Page 30 - HEF Pen & Ink 2020

FAMILY SHORT STORY
by Lauren MacDonald
Montana, seeing as there weren’t many people living there. The only place we could get access to anything good was up in Canada, where I knew a couple guys who had some. It was a long and risky trip, but it was worth it in the end.
“Come on, come on! We need to hurry!” I yelled, hoisting the crate over my shoulders again. I ran down the alleyway, my feet slapping against the pavement.
The trip to the speakeasy took only a few min- utes. We unloaded the car at the back of the
building, taking all of the booze inside.
We had seen a couple of coppers by the back entrance to one of the local businesses. They were
a bit too close to where we had been unloading the booze to be comfortable, so as soon as we finished unloading it all, we ran off down the alleyway, just in case they saw us leave.
“Frank! How’s it going, pal?” William, the owner of the speakeasy, said, patting me on the back and taking a box.
“I’m going, Frank!” Tommy said behind me, picking up speed and shoving Michael forward. We reached the car and Michael and Tommy got in the back, putting the booze in the hidden panels we in- stalled for the checks the coppers did every once and
“Not too bad, Will, not too bad.” The boys and I followed him up into the main area, sitting down at the bar.
awhile.I reversed the car and took off down the street, heading to the speakeasy where we store
the booze. It’s not permanent, just until we can get out of Canada and back down to Plentywood. Tommy, Michael and I were three of the few bootleggers in
I’d known Will for a couple years. I met him in Wolfpoint, Montana when I first became a bootleg- ger. He had been one for a couple years and we did some work together before he opened up this speak- easy. Will’s a really great guy and he taught me a lot of the stuff I know about bootlegging.
NATURAL FLOWERS
by Ryann Thomas
“What’ll you guys have?” the bartender asked, leaning against the countertop. He went behind the counter and grabbed three glasses, pouring us our drinks. He set them all down and I took a sip of mine, the feeling of the alcohol going down my throat, a feeling of flames licking at it viciously. Setting the glass down, I turned to Tommy.
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“Hey. We’re heading back home tomorrow, all right?” He nodded, setting down his glass
as well, telling Michael the same thing. We sat at the bar for a while, drinking and telling stories, laughing and having a good time.
We headed back to Plentywood the next day, bright and early in the morning. I drove, Michael in the passenger’s seat, and Tommy in the back with the booze. The drive was about two hours long and we reached Plentywood soon enough. The alcohol was stored at a safehouse, which was really just Tommy’s grandma’s basement, seeing as it was pretty far from the center of town and there was a good distance between any other houses.
“Okay, Tommy, you log all the goods, and Michael, you come with me to go see Charlie,” I said, walking back out to the car, Michael following behind me. I reversed the car, driving down the street to the closest speakeasy I knew of, The Copper Bell. My friend from high school, Charlie, owned it, and he helped the boys and I get in touch with new people or other speakeasies as customers. There have been some close calls with the coppers in the past couple months, but we’d been careful enough and I’m hop- ing it’ll stay that way.
Pulling up at The Copper Bell, we got out of the car and headed in. We walked into Charlie’s