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Tales of Whisper Gap
Stories from the small town of Whisper Gap where one
life, one tale invariably reaches out to touch the next.
by Jo Janoski.

More crimes were plotted in Bloody Harry's Bar than anywhere else in the islands. Small wonder it was, too, what with the gruesome ambiance and grimy air of the place, the kind of suffocating filth you breathe in and then feel bad about yourself, like you're slumming, or hurting, or dirty. Old fish netting hung from the rafters to decorate but also to catch God knows what, while salty aromas from the ocean wafted in to mix with the thick air like sultry dancers drowning in a sea of melancholy music.

Harry tended bar, his parrot Squawkers perched on his shoulder. The bird jiggled yet remained undisturbed when his master scrubbed the bar with wide strokes, jostling the parrot. Squawkers, it appeared, was used to the action. He hung on tight with his sizable claws digging into Harry's shoulder.

"And what will you be having?" Harry asked a forlorn fellow who sat at the bar.

The man's grubby index finger rolled across lines of text in an open book. He looked up, a quizzical expression on his face. The bird, Squawkers, repeated the barkeep's question, bringing the inquiry home. With this second round, the man understood.

"I'll have tea, if you please."

"Tea? This is a bar, dammit!"

"Oh...well, whatever he is drinking." The fellow pushed his glasses up on his nose, then nodded to the next guy down the bar, a weathered old salt who hoisted a beer quickly followed by a shot of whiskey. Upon downing the amber liquid, he sighed, a contented sound somewhere between a grizzly bear's groan and a hyena's scream. First Mate Hogburn, as he was known, enjoyed his drink. With a burp, he shot a piercing glance to the bespectacled book-reader.

"What's your name?" He belched again, clearly on a roll.

"Clarence...Clarence Sicamore."

"I'm First Mate Hogburn, from the Bloody Moon." He nodded outside to a menacing ship swishing on the restless waters in the harbor. A skull and cross bones, that deadly black and white banner known for filling the viewer's blood with ice cold fear, perched up high above the sails. The flag rippled in the breeze with insouciant pleasure, so unlike its loathsome representation. "Me mates call me Hog, but Gawd help you if you do. I'm First Mate Hogburn to you!" Content with this monologue, he gulped more beer.

"I knew a man went sailing on the Bloody Moon once," Clarence mused, then returned his attention to his book.

Harry and Hog glared at the fellow.

"Who would the likes of you know on the Bloody Moon?" Hog asked.

Clarence looked up from his reading, his finger poised mid-page. "Davey Smithton."

Hog's face turned white. He laid his mug on the bar with a numb hand that faltered, seeking direction midstream. His eyes jotted across along the other man's face before speaking. That voice came out a tiny representation of itself, not the booming Hog voice, but a tiny wisp of a frightened squeak.

"Davey Smith was murdered in cold blood on the docks three years ago this October 31st." He paused, his eyes glazing, his lips a tiny slit in a worried countenance. "Aye, the bloody, mangled corpse we found, barely able to tell who it was. Argh, it was sickening." He glared at Harry and Clarence. "And Davey Smithton has haunted the Bloody Moon ever since, waking us at night with his howls, and shifting the Moon off course, stealing our treasures into mid-air, and bloody well scaring the bejesus out of us all, mighty tyrannical pirates that we be, our knees knock in our beds in fear every night."

"That's truly a frightening thing, Hog," Harry the barkeep commented. "Perhaps it was his grisly butchered death that makes him haunt you. I mean, if he'd died peacefully, he wouldn't feel the need for all that anger."

'Right you are, Harry! Whoever sliced up Davey was an animal, a madman. I wonder if he knew the havoc he'd be creating." He paused to look at Clarence. "Not likely a bookish fellow like yourself would know of such terrorist instincts, aye matey?"

Clarence blinked his tiny eyes, peering from behind his glasses like little mice. "No, sir, First Mate Hogburn! I certainly would not be able to understand such violence. Not me in my gentle, simple world of words and thought, not me. But now I must be going." He paused, giving Hog a long glance. "I'm thinking probably the next step for a fellow like yourself, First Mate Hogburn, would be to watch your back, what with Davey's murderer around. I mean the Bloody Moon doesn't need another angry spirit, now does it?"

With that remark, he closed his book and slipped it in his coat pocket, nesting it carefully and snugly next to a carefully wrapped butcher knife.

"Good day to you gentlemen," he said. "I'm sure we'll meet again one day.


Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Jo Janoski is a poet, author, and photographer from Pittsburgh, PA.

Send Jo a message either directly or using the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from Jo visit the Word Catalyst archives or her online home.
 

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