Post Your Short Stories

[thunderw21]

I'm sure many of us doodle in the writing arts. Most of us are not professional writers so post constructive criticism and positive comments but please don't bash.

Let's see your short stories. Here's one of mine.

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The Executioner’s Love

The job had never really bothered him before. It wasn’t glamorous by any means, especially when compared to frontline duties where anyone had the chance to win medals and reputation so that the entire country would remember one’s name. Yet being a member of a firing squad had its perks: he was able to stay in his native country rather than leaving to fight in a foreign land, the food was better, sleep was abundant and physical difficultly rare. And while his squad was part of an elite unit most members were older men or soldiers rejected for frontline duty, causing the standards and regulations to be more relaxed. It was not an easy life but was better than most lives at that period in time.
Being a member of a firing squad is dirty business. Shooting a person, bound and blindfolded, at close range is a difficult task and requires specific employees who will not be overcome by emotions or thoughts. He was one of these. His stern feeling of duty and inhuman personality, combined with a steely uncaring for his victims easily overcame his gentle side, though it had not always been so. He had seen much during his lifetime and though he was not old he had seen too much for his age. Any age.
His frame was slender and tall, not muscular by any means but he was strong enough to fulfill his task. Years of war, bombings and partisan attacks had taken their toll on his physical being. Scars scattered about his arms and legs, adding a rough texture to his already over-aged skin. He had been on the frontline for some time but was relegated to firing squad because of his wounds. He would not accept a medical discharge; there would be nothing for him to live for outside of the military. Knowing his eagerness to fight and his thirst for blood the leadership placed him on the firing squad. To him is was a much needed vacation.
He had never been interested in politics or religion, though he tolerated the two subjects since they were great traditions in his country. So was a young man’s duty to serve in the military, which is why he joined the army before the war. He didn’t necessarily agree with or support the government but his father and grandfather before him had served and therefore so did he. He was resigned to that fact, never struggling against it.
The day began like most others; there was no reason to suspect the coming events would disturb his world. An execution had been scheduled for the day, the criminals being partisans who had been actively disrupting military communication and transportation within his native land. He had executed dozens of partisans before and had gained the reputation as a dead-eye within his unit, using on average only one bullet per target while most other executioners used two or more to finish the job. But, of course, execution isn’t very sporty.
He loaded five rounds into his rifle and looked up from under his feldgrau steel helmet as the prisoners were led out. A bound and blindfolded woman was placed directly in front of him and pushed up against the bullet-riddled wall. His interest perked when he saw this, as he had never seen a woman partisan before and especially since she seemed so familiar to him. It was not until he ardently focused on her face did he recognize her as a former love.
They had met years before while skiing in the southern mountains. She was very similar to him in appearance, though slightly shorter than her male counterpart. They met in a resort; he had fallen and badly cut his face while skiing and she helped him patch the cuts. She was a natural judge of character and personality and could tell he was a loving and deep person when given the chance, which he never had been. He was a loner, skiing by himself while all the other men had women by their sides. Then again perhaps she was also a loner, skiing alone but occasionally chatting with the local gentlemen. At the resort, as his bloody face dried, he stared out the grand picture window at the looming mountain scene. She secretly stared at him from afar, ordering drinks for the two of them. A pang of sadness sank into her heart as she quietly stared…
He firmly gripped the rifle as he remembered their first meeting, anger and fear churning his soul. He had been in combat, seen friends and yes, even family killed and brutalized by the destructive nature of war. Friends lost their minds as well as arms and legs. Entire units were wiped out. Inhuman crimes committed. Yet he never felt such desperation and emotional poverty as he did in that moment, when he saw her against the wall. It was her, that human, that lump of flesh and blood and soul that blindly stood before him that he had at one time loved and wanted to spend his life with. But that was long ago, in a time that was largely forgotten or locked away in his mind.
She said she loved him and she really did. But another love soon dominated her life. Education took her away to another land in the west, one of opportunity and promise. Her thirst for knowledge garnered her attention and love, leaving him behind even though she had promised him her heart. Their last meeting was shortly before she left for school in the new land; she told him she could not have two loves. The promise of knowledge, the new land and travel outweighed her then fading love for him. A bittersweet meeting, it had stayed with him up until his military service when it died with his civilian identity. They hadn’t communicated since that last meeting; he still loved her but was upset with her handling of the situation. But the sting that had haunted him since soon ended when the war began. And seeing her standing there stung him again, even deeper than before.
All of the prisoners were lined up and the squad moved into their positions, roughly twenty feet away from the gray stone walls and their targets. She did not move, no, neither did she cry like many of the others. She appeared content, at peace with her fate at the hand of her former love. He was glad she could not see him through the blindfold, for that would have been too much to bear. As the officer gave orders he wondered what action he should take. Should he execute this woman, whom he had loved and still loved? Should he object to his commanding officer and pay the price for his dissent? The thought even came to him, though for only a moment, of turning his rifle against the other members of the firing squad but quickly ignored it as he only had five rounds and there were ten other squad members. Should he run? No, doing so would have only left her to be executed by another man, he wanted it to be quick and painless and he could to it best. Although his love for her was still great his loyalty to the native country was greater, as the eagle on his left arm announced to him as he frantically looked about, thinking of what should be done.
“Squad, present arms”. Looking at his victim, now shivering in the cool spring air, he decided his course of action, straightened his back and raised the rifle to his shoulder. The metal butt cupped his shoulder through the thick wool tunic, the wood stock felt cold in his rough hands. With each passing second his hands grew weaker, the rifle becoming heavier as the muzzle slowly quivered about the target. “Aim”. He placed his cheek against the rifle stock, the cold wood numbing his face and seemingly spreading to his soul. Beyond the steel sights was another human whose life was behind her. In a few moments her physical existence would end at the hands of a man she once knew in what seemed to be a former life. Yet she did not know. “Fire”.
A tear fell from his eye as his shaking finger slowly squeezed the trigger.

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[MrNewportCustom]

A few of the approximately eighteen shorts I've written about Zeke (40) and Fred (44), a couple country bumpkin brothers who will have some rather unusual stories to tell their grandchildren . . . if they live long enough. Elsie (36) is Zeke's sweetie.

Introduction:

For as long as I’ve been alive, Fred has always been my big brother. In age and size, anyway. He stopped growing mentally when our parents were killed in a trucking accident while driving a tanker of liquid fudge from Hartford, Connecticut to Tarzan, Texas. They were T-boned by a truck loaded with thirty thousand pounds of graham crackers and marshmallows. Both trucks spun, rolled and broke open, dumping drivers and empty carbohydrates alike onto US highway 270 just east of Slapout, Oklahoma. The coroner’s official report states that their deaths were caused by massive blunt trauma over eighty percent of their bodies, and drowning. The local unofficial cause is death by S’mores. The town of Slapout didn’t have an ant problem IN town for months after the accident.

Fred was eight and I was four when they died, and until I was old enough to know what I was doing, we were passed around from aunt and uncle to cousin and cousin - married, of course. None of them were truly willing to take on the challenge of raising a potential adult child. Therefore, no matter where we were I was his main caretaker.

Even as trying as caring for a Baby Huey of a brother can be, I still love him: being the older brother I’ve always had, he’s also the younger brother I’d always wanted. You could say he’s two brothers in one.

We kind of take care of each other. He’ll lift the bed while I go under to get his Furbie, and I’ll read him a bedtime story at two in the morning while he’s drifting off into a drunken coma while clutching said Furbie. Granted I don’t read for very long.

We’ve taught each other a lot about life and had adventures that would boggle the mind of even Carl Sagan, if he weren’t already on an out-of-this-world adventure of his own. However, they’ve never boggled Fred’s mind – thus is the beauty of not having much of a mind to boggle. As out-of-this-world – sometimes literally – as they’ve been, he’s always accepted each as a way to make friends with the celestial flora and fauna. Fred, and through him, I, have more friends in high-orbit places than Tom Jones has women’s underwear and room keys on the stage during a good night in Vegas.

Children are always curious and friendly to strangers, which is why so many are abducted every year. I think the best way we can reduce the number of child abductions would be to teach our kids to be surly and obnoxious. I mean, who in his right mind would abduct a crying, belligerent child from anywhere? Because, no matter how much you impress upon them to stay away from strangers, they’re naturally attracted to the unknown. Fred is no exception. Even today, at the age of forty-four, he is drawn to strangers and strange animals – especially the non-Earthbound ones. And that's how each and every one of our adventures has begun.

Weird Little Lightning Bugs​

Not every evening was as wonderful as this one. The moon was full, the crickets were singing, the owls were hooting and Elsie was on my lap, arms wrapped around me while we sat on the porch swing. We’d watched the sun go down behind Cranberry Hill, silhouetting old man Granger’s barn on its way toward night. Now we were looking at the lights in the windows of his farmhouse. Elsie snuggled closer and rubbed her deep red hair, looking orange under the yellow glow of the porch light, against my cheek.

“Lookit, Zeke!”

There went the evening.

“Lookit I found, Zeke," said Fred, "another Easter egg! It was in the wood pile!” He held a flashlight in the hand that wasn’t holding the egg. It was still on.

“I wouldn’t eat that, Fred. Easter was a week ago,” I said. He balanced the egg on the porch rail and tapped it with the handle of the flashlight a few times, the light illuminating his pale, hairy chest, then started peeling off the pink and blue shell.

“Fred,” warned Elsie as he peeled away the last bit of shell. But he ignored her and shoved it halfway into his mouth. Elsie whimpered and buried her face in her hands while Fred chewed it a few times.

“It’s kay. Just a little dry,” he said, spitting pieces with each word. He tossed the other half into his mouth, chewed it, and with a dry swallow the egg was gone. He stood there for a while, just staring at me and then said, “I need some water.”

“Well,” I asked.

“I need some water.”

“You know where it is. Go get some.”

Fred carried his two hundred and forty pounds with ease. With a minimum of steps, he’d reached the screen door and swung it violently into the side of the house. A moment later, he was gone and the door was shivering on its hinges. Another moment later, we heard dishes cascading to the floor and skittering about the worn linoleum. A plastic tumbler tumbled around longer than the rest of the dishes.

“Uh oh,” said Fred.

Elsie shook her head and moaned, “I just washed those.”

“Why does he always have to take one from the bottom,” I asked of no one in particular.

We heard the water run, and then shut off. A couple dishes were kicked and one hit a wall. Then the TV came on and flipped through a dozen channels. Except for the sounds of Scooby Doo, the evening went back to being quiet.

Elsie saw the first one and pointed it out to me. A tiny point of light near the trees on the edge of the forest. A few more appeared, and then several dozen at once. Before long, there were more than we could count.

“Fred,” I called, “lightning bugs. Get a jar.”

“Lighten bugs,” he yelled from inside. I couple more dishes scampered around the kitchen and a couple cabinets were opened. Pots and pans were pushed aside and a few more hit the floor. Moments later, the screen door hit the wall with a grunt and then shimmied back to its broken latch. Fred was officially chasing lightning bugs.

If Fred has one talent, it’s catching flying insects with a jar. He has a jump and a speed that belies his age and weight. He also has a gentleness that leaves his captives completely unharmed. What he doesn’t have is the capacity to remember a lid for the jar. He’ll catch three or four, or even a half dozen, while covering the jar with a large hand. Before long, they’re escaping while he’s chasing another. Then a low-watt buld goes on inside his head and he runs back into the house to find anything that’ll cover the top of the jar.

Once he has a lid, he knows he can sit the jar anywhere and not worry about the bugs he already has. However, he doesn’t. He still carries it with him wherever he goes, and won’t put it down until it’s full of light-emitting insects.

Elsie and I watched Fred as he caught bug after bug and placed them into the gallon pickle jar. It was kind of like watching a cat chase a fly in the bedroom. He’d spot one, keep his gaze on it, and when it came close enough, he’d pounce, swinging both arms like a mad man until he caught it, laughing and giggling the whole time.

He’ll do this for hours, netting several dozen lighting bugs, and was beginning to fill his third jar when he noticed a large group of them over the driveway, out of sight from the porch.

“I can catch a bunch at a time with that bunch,” he said, and then ran around to the side of the house. Elsie and I could hear him wowing and oh-mying. He went quiet for a moment, and then shouted, “Lookit the size of that one!”

The lid was twisted from the jar, something clunked on the bottom, and the lid was screwed back on. In my minds eye, I could see Fred holding the jar up high and looking at his prize with the full moon behind it. And I knew that, in a moment, he’d be showing it to Elsie and me.

But it didn’t happen that way, not this time.

“Hey,” he yelled, “Stop it!” Suddenly, these normally quiet bugs were buzzing loudly. We heard it all around us. The lightning bugs stopped swirling around and sat still in the air. Then, every one of them flew to the driveway. “Hey! Ow! Stoppit!” Fred was yelling. “It’s mine! Lemme alone! Go away! It’s mine!”

A trashcan toppled with a metallic crash and a raccoon sped across the yard and into the forest. Elsie and I looked at each other. I was about to get up to see what was going on when Fred ran from the driveway and took a diagonal to the far corner of the yard. He was carrying his jar containing one very large lightning bug underneath one arm and swinging the other behind his head at the lighting bugs that were chasing him.

“Stoppit! Stoppit!” he yelled. “Lemme alone! It’s mine!” He went around a tree and ran through the woods, back across our view, with the trident-shaped army of lightning bugs following close behind him occasionally shooting a bug or two at the back of his head, only to bounce off and fall to the ground. Fred yelped every time one hit him.

“That’s something you don’t see everyday,” I said. Elsie and I watched in silence as Fred ran around another tree and headed toward the swimming hole.

“Yeah, that was weird,” she said, and then asked, “Do lightning bugs sting?”

I thought for a moment and then answered, “I don’t think so, but I’m wondering if they can swim.”

Angel Hair​

It wasn’t quite noon and it was already getting hot. The fan in the corner was sending warm air across the room in an attempt to make me think it wasn’t nearly as hot. The neighbor’s dogs were barking at a squirrel in a tree or something. I got tired of the races, my guy wasn’t winning, so I turned off the TV and turned on the radio. Elton John was singing something about his brother leaving. I turned off the radio and stretched out on the couch. That’s the best way to spend a lazy day.

Before I knew it, I was in my boat fishing out on Mill Pond. I’d tied on the fly and cast my line. Without reeling in, I had an eight-pound trout on my hook. It flopped around the bottom of the boat and I was casting off again. Fred was calling me from the shore and getting closer. The screen door slammed and I was on the couch again, shaking my head to clear the fog.

“Zeke, Zeke,” he continued calling as he rounded the end of the couch. “Zeke! Lookit I found?” His hands were cupped together and he opened them up before me, almost shoving them into my face. There was nothing there. His face drooped.

“Looks like you found air,” I said. “Is that why you woke me up?”

“But.” He trailed off. He was looking frantically around the room, trying to see where he may have dropped whatever it was he’d brought in with him. “But I had it right here! It come from the sky an’ I caught it.”

“Well, then, what was it?”

“It . . . it looked like that stuff we had when we went to that Italian restaurant.” He pronounced Italian, Eyetalian. “They called it . . . What’d they call it? I know! Paste!”

“Pasta,” I asked.

“Yeah, that! It looked like it before the sauce. It was all curly and it come from the sky.”

“You can’t be serious, Fred. Pasta falling from the sky?” I thought about it for a moment before remembering that I’d once read about such a phenomena in a book about flying saucers. Angel Hair was what the book had called it.

According to the book, angel hair came from certain UFOs as they flew overhead. It would gently float to the ground and then dissipate. If you managed to catch some, it’d disappear right in your hand without leaving even the slightest trace of residue. So far, according to the books, there was nothing more than visual proof that it existed.

“Where were you when it fell, Fred?”

“I was outside by the outhouse, Zeke. Why?”

“Was there a lot of it falling?”

“Yeah. And it was still fallin’ when I caught the one . . . the one I don’t have in my hand no more,” he said, still looking around the room. He got down on his hands and knees in front of the TV and reached under it.

“Is it still falling, Fred?”

“I dunno. It was fallin’ when I come in here.”

I sat up and looked at him. He was still crouching in front of the TV, but now he was looking at me. The look on his face was one of an empty mind. Typical of Fred.

“Well,” I asked.

“Well what, Zeke?”

“Well, let’s go out and see if it’s still falling.”

His face brightened and he sprung to his feet with an agility that belied his large size, unless you knew him. He ran across the room and right into the screen door, breaking it’s wood frame in several places, and fell back on his butt. He held his head in his hands. I got up and helped him to his feet.

“Okay, Fred. Let’s go see if your angel hair is still falling. Lead the way.”

I pushed what remained of the screen door open. The top part fell from its hinge and hit the floor with a clatter. More flies than usual would be enjoying our meals this summer.

Swamp Things​

"I'm tellin' ya, Zeke, I sawed 'em! They was right over there!" Fred was, if nothing else, persistent. He'd been standing there telling me about them for twenty minutes, occasionally waving his shotgun in the air or pointing toward the swamp to punctuate a sentence. He was getting on my nerves. I leaned my chair against the wall and looked him square in the eye.

"That was swamp gas, you fool. It catches the light of the full moon and reflects it into your face. You only think you saw them. Now stop botherin' me and go away." I did a little punctuating myself with a wave of my hand. I went back to my book.

"But I sawed 'em, Zeke! I swe-"

I held my hand to his face, the palm mere inches from his nose. "Talk to the hand, 'cause Zeke ain't listenin' no more, Fred. I'm tired of hearin' you jaw about it."

I could tell he was upset as he turned and walked back toward the swamp. The mist swirled around him as he disappeared into it, and I could hear his squishy footsteps in the muck. And then . . . BLAM-BLAM!

A moment later, Fred was walking back as quiet and calm as the day was long, slowly dragging something behind him. He hauled it up onto the porch and, with a slight toss, dropped it at my feet.

"There," he said, "believe me now?"

I put the chair back on all four feet and leaned forward to get a closer look. There was a hole big enough to put your fist through the large gray head, and an arm was missing below the elbow. I sat and pondered on it awhile.

"There's something you don't see everyday," I said. This certainly was something one didn’t see every day. In fact, most people won't see one in an entire lifetime. Maybe on the TV or in the movie theater, but not in real life. "Okay, Fred. I believe you now."

"And they's more where he came from, too, Zeke."

"How do you know it's a he?"

"Well," he said, lowering his voice, "it ain't got no boobies.”

"It also ain't got no . . . " I waggled my finger at the creature's crotch area, ". . . neither.” There was nothing there. No features at all. “How many of these . . . swamp things you say you saw?"

"Maybe fitteen or twenny," he said. "An’ a funny smell, too."

"I think the smell was you, Fred. Did you see anything else? A flying saucer or something?"

"Nope. Nuthin'. Not this time."

I looked at the creature again. It looked like it'd be friendly enough if it weren't dead. It also looked like an undernourished eight-year-old child with a head about the size and shape of a standard issue watermelon. Its eyes were big and black and its mouth was just a slit, barely big enough to fit a communion wafer or a quarter. I briefly debated with myself whether the thing was Catholic or coin-operated. There was no nose or any other visible means for smelling. And considering how seldom Fred bathed, that was a blessing for it; probably the only good luck it'd had all night.

"I wonder where their ship is," I asked rhetorically.

"I told ya I saw it fly up inna air, Zeke. But you didn' lissen to me. You never do."

"Oh. Yeah. Well, I'm listening now, Fred. You have my undivided attention this time. What'd they do when you shot this one?"

"Scattered. They runned for the reeds and ducked unner things like logs an' stuff. An' I swear they runned up top uh the water. Din' sink er nuthin'. They was like summathem lizzerds you see on the TV." He looked at the creature for a moment. "Do you think we should call those guys on the TV, Zeke?"

"What guys?"

"Those alien findin' guys, Zeke. You know, Jay an' Kay. The MiBs." I knew Fred was a low-watt bulb, but I hadn't expected to hear that. I shook my head in disbelief.

"You can't be serious, Fred."

“Uh course I'm serious. We needs to call 'em! They'll come an' catch 'em and flashy thing us so's we won' rememer-" Fred froze in mid thought. Or would have had he been thinking. "No, I don' wan' 'em to flashy thing me."

"I think you've already been flashy thinged a few times too many, Fred. I think momma flashy thinged you when you were born."

"You think they done that to me already, Zeke?"

"No doubt."

I stood up and dropped my book on the chair. "Okay, Fred. It's time to get rid of this thing." I put a hand on his shoulder. "And don't worry. If Jay and Kay come lookin' for you, I'll tell them you left town or somethin'." Fred smiled like a child who'd just been exonerated after having wet his bed.

"That's good, Zeke. They'll believe that."

"Now take this thing back to the swamp, okay?"

"Okay, Zeke. I get rid of it right now."

"You're a good hunter, Fred. Nice shots."

"Thanks, Zeke!" He grabbed the creature by the hand and dragged it back to the swamp like a large, gray Raggedy Alien doll, disappearing into the mist again. Only this time, his squishy steps sounded happier. And then from the mist he asked, "What ya think these things taste like, Zeke?" I wasn't going to answer. That'd tempt him to find out. I just shook my head and went into the house.

"Zeke?"


Lee

 

[dashiell]

Gracious. I'm far too shy to post anything of the kind, but I'm glad you're not ... those stories are very good! I've actually forgotten my laundry; I was so absorbed I missed the end of the dry cycle!

 

[Spitfire]

Wouldn't work here - mine are all in my native language and only very few here would understand a word of it.[huh]

But these two were really good!:eusa_clap

 

[PrettySquareGal]

I like all of the little details in both of these stories that makes the shortness of them more expansive. It also gives depth to the characters.

 

[thunderw21]

Thanks y'all.

MrNewPort, excellent story. The opening caught my attention right away. I enjoy your writing style.

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Here is part (a chapter perhaps) of a longer story I'm writing. I have a little bit done and no real plans on length, I just want to see how far it gets before I pull all of my hair out.

General background before you read: this is about an Anasazi enthusiast (Jim Wildblood) and a newbie journalist (Oscar Chamberlin) who are searching for Anasazi ruins in 'Shadow Canyon' in southeastern Utah. What strange events will take place and who/what will they meet?
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"A Night in Shadow Canyon"

Late afternoon slowly turned to evening and the lowering sun began to set behind the canyon walls, casting shadows on the hikers hours before the true sunset. The hot, stale canyon air soon disappeared thanks to a cooling breeze that quietly blew along the canyon floor. Shadows slowly swallowed the eastern wall of the canyon as the sun sank lower with each passing minute, warning Jim of the swiftly oncoming night. Finding a large and mostly flat spot on the slick rock, Jim stopped and called it a night. Oscar brought up the rear, still sweating from the intense hike under the frying afternoon sun. A coyote howled nearby, perking Jim’s senses to his surroundings. Nearly 100 miles away from another human being or even a sign of human existence, the two men were at the mercy of the desert and the mysteries that lurked in its impenetrable shadows.

“Don’t go wandering out of sight of the camp”, Jim called back to Oscar. “I don’t want anything happening to either of us.”




Light from the fire flickered on the canyon walls just as it had 1,000 years before in canyons stretching across the desert lands of Utah. Two tents sat on the slick rock, closely straddling the fire. The two companions lounged just inside the tent doorways, occasionally throwing more twigs and sticks to keep the hunger fire alive. Few words had been spoken as the day of hiking slowly sank into the men’s minds, the sights and sounds overloading the hearts of both newbie and veteran hiker alike. Several coyotes howled nearby, instilling in the men a feeling of primitivism. The only sounds that broke the silence of the dark canyon was the snapping of burning wood and the howls of coyotes that seemed to grow ever closer.

Jim felt uneasy about those howls. He had heard numerous similar howls on his earlier hikes throughout the Southwest but never so many at one time in one place. The legends about missing hikers swirled in his head like so many forgotten nightmares. Oscar’s words broke in upon Jim’s darkening thoughts.

“Jim, I can’t help but think about what it must have been like here thousands of years ago. It must have been like this, though without the conveniences we have today. Those people we’re searching for evidence of, they were just like us. Or we are just like them. The same mental capacity, the same bodies and the same physical abilities. The only difference between us and them is time. If you take me and put me back then I would become just as they were. Makes you wonder why we were put here now instead of back then or another time period for that matter. They probably thought the same thing about their predecessors.” Jim nodded as he stared into the dancing flames before him, entranced by the colors and tones leaping into the air, shooting up dying embers of dry twigs. Oscar continued with his monologue: “That’s one of the great questions of history, I guess. How and why does time affect humans? Time brings development, ideas, understanding and new problems all at the same time. Do you think people of the future will search for our ruins just like we’re searching for the Anasazi?”

Jim sat back and stared at the sky, searching for stars and constellations that he learned during his childhood. The light from the dying fire blanked out all but the brightest stars in the sky. “No, I’m afraid no one in the future will be looking for our ruins. If we leave any ruins behind that means we failed so miserably that there will be no one left to do the searching.”




The fire had completely died out as Jim poured earth over the glowing remains. A common occurrence in the desert, the temperature dropped quickly once the sun had finished its deathly hot arc across the sky. Oscar said goodnight and zipped closed the flap door of his tent as Jim wiggled into his tight but warm, womblike sleeping bag. A painful poking sensation on his hip reminded him that he was still wearing his gun, which he placed off to the side of the tent, still cocked for quick use if any threat should appear during the night. Zipping closed the tent flap, Jim noted how dark the canyon was compared to those he had experienced on earlier outings. “No wonder they call it Shadow Canyon.”




The dream started out far more pleasant than it abruptly ended, though it soon faded from memory as he awoke, slipping the bonds of his mind. He felt a gnawing feeling as the dream disappeared from thought, as if he was being watched. The details of the dream were lost as soon as he opened his eyes, greeted by complete darkness, but the feeling still lingered, stronger now in semi-consciousness than it had been in the dream. Fear gripped Jim, not just a normal momentary fear of the dark but a certain deathly dread that someone or something unknown to him was intimately watching as he peacefully lay in his tent. Ever so slowly he tipped his head up to peer around the tent, making sure everything was as it should be in an attempt to calm his nerves. Slowly moving his eyes passed the little window in the opposite wall, Jim spotted something.

Only the darkness of the canyon came through the window, that is except for two shining blood-red eyes that pierced the shadows. The fiery eyes, never blinking nor changing, fixed upon Jim as his face grew from an expression of sleepiness to one of frightened wonder. The eyes seemed to come closer, growing larger until they appeared to be in the tent. Jim was helpless, unable to do anything but stare as the eyes came toward him. Only the howl of a forlorn coyote momentarily broke the terror, sending Jim diving toward his handgun. By the time he had found it in the darkness the Hell eyes had disappeared, leaving him alone and wondering if they had merely been part of his lingering dream. Having pondered the vision and waited for the thing to return, he laid the gun back in its original position, clamped his eyelids shut and curled up tight in his sleeping bag, hoping what he could not see would not hurt him. Sleep did not come to Jim for the rest of the night.

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[happyfilmluvguy]

The Man in The Mouse

Once there lived a man in a mouse
It was his house
And he loved it
One day upon the awakening of his most beautiful slumber to date
This one woman named Kate, knocked at the door of the mouse
She said you have not payed your rent
Not even a cent, so she kicked his hiney out
And without a shout of a doubt, the woman named Kate moved in
And that is where she has been
Now known as the woman in the mouse
This is now her house.

 

[MrNewportCustom]

And Now for something Completely Different.

Some very good writing here. A thank you to all for the compliments, and to thunder21 for starting this thread. I'm posting old stories, but am being inspired to write something new.

Here are a few chapters about my noir-style bad guy, Axe. He doesn't have a back story, yet, but he's not completely bad. Not completely.

Warning: Violence and mild language.

Lightning and Dark​

I took the left too fast. The rear end started sliding out from under me, but I counter-steered to the right and regained control. I straightened the wheel and went down the hill. In my rearview mirror, I saw the first car do the same as I had done, but the second one went sideways, hit the curb and rolled three times before coming to a rest in an empty lot.

The wipers were going at full speed and it was still difficult to see, and the wet roads made driving nearly impossible. The occasional flash of lightning showed everything around me, while at the same time turning the windshield into an electric billboard of bright, silvery lights.

I cranked the old Graham to the right and counter-steered again, spraying water over the tops of cars parked at the curb. I got it straight and went up another hill, crested it and went into the air. The landing rattled both the car and me, and the tailpipe scraped the asphalt. It almost took flight again going down the other side.

The car in front of me came up from a dip before I saw its headlights. Another set of lights appeared in my mirror at the same time: I hadn’t lost them, yet. I steered around the oncoming car, barely missing the ash cans at the side of the road, and heard the driver yell something about this being a one-way street. I had no reason to care about that at this time, but it explained why all the parked cars were facing me.

I bounced the Graham across an intersection, ignoring the stop sign, and the road leveled off. I turned left onto a narrow residential street and then left again into an alley. The Ford’s fender-mounted headlights followed me.

Lightning flashed again, almost blinding me, but it gave me an idea. I swerved to the right until the fender was knocking ash cans into the brick wall that lined the alley. I could see them falling over and rolling onto the asphalt behind me. Most of them bounced off the Ford’s bumper, but one of them got caught in the undercarriage, raising its front for a moment.

I turned hard to the right at the end of the alley, sliding the tires sharply, and got the car straight just in time to miss an oncoming Cadillac. The driver was laying on the horn as I passed. It didn’t do him a bit of good, though, because a couple short seconds later he had a Ford on his fender and his left front tire inside an ash can. I had to laugh.

I looked ahead again just in time to see the man running across the street. I cranked the wheel to the right to avoid hitting him, then back to correct, but it didn’t stop the car from going into a spin. The Graham jumped the curb and the left rear fender crumpled into a power pole, then spun the other way over someone’s lawn until finally smashing its right front fender into a car parked on a cross street.

I was all right, but still in danger. I got out of the car and looked down the street at the Ford and the Cadillac. The owner of the Cadillac was yelling after the three men who had been in the Ford as they ran toward me. I reached back into the car for my gun, but it wasn’t on the seat, so I climbed in and felt around for it on the floor. I found it near the passenger kick panel, grabbed it and then ran around the car and down the street.

I ran faster than they did, but not so fast that they couldn’t see which direction I’d gone when they rounded the corner. After a couple of blocks, I turned into an alley and found a back door that looked like it’d be easy to break open. I put my shoulder to it, but all it did was groan under my weight, so I kicked it hard near the latch. The doorframe splintered and I was inside. I slammed the door shut and leaned against it to keep it closed. I waited and listened.

They came into the alley and stopped. One asked the other two where they thought I might have gone. One said that I could have kicked in a door, and the other said I was probably still running. The first guy didn’t agree with the third, so they started hitting doors to see if one would open. I felt the door give way a bit. I leaned harder against it and they hit it again. It didn’t move, so they went to the next one.

After a while, it got quiet. Then I heard the first guy tell his partners that I wasn’t in the alley any more. I waited a few minutes, then opened the door, and stuck my head out. I didn’t see anything. Even the rain had let up.

I opened the door further and stepped out. A bolt of lightning hit and one of the guys shouted, “There he is!” I ducked back inside and a second bolt illuminated some stairs to my right. I went up.

Upstairs was an open space with several tables arranged around the outer perimeter, all of them with boxes on them, and one with boxes underneath. I chose that one and dove behind it. Unfortunately, it was also near one of the windows. I crouched down and pulled my gun from my pocket. I found a spot between the boxes I could look through, and waited. I could hear them moving around downstairs.

A moment later, all three of them were in the room. The rain was pounding again, covering any sound they made, and I couldn’t see anything. Lightning flashed and I saw one of them near the door. I moved to the end of the table and another bolt hit. I saw all three in that flash. I fired my gun three times in the direction I’d seen each of them. Two of them groaned and one fell to the floor. The third one started firing at me.

I don’t know what was in the boxes, but they stopped the bullets before they could get to me. I reached around the boxes and fired a couple more rounds. Another one groaned and fell. There was one left.

“I know where you are, Axe. Might as well give up and let me kill you now.” I kept silent. As quietly as possible, I moved to the other end of the table and, still crouching, stepped out from behind it. This would expose me if more lightning struck, but he wouldn’t expect me to be here. I held my gun in front of me, ready to fire.

We waited what seemed like an eternity. Finally, another bolt of lightning hit and I could see that he was right where I thought he would be, aiming at the other end of the table. He saw me and aimed his gun, but I was too quick. He got one shot at me, his bullet tearing into my left arm, but I got two shots into his gut. He dropped his gun and fell to the floor on top of one of his guys.

I stood up and walked to where he’d fallen. Another bolt of lightning hit and I saw that he was reaching for his gun. I kicked the gun away and fired one more round into his head. I heard sirens in the distance. They were coming for the accident, but they’d find much more than they expected.

“When the police find you,” I said to the corpses, “the Englishman will know he can’t take me down.”

I left the building and became just another wet denizen of a city that stays up later than it should.

When the Pavement Stops​

The macadam seemed close enough to count the stones that were held together by the tar they’d been pressed into by the steamrollers. Every crack seemed a mile wide and hundreds of miles long, and the potholes, caused by weather and neglect, looked as deep as the Grand Canyon. Fifth Avenue, like the rest of the city roads, is a river of dark gray pavement with concrete banks, spotted with an occasional steel disk for maintenance.

The guy was strong and, by the looks of him and the power of his punches, he’d been a boxer in better days. Now he was just a washed-up has-been who made ends meet as muscle for whoever would hire him. The Englishman was getting desperate since I’d killed the last three guys he’d sent after me.

The bricks pushed deep into my gut, making it hard to breathe. I struggled to free myself from the hands that were trying to throw me from the roof. One hand pulled at my belt while the other pushed on my shoulder. But he couldn’t break the grip I had on a pipe that ran up and over the side of the building.

I turned my shoulders and grabbed the pipe with my other hand. His hand went out from under him and his chest hit the bricks with a grunt. I swung back around and planted my arm in his neck. Not very effective, but it got him off of me. He struggled not to fall and I pulled myself away from the edge. By the time I got myself standing, he was pushing himself up off the bricks.

“Good one,” he rumbled as he turned to face me again. “But’cha gotta do better’n that. Why don’cha give up an’ lemme throw ya to the street?” He grinned as he advanced, showing two missing teeth. Blood from the few good punches I got in ran from a cut above his left eye and the corner of his mouth. I was as certain I hadn’t knocked out the teeth.

I brought my fists up to the ready position and waited for him to get closer. He had the speed and the bulk, but I had the height advantage. When he was close enough, I sent a right at his nose. He blocked it and sent one of his own to my stomach, but not before I connected with a left. Now his nose was bleeding, too.

He staggered back and I wrapped my arms around my stomach. I lost my balance and landed on my ass. He jumped at me, and I rolled out of the way. His left shoulder struck a vent pipe that had been behind me, and I got a good kick to his side. He rolled onto his back and grabbed at his shoulder. I jumped onto his chest and started throwing wild punches at his face.

My anger made me careless: I hadn’t pinned his arms. He threw a punch that put me on my back between his knees. When I looked up, he was almost to his feet. I kicked hard at his crotch and connected with enough force to cause his grandchildren to be born dizzy. He doubled over and staggered back. I took that moment to catch my breath and stand up.

I yelled and rushed him, my fist arcing over my shoulder, but he stopped me with a right that hit my chest like a freight train. My feet came out from under me and I went onto my back again. I stayed down and caught my breath again while he staggered, holding his berries. He went down on one knee and stayed there a while. I rolled over and got on my hands and knees, and nearly puked. I coughed a couple times as I crawled away from him. I fell onto my side and watched him.

“Dammit,” he coughed. “Dammit all to hell!” He stood up and started walking toward me, swaying a bit with each step. “That dammed Englishman owes me big for this job, Axe! Yer tougher than he knows.” I coughed again and rolled onto my back.

He walked slowly, at first, but then gained speed. I prepared myself for what I knew was coming. I stayed down and waited for him, hoping he’d do what I expected. He didn’t let me down. He arced around and came at me from the side, then took as dive for my neck. When he was close enough, I put a fist in his eye. He staggered and I put the toe of my shoe in his ear. He went down hard, landing on his hip.

He tried to kick me, but I rolled away and stood up. He shook his head and used the bricks to push himself up. I let him get just high enough for me to put a foot in his chest. He staggered back half a step and landed, sitting on the low wall. I sent another kick to his chest and he went over. His feet swung up, almost hooking my foot, and he screamed for eight stories to the pavement below.

The last kick sent me off balance and I landed on my ass again. I sat for a moment to get the haze out of my head, and then just lay down on my back. I took a deep breath that made my chest hurt. I covered my face with my hands, and then let them run down my cheeks until they were at my sides. Everything hurt, and the metallic taste of blood ran down my throat.

I don’t know how long I stayed down, but I forced myself up when I heard a crowd gathering on the street below. I pushed myself to the wall and looked over. The boxer’s body was on the sidewalk; his head had split open when it hit the edge of the curb. The riverbank on this side ran red with his blood until it reached the sewer. When the pavement stops a man from falling, it ain’t pretty.

Struggle Just to Stand​

The rope was wrapped several times around my chest. They held my arms behind me, and one turn had been pulled over a hook, causing it to bite into me and making it difficult to breathe.

The Englishman stood silently behind William as he threw massive black fists at every part of my body. I could feel myself swinging and spinning with each blow. William was having fun; he enjoyed his work.

The Englishman told him to stop and then spoke to me: “The next time I give you twenty-four hours to find someone for me, you’d best find them, Mister Axelrod.”

“I did what I could,” I sputtered.

“You did not. She’s gone with my property, and you didn’t find her.”

I had done everything I could to find her, but couldn’t. Terrence and Willie helped too, and all three of us failed. I was hoping they weren’t meeting the same fate I was.

“Give me another chance. I need to find that dame as badly as you do,” I said.

“Sorry, my good man. You’ve had your chance. Now I’ll have to find that . . . dame . . . as you Yanks call your women on my own.” Then to William, “Carry on.”

William grinned bigger than ever, showing his big white teeth, and gave me a hard knock to the head. He let thecables center me before punching me in the gut again. The blows came hard, but not fast.

Finally, when everything was going dark, I heard the Englishman tell William I’d had enough and to cut me down. William cut the rope and I fell to the ground. Everything went dark when my head hit the concrete.

My eyes opened slowly, but nothing came into focus. I was on my side and the cold of the concrete was a sharp contrast to the heat of the sun on my face. I coughed, spraying my own blood and sending sharp pains through my entire body. My head was on something hard and cold, and it dug into my temple. I raised my head, tucked my chin into my chest until the sun was out of my eyes, and closed them.

My eyes opened again. The light from the window was now several feet in front of me. The cold concrete bit into my side. I smelled dust, grease, and cleaning solvents. When my eyes came into focus, I saw a jalopy parked over a hydraulic lift that probably hadn’t been used in years. A corner of the sunlight was on the one tire that no longer held air. The blanket of dust on the car seeped into the shadows behind it.

It took some effort, but I rolled myself onto my back. A block and tackle hung a few feet above me, and reminded me I‚Äôd been tied to it and that the Englishman‚Äôs muscle had used me as a pi?±ata.

It took six tries to sit up, but when I finally made it I pulled and twisted until the ropes were loose enough to get out of. When I got them unwound, I threw them aside and put my head in my hands, then waited for the spinning to stop.

Standing up was a struggle. Twice I fell down, and when I did get on my feet, I had to hold myself up with the workbench. There were grease covered tools and car parts all over it. Above it, there were pictures and posters of barely dressed girls: prints of Elvgren, Runci, and Ekman paintings.

I steadied myself on whatever would support my weight until I made my way to the office door. I went through it and jammed my thigh into the corner of the desk, nearly falling onto it. I got myself upright again and took a step sideways to go around, but kept going until I fell hard onto an old leather sofa. At least this time it was a soft landing.

There was a door in the corner behind the desk. Behind the door would be a storage room, and a bathroom behind that. I got up and made my way to the door. I leaned against it to hold myself up, and tried the knob. It wasn’t locked. I went through the door and made my way into the bathroom.

The bathroom was tiny; barely enough room for a toilet and sink, side by side. I sat on the toilet and rested my head on the sink, and stayed there a while. Just getting that far was a hell of a struggle.

I turned the water on. It sputtered a few times, and I waited for the brown rust to clear out. It didn’t take long. I cupped my hands and let them fill with water. I rinsed my mouth out with the first, and then drank six handfuls, not caring that water ran down my chin each time.

On the other side of the sink was a shelf mounted to the wall. On it was a bar of soap in a small bowl, toothpaste, and a toothbrush sticking out of a drinking glass. Above the shelf was a towel hanging from a makeshift rack. I stared at the glass for a few moments, wondering if I would have had the strength to hold it had I seen it sooner. I decided it didn’t matter and grabbed the soap. I slowly washed my hands and face.

It took a couple tries to get my fingers around the corner of the towel, but I finally pulled it down and dried myself off. I dropped it onto the faucet. Now I felt a little better. Just a little. I forced myself up and leaned on the sink, facing the mirror. My weight caused the sink to groan against its mounting bolts in the wall. I looked at myself. The Englishman’s gorilla had really worked me over.

Now Sue owed me a lot more than just the dope and the jewels. She owed me a hell of a lot more.

 

[Diamondback]

Well, it's not a short story, but it's Chapter 2 of something I've been writing on for about a year. Backstory (I'm still researching to make it believable) is the character's just regained consciousness after a spectacular plane-crash; I'm basically trying to put the reader inside the mind of a half-crazed genius who's part-student, part-hitman, and completely hacked off at both what he's become and his employers. Let me warn you upfront this is a little long, and let me place the utmost stress on the fact that while the character is loosely patterned after myself, it is NOT ME.

UNKNOWN LOCATION
When I regained consciousness, I was in a hospital room. Ugh, I feel like [omitted].
>UPDATE SITUATION DATASET
First things first—sitrep, damage report and intel. I'm in a hospital room, going by the paint and the furniture. Can't see very well without my glasses; at least by either luck or knowledge, someone killed the lights and closed the curtains, otherwise I'd be totally blinded. There's a dark shape, looks like a suit, standing at the foot of the bed. After what seems like an eternity, my eyes start to regain some focus. Maybe I should reconsider those ocular implants R&D was telling me about... Internal diagnostics: there isn't a part of my body that doesn't hurt. TV has CNN on, something about some missiles in Russia. Ughh, MSM. Why couldn't it have been FOX? Double-uugh, that's an SS-25 roadmobile launcher. “... Again, sources inside the Russian military report an entire flight of SS-25 intercontinental ballistic missiles is missing....” Oh, that's very bad. I remember the flap when they “misplaced” a couple ADMs. That little adventure was all kinds of fun explaining the AWOL to my professors. “...though Defense Ministry officials assure us that it's just a clerical error.” And then, a double-take as it hits me. Waitaminnit, didn't the Brasshole say something about SS-25s? Ohhh, [omitted]! Least this time, I'm doing “independent study”, so less trouble explaining if I gotta go clean up Ivan's mess out in the 'Stans again.

After what seems like an hour, a voice comes from the shadows: “Good, you're awake. Welcome back to the living, Mr. Jonas.” Same voice from the phone, coming from the suit—I can't really make out the face. Can't find the energy to lift my head...

>UPDATE LOCATION
>UPDATE GLOBAL SITUATION DATASET

When I finally have the energy to speak, the voice that comes out sounds truly awful, more like groans modulated into a “voice” than actual speech—worse than after any other major-injury recovery.
“UUUUUUUUUUGH. Not you agaaaain... Make yourself useful—turn the TV over to FOX News—and where am I?” The suit fumbles with some buttons for a minute.

“My secretary usually does this for me—I can't even program a TiVo.” Which is why watching you fumble is so much fun, Brasshole. Cheap thrill 'cause it's so easy, but...

“Never mind, throw me the remote and the TV Guide.” After a couple seconds to find the channel number, I've ditched Commie News Network for Hannity & Colmes. And now, my usual voice-alteration exercise, a throat massage from mandible to top ribs.

“You're in one of our secure clinics...”
>SECURE WEAPONS
>LOCATE CORRECTIVE OPTICS
The suit must've read my mind, because he continued, “Don't worry about your personals, we've got your gear secured. I really don't understand why you don't have a PPK, being a 007 fan...” A glance over to the desk confirms this; it appears that my hand-built matched set of long-slide doublestack .45s are sitting there, still in their dual shoulder holster, and my pocket .380s are sitting on top of them. But I can't really tell, it could just be a couple chunks of fabric and metal.

Finally having finished my “choir practice”, the response comes in an understandable but pain-filled voice.
“Because one, the .32ACP round's only good if crammed up the target's nose—'Friends don't let friends carry mouse-guns,' as old Mas Ayoob taught me—and two, I like my autos cocked-and-locked as God and His Prophet John Moses Browning intended, which is why I don't like Blocks either. The double-action automatic, as St. Jeff once said, is truly an ingenious solution to a non-existant problem. Three, the PPK was never U.S. military issue, and four, it's a freakin' POS. I need my glasses.” Hey, at least something must be right if I'm arguing guns and quoting the High Priest of the 1911 again.

“Your eyeglasses were beyond repair when we picked you up. We have your prescription on file, and Ray-Ban overnighted their darkest-tinted Aviators out after they got the fax. G-15 lenses in an RB3025 frame, just like your hero MacArthur's pair but prescription. They're on the nightstand.” I look over and find the case, open it, and sure enough... and they even fit. Weight's a little different than standard for RB3025, but... Aaaah, MUCH better.

“Can I turn some lights on in here now? The nurses have been having fits, trying to work in a near-blackout.”

>LOW WATER
“Sure. Any chance you could find me a glass of water?” Hey, pushing this suit around's kinda fun. Gonna pay for it later, but since he put me in this situation... The suit flips the lights on, then fills a glass and hands it to me—drained in one gulp. “Thanks.” Tap water never tasted so good...

>UPDATE SYSTEM CLOCK
>DAMAGE ASSESSMENT
“How long was I out? How bad?”

“Three weeks tomorrow. Internal bleeding and concussion trauma. Significant brain damage to frontal lobe. They didn't need to operate on it, though; I can't understand why not.” No great loss; it never worked anyway—thank God for Asperger neural architecture and that “built-in shock absorber.” Don't give in to victim-mentality, but go for sympathy, you can use the leverage. Especially if it tweaks this stuffed-shirt...

“You know, if your timing had been better...” The suit fidgets at that one.

“I know, I was wrong. I should have gone through ATC, or waited. We're having your plane rebuilt for you. Company's dime, top minds from the Skunk Works and all... Next-gen prototype gear from Collins and Honeywell, the whole nine yards. Experimental Williams engine, same one they plan for the Tomahawk's successor—since Bishop at Freedom Jet uses birds like yours as cruise-missile simulators, we figured a missile engine'd work. That cranky old guy in the Bond movies would be jealous of what we're doing. Docs say you'll be ready for Camp Perry in a week, I'll brief you in a few hours so you can start planning. Get some rest, you look like hell." Funny, I've eaten worse hits before and not a word. Now he's acting all concerned over damage to the area where I can afford to take it? Something is really rotten in Denmark—well, in wherever-the-hell-I-am anyway... I'm tired, and I feel like I just went 10 rounds against a Tyson-Foreman-Ali tag-team with all three packing those koa-wood Hawaiian antipersonnel meat-tenderizers, so my patience for intrigue is at an all-time low... Play it civil for now, see what happens.

“Feel like it, too. Last thing I remember was seeing an old Navajo looking into the cockpit.”

“Probably the same guy who called you in—he thought you weren't gonna make it. We scrambled a rescue as soon as you dropped off radar. His kids helped the PJs load you into the Pave Low, fuselage and all. Why do you like those little pilot-killers, anyway?” Pararescue? Nice to know someone cared enough to send the very best, but an MH-53 for one person? Whatever they want, it must be important to rate SOCOM assets.

You knew that, otherwise, it wouldn't have been the Red Phone and an auto-answer.

“One, they're small enough to launch and land almost anywhere. Two, I can almost out-turn some air-to-air missiles. Three, it's as close to wings and a halo as I'm ever gonna be. Four, in skilled, undistracted hands,” pausing to give Mr. Spook a brief 'Sidewinder-seeker-head Stare of Death', “it's a remarkably safe airframe. Five, I collect vehicles featured in film and television, when I can afford to—got any leads on a bargain DeLorean and flux-capacitor? Six, I'm working up something special, and it's the only bird that fits into the cargo hold—USAF even air-launched me out the rear ramp of a C-5 once.”

>LOW FUEL
“Any chance of calling out to Delmonico's, getting a steak delivered? I need some chow.” The suit—does he even have a face?—shrugs.

“Docs were planning to restart you on solids the day after you woke up. I'll have someone sneak you a Croissanwich for breakfast—don't worry, we know all about your controlled diet. You've been on a steady ration of injected protein-shakes, and now that you're conscious again, you have a little more say in liquid foods. The soup of the day's Chicken Noodle, I think. I'll be back in a few hours for that briefing,” the suit comments as he starts for the door. Hospital food—had enough of it when Mom had her gallbladder removed. A fate worse than death...

“As if the crash—my baby that I skimmed off the college fund for years to pay for and painstakingly built with my own two hands—and the injuries weren't bad enough, you gotta torture me with hospital food? Isn't there something about that in the Geneva Conventions? Oh well, could be worse—at least it's not McDonald's or Taco Bell. Ick, I feel like I was hit by a Linebacker II strike.” At this point, my normal tendency to lean forward, or in this case sit up, when agitated is probably not such a good idea... OWWWWW, [omitted], that hurts! Shouldn't get so worked up next time...

On his way out, the suit turns—I still can't make out his face—and says, “You should. You were clinically dead, flat-lined, for an hour...” He might have said more, but that's the last thing I remember before blacking out.

 

[AeroDillo]

I got part of one I wouldn't mind posting, but I think I'll hold back. The language might be considered excessive to some. Plus it's part of a much longer story, and I don't have much done. [huh]