The Everwinter Files: #308

Page 39 – The following night the weather was calm again and the boat Ambrose had hired was ready to go at 1 am. Carl Crane went with him as Jimmy McFarland agreed to wait back at the Inn. Not many local boat owners were willing to embark on a post-midnight secret mission to trespass on the feared Hollister Ranch and their armed guards. However, for triple the fee, after a rash of family setbacks, Willy Reese was hard put to turn down such a large pile of ready cash, even if the risk was high.

Ambrose and Carl brought several guns on board and gave Willy the signal they were ready to go. The thirty foot boat was old, but the engine was in good shape and roared to life and started out into the black night of the Pacific calm. The night waves were short as they glided past a group of dolphins who turned and went up the coast toward Pismo. Willy’s old fishing vessel cruised south along the shore but far enough out they would be hard to spot. Ambrose had Willy turn off the lights as they relied on Willy’s ability to captain the boat in the dark.

The trio stayed silent as they heard only the lapping of the waves as they could now see the faint lights on Hollister Ranch. The intelligence Ambrose had was the place had a night watchman at the front gate and two armed men who roamed the property randomly but only once or twice per night on the beach. It seemed that most were not foolhardy enough to try entry anyway, so the guards were usually trying to stay awake and finish their shift.

Willy guided the old boat near a small beach that adjoined the Hollister property and killed the engines. Ambrose and Carl went down a rope ladder with rifles, handguns, flashlights, and a knapsack of various supplies and dry clothes and shoes. They were waist deep in water and waded ashore. On the beach they removed their wet shoes and clothes and buried them under some rocks by a cliff. In dry footwear and pants the pair quietly slunk up the beach toward unknown danger in the dark night.

The Everwinter Files : #308 The Frolic Room Prophet is now available in hard back on Amazon.com.

Cowboys and Witches

Inside the Stanley Hotel

Here is an excerpt from the novella Foster’s Fall, found on page 47.

“My name is Chas, Mr. Tennenbaum told me to expect you.”

“Foster Everwinter.”

“You are our house detective, in charge of security?”

“Yes, at your service.”

“He has told you about the black peacocks?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Dreadful business. The entire staff is just sick over it. We are all very fond of them.”

“Who do you think is responsible?”

“A madman. It couldn’t be an animal.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you know? They are locked up every night. Someone would have to unlock their barn and take them up into the woods.”

“An animal couldn’t manage it?”

“Not unless he has a key and walks upright.”

“It’s a riddle, I admit, but who would want to do such a thing?”

“Like I said, a madman.”

Cowboys and Witches, along with my other books are found on Amazon.com.

Cowboys and Witches by John K Bucher

I wrote this book, or I guess parts of it from 2006-2008. It was published in 2010. The short story was a continuation of one of the characters in my first novel – The Suicide Cowboys. It was during this period I moved from Denver to Ft Collins and about once a week, my son Josh and I would drive up into the mountains to Estes Park and spend the day. We would park in town and walk up a nature trail past pools of trout and grazing elk to the the Stanley Hotel. The old hotel was where Stephen King got the story for The Shinning. We would have a drink at the bar and talk to the employees about their own supernatural experiences while they were on duty. Later we would retreat down the trail again and eat lunch at Lonigans Saloon, and Irish pub. I would go home with a car full of ideas and stories. This book holds some of them.

Just Me and the Night

Go away loneliness I want to drink Vodka

perverse drunken logic beckons me to the party

walk straight damn it the cops are watching I think

oh my God why, such a waste of the moment,

just then I girl asks me “what am I doing?”

we walk and she takes me someplace as sparks shoot from

her ass while she lies to me, what a performance!

4 am and I am at a 7-11 buying milk as a vast array of people lie

sleeping in old brick apartments. I hear a scream,

“Don’t call the cops!” I trudge home behind a black cat and let

myself in. Lying down I feel the rhythm of the night and wait

for the sleep fairies to close the gate of my mind.

Evening Street Lights

Walking along the busy sidewalks of the life soaked day

Autumn winds catches my collar and thumps my thoughts

My eyes go up to the third floor window and no lights shine

Loneliness shakes me

Damn!

I walk all this way and she is not home- Darker now

I shuffle around and go

To a corner bar and sit down

Blonde whore

Smiles

She wants a drink

I buy her one

Now what?

Her tale of woe, God

I pay

Walk out the door

Still no light

Where is she?

Cold, I stumble

What now?

The dull yellow street lights

They mock me and tell me to go home

I go as the street lights keep watch

On the third floor window

These and many more poems and stories are in Cowboys and Witches. This and all my books at Amazon.com/John K Bucher

The Notorious MLG

Melrose Larry Green on Hollywood Boulevard

Old Photographs and Wild Dreams – Page 177

THE NOTORIOUS MLG

Year after year he smiles and sells

orange vest and winter shorts

Greenblatt kid from Brooklyn ….Melrose Avenue

sandwich board life

Talent out the ass from piano to singing – comic

politico

Howard Stern’s WACKPACK spitfire mouthpiece …pot stirrer

Bobo & Mary Ann

No stranger to conflict…village town crier…MBA Cornell

Celebrity accountant

In spite of all the bluster, the sandpaper beliefs – heart of pure gold

gifted entertainer

Larry inspires me when I see that smile – that GRIN

This new book is for sale and only available in hard back. To get your copy click below:

Riding the Katy

The first time was special, remembering the cold

funeral in Dallas, for someone not so old

Fresh from the round house, engines did race

Denison station, big scary place

Mounting wrought iron steps to find the right seat

train car so full strange rendezvous meet

Shiny steel sculpted with curtains and wood

ladies in hosiery swishing a lilac good

Hearts beat as one when the whistle blew loud

feeling the movement riding a steel cloud

Sherman came fast fields of black dirt

gentlemen in their newspapers starchy white shirts

Gathering speed across empty winter grounds

foxes dance in the sunlight scatter at the sound

So elegant a world on heavy round wheels

windows in the dinning car table cloth meals

McKinney came next and then Dallas station

husbands and wives foreign relations

Riding the Katy a distant recall

dead rusty cars behind a rotting wall

A sweet dream of Texas gone for the time

only in dreams can you ride the Katy line

Page nine – Old Photographs and Wild Dreams

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New Photographs and Wild Dreams

32

Thirty two counties and thirty two friends

Irish legends everyone of them

A pot of pure gold and an Irish grin

Step forth and enjoy the fun and sin

The walls tell the stories, ghosts whispering true

Guinness in the pint glass and Jameson not a few

Patrick is the Lord, lift up his banner

Associate with his angels and their heavenly manner

A well worn stage where music is born and played so well

Songs of a green homeland, a shepherd rings his bell

The bar is a friend to all who garnish a stool

To doubt or not believe this, why only a fool

St Patrick’s Day and Christmas, the ground swells and shakes

Funerals and birthdays, the love they do make

A star in the Almighty’s sky, the devil would agree

A long, long way from Claire, but its citizens you can see

-John K Bucher Sr,

from Old Photographs and Wild Dreams

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Old Guitars and Beer Joints

hilltop-7-2_custom-8dc3a4618e4b25045074e5a96a5b4c985441903c-s900-c85

traveling minstrels poor and underfed work the six strings on a old wooden stage

rickety piano and microphone with frazzled chords bends the notes of long lost rage

Gibson and Fender unpack their memories to supply the dance hall dreams

throat singers strain at notes that float magical stories from bottles of Jim Beam

finger pickers mimic Reverend Gary Davis and his trunks of blues and gin soaked tunes

sometimes on the weekends they play the harder stuff even in the afternoon

swaying on the sawdust to an old country song and under soft blue lights

makes life worth the living after a day in the oil fields getting tired

the beer and the whiskey, the songs and the tunes, always cheer you up

and  heals the soul and sometimes inspires some one who has given up

but other times a jealous soul sees something that causes a big blowup

fighting and cussing is part of the deal and the band knows just to duck

but the clapping and cheers make sure that down that old road there’s good luck

after it’s all over and time to go home the feeling is so good and whiskey’s done its job

knowing tomorrow’s a working day but down deep now there’s a new heart throb

When the spring winds of Diego

windy-day

when the spring winds of Diego come and leave magic in the air

and the wine of long ago whispers of deep and sorrowful tunes of an

old fiddler who played  until he lost his way and heart in a forgotten war that books

no longer mention and then slip away silently

when the spring winds of Diego ride hard and bend the trees and

rattle glass until almost break reminding all of what could be and that

which never can return and be played on green ball fields or danced

in sad saloons any more

when the summer winds of Perez visit the hot alleys and make the

flies leave cafe tables but roast everything until it becomes a reddish

glow and curses are shouted and beer is never cold enough

and swimmers go far off shore and cobblers close early

when the fall winds of Fernando harvest more sand than wheat

warning of the hellish winters around the corner BUT on some mornings

those fall winds bring love along with the scurrying leaves and for years

old heads recall that moment when it arrived

but the spring winds of Diego always brush away the cold and forge

new promises to bind and new frontiers to walk

the end