Yellow Mama E zine

The Burning River Boat Show Queen

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by Dale Scherfling

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        If she was Miss Canada, I was Mister America. Or maybe she was Miss British Empire—looked like a pre-1948 model.

       “I’m not Miss Canada,” she said flatly. “Runner-up. A few years back.”

        She sipped something orange-yellow through a swizzle stick.

        “Careful—you’ll lose an eye,” I told her. “Second place, huh?”

        She chewed the stick, gave me the tired eye. “Something like that. Maybe twelfth.”

        We were in the hotel media room, lit only by a television behind the bar. She was my escort for the night, courtesy of the organizers, to show me “the local color” for my article on the Burning River Boat Show. I figured they wanted to keep her busy—or out of sight.

         She wore a half-zipped jacket with a faded sash underneath: Miss Toronto Boat Show.

         “This is Cleveland,” I said.

          “Cleveland, Canton, Toronto. One’s just like another.”

           She popped her gum, yawned. “Oh yeah. The Rock and Roll Museum. It was closed.”

           “Well, we’ve got other things.”

          “Such as? Wow me.”

          “Our river catches fire now and then,” I said. “We hold the Summer Riots Festival a couple times a year.”

           She laughed, shoved me playfully. Her hand stayed on my chest, fingers tracing the buttons. Then she kissed me—soft, with a quick flick of tongue.

         Lucky Strike, I thought. Definitely unfiltered.

         When she pulled back, she looked at me the way people look at amusement rides they’ve already been on—half-smile, half-regret.

           “You’ll write something nice about the show?” she asked.

          “Depends how it ends.”

          She snorted. “It already ended, honey. I’m just the rerun.”

          The TV flickered behind her, some old clip of the river fire—the oily water lighting up like gasoline, reporters shouting about pollution and progress. She turned to watch it, face orange in the glow.

          “See,” I said, nodding at the scene. “I told you so.”

          “I was on that river once,” she said. “Didn’t know it could burn.”

          “Cleveland,” I added. “The Mistake on the Lake.”

           She didn’t answer. Just watched the flames dance on the screen until they faded to static.

           I finished my drink, left a card on the bar, and told her I’d send her the link when the story ran. She didn’t turn around.

          Outside, the air smelled like diesel and rain. Across the street, the Cuyahoga moved slow and black under the bridge lights—still, for now.

 

      Dale Scherfling is a newspaper veteran of 30 years, serving as a sportswriter, columnist, editor, and photographer and a retired Navy journalist and photographer. His work has appeared in Third Act Magazine, Does It Have Pockets Magazine, Lost Blonde Literary, All Hands Magazine, Pacific Crossroads, Daily Californian, Naval Aviation Magazine, Propeller Magazine, and Buckeye Guard Magazine. He is the recipient of three U.S. Army Front Page Journalism Awards. He is also a college lecturer and photography and music instructor.

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      Sophia Wiseman-Rose (aka Sr. Sophia Rose) is a Paramedic and an Anglican novice Franciscan nun, in the UK.  Both careers have given Sophia a great deal of exposure to the extremes in life and have provided great inspiration for her.  

  She has travelled to many countries, on medical missions and for modelling (many years ago), but has spent most of her life between the USA and the UK. She is currently residing in a rural Franciscan community and will soon be moving to London to be with a community there.  

  In addition, Sophia had a few poems and short stories in editions of Black Petals Horror/Science Fiction Magazine

 The majority of her artwork can be found on her website.

  https://www.artstation.com/sophiaw-r6