Mules Motorcycles and Memories

A "Collection of Short Stories by Members of The Writers' Bloc

Mules, Motorcycles, and Memories is an eclectic sampling of works from members of The Writers Bloc, an association of authors from Maryland's Eastern shore. The stories are diverse and entertaining just like the members of this Eastern Shore writing group. Though stories do not contain all the elements in the title, one is sure to find that Mules, Motorcycles, and Memories will have something to touch the hearts and minds of all that read it. Inspiring some to say, "I can do that too." Or even, "I can do better than that." The Writers Bloc, Inc. meets every third Saturday at the Public Library in Salisbury, Maryland and at the website www.thewritersbloc.org , one can contact the authors. Stories are journeys, the author takes the reader on. . . join us for a nice ride with Mules, Motorcycles and Memories.

ISBN 1-59431-441-1 Short Story / Anthology

Cover Art/ B. R. Lynch



Chitter, Chatter,

Bang Bang



by Gianni (Nan) DeVincent Hayes, Ph.D.



I really like margaritas but I drink martinis because they’re more manly and more of a social drink.

The lady before me—the hostess named Veronica whom I had met at an author’s signing—stands in her calf-length, sequined dress babbling about artists to this denim clad, bearded fellow who I’m told is a painter. I don’t care about painting; I’m not such an artsy type fellow. His voice and fluttering hands mark him as being gay; I smile at him.

Now Veronica’s saying, “Renoir was by far the most accomplished.” Her lips part and she asks the painter, “Wouldn’t you agree, Clay? You’re the expert.” She runs a long finger around the inside rim of her glass.

Both are standing in my circle but neither is looking at me. I drain my drink and look around for the roving waiter.

This painter guy Clay glances at her from creased eyebrows and sips a concoction reminding me of Maalox. “That depends on what criteria are used in the comparison..”

Sounds like b.s. to me.

Clay asks in a pitch louder so I’ll hear him over the clink of glasses and outbreaks of laughter, “What’d you say your name was again?”

Events like this are so noisy and superficial that no one really gets to know anybody. This fundraiser is for a hot-shot guy—a delegate or something—who is shooting for the senate, and we’re here to shovel money his way. His presence is a big secret. I hate secrets—especially secret guests; in fact, I hate surprises. And I especially hate politicians; I was married to one. I’m here only because Veronica invited me.

“Les Barnard.” I chew my ice and spit big chunks back into the glass..

Veronica rolls her eyes at me.

“What do you do?” Clay asks almost nonchalantly.

“You mean how much money do I make?” He looks taken aback, but he deserves that. “I’m an investigative reporter for Newsweek and a biographer published by Prentice Hall and others.”

“Oh,” he says.

“I travel everywhere, interview famous people, especially politicians, and rake in high six figures a year doing it.”

“Ooooh!” Clay glances at Veronica, then back at me. “I thought I recognized you.”

I’m enjoying the change in his behavior. He doesn’t know how I bled my guts to get where I am today. Reporters in the room who know me, wave, lift their glasses in greeting.

I light a cigarette. Our circle widens to admit a redhead and a tuxedo-clad gentleman. Veronica introduces me and suddenly I have the floor, offering anecdotes about big-wigs I’ve interviewed in the past—the colorful ones. I’m enjoying this new found attention.

My tell-tales secrets spark a bevy of flying comments on the Clinton administration and Bush’s Iraqi war—two of my best selling books. Every one’s out-talking and out-drinking each other. I laugh at them...people are such fakes at cocktail parties.

“Can I get you a refill, Les?” Veronica runs her hand across my chest, fondling my starched collar, my dark tie; teasingly sliding her hand inside my belt, her lips puckering and making smacking noises. “Lots of people here want to meet you. They’ve heard about your latest release on Condi Rice. That will make you a rich man.”

Her mouth is so close to mine that I can feel her breath against my face. “I’m already rich.”

“Everyone knows that too.” Her hand is back at my chest, gliding over my shirt. “I love the way you’re built.”

Alcohol has a way of loosening inhibitions.

“Really, Les. You’re so fine.”

I smile.