{"id":1599,"date":"2019-11-03T01:59:09","date_gmt":"2019-11-03T01:59:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/?p=1599"},"modified":"2019-10-08T02:00:42","modified_gmt":"2019-10-08T02:00:42","slug":"bigger-than-a-ferret-polecat-by-dean-quarrel","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/2019\/11\/03\/bigger-than-a-ferret-polecat-by-dean-quarrel\/","title":{"rendered":"Bigger Than a Ferret-Polecat by Dean Quarrell"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Mr. Quarrell was born in 1946, in Springfield, Massachusetts. He has so far survived public schools, community college, and university (his baccalaureate degree is in English but written in Latin), the US Air Force, and various employment. His work has appeared in such outlets as Dark Ink Magazine, Rue Scribe, and Coffin Bell. He lives and writes in New Hampshire. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n


Bigger Than a Ferret-Polecat<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hugh\ngazed out through the French doors that opened onto the garden. \u201cIt\u2019s still\nthere,\u201d he said, pointing with his pipe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s\nstill where?\u201d Hester replied, without looking up from her crossword.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan\u2019t\ntell what<\/strong>, exactly\u201d he said, \u201cit\u2019s\nbiggish though, and dark.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReally?\u201d\nShe put down the Times. \u201cHow big? Where?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s\na lot bigger than a ferret-polecat,\u201d he said, smiling. \u201cJust beyond the\npergola. Slunk out of the potting shed and climbed up the grape arbor this\nmorning while I was watering the hibiscus.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hester\nhoisted herself to her feet on the second try and shuffled to the vantage point\nthat had captivated her husband. \u201cAnother of your little forest friends?\u201d She looked\ntoward the lawn perfunctorily. \u201cWhere?\u201d she demanded, squinting. \u201cI don\u2019t see\nanything. What\u2019s a ferret-polecat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNever\nmind, just a joke,\u201d said Hugh, shaking his head. He fastened his hands on her\nshoulders and turned her a bit to the right. He pointed alongside her head with\nhis pipe in the direction of the pergola and grape arbor. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere,\u201d\nhe said. \u201cYou\u2019ll have to wait \u2018til it moves to see it, it\u2019s perfectly\ncamouflaged.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hester\npeered for a few seconds, then turned away from the door. \u201cIt\u2019s your brain that\u2019s\ncamouflaged,\u201d she said, pouring a refill from her breakfast pitcher of Bloody Marys.\n\u201cYou probably saw a skunk.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

As\nshe set the pitcher down, a noise that blended a shriek and a growl floated in\nfrom the garden through the open window. Hester\u2019s face went ashen; her hand froze\non the pitcher handle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSome\nskunk,\u201d said Hugh, grinning around the bit of his pipe. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\na hideous racket,\u201d she said. \u201cClose the damned door!\u201d She downed her Bloody\nMary and returned to the couch and the crossword. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hugh\ntook his vintage side-by-side Chekhov shotgun down from its rack near the\nmantle. \u201cOff for my walk, Muffin,\u201d he said, laying it over his arm. \u201cBack by\nlunch, I expect.\u201d He went out, with the French doors left ajar. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

At\nlunchtime there was no sign of Hugh. Hester made her own sandwich, accompanied\nby grumbling and muttering and dollops of mayonnaise splupping onto the floor. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\nwas snoring on the sofa when the sun went down. She never saw the big dark form\nflow down from the pergola and skulk across the lawn. If the French doors had\nbeen closed, it might not have got in at all. Or at least the noise of\nsomething trying to open them might have wakened her in time. As it was, she never\nheard the next shrieking growl, this time with a snarl embroidered on, from the\nlawn just beyond the French doors. And well after dark, she never heard Hugh\u2019s\njaunty, \u201cBack again, Old Thing, sorry to be so long,\u201d wafting in through the open\ndoors.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Mr. Quarrell was born in 1946, in Springfield, Massachusetts. He has so far survived public schools, community college, and university (his baccalaureate degree is in English but written in Latin), the US Air Force, and various employment. His work has appeared in such outlets as Dark Ink Magazine, Rue Scribe, and Coffin Bell. He lives … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1599","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pa867U-pN","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1599","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1599"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1599\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1603,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1599\/revisions\/1603"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1599"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1599"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1599"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}