by Scott Baron
“How you manage to remain the one parish still adhering to those backward and astoundingly outdated laws when the rest of the country has long been inclusive to people regardless of persuasion truly astounds me,” she said, disgusted with both men. “Join the rest of the country, why don’t you? There are far more important issues than people’s sexuality for you to deal with. The low-income children, for example, or homelessness…”
“We told you before,” Corning interrupted, “we’d be back with Council warrant for Truth Validation and National DNA Identity Confirmation to back it.” The man flashed a serpent’s smile.
“You already know my thoughts on that,” she coolly replied.
“Yes, but I see you don’t have your shotgun with you this afternoon.”
She smiled at him. Behind her calm façade, he noted there was something a little scary in her eyes.
“I left it in the house, but to be fair it, was only loaded with rock salt last time,” she said, studying the men. “Just because you may fancy yourself a big man out here in the country, you should know my kin in London are quite well connected and won’t take kindly to your meddling in our family land.”
“If you’ve violated the local laws, it will no longer be your family land, and there will be nothing you, your family, or anyone can do about it,” Corning gloated, cocksure and arrogant. “The results of this test are validated by your DNA, are one hundred percent accurate, are completely irrefutable, and are immediately binding under the law.”
“I’m fully aware,” she said, still looking quite calm.
The Reverend removed a small bright metal device from the folds of his cloak and held it out for her.
“Ms. Baird, if you’d be so kind as to hold this in your palm. Please place your thumb here and answer the questions asked.”
She took the device, feeling the smooth metal hum slightly as it tracked her emotions, pulse, and blood pressure. There was a tiny prick as the fine needle sampled her blood and retracted back into the device, running it wirelessly through the DNA validation databases. She watched as a green light flashed on the screen next to her name. “Tamara Baird, DNA confirmed,” the machine chirped in a thin metallic voice.
“So,” began Corning, “this is your family farm?”
“Yes, it is,” she replied.
The Reverent looked at the read-out tablet in his hands, “Baseline established for true answers,” he said.
“Well let’s not dilly-dally then, shall we? Are you a lesbian, Ms. Baird?” Corning asked, expectant glee in his eyes.
“No, I am not.”
A broad smile grew as the developer felt his plan coming together. Soon the land would be his, and without having to spend any credits at all.
“It’s illegal to lie,” he chuckled, “so thank you for that. This land will very soon be mine.”
A puzzled look crossed the Reverend’s face as he scrutinized the machine. “It says she is telling the truth.”
“Impossible,” Corning blurted, his face reddening. “Ms. Baird, have you ever been intimate with a member of the same sex?”
“No, I have not.”
“True again,” said the Reverend.
A vein started throbbing visibly on Corning’s forehead as the shocked man studied her, truly baffled. A flash of a small, wicked smile flickered behind Tamara’s eyes, and, much to his consternation, he realized she was actually enjoying this.
“We have multiple reports of you consorting with a female farmhand. Do you deny this?” he continued, determined to catch her in a falsehood.
“Yes,” she replied.
“She’s telling the truth.”
“Wait, ‘yes’ you deny it, or ‘yes’ you have consorted with a female farmhand?”
“Yes I deny it. I have never been with a female farmhand. In fact, I’ll make this easy for you. I have never been with a woman, never been attracted to women, and am happily involved in a relationship with a man, with whom I have intimate relations on a regular basis. There, does that clear things up for you?”
They looked at her, stunned. The machine lit up green and pinged.
“True,” said the Reverend.
Corning’s face began to turn crimson, the veins on his forehead commencing to throb with renewed might as he saw his grand plans for this plot of land going up in smoke.
“The machine must be broken,” he stammered.
“No, it’s working,” replied the Reverend. “The scan confirms DNA identity, Tamara Baird, female, owner of the Baird Family Farm, has answered all questions truthfully.”
The men looked at one another, confused.
“Excuse me,” interrupted Tamara. “You did say the results were now public record and immediately and fully legally binding, did you not? Well then, I do believe at this point it is time for you gentlemen to get off my family land.”
Corning gave her a scorching look, but the cool gaze she returned immediately extinguished any heat he tried to throw her way.
“This isn’t over,” he growled.
“Actually, according to your own laws, it is,” she gloated. “And gentlemen,” she said as she fixed them with a somewhat unsettling stare, “the next time you trespass, the shotgun won’t be loaded with salt.”
The defeated men sulked as they piled into their vehicle and headed back to the Corning offices, leaving the Baird Farm in their hover car’s dusty magneto field wake. As they rounded the bend and passed out of view, a voice came from the cellar door.
“Are they gone?”
“Aye, you two can come out now.”
Emerging from the cellar hand in hand climbed Dana, a lovely and rather zaftig farmhand, her auburn hair in a tight ponytail, along with her girlfriend, a woman in a floral dress and pigtails, who just so happened to be the spitting image of the woman in dungarees. The real Tamara Baird.
“Clara, that was brilliant!” Tamara gushed as she scooped up her twin in a massive hug.
“Yeah, we really can’t thank you enough,” Dana agreed, gratitude shining in her big blue eyes.
Clara smiled at them both as she shed her dungarees in favor of the stylish workout tights underneath them,
“Hey, you mess with my sister, you mess with me,” she laughed. It was a light and airy sound, but the fiercely protective look in her eye conveyed the impression she might not have been joking about the shotgun after all.
“Can you stay for supper?” Tamara asked.
“I wish I could, but Brian and the boys are waiting for me to get back. Maybe you two can come to London next week?”
“We’d love to. Send them our love in the meantime.”
“Will do.”
Moments later, Clara’s shiny new hover car emerged from the barn and turned southwest as she headed back to the hustle and bustle of the big city, knowing that, for the time being at least, the lesbian farmers of Quagshire were once more safe in their home.
Huh
As she emerged from the bright fluorescent glare of the hospital’s lobby, the first thing that really struck her was how fresh the air smelled. Okay, technically that was the second thing that struck her that day, the first being the large piece of decorative plaster façade that had come loose from the old bank building downtown and smacked her something good on her noggin earlier that morning. So the second thing that struck her was the fresh air.
Oh my, she thought as she breathed in deep, filling her nose and lungs with the crisp air, that’s a whole lot better than that horrid antiseptic stink!
Madeline Dunleavy could have taken a cab home straightaway, at least now that she knew where home was, but she felt the urge to just be. To walk the streets for a bit. To let her mind and body relax. For someone who had a moderate concussion and a rather disturbing case of amnesia, it was a somewhat unlikely choice, but off she went, straight from the hospital to enjoy an afternoon stroll.
They had told her that she had been doing nothing at all when passersby called out a warning just before she took a
chunk of building to the head. Really, they were surprised she hadn’t been more seriously hurt.
“You’re one lucky lady!” they’d told her when she woke up, finding strangers in white coats icing her head. Fortunately, there was no need for stitches, the skin only mildly bruised. “Now tell us, honey, what’s your name? Is there someone we can call?”
“Uh…” was all Madeline could manage.
“Oh dear,” the nurse replied.
They spent the next several hours checking in on her to see if she remembered anything, but to no avail. It seemed she was brought in unconscious and simply didn’t have the slightest clue who she was.
“Wait a minute,” she blurted. “Don’t I have a purse or something?”
“Well yes, but I checked it already. There was nothing in it but an uneaten croissant and a few napkins. You must’ve just picked it up for breakfast when you took that knock.”
Madeline scrunched her brow. That didn’t seem right.
“Let me take a look,” she requested.
“Alright, but I told you, I already checked.” The nurse opened the drawer next to the bed and pulled out a large white plastic bag for personal possessions. “Here ya go,” she said as she handed over the purse from within.
Madeline hefted the bag, feeling the weight in her grip. It seemed far too light. There had to be something in it, why would she go out with so little? And a croissant? Sure they’re a tasty treat, but how had she paid for it? She dug her hands through the purse. Nope, nothing. Frustrated, she was about to zip it closed when she noticed a tear in the fabric liner.
“Hmm, I wonder…” she muttered as she stuck her fingers into the gap. They brushed against a small wallet.
“Hey, look what I found,” she chirped, triumphantly.
“That’s so weird, I know I searched every inch of that thing.”
Madeline wasn’t listening, but instead had the wallet open in her lap, examining the contents. It contained exactly what she had expected. A driver’s license and a key tucked into one of the small card pockets.
“Madeline Dunleavy,” she said, getting the feel for the name, rolling it in her mouth like a nice smoky whiskey. “I’m Madeline Dunleavy. Nice to meet you.”
The nurse took her hand and shook it.
“Nice to make your acquaintance Madeline. Does that have an address for you? I looked for a phone to call someone in your contacts, but you don’t seem to have one. How weird is that? I guess it must’ve gotten lost when you were hurt.”
“Must’ve,” Madeline replied.
With the patient seeming in perfect health aside from her steadily retreating amnesia, the doctors felt it was reasonable for her to be released to her own home, now that she had an address to return to.
“If you have any blurred vision, dizziness, vomiting, or unusual physical issues, check back with us tomorrow,” they said as she exited the hospital.
“Will do,” she replied as she slipped on her light coat and walked out of the bright fluorescent lights and into the fresh air.
A breath of fresh air.
In this case it actually was as breath of fresh air that was a breath of fresh air, and with her lungs happily filled with some choice O2, Madeline began strolling in the general direction of her apartment (at least that’s what the nice man with the smartphone told her).
The day seemed so vibrant, the colors popped, the smells resonated in her nose, captivating her with their myriad aromas as she passed bakeries, flower stores, and cafes. Of course, she thought, it might just be the head injury, but the afternoon really seemed special. She almost felt as if she hadn’t experienced a day like this in a long, long time, and it was hitting the spot perfectly.
The small park she decided to take a meandering long-way-home stroll through had the wonderful, earthy fragrance of fresh grass and slightly damp soil. The good parts of nature filled the air with awesome, and as she looked at the trees gently swaying in the cool breeze, she noticed a flock of birds flying high above.
Such beautiful creatures, birds, she marveled as she watched them soar. I wish they’d fly lower so I could get a better look at them. No sooner had the thought passed her mind than she noticed a brightly colored parrot nestled on a branch, it’s green and yellow feathers almost invisible among the leaves.
“Hey little fella, what are you doing up there?” she asked the bird.
He (or she, you really can’t tell with parrots, so let’s just call it a boy for the sake of convenience) noticed the human talking to him and fluffed up his feathers a moment, then flew down toward her, landing on a water fountain nearby.
“Aren’t you adorable,” she cooed.
“Pretty bird!” he replied.
“And you speak! Aww, you must’ve flown out of someone’s window. Polly want a cracker?” she asked with a little grin. “Well, I don’t actually have any crackers, but I can give you a piece of my croissant. I don’t know if birds like French pastry, though.”
“Oui, oui, for me!” the bird replied.
“Oh my, you’re a clever little thing, aren’t you?”
She dug in her purse and held out the crispy end for the bird to nibble on. Rather than cautiously snatching it from her hand, as she expected, he hopped up on her arm and happily chewed her offering before walking up to her shoulder and settling in.
“You’re a friendly one. I think I’m going to take you home, it wouldn’t be right to leave you out here to fend for yourself. Would you like that?”
“Like that!” the bird said.
“Such an odd little guy. Okay, off we go. I think I’ll call you Walter. That seems like a good name for now.”
Apparently, having a parrot on your shoulder, especially a rather chatty one, makes you a lot of friends on the street, and Madeline found herself engaged in conversations with just about everyone she passed. The grizzled biker softened when she walked by, telling her of the time his parrot had a heart attack and he made the paramedics do mouth-to-beak resuscitation at knifepoint. The kids on skateboards tried talking shit to the bird, only to find her winged minion had a far fouler vocabulary than they could ever hope to acquire.
“And who taught you that?” she had asked, both amused and slightly abash at Walter’s sailor-like rant.
Passing a small farm-stand shop, Walter flapped his wings and leapt into an open barrel of peanuts, happier than a proverbial pig in shit (or parrot in peanuts, as the case may be).
“Walter, get out of there!” she chided the bird. He fixed his glossy eye on her a moment, looked back at the mountain of edible treasure, then having made up his bird mind, snatched one last nut and flew to her shoulder.
“Now that’s something I don’t see every day,” the shopkeeper said, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. Ultimately, he settled on a combination of both.
“I’m so sorry, I’ll pay for those, of course. In fact, I should buy him some for later anyway. He can’t go on eating French pastry every meal after all. I’ll take a pound, please.”
The shopkeeper gave her an odd look, then bagged up the nuts for her.
“That’ll be $2.50, tax included.”
She dug in her wallet, only to realize there was no money in it. She’d noticed that when she first discovered it but that inconvenient little fact had slipped her mind entirely.
“I’m sorry, hang on, maybe I have some change somewhere,” she said, fishing around in her light coat’s hip pockets. She pulled out lint, a rubber band, and some pocket sand. She was about to give up when her fingertip grazed a balled-up piece of paper.
“Can you break this?” she asked as she unfolded the hundred-dollar bill.
Stepping into her apartment, she found the place was everything she would have expected her apartment to be. She may have lost her memory, but apparently her taste was exquisite.
Beautiful artwork graced the walls, classic lined furniture tied the rooms together, and her fridge was stocked with much more than just shelves of condiments. When she wal
ked through her bedroom, she noted a man’s button-down shirt, crumpled from obvious use as a nightgown.
“What do you think, Walter?” she said, walking back to the kitchen and putting the bird on the kitchen counter. “Do I have a boyfriend?”
As if on cue, a key turned in the lock, and a dark-haired man with a sexy five o’clock shadow shouldered the door open. His sleeves were rolled up and his tie was askew as he carried in armloads of takeout Italian food, a bouquet of flowers, and a bottle of wine.
“Oh, you’re home!” he said, startled. “I guess I’m busted. I was going to surprise you with Italian tonight.”
“Who’s the boy? Who’s the boy?” Walter chimed in, saying out loud what Madeline was thinking. It’s kind of embarrassing after all, having to ask your boyfriend his name.
“You got a parrot?”
“Yeah, I found him on the way home. His name’s Walter.”
“Hi Walter, I’m Donovan.”
Donovan, she ran the name through her mind. I like the sound of that. He seems like a good fella, even brought me food. I wonder how good he is in the sack.
After dinner, she found out.
She was most certainly not disappointed.
Once he cleared the table and did the dishes (he insisted she not raise a finger), he slowly undressed her as he led her to the queen-sized bed, pausing as her shed articles of clothing left swaths of delectable flesh exposed and longing for attention.
He caressed her body, both gentle yet rough, sensing what she wanted and responding in perfect synchronicity. When, after several wonderfully torturous minutes, their naked bodies finally became enmeshed in her luxurious bed, things only got hotter from there.
Donovan was relentless, bringing her to the brink of climax over and over, Madeline savoring every glorious moment until finally, her bed slamming fiercely, she came, bucking so hard the bed jumped from the floor, banging into the wall with a crash.
As they lay there sweaty in each other’s arms, she noticed the cracks in her wall, and ceiling.
Damn, she thought with a chuckle, came so hard we broke the place!
Shortly thereafter they fell into a sound (and well-deserved) sleep wrapped in each other’s arms.
