The very first time teenager Candace Whiting laid eyes upon Rebel was in a dark and dank, fly-infested ten foot square shed in the back yard of her school mate, Walter Evans’ house. It was the mare’s home, more like a prison, really, with an inside half-wooden planked wall, topped by two upper sections of iron bars that had a rope doorway in the middle. This makeshift barrier, made by Walter himself, was set three feet back from the pretend stable’s Dutch front door and cut Rebel’s living space down to seven by ten. There was one removable square window on each of the shed’s side walls, but neither was reachable by the horse because they were located outside of her walled-off enclosure. The best the windows could do for her was to provide some sunlight and a cross breeze during hot and humid Connecticut summers. For now, mid-afternoon in late May, both windows and the shed’s front door were wide open to let air in and push out the stench of a half-foot deep sloshy mess of horse urine, wet feces and moldy straw.

Candace was aghast at the conditions Rebel was quartered in, but moreover, at the mare’s own physical condition as she was very skinny with her ribs and hip bones sticking out, she had a scrawny neck, and her pretty brown, gold-flecked eyes looked infected with pus in their corners. Her coal black coat should have been shiny, but was so dry and dull-looking, it resembled a much used dust mop that needed shaking out. Her mane and tail were matted and weighed down with dried manure and straw clumps, and who knew what her hooves looked like, which were buried in her stall’s muck. The only parts of the horse Candace could see to admire aloud to Walter were the narrow white stripe down her face that began with a perfect diamond shape on her forehead, and the top of one amazingly clean white “sock” peeking out above the dried feces stuck on Rebel’s left front leg.

Candace, in spite of her young age as a thirteen year old, knew a lot about horses. She’d been enamored of them ever since she’d had a three minute ride for one dollar on a paint pony around an enclosed track at a country fair when she was five. Before then, the only riding experience she’d had was as a toddler when she’d been held safely on a saddle by her father and cried her eyes out as they’d ridden his very tall (to her) and still energized mount from the local Polo Club playing field to the team’s barn. Fortunately, she’d forgotten that terrifying time in her babyhood, thanks in part to her wise mother, Dorothy, who had given Candace’s father a mild comeuppance, and a lesson from Dr. Spock’s manual for new parents on how to instill trust and confidence in their offspring without frightening the life out of them.

On this fine Connecticut day in May, Candace was in shock standing next to her school mate and observing the sorry state of his mare, Rebel. She was angry at Walter, but like her wise mom had done with her father, she instinctively knew to tread lightly on his pride to get something out of him, so she forced herself to be nice as she spoke.

“You know, Walt, I’ll bet underneath all that muck and mire you’ve got a nice horse there. I had no idea you had a horse. The last time you brought me to your house, what, a year ago?…you wanted me to see the rabbits you were raising. Wow, you sure had a lot of them!”

“Yep,” said Walter, “Got that right. They just kept multiplyin’ an’ multiplyin’ faster than I could separate ’em. I got tired of building hutches and chasing escapees around, so I traded all the bunnies with their hutches, rabbit food, my customer lists and a meat freezer to a guy for the horse.”

Walter smiled, proud that he had gotten what he thought was the better end of the stick from the “guy” with no name. He became boastful as he turned to face Candace.

“You’re lookin’ at a thoroughbred here, a mighty fine race horse with a great bloodline. The guy that had her said she could’ve won a lot of races. She has a fancy name, too, “Chieftain’s Blackbird”, registered and all, but he didn’t give me her papers ’cause we were tradin’ for the rabbits and such, not buyin’ or sellin’.”

Candace, after thinking some private thoughts, which included a few choice swear words for Walter, somehow still managed to keep calm as she asked,

“…and you changed her name to ‘Rebel’? Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good name, but any particular reason for it?”

“Well,” said Walter, “the guy told me she couldn’t keep her fancy name because it’s tied to her father, the famous race horse, Chieftain, and if anybody found out who she really is, they might think I stole her. Then I’d be in big trouble.”

Candace almost rolled her eyes in amazement at Walter’s obvious naivete, but thought better of possibly insulting him. She wanted to stay on his good side until she’d learned all of the story of this clearly hurting animal before her, so she shrugged her shoulders and asked, “But why the name, Rebel? Just curious.” Walter began unfolding the bent pages of Chieftain’s Blackbird, the horse in disguise’s story.

“The guy told me about how a bundle of money had been spent buying her as a filly at the Keenland auctions in Kentucky, and then raising her up until she could begin training at two years old. The owner had big plans for her, maybe even racing her all the way to the Triple Crown. But as she grew and got closer to training age, the owner realized that even with her great pedigree, her terrific speed in running and her heart in it to win, she could never set a hoof on a race track. When he told me that, I thought in her own way she was being a rebel against it, so…Rebel became her name.”

“Walter, please,” said Candace, “Tell me the rest, don’t hold anything back.” She was becoming impatient to hear the horse’s whole story, how she’d wound up so beaten down.

Walter stammered a bit seeing the rising fire of anger in his school mate’s eyes.

“The guy told me she was…um, well, um…she was too short.”

Candace was stunned. She wasn’t expecting this kind of answer at all. She stepped back, away from Walter, and let her anger boil over as she paced the narrow space between the shed’s door and the iron-barred stall with clenched fists.

“What? I can’t believe it! And because of that, she ended up here? In this pitiful condition? No, it can’t be. This kind of neglect would never happen, would it, Walter, on a proper thoroughbred farm? You did this! How could you let her get so bad?”

Tears began to roll down Candace’s cheeks as Walter fled both her and the shed. She wiped her face with the back of one hand as she sobbed and looked into Rebel’s eyes, straight through to her heart.

“I’ll get you out of this mess, sweetie, don’t you worry another minute. It’s you and me, girl, you and me.”

Two of the signs of the many showing Rebel’s distress were that she didn’t even shake her head to try to get rid of the flies buzzing around and landing upon her infected eyes, she just let her head hang down in exhaustion, and she stood with one bony hip stuck up, which meant she had shifted her weight so that there was no pressure on one of her back hooves. That action could mean several things from simply resting to relieving pain by taking the weight off of that hoof, but Candace thought of thrush first, a fungus type bacteria in the hooves caused because of the mare standing in moist excrement continuously. Obviously, Rebel had also lain down in the muck to sleep, hence the clumps of feces stuck in her mane, tail, and on her body. She’d had little to none clean, dry straw to lay on. There was no excuse for this terrible treatment of an innocent, dependent animal.

Candace’s sadness and compassion for Rebel had stopped her blood boiling in anger over Walter’s neglectful treatment of the horse, and since there was one extremely important thing to do…get Rebel out of her miserable situation immediately…Candace decided that deceitful diplomacy was the only way to go. Well, that and a little bribery, but she’d need a partner in crime, the other horse lover in her family, her dad, Harry Whiting.

Walter hadn’t gone very far after he’d fled the shed, just out of the fenced backyard to his dad’s old Chevy work truck relic, permanently parked so that the truck bed faced the sunset. Many a nice summer evening was shared by the young man and his mom and dad watching the sun go down, although now, it was just Walter and his mom to enjoy it. His dad, who’d gone to Florida with some buddies on a fishing trip six months ago, hadn’t returned home, but his buddies did. It turned out there was foul play involved, a play by a two-legged chick to hook, line and sinker a handsome fisherman in a Marlin bar.

Candace exited the shed and saw Walter sitting on the tailgate of the truck. She climbed through the back yard’s wire fence to get to him. He wasn’t in very good shape, in fact, he’d been crying, just like her, and now was looking down at his hands in his lap to avoid her gaze.

“I’m sorry about Rebel,” he said, “truly I am. Since my dad didn’t come back, mom and I have been struggling along trying to make ends meet. Oh, he sends us money an’ all, but it’s not enough to cover our bills let alone vet bills and medicines for Rebel or even straw and hay. I’ve been letting her out in the back yard to graze on the grass and I’ve been stealing oats from the feed store when I sweep up there on Saturdays. But I know it’s not enough. She’s beyond that now, she needs more help than I can give her.”

Candace moved to sit next to Walter and comfort him.

“I didn’t know about your dad. I’m sorry for that. It must be awful for you and your mom. Does your dad know you have Rebel?” she asked.

“No,” said Walter, “she was supposed to be a surprise for when he got home. Y’see, when I got the rabbits, I thought my dad and I could have more time together, you know, share in the work and stuff, even make some money at it. Then we could go on trips, just him and me…camping, fishing, maybe buy some bikes and do some exploring somewhere. But he never got interested in the rabbits, he didn’t even like them. He thought they were dumb and useless animals, and said he’d rather have a horse. So he stayed away from me and the rabbits…and then started going away…with his friends.”

Walter looked so down and depressed Candace was almost afraid to ask, but she did.

“Do you think if you tell your dad you got Rebel for him, he’ll come back?”

Walter couldn’t bring himself to speak the truth, so he just shook his head in a silent “No.”

In that, the saddest moment in Walter’s young life, Candace had a big decision to make. What to do about Rebel.

“Listen, Walt, I’ve got some ideas on how to help you and Rebel. You know about Brandy, my dad’s horse, do you think it would be okay if I called his vet and have him come over to check out Rebel?”

Walter hesitated, then said, “I told you, I can’t pay him.”

“Pay, shmay, c’mon Walt,” said Candace, giving his arm a light, easy punch, “We’ve got a friend to save. We’ll work it out somehow…you, me, the vet and Rebel. She’s waiting on us to give her a better life…she wound up with you for a reason, and I’m here, too. It was meant to be. Now get off your butt and let’s get started!”

Walter smiled through his tears and said, “Okay!”. Then both teens laughed as they heard a very loud neigh, which sounded more like a happy “Yay!” come from the shed.

Copyright SageFaber2024

All Rights Reserved

Harry and Dorothy Faber loved the Fall season in Connecticut when the leaves changed to brilliant colors, danced in the wind as they fell from the trees, then rustled and crunched in swirling around and under their feet as they walked. Their favorite walking trail was at Reservoir 6 off of Route 44 in West Hartford. They went there quite often to enjoy the scenery, catch fleeting glimpses of wildlife of all sorts, and spend quality, quiet time with each other, something raising three children didn’t provide all that much. The reservoir was their private haven, so in keeping with that, they promised each other to leave their cares and woes at home when they went walking, and simply relax into the mutual moments of small joys they found in Nature.

One day, after Harry and Dorothy had walked halfway around the reservoir, they heard a noise, like a newborn baby making short wails, and both stood stock still to listen for the direction the noise was coming from. There was a rustling in the bushes halfway up a low wooded hill on the right side of the dirt road they were on, which could have been made by a stalking bobcat or a black bear foraging for food to stave off starvation during the coming winter’s hibernation. Or it could simply be a feral dog or cat that had been dumped there by someone who didn’t want to care for it anymore. Either way, danger or not, since they were kind and caring people, the Fabers weren’t about to leave what sounded to them like someone or something in distress.

Harry, like his father before him, had been taught from a young age how to hunt and fish, and to have great respect for all in Nature. His father and grandfather, sharing stories with him in the pond-side cabin they’d built, had made it clear to him that a person only hunted or fished for food, not for wanting to kill something. “If you’re not going to eat it or give it to a poor family in need, let it go on its way,” his grandfather had said, and his dad had added in a singsong way, “A ‘coon skin belongs on a wily raccoon, not as a hat on Daniel Boone.” They’d all three laughed at that, and young Harry was happy with it because he’d just as soon enjoy the meals his mother made for him rather than literally gnawing on tough, stringy and gamey “wild” meats. He’d been down that road with his parents at local Gun Club dinners where all manner of furry, feathered and other of the Connecticut woods’ inhabitants were on the menu. He refused to eat ruffled grouse, like his mom, because it was their state’s bird, however, he would admit to eating wild turkey, pheasant and rattlesnake, which surprisingly tasted to him like chicken. He drew the line, though, at frog legs, squirrel and rabbit, these three creatures being in his child minds eye, too cute to forget and eat.

Standing still on the reservoir’s dirt road and facing the wooded hill on its right side, Dorothy had her ears honed in on the cry for help. She pointed a finger to halfway up the incline and whispered, “About there. Do you think?” Her love, Harry, with a good thirty years of hunting under his belt, quietly agreed by nodding, “Yes”, and saying, “Good call.” He looked at his wife, all maybe one hundred and ten pounds of her, and a short but mighty, five foot one in stature. He couldn’t ask her to go tramping through the woods with him, neither of them were dressed for it, and beside that, it would be rough going through briars, tangled ground cover, rocks and whatever else could block their way, like fallen trees, to investigate the cries they’d heard. And who knows what they’d find? But he saw she was giving him her intense side-eye, the look that said loud and clear, “Oh no, Mister, ut uh, n-o-o-o…you are not going alone. We’re in this together, always have been, always will be.” That “said”, Dorothy signaled with a jerk of her head to the right for Harry to lead and she would follow.

After slowly carrying on battling their way up the hill through overgrowth, brambles, low branches, rocks, downed trees, and the occasional sharp stick, they heard the mysterious cry at its loudest, and what they saw next was heartbreaking. Halfway under a blueberry bush was a baby deer, a fawn that was no more than a few hours old. And next to it was its mother, dead. It was obvious she’d been injured, possibly in a fall from the hilltop. There was a lot of blood on her head and on a nearby pointed rock. Her right foreleg was broken. The matted, twisted and bloodied undergrowth beneath her told Harry she’d had to struggle hard to stay alive and give birth to her baby.

Dorothy couldn’t hold back her tears as she sat down next to the doe and stroked the soft fur on her neck. Mercifully, the doe’s eyes were closed, and she was at peace in her final sleep.

The fawn had stopped its loud bleating when the Fabers had first nearly arrived upon the scene. Since then, it had remained still and silent, an instinct carried through the genes of generations against predators finding them in a vulnerable state. There was no noise at all now, not even chirping crickets, galumping frogs or hooty owls doing their thing. It seemed the wildlife community of the forest and reservoir was honoring one of their fallen own in a respectful moment.

With a lump in his throat, Harry knelt down beside his beloved, put an arm around her and spoke gently. “Dottie, honey, I think we should take the fawn and go. We can ask the forest rangers to come get the doe and…”, his voice trailed off to end. As Dorothy gave the fawn’s mama one last caring stroke on her neck, she said, “No, this forest is her home. She was born here, like her baby. Her spirit lives here now, and one day, when the fawn is ready, it will come home, too.”

Harry took off his jacket and wrapped the fawn in it like he’d done in swaddling his own newborn babies in their first blankets. He and Dorothy began to make their way back to the reservoir road, and to their car in the reservoir’s entrance parking lot. Once inside the car, with the little fawn asleep on her lap, Dorothy kissed Harry on his cheek and whispered, “Forget the autumn leaves, you’re my October love”. Then, to Harry’s astonishment and delight, she began to sing the song they’d chosen for their wedding day first dance, “Oh, oh, Skylark, have you anything to say to me? Won’t you tell me where my love can be? Is there a meadow in the mist? Where someone’s waiting to be kissed…”

Copyright SageFaber2023

All rights reserved.

TCWG October/November 2023

The marina had rolled up its sidewalks for the night and all sailors were snug in their bunks except Bradley Cranston and his cat. The two were out on the docks for a midnight stroll, the only time Bosco, a chocolate-colored Manx tom could have his freedom. He would otherwise have to wear a collar and be on a leash, not something a respectable cat like Bosco was wont to do…imitate a lowly dog.

The cat moved happily and stealthily along, while his pal, Bradley, was slowed by a leg full of shrapnel. There were bits and pieces of metal in his left knee, and some had gravitated downward through bone when he was shot by friendly fire during a tour of duty in Afghanistan. “An accident,” they’d said, “we didn’t mean to shoot you.” But that off-handed apology came nowhere near to making up for the agonizing and relentless pain following many surgeries to repair the damage. Bradley’s doctor finally had to give him the bad news. They could never remove all of the shrapnel, and he would always walk with a limp. At the young age of twenty-seven, that news was hard to bear. Still, he hadn’t lost his leg, like too many others did, and everything else bodily was intact, including the former soldier’s positive mental outlook and sense of humor.

“Say, ol’ man,” Bradley said to Bosco as they came to the entrance of Clack’s Wharf, “How’d you like to go to Mexico and scare up a kitty senorita? I think you’d do right well down there, muchacho!” The cat flicked his ears back and forth. He was listening, but had his nose pointed toward the enticing smell of a wharf rat. Whiffs of prey swirled in his nostrils awakening and fine-tuning his innate drive to possess this tasty thing. The hunt was on.

A few yards down Clack’s, in front of Attila’s Fish and Chips Shoppe on the starboard side of the wharf, Bosco stopped dead in his tracks, crouching like a miniature panther, and stared straight ahead. Bradley, a few steps behind, limped along and grinned, knowing full well the drill and the grisly scene about to happen. A dirty rat would die tonight, one less to sneak aboard a boat on a dock line and make a mess in scavenging. No regrets there.

Attila’s was closed for the night, but the pub and lodge next door, Cap’n Bleda’s Come On Inn, would be battening its hatches in two bells, one ante meridiem. Bradley wasn’t in the mood to socialize, he was enjoying the cool night air of Francis Island which had been his and Bosco’s home for the past five years. The two best friends had opted for island life when 2nd Lieutenant Cranston, a Purple Heart recipient, was mustered out of the Army, and bought a sailboat to live on.

Bradley was getting tired of shuffling along Clack’s Wharf while Bosco crept slowly, stopping and going, to his ratty target. So when he spied a bench that faced the ocean, he went to it and sat. He had no desire on this beautifully moonlit and clear-aired starry night to watch a bloody massacre even if Bosco was his devoted pal. Of course, the cat was only attacking the rat because he wanted to show off his hunting skills to his best friend. The Manx was well fed and cared for even without wharf rat on his menu. No, it wasn’t about that, it was more of a guy thing, a mano y mano to show Bradley their team would survive, and thrive, because both of them could take care of each other in case of lean times. The man shouldn’t worry where their next meal would come from with Bosco around.

In the silence before the cat/rat tornado began, Bradley slumped down into his bench seat and rested his head on its uppermost slat. He gazed at the sparkling stars above and thought how nice it would be to have a sweet girlfriend sitting beside him to cuddle with, and enjoy, this calming scene. His eyes became heavy and he was beginning to nod off when all hell in a hand basket broke loose. There were high-pitched screams that could tear one in two, not from a cat or a rat, but from a woman across the wharf and behind Bradley. He turned his head to find the source of the noise and saw someone in the shadows penned up between stacks of lobster pots by Bosco and his captured rat in a whirlwind of hair, blood, snapping teeth and clawing nails. There was no escape for the frightened and unwilling witness as she was blocked on both sides by hanging glass trap bobbers and a tangle of lobster pot ropes.

Bradley stood up from the bench and hobbled as fast as he could to her, but in the dark shadows of the piled up pots, he couldn’t see her very well. She’d quit screaming when she saw him coming, so he couldn’t hear her, either. There was naught for him to do, really, because once animals are in mortal combat, they fight to the death or until one of them escapes somehow. And because of the danger of being bitten by a rabid animal, it’s certainly not wise to go anywhere near them to try breaking them up. Bradley quickly devised another plan.

“Okay,” he said to the woman in the shadows, “I’m going to throw my shirt over them. You come out, be careful of the bobbers and ropes, turn to the left and keep going. Alright?” He knew the ocean end of Clack’s Wharf was in that direction. The animals would have the opposite roadway end for their escape. He didn’t hear her answer or see her go before he’d ripped off his shirt and covered the battling cat and rat in their snarling tussle. The surprised animals stopped the fight and ran together out from under the shirt in the wrong direction… toward the sprinting woman who was almost to the end of the wharf. Bradley knew he couldn’t chase them, so he just stood and watched the woman, cat and rat play out their wild encounter to its finale. She jumped off the end of the wharf into the water, the rat made a u-turn up and to the top of a Clack’s Wharf piling where it couldn’t jump to the next one because it was too far away. And the cat, good ol’ Bosco, stopping for a quick look over his shoulder at Bradley, sauntered to the middle of the wharf and sat where he could see his beloved friend, keep an eye on his cornered prey, and groom his tasty bloodied fur.

Moments later, Cap’n Bleda, totally unaware of the mighty battle, near drowning, and rat now sleeping and whistle snoring atop a nearby Clack’s Wharf piling, came out of his Come On Inn and locked the front door. He walked to the cat, who looked up at him with his handsome green eyes, and then saw Bradley on the wharfside beach wrapping a blanket around a sopping wet young lady in a dress. “Huh,” said Cap’n Bleda to Bosco, “I’ll have to ask Bradley where he found such a pretty drowned rat.” Then he chuckled to himself, petted the Manx, which brought forth purring, and left for home.

Bosco watched the stalwart Captain leave the wharf and thought, “Goodnight, dear sir, and thank you for being a kind and generous friend to sneak me sardines when no one is looking.”

Copyright SageFaber2023

All rights reserved

Everywhere she went, Lillian would stop and kiss her cell phone, sometimes lightly and quickly like she loved someone a bushel and a peck or, if she was in a private corner of her own, blushing and with much passion. It was weird to see, if one happened to catch her, a grown woman in her forties kissing her phone as though it contained the love of her life or even records of her most passionate experiences. Oy! She had to be nuts, eh? Nope, she was only nutty when it came to Russell Crowe, her heart’s desire. She kept a gorgeous gallery of photographs of him that she could look at, swoon, fantasize and drool over, twenty-four seven.

Truth be told, Ms. Lillian Bosworth, was a woman of substance, intellectually, physically, financially, and she lacked for nothing in all three areas. She’d had a disastrous first marriage, but counted her son, Marvin, now twenty-three, as a blessing from it, and continued on with her life carrying a new motto: “The past is trashed, go for the future.” She decided to put her good business sense and brains to work in becoming an online worldwide web broadcaster. The reason for this was two-fold. One, to give her a platform for doing what she’d always dreamed of…being famous, having friends in many foreign countries, and sharing her life with everyone. The second reason was to provide a legacy for herself that she could hand down to her son who might enjoy carrying on with it and making it his own. The thought that such an endeavor could easily bring her a notoriety she wasn’t seeking never crossed her mind…well, truthfully, maybe once or twice, but she just shrugged it off as a “fear of flying”, the expression used by job hunters when a massive case of butterflies in their stomachs prevent them from being brave enough to pursue a career in the public eye.

Lillian had surmised that her first order of the day was to learn everything there was to know about the business of being an online host. But where to start? Well, her local library had always been her go-to for information not supplied in school books, so she made a bee-line for there. Of course, as expected, the library was loaded with all of the learning about the World Wide Web anyone could hope for, but it would take years to read every page in the plethora of volumes. “Very unrealistic,” Lillian of-an-age had to admit to herself as she headed for the nearest library computer and paused at the new “Sodas & Snacks” room recently added. She murmured in an imitation of Martha Stewart’s voice, “It’s a good thing.” as she pushed dollar bills into one of the vending machines to buy canned sweet tea and bottled water. In the other machine she plunked quarters for bags of corn chips and pretzels. Lillian planned to be at the computer for the duration.

Months later on, after a part-time, unpaid night-shift apprenticeship, the quitting of her day job, and a year of trials, tribulations and begging for sponsorships, Lillian finally had her on-line program up, running and actually paying for itself. And she was getting very complimentary ratings, good reviews and lots of subscribers. But there became one ugly fly in the ointment. The proverbial bad seed, Nico Owen, also known as “the nephew who’d come out of the woodwork”, when he’d realized the potential in his Aunt Lillian’s successful and popular homegrown platform. He wanted a piece of that action, and felt he was owed simply by virtue of being her relation, and so one day, upon his release from jail, he came knocking.

After exchanging polite and knowing pleasantries as relatives tend to do, Lillian’s kitchen table conversation took a decidedly different direction when Nico jumped right in with a request, no, more like a demand of his aunt that she give him a specific job.

“I want to be a producer,” he said, “I’ve heard from some friends of mine that it’s an easy thing to get into if you have the right connections, and you’ve got everything I need to get me started.”

Lillian just sat and stared at him for a few moments, feeling that what he just said was incredulous to her, then answered, “Oh, so, I’m supposed to hire you to be a producer? With no experience at all?”

Nico replied, “Yeah, and why not? You had none when you started out.”

“You’re wrong about that, Nico,” Lillian said, “I studied on the internet for hundreds of hours, took a job as an apprentice to a blogger slash game host for free, and worked that job after my own ended at five o’clock every day. Is that something you would do?”

Nico laughed and said, “Not the free part.”

Lillian was fast becoming annoyed with her young upstart relative, and said, “Well, I’m sorry, but therein lies the rub, nephew, because I can’t afford to pay you, nor do I need the help. Marvin does all the work I don’t have time for, and we’ve got it down to a science. We work as a team, a duo, and there’s no room in the budget for anyone else.”

Nico started to voice a reply, but was cut off by his aunt. “Thanks for stopping by, and say hello to your mom and dad for me.”

Lillian arose from her chair and Nico from his, and both walked to the Bosworth house’s front door. Nico continued on out to the front porch. Lillian was just about to close the door when her nephew stuck his foot in it to keep it open, and said, “Just give it some more thought, eh? Please, Lillian, I’m not the same guy who ripped you off before, I’m not, for sure. Prison took care of that and I don’t ever want to go back there.”

Lillian saw that Nico had tears in his eyes, a sure hook, line and sinker for her, but she didn’t trust him, and she knew her son, Marvin, still harbored anger and resentment toward her nephew since he’d treated them both badly and with great disrespect. But Lillian softened a bit when she saw her nephew’s tears roll down his face and his head bowed in sadness. She thought about young Nico’s situation, realizing there was little chance for him, as an ex-con, to find someone to help him secure a good job for a better future, and said, “Look, I’m going on a weekend trip starting tomorrow and I’ll be back on Monday. I’ll think about how we can maybe work something out, okay?”

Her nephew perked up and said, “Okay, yeah, great! Call me on Monday, then?”

Lillian smiled and said, “Yes.”

Over the weekend at the ski lodge cabin she’d rented for herself and Marvin’s getaway pre-New Year’s mini-vacation, Lillian told her son all about his cousin Nico’s visit and request. At first, Marvin was still smarting from the rip-off Nico had perpetrated against his mom, a bait and switch wherein she’d lost a great deal of money. But when Lillian convinced Marvin that Nico’s time served in jail was enough punishment, that family is everything, and that everyone, even the worst scoundrels, deserve a second chance, he calmed down and relented. He even came up with a brilliant idea to make the family whole again.

On Monday morning, Nico sat at his breakfast table with his eyes glued to his cell phone. The second it rang, he dropped his toast on a plate and answered the ring.

“Hello?” Nico said with a worried look on his face, “Aunt Lillian?”

The voice on the other end of the phone chuckled and said, “No, it’s your cousin Marvin. How’d you like to have your very own podcast on the worldwide web?”

Nico was stunned and didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then took in a breath. Marvin, not hearing anything, asked, “Nico? You still there? Answer me, man, the clock is ticking!”

“What?” said Nico, “What you said, are you serious? Wait…uh…does Aunt Lillian know about this?”

“Yeah,” replied his cousin, “I came up with the idea, we discussed it, and she said go for it! She thinks you could be an internet hit if you listen to us and do it right. Can you do that, Nico? Put your hothead attitude away, take orders without question and start a new life for yourself?”

Nico was beside himself with happiness, and exclaimed, “Yes! I could! I would! I will! Hell, I’ll even make it my New Year’s resolution! Just tell me where and when, okay? I’m ready!”

Copyright SageFaber2024

TCWG February 2024

All rights reserved

By Sage Faber

The Queen looking back on her seventy years
not of age as she’s ninety and six
But of all of the duties she’s done for the Brits
straight up with no shortcuts or tricks
(Loyalty!)

For seven decades she’s worn heavy crowns
at royal functions, ceremonies and such
And to keep them balanced atop of her head
at times must have been a bit much
(Ow!)

Her finery, too, her outfits in blue
and yellow and pink or light green
Royal purple’s a fave with a white-gloved wave
Though there’s never orange neon for a Queen
(Oh, my!)

She’s resplendent in red
The uniform, of course, when her duty is inspecting the troops
Though you’ll never see in film or t.v.
what happens when her equine plops poops
(Heaven forbid!)

Queen E’s lovely chapeaus
made of felt, straw or whatever
the royal milliner has about at the time
Whether feathers or flowers or chiffon adorned
They all suit Liz’s style mighty fine
(So pretty!)

And last but not least
there’s one accessory, a beast
that’s not nearly so sweet or subdued
It halts all the yaks of guests in their tracks
and the Queen need say nothing, it’s true
(Shhh!)

Her shining black purse is sometimes a curse
to visiting presidents and some dignitaries
When she places it on the table
after eating all she’s able
the situation becomes quite hairy
(Ut oh!)

Her guests are awaiting their dessert, you see
A scrumptious bowl of Cherries Jubilee
But that cursed purse says “Stop your eating”
So to devour their treat would be clearly cheating
(Not polite!)

When the Queen’s left the room
there’s no take-away to go
No doggie bag for anyone
Curtain’s down on the show
(Oh, no!)

Except for Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor,
Her Majesty, the Monarch, the Queen
She’ll have Paddington’s toast tucked into her purse
very
much
unseen.
(Tee hee!)

c SageFaber2022
All rights reserved
(Written with much love and respect for Queen Elizabeth II)

Every month when her bank statement came in the mail, Sandra would put it, unopened, into a red leather box inside of her roll-top desk. Her method of keeping on top of her personal business chores, as had been enacted for many years, was to wait until the next Saturday morning came, fetch tea, biscuits and the red box to her fabulous storybook bed, and settle in wearing her royal purple velvet lounging jacket over her Barbara Cartland pink negligee. Her faithful, but somewhat dodgy dog, “Jennings”, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, would climb an upholstered staircase (matching Sandra’s purple and gold fleur-de-lis bedspread) made especially for him because jumping up onto the high bed was not possible with his semi-portly figure.

Sandra Ann Swarthingham’s fancy cursive script initials stamped into the red box’s leather in gold foil made her feel queenly, important, and very much in control of her finances. Bills needing payment were kept in a red file folder that fit perfectly inside the movable, locked mini-chamber, along with a green folder with the most recently paid household bills in it along with a copy of the previous month’s bank statement. Letters to be answered (clipped together with a red plastic clothes pin), were also in the box, and at the bottom were business envelopes, stamps, and a small red-covered pad with a pen attached for making notes.

Red, as everyone in the world knows, is the color of urgency, and in the case of a person’s financial health, is a warning as it were. Being “in the red” was definitely a place Sandra wanted to avoid at all costs. And if there was something she disliked most about getting bills in the mail, it was paying a late fee because she’d forgotten a due date. She was meticulous about keeping a close eye on her bank account to make sure nothing was amiss, ever. She’d worked too hard for too long in earning her money by standing on her feet all day as a waitress in a very busy cafe, and she had big plans for what she’d do with her savings in retirement, which was only a short ten years away.

Nowadays, it seemed, the popular thing was to do your banking online, listing monthly payments such as rent, utilities, credit cards and the like in an “Automatic Payment” mode. On the date a customer specified, their bills would be electronically paid from their checking account, thereby avoiding late fees, keeping good credit scores intact, eliminating the hassle, time and money consumption of check writing, addressing envelopes, paying for postage, and mailing. Banks touted the autobanking service as the perfect way to save trees by going paperless, and, in letting “the bank’s fingers do the walking”, so to speak, a customer was relieved of making mistakes in their bill paying and home bookkeeping.

Sandra had been there, done that, and for awhile had great relief from the monthly self bill paying, including keeping up with her previously pesky purchases of stamps, but…and that was a big BUT…her autobanking experience had soon turned sour, like the taste of old envelope glue, when online statement problems began to surface.

One Saturday morning while lazing about laptop surfing in her hand-carved, pineapple-adorned four-poster, with draped sheer white lace and purple velvet curtains storybook bed, Sandra’s pupils began to shrink as she opened her eyelids to their fullest at the shock of seeing a $6,444 debit to her online checking account listed in her latest computerized bank statement.

“What is THAT?!,” she exclaimed loudly to herself, causing sweetly snoring Jennings, laying next to her feet at the end of her bed, to immediately hunch up into a “guilty”, head-lowered, sitting position. He thought she was mad at him for pooping in the house, the worst thing he’d ever done, though he couldn’t remember doing so at any time recently… actually, not since he was a pup.

Sandra, with her eyes fixed on the unbelievable figure of $6,444 with a minus sign in front of it, groped for her cell phone on a nightstand to her left, hitting her full teacup first and spilling its Earl Grey with 2% less fat milk all over her Android.

“Oh. My. Lord!” the exasperated Miss Sandra Ann Swarthingham cried, “What next?”

The poor dog, again thinking he was the cause of his mistress’ maddening mayhem, jumped down off of the bed, his full weight upon landing making him expel air from both ends at once, and he swiftly skittered across the room’s hardwood floor to its exit, all the while leaving a piddle trail that couldn’t be helped in his distress.

Of course, as soon as Sandra could, after using the cell-phone-in-a-bowl-of-rice trick to dry out her phone, she called her bank to inquire about the outrageous discrepancy in her statement. And after many transfers from one department’s Customer Service person to another with no good answer or even an attempted resolution, she had no choice but to wait out the weekends two days until Monday morning when she could sit across the desk from the Bank Manager, Lee Wong, at her local branch.

Mr. Wong turned out to be not helpful at all, and referred Sandra to his boss, Melissa Moody, who had just left to go on a two week cruise in the caribbean. Sandra was beginning to get infuriated at the bad treatment she was getting from a bank she’d done business with for more than half of her life, so she made the ultimate threat to a teller who thought she could help, but couldn’t.

“I’m going to ask our local news channel to solve my problem on their “Fix This Complaint” show. Your bank’s reputation will go down the toilet the second its name is mentioned on a show two million people watch…and in repeats, too, lots of them!”

The angry Miss Swarthingham then turned on her heels and stormed out of the bank.

Many hours and phone calls put “on hold” by unhelpful bankers later, Sandra was finally put in touch with the right department…the bank’s Fraud Unit.

“Hello, Miss Swarthingham,” said the friendly-sounding male voice, “I’m Peter Profitt and I understand you have a problem with a charge you didn’t make on your checking account, is that correct?”

Sandra, shocked that she was actually hearing someone acknowledge her frustrating quest for help, hesitated to answer. “Oh…oh, yes…it’s a debit for $6,444. I didn’t make that, and…”

Profitt interrupted her, “Just call me Pete, okay? I’ve started a case file for you and you’ll be getting a letter in the mail shortly asking for more information. We’ll need to know anything you can tell us about the debit…like, does anyone beside yourself have access to your accounts or checkbook? Did you forget you bought an expensive thing? Did you loan someone money or pay for something for them? All of the questions on the form have to be answered, so please don’t leave anything out. You may not think a tiny detail or something odd will make a difference, but it might. In fact, I noticed an odd thing right away.”

At that last, Sandra’s ears perked up like her dog, Jennings’ did when he was about to get a peanut butter cookie. “Really? What?”, she asked.

“The amount of the debit is $6444, the same as the last four digits of your phone number. Never seen a coincidence like that before. Kind of unbelievable. Somebody’s idea of a joke, maybe? Or could it be a clue?”

Sandra was speechless, so Pete ended the conversation. “Well, Miss Swarthingham, I’ll try to solve this problem for you as fast as possible. In the meantime, you’ll get a temporary credit in your account for the amount in question, and when we determine how the charge got there in the first place, hopefully in your favor, you’ll most likely be able to keep that credit. Have a great day, and we’ll talk again soon.”

The phone clicked off before Sandra could say a proper, “Thank you”, and she was left feeling as though Pete wasn’t at all sure about the truthfulness in her denial of making the debit.

To be continued….

Copyright Sage Faber 2022

All rights reserved

"Spring has sprung
The grass is riz
I wonder where
Da boidies is"

Homeless veteran, Private 1st Class Joe McBain, woke up and slowly pushed himself upright to sit on his sleeping bench facing the Rose Garden in beautiful Elizabeth Park, Hartford, Connecticut.  He rubbed away the sleep in his eyes with his raggedy, fingerless gloves, pulled his olive green woollen cap down toward the turned-up collar of his beat-up U.S. Army coat and yawned a big one, ending it by stretching his arms full-out wide as though preparing to embrace the morning sun.  Instead, he brought his arms back to his chest and gave himself a hug, holding onto his shoulders to make it tight.  Joe buried his whiskered chin in the vee made by his arms while looking down at the squirrels and pigeons beginning to gather in their hope for a handout.  

"Sorry, my buds," said McBain, "Even if you had tiny M-16's pointed at me, you'd get nothing.  Not even a crumb from the Dumpster Dive Cafe.  It was slim pickin's last night, I didn't like anything on the menu, but beggars can't be choosers, eh?  So I shared my slightly used burrito with a hungry street dog and gave an old tomcat some of the milk I found left in a kid's MickyD box.  After that, the two furries followed me around for a bit...guess they were still hungry...but the only things I found to eat were a brown banana and a small box of raisins at a bus stop.  Neither one of the furry hobos was interested in the monkey food, and o'course, furries aren't supposed to eat raisins, they're poisonous to 'em.  Those buds were none too happy, like you guys are now, that I came up empty in the creature sustenance department."  Joe smiled at all of the tiny enraptured eyes staring up at him, then he released his hug on himself and stood up.  "I promise you dudes and dudettes," he announced, "I'll bring back a feast for lunch today better than any grub dished out in military mess halls on land or sea!"  

That said, he gave his park bench buddies, both furried and feathered, a proper snap-to-attention Army salute. The mini-beggars, suddenly frightened by Private McBain's boot heels clicking loudly together, took off in a flurry of small feet, flicking bushy tails, and swiftly flapping wings.  

Joe dragged his Army knapsack out from under his bench, reached into it and pulled out a pint of whiskey.  As he was unscrewing the bottle's cap he said, 

"Ah, hair o' the dog...or squirrel as it were," then took a swig, replaced the bottle and sauntered off, knapsack secured on his back, for the park's public rest rooms.  As always, he'd slept with his boots on, and his boot-laces were already tied, a necessity he had learned while fighting in the jungles of Vietnam.  One never wanted to get caught in a fire fight with their pants down or their boots off.  In either case, a swift escape would be nigh on impossible.  

At the rest rooms, a cool breeze had come up some, and a long line of shivering, rumple-clothed and barely awake males of various ages stood at the entrance to the men's side, and a very short line consisting of one senior female, three middle-aged women and two teenage runaway girls waited outside of the women's.  All were dressed in whatever warm clothing they had, including two of them wrapped up in blankets.  The three women of about the same age, fiftyish or so, each had a rolling shopping basket filled to the brim with clothing, bulging plastic bags, shoes, books, and lots of odds and ends, such as folding chairs, picked up from the streets of Hartford on bulk garbage days.  They were especially fond of items they could sell or recycle for money, such as pretty colored bottles, anything copper, small lamps, needlework, paintings and the like.  To say their baskets were piled high with junk as though they were hoarders would be a mistake because the space in their baskets was very limited and so, they had to be quite selective about what they put into them.  "Wasted space is wasted money," was their motto, and they practised what they preached by treating their "collections" like a game of Jenga.  Every piece, or article, had its place in the compact puzzle inside of their baskets.

When Joe had had his turn at the toilets and sinks in the men's rest room, he took his emptied and clean self and his washed and almost dried (using the hands blow dryer on the wall) spare pair of boxer shorts and cotton socks outside.  It was an early Spring day, sunny, though not quite warm enough yet to ditch his coat, hat and gloves.  Besides, unlike his homeless compadres, he didn't use a basket or shopping cart to put "stuff" in....he travelled light, just like he had in the jungles of 'Nam, carrying his survival essentials, food and water on his back, and his rifle in his hands, with a handgun, bayonet and folding knife in special holders within reach at all times.  Private McBain had been an excellent soldier, some might have called him "gung-ho" at his job, he was so serious about it, others may have seen him of a mind akin to Forrest Gump, but whatever people thought of Joe, they knew he had their backs no matter what.  He was dependable, honest and true, a loyal soldier, a patriot, and a kind and gentle soul.  But behind his soldier trooper bravado, no one really knew about that last part, only his late beloved mother, who raised him without the help of a husband, was allowed to go there...and now, it was the furries and the birdies that were holding his heart.  

With his backpack once again in place, the breeze dying down, and the sun bringing a bit more warmth to the scene, Joe decided to begin his daily quest for food.  He walked out of the park to a bus stop which would soon host others of his in need circumstance also making their way to bustling downtown Hartford, a place of many, many restaurants.  Once there, it was always a good idea to stake out the back alley door of the place where you liked the food the best.  And if you were lucky, it was early enough in the day that you were the first, and only, person there.   If you weren't, you had to wait in line, and you were at the mercy of whomever was in front of you as to whether or not they were willing to share whatever food was brought out before it got thrown into a garbage can or dumpster.  Those alleys became mean streets sometimes, and worse if a food beggar was feeling particularly hungry that day or maybe had a family to feed.  It was rarely share and share alike, and you might wind up with a punch in the nose if you insisted upon that.  But the stars had aligned for Joe on this Spring morning.  He had arrived at the perfect time, he was alone, and there was nothing in the garbage cans or dumpster yet, save for salad-making remnants, paper trash and a few Styrofoam cups.

The day was just turning into noontime when Army veteran Joe McBain stepped off of the bus returning him to Elizabeth Park.  He carried eleven medium-sized canvas-type bags, six in one hand, five in the other.  Ten of the bags contained various kinds of food foil-wrapped on plates or paper-wrapped individually, salad in sealed plastic bowls, small and large water bottles, kid-sized milk and juice cartons, crackers, cookies, brownies, and all of the plates, napkins and utensils necessary to enjoy sharing.  This was truly a feast of better-than-mess-hall food and proportions, just as he'd promised.  Ah, but the eleventh bag, that one was very special.  It contained a big bag of mixed nuts in their shells for the furry squirrels, and a big bag of wild bird food for the pigeons and other feathered friends.  The feast of food for humans he'd brought back to the park would be shared with any homeless person who came his way, and some he'd look for when he went to the rest rooms.

On this day, the one year anniversary of his mother's death, Joe had decided it was time for him to go into rehab, quit drinking and turn his life around.  And to seal the deal, he had signed up at the Veteran's Center while he was downtown foraging for the promised feast.  Also, he had bought himself a small bottle of non-alcoholic champagne, and would toast to his mom with it in the Elizabeth Park Rose Garden, for that's where she was.  Joe had secretly scattered her ashes there last year.  It was her final wish to be placed in what she knew was the loveliest and most fragrant garden in all of her home town, and after all, what woman named Rose wouldn't want to be there?




Copyright Sage Faber/March 2022
All rights reserved
1531 words.

T’was a boater’s delight day, a beautiful clear blue sky with nary a cloud to be seen, and the sun made diamonds of gentle ripple tops on calm waters. Sara, standing on the dock at the port side rail of the twenty-six foot powerboat, “Fantasea”, handed her small brown suitcase over to her beloved boyfriend, Donny. She glanced down at her left hand upon which was a newly ensconced ocean pearl and gold band engagement ring, and then locked eyes with Donny. He smiled and took her hand as though she were a princess, guiding her as she climbed the three dock steps allowing her to board the boat. From the top step, she leaned into her love and he pulled her to him, welcoming her with a passionate kiss.

With Donny at the wheel of the classic Chris Craft wooden speed boat, and the Fantasea revved and ready to go, Sara hauled in the looped line resting over a cleat holding the boat to the dock, and they were on their way.

Fisher’s Island, New York, wasn’t all that far by sea from the Connecticut shoreline, and the two lovebirds were going there to get married. Sara had just turned twenty, one year short of the law in her home state to tie the knot, and New York’s legal age was eighteen, thus the reason for their journey. Donny had no such worries as he was six years older, and actually, really wouldn’t have minded waiting another year, but this was nineteen sixty-two, people didn’t live together before marriage, it just wasn’t done, and Sara wanted more of him.

The crossing was full of merry laughter, kindly teasing, warm memories brought to the fore, and voiced hopes for the future, even to light hinting from Sara about having children…how nice it would be to have a little Donny and Sara running around their house. For the groom-to-be the sea was about to get a bit bumpy, and so with the boat on autopilot, he broke out a bottle from his hidden stash of Wild Turkey whiskey under the guise of a pre-wedding toast to his lovely fiance.

After reaching Fischer’s Island, tying up the Fantasea at the visitor’s docks, and renting a hotel room, Sara wanted to go immediately to the island’s Registration Office and get a marriage license. Donny went with her that far, and with the license secured, begged off from continuing on to the local church to make wedding arrangements. He told Sara he’d been up all night getting himself and the boat ready, and he needed, desperately, to sleep.

At the church, Sara sat in a front pew and cried her eyes out. There would be no wedding to Donny today. He had toasted away more than half of the Wild Turkey, was drunk as a skunk, and she had watched him walk weavingly away from her back toward the hotel.

The reverend of the church, who had heard Sara’s pitiful wailing, quietly approached her, sat down in the pew, and asked if he could help in any way. She sniffled, blew her nose into her hanky, sat up straight, looked the reverend in the eyes and said, “Not my circus, not my monkeys”.

And with that, Sara arose, thanked the reverend, excused herself, and walked back down the aisle…alone.

Copyright SageFaber2021

All Rights Reserved

First it was Dougie, her 5th grade classmate, who stole the hat right off of her head and threw it up into a tree. Then it was John in the 6th grade, who bumped into her in their school’s hallway so she would drop her books and he could pick them up. In the 7th, it was Paul who jumped off the wall. And in the 8th? Well, nevermind, let’s go back to Paul and his wall, he’s the one who changed her life.

Seventh grade was pivotal in the mindset of some young girls depending upon their experiences at first puppy love with boys. Sandra “Sandi” James was one of them. She’d felt the stirrings of feel-good emotions whenever the boy she fancied in her home room class, Andrew “Andy” Pierce, passed her by. He had no idea Sandi James felt anything at all for him, nor would he have cared, because he had his eye on Lucy Chadwick, a cheerleader for his Junior Varsity football team.

Enter Paul Lindstrom who had been in a different seventh grade home room, the one that consisted of the “overage” of kids, the number over the fire law limit allowed. That unfortunate handful of pre-teens were mockingly called the “Brats on the Back Burner” by the haughty and very popular Andy Pierce, star quarterback of their Dobbs Ferry, New York, Bennett Middle School’s J.V. team. On this day, Paul had been transferred from the “Brats” group and returned to the main home room for seventh graders due to a student moving away. He was beside himself with delight because this meant he could be very much closer to his heart’s desire, sweet Miss Sandi James.

Sandi knew Paul as the son of the pastor of the church her family attended, but paid little attention to him except to wonder why he stayed so close to her father, Robert James, a volunteer deacon in the church, during Sunday services. It was as though the boy liked her dad better than his own. But Paul felt no such way, his tagging along like glue of Deacon James was only for the purpose of finding out as much as he could about his secret amour, Sandi, in lieu of actually talking with her which never happened.

On Monday morning, April 1st, 1955, Paul Lindstrom was happily ensconced in the newly vacated seat at the back of the number one seventh grade home room. He was six rows behind Sandi, but just being in the same area with her was sheer bliss. He imagined he could smell her perfume wafting backward to him every time she turned her head, and when sweet Sandi finally turned enough to look straight at him and smile, Paul thought he would pass right out on the spot.

The girl caught the astounded look on Paul’s face and decided to invite him to walk her home after school. She could learn more about him, first hand, and maybe find out why he stuck to her father on Sundays.

They had walked, and Sandi had done most of the talking until she and Paul reached an old abandoned house made of stone and covered in ivy on their way to Sandi’s home. Behind the house was a matching stone wall, five feet high, that prevented people from falling into a canyon one hundred feet below. The two schoolmates climbed the wall and sat on top of it, where Sandi stopped talking and waited for Paul to say something. The first words out of his mouth were shockers to her.

“You know I love you, Sandi.”

She instantly blushed, and said, “You do?”

“How could you not know?”, he asked, “You see me in church every Sunday following your dad around like a curious puppy. It’s the only way I can feel close to you.”

“I wondered why you were doing that,” she said quietly, “Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

“Because I didn’t have the courage,” Paul replied, and one second later, he jumped up to stand atop the wall. He was smiling down at Sandi as he said, “And now I’m going to show you how much I love you by jumping off of this wall backwards!”

“What?!”, shrieked Sandi, “Paul, don’t!”

Sandi grabbed for Paul’s legs, but it was too late, he was hurtling toward the canyon’s bottom. On the way down, he yelled, “I’m just an April fool for you!”

It was then that Sandi saw a bungee cord tied ’round his ankles which was anchored by a nearby tree.

Copyright SageFaber2021

All rights reserved

Everyone lining the Winner’s Circle fence at the Redding Meet was anxiously awaiting the last rider in the unusually large entry of twenty-two. He was just rounding the final turn of the annual “Ridge Riders Cross-Country Jump” segment of the Meet, and his horse, Big Red, seventeen hands tall with a stride long enough to sail him over any height or length obstacle, was showing signs of being tired. Miles McGrath swore out loud, “Damn it, Red, don’t do this to me, man! I have to win that money!” For emphasis, he jabbed both of his spur-heeled boots into Red’s ribs, and smacked him on the rump with his riding crop, a short whip, but the horse didn’t flinch, nor did he run one iota faster.

Rusty Warner and his wife, Jan, peered through their binoculars into the green meadow distance and saw Miles riding Big Red low-down, like a Derby jockey, and straight toward them. He had a triple jump of three rails coming right up, and then a hard run down a long bumpy hill to the last obstacle, a rubber tire fence, before he hit the finish line. Rusty and Jan watched as Red approached the rails. If he took off too far from the three short to tall rails, his full height arc jump might land him smack on top of the third rail instead of clearing it. But if he took off from precisely the right spot, not too far away from the first rail, he’d fly in a perfect arc and come back down without bumping or tipping the last rail with his knees or hooves. Big Red had been doing this for half of his life, so he knew exactly where the right spot was to begin his leap.

“Oh, wow, that was gorgeous!” exclaimed Jan to her husband, as she pulled down her binoculars, “How high up do you think he went?” Rusty looked at the jump and said, “Oh, six, seven, eight, maybe even nine feet. Big Red’s always been a consistent winner in these Meets. It’s as though he had wings like a Pegasus. Should have bought him when I had the chance three years ago.”

Soon, Rusty and Jan didn’t need their magnifiers as Miles and Red barreled toward them down the bumpy hill, aiming for the last obstacle, and hopefully, the win. Miles’ face was feeling the warmth and flush of an about-to-be-winner, when suddenly, Big Red began to slow his speedy pace again. He was breathing harder, too, and white foamy flecks of saliva stuck to his muzzle.

Leaning on the Winner’s Circle fence, Rusty Warner looked at his watch and realized that, indeed, Big Red had beaten the time of the current fore-runner, had so far made all of his jumps clean, and could be declared victorious if he jumped the tire obstacle without any flaws. Jan and her love held hands in the anticipation and excitement of the race’s end.

Miles got ready for the flight of Big Red by smacking the horse with his crop just before Red hit the right take-off spot with his front hooves. But the horse had other ideas, dug into the dirt with both feet, and came to a screeching halt in front of the tire wall. Miles was thrown completely over the wall and rolled halfway into the Winner’s Circle, stunned by it all. He stood up, though a bit wobbly, found his short whip, and ran to where Red was standing behind the tire wall. Next, he grabbed the reins of Big Red’s bridle, raised his riding crop, and began to whip his horse about the head, all the while calling him nasty names, swearing at him, and blaming him for troubles that weren’t a horse’s to own. Jan, watching and listening to the whole sordid scene was livid with anger. She tried to wrench her hand from Rusty’s, but he held steady because he knew what his horse-loving wife wanted to do….he wanted the same. For a few seconds, they held their breaths waiting for a show steward to stop the dastardly deed Miles was perpetrating, but shockingly, no one came forward or dared to stop him.

Jan had had enough. She pulled free from her husband’s grip, ran to the tire wall, and began to pummel Miles on his back with her fists until he dropped his crop, turned around to face her and got a left hook to the nose. She kicked him in the groin for good measure, whereupon he dropped to his knees, then his face hit the dirt, and his horrible self ended up in a groin-pained fetal position. Meanwhile, Big Red turned his attention to Rusty, who had grabbed his reins in the melee, and was walking the sore but happy horse to the Winner’s Circle.

No one would deny Big Red his trophy or his purse that day, and the much hated Miles McGrath, certified horse whipper, would give Red his freedom to live out his days with Rusty and Jan. Molasses oats and stud work became Big Red’s two favorite things, and there wasn’t a crop to be seen anywhere except the kind that grows in a beautiful field.

c Sage Faber 2020

All rights reserved.