Blue Jay Blues

Jason drained the rest of his Heineken and slammed the empty bottle on the formica kitchen counter. He absently patted his shirt pockets for matches.
“New house, same old crap,” he said.
Jenny came in from the living room and adjusted her tube top. “It's not a new house, we've been here for six months now.” She reached back and put up her hair. “If you can't handle quitting smoking, go get yourself a job. But you're not using my money to buy cigarettes with.”
They both glared at each other until a sudden flurry of wings followed by loud screeching startled them.
Jason looked at the backyard. “That's another thing I hate about this damn place; those stupid Blue Jays.” He got up and opened the refrigerator. “Ah, baby, we're out of beer. You got a few bucks I can borrow, hon?”
Jen watched the busy Blue Jays in the backyard. She didn't look at Jason. She just said, “How can we be out of beer, if I don't even drink?”



Mr. and Mrs. Bluejay finally landed in the scrabble dirt amid the dead Oak leaves. Mr. Bluejay stuck his beak into several spots in the ground. He almost gave up, but suddenly, he spied a sunflower seed laying on the patio. He snatched it into his long, shiny black beak.
“This place has really gone downhill the last few months,” he said.
Mrs. Bluejay agreed. “Yes, we used to get choice, ripe peanuts.”
Mr. Bluejay cracked the seed open. “Yes, but now all they ever have are these sunflower seeds--” He spit it out. “Yech, jalepeno flavored, again.”

The Case of Mistaken Identity: A Billy Bulletin Tale

The name is Billy “All Points” Bulletin. The county boys call me a small time detective. Yeah, small time detective in a C note town. The day began like any other day; with me broke, and the only prospect a bad hangover. The call came in on my shortwave from the local 7-11; Burglary...okay, shoplifting. I jumped into my souped-up PT Cruiser, made for the corner of Broadway and Main and pulled into the parking lot just as the perpetrator, or, perp, was making his way outside.
I screeched to a halt and accosted the kid, who was holding onto some dame's hand.
“Okay, Dillinger,” I said. “You and the dame stay right there.” I quickly put up tape around the crime scene.
The dame was going to be a problem.
“Watch it with that duct tape, mister,” she said.
Now I really saw her for the first time. She had the kind of looks a man would die for. Probably not willingly, though. Her green eyes smoldered.
“Watch it yourself, sister,” I told her. “This is a crime scene and your boy, there, is going down the river.” The brat dropped his ice cream and began crying. Me, I continued with the taping when it got stuck on something.
“You idiot,” cried the dame. “You just duct taped my son's head to that VW.”
Just then, the proprietor, or, prop came out of the store. “Hey, All Points, I can't keep the kid in the store all day. You coming in to arrest him, or what?”
I took a second look at the dame and her kid. He did seem on the young side to be a criminal, come to think of it. I looked at the kid with his cheek taped to the windshield of the VW and began to laugh.
“Alright, alright, this'll only take a second.” I had to work fast before the county boys got there. “Stand back...” There was a tremendous ripping sound followed by what sounded like a young boy's scream, soon joined by what sounded like his mother's.
“You ripped the hair off my son!” she wailed, followed by a bunch of gibberish about lawyers. Finally, I'd had enough.
“Look, doll,” I said. “He's still young enough for it to grow back.” I tipped my hat showing my own thinning head of hair. “He should count his blessings.”
Before she could say anything, the local black and whites thundered into the parking lot. The Sergeant, Joe Bidwell, got out and approached me.
“All right, bulletin, we'll take over—what's wrong with the lady?”
I jerked a thumb at the kid, and whispered, “Her son was caught stealing, so she's pretty distraught, not making sense.”
“Officer, thank God, a real policeman,” the dame said, cooing. “I want to get a lawyer--”
As I hopped into my vehicle I could hear Bidwell telling her, “Settle down, lady. Let's just get your little criminal into a pair of handcuffs and then you can call a lawyer. Hey, his head is bleeding. Let's get some tape on that.”
Me, I careened on down the road to the local watering hole. There was an all points bulletin in my head calling me to investigate The Case of the Missing Buzz.

THE ISLAND
by
Kenyon Ledford



Time passes so quickly this way. When every sense one possess is arrested by beauty, time indeed, flies. The aroma of the island is a delight; whether it's native blossoms, salt spray, burning driftwood or tropical ozone. The feel of being overwhelmed by the sun one moment only to be showered by sand and saltwater swept in by a south wind the next, makes me tremble. The taste of fresh, young coconut milk washing down a charred Ahi steak is sublime.

The sky is so blue that you could swirl it around with a few whispy clouds, pour it into a gourd and drink until you stagger. And the sounds? Island music can only be accepted, never explained, or caught. It can only be. Birds, wind, water and trees, I hear them all, and accept. Not only does the Island overwhelm my five senses so that I'm helpless to respond, but the constant beauty leads to blissful thoughts and understanding. I used to wonder how a dog could lay around outside all day, with nothing to do, and be happy. Now, I know.

Ironically, the only disruption in this paradise of solitude are a couple of exotic birds. They look like African Grays—indeed, their vocabulary and wide array of sounds they make would suggest just that. They must have been domestic at one point but escaped. They have a knack of showing up when I'm at my most meditative. They flap their wings near my face, perch and stare, flap around some more—and their incessant chatter; it jars my mind! I've named them Salty Sue and Garrulous Gail; though I can hardly tell them apart.

When I'm very rested sometimes I can will them away; otherwise I tolerate the intrusion. They usually don't stay for more than ten minutes.
Just look at that sky. Today the sunset must be the reddest I've ever seen. See it reflect
upon the white sand like the world's largest sand painting—no, a mosaic. A mosaic of...of, oh, speak of the devil, my parrots are back. Are you going to talk to me today girls, or just screech and flap?

“Honestly, Gail,” Sue said. She fluffed the pillow under the patient. “If you ever see me like this, just shoot me.”
Gail jotted down some notes on the patient's readings. “I don't know why the families let these people live like this.” She brushed a lock of hair out of hisenyon eyes. “Look at him; eyes open but not seeing anything.”
Sue waved a hand in front of his eyes and clucked her tongue. “That's not living.”
Gail nodded. “Let's get out of here. You going to that party, tonight?”

JABBERWOCKY
A Translation:
(THE FOOD PROCESSOR)
By
Kenyon Ledford

It was brilliant, and the anchovies did slip and slide in the slender hand
Thin, yet quick, like the old stories of the pizza men from Italian sand

“Beware the food processor, son! The blades that break, the teeth that catch!
And beware the angry cook, and run, if he is missing his nicotine patch.”

He took his crust cutter in hand to cut the pizza I had bought
But distracted by pinball machines he paid a coin and took a shot

And as like Tommy, there he stood, the food processor sparked to flame
came flying through the doors of wood, blades screaming, as it came

One two! One two! And through and through the pizza man went snicker snack
The game, it tilted. He took the broken blades and pissed off went into the back

“You've blown up the food processor! That'll come out of your pay,”
He told the prep boy, who quiet stood and didn't talk
But stole a glance up, at the clock

It was brilliant, and the anchovies did slip and slide in the slender hand
The prep boy was quiet yet from the silent glare of the pizza man

MONEY MAN
by
Kenyon Ledford


The superhero appeared in the nearly deserted subway station. His costume was a simple jogging outfit with a ski mask over his head. The ski mask was embroidered with a large dollar sign on the front. He surveyed the three victims, who, when they saw him, waved frantically.
“Money Man, over here!”
Money Man raised a fist. “Up, up, and away,” he cried. He ran to the victims at full speed, stopping too late and knocking down the lady in the group.
“I'm sorry, miss,” he said, helping her up.
“That's okay, Money Man,” she replied. “Harry, tell him what happened.”
Harry loosened his tie. “Joe, here, got his wallet lifted, and...hey, how come you didn't fly?”
Money Man put his hands on his hips. “Money man is frugal. Capes cost money.” He looked at Harry's waistline. “Maybe a little frugality wouldn't hurt you, either.
Harry blushed and began to stammer, but Joe interrupted.
“Look here, Money Man,” he said. “Some guy bumped into us. He apologized, and all, then asked for the time. But after he left we noticed my wallet was gone.”
“And my watch,” added Harry.
“Can't you do something, Money Man?” The lady pleaded.
Money Man patted his jogging suit. “I'm strapped 'till payday...”
“We mean find the thief,” Joe growled.
“Oh, right, of course.” Money Man raised his fist. “Up, up, and away!” He ran off.
“There goes a Hell of a guy,” Harry said.
“He's a bit off, if you ask me,” muttered Joe.
“Hey,” the lady said. “My purse is gone!”