Bull Riding

Beneath a vast and bleeding canopy of amber and gold, the day began its slow surrender, and Hank knew the time had come to lay down his tools.

With vast sun-streaked orange skies above, Hank knows that it’s just about time to quit. With a swift motion of his broad, weathered hands, 

Hank removed his hard hat and tossed it to the earth. He wiped the gathering sweat from his forehead, where the sun had carved deep, permanent lines—the quiet map 

of a life spent in hard labor since the tender age of fifteen. Ensuring he was alone, he released a heavy torrent against the soil, a low, relieved moan escaping his lips as 

he tilted his head back and closed his eyes to the world.

“What have you got there, Hank?”

Rusty’s booming voice shattered the quiet haze. Startled, Hank pivoted, inadvertently sending a sudden spray across the front of Rusty’s work trousers.

“Rusty, you fool!” Hank barked, feigning irritation as he quickly tucked himself away. “Why must you sneak up on me like that?”

“Just looking for something to do, I suppose,” Rusty replied, attempting a casual shrug while secretly holding his breath. “Would you care for a beer before you head back to the missus?”

“Sure, why not,” Hank conceded, retrieving his hat and zipping his trousers as he sauntered toward Rusty with a slow, bow legged stride. “But the tab is yours!”

Rusty exhaled a quiet breath of relief. For weeks, he had tried to catch Hank away from the watchful eyes of the crew and the domestic demands of his wife, 

Big Tilly. Hank remained blissfully unaware of how often Rusty materialized near the washrooms, or how quickly Rusty would avert his gaze whenever Hank shed his 

sweat-soaked shirts in the midday heat. Lately, Rusty had spent his nights restless and frantic, consumed by a sharp, unyielding ache in his chest. Calm down, he told himself. 

It is only a drink. He is a married man. He shook his head to banish the forbidden thoughts.

They settled onto stools at Billy Bob’s Bar and Grill, the atmosphere thick with the smell of grease and stale ale. Rusty ordered two cold drafts, 

his hands trembling slightly.

“So… how are you finding the job?” Rusty asked, his words stumbling over one another.

“It is a job like any other,” Hank replied, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room.

“I suppose so…” Rusty trailed off, his eyes inadvertently locking onto Hank’s face.

“What is it?” Hank asked, catching the lingering stare.

“Nothing,” Rusty mumbled, dropping his gaze to the polished wood of the bar. “I was only thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” Hank pressed, a subtle urgency slipping into his voice.

“I was just wondering… if you had ever tried your hand at riding a bull?”

Hank hesitated, a spark of pure mischief dancing in his eyes as a faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No… but I have always harbored a desire to try it.”

“I could teach you sometime,” Rusty offered, trying to sound indifferent, though the underlying tension in his voice betrayed him. “If you are up for the challenge.”

“Why not?” Hank replied softly. “I think I am overdue for a ride. Who knows, perhaps I will be a natural.”

A shared, knowing laughter passed between them. They drained their glasses and stepped out into the heavy, warm evening air. Above them, 

the crescent moon peeked out from behind a shroud of dark clouds, quietly setting the stage for an entirely different kind of ride.

Jacques Fleury is a Haitian American poet, novelist, educator, essayist, arts critic, author, and Harvard University literary arts scholar whose internationally published voice spans continents. The recipient of the 2026 International Naji Naaman Literary Prize for Creativity—chosen from over 4100 global competitors from 83 countries—he holds prestigious memberships in France’s La Fenêtre de Paris and Lebanon’s Maison Naaman pour la Culture. His celebrated books, among them his opus Chain Letter To America: The One Thing You Can Do To End Racism… is held globally from Massachusetts libraries to the UK’s Askews and Holts, and historic sanctuaries like the Harvard Bookstore & Grolier Poetry Book Shop. Discover more of his Boston Globe-featured work at Authorsden/JacquesFleury.—