Ed Calkins: Voter Fraud and the "Lost" Telegram

Note: When sifting through old email for the Bryony-themed play Ed Calkins wrote and sent to me in 2011, which I thought I posted and hadn't, I found this gem, also from 2011 and unopened. Very ironic, as you will see when you read it.


Dear MOMI:

Hard as it may be to believe, I have been accused of unethically influencing the Queen of Christmas nominations. Naturally, I promised a full and speedy investigation from an independent, fair, and reputable investigator.

Only after making that promised did I wonder if I knew anyone like that! But, of course, I do. You, Denise, have the journalistic chops that should impress even the most skeptical of my critics.

Your mandate is simple! Look for evidence of corruption or misdealings in the nomination process of 2011 on my behave. Remember, I promised a full and speedy investigation, so you must respond with your findings within my deadline.

Also you must grant as full of review as can be made on a 2008 budget, which, if you've opened this email, you're already over. (Sorry, you will not be reimbursed.)

Be fair and impartial, but remember you're not getting paid for this and its not worth your time, When the deal (five minutes after you receive this) has expired, you need not respond if not a shred of evidence is found, your silence will be understood that way.

However, if you do find wrong doing, you must report it to the proper authorities. Should you consider me as too prejudiced to receive your finding, consider your ex publicist or Amazon.com. I'm sure that can right this in a timely manner.

P.S  Should you actually look in to this, do not be concerned about the ballots found in the garbage, as poor handwriting clearly disqualified them.


Ruthlessly yours,

Ed Calkins,

Steward of Tara

Ed Calkins and the Queen of Christmas

Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, from Ed Calkins Steward of Tara (and me)

But sleep and the chance to escape the avalanche of horrible knowledge eluded him. As the boy contemplated the ceiling cracks, he hoped for early trucks and quick delivery, but John-Peter abandoned that hope after Ed’s shouting jolted him awake. A steady stream of snowflakes floated past his window.

            Ten minutes later, the roads were already thick with the slippery mass. Ed peered between the frozen smears his old wipers left on his windshield as he guided his car toward Main Street.

            “John-Peter, it’s a good thing Irishmen have an abiding sense of tragedy. It sustains them through temporary periods of joy.”

            “I never heard that saying.” The yawn escaped his lips before he could stop it. “Did you make it up?”

             “No, ‘tis as old as the hills of Ireland.”

            The boy huddled deeper within his coat and leaned his head against the frozen window. A thirty minute nap was more welcoming than listening to Ed quote Irish proverbs. He woke with a start. Shivering, he pulled the musty old burlap that served as a blanket around his neck and peeped into the parking lot. Thick layers of heavy, still-falling snow covered the vehicles. Carriers, eyes at half mast to block the driving wetness as they left the building’s shelter, struggled to push their carts through the slush.

            A cart handle scraped the car, but the carrier kept going without a single apology. John-Peter opened the door, stepped out, and sank halfway to his knees. He wasn’t surprised, only cold and damp. Intense snowfalls were a part of every winter he'd ever known. He shuffled and slid to the center and then blinked against the bright lights.

            Ed Calkins, standing tall on a work station, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called out, “The Queen of Christmas!”

            The winner was one of the new carriers, a tiny woman who barely reached John-Peter’s shoulder. Her girlish giggling at being honored in this manner belied the oily, gray strands drooping onto her forehead. With mincing steps, the woman approached Ed Calkins, climbed onto the station beside him, and allowed him to place a jingle bell tiara on her head.

            “All hail Gloria Nefstead, our new Queen of Christmas!”

            One carrier yelled, “Hurray!” A few more clapped their hands. Most ignored the festivities as they hurriedly double-bagged their papers. Clutching the back of the work table, Ed lowered himself to a sitting position and then bounced to the ground. That’s when he noticed John-Peter.

            “Good. You’re awake. Three new drivers need to sign my petition. Can you bag the Munsonville Weeklies while I go hunt them up?"

            "Sure, Uncle Ed.”

             “Don’t forget. Double bag.”

            The plows were working their way down the main roads, and the sky was hinting at a few pink streaks by the time Eircheard's Emporium came into view. Eircheard was just setting two freshly baked loaves as John-Peter and Ed slid through the door. John-Peter devoured the first loaf with half the contents in his water jug before Ed made his first deal of the day.

            “Got any elf costumes?”

            The little old man leaned back in his chair and relit his pipe, puffing on it a few times before he spoke. “Didn’t you buy one last year?”

            “Look how the boy has grown. He’s not going to fit into that costume. Hey, you didn’t sell that collection of Irish toasts I was reading here yesterday?”

            “I’ve seen plenty an Irish lad grow big and strong on my bread. And, no, I didn’t sell the book yet. It’s around here somewhere.”

            John-Peter swallowed the last mouthful and cut a thick slice from the second loaf. He didn’t doubt the superiority of Eircheard’s bread. He tasted heaven with every bite.

            Ed sifted through a table of paperbacks. "So what about that elf costume?"

            Eircheard rose to his feet and spoke around his pipe. “I’ve got a leprechaun costume in the back that might fit him. He could wear that with your elf’s hat.”

            “No!” John-Peter shouted before he could squelch it.

            Ed dropped the paperback, and Eircheard’s hand, already on the curtain, paused. Surprised at his outburst, John-Peter slid his hand down his jeans and over the bump in his right pocket. Guard your mouse.

            “The boy is right, Eircheard. ‘Twouldn’t be right.”

             John-Peter spread a thick slab across the last piece of bread. “I can wear a green shirt with my suit coat and your hat. That’s more elfish than any leprechaun costume.”

             Lucky for him, the Steward of Tara agreed.

From Staked! by Denise M. Baran-Unland

Illustration by Kathleen Rose Van Pelt for Bryony.