“Eddy Tomplinson does have a certain flair,” Donnel Frisbuy said, “most of it is odoriferous.” He looked into his mug of Montana Blue Ale and then took a chug of it. The topic of conversation was the upcoming election, and whom the Last Lost County Country might send to the State Legislature. Donnel was a … Continue reading Politics or The Doom of Last Lost County
Some People Have no Finesse
In my willows, magpies— will they yatter this conceit all summer long?
When the Ginger Beer is All Drunk Up.
Perry was showered and ready for a Montana Cowboy Saturday Night of wild women, sweet liquor and the usual paraphernalia of a Montana Cowboy Saturday night. Unfortunately, Perry’s idea of what a Cowboy Saturday Night should consist of and his execution of that idea never seemed to coincide. Much to Perry’s frustration, one beer was … Continue reading When the Ginger Beer is All Drunk Up.
Balm
with scent of lilacs blooming in the yard, lingering winter kill fetor
In the Green
In the greening pasture beige stalks of last year’s yellow sweet clover Posted in response to the Ragtag Community daily prompt verdant.
Fishing for Buffalo
Spike’s was the kind of place where a rounder felt comfortable telling lies. It huddled in the southeast quadrant of where Old Placer Creek Road crossed Montana Highway 333 and became Last Lost Mountain Road which bridged the river and dodged into the mountains beyond. Beside the rickety one lane, wooden decked bridge, There was … Continue reading Fishing for Buffalo
Vernie Valenine Defines a Word for the Prof
“Omaha is a place I visited for a wedding once,” Vern said, “It was spring, and the air was sumptuous heavy with moisture and there were trees growing everywhere, and. . . .” “Wait. Wait,” Dean put up his hand, “Hold it right there. Vernie old boy. You said “sumptuous.” “Yes, I did,” the old … Continue reading Vernie Valenine Defines a Word for the Prof
She Sings the Wedding Hymn
Silence of fingers hovering; scent before her voice in the thorned room of rose and carnation where light echoes all this and every sentiment on glass of window, fluted salute, and wandering specs. Posted in response to the RPD word do the day: patterns
On the Beaver Pond
On the beaver pond the moon Seen through willows, ageless Slap!—moon ripples away.
The Liver and Onions Eating Champion
Everyone knew that Riley Holdcamp would eat anything except liver. It was not a secret. Since high school he had announced to every date and future potential spouse that if they ever served him liver and onions, he would extract revenge. He could not even tolerate to be in a dining room where liver was … Continue reading The Liver and Onions Eating Champion
