Denim Shorts & Foxy Tales

By John Muir

The third collection of short stories by John Muir. These eight short stories, including a novella, again encompasses a wide variety of genres. Some stories take a poke at the excessive seriousness many people take to their view of life, expecting all characters to fit the pigeon-holes they have created. The viewpoints taken also vary from a child's perspective and self-belief in their innocence and what they consider the important things in life, to the super serious dogma of others. With some whoops factors thrown in, it makes a broad range of reading,

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Muir
• Release date: Jul 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311613165

John Muir

John Muir (21 April 1838 – 24 December 1914) was a Scottish-born American naturalist, author, and early advocate of preservation of wilderness in the United States.

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DENIM SHORTS & FOXY TALES

By John Muir

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © John Robert Muir 2013. John Robert Muir asserts the legal and moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

Published by John Robert Muir. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent and permission of the publisher.

DISCLAIMER:

These stories are works of fiction. The names and characters are from the imagination of the author and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. If you think the author has written about you, your ego is greater than your imagination or common sense.

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to the retailer and purchase your own copy from your favourite retailer. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Acknowledgements:

The author and publisher wish to thank the many individuals for ideas, editing, encouragement and support. It was only with your wonderful support that I achieved far more sales with my first and second collections of stories than I thought possible, and that this third collection of new short stories to be published. To my son, Toviar Espanilla-Muir, Otaki, New Zealand; thanks for the image on the front cover.

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CONTENTS INDEX

The Air Of Freedom

My Little Pumpkin Still Swims

Snow White & The Seven Miners

The Can In The Flora

Local Knowledge

Travel As You Do

Uncle

The Perfect Little Gentleman

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About The Author

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THE AIR OF FREEDOM

Sean Francis O’Malley (call me Frank) hated queues. He felt strongly enough about it that if there was a petition for the death penalty for queue-jumpers, he would sign it. Of the many queues he disliked, airline passenger check-in was high on the list, though they did have one redeeming feature; passengers were generally streamed between tapes in one long snake-like queue, and therefore checked-in strictly in order of arrival; except for those who located a distant acquaintance in the line, then pretended to be a close relation, which they believed entitled them the right to queue-jump. Every airport should have an execution wall, and a stand-by firing squad especially for that type of queue-jumper. It would serve a double purpose. A reduction in the numbers of queue jumpers, and a greater viewing spectacle than the boring airport TV shows.

Many trading banks had separate queues for each teller. Naturally, people joined the shortest queue, which Frank always did. He felt smug when his queue moved faster than those alongside. Years of experience had not taught him that he whose queue moves quickest is certain to be caught behind a person with more bank transactions than a battalion of deaf age-pensioners wanting to cash a benefit cheque for one cent coins, and not being able to find suitable identification in a purse the size of a wardrobe.

His dislike of airport queues was, because of the terrorist threat, it required check-in for international flights to be completed at least two hours before flight time, so the bulk of passengers arrived two hours and five minutes before flight time. Some airports required three hours.

Therefore waiting until the aircraft took off could be longer than the flight time.

His departure was scheduled for 8:00 AM. To defeat the queues he arranged an early taxi and arrived at the Sydney Airport departure terminal at 4:30 AM. Despite his early arrival, a dozen or so were ahead of him, assorted baggage at their side, in position, queued between the snaking tapes. The airline check-in staff had yet to make an appearance.

The queue behind him grew slowly but steadily. He passed his time making mental guesses as to their reasons for travelling. After check-in, many, like him, would seek one of the airport cafeterias to have a second-class breakfast at three times the price of a city cafeteria.

At 5:00 AM sharp, five women of varying age magically materialised behind the airline counters and began their personal pre-check and setup routine. Soon after, one waved a hand as a summons, and the movement of the queue began. An un-choreographed routine of the now lengthier queue began, like an airport version of a vey slow Mexican wave; each passenger lifted their accompanying baggage, or propelled it forward with a deft foot movement, advancing a half-metre closer to the check-in. Perhaps also like the popular children’s birthday party game of pass-the-parcel.

Sean Francis O’Malley (call me Frank), after moving his bags, scanned the faces of the five women. Some looked as if they had quickly risen from their bed, and covered sleepy faces with make-up to disguise the rush to work. Some faces were cheery and welcoming despite the early hour. The face of the attractive brunette at the most distant counter showed no emotion at all. Frank scratched his bearded face and realized the chance of meeting this gorgeous apparition were only one in five, but he hoped for some good luck for a change, and hoped she liked bearded men in their 60’s, as he was.

Those in his front were soon dealt with, and yes, his luck had changed, he got the waving arm from the brunette. He would buy a Lotto ticket later. To impress whoever would have called him, he already had his ticket and passport in his hand.

Good morning, said Frank in his sexiest and most alluring tone. He passed his documents over the counter as far as possible so she did not have to reach. It’s a bit early for all of us.

The brunette did not answer and remained poker-faced as she snatched the documents from his hand. Without waiting for her request, he placed his bags on the weighing machine.

Wait, she snapped.

Frank, surprised at the rebuff to his charm offensive, removed his bags. Perhaps she was not a morning person.

She glanced at the passport and computer print-out of the internet booking and made some comparison to the hidden computer-screen behind the counter. Suddenly her arm snapped out with the swiftness of a shot-putter delivering the lead ball. She was pointing at the bags.

Overcoming his surprise, Frank placed his bags on the belt of the weighing machine and, holding his breath, watched the digital reading waver around the maximum limit figure before steadying exactly at the allowable maximum limit.

His held breath exhaled noisily through his teeth.

Are you carrying any explosives?

Frank look at the brunette in amazement, sure he had misheard.

What?

Are you carrying any explosives? This time the question was delivered with a loud acerbic tongue.

Frank felt his neck straighten and his head snap back. What; semtex, T.N.T., grenades racked and stacked?

I’m sorry you said that. Wait here. The brunette turned and walked briskly behind the other check-in staff, and began speaking with a sixth woman who had appeared at the far end of the long counter.

Frank watched as they looked in his direction and chatted quietly to each other. The new woman picked up and telephone and spoke a few words before hanging up. His brunette returned to her position behind the counter.

Collect your bags and see the supervisor at the end of the counter. She threw out her arm in a dismissive fashion, pointing to the far end of the long counter.

As he picked up his ticket and passport he felt like making a derisory comment about how he could understand why her boyfriend had just dumped her, but he held his tongue. Various sexist remarks nearly came forth. Instead, cursing silently, he picked up his baggage and made his way past the other queued passengers, many of whom were looking at him curiously, and fronted at the area where the supervisor was standing. Her phone rang immediately he arrived. She picked it up, looked at him and turned her back as she started speaking. Frank could not distinguish any words. After the brief conversation concluded, she turned and began fidgeting with papers behind the raised counter to her front.

I’ve been asked to see you, said Frank.

I’ll be with you in a moment, she snapped back, and picked up a pen and began making notes on an unseen piece of paper. Frank thought she might be the twin sister of the rude brunette, merely an uglier version.

He watched the checked-in passengers pass him by on their way for an over-priced toasted bacon and egg sandwich and coffee.

Scratching his beard, more as a reaction to his circumstance than any discomfort to his face, he wondered why he was singled out. He doubted he would suddenly be surrounded by a dozen dancing beauties in skimpy costumes, balloons cascading from the roof and the public announcement that he was the millionth passenger for the airline and had won an all expenses paid two week holiday in Hawaii.

The glare from the supervisor, who finally looked up, seemed to confirm the end of that dream.

You do know that talking about explosives on an airplane is no joke. There are signs all around the airport saying ‘terrorism is no joke’.

Frank could not recall seeing anything and still wondered why he had been called out. It was a damn silly question, he calmly replied.

My girls do their job properly.

Frank held his tongue, sarcastic responses flowing through his mind, but left unsaid.

Would you wait over there? It was not a question, but an order. She pointed to a concrete pillar away from the check-in area.

Frank clenched his teeth but maintained self-control. The situation was stupid enough without exacerbating it. He adjusted his shoulder bag, cursed mutely, picked up his two heavy bags and made his way to the pillar. After dropping his bags, he turned and looked back at the free-flowing queue. Many passengers were looking at him. He was not feeling embarrassed; that was overpowered by the traces of anger that had risen within him. At least there was a TV attached to the pillar. He could watch that until he discovered what the next step was going to be.

Several passengers began looking at some other distraction behind him; he was not going to give them the satisfaction of following their stares, but after a while watching their eyes flickering between him and the activity behind him, he turned to look for himself.

Two serious-faced, uniformed state police officers stood about eight metres behind him, and ten metres apart, their hands ready above their still holstered pistols.

Oh shit, muttered Frank.

Both officers had one foot in front of the other, crouching slightly, with hands around the hand-butt of their pistols.

Frank turned very slowly back to look at the TV knowing that any sudden move could escalate the farce. It was not as if he was in a dream and would soon awake and the policemen would be gone, but he wondered what was going to happen next. After a few minutes gazing at the TV without in any way taking in the picture, he turned slowly and noticed a third, then fourth, pistol-hand ready state policemen had joined their colleagues. No words had been exchanged with him. He had not been asked to drop to the floor or raise his hands. He would have to wait to see what their next move was going to be.

A passenger, who had obviously just come into the departure terminal, and oblivious to the policemen and circumstances, wheeled his baggage trolley toward him and stopped half a metre away.

Do you know which is the Freedom Air check-in? he asked.

Yep, over there, Frank nodded to the moving queue.

Are you a stand-by passenger?

Not quite, they think I’m a terrorist. I hope your name isn’t Osama O’Shaunessy.

The passenger looked at him curiously and moved off to the check-in queue wheeling his baggage cart to the queue from where Frank had been ejected. One of the four policemen began following the new-comer.

Poor bugger, thought Frank. They’ll probably grab him, send him to Guantanamo Bay prison in Cuba, and water-board torture him as an associate of a known terrorist.

As he thought deeper about it, he realized that maybe it was because he had an Irish name and they were expecting a resurgence of IRA activities? No, it had to be his beard, the trademark of all Muslim terrorists. No. Even that was not right. Those in the September 11 hi-jacks were all clean shaven, maybe a moustache or two. At 60 years old, he was too old to be wearing a jacket as a suicide bomber, they were all mindless easily brain-washed teens.

The TV was not playing any shows, only repetitive travel