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Send us an excerpt of which you are especially proud. If it's chosen, we'll publish it here in a future issue. Approximately 500 words. Any genre. You, of course, retain all rights. It will remain in The VERB archives until you ask us to remove it.

Subject: CHALKBOARD submission
(Feel free to include a bio.)

PARIS, WYOMING
by
Jim James, Ed.D. 

"Can you imagine an 1870s cowboy riding up to the trail boss and asking,
 'Excuse me, boss, may I see a copy of the latest Policy and Procedure Manual for this assignment? I left my briefcase in the bunkhouse.'" 

      Her suggestion to sit side-by-side, so they could watch the boats on the Seine and see the top spires of Notre Dame Cathedral, surprised him. Once they were seated and had ordered lunch and the coffee, nothing was said until the coffee arrived.

      Without looking at him and speaking more at the river than to him, Tatt said, "Why do you think the world is enamored of cowboys, Mr. Kindler?"

      Jack was surprised at the question. "What do you mean?"

      "The American cowboy is revered and copied and emulated in virtually all modern cultures," she said. "Why do you think that is?"

      "No time clocks?" he asked rhetorically, biding his time. "I don't know, it might be because the simplicity of being a cowboy is not of much use in this world anymore. I think it might be because cowboy values have been corrupted or devalued by today's society. Or made way more complex than they need to be."

      "What values?"

      "Trust in the individual to get the job done." He took a sip of coffee, thinking. "You know, in the old days, when a cowhand was hired to do a job, there was a trust the job would get done. Driving cattle from Texas to Montana in the 1870s and '80s, for instance. The cowboys understood the job and didn't have to wait for some middle-level manager to tell them what to do. It was expected they would figure it out and do it." He turned to her. "Can you imagine an 1870s cowboy riding up to the trail boss and asking, 'Excuse me, boss, may I see a copy of the latest Policy and Procedure Manual for this assignment? I left my briefcase in the bunkhouse.'" 

      "So you were trusted to get the job done and your reputation was based on getting the job done?" 

      "I think that's it," he said. "Most workers, probably in any field, would like to be trusted to simply get the job done without a pea-brained bean counter nitpicking his efforts. 'Go ride fence on the north side of the spread' was enough information for any good hand to see what needed to be done and then do it. No clocking in, no arbitrary deadlines, no management committee on the third floor of the Hathaway Building in Cheyenne second guessing you. And if it took longer than eight hours to do the job, you kept working until the job was done. Didn’t get overtime pay for it, either. But you got satisfaction. Better than an ‘attaboy’ from some absentee boss." 

      "I think you have answered my question."

      "Of course, the other side of it was no union to protect you if you didn't get the job done. No arbitration committee to work out differences. You screwed up, and they ran you off. And you knew it."

      Tatt nodded.

      "The boss supplied you with the tools and the freedom you needed to get the job done and then got out of the way and let you do it. You didn't have to kiss his ass so he would look good to his bosses. Besides, cowboys don't kiss anybody's ass. And don't forget, you were working with God's basics: horses and cows and dogs and hand tools, out in the open air--"

      "Yes."

      "--and dirt and wind and rain and blizzards and heat and sand and blisters and--"

      "I see, Mr. Kindler, I see."

      "--and jackrabbits and coyotes and grizzlies and rattlesnakes and ..." Jack glanced sideways at her, smiling. 

      She was listening but still facing the river, staring at the water. Jack figured his attempt at humor was being dismissed. So be it, he thought.

      He reached for his coffee and took a sip. “In short, if you want to be a cowboy, you have to recognize what has to be done, shut up and do it. That’s all.”

      “Do you listen to county-western music?”

      “No, don’t find much in France."

      They sat silent for a while and then he added, “And I believe there is a difference between county music and western music.”

      “Really? I thought it was all the same.”

      “I don’t. Country music is about some guy, sitting in a bar, whining about losing his wife or dog or girlfriend or all three. Western music is different.”

      “How?”

      He sat thinking. “Subject matter I guess. It’s not so much relationships between men and women as it is relationships between men and women with the West. About events like blizzards and cattle drives and roundups and flashfloods and things like tumbleweeds and water and trains.”

      She glanced at him.

      "And saloons and barroom brawls. How men and women survived, got tougher and didn’t whine about it. And about rodeo and bucking horses and bulls.”

      “Interesting. It never occurred to me. I guess I have a bit to learn about the real West, huh?”

      “Lot of people do. I have a tape of Sawmill Creek, a band from Wyoming I’ll lend you. Some love songs but real Wyoming songs, too. And Chris Ledoux from Kaycee, Wyoming. Real rancher and won a world championship in rodeo. Writes Wyoming-type songs.”

      Talking about cowboys had relaxed Jack. He was comfortable, sitting with this beautiful woman. More comfortable than he thought he would be. But where could it go? he thought. I'll be dead.

© 2005 Jim James, Ed.D.

Jim lives and works for the State of Wyoming as a child protection worker. 
He recently had a short story published in The Rocking Chair Reader: Stories from the Attic by Adams Media. Buy his self-published novel Paris, Wyoming here.

When a good idea hits us up side the head, we ponder the big picture. What's going to happen? Who will bring it about? How will the result change the characters as well as the world?

Big, big stuff.

Yet as we write, we soon realize the big picture is really just a lot of small pictures stretched out in a logical pattern. If we get those right, the entire book makes sense. If we get them wrong, the entire book risks becoming a joke.

Study the excerpts below to see how well you spot the little things that just don't add up.

1. Keith crawled out of his car and hurried toward the restaurant just as the first few raindrops hit his scalp. Lightning flashed. Thunder crackled. By the time he reached the front door, he was already drenched.

2. Kim darted into the unlit room, then closed the door behind her. Voices rose from the corridor. She stood in the dark, holding her breath as Samuel and his three thugs walked past.

3. But it's a lousy world, and I'm in a lousy business. The chalked figure on the floor reminded me of that as soon as I turned the cold hard knob. This one was married. And not for long, according to the 8x10 photo on the mantle, framed in gold. First one for the sick piece of trash out there slowly draining the life out of my little town. In the past, his victims had always been single girls. The ones who didn't have much of a family, or a grieving husband who might take it upon himself to take out the trash. 

4. The clock above the bar showed five minutes till noon. Bart emptied his whisky glass, then faced the door. Staring straight ahead, he felt every eye on him as he walked, heard every chair slide across the hardwood floor of the saloon. Not one of these so-called 'men' would fight Ol' Winfred, but they'd sure fight for a spot at the window to watch somebody else do it.

5. Nick opened the back door, flicking his lit cigarette toward the bushes before he stepped into the blind old lady's kitchen. Her TV blared from the livingroom and conveniently drowned out the sound of his footsteps.

1 - They're dining outside in a thunderstorm? Either Keith and Claire need to re-evaluate their seating arrangements or Keith and Claire are fish.

2 - She saw in the dark? Kim not only moves "like a cat," she IS a cat. A cat that reads letters. Seriously, she should stick a flashlight in her pocket before she sets out on this caper. 

3 - Forensics is dusting the crime scene for fingerprints, yet the detective is handling doorknobs and picture frames? Real detectives would've escorted him off the premises before he could say, "bum's rush." 

4 - Bart sees his shadow spread out before him at high noon? This is similar to water climbing a hill--not going to happen.

5 - The blind old lady passes Nick twice, but doesn't hear him breathing or smell the fresh odor of tobacco? When one sense is lost, the other senses sharpen. In truth, the blind old lady would've honed in on Nick in a matter of seconds.

Details.

    are watched the glimmering lights of the village vanish one by one, like Jack-o'-lanterns. The horses kept a steady, even trot on into the huge windy hall of the desert night. Fleecy clouds veiled the stars, yet transmitted a wan glow. A chill crept over Hare. As he crawled under the blankets Naab had spread for him his hand came into contact with a polished metal surface cold as ice. It was his rifle. Naab had placed it under the blankets. Fingering the rifle Hare found the spring opening on the right side of the breech, and, pressing it down, he felt the round head of a cartridge. Naab had loaded the weapon, he had placed it where Hare's hand must find it, yet he had not spoken of it. Hare did not stop to reason with his first impulse. Without a word, with silent insistence, disregarding his shattered health, August Naab had given him a man's part to play. The full meaning lifted Hare out of his self-abasement; once more he felt himself a man.

 - ZANE GREY
 The Heritage of the Desert