New Bride In Wyoming / The J Curves

Two lighthearted poems by Doug Jacquier are illustrated by Cream Scene’s Katy Somerville.

Writing by Doug Jacquier
Art by Katy Somerville

New Bride In Wyoming

Molly’s nerves were a-jinglin’ driving the buggy back to the ranch. As a new bride fresh from the city, she tried to be a real country wife for Earl, cooking and milking the cow, and she tried to use Wyoming words whenever she could. 

When Earl came in, she said ‘I got you a present’. 

‘Well, that’s real nice, Molly. What is it?’ 

‘A dog to keep you company when you’re on the trail!’ 

She opened the bedroom door and out strolled a Dachshund. 

“And you didn’t think I was listening when you said ‘git a long little doggie.’”

The J curves

All of her sons (Jebediah, Jared, Jehosophat, James, Japheth and Jonah) stood at the open grave of Judith Johannson (nee Jericho), where she would finally rest adjacent to her late husband, Joshua.

The rivalry between the sons was legendary and they had already begun arguing about who had travelled further (Junee or Jerilderie), who was going to inherit Jacaranda (the family farm), the JBar in the nearest town, and the Jumping Juniper Jin distillery.

The officiating priest was well aware of the antipathy between the sons and had taken the precaution of providing each of them with their own identical shovel so there wouldn’t be an argument about who got to throw the first sod on to Judith’s coffin.

After the requisite amount of God-bothering from the priest, the sons drew lots to decide the speaking order for the eulogies, with each, of course, wanting to deliver their own.

All went well until Jebediah concluded his heartfelt words with ‘… and you always told me I was your favourite son’, and then all hell broke loose as the sons attacked each with the shovels and, one by one, fell dead or mortally wounded into the grave, on top of their mother.

As the priest wept at the carnage, there was a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see a raven-haired beauty in a tight black dress topped with a Grand Canyon-esque cleavage who said, ‘Father, I’m the only daughter, Jezebel.’

About the Author

About The Artist

Katy Somerville was beamed into existence on a Monday night in the mid-eighties by stars, glitter, and a glorious Italian woman from a long line of very strong women. In the present timeline, she likes to drink coffee, pat any animal that will engage with her, make collages, and spend time laughing and finding moments of joy wherever she can with her partner and her goofy, lanky dog.

Katy is Cream Scene co-editor & Art Director

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