captain and crew ordered not to become another causality of war.  Several men bowed their heads, a few on their knees, hands clasped at chest level praying for a rescue ship to arrive to take those still treading water aboard ship.  Some trembled in fear, disappearing below deck for prayer and a miracle to what they were witnessing wouldn’t happen to them.  One young man behind Webb began reciting the Lord’s Prayer.  Another, “Lord, you are my shepherd this night.  Lead those in your flock at sea to safety this night.” 

     Fifth ship took a second torpedo.  Survivors began jumping overboard as a few lifeboats launched with a small number of survivors, filling beyond capacity once at sea.  Others swam towards already full lifeboats to grasp side railings to stay afloat.  A few begin swimming towards a ship steaming away from them as they pleaded for rescue.  Voices became no more that a whisper, then silence.  Under a full moon heads bobbed on a surface of liquid blackness to stay afloat before slowly tiring, voices going silent and sinking below the surface. 

     Five ships sunk.  A sixth took a hit, slowing its headway as fires blazed and hoses put out fires.  Bilge pumps worked furiously pumping out flooded compartments. 

     Remaining convey silhouettes continued running evasive patterns past an unknown number of unseen U-boats.  How many more submarines lay in wait?  Ten?  Maybe twenty?  No one knew or dared guess the number of wolf pack submarines waiting for the convoy to pass, torpedo tubes prepped to fire.

     Master Mike howled and yipped at each explosion.

     “Over there!” Private Dickinson shouted. 

     “Where!” a person standing next to Dickerson cried out. 

     “There!” 

     Crew and soldiers stared in disbelief to where he pointed.  A torpedo was coming their way, a second close behind.  They had no place to hide, no enemy to shoot at or fight in hand-to-hand combat. There would be no air support so far from land and many days at sea.  They could not use deck-guns, submarines submerged below surface of the ocean.  Destroyers to few and overworked at chasing submarines.  There was no one to rescue them from what spun and splashed their way.  Death became the event horizon no one could flee or fortify from. 

     “What do we do?” Dickinson screamed.

     “Find a life vest!” Webb screamed over pleas for life, prayers for help, and those in panic, not sure what to do.  

     At less than seventy yards, crew and young soldiers fearing for their lives begin jumping overboard.  Others dashed for a secured lifeboat.  Yet others froze in place mesmerized by the silvery moon reflecting points of light a hundredfold in churning, whitecap waters of fast moving torpedoes at less than fifty yards.  With no place to escape fate, death closed its distance for young men who bought packaged Bazooka Bubble Gum with two or more baseball player cards (Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio) inside each for their younger brothers; they gave younger sisters dolls and Nancy Drew mystery books; their moms hugs and kisses and dads handshakes and  hugs before boarding a bus or train for basic training. 

     “Everyone overboard,” Emerson screamed before jumping into the sea without a life vest.

     Devil’s one-two punch loomed large as Webb and Dickinson followed Emerson into icy waters with no time to secure life preservers or search for a nearby lifeboat.  First torpedo slammed near the bow, breaching the hull, lifting decks upward in a sudden flash of whiteness followed with thunder and flame, trapping crew and soldiers below deck.  Deck explosions followed splintering lifeboats as more detonations followed below decks.  Ship still moving forward without power took the second hit mid-ship.  Exploding, ship engorged in blazing fires, smokestack dangling by metal threads, the bent ship continued shuddering from stem to stern. Internal detonations breached the hull letting icy, saltwater flood the engine room.  Boilers burst, splashing, soaking and scalding those in its path.  Burning bunker oil spilled and plumed, spreading outward from the ship in all directions, trapping those treading water and others swimming away from the explosions and fires.  

     Rats streamed from the innards of the breached hull into the ocean.

     Bow submerging, sucking loose wreckage and floating debris back into the vacuum of the sinking ship, releasing it the deeper the ship sank.  Stern last to disappear into the dark depths of the ocean repeated the process.  

     Struggling, finding safety on floating wreckage, Webb searched waters around him seeing dozens of bobbing heads and ship clutter rolling on the crest of ocean swells under a setting moon.  Screams for help from crew and troops with open, raw skin burns and bleeding wounds filled the night.  A number of stronger crew and soldiers helped a shipmate stay afloat, often to their own demise.  Weakened soldiers and crew wearing heavy, cold weather fabrics of wool and cotton struggled to stay afloat as clothing soaked up freezing seawater, dragging each below the surface of the sea when their desperate fight for life ceased.  Others treading water watched the nearest supply and troop ships swing away seeking safety from what skulked and roamed beneath ocean waters pursuing new targets.  Quiet ones floated arms out, face underwater, legs dangling deep, vital fluids seeping from open wounds. 

     “My wish will be denied this night,” Webb whispered, after pulling himself further onto a wooden hatch-cover.  

     Off in the darkened distance another ship took a torpedo.  

     “Ma, I love you,” Webb heard a young soldier’s last words.

     “Mom... help me!” another cried out. “I don’t want to die!”

     “Oh mom, dad!” 

     Another called out. “I love you mom!”

     “Pop!” an unseen voice said.  "See you and mom in heaven.”

     “Mom, it hurts so…”

     "Why me!"

     “I don’t want to die!”

     “Anna!” a voice called.  “I love you. Tell our baby I love her.”

     Master Mike whimpered in the distance.

     "Sons and moms share the same blood,” Webb whispered, feeling what each soldier felt when saying their last emotions.  

     “Mom… it’s so cold,” Webb heard in the distance.

     Horizon of here and there puffs of thin white translucent clouds passed under a setting full moon before blending into the night’s darkness.  Black skies, leaning away from morning horizon as stars blinked an unintelligent code.  Another ship in the far distance lit the night taking a torpedo hit.  

     Dawn.  Hearing no one calling out, no ships in sight, Webb pulled himself further toward the center of the oversized, wooden hatch-cover.                Wherever he looked, ship debris and lifeless, floating torsos rose and fell with ocean swells.  A wooden raft floated in the distance with an unidentifiable, shirtless person aboard.  If alive, he would be too weak to wave, call out for help or swim to join a fellow shipmate.  

     Feeling something watching his every movement, Webb looked at the opposite end of the hatch-cover seeing a set of black, beady eyes watching his every move. 

     Numb and shivering, scar tissue tightening from freezing seas, Webb murmured:

     Don’t go to sleep

     I must stay awake

     Don’t go to sleep

     I must stay awake 

     Don’t go to sleep 

     Must ask the lord” 

     “Mom, I love you.” Webb screamed out, tears in his eyes, putting his head down on the water soaked wood knowing he would soon see his mom, hear her sweet voice. 

     “I can’t go to sleep. Lord, I can’t give you my soul to keep. I can’t!  My men need me,” he whispered.

     Looking up he saw the rat had left, possibly gone to other floating debris for its own safety.

      Having said his last emotions a second time in less than a year, he began accepting his fate. Yet he knew he must not ask for what he might not want, finality. Three, maybe four days passed, seawater lapping at wood, Webb’s emotions climbing and crashing back and forth across the threshold where life and death meet.  In and out of consciousness, death on the horizon, he closed his eyes, seeing his mom’s smiling face, her beautiful brown eyes. 

     “Mom!”  

Robert Jones

                       ACCEPTING THE HAND OF AN ANCIENT  

                                          INDIAN MAN  

A welcome smile

From an ancient 

Indian man

His hand out 

Gesture of welcome

Hesitation

Should I 

Embrace the unknown

Fear

Unsure 

I extend 

My hand

Fingers touch

Palms meet

Hands fit

Secure his grip

Hands of strength 

Work ethic

Calluses, ridges 

Sandpaper course

Softness nowhere

To be found

Confusion

Hesitant to comprehend

Pulling back 

From welcoming 

Hand of the 

Unknown 

Uncertain of what he offers

His hand, his mind

His soul, his heart

His hand waiting 

What to do

What do I do

With my hand

Try again

Perception his

Patience his 

Calmness his

Waiting   

Hand reaching out

Encourages me 

To grasp anew

What I do not understand

I hesitate 

Wanting  

To accept  

What he offers

I must 

Reach out 

To know

To grow within

Slowly, I take

What I 

Do not 

Understand

Welcomed 

A gentle grasp

Warmth accepted

Of this ancient man 

Reluctance no more

Of callused ridges

Steep cliffs 

Deep arroyos 

Canyon lands 

Where he survives 

Hand and canyon 

One in the same

Like the canyons 

Of his life 

So much 

To understand 

Arms, back of hands 

White stubble of hair

Summer brown skin 

May, June, July 

Dry, brittle, abrasive 

No water, no green

Parched trees

Shrubs, grass 

Spring, Summer 

Years of blisters 

Parched soils

Toil, his hands enjoy

Each wrinkle

Each brown spot

Represents a year

Of his past

Ridges of calluses

Cliffs exposed 

Hidden below is

Pulse of life

Veins of sustenance 

Carry life within 

Of this ancient 

Indian Man

What I don’t see

Are wonders

Of his mind 

Lifetime of

Deep valleys

River, Streams, 

Misting waterfalls

Within canyon walls

Groves of trees

Along rivers, creeks

Meadows of grass 

Wildflowers abound 

River, creek, waterfall

Flower, tree, fauna

Below canyon rim

Life

Compassion his heart

A smile of warmth

His soul, accepting

His heart, open

Of my spirit

My emotion

For who, I am

What I have become

My eyes search 

His weathered

Decades old

Sun baked face 

Eyes set deep

Heavy of brow

High cheek bones 

Crows feet wrinkles

Forehead wrinkles 

Deeping, frowning

Relaxing

Express thought

Canyons, valleys

Waterfalls, streams 

Meadow flowers 

Hidden from sight 

Give this ancient man

His own history 

Of this Canyon Land

To share with another 

I hesitate

Linger in thought

I do not 

Understand

To hike, explore

To climb, explore

To search, explore

To be alone, explore

Canyon a long life 

Short his time 

Lived in canyons 

His whole life

A secure feeling 

Inside myself

Have compassion 

For this man

Man meets man 

Soul meets soul

Mind meets mind

Compassion of two

Both Different 

Yet the same

I let go of this gray

Weathered hand

Of calluses and sandpaper

Cliffs and arroyos 

Life below surface

I know we are one

Yet not 

His life short 

Mine long

Canyon millennia

Hawk circles

High above all

Twisting in Wind

Rising, falling, gliding  

Canyon and Man 

His life 

My life

Two in one

Robert Jones 

Short Story

               ONCE A THIEF, AWAYS A THIEF 

My first theft at age 8, 1949.

     I headed for the 'Five and Dime’ store three blocks from my house with one desire in mind, a Hersey Chocolate Bar.  This time was different from previous trips for a chocolate bar having already spent my allowance for the week with no hope of borrowing money from my stingy, younger sister or older, secretive brother.  I owed both money and promised to pay back in the past, never having it when they asked for it.  Not able to borrow 5-cents from either sibling, I had checked mom’s coat pockets in the closet knowing she always had small change in one of two pockets after paying bus fare to and from work.  

     One coat pocket held a wrinkled hankie and wadded tissues she used for a runny nose.  The other, nothing but tiny balls of lint and a wrapper from a York Mint, her favorite candy she bought for the bus ride home.  With no chance of borrowing from my siblings or finding what I needed in Mom’s coat pockets for the chocolate bar that's when I considered what Mike had said more than once, “It’s easy to steal from the Dime store.”  

     Entering the Five-and-Dime store, I searched the different aisleways for Irene, owner of the store, remembering another of Mike’s wisdoms, “Just because you don’t see her doesn’t mean she isn’t in the store. She’s sneaky and might be on lurking duty behind some counter or fixture.” 

     No Irene in sight, I made a beeline for my favorite counter having been there many times before with the taste of chocolate on my mind with one difference.  On this particular occasion with no coins jingling at the bottom of my pants pocket having already collected and spending my twenty-five cent allowance, I felt I could not do without the chocolate bar.   Allowance spent, siblings refusing to loan me pennies and mom’s coat pockets empty of change, Icould ask dad?  If I did, he would lecture me on spending, saving and accountability of my allowance.  I was left looking at what I wanted, could not have and unable to pay for. 

     Chocolate bars staring back with no way to pay, mouth watering for a taste of bittersweet chocolate, why couldn’t I take just one without paying?

     Mike, seventeen years old and hoodlum and thief of our neighborhood, had warned me about the storeowner when shooting baskets at the Salvation Army gym.  “If Irene is at the cash register or restocking shelves and counters in the store, its best to leave and come back another time.  She has mirrors located in key viewing spots along the walls and ceiling in the store to watch customers she doesn't trust.” 

     “If she catches you stealing, she’ll call your parents to come get you, then ban you from the store for six months.  Do it again, she’ll file charges,” Mike had added.    

     Standing next to the candy counter, anxious, a bit jittery remembering Mike’s wisdom on theft, I readied for my first attempt of taking and not paying.  I wanted to feast upon a Hershey Chocolate bar then, not when I had five cents.  Chocolate bar wrapped in a dark brown wrapper, inner foil showing at the ends waited for me to take it from the display counter.  My fingers touched the wrapped chocolate bars as saliva glands begin that silent urge of, “You need it now.  You want it now.  Take it now.” 

     “What if I’m caught?” I asked myself, pulling my hand back thinking what mom might say and do after receiving a call from Irene to come and get me from the store after stealing a chocolate bar without paying.  I demanded courage of myself to take, not retreat, of what I wanted.  It is what Mike would do.  Nervously scanning the store left to right then behind me for Irene’s probing eyes, a second search of the store followed.  No Irene in sight and the storefront clerk ringing up purchased goods for another customer with her back to me, my hand itched to touch and take the chocolate bar. 

     Fingering one chocolate bar, then another. “Why not two?”  

     I quickly moved both chocolate bars into my coat pocket, remembering Mike saying, “Make sure the clerk is busy with a customer before walking out the store.  Never be in a hurry and buy a couple penny candies for distraction if you want to keep what you stole.  When leaving the store keep your hands in sight, not in your pocket, whether you purchase something or not.  If she looks your way, smile and say something nice on your way out the door so she doesn’t expect a thing.” 

     Still not seeing Irene and the clerk busy giving the customer change, receipt and bagging the merchandize, I walked out the front door a bit nervous, hands at my side, not in my pocket to draw suspicion.  Once outside, I congratulated myself on my first-ever theft of taking not one but two Hershey bars.  I quickly followed yet another of Mike’s suggestions, walking not running past other storefronts.  Turning the corner, taking one of two Hershey Bars from my coat pocket, I slowly removed the brown paper  cover reading “Hershey’s” in large letters.  Below that “Milk Chocolate.  Peeling the foil back, savoring a deep chocolate aroma – “Ambrosia,” mom would say – my mouth watered, taste yet to come.  

     With the first square of chocolate bar broken off, its Hershey logo stamped on it, I begin anticipating its taste for that first delicious, bittersweet flavor of milk chocolate.  Placing it on my tongue, warm digestive juices softening it, taste buds dancing in delight, I pushed it against the roof of my mouth to squish and spread mushy chocolate residuals over my tongue and palate for a second pleasurable joy of chocolate.  The chocolate bar slowly disappeared square-by-square duplicating melt, taste and squish for each square until the last square disappeared half a block from home.  Tonguing the upper roof of my mouth for delightful residuals, I wadded the chocolate bar wrappings before putting in a sidewalk trashcan as mom had taught her children to do with waste. 

     I decided to keep the second Hershey bar for the next day.  Maybe give it to Mike to show him how successful I had been.  He might let me hangout with him and his brothers and join his gang for such a daring theft of not one, but two chocolate bars.

     Careful not to let mom see the second Hershey Bar, I pushed it deep into my coat pocket before tonguing my teeth and lips repeatedly to rid of any residual sight of brown chocolate or scent of it.  Pulling up my coat sleeve, I took the cuff of my shirtsleeve and wiped my lips and teeth repeatedly back and forth for the smallest residual left behind knowing mom might notice I had no appetite for dinner. 

     Satisfied with my daring success knowing how easy the theft went, I recalled Mike saying, “Don’t go back too soon to the same store. Use a bigger grocery store… like Safeway, Albertsons or IGA.” 

     Home with a smile of satisfaction, proud of my theft of not one, but two chocolate bars, I closed the front door as mom met me at the door with a loving smile, saying, “Dinner’s ready."  Bending down to give me her usual homecoming hug and kiss on my forehead, she paused.  Sniffing, nostrils flaring, she turned my chin side to side.  "Where did you get the chocolate?  I thought you had spent your allowance and promised me you wouldn’t borrow any more money from your sister or brother until you paid them back."

     How does she know?  I had cleaned my lips and teeth for residuals. 

     Rising to full height, hands on her hips, frowning, sternly asking, "Where did you get the chocolate candy!"

     I shrunk from the truth, taking a step back.

     “Where… where did you get the candy if you already spent your allowance!" she repeated, her steely-eyes burning a hole in my soul. 

     "The woman at the store gave it to me,” I said convincingly, remembering what Mike had said about keeping with one story. 

     "The truth!"

     “Honest mom, the woman gave it to me.  Said I could pay her back next Saturday when I get my allowance.”

     “The truth!”

     Mom knew the truth, just not the details of the theft. 

     “Where did you get it?” she asked, lowering her voice, eyebrows furrowing, crow feet wrinkles deepening, determined to get the truth.  Not my version of what she knew was a lie.  

     “Mike gave it to me,” I said, not being a quick thinker and Mike being the wrong person to use for an excuse. 

     “Two lies!” Mom said.  “Wanna try for a third.” 

     She knew Mike by sight and reputation and that he and his brothers were the neighborhood hoodlums.  As well, the influence Mike and his brothers had on a number of the younger, neighborhood boys wanting to be in his gang. 

     I backed up a bit more, mom closing the distance forward for every step I had taken backward, getting-in-my face while towering over me.  I knew she wouldn’t back down until she got the complete truth.

     “Where!” she repeated. 

     I didn’t know what to say having told my story two different ways. 

     “Did you take it from the Dime Store?”

     My face began heating up, cheeks flushing

     “Empty your pockets on the table,” Mom stated.

     “Mom!” 

     Mom took a few steps back, “Empty your pockets!”

     What could I do? I had to do something.

     “Now!  I’m not in the mood for another lie,” Mom’s voice rose in anger, “

     “Mom!”

     “Now… or you won’t get your allowance to go the afternoon movies with your friends this Saturday or the next.  Start with emptying your coat pockets, then pants pockets,” she said, lowering her voice. 

     I said nothing hoping for a miracle of any kind to change the moment. 

     “Do you want your dad to do it for you?”

     “N…no,” I stammered, unzipping the coat, letting it drop to the floor, chocolate bar sliding partway out of the pocket, my head drooping, shoulders rounding, looking at the floor. 

     “Look at me, not the floor! Did you take it without paying?”

     She knew I had taken it without paying, but wanted me to admit I was a thief without hearing a third excuse, another lie. 

     I looked up not wanting to admit to what I had done when seeing my sister out of the corner of my eye standing at the doorway with the grin of a Cheesy Cat having heard the commotion, knowing I was in trouble. 

     “Did you take it without paying?”

     Again, I said nothing.

     “I want to hear you say what you did! It’ll remind you not to do it again.”

     “Ye… yes.”

     “I want you to repeat it, adding where you took it from,” Mom repeated.

     “Mom!”

     Mom said nothing, not moving from her stance in front of me, taking a quick glance at the candy bar sticking partway out of my coat pocket.

     “I… I took it from the Dime store. I promise I won’t do it again.”

     “How many!” she demanded.

     She wasn’t about to fall for the quick apology having been raised with five brothers in the  Kellogg, Wallace and Mullan area of hard rock mining towns in Idaho during the depression.  Her younger brother was serving a second stent in Walla Walla State Prison for writing bad checks.  She knew it had to be more than one chocolate bar, knowing I had eaten one, the other slightly spilling from my coat pocket.

     “Two,” I admitted.

     “Only two!”

     I motioned yes with my head.

     “You need to say how many you took,” she emphasized.

     “Two,” I mumbled.”

     “How many!”

     “Two,” I said a bit louder.

     “What do you think your punishment should be?”

     “Take it back?” I barely uttered, hoping for the end of the confrontation with no further punishment for admitting my crime and the number I took. 

     “That and say you’re sorry, then pay for both.”

     I could return the uneaten chocolate bar but I did not have the ten cents to pay for two Hersey bars with allowance spent and siblings not willing to loan me any more money.   

     “I will give you the ten cents for both candy bars. You return the remaining candy bar back with the dime to Irene.  I will deduct ten cents from your allowance to pay your sister and brother back, then me when you get your allowance.”

     “Mom…I.”

     “I’m not done! Not only will you pay everything back with your allowance, you will wash and dry dishes after dinner for two weeks without complaint.  You will not go to any movies for two Saturdays and will help your dad in the yard and mow and trim Mr. Fleming's lawn while he’s on vacation for no pay.”

     “But…”

     “No buts, the dime store is open until eight.  I will drive you down there and wait in the car while you tell Irene what you did.  Return the uneaten candy bar, pay her for what you took then apologize.  Pick up your coat and go to the car.”

     I did not want to get in the car, go back to the store, admit my theft or pay for the one chocolate bar I ate.  The second still in its wrapper.  Yet, I knew better than to challenge mom when this mad and frustrated with me, let alone what she had in mind for further punishment if I defied her.  

     I picked up my coat holding the candy bar. Mom called Irene and explained the theft and that we were on our way there to return and pay for what I stole.  She then got her coat, car keys and purse before taking a dime from her coin purse.  I got the silent treatment on the drive down to the dime store, not a lecture on thieving and lying, mom knowing I had already been shamed in front of siblings and dad.  Once there, saying, “Irene is waiting at the front entrance.”  

     Getting out of the car, chocolate bar in hand, dime in the other, seeing Irene waiting at the entrance of the store with the clerk, I paused.  Turning to mom for courage seeing Irene had folded her arms across her chest.  Saying nothing, mom turned away looking out the windshield.  I slowly walked toward the dime store seeing Irene glowering at me.  She opened the screen door as I handed her the Hershey bar and dime. 

     “I took two Hersey Bars without paying. I’m sorry. Promise I won’t do it again,” I apologized. 

     Irene took the dime and Hersey chocolate bar, tossing the unwrapped chocolate bar in the trashcan next to the door.  Putting the dime in her apron pocket, she stated, “Why would I want something back stolen from me.”

     I looked for sympathy for doing the right thing, getting none.

     “I don’t want to see you in the store for six months,” she stated before turning around and going back into the store, then pausing, turning and saying, “Your mother is a wonderful woman and you do this to her.” 

     I returned to the car, mom saying, “Don’t you feel better now that you did something honest.”

     Shaking my head in a yes manner to please mom as she drove home, making me go to bed without dinner or listen to my favorite radio programs. 

     Both siblings got their loans paid back in full from my allowance followed with an apology.  I paid mom the following week after she gave me my weekly allowance with one hitch, I had to pay her back on the spot.  I did the dishes for two weeks without complaint and helped dad with yard work – dad never once humiliated me over the theft, but said, “Moms have intuition.”  I did the neighbor’s lawn free after helping dad with the garden.  Mom eventually let me go to the Saturday movie matinee at Coy’s theater without knowing I sat next to Mike during intermission bragging of stealing two Hersey Bars. 

     “Maybe three next time?” Mike hinted with a smile. 

Part II:

     Months passed without incident after punishment and I begin going to the Salvation Army again to play basketball, make things for my parents and brother, never my whiny, snoopy, tattle-tailing sister except on her birthday and Christmas.  It’s where I heard about Mike’s new adventures into the realm of thieving and profit making.  I wanted to be in his gang for the money in my pocket to buy what I wanted, when I wanted, but couldn’t afford on a weekly allowance.  Mom soon figured what I was thinking then threatening me with Green Hill School, a medium/maximum security for juveniles if caught stealing again. 

     Mom knew better than to trust what I promised, no doubt remembering what her brothers had done when growing up during the depression.  She checked on where I was going, whom I would be with, what time I would be home and a phone number where to reach me.  If I wasn’t home at a certain time or called telling her when I would be home, she or my older brother, a chore he found unpleasant, would come looking for me.  One time Mom called the police to pick me up as a reminder of what she was capable of doing.  She drove me nuts keeping me away from the likes of Mike, or any of his brothers, never giving me a chance to join his gang.

     Because of mom’s intrusive ways, I was careful to stay away from Mike and his gang.  If I stole, I did it with reasoning, planning and alone.  I never bragged to neighborhood friends, not even my brother of what I stole.  Boasting is an indication of thievery and eventually drawing the attention of authorities.  If I went to the store for mom, I would always take a different route to the store and another home keeping thefts small and for my own personal use.  Most important, I never returned home with a cocky-attitude or merchandize such as food, clothing, electronics or tools without a receipt she might want to see. 

     When making a trip to the store, out of allowance and in the need of money, knowing better than to borrow from my stingy sister, secretive brother or search mom’s coat pocket for change, I would go down the alley to the Feed Store on Delridge Way, half-block from St. James Lutheran Church.  Getting on the side of the Feed Store where the owner couldn’t see me, I’d search for a stack of empty gunnysacks on the other side of the six-foot chain link fence.  Finding the stack of sacks, I would pull three, sometimes four, of the better gunnysacks through the fence before taking them down the street to the hardware store and getting a few pennies for each.  If not stealing from the Feed Store, I would go down a neighboring alley and take already returned pop bottles for deposit.  An easy theft when returned bottles were stored in the back of the store for later pickup.  I would fill an empty sack, making it look like I was bringing the bottles from home before taking them to a different store down the block for recycle refunds.  Any extra money above allowance, presents and job earnings I hid in a coffee can in a hole under the garage. 

     Keeping my thieving minor, I got through grade school and junior high because mom kept me away from the likes of Mike as best she could.  She was my mom, my keeper, my truant officer, tutor for school subjects, arranged part-time jobs when in high school and hugged me when I got my high school diploma.  I finished college with her keeping track of me when possible and her and dad helping with college costs.  Uncle Sam drafted me into the US Army within months after graduating from college as a Second Lieutenant.  

     Did I stop thieving?  Hell no!  Eventually becoming a Second Lieutenant had its advantages as a good source of extra money, selling whatever I could get from the supply depot and on-base dispensaries with small bribes of cash or favors of long weekend passes.  On rare occasions, I would tell a soldier where one of the better houses of ill repute was in town stationed for small favors. 

     Within months of mustering out of the Army with an Honorable Discharge, I applied for Law School.  Accepted, I used the GI Bill, scholarships and grants and worked two nights a week for the local grocery store, eventually passing the State Bar Exam on the second try.

     Did I change my ways?  Yes, for a short while.  Once I begin practicing law that changed when I begin listening to a few other lawyers brag on the different ways, legal or not, to charge clueless clients for extras.  I did as they did, then begin finding new ways to overcharge clients in little ways, remembering from childhood to tell no one, especially other lawyers or friends about what I did.  Every few months, I would do a Pro Bono legal case that didn’t require much work for suck-up points with clients then mention it to who would ever listen to get new clients. 

     Did I finally become the honest citizen my mother tried and hoped for?  No.  Public office is where the money and power are.  I wanted my share!  Paying my fee to enter the race for a seat on the City Council, I won by making promises I knew I wouldn’t keep while taking legal contributions for my campaign fund. 

     Majority of money contributed came from a variety of business people (team owners, contractors, developers) and lobbyists for what I could do for them. Along with legal contributions, there were free dinners, tickets to stadium games or expensive vacations to California, Mexico and the Canadian Rockies (Lake Louise Chateau).  Eventually I begin taking occasional envelopes of cash slid across the table under a drink glass in expensive restaurants and cocktail lounges.  Another easy source of money was using campaign funds in small amounts then padding the account anyway possible with receipts not necessarily mine. 

     I’m not sure when Mom begin thinking I was a good son and was proud I had never served time in juvenile detention, city jail or prison, became a college graduate, served in the military and pasted the bar exam.  She got shorter and thinner over the years but her determination was still strong in making me a better human being thinking she won the battle to save me from jail.  Never knowing she lost the war of small thefts when younger, thieving ways in the Army and as a lawyer before passing away within months of my becoming a politician. 

        My time in the Army, college and those early years as a lawyer before she passed, Mom, as a reminder, sent me newspapers articles on Mike and his brothers.  Mike’s oldest brother, Tommy was serving life in Walla Walla State Prison for robbery and murder.  Youngest brother, Pat, got out of prison and moved to New Orleans; neighborhood rumors had him working as a musician and a pimp.  Mike died in a cheap hotel on Market Street in San Francisco from cirrhosis of the liver.  She noted the fact that each of their thefts became more brazen and violent as were the weapons – fist, baseball bat, knife, eventually guns. 

     As for my sister, she’s still a pain in the ass and whiny as hell and on her fourth marriage with one grown child and brags about her stepchildren by the last two husbands when not borrowing money from me, my older brother or an ex-husband.  My brother and I often kid one another of those times growing up in White Center when he reminds me that he never got caught for what he stole and how he did a better job of staying out of mom’s radar intuition.  With a chuckle, he tells me I should run for mayor or governor then become a  lobbyist for developers, contractors, lawyers and doctors, saying, “Lobbying for the big boys is where the easy money is.” 

          I admit, “Once a thief, always a thief.”  To be a good thief, one must be a liar, cheat, sneak and thief.  At that, I must admit to. 

Part III:

     I’ll let you know if I win the Senate race.  Washington DC is where the real money is. 

Robert Jones

Words 2800 

                 My Clothes Are Not Her Clothes

     My wife is the love of my life. She is sweet, works fulltime, is a damn good cook and keeps the house clean and the garden blooming.  She understands my needs and those of others.  She knows what foods I like, sports I prefer and style of cloth es I wear.  She helps me shop for what she thinks I need.  Best about her, she treats my two teenage daughters, who live with their mom, as her own.  Who could ask for more? 

     However… there are certain situations where she drives me nuts.  She has a bit of pit-bull in her as well a smidgen of thief making her the predator.  My closet and clothes her victims.  Take the time she decided to wear one of my long sleeve dress shirts for house chores.  

     “Why?” I had asked her.  

     “Why not, I wash and iron them don’t I?” 

     What could I have said other than repeat, “Why!”

     She came back with, “Why not?  They’re too big for me, more comfortable to wear and easy to clean the house in.”  She paused, smiled then gave me that mischievous look, adding, “Easier to clean the toilet with.  Besides, why would I get my clothes dirty and smelly when it’s you I’m cleaning up after?”

     What could I have said back?  By the time I had thought of a good comeback, she was gone, tails of my shirt waving bye-bye as she left the room.

     I had had it!  Feeling abused by her attitude of what is yours is mine, I told myself, “Get even!  Wear one of her blouses!  Do unto her what she does unto you!” 

     Entering her closet, separate of mine, I had chosen her favorite pink blouse.  Next, I removed my shirt, then as careful as possible put the blouse on.  Not able to button it with a wide gapping spread between buttons and buttons holes without splitting its shoulder seams, I was ready to teach her a lesson of respect of what is mine, is mine, not hers.  

     “Honey!” I had said after walking into the kitchen where she had been cleaning.

     She turned, took a moment to look at the gross spectacle in front of her.  “Look at you!” she had said, smiling before returning to cleaning the stove, seemingly ignoring the fact it was her favorite blouse.

     “Damn!” I had muttered to myself, having forgotten she does not fluster that easily and has an iota of smartass in her. 

     Yes, I had gotten her attention but not the reaction I had hoped for of, “Leave my clothes alone!”   

     Time pasted after that incident as my closet remained her closet to use my shirts as her janitor’s clothes whenever she wished.  Enough is enough, I needed to put a stop to her exclusive thinking of what is mine is hers. 

     War! Tit-for-tat, I promised myself back them, knowing there would be battles to lose and ones to win.  I would inflict upon her the insult she had perpetrated on me.  If she wears my clothes, I will wear hers as often as she wears mine.  

     Being a forgiving and forgetful person, and ignorant of women’s ways, I soon forgot about the incident and silent declaration of war with the start of soccer season.  A short time after that there was another rememberable incident when I had walked into the bathroom to do my three morning duties, shave, shower and shine – in the US Army we called it shit, shave, soap and shower and shine -- before going to work.  Razor in hand, looking into the mirror, I saw a reflection of my wife wearing another of my favorite shirts. 

     “What the Hell!” I had thought.  “Mind my tongue. Do not cause a problem. It’s okay.”       

     Returning to shaving, I had taken a second gander in the mirror as she readied to bend over the tub edge.  As the back of her working shirt -- my shirt -- had begun rising, stretched across her wide backside was a pair of my boxer shorts.  

     “How how dare you wear my underwear!” I had wanted to say. 

     “Need the bathroom?” she had kindly asked, not knowing how perturbed I might be with her wearing not only my shirt but also a pair of my boxers.  Making the situation worse, the boxers had been a new pair still in the purchasing wrapper before she took ownership of it.  A pair she had bought for me for a present at Christmas.  

     “I’ll finish my coffee in the living room then clean in here after you take your shower.” 

     I had thanked her for her kind thought.  Yet, it bugged the hell out of me thinking what will she take ownership of next? 

     “That’s it,” I had muttered after she left the bathroom. 

     Not bothering to finish shaving, I felt she needed another lesson on territorial rights of what belongs to me does not necessarily belong to her.  First thought, I would get naked then put on a pair of her cotton panties to model, making a point she not wear my boxers again. 

     Leaving the bathroom, I had gone into her closet.  Opening her underwear drawer, I remembered muttering, “My God!” at the sight.  The drawer was filled to the brim with different styles and colors, many still in brand-name packaging.  Finding the right choice to shame her into staying out of my closet and dresser drawers, I thumbed through her multiple assortment of different styles and colors of panties to find the right choice.  I chose a pair of white cotton briefs first.  They were not embarrassing enough.  Colored cotton ones followed.  A no for the same reason as the white cotton briefs.  Next, I picked up a pair of bikini panties.  Holding them up for affect, I pondered what to do.  Yes, they were sexy and revealing but not enough to humiliate her.  I needed to up the game of what is mine is not necessarily hers to wear.  Reaching in the back of the drawer, I pulled out three pair of G-string thongs, each a different color.  I decided on the red ones, brighter the better, putting the purple and yellow ones back.   

     “Perfect!  This ought to do the trick,” I remember thinking having given myself credit for being a bit more devious in thought and choice than with the blouse. 

     Going into the bathroom, I had shut and secured the door for privacy before stripping of all clothing.  Tile floor cold, I pulled my black, calf-high socks back on.  Then her thong.  It felt weird with support strings of the thong fitting in all the wrong places.  Looking into the full-length mirror, I remember chuckling at the gross site seeing a forest of hair sticking out the sides and top of her red thong.  I felt, at the time, it would be enough to embarrass her thinking she would reflect of if to or not to wear one of my shirts or boxers again.

     My wife calls me her Neanderthal man I have so much body hair.  Other times, usually after a few vodka martinis with friends she grins while referring to me as her favorite Sasquatch (Big Foot) – a large hairy humanoid that some believe lives and roams the mountains and forests in the northwestern United States and western Canada. 

     Ready to go out the bathroom door, I remembered seeing her pink bathrobe hanging on back of the door.  “Why not!” I had told myself.

     Sliding arms through the bathrobe sleeves, sleeve cuffs ending just below the elbows.  Bottom hemline of her bathrobe an inch below my knobby-knees.  With inches to spare between buttonhole edge on one side and buttons the other, the only way to close the robe a fraction was bringing sash ends of the bathrobe together for a single half-knot.  A wide gap between closing edges of the robe still exposed my hairy chest, stomach and front of the undersized thong.  I was ready to take her on, hoping it would anger her enough to yell at me using every swear word and foul-mouth clique she could think of.  Better yet, refuse to let me near her for a week before ordering me to sleep on the old couch in the basement that is shorter than my height.  If so, I would win and she would stay out of my closet and dresser drawers.  It is punishment I could accept, the basement having a television, a bathroom and a small kitchen if needed. 

     I headed for the living room where she was having a coffee break from cleaning.  Seeing her sipping at coffee, reading a design magazine, I had begun a slow, sauntering walk toward her.  She looked up from the couch as I slowly moved my hips a bit left, paused a moment, then right, repeating it with one hand on my right hip as an underwear model might. 

     “Taa da!” I remember introducing myself.  

     She smiled.

     “No you don’t!” I remember thinking, knowing how quick she was with a grin, chuckle, sarcasm and one-line comebacks.

     I pulled the sash on the robe letting it open all the way. “Taa da,” I had repeated, letting the bathrobe slowly slip off one shoulder then the other while lingering a moment every few steps as I slowly turned left then right modeling her thong.  

     She chuckled, putting her coffee and magazine on the coffee table as if ready to howl in laughter at what she was seeing.  An overweight, middle age man with too much body hair wearing calf-high, black socks and her red thong. 

     “Love it with your family jewels hanging out the side.  Give me another twirl, showing a little more of your Oscar Myer,” she had said.

     What else could I have done?  I put my index finger on my head and slowly turned a circle.  Facing her again, she had been filming video with her phone. 

     “Good action!  I might use a frame on our next Christmas Cards and send one to our neighbors.  Maybe a few frames to your sisters and brother.  Your ex-wife might appreciate your love handles, big belly and all the body hair you have,” she had said with a smirk. 

     Tongue tied, what could I say. 

     “I think you’d look good in a matching red brassiere with toilet tissue stuffed in each cup.  Then again, with your size and so much hair on your backside it doesn’t look so good with the thong string disappearing between your hairy, chunky, butt cheeks.”

     Weeks had pasted as she continued wearing my shirts and boxers around the house when I noticed a new addition to her housecleaning attire.  She had begun wearing my eighty percent Merino wool hiking socks as her slippers around the house.  I considered confronting her at the time to end her pit-bull attitude of what is mine is hers, but let it pass.  Shortly after that I saw her cleaning the house again in one of my shirts, boxer shorts and a different pair of my wool hiking socks. 

     You would think, I would have remembered she is brighter than I am, quicker with her brain first and mouth second, where as my mouth gets ahead of my brain.  Have I learned a lesson of thinking before opening my mouth?  Maybe I should have had a t-shirt printed for myself sometime back reading,  “Save Me from My Self!”

     She continued wearing what she felt was hers to wear of mine.  It drove me nuts when she added a sweater, scarf or hat of mine when the weather turned cold.  Making it worse is leaving a scent of her favorite soap on whatever she wears of mine.  A scent I love about her, yet reminding me she has the smarts and power in the house.  She wears the marriage pants of authority.    

     Is my manhood in question?  Definitely.  Was I becoming her toady?  Probably. 

     My wife is calm.  I am not.  She thinks things out.  I do not.  Therefore, I had to keep whatever I did simple and humorous before giving up the quest to keep her out of my closet and dresser drawers.  Day before her birthday, I got into the car driving to the shopping mall to look for two presents.  First gift would be a sweetheart present for her birthday. Second present would make my point of leaving my clothes alone unless asking first.  First store visited, I bought her three flower charms done in enamel and sterling silver – Dahlia, Lily and Peony -- for her charm bracelet.  A bracelet I had specially made for her birthday the first year of our marriage. 

     I looked around the store for the second present I had in mind for a lighthearted reminder for my wife to ask me first before wearing a shirt, boxer shorts, socks or any other clothing of mine.  The store had not had the item in stock for several years the sales clerk said when asked.  Second store was not much better than the first, having only one package in stock, an xx-large.  Visiting a third store the manager directed me to a small shelf in the back of the store, style and sizes limited to one package for each size.  Finding a package of medium and large, three pairs in each, I purchased both items not sure what size would fit her.  Paid for, I took both packages to the customer desk to wrap each in a decorative box with a red ribbon and big bow the same color.  All items wrapped, I headed home with an attitude that I would finally win the battle of who wears whose clothes.  

     I placed the gifts on the dining room table the morning of her birthday with a special card reading,  “From: Your loving husband.”  That evening I invited her to open the presents after serving cake, ice cream, cookies and vodka martinis, coffee for later.  I told her how much I loved her and appreciated everything she did for me.  I thanked her for treating my two daughters fairly, how understanding she was of my ex-wife and putting up with my obnoxious men friends when they came over to drink beer, snack and shout while watching a soccer game on television. 

     Smiling, thinking revenge is sweet yet kind, I took a chair at the table across from her in anticipation of what she might say after opening the second present.  Putting her martini down she begin unwrapping the first present while thanking me for remembering her birthday.  Ribbon first, then paper wrappings before folding and putting both aside for a future present.   Taking the three individual items from the box then unwrapping each, she mentioned taking the charm bracelet to the jeweler within the next few days to have the flower charms added to her bracelet.

     The second present followed with items rarely found in stores was at one time a number one seller across America in the men's clothing department.  Opening the box, seeing its contents she smirked.  “Thank you for being so considerate on letting me pick from two different sizes.  Think I’ll try them on so you can appreciate the present and know which size fits and you can take the other back for a refund.”

     She disappeared into the bedroom, coming out minutes later having changed from a dress and blouse to one of my dress shirts and merino wool socks.  With a grin from ear to ear, she pulled up the bottom of the shirt, my shirt, turning halfway around showing me her backside, then slapping it. “I love’em.” 

     Not sure what to do, I knew she had won again showing off her new tighty whitey, men’s briefs.  To add misery to my misjudgment, she took a second pair from the package, putting her hand inside the briefs, poking her thumb through the pee hole.  “Don’t need this.”

     Picking up her coffee, she walked into the kitchen but not before telling me how much she loved the presents, puckering her lips and blowing me a kiss.  Before turning left at the corner of the doorway, she flipped up the back of the shirt showing me her backside once again.  Disappearing around the corner she then leaned her head around the corner edge of the kitchen entrance, saying, “I love’em! Haven’t had a pair of these on since wearing my old boyfriend’s briefs when cleaning the apartment where we lived.” 

     No, she did not change her ways.  My shirts remained hers to wear; my boxers became her underwear, including the tightey whitey briefs around the house doing chores; my wool socks her slippers.  She gets to wear what is mine and I will not wear what is hers.  She understands well, as I do, the old, lumpy couch is still in the basement.  As well, I know sleeping in our bedroom is better than sleeping on the couch in the basement, outside in a tent in the backyard stuffed in an old, smelly sleeping bag, recreational vehicle or sofa surfing at different relative or friends houses. 

Robert Jones

Short Story

                      Thumbing West, Despair 

     December 23,1965! Drafted! 

    Thumbing West, Despair  -- Needs a serious editing.   Pages for 6. are being entered as I feel better.