Category Archives: Short Story

Larger than a normal post – a short story

Bigfoot & The Dumb Bull

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By Dean Jones, Carthage, TX

In memory of Stubby “Bobo” Jones, 07/11/95 – 02/10/10

When I was about 10 years old, I learned what a “dumb bull” was. This learning experience was courtesy of my grandfather. When one hears the words “dumb bull” all kinds of images pass through one’s mind. Images of a crazy cow or a brainless runaway bull passed through mine when I first heard the term.

Dumb Bull

Dumb Bull

Actually, a “dumb bull” is not a living creature at all. It is a simple device that works without electricity or electronics. It is a crude “sound effects” generator. The sound a dumb bull creates is almost guaranteed to stampede cattle, cure constipation in youngsters,

increase sales of ammunition in rural areas, as well as cause the switchboard of your local 911 operator to light up on a boring night in a small town! In short, a dumb bull is a practical joker device that will scare the living daylights out of anything that hears it. Dumb bulls were popular in the “good old days” of our grandparents in rural areas. Dumb bulls are also mentioned in The Foxfire Books.

Grandpa’s Farm and the Cattle Killers

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By Mary Maranitch

As I begin my story I start to snicker. My fondest memories as a child growing up in the Midwest were of visiting grandpa’s farm in a tiny little town called Stuart, Nebraska. It’s one of those towns were everyone knows everyone else, or is related, and, unfortunately, when city kids came to visit, EVERYONE knew. I think it was actually their form of entertainment to see what we city kids would do next.

It was back in the 1970′s. The big news story around those parts was that farmers were losing their livestock to a cult that would kill cattle and mutilate them for their sex organs. Sounds a little deranged even for the 70′s but that’s what was happening.
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This post was submitted by Mary Maranitch.

Alabama and the Fine Art of Yard Rollin’

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By Grant Langston

Grant Langston Cover

“The Country” means a hundred different things to a hundred different people. To me, it has always meant freedom.

There’s something about the lack of people and the open space that gives you an opportunity to stretch out and have an adventure. As a teenager that meant the ability to get into trouble without having someone on your back. Blow something up. Build a potato gun and shoot it at cars that whizzed by on Hwy 36. Build a tree house in the woods and use it as a base of operations for pine cone battles, runs to the bootlegger, or a place to stash our Playboy or OUI Magazines (which we pronounced as “O-U-I”, having no idea that it was French).

The country meant that in the summer you said goodbye to your mom at 7am and you got home when the streetlights came on. What you did in the intervening 13 hours was between you, your little brother, and whatever gang of boys you were running with that day.  You were 12-years-old.  You solved your own problems.  You made your own fun.
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This post was submitted by Grant Langston.