Paula Watkins Alfred

STATEHOOD FOXY HENS AND MURDER MOST FOWL

             Enjoy the following excerpts:

THE RACOUS BIRD AND A FELONY TRYST

By Paula Watkins Alfred

            The light from Sister Sally’s house came out to meet me on the trail, and I was encouraged enough to quicken my pace.  I crept up to the wooden circus pony that looked as if it wanted to gallop away.  The horse was of a height that allowed me to peer over it, mostly hidden from anyone that might look out from the house.  I rested my chin on the cold wooden saddle, and what did I see? There sat Sister Sally in front of her window all lit by the light from her coal oil lamp.  She sat there brushing that hair of hers.  A night shirt had slipped off one shoulder and a black pouch hid her cloudy eye.  Watching her took on the feel of watching a tardy river, so slow and rhythmic were her brush strokes.  Mesmerized, I did not move for the longest, and neither did she, except to continue the deliberate brushstrokes of her hair, all the while looking out the window straight at the circus pony as if she knew I was there.

            When she placed the hairbrush down, I grew alert once again, but all she did was to stand tall, pull up the nightshirt to cover her exposed shoulder, and then reach down to extinguish the lantern. I sagged against the circus pony.  She braced up fine against my weight and disappointment.  What had I expected?

            A bank of clouds had moved in and the night was dark without lady moon.  I dreaded the walk back to Mix Myrtle’s, yet knew I should be off, else folks would come to discover my absence.  But of a sudden I felt so drowsy that I decided to rest my eyes, just for a spell, sure that once refreshed, I could make better time.  My unfaithful eyes stayed shut, and I could feel myself slipping into sleep despite all good sense.

            My scream of terror lasted so long it almost split my head in two, or else it was Sister Sally’s slap across my face.  I had awakened when a firm hand had gripped my shoulder and attempted to pull me up from the perch I had made of the circus pony’s saddle.  It took that long for the terror to register and for my scream to curdle the night like sour milk.

THE SPINSTER, THE PIG AND THE ORPHAN

By Jackie King

            It was madness.  One didn’t buy a husband in the same way one bought a lumberyard.  Not even at bargain prices.  Not even in the modern year of 1889. Not even in Indian Territory. It just wasn’t done.  But Harriet Lauren knew, even as she silently lectured herself, she intended to do just that.  Because the fact was, she desperately needed a husband to run her new business and father the children she longed for.

            “Still water runs deep,” Uncle Richard kept saying, taking Harriet’s new persona in stride, “You’re your father’s daughter,” he said, “A chip off the old block.”

            Of course Uncle Richard didn’t really know her.  Until four weeks ago they’d never spent time together.  Uncle Richard had been the family black sheep and she had been the dutiful daughter of a New York lawyer.  They had both kept their assigned places in the family, just as Papa wished.

            Father had ruled her life with an iron hand, and she’d felt powerless against his tyranny.  But apoplexy suddenly felled him.  Now he was gone.  Was her newfound freedom changing her into a hoyden?

HATS, HEALING AND HOMICIDE IN TULSEY TOWN

By Peggy Moss Fielding

            He again clicked his tongue and his owner once again moved along the rutted road that led to Arkansas.  Eula Mae still stood galvanized in front of her wagon seat.  She glanced out at the barely visible trail he’d pointed out.  “You can’t do this, sir!”

            Montmorcey’s answer was a mocking laugh.

            When she realized he was truly leaving all her belongings behind she made one last attempt before she had to leave the wagon, “Mr. Montmorcey!”

            He shook his head and clicked to the horse to speed up to a walk.

            She gathered her skirts on one hand, trusted her hatpin to keep her hat on her head and sprang from the wagon, then crouched in the dust staring in disbelief at the still moving wagon until it disappeared from sight.  She straightened to walk back to the trunk and her portmanteau.  Fear rose in her throat.

            “You’re a grown woman,” she said aloud.  “You’re nearly thirty years old.  Buck up.”  She struggled to pull the heavy trunk a few feet down a nearby slope then let it rest behind some sumac bushes.  Sticks, leaves and branches served to disguise the container holding nearly all her worldly goods. Should she stay here or go on the village which Montmorcey had mentioned?  Perhaps there really was a town.

            She looked again at the well-traveled road.  Maybe Montmorcey would come back?  No. Better get on with what lay ahead.  She lifted her carpetbag portmanteau with her left hand, held her purse in her right hand, scooped up the food sack then turned north onto the barely discernible path that might or might not lead to a town.