“Howdy, Pal. Welcome ta the Saddle Up Saloon!”

“Welcome ta the Saddle Up Saloon? Kid, why’re ya talkin’ at me like I’m a guest here? Oh, no. Don’t tell me.”

“Hmm, hmm, hmm.”

“Kid? Ya got somethin’ ta tell me?”

“Jeez, Pal! Ya said not ta tell ya!”

“Not ta tell me whut?”

“Cain’t tell ya. Ya told me not to.”

“Kid! Jeez! Okay, I’ll tell ya whut I think it is ya ain’t feelin’ able ta tell me an’ you jist stamp yer foot if’n I guessed it right. Okay? Jist noddin’ yer head yes… okay, is it thet ya ain’t got a plan, ain’t got nuthin’ lined up fer this week? Okay, stop yer stampin’, yer rattlin’ the mugs off the shelf. An’ I’m guessin’ further thet yer tryin’ ta rope me inta bein’ the guest? Okay, I done guessed it, so ya kin use yer yap agin.”

“Thing is Pal, I did have a plan, an’ I’m stickin’ ta that plan, jist pushin’ it all back a week. Mebbe. So, yeah, this week’s a little on the fly.”

“Jeez Kid, should git you some patches fer the seat a yer pants. They’s gittin’ worn thin.”

“That’s kinda a cheeky remark Pal. We kin do this. Asides, lots a folks go inta a saloon an’ jist have a drink, don’t need no other ennertainments or distractions. Come on, set at the bar, have a glass a story primer.”

“Well, one drink couldn’t hurt.”

“That’s often true, Pal, usually one can’t do no harm. Less it’s the last one that come after a bunch a other ones. But here, jist drink this one.”

“An’ maybe one more.”

“Sure Pal. So. How long ya been workin’ at Carrot Ranch?”

“Ferever.”

“Jeez, Pal, kin ya say a little more? Like since What’s-Her-Name showed up?”

“Our writer? No, thet’s when you showed up Kid, but I was already here.”

“So ya been at Carrot Ranch since Shorty started Carrot Ranch? Over eight years?”

“Longer’n thet Kid. Fer. Ev. Er. An’ heck, Carrot Ranch’s been aroun’ since even a’fore Shorty’s first post. Lived as a hope an’ a dream she’d been carryin’. Reckon I was tucked in amongst the supplies an’ barn boards she’d loaded onta the buckboard.”

“Ya mean Shorty an’ ya’ve known each other even b’fore the Ranch was built?”

“Not e’zactly, Kid. It’s hard ta explain. Shorty always knew me, but hadn’t never realized me. She knew I was here like she knows ever’thin’ else thet belongs on a ranch; like knowin’ somethin’ so well ya don’t see ‘em, if ya know what I mean. See, a fictional character has ta be realized, an’ thet does mean ya gotta git writ. Ya git writ an’ read— ya materialize.”

“Then, Pal, warn’t I also here ferever, like you?”

“No, Kid. Ya came later.”

“How come?”

“’Cause I say so. Yer the greenhorn thet come later. Yer likely always gonna be learnin’ the ropes. But ya have brought some firsts ta the ranch. Like buckaroo-ku.”

“I mighta called it what it is Pal, but was you come up with the first buckaroo-ku ever, ‘member?

Bunkhouse floor dirt tracked
Every clod has a story
Time swept clean away”

“Oh yeah. Thet was when folks was writin’ ‘bout gittin’ older. Reckon it’s you gits ‘membered fer buckaroo-ku ‘cause you were the first ta fall outta thet poet-tree a yers.”

“Oof. Sure wish the first time was the last time. Yep, I’ve tried my hand at writin’ but yer the one kin tell some doozies, Pal. D’ya ‘member the valentine prompt? Ya told this one:

It was a long cold winter, lotsa snow. Spring arrived in a rush, swellin’ the rivers with melt water, turnin’ the roads inta oozy mire. The roads were impassable, travel impossible.
Was a lady, Val was her name, got caught up in the flood, afloatin’ on a ice floe, steerin’ with a board till it got tore from her grip. She was helpless, ‘bout ta be crushed in a ice jam. She was up the creek without a paddle but her lover went ta her rescue. He got ta Val in time. ”

“True story, Kid. All a my stories is true.”

“Hmmph. Here, Pal, have anuther beer.”

“Well, mebbe one more. Jist hope I don’t turn inta one a them barstool phil-a-so-fers.”

“Ya are a bit of a philosopher, though, ain’tcha Pal? Shorty give ever’one a prompt ‘bout buttons an’ yer off on one a yer deep musin’s:

Buttons ain’t nuthin, without the buttonhole. Even less without needle an’ thread. Without those, buttons are useless discs, mere baubles. Their usefulness and purpose are dependent on the passage and tension provided by the buttonhole. All folks keep their pants up with the yin and yang of button and buttonhole.”

“Huh. Kid, mebbe I shoulda been the one asettin’ in the think tank.”

“I’d ruther not talk ‘bout that tank, Pal. Back ta you. Ya been here at Carrot Ranch ferever, ya say.”

“Yep.”

“Ever git off the ranch, go other places?”

“Only thet one time, an’ thet was jist ta keep an’ eye on you. Ya had us gallavantin’ through three other prompts lookin’ fer Frankie’s missin’ glass eye. What a mish mash. I got no desire ta ever step foot off the ranch agin Kid.”

“Now I’m thinkin’, Pal. Thinkin’ on how ya said ya ain’t from anywheres but right here at the Ranch. Thinkin’ I cain’t figger if yer a part a this place, or if this place is a part a you.”

“I reckon places beget the folks thet live in ‘em. Mold ’em. Shape ‘em.”

“Do places tell stories or is it the people?”

“Reckon it’s both, Kid. But folks has ta work at listenin’. Git thet figgered out, places jist sing with stories. Reckon places shape people an’ words shape space inta a place. An’ Kid, don’t fergit, we got ever’thin’ we need here. Good food, good folks.”

“Food?”

“They’s always food fer thought, heapin’ helpin’s. An’ folks from ‘roun the world ta hep serve it and share in it. It’s a good place Kid.”

“But you said food.”

“Sure, they’s carrots a ev’ry color imaginable, always has been, carrots fer the people.”

“But… is there…”

“Shush Kid, ya made this ‘bout me, so we ain’t goin’ there. Carrots has always been enough. Thinkin’ I’m ‘bout ta end this innerview.”

“Weren’t much of a innerview.”

“Uh huh. Ya want them pants seat patches we talked about? Ya git one more question.”

“Okay. Pal, what’s yer biggest responsibility at Carrot Ranch?”

“Really? Ya have ta ask? Use ta jist injoy ridin’ the range doin’ reg’lar ranch chores, but since you come along I have ta ride with you an’ keep ya outta trouble.”

“No! I don’t need ya ta do that, Pal. I kin make my own way.”

“Hmmf. Thinkin’ we should have a feature ‘bout you an’ all the times ya put the ranch as well as yersef in danger. Might take too long though. Might make it harder ta convince folks thet Carrot Ranch is a safe space.”

“Hmmph. Go ahead! Or… ya could feature my buckaroo-ku…”

“Ehh… Tell ya what, Kid, since ya pointed out thet I was actually the first ta write one a them, let’s prompt anyone thet mighta gotten through this ta try their own hand at thet form, leave it in the comments.”

“Yeah! Uh, what exactly is the proper form a buckaroo-ku?”

“It ain’t often proper but it’s haiku like; ya don’t have ta count syllables, lessin’ ya want ta, but it should be short an’ jist three ta five lines. Kin be ‘bout anythin’, but bonus points fer fixin’ it on weddin’s or funerals.”

“We’re givin’ points?”

“No, not really. Jist frien’ly words a thanks an’ incouragemint.”

“Okay, so leave a buckaroo-ku in the comments. An’ folks, prepare yersefs now fer a second karaoke night at the Saddle Up, ta be posted September 21. ‘Member, the way thet works is ya email us yer song an’ the new an’ improved lyrics ya wrote fer it, kinda like Weird Al Yankovic. It could be Western, or any song ya like but mebbe the lyrics reflect the upcomin’ Rodeo. Thet leaves us with jist a couple a openin’s left fer September, folks. So send us yer songs an’ yer ideas fer showcasin’ yersef. An’ don’t fergit ta buckaroo-ku too!

###

dust settles at last

western hills herd red hued sky

cracked boots by the door

###

If asked, Pal & Kid will deny that they spill from the pen of D. Avery. They claim to be free ranging characters who live and work at Carrot Ranch and now serve up something fresh-ish every Monday at the Saddle Up Saloon. If you or your characters are interested in saddling up for a wild ride as a saloon guest, contact them via averydede.1@gmail.com.