Flight Plans

         FLIGHT PLANS

  “So let me get this straight,” she said. “If I tell you to, you would switch your flight right this second and fly to wherever I live instead.”

            “Yes.”

            “What if I left you behind as soon as we got there?”

            “I trust you.”

            “And what about Boston? Don’t you need to be home for anything?”

            “Not until Monday.”

            “You know you’re crazy, right?”

            “Crazy good, or just crazy?”

            “Right now, just crazy.”

            “Then what do I have to do to get you to say yes?”

            “Okay, fine. Let’s try this,” she said, reaching for two napkins. “On one of these I’m going to write my flight number and on the other I’m going to write my phone number. As soon as I leave, I want you to choose just one napkin and throw the other away without looking. If you pick the flight number, I’ll see you at the gate. If you get the phone number, I want you to call me at 8 p.m., exactly two weeks from now, and not a moment sooner. Sound fair?”

            “Very,” he agreed, and turned his back so she could fill out each napkin.

            When she finished, she tapped him on the shoulder. “It was nice meeting you,” she said. “I hope we meet again soon,” and she turned away, potentially forever.

            The moment she was out of sight, he swung his arm towards the first napkin. In neat, bubbly print she’d written her phone number. Damning the rules, he lunged for the second napkin, begging to learn which city was blessed enough to call her its own.

            There was no flight number. She’d written the same phone number twice.

            And so, feeling both heartbroken and cheated, he boarded his plane to Boston alone.

            Over the next two weeks he thought of her off and on, debating whether he should call her at all. She’d already duped him once, did he really want to fall for her twice?

            In the end, he needed the help of a coin flip to decide. At 7:59 p.m. that Friday, the coin landed heads, and at 8:00 p.m. on the button he was dialing. At least it would be better to know.      

            “Hello?” She answered.

            “Hi. It’s me. From Cleveland.”

            “Ah, yes. So you didn’t win the grand prize did you?”

            “You tricked me.”

            “Did I?”

            “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

            “Well, if I recall, you weren’t supposed to look at both napkins, either. But I’ll play along. I’m staying at your Four Seasons this weekend. Say you pick me up about nine?”

Voices

Voices 

By Ken Staley

 "Why are we here? Why have we stopped?" He hears her voice hiss in his ear, close by but without warmth, like the fading winter sun in front of him. He hides their horses below the ridge, away from the trail that snakes down the draw. "Reese has to die," he whispers. "You know that." "What'll you do then?" "Nothin. It'll all be over then," he sighs. "You could run." Sadness fills her voice. He has heard her cry before.  "Got nothin' to run to. Got no place to go." "You could go west," she suggests. "I am West," he reminds her. "You'll go into town after?" She aks him. "What'll happen there?" "I'll hang, I suppose," he faces the finality and the reality of his actions for the first time. They couldn't let him go, not after killing Reese. Reese is too well known, too rich, too handsome. It wouldn't do to let Reese's killer go free. In the cold January afternoon, dust hangs frozen in the air. His blue eyes do not blink as he sights down the barrel of his rifle. Below him and off to the south, the dusty trail slides through the deep purple shadows and sage covered hills. His cheeks smart, stung by a slight breeze, as silent tears parade down his face. "Are you crying?" Her voice whispers again, nearer, closer. "No," he replies aloud, trying to push her away with his own harsh whisper. "It's just the cold." "Are you sad?" "It's always kinda sad when someone has to die." He wishes she would leave him alone. He must kill Reese. He must. And Reese always takes the same trail every night. "What'll you do if he don't come?" "He'll show. He always does." He remembers Maggie's face, so peaceful and calm when he left. His wife of only two years, Reese's friend and lover before him. He thinks of soft, loving caresses and glowing memories and smiles and laughter and her ecstatic sighs. "When you comin' to me?" "In a day or two, I suppose," he replies. "This'll all be over by then. They won't take too long." He cocks the hammer of his rifle and releases the tension by pulling the trigger. There is a satisfying click as the spring releases the hammer. He knows this is a nervous habit, but one he can't seem to break. He is too far away from the trail for the soft click to be heard for more than twenty feet. By the time Reese is within twenty feet, he'll be dead. A winter sun does not allow enough light to show a glint from the cold steel in his hands. Early evening begins to swallow the small, hard sun and dusk settles as the breeze dies. If Reese don't show soon, there won't be enough light left to kill him. But Reese will show. Reese thinks I'm still off hunting. Guess I am, in a way. "Besides, I ain't the runnin' type," he whispers to himself as the first faint echo of a horse's slow gait reach him. "It's Reese," she hisses, her voice moving away from him now. "I know. That's why we're here. Be still now." Her voice fades and he prepares himself. His hands and feet itch from the cold, from being cramped in one position for too long. For the last time, he pulls back the hammer of his rifle. He pushes the butt firmly against his shoulder and feels the bite of cold steel against his cheek, reassuring and final. He can almost tell how far away they are as the echo of the horse nears. "You're nervous," she scolds. She has not gone so far away after all. "If you miss, he'll get away. It'll be too dark for a second shot." He tightens his grip on the rifle, knuckles white from the pressure. He blinks his eyes once, twice, driving away the tears brought on by the cold. "You are crying," she whispers sadly. His tears leave trails in the dust on his cheeks and he shakes his head violently to clear away her voice, her memory. She could never lie to him. One look at her face and he knew. Two months without her man had driven her to the edge, or at least, driven her to Reese. He returned from his trap lines and knew she'd cheated on him. Without thinking, he drew his pistol and shot her above the heart. "I never loved him," her voice echoes through the hollow, drowning out Reese's approach. "I was just cold and lonely in all that dark. I still am." "I know," he replies as the horse and rider appear on the ridge and start down the side of the old wash. He does not hear the shot or feel the recoil of the rifle, he knows only that Reese has fallen from his horse. Even in the dark, he knows that half of Reese's head has disappeared. He slowly rises from his hiding place and crosses to his friend, lying in the cold January dust. Even in death, Reese seems to be humming and smiling. "Hurry," she whispers. "I'm so cold." In sadness, he strapped her dead body across his pack animal. Now he wrapped Reese using the dead man's duster for a shroud and strapped him next to Maggie. Tonight they would be together again after all. He mounted his horse and started for town. He would join them in a few days and sort out the mess on the other side. "I'll be waiting, darling," she whispers from her shroud next to Reese. "I know," he says quietly as he hangs his head and hums a tuneless song, "but for who?" THE END Ken Staley lives and writes in the lower end of the Yakima Valley in Eastern Washington. When not writing, Ken enjoys working with stained glass and touring the various wineries in the area and sampling their product.

Donkey In The Well

One day a farmer's donkey fell down into a well. The animal cried piteously for hours as the farmer tried to figure out what to do.

Finally, he decided the animal was old, and the well needed to be covered up anyway; it just wasn't worth it to retrieve the donkey.

He invited all his neighbors to come over and help him. They all grabbed a shovel and began to shovel dirt into the well.

At first, the donkey realized what was happening and cried horribly. Then, to everyone's amazement he quieted down.

A few shovel loads later, the farmer finally looked down the well. He was astonished at what he saw. With each shovel of dirt that hit his back, the donkey was doing something amazing. He would shake it off and take a step up.

As the farmer's neighbors continued to shovel dirt on top of the animal, he would shake it off and take a step up. Pretty soon, everyone was amazed as the donkey stepped up over the edge of the well and happily trotted off!

Life is going to shovel dirt on you, all kinds of dirt. The trick to getting out of the well is to shake it off and take a step up. Each of our troubles is a steppingstone. We can get out of the deepest wells just by not stopping, never giving up! Shake it off and take a step up.

NOW --------

Enough of that crap . . .

The donkey later came back and bit the shit out of the farmer who had tried to bury him. The gash from the bite got infected, and the farmer eventually died in agony from septic shock.

MORAL FROM TODAY'S LESSON:
When you do something wrong and try to cover your ass, it always comes back to bite you. 

Horse at The Race

A champion jockey is about to enter an important race on a new horse. The horse's trainer meets him before the race and says, ''All you have to remember with this horse is that every time you approach a jump, you have to shout, 'ALLLLEEE OOOP!' really loudly in the horse's ear. Providing you do that, you'll be fine.''

The jockey thinks the trainer is mad but promises to shout the command. The race begins and they approach the first hurdle. The jockey ignores the trainer's ridiculous advice and the horse crashes straight through the center of the jump.

They carry on and approach the second hurdle. The jockey, somewhat embarrassed, whispers 'Aleeee ooop' in the horse's ear. The same thing happens--the horse crashes straight through the center of the jump.

At the third hurdle, the jockey thinks, ''It's no good, I'll have to do it,'' and yells, ''ALLLEEE OOOP!'' really loudly. Sure enough, the horse sails over the jump with no problems. This continues for the rest of the race, but due to the earlier problems the horse only finishes third.

The trainer is fuming and asks the jockey what went wrong. The jockey replies, ''Nothing is wrong with me--it's this bloody horse. What is he--deaf or something?''

The trainer replies, ''Deaf?? DEAF?? He's not deaf--he's BLIND!'' 

A pirate at the local bar discusses his past

A seaman meets a pirate in a bar, and talk turns to their adventures on the sea. The seaman notes that the pirate has a peg-leg, a hook, and an eye patch.

The seaman asks, "So, how did you end up with the peg-leg?" The pirate replies, "We were in a storm at sea, and I was swept overboard into a school of sharks. Just as my men were pulling me out, a shark bit my leg off."

"Wow!" said the seaman. "What about your hook"? "Well", replied the pirate, "We were boarding an enemy ship and were battling the other sailors with swords. One of the enemy cut my hand off."

"Incredible!" remarked the seaman. "How did you get the eye patch"? "A seagull dropping fell into my eye," replied the pirate.

"You lost your eye to a seagull dropping?," the sailor asked incredulously. "Well," said the pirate, "it was my first day with my hook"