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Contents

Poetry
Wellspring : Mark Johnson
Night (Themed) : Richard Browne
Follow Him Not : Jonathan Rosen
In the Dead of Night (Themed) : Debbie Panks
Pick a Rose : Steven Josefowicz
Envy in Seventeen Syllables : Kris Parkinson
The Call of the Wild : Christine Forrest
Tanka : Neca Stoller

Fiction and Prose
Crash Dummies (Themed) : Kay Parry
My Trip to the Mansion : Diana Stoneberg
Summer Camp : Mark Johnson

Serial
Down by the River - Part 5 : Karen Mossman

Wellspring

Back below a summer sun of childhood
There is a hot green field,
Twittering with crickets,
Where I walk and run and walk again.
Far along a fence,
In a forgotten sacred corner of the field,
Is a welling spring, clear and cold,
Coming up right out of the ground forever.
I can kneel there
And feel the long grass under flowing water
And put my face into this purest of fountains
And drink till I gasp and wet my hair
And know the water comes from before there was a field
Or a fence or farmers or any thirsty animal.
Forty years later this spring still rests,
Quiet and green in my younger mind,
While the traffic twitters and busy bees babble
Outside on the cement.

Mark Johnson ~

Night

As I lie,
In my domain
It could bring snow
It could bring rain

For the night brings weathers
And creatures alike
Neither that, like humans
Are blinded by night

These creatures stirring
Their lives inclined
Towards the night
Towards my mind

And in the darkness
My mind without light
Comes the creatures
And storms of night.

Richard Browne ~

Follow Him Not

Follow him not where he goes.
He will lead you, if you let him,
to where He would condemn you.

He has lived long and well,
you have just begun the journey.
If you follow him, that which
is forbidden will become your life.

Follow him not where he goes.
He appears to you cloaked in a
shadow of naivete.

Take not what he offers, and
give not what he asks. Go with
him and you will have two of seven,
shelter here and pray for none.

Follow him not where he goes.
He has fallen from grace;
to follow him is to fall with him.

On his field, your heart's courage
will be rewarded with cold iron,
not gold. Then, you will not see
Him, He will send you Down.

Follow him not where he goes.

Jonathan Rosen ~

In the Dead of Night

So Still and calm,
eerie the silence echoes through the night.
Moonlight flickers on dewtouched cobwebs in the old graveyard tonight.
It's cold, so cold, with graves so old,
forgotton, unkempt with tears long shed.
No longer loved, yet deeply loved by the occupants laid within.
Crumbling stone it stands alone,
Dark corners touched and weathered,
Names no longer etched yet worn by the passing of the years.
It's light tonight!
The moon so bright,
glistens in the silent night and dances over graves.
Tonight!
The life that darts so swift and true,
between the graves to frighten you.
So sleek and fast with glowing eyes that pierce the night,
touched by the moonlight, emerald green.
Screams out a call, familiar yell.
Meow! A black cat hidden well.
Beware the graveyards bewitching spell, in the dead of night.

Debbie Panks ~

Pick a Rose

Pick a rose and watch it die
give your heart and watch it fly
apart
away
irretrievable
unbelievable
nothing to chase
for it is gone
an empty space
in its place
it has flown away
leaving an empty shell
to defend against
so many emotions
invading
overwhelming
destructive
corruptive
the heart
happily soaring in the heavens of love
leaving behind absence
in the one who must contemplate
the value of life without its essence
now to be only an empty presence
those who survive
know that to stay alive
they must build a wall around their heart
and never let it part

perhaps not

pick a rose and admire its beauty
look through love's destructive cruelty
reap the joys of a life with love
serene and beautiful as a flying dove
A drop of dew on a red rose petal
slipping down
softly
gracefully
peacefully
to be enveloped passionately by the wonders below
is like a heart
aimed true as a dart
soaring above hardship and strife
towards the pleasures of life

Steven Josefowicz ~

Envy in Seventeen Syllables

His fingers are cold
when I touch them. Are they warm
when he touches her?

Kris Parkinson ~

The Call of the Wild

It was quiet that afternoon. Suddenly, the birds
were chirping frantically, like the alarm
of nature. You reached for my face
and pulled it close to yours. Our lips
barley touched, forming a tender kiss.
I didn't quite hear you.

Then, you pulled me towards your
ceremonious body, the call of the
wild summoning me to my doom. You
kissed me again, but could it be
called a kiss, more like an eruption
of passion. Your tongue was dancing
with mine. I was yours for the
taking. Your hands caressed my
body, molding me into a jar for
you to empty your soul in. I couldn't
control myself. The drums of my
natural, physical heart were beating
loudly, drowning all reason. I layed
myself in the blanket of grass
and sacrificed my virginity to you.

Christine Forrest ~

Tanka

without a flutter
white-tipped wings
ride the updraft-
joined by spiraling cinders,
once your love letters

Neca Stoller ~

Crash Dummies

I was walking along the pavement minding me own business when I got pulled up beside me. "Get in,"

"Eh?"

"Gerrin," my mate Tel yelled.

"What..?"

"Gerrin," he yelled again. I did and slammed the door. I was thrown back into the seat as we roared off.

"Steady on," I complained.

"Put your belt on," he shouted, above the noise. With difficulty I strapped myself in.

"Whose..." I began, but we took a left hand turn and I grabbed the handle above the door. "...car is it?" I finished.

"Frank's ...." he said, referring to his step-dad.

"Oh," I said thinking of Frank the Plank. We approached a junction at speed with no signs of slowing. "We got company," I said, seeing the blue light in the wing mirror.

"Right. Hang on," said Tel, slamming his foot on the accelerator.

"Whoa!" I yelled, as we screeched around the corner. "Way to go!"

We took another sharp left, his foot going up and down on the gas as we dodged parked cars, jumped queues and caused mayhem everywhere. He knocked the radio on and Meatloaf screamed out at us.

"Kuel," I shouted pounding my fist in time to the music. "Lose 'em, mate. Turn here..." The tyres screeched and passers by turned to look. It was excellent!

It was at the traffic lights that it started to go wrong. They were on green as we approached doing fifty, then began to change. Tel took his foot off the gas, then on again - he was going through!

The roar of the engine was followed by a squeal of brakes and a blast of horn. A car slammed into our side sending us spinning. Round and round we went careering towards the pavement. I was dizzy and there was a blur of faces. Meatloaf screaming hell, the car was circling, sliding and smashing. I was flung forward into my belt. A face hit the windscreen. Terry screamed and we were showered with glass and bodies....

I jumped out of the car and began to run. The wind was in my face, I was breathless and light-headed. My feet weren't touching the ground. I stopped, turned and stared. The carnage, the crying, the blood, and the two boys lying very still....

Kay Parry ~

My Trip to the Mansion

Close encounters with people you haven't seen in awhile always fascinate me. I had one with someone, let's call her "Deb" whom I worked on a motion picture with awhile back.

After the picture was over we lost touch and I didn't see her again until running into her in a diner on the day after one of our larger earthquakes. I should have seen it as a sign. It was clear her move out here had not been kind and she told me her Hollywood story.

Evidently, on the second week out here she was involved in a small traffic accident in Beverly Hills. She said the man and his wife both got out of their Bentley and started screaming at her. She told me she couldn't take the woman's screaming and slapped her across the face. Unfortunately, the man happened to be a lawyer, (what are the odds) and she was arrested and put on probation.

Ever since the accident she had been falling further and further through the cracks. I tried to help her by getting her a few receptionist gigs but she could never keep a job too long because she would "forget" things. This may have had something to do with her heavy pot habit.

She was one of those peripheral Hollywood women always on the edges but never a part of the actual scene. Deb had a pet rabbit named "Bugs" and she was a Playboy model. She used to go to the mansion alot and on occasion I would tag along.

We went to a few Sunday night movie parties which were pretty low key. Everyone just showed up in the screening room to view a newly released picture. The room was not unlike many other screening rooms in Hollywood except for the pit in front of the screen. There were all of these red, velvet pillows places around in this area in front of the screen. I didn't want to sit on them I just kept envisioning body fluids all over the place and the red velvet seemed a little crusty in places.

After attending a couple of movie nights she invited me to a New Year's Eve party there. It was a pajama party and everyone was supposed to arrive in pajamas. Deb wore a slinky nightie, garter belt etc. I wore a black cat suit and a blue velvet (velvet was in) smoking jacket..to carry my smokes. It was funny how many people asked me if I was a writer, or worse, an agent. Both professions notorious as heavy smokers so I didn't take it personally.

Actually, to be offended at being mistaken for a credible person in a sea of flesh would have been silly.

We arrived and there were probably about 200 people there. I looked around and recognized all kinds of B movie and B TV stars. All of the men wore the bottom half of silk pajamas, provided they didn't have a gut, then they also wore the tops. It was interesting, because there were very few young good looking guys. It was disproportionally older, lecherous, has-been males. The majority were desperate "make me a star and I'll do anything" scantily clad women roaming around.

Plenty of old guys were interested in Deb. She was also interested in them. She didn't have a father complex - I think she had a grandfather complex, the older the better. They wouldn't even look at me. I had my sneer down pretty good all evening.

One B TV star I recognized had just had his show canceled, and there's nothing worse than that. You are poison. He just stood in a corner looking really lost. Another B TV star was trying to make the rounds with all the girls. His show was still on the air and he was making lots of connections promising lots of walk on non-speaking parts.

At one point in the evening I looked across the room and saw a woman, totally nude except for a gold, chain around her waist. She was resting her breasts on a table while the man she was with was across from her with his head behind a newspaper. That struck me as funny because I saw that you could put your (expletive) breasts on the table and still not get noticed at this party.

When we left just after 1am I looked around at all the old guys adjusting their toupees and opening their wallets in an attempt to lure young lovelies to their cars. Deb was talking to one of them and I think I must have rolled my eyes a lot because he finally left and so did we.

Deb was getting more and more desperate in Hollywood. She was running out of money and men. She decided she had to move and she didn't know what to do with her rabbit. I had an idea. We would sneak into the Playboy mansion and leave him in the hutch out back with all the other bunnies. I remember as we were plotting this caper how absurd it was to be sneaking in a bunny to the Playboy mansion.

From that time on, everytime we went to the mansion we would go through a dress rehearsal for leaving "Bugs". He wasn't fixed and I had reservations about putting him in a hutch filled with other female bunnies, who may or may not be fixed.

There are security cameras all over the mansion so we would walk out to the hutch and then try and hide each other and go through the motions of grabbing him out of her purse and then putting him in the hutch.

On the night that we were going to "do it" she brought Bugs over to my place to meet him. I'd never been around rabbits much so I told her he could stay in my bathroom while we talked. A few minutes later I checked in on him and he had filled the room with pellets and I was more than happy to be getting him out of my house and up the mansion that night.

We drove slowly up to the mansion with Bugs in Deb's purse. I didn't know if she removed her cavalcade of make-up but I just imagined all the pellets Bugs was depositing in the bottom of her purse.

We got inside safely and as soon as possible made our way back to the hutch. It was weird. All the other nights we had gone through the dress rehearsal for this no one was ever near the bunny hutch. Now tonight all of a sudden it appeared to be bunny night and everyone wanted to come see the bunnies.

The bunnies in the hutch could probably sense the male Bugs was on the premises as they all seemed to be hopping like crazy whenever Deb brought her purse near the hutch. We made several attempts to get him in but he wouldn't leave the purse and she couldn't entice him out into all of those bunnies. I think it was probably too much pressure. Bunnies must have performance problems too.

We left shortly thereafter and Deb was depressed. She didn't tell me what she was going to do with Bugs, she just dropped me off.

She called a few days later to tell me she was going to shoot herself. However, she was not going to kill herself until she could buy a gun after she got off of parole.

I laughed and told her I'd buy her the bullets.

I tried to get her to see that if she killed herself it wouldn't matter if she was on parole. She laughed.

I haven't seen or heard from her since. She's probably waiting for the next quake.

Diana Stoneberg ~

Summer Camp

I wake up at dawn on a cool mid-August morning and the first thing I notice is the dew. It covers everything - my sleeping bag, our packs, the smooth, tooled leather of our saddles and the long grass of the open field where we slept, where moments before, it seems, we looked up at the stars and dodged the smoke from our campfire and sang "Follow the Drinking Gourd." I don't want to leave the dreamy warmth of my sleeping bag. I'm sixteen, a junior counselor or J.C. and therefore responsible. Besides, Uges is already moving around the camp, rousing the younger campers and sending them on small errands. I also don't want Gerri, another J.C. about my age, to think I'm soft or lazy. She's blond and beautiful and I'm infatuated with her, but I know she'll tease me if I lie here too long.

I unzip my bag and sit up. There is a lot of ground fog, mist really, that clings and rolls over the field as the huge sun rises. I know what I must do. This is my fourth pack trip and by now I am a veteran. I slide into my damp, clammy clothes, grab a can full of grain and a length of rope and head out to round up the horses. We let them roam free at night and though there are fences, they still have two or three acres over which to graze and to avoid my coaxing calls, my rope and the western saddles they never seem to enjoy wearing. By now two or three other J.C.'s are awake and we begin working as a group, offering grain as enticement, swinging ropes, whistling, shouting and slowly herding the reluctant animals back toward camp. The kids, meanwhile, have been scrounging for dry wood and, under Uges' supervision, are trying to light a fire and boil some water for our freeze-dried breakfast. I have found that some groups of campers are better at this than others, and sometimes breakfast is ready before we have the horses saddled. Today's bunch, I can soon tell, is not one of the better ones and we have the horses ready long before the water is even warm. I had suspected this since these kids are Indians, the youngest of the three categories of campers we lead. Gerri approaches and smiles wryly. "Wonder how long before Uges flips out on them?"

"You watch the horses. I'll go try to help. Somebody's got to save their sorry butts." I walk toward the fire, offering advice.

Uges Pinka is in no way cut out to be a senior counselor at a Y.M.C.A. summer camp in southern Michigan. First of all, he is Latvian and doesn't speak English very well. Also he is well over thirty and dresses, in 1963, like a lounge lizard in a disco from circa 1978. Furthermore, he is extremely short- tempered and has very little patience or understanding. Lastly he hates kids. On the plus side, he knows and loves horses and is full of the carefree bravado and handsome charm that inspires cult followings among teenage girls. Hence our wise and knowing camp director has placed Uges in charge of the horse barns. Lots of lovely young junior counselors in tight jeans; lots of long, lonely overnight pack trips; very little direct contact with the rest of the camp. It would be a perfect situation for Uges if it weren't for the tender little impressionable campers who always seemed to be interrupting him.

I soon get the fire stoked up and the water boiling, drop in a few plastic bags of freeze-dried scrambled eggs, and start passing out mess kits of the stuff along with Tang and Wonder Bread to the sleepy, hungry Indians. Uges, muttering Latvian curses under his breath, has stalked off to see to the horses. Gerri and I squat by the fire and sip coffee from our steel mess kit cups.

"Where we gonna take 'em today?" she asks me.

"Same as always, I guess. Two hour trail ride and then back to the barn - that is if we ever get cleaned up and out of here."

"It's beautiful out here, isn't it," she says, watching the mist rise and the sun come up, big and orange, behind it.

"Yeah. Beats hell out of sleeping back in camp. I couldn't take this dried food for long, though. You like it?"

"You gotta be kidding."

She stands up and I marvel silently at her face and form. Gerri Featherstone is, I know, what people would call a tomboy. Her blond hair is worn short and she dresses in jeans and a blue work shirt. Small-breasted and good at sports, she spends a lot of time on the camp tractor, mowing the many acres of farmland upon which the camp is situated. Her last name seems exotically beautiful to me, perhaps Native American, which adds to my fascination. I watch her constantly on my way to and from the horsebarn or in the mess hall during meals. She is very independent and a bit of a loner, but I like that. So am I. My desire for her is complete and much of my free time is spent in rapturous fantasy about her. Thus far I have kept the true extent of my feelings secret from her, and I achingly await the proper time to reveal my love.

Later that morning Gerri and I are chosen to take the Indians on a trail ride. I lead the way on Sargent, a large, chestnut stallion, while Gerri brings up the rear on Maverick, a dappled gelding of considerably more years and quieter temperament. I mostly follow the beaten trails, occasionally taking a shortcut across a dewy field, usually keeping to a steady walk. Once in a while I yell back.

"OK, hang on! We're going to canter!"

With that I let Sargent out a bit and immediately feel his coiled spirit strain against the reins. I try to hold him to a slow canter but finally give up and give him his head, racing far and fast up the trail until at last I pull him in and wait for the squealing, bouncing stragglers. Gerri always berates me for these episodes, but there's nothing much she can do and Maverick is certainly no match for Sargent. This morning, while I'm waiting for them, I notice a small field covered in dew-soaked spider webs that catch the early sunlight in ghostly, shimmering nets. The field is caught and illuminated by this shining fleet of arachnids fishing for other insects and I am momentarily transfixed. Sargent snorts and shivers, heaving his great head up and down, impatient to be off again.

Eventually the others catch up and we resume our plodding progress. Once in a while a camper falls off his horse or forgets to duck as we pass under a low branch and Gerri or I have to help him back into the saddle. The ride lasts about two hours and most of it is monotonous for the J.C.'s who do this every day. The kids, on the other hand, can't get enough of it and never want it to end. Sometimes we'll tell jokes or lead songs, and every so often I'll take off on Sargent just to keep him and myself happy and sane. This morning I can tell that it's going to be hot, so I'm wearing only shorts, a tee- shirt and my work boots. Gerri has on her blue jean cut-offs which are torn up the sides revealing firm brown legs with no tan line. Whenever she catches me staring at her she kind of cocks her head and just grins back at me. I love it when she does this and hence take every chance I get to stare at her. This is usually the extent of our interaction during trail rides except the chiding she gives me when I gallop Sargent. I sense my horse is especially restless this morning and, pulling him up, I wait for Gerri to come alongside me.

"You think you can take them back to the barn by yourself?" I ask, knowing what she'll say. Gerri wants more than anything to be "one of the guys" and will do almost anything to prove it.

"Sure," she smiles. "Where are you going?"

"I want to run Sargent for a while. I think he needs it. You don't mind, do you?"

"Course not. Just don't let Uges find out about it. You know how he loves that horse." Gerri cocks her head again.

"I won't tell if you won't." I give her a sidelong look.

"OK."

She grins that broad yet suggestive grin of hers and neck-reins Maverick back toward the barn. The Indians file in behind her while I hold Sargent back. I have not saddled him and already I can feel his sweat on my bare legs. Soon Gerri and the campers are gone and Sargent and I are free.

I walk him for a while at first just to remind him that I am the boss and he can't just run away with me any time he wants. The sense of his strength and will to run is nearly overwhelming and I fight to keep him at a walk. A horse will always walk or run faster when headed toward the barn and we are headed that way. I finally hit an open stretch and let him out a little. Riding bareback is somewhat difficult on a horse as large as Sargent, especially when your legs are as short as mine, but I have been doing it since I was a kid. You hardly hear the hooves beat the ground. You seem to float and all you hear is the wind. You grip with your knees and you grab the mane and you hold on. You don't have to urge a horse like Sargent to go faster. You just stop holding him back and let him go. After a few seconds I stop worrying how I will stop him. He will stop when he gets back to the barn or he will stop when he feels like it. I don't care. I lean forward with both hands in his mane and become as much a part of him as I can. I breathe with him and we are flying. The more dangerous it is, the more exciting it becomes and still I don't care. I just want this feeling to go on forever.

Sargent doesn't even slow down when we first hit the tight single strand of barbed wire. The absolute velocity of his gallop takes us right through it. He probably doesn't even feel it that first instant it snaps and rips across his lathered chest and forelegs. He doesn't feel it until we are all the way through the gate and the wire lies twitching and coiled behind us having done its gory work. I jump off and hold him as the initial shock wears off and he starts to snort and whinny in pain. I can't believe it when I see what the wire has done to him. What I did to him. I curse as the tears are torn out of me. I begin talking to him, sobbing as the dark blood pumps down his forelegs. I can't believe he is still proud, still walking. I know he will never run like that again. Neither of us will. All the way back to the barn I keep crying to him, like he knows what I mean,

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Oh Jesus, God I'm sorry."

Uges surprises me when we get back to the barn. I was expecting him to blow up at me, but when he sees how badly the horse is hurt, he just gets very calm and quiet as he strokes Sargent and examines his wounds. There are a few female J.C.'s around the barn and they are pretty squeamish about all this, but Uges takes charge and tells them what medicine to bring for the horse. I am feeling totally helpless and guilty as hell. I keep asking Uges if he thinks Sargent will be all right, if he'll get well again, if he'll be the same again though I know inside that he won't. Uges just keeps saying we have to wait and see and that it will be a long time before we know. He is amazingly gentle and reassuring toward me which helps. He applies some dark purple medicine to the gashes while Sargent shivers and snorts and twitches each time the swab enters his flesh. I ask if there is anything else I can do and Uges tells me I should just go back to the main camp and that he will handle it. He tells me it's not my fault, that there's no way I could have seen the wire. I still feel awful. I stroke Sargent one last time and start walking back toward camp. It is only then that I notice my heavy work boots. There are deep slashes across the tops of both boots and I realize what would have happened to my feet without them. It is one of the first times I remember feeling lucky.

That evening after supper there is a campfire rally. Campers of all ages attend these and they last long into the night. Counselors tell ghost stories, play guitars and lead group songs. Tonight a group of older campers and counselors have returned from a Canadian canoe trip and Tom Roy, the bearded leader of this trip, is recounting their adventures in the north woods. He is a legendary figure among the younger J.C.'s and we all marvel at his rugged good looks, his prowess as a woodsman and his seemingly vast sexual experience. All the female counselors and J.C.'s seem to worship him while all the younger males try to emulate him, some by growing beards, others by dressing like him or affecting his quiet, self- possessed manner. It is rumored that Gerri has been involved with him and this makes me envy him all the more. What chance do I have competing with Tom Roy? He is older, wiser, more handsome and universally adored. Also he is definitely not sexually naive as I am. I can't help liking the guy even though I suspect he is my rival.

Toward eleven that night the huge bonfire has begun to burn down and the last of the old campfire songs that anyone can remember has been sung. We all begin to meander back to our cabins to get ready for bed. Someone is singing an old camp favorite.

"Indians are high minded/ bless my soul they're double- jointed/ They run down to Merhabs all night long."

The two main toilet facilities in camp are called Cobles and Merhabs, probably after camp personnel or benefactors from the past. Merhabs is the facility used by Indians and the rest of the ditty is self-explanatory. I have been looking for Gerri all night but haven't seen her. She has probably gone off with Tom or arranged to meet him later. These nighttime trysts are common among the older counselors, though I have yet to arrange one myself. I have resigned myself to another night in my cabin full of restless, homesick Indians when I hear my name in a loud whisper. It sounds like it's coming from the porch of the camp director's house and now I remember that one of the female counselors, Sue Zoller, bunks there. I approach the screen door and reply,

"Sue? Is that you?"

"Come on in, stupid. The night is young."

Sue is a little older than me and also works in the horsebarns. She has a small reputation of being "easy" and I had thought that she was Uges' girl. Maybe Uges is busy tonight. I open the creaking screen door and as quietly as possible enter the dark, screened-in porch. I can barely make out Sue's long blond hair and face as she sits on the edge of her cot. I stand there awkwardly, not really knowing what to say or do next.

"You're up late. Is Clark home?" I venture. Clark is the camp director.

"Just come here and sit down." It is a command, not an invitation. I do as I'm told and find I'm trembling slightly. I can smell her now and she smells good. I have forgotten about Gerri. She takes my face between her soft, firm hands and looks at me.

"I heard what happened today," she says. "I'm sorry."

"So am I." I am still trembling, but I feel better.

Then she pulls me slowly to her mouth and kisses me very soft and warm. She kisses me for a long time and then I am kissing her back and feeling her hair and her back and her breasts. She puts her soft, slick tongue in my mouth and runs it over my teeth and bites my lips a little. I am very excited and trembling and warm now and we keep doing this for what seems like a very long time. Then she stops suddenly.

"You have to go now," she says. I remember Gerri and Sargent then and something comes loose inside me. I begin to cry, shaking silently. Sue takes my face between her hands again and wipes the tears with her thumbs.

"It's OK, you know. It's OK."

Mark Johnson ~

Down By The River

Rawden was smiling now, his eyes sympathetic. His sweaty palm touched her cheek, his thumb stroking her chin. It repulsed her.

Sheriff?" a voice called. "Don't you have a killer to catch?" Rawden turned sharply. Ricky was standing by the car looking down upon them.

Glaring at him darkly, Rawden came up the embankment. "You're not off the hook yet, so don't get lippy!" He got into his car slammed the door and sped away.

"Are you all right?" Ricky asked concerned. She nodded and wiped her face roughly with her hand. "Funny place to be at this time of night, ain't it?" he said.

"My Pa threw me out, and I could ask you the same thing." She began to walk, biting her lip to composing herself.

He shrugged and followed. "So where you going?"

"I don't know, into town, I guess." She shivered. The night had almost drawn in. Ricky handed over his jacket. "Thanks," she mumbled. "When did they let you out?"

"A coupla hours ago."

"I'm surprised, just because you're innocent," she glanced at him side ways. "don't mean they can't make it stick."

"What makes you think I'm innocent, anyway?" he said glancing at her.

"Because you cared for Mary-Jo."

He shrugged. "Since when has that ever mattered."

They walked along in silence for a while. He, dark and moody, she, tired and cold.

"He frightened us, me and Mary-Jo."

"Who? Rawden?"

"Hmm, but Mary-Jo never really understood what was going on."

"So you deserted her?"

"No, it wasn't like that." But it felt like that now. Shelby knew it and so did he. She sighed, "Did Mary-Jo tell you about me?"

"She told me lots of things. I felt as if I knew you. But they was something she held back, wouldn't talk about. It was sommat to do with you, wasn't it?" She wanted to tell him, tell him the whole sordid story, but was afraid. Instead she said: "What really happened between you and Mary-Jo?"

Ricky did not answer at first, she could see him scowling as they walked. She touched his arm so he stopped and looked at her with sullen eyes.

"She said she loved me, but she betrayed me." he said quietly just as it began to drizzle.

"She did love you, Ricky," she said trying to reassure him. "You were one of the reasons I didn't come back. Mary-Jo felt safe with you. She would never, never hurt you."

"But she did!" he said glaring at her. The hurt in his eyes hurt her too.

As they approached town, a group of lads were sitting on their motorbikes outside a bar. She knew some of them.

"Hey." Danny Blanche jumped off his bike and came over to them. "Why they let you out? Do they let murderers out these days?" The other three came over, encircling them.

"Miss Mary-Jo too much for you to handle?" taunted one.

"What did you do to her. Eh? Eh?" said the other. The rain was coming down harder now. Their leather jackets shone. The lads walked round them. Ricky said nothing and tried not to meet their eyes.

"We don't take kindly to outsiders taking our women."

"Yeah, never mind killing them, do we. Eh? Eh?"

"I didn't kill her," protested Ricky.

"What, speak up?" Danny poked his finger in Ricky's chest. Ricky threw off his arm. The other three moved closer, their bodies alert, tensed up, waiting.

"Stop it!!" Shelby shouted. She had had enough of being pushed around by people in this town. They looked at her with surprise. "Our women?" she scoffed. "Since when did you ever care for Mary-Jo? Weren't you the ones who bullied her; made her do things just so you could laugh at her? You stupid ignorant, louts!"

With that she shoved Danny hard in the chest. He stumbled back and broke the circle from around them. Danny raised his hand in retaliation, but Ricky hit him squarely on the jaw. A deputy's car rolled up and the fight stopped before it had started.

Looking at Ricky, the deputy said, "I'd go home before you get hauled in again." Ricky looked murderously at them before striding off. The lads went off to the bikes, Danny rubbing his chin. The deputy went on his way.

Shelby stood alone in the street, the rain plastering her hair to her head. It dripped down her face and nobody could tell she was crying.

Her Pa was drinking steadily. He'd wrecked the kitchen and was slumped in the chair, his bottle at his feet. Shelby stood in the doorway.

"What the hell do you want?" he said, raising his bloodshot eyes.

"I've nowhere else to go," she said miserably.

"Then go back to him."

"Who?"

He got up, staggering towards her. Catching hold of her shoulders, he slammed her back to the wall.

"Do you think I care about your problems?"

"Pa...please!"

"You got him now, do you think I care?"

"What are you talking about?" Then he began to laugh. The smell of whisky on his breath repulsed her.

"I love you," he said, his laughter turning to tears. "I loved you," he wept. The sound of the rain and his sobbing filled Shelby with fear.

"What are you talking about!" she cried with alarm. His eyes fell on her jacket and his face turned into a sneer.

"His," he hissed. "That son of a bitch. Go to him!" He swung her round with one hand and opened the door with the other. She screamed as he threw her out into the dark wet night.

Karen Mossman ~