Blog link: Check out my blog, Steps on the Journey. The link is under Home on the menu panel.

Also, check out “Rose, a Person of Interest,” a prose poem about frogs and princes under Poetry.

Pearl moved into line as soon as the casino bus pulled into the parking lot. One of the first to board, she slipped quickly down the aisle to her regular window seat on the left side a third of the way back. To discourage potential seatmates, she placed a thick paperback, Economic Alternatives in the War on Terror, on the seat beside hers, turned her face to the window, and closed her eyes.

She heard passengers shuffle past. Occasionally, someone paused in front of the seat occupied by her book. At such times, she kept her eyes closed as though she were dozing. After a moment, her lack of response was usually rewarded with an exasperated sigh followed by footsteps. The bus almost never filled to capacity, so Pearl’s strategies usually won her a comfortable, spacious ride up the mountain, giving her time to dream of life’s possibilities.

 Sure, she’d made a few bad choices that had blocked her dreams, but she was only forty, with a lot of life left. Good fortune could still be hers. She was healthy and fit, spending thirty minutes on the treadmill every day. She considered participating in those walk-for-charity events; there seemed to be a new one every week. She imagined how her frequent participation would gain notice and people would recognize her for her good work. Her dedication to helping others would lead to interviews and party invitations. Alternately, she might get on one of those reality shows, win money and fame and meet the man of her dreams, or—

“Excuse me.” A male voice broke into her dream world.

She resisted the impulse to respond and kept her eyes closed and her face averted.

“Last seat, lady,” he said, sounding as though he saw through her feigned sleep.

She felt his presence as he reached down and picked up her book. She allowed her eyelids to flutter open and stretched her body a bit, arching her back as though in the process of fully awakening. “Oh,” she said and stifled a yawn. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She looked up to evaluate the man who would be her companion for the hour-long trip to the casinos. He was lanky and pale and needed a shave. Cleaned up, he might be presentable, even handsome, but she had no interest in cleaning up men. She’d given up that fantasy long ago.

Still holding her book, he folded into the seat beside her and began flipping through the pages. He paused at a chapter heading and spent a minute perusing the page. “So,” he said, looking up, “what do you consider the best economic alternative in the war on terror?”

“Well.” She blinked and scrambled for an answer. The few souls who had overcome the barriers to sitting beside her had never questioned her about the book. Her reading choice had, in fact, been made because she considered economics to be a mind-numbing subject and not one that would entice a conversation. Thankfully, the bus driver chose that moment to make his announcements: the trip to Black Hawk would take about forty-five minutes, there was a toilet at the back of the bus, be sure to hold on to the overhead rail when moving around the bus. By the time he finished, Pearl had found an answer to the economics question. “I don’t know. I haven’t read the book yet.” She held out her hand. “I could start doing that now.”

There was a grinding of gears, and the bus lurched forward. The man ran his finger down the open page, as though speed-reading, and then closed the book and handed it to her.

He must be smart, she thought. Maybe below that rough exterior was someone worth knowing. You couldn’t always judge by appearances. There might be a reason for his pallid skin, and people rode buses for all kinds of reasons. Maybe he didn’t like driving in the mountains. Maybe—

“They want me to be President,” he said.

Puzzled by the assertion, she turned to look at him. “Of what?” she asked.

“The United States.” A bewildered expression spread across his face. “What else?”

It took her a moment to get past the claim. Her possibilities, president of a college or a corporation, seemed as fanciful and unlikely as the answer he had given. “Who wants you to be President?”

“The military.” He ducked his head and lowered his voice. “I work for them.” He raised his chin, and his eyes burned into hers.

Everything in her knotted at the intensity she saw in the pale blue irises and constricted pupils. She resisted the urge to rise up and glance about for an empty seat. There were none. He had told her so when he sat down.

“They want to take over and make me President. I’d impose martial law immediately and round up all the terrorists and send them to Gitmo.”

The bus rounded a curve and began the climb out of the canyon. The sun’s rays flashed in her eyes. She reached in her purse for her sunglasses, thankful for an excuse to hide her face, at least partially.  His statement seemed to require something from her, so she asked, “Why have they chosen you?”

“They know I’ll do what needs to be done. I’ve worked for them for years.” He looked around as though worried that someone might hear him and leaned toward her. “Computer espionage.”

He then pressed his head against the back of the seat and launched into an intricate discussion of software and Trojan horses that left Pearl in a haze. If he weren’t so frighteningly insane, he’d be boring.

Pearl clutched her book as the man continued, plunging deep into a rambling monologue of past and future events, real or imagined, that no longer required her to respond. From Desert Storm to 9/11, Afghanistan to Iraq, he chronicled the flaws in the government and the need for change before another attack that would cripple our country.

“They want me to be President,” he affirmed again as the bus made the turn into Black Hawk. “I might have to do it.” He nodded his head as though to confirm his decision. “Might have to say yes and be President of these United States.”

There was a squall of brakes as the bus came to a stop in front of Bullwhackers Casino.  The man straightened in his seat and looked around as though released from some spell, then stood in the aisle and made a space for her to squeeze in front of him. As they stepped off the bus, all his weirdness dissipated.

He took a deep breath of mountain air and declared, “Great weather, isn’t it. Good luck to you, now.”

Pearl swallowed and watched him clump his way uphill and enter one of the smaller casinos. She glanced around and then crossed the street to Fitzgeralds. Maybe some Irish luck would rub off on her. Maybe she’d hit the jackpot and be driving home in that new Mustang convertible they were displaying. She could already feel the wind in her hair.

My name is Hazel Hart, and I’ve been in love with writing since I was ten years old. I won’t tell you how many decades it’s been since I was that age, but I will tell you that I’ve written dozens of stories, long and short, along with a few poems. My spare room is filled with boxes of manuscripts and books for researching future stories. Some of my stories and poems have placed in contests, others have been published, and still others haven’t had an audience beyond critique groups.

Here is a sampling of what you’ll find here:

A small town police detective is frustrated by a woman who repeatedly confesses to murders she didn’t commit in “Confessions,” a story that placed third in the 2007 Kansas Writers Association short fiction contest.

A woman is intimidated by a man who takes the bus seat beside her and begins telling tales of government takeover in “Possibilities,” a story that placed second in the 2007 Kansas Authors Club short story contest.

A woman grows impatient as she waits for service in a hair salon in the poem “My Roots Are Showing.”

Hazel Hart teaches English online for Butler County Community College. She has won awards for her fiction and poetry from Writer’s Journal, Byline, Kansas Voices, the Kansas Writers Association and the National Writers Club. Her work has been published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Unity, and several small literary magazines.

While living in Colorado, Hazel co-edited Array, a small literary magazine. She is currently working on a third novel.