Wind

Wind
Howling, Yawning
Screams, whistles, roars
Oh how it bites!
Power

Chilling
Snow bitten, freezing
Churning and howling in
This frigid December air, the
Wind blows

Wind
Gentle, cool
Kisses, caresses, sings
It's calm embrace comforts
Serenity

Tickling
Dandelion
Seeds float over warm green grass
Defeating the arid heat of
the Sun.

Lotto Win

Carl entered the dingy gas station store, picked up a pepsi and two snickers bars and approached the counter. Behind it stood a beer bellied man in a black shirt and blue jeans. He had long bushy brown hair and a mustache and an aromatic mix of cigarettes and cheap beer. He was reading a newspaper.

"Roger! I didn't know this was your shift!" Carl grinned at the cashier.

Roger looked up, "Sarah's water broke, I'm taking her shift." He folded the paper and set it down.

"Congratulations to her," Carl replied.

Roger snorted, "another baby to a welfare mother. Sometimes, I hate the state government."

"What can you do Rog? What can you do?"

"I know what I'm gonna do," Roger answered. "I'm voting Republican next year. Getting real tired of this crap. Two snickers and a pepsi, lemme see . . ." his sausage-like fingers went over the register.

"And ten gallons of gas," Carl added.

"Thirty one seventy seven," Roger counted up. Carl slapped down a credit card and Roger swiped it.

The door opened and a man entered, an old tall man with a grizzly brown beard and a red cap on his head. As Carl gathered his snacks and his card, the man asked Roger for a lottery card.

"They're picking the numbers in just a few minutes," Roger said, pointing to a TV screen. The man leaned against the counter and scratched off the ticket. The three waited in suspense.

"What's the point?" Carl asked.

"Someone's gotta win," the man in the hat said, in a deep farmer's voice.

The numbers showed up on screen. The man jumped a mile.

"I won!" he shouted, and then, screaming in ecstasy, he ran out of the gas station. Carl and Roger watched him dancing and shouting and then he stepped into the street and got hit by a bus.

"Oh dear god!" Roger shouted, following Carl who was running out the door. The bus had pulled over and people were running towards the dead man.

"What luck!" Roger moaned.

"What luck!" Carl shouted happily.

"I'm gonna get the paramedics," Roger said, pulling out his cellphone.

"I'm gonna get the winning ticket!" Carl said gleefully

The Police Chase

Driving down I-95 in my Chevy Cavalier, I noticed I was being followed. I glanced into the rearview mirror and my heart squeezed a moment as I saw sirens. But then I realized my initial assessment was incorrect. The blue Taurus, which was following me, had a ski rack. A red and blue ski rack, made of glass.

I found this odd. Perhaps he was patriotic? Or maybe Russian. Or worse, French. I decided it was a French guy, but why he had a French colors on a ski rack while driving behind me in New Hampshire, I could not explain.

I continued driving and he stayed behind me. My mind drifted and soon, as my foot stayed on the gas. As I was riding a unicorn through verdant meadows, under a golden sky as the newborn sun began its approach, the speedometer was inching upward. When I snapped back to reality, I was doing ninety.

The Taurus behind me, the French dude, had lights coming from its ski rack. Flashing in French patriot colors. He was tailgating me, so in irritation, I pulled over to the slow lane let him pass. I cannot stand tailgaters. To my dismay, this clown stayed behind me.

This continued for a few miles. The French driver was getting irate. His ski rack was now wailing loudly and I was wondering why would you add a siren to a ski rack? Anti-theft device? Skis are expensive, but why would you set it off while you're tailgating someone? Especially since he wasn't carrying skis.

Now irate, I pulled over and came to a stop. He stopped behind me. Then the French clown came out of his car, inexplicably wearing a cop costume, looking very put out. He approached. I saw he had a gun, and not wanting to have my car stolen, I stepped on the gas and peeled out. The French guy ran back to his car and he began to chase me!

I flew at about 90 miles, trying to get this cop-disguised thief off my back. I could now see that not only had he stolen a cop uniform, he had also taken the time to paint the State Trooper emblem on his Taurus. I wondered why a French car thief would undergo such deception. He stayed behind me. For miles he chased me, he was truly desparate to steal my decrepit Cavalier! So I slammed on the brakes and he rear ended me. The force was so strong that my airbags blew and the car went off the road and into a ditch. The shock was so great, I loss consciousness.

I woke up, in a hospital, held hostage by a bunch of men in cop-costumes. I do not know what they want, and I do not know what became of my car. As soon as my wounds heal, I intend to escape!

Zadok the Dragon

Mighty Zadok, a dragon was he.
Green were his scales, sharp were his claws
Fast were his wings, strong were his jaws
His breath was of fire, his eyes were as ice.
In the land of Darloc, he exacted a price
For the peasants were weak, in terror they fled.
Those who remained are roasted and dead.
Zadok feasted upon them for hour after hour
Gorging and feeding until each was devoured.
Zadok roared and pillaged on forth
And came to a kingdom up in the north.
He ate every man, and burned every house.
Nothing survived, not even a mouse.
He gorged and and feasted until the next day
Until he went on to his terrible way.
He flew in the sky, a frightful beast,
Seeking as always, a gruesome feast.
Settling down in a quiet small village,
He roared his bright flame in terrible pillage.
Zadok, he stole all their jewels and gold
And then he ate them, the young and the old.
No one was spared, all were consumed.
Every last person on Earth was doomed.
At last, with a belly full, he declared himself king.
He put on a crown, a robe, upon his claw was a ring.
"I am your lord, I am your lord,"
Said he, and he bellowed and roared.
But alas, he looked around and saw with a stun,
None had survived, none at all, not a one.
He could not be king, he had no one to rule
And so he wondered why fate had been so cruel.
Lonely Zadok, a dragon was he.

The Echo

The Echo

The compressors were shot. The twin metal rods had burned out and hung loosely from their sockets. The engine whined terribly, refusing to enter superlight speed. Two laser blasts hammered The Echo, rocking the ship, knocking Bridget Rubori, the ship’s mechanic, back against the metal wall as she searched desperately for a replacement. She looked frantically at the damaged engine. The repairs were nearly complete, if the damned Imperials didn’t get another shot on the engine and of course, if there were spare compressors to be found. She considered for a moment bypassing the compressors, unsure if she wanted to take the risk. The compressors were vital to the stability of The Echo and without them, the ship could explode brilliantly when hitting superlight. At which point she and the entire crew would be naught but atoms floating in the darkness of space.

“Bridget! Get that engine going!” Captain Flynn’s voice hollered frantically from the intercom to the engine room.

She cursed. Searching through the shelves of spare parts, she noticed grimly that she had plenty of spares, except for the part she needed. Picking out a wrench and a spanner, she went to work on the bypass, carefully rewiring the fusion controller, trying to defuse the excess energy from the ion drive down another, less volatile path. Sweating, she wiped her red hair from her forehead as she worked, hoping to the grace of whatever deity might be out there that this bypass would not kill the entire crew. Frantically, she rewired the box, shut it, and then hooked the neutron capacitor directly to the ion drive and crossed her fingers. Two more laser blasts rocked the ship. The lights went out for a second and then came back on.

“Bridget! The engines now!” Flynn shouted on the comm. “Our shields are down dammit!”

“I worked around the compressors captain,” Bridget replied in the comm. “Try now, but I don’t recommend going past point five past superlight!”

On the bridge, Captain Tomas Flynn looked at the scopes on the pilot’s display. The Imperial warship was behind them, firing from all of its turbo laser batteries as the pilot, Sam Pherson, kept the ship flying, his hands white knuckled on the controls. Blasts of green lasers flickered past the view port, disappearing into the depths of space.

“You heard her Sam, superlight now!” Flynn commanded.

“Without the compressors?” Sam complained.

“Now Sam!” Flynn barked.

“People, hold on to something,” Sam said through the intercom, “this will be rocky . . . if we don’t all explode.”

Sam reached out and pulled a lever. The ship began to shake violently. Flynn lost his grip and flew backwards, sprawling on the floor. The scopes turned to static and the stars shook. Hairline cracks began forming on the viewport. Some of the circuits shorted and sparked.

In the engine room, the ion drivers were rattling terribly. Sparks of electricity snapped out from the brilliantly white fusion reaction core. Bridget stared at it helplessly, adjusting a power coupling, hoping to contain the massive energy surging unchecked through the engine. The coupling was coming out of it’s socket and once it blew completely, the ship would be gone

“Come on, hold together,” she prayed. She held on to the coupling, tightening it. The coupling was shaking violently. She tightened it further, opened it, rerouted the wires and then suddenly, the shaking stopped. The engine’s whining and rattling turned into a loud and smooth hum. Breathing a sigh of relief, Bridget put on a pair of protective earmuffs and began to work, fixing the stress fractures.

On the bridge, Flynn breathed a sigh of relief as the stars turned to starlines and the pursuing warship disappeared behind them.

“A few more seconds of that and we’d be sucked into the vaccuum,” Sam said, looking at the fractured glass. “Good thing none of those cracks went all the way through.”

“We’re not entirely out of it yet,” Flynn replied. “Without the compressors, the engine is still unstable, I’d give it fifty light years before it blows and we don’t want to be on the ship when that happens. Anything nearby that can service this ship?”

Sam called up the navigational display, “Randar is in twenty light years, a backwater planet, low imperial presense. It’ll take us a few hours to get there.”

“The goods are well hidden,” Flynn replied, “and our legal papers are up to date, shouldn’t be a problem.”

“What of the imperials, sir?” a deep voice said. Flynn turned around. First Mate Grontik Trellg came on the bridge.

“We should be fine,” Flynn said. “The jammers kept them from pulling our flight plans, and even if they did break through, they won’t know we’re going off course. Sam, reroute navigation to Randar.”

“Yes sir,” Sam replied.

“Congratulations people,” Flynn said on the intercom, “we’ve just made yet another clean get away.”

A Canteen on Onjak

Anella Starfall sat in the canteen, coolly watching the patrons, waiting for her contact. She sipped slowly on a fine Reliosian wine. Anella sat back in the uncomfortable leather booth. She was tall, the toes of her boots touched the empty booth on the far end. She was also incredibly attractive, with wavy black hair falling over her shoulders, dark blue crystalline eyes and thin, cruel eyebrows gracing her eyes. She wore a black sleeveless shirt, and pants held up by a belt where two blaster pistols, several energy cells, and a dagger were held. Her finely manicured fingers tapped impatiently on the round plastisteel table as she waited.

The canteen was lit dimly by small bulbs in the center of each table. The patrons spoke in a quiet murmur. Androids wheeled around carrying drinks to the customers sitting at the tables, while a bartender stood before a system of pipes and tubes, mixing drinks for the regular drunks. The establishment was particularly seedy. Nearly everyone in the room was illegitimate, smugglers, pirates, criminals, and the like. Anella eyed them all. Most were armed with blasters, keeping a wary eye on the door, concerned for an unlikely, yet not unexpected, raid by imperial troopers, which would be unfavorable to everyone. Anella analyzed them. No one noticed, or cared, about her presence.

The entire planet was a backwater world in a system far beyond the grip of the Empire or the influence of the Confederacy. Onjak was its name, a green and blue haven for crooks or for people simply staying out of sight.

The door came open and a Grellian entered. The lizard like man looked at Anella and then approached her, nodding in greeting. Anella silently flipped off her blaster’s safety and sat up straight as the alien took a seat opposite of her.

“Good afternoon, Domor,” she said. “Any word on the android?”

“The droid was . . . gone when I arrived,” the Grellian replied. “I am sorry. But I do know who took it. A Cavalier class freighter escaped Astarnia just a few hours ago, under the noses of the smug imperials. The Echo I believe it is called, are you familiar with the ship?”

“Captain Flynn and his crew of pirates,” Anella snarled. “I know him. There’s a price on his head if I recall.”

“There is and it is about to be bigger,” Domor replied. “He made off with the android. I do not know if he is aware of the droid’s secrets, but he is aware of its value.”

“I am glad you came to me with this information,” Anella said. “Flynn and I go back years.”

“Friends?”

Anella barked a short laugh. “Enemies. The hatred is mutual.”

“I wonder why you never tracked him down,” Domor said.

Anella shrugged. “The bounty wasn’t high enough and I had other jobs. And I have a question for you.”

“Please ask.”

“Why did you fail to retrieve the android before Flynn stole it?” She squeezed the trigger of her blaster. The gun fired loudly and the Grellian fell over, his head hitting the table. The crowd stopped and looked at her. Then slowly, they went back to their business. She looked him over. He was dead.

“I really hate failure,” she told the deceased. Getting up, she tossed credits to the bartender and left the canteen.

The ISC Justice

Admiral Jack Parintos stood at the bay windows, staring lividly into the blackness of space where The Echo had recently been. Just a few more seconds and they’d’ve been in the tractor beam or simply blown into atoms, even at the cost of the loss of the android. Parintos was tall, wearing a spotless blue uniform, decorated with numerous metals he had earned during the course of the war. His hair was greying and wrinkles of both stress and age formed on his brow. He stood at a parade rest stance staring out the bay windows.

His ship was the Imperial Star Cruiser Justice, the Imperial fleet’s warhammer. The massive bulbous ship was the largest of the capital ships, bristling with modern weaponry, enough to terrify most planets into submission. It was one of ten Star Cruisers. The ships were large and powerful, but expensive to build and maintain. Justice alone took ten thousand crewers, including support for food, housekeeping and medical attention. Justice was a military city.

Below Parintos, crewers worked at displays, all uniformed in the blue. The crew of the Justice were the brightest and the smartest the Imperial Navy had, each one trained rigorously and disciplined harshly. Parintos turned to an ensign.

“Ensign Jenkins!” he barked, “calculate all the possible routes a Cavalier class freighter can take at superlight in five hours!”

“Yes sir!” the ensign said, turning to his console, typing in commands. A few moments later, he looked at the admiral, “sir, I have the map.”

The admiral looked at the display. “Contact the helmsman, tell him to set a wormhole coordinate for this location,” he said pointing.

The ensign complied.

“Prepare for portalization,” the admiral barked.

Outside, three enormous arms unfolded from the ship, the edge of each one broken off into three-pronged forks which began to spin. Three rays of particles shot out before them. Before them, in the space hundreds of miles away, an enormous vortex ripped into spacetime and through it, the admiral could see stars from another region of the galaxy.

“Wormhole opened to the correct coordinants sir,” the ensign said.

“Very well, helmsman, forward, full speed,” the Admiral barked.

The cruiser’s engines roared to life and the enormous ship passed through the wormhole. For being a grand advancement in astrophysics, the admiral noted, the passage was rather dull. It wasn’t any more interesting than a million mile drive through deep space. They came out of the wormhole a few moments later. Abruptly behind them, the hole shut.

“Grav control,” the Admiral said. “Fire up the gravity wells, we’ll catch them.”

Authors note: Not really a story, just some ideas being thrown together. I guess this comes from watching Firefly.

Flynn is a Han Solo/Malcolm Reynolds type pirate captain. Anella Starfall is a bounty hunter/assassin, a female Boba Fett perhaps. Parintos is an Admiral Piett type figure.

Bridget, Sam and Grontik are three of Captain Flynn's ten man crew.

This is in a time where faster than light is delivered through two technologies, an engine called an ion drive which can propel the ship past the speed of light somehow, working around the interstellar speedlimit, and a wormhole generator which can create and control a temporary stable wormhole. The idea would be that the ion drives are relatively cheap and the most common form of transport and the wormhole generator would be extremely expensive and only used by the super rich and the militaries.

This is also a time of chaos where two factions, the Empire and the Confederacy are fighting for control of the galaxy, while rogues like Flynn take no sides and try to gain a profit in illegal activities such as smuggling and piracy. Neither the Empire nor the Confederacy can be classified as good/evil, they both are gray and have committed crimes.

Flynn's ship, the Echo, is a modified frieghter. it's name comes from my car, which is a Chevy cavalier, 565 PE (Papa Echo). Cavalier class, model 565 P. E in the phonetic alphabet is Echo.

The Stars are Pretty

"The stars are pretty aren't the Jed?" I asked, looking out at a speckled navy sky, far in the wilderness, away from the pollution of civilization. The darkness was so complete that even the hazy smog of the Milky Way band could be clearly seen stretching across the night sky like some nebulous halo.

"They sure are. God's gift to man kind indeed." Jed replied. Jed was a heavy set man, religious, wearing a cross around his neck. Jed was older, a pastor at a nearby church and a man with an interest in stars nearly as complete as his faith in Jesus.

I appreciated the kind old man, he had words of wisdom and was smart in many degrees. But I remember this night because I could not help but feel a profound disgust for what happened next.

We had set up a telescope and I looked into it. A wonderous view of distant stars from a whole different galaxy came through the lens.

"Look at that, the Andromeda Galaxy," I said. "Have a look."

"I see nothing," Jed replied, stepping away from the telescope.

"I don't understand."

"Then I shall explain. The Bible says the universe was formed 6000 years ago. I believe that. Thus when I look in your telescope, I see no stars for they are beyond 6000 light years away. The light has not arrived yet. Thus I do not see them."

"But clearly you can see them through the telescope."

"No John, you are deluded. There are no stars in that telescope. The light has not arrived yet. I cannot see them."

I sighed.

FORE! .........................................BOOM!

"Beautiful day for golfing Jim," Ted said, looking over the 18 hole course.

"Indeed it is," Jim replied, sticking his tee in the grass. He pulled out the bag of balls and began rifling through it. He pulled out a small green object and set it on the tee.

"Is that a grenade?" Ted asked.

"Of course! This is such a boring sport so why don't we golf with grenades?" Jim asked. "Make things exciting."

Jim pulled the pin and really quickly took a swing at the pineapple grenade. "FORE!" he shouted as the device launched into the air and then exploded over the fairway.

"You are the stupidest person I know," Ted said.

Rumford

Prospect avenue was lined with shabby apartments and small, forlorn houses. The paint on the buildings was chipping, fading and in places, decaying brown wood was visible. Dirt stained windows opened to blackness within. A few houses were fixed up, quaint little buildings with good strong wood, fresh paint or vinyl sidings, but these were the minority. Rumford from Prospect whimpered of disrepair and hard times. The rest of the town was more of the same, shabby apartments, clumsily built houses, dirt and neglect.

A car sat out of one run-down complex, a trash-laden building that had an enclosed front porch filled with useless and forgotten junk. The offensive car was old, a model from twenty to thirty years ago, painted a disgusting brown, and the paint was chipped, the rusty metal showed through in places, more pronounced in the various dents in the body. The windshield was dusty and dirty, a dull grey film obscured the view to old ripped pleather seats. The tires were deflated. The dead corpse of a car sat quiet and forgotten in front of this junk house.

Upon the car, was snow. Bordering the street, was more snow. Dirty snow, with bits of rocks and hair and salt piled high along the edges, higher than the cars parked in driveways, mountains of soggy filth. It was March, a season in New England that was especially dirty, and the beating rays of the sun could neither decide to melt or to freeze the little mill town, so it did both. This of course, made for wet, slushy streets, salted and covered in dirt by snowplows so cars could have traction, giving the snow mounds a sickly white color.

From Prospect, the town was quiet. The dull rumbling of vehicles on Route 2 created the only ambient noise. Occasionally a car or a pedestrian would come by, but Rumford was quiet, a dying town with little left to say.

Prospect intersected with Route 2 about a mile from home, at the top of a hill. There, another mile away, was the mill, the sole economic source of the town. A sulfurous paper mill which employeed 800 workers and gave the town a reason to exist. The townsfolk were us to it, the stench no longer registered in their noses, but foreigners, which to the townsfolk was a label applied to anyone who lived in Auburn or beyond, could smell it. It was a repugnant stench, and if a townsperson could smell it, it spoke of low pressure and coming rains. Otherwise, the ghastly sulfur smell was ignored.

On an island across from a arched bridge, with it's green paint peeling, was a collection of red brick buildings. This was the business district. It had three streets, a two lane, one way street down the center and two flanking streets on the other side. It played host to a few businesses, some permanent, but most only lived for about a year before they were unable to operate any longer. Only two chains were found down there, a Rite Aid, and a Dunkin' Donuts.

Atop the hill from the green-arched Morse Bridge (the bridge to downtown) was a Catholic Church, it's splendorous spires hidden away in scaffolding. And still, the houses on the road were shabby, old Victorian homes with peeling paint and dirty windows. But past the church, it got somewhat better. Little houses with fresh paint looked respectable on the road, showing some sign that Rumford, while dying, wasn't dead yet. And then, there was the hospital at the top of the hill.

And what a sight it is. The building was built of red brick with stairs going up to an entrance adorned with greek columns and a greek overhang. But above the alcove where the ambulances dropped of their patients, was an enormous modern overhang of windows, as if some alien saucer had smashed into the rectangular building, creating an eyesore of a combination of new and old styles.

From the hospital, one could look down a precipitous road that dropped steeply for a very long ways. Looking yonder, one could see the snow buried sports fields far beyond the supermarket and the elementary school. The traffic went from dead to busy as Route 2 intersected Lincoln at the only busy light in town (but not the only light).

I could go on with my tour of my home town, but it really is more of the same.

The Girl

I was at the ski resort, my hands wrapped around an aromatic cappuccino, slowly recovering from the cold. Even covered in ski gloves, the cold air slowly penetrated and numbed my fingers as I descended at near forty miles an hour, so I had decided to take a break for a few minutes before going back up again.

And there was this girl. She was cute, with blond hair and blue eyes, off in a corner. She wasn't skiing, she wore sneakers, jeans and a hoody. She was extremely attractive, enough that she had distracted me from my cup several times. But her boyfriend stood by her (they kissed at least once) and he was an immense man. I knew by sight that he played against the bears in football when he was in high school. And I don't mean "the bears" as in a football team. No, I mean real goddamn grizzly bears. This man was in a black hoody adorned with a skull, snowboard boots on his feet, so I knew immediately, he was a badass who'd snap my neck if I so much as winked at his girl.

I thought I was being discreet. Truly I did. A girl of her stature could not be ignored however hard I tried. But at one point she went to the bathroom and the boyfriend approached me, looking very put out.

"You looking at my girl?" he demanded.

"No! No, I . . .ah I'm a homosexual!" I lied, hoping to save my neck.

"Really now!"

"I was uh, bemoaning the fact that you were taken, I'm sorry man," I said.

He leaned over to me, "wanna go someplace tonight?" he whispered.

The Transitory Plane

Terror swept through Suzetta, her breathing was rapid and shallow. Agonizing pain rocked her body. The blade through her heart still oozed rich blood. She tried to hold on but the world was flickering, dissolving, and then gone.

She could not fathom how much time was spent, but when she awoke, all she saw was an endless white light in every direction. The horrific infinity extended beyond time, space and knowledge. There was nothing but her. It wasn't fog, no she could see fine. Looking down, she saw she was in her usual trappings, leather pants, black blouse. But her hands rose to her chest, the knife wound was gone. She opened her blouse. No scar, no cut, nothing. Quickly she started to button up and then realized how silly it was being modest when there was no one else around. But she buttoned up anyways.

Behind her, followed her shadow, which was odd, for there was no visible source of light. The world was as white before her as it was behind, above and below her. Her boots stepped on nothing, but she wasn't falling either. But she was walking, although she had no idea where or why.

She had no idea how long or how far she walked. There was no sense of time in this void, nor distance. But eventually, she came across a door. The door was just that, a door. No wall held it up. It was just a square door in empty space. Curiously, she looked behind it and saw the back of the door, bronze hinges and handle. She tried it from the front and with ease it opened. She expected it to open to the white space beyond, but instead, what she saw were grasslands.

Passing through the door and leaving it open, she saw cerulean skies, painted with white puffy clouds and a yellow orb of a sun above. White daisies were scattered through the grass, intermixed with puffy dandelions. There were no trees to provide shade, but none was needed. The temperature was perfect. A cool breeze brushed Suzetta, gently tossing her hair, it was not chilling, but comforting.

"Suzetta?" a male voice said.

"My daughter!" a woman said.

"But you are too young!" the male said, a sad tint in his voice.

Suzetta turned around. A man and a woman approached, the man leading a familiar brown mare.

"Father! Mother!" Suzetta shrieked, all the wild happiness bubbling through her. She embraced them both, tears in her eyes. "I've missed you so much!"

Fred, the father, gave Suzetta her eyes. His were blue, they twinkled in the sunlight. He was tall and handsome, cleanshaven with a crop of brown hair on his head. But Suzetta got everything else from her mother Vivianne, who's lush brown hair was pulled up into a bun. She wore a green summer dress and a matching hat. Her eyes were brown pools under the shade of the brim.

"We never stopped caring about you," Vivianne said.

"We are proud of who you are becoming," Fred added.

"But you're . . ."

"Dead?" Fred asked. "Moved on, yes. But soon you'll be ready to join us."

"But that means I'm . . . dead."

"Don't be afraid dear," Vivianne said, "It is natural and it isn't so bad in the end."

"Is this heaven?"

"So to speak," Vivianne said. "As long as the door remains open, you'll have a link to the living world. And until that door closes, we cannot be truly reunited."

Suzetta was silent.

A sudden throbbing pulse began again. Suzetta gripped the doorframe into the outer nothingness, seeking the source of the heartbeat throb. Another door flew open, a new portal in the white void, emitting golden light.

"Come back . . . it is not your time! Come back . . ."

Suzetta stared at the new doorway and the feminine voice coming through it. She had found them! Her family was here and she didn't want to leave. She grasped the door handle, ready to close it and move on and then stopped.

Taeryn.

The man was in trouble. Whatever Aruvious had planned for the young man, Suzetta knew it would be horrible.

And then she realized something more.

"Come back!"

As she recalled the fading image of Taeryn's face and voice she realized something, something which had been building with in her for the last week had come true.

"Come back!"

She loved him.

Tears running down her eyes, she gave Fred and Vivianne a final embrace of farewell.

"I cannot stay," she sobbed.

"We will wait for you in the hereafter," Fred answered.

"We love you," Vivianne smiled.

The apparition of her parents faded.

Resolutely, tears streaming from her face, she stepped into the new doorway.

She was lying on the ground, breathing hard. Her hands immediately reached out to her chest. The knife was gone, but she did feel an irregular scar, and underneath, a heartbeat. She blinked and rubbed her face and realized she had been crying. A figure was sitting over her, blurry and incomprehensible still, but slowly the world came back into sharp focus. The woman was an elf, with rich auburn hair, orange eyes and a fair and noble face. She was clad in chain mail, and over the armor, she wore a tabard of black and red, depicting a dragon's head.

"What happened? Who are you?" Suzetta asked.

"You were passing through the transitory plane," the elf replied. "As for me, I am Orissa Sal'ynarai, a knight of the Order of Nethsara."

"You were the voice," Suzetta muttered. She looked at Orissa, puzzled, "was I dead? I'm not sure if I was dreaming."

"You were dead," Orissa replied.

"Eliash . . ." Suzetta cursed in amazement.

"A complex spell can be used to bring one back," Orissa continued, "provided they don't close the door. Provided that they don't move on to the realm of the dead. Fortunately, I am trained in the arts of magical healing, and of course, resurrection."

"How did you find me . . . and why did you think to bring me back?"

"Fate," Orissa shrugged. "I can't explain it. I was riding down this way, on business of my own. I saw you, dead in your own blood, stabbed with a knife. Again, let me emphasize, I don't know why, but I felt it necessary that you come back. Something, some nebulous and ethereal presence told me it wasn't yet your time. I healed the wound and called you back." She held out a hand and helped Suzetta back to her feet.

"I am curious though," Orissa asked, "If you don't feel comfortable with this, don't answer, but what convinced you to listen?"

"Taeryn. A man named Taeryn. I need to rescue him," Suzetta said.

"Because he is in danger?"

"Because I love him."

Author's Note: As I was defining this world, the limits of magic came to my mind. Naturally, if I want to make a fantasy story realistic, there must be rules that I must follow, or nothing makes sense. Resurrection is one of the most difficult magics to work. It requires that the spellcaster heal the body and make contact with the soul of the recently departed, before the recently departed finishes her transitionary period (the limbo Suzetta found herself in) and moves on completely.

Orissa is another important character, found in other stories. She is a knight, a noble elf from an ancient time.

The curse may be out of place in this snippit. "Eliash!" is equivalent to saying "Jesus Christ!"

He's a Kenyan

Cigar in mouth, dripping hot ash in the grass of the football field, barrel shaped Limbaugh put an arm on Obama's shoulders.

"You'll do great," the pundit said, puffing out an asthmatic cloud of smog.

Obama, standing out in the cold on the track in shorts looked at his competitors. "I don't see why I have to go through with this."

"The American people need to know," Rush replied. "They deserve to know. The race is to ensure that you, my Hawaiian friend, are . . uh . . . fit for office."

"Oh come on Rush," Obama complained, "an hour of basketball a morning doesn't count?"

Rush blew another grey smoke cloud into the cold morning fog. "Oh it helps, but this allows us to quantify. Get on the track!"

Obama took his place. Next to him was a Kenyan. And another Kenyan. Then it dawned on the President, they were all Kenyan. Obama looked at his competition in wonder. What stunt were the neocons pulling now?

Limbaugh pulled out a gun, pointed it straight in the air and pulled the trigger. The race had begun. Obama put his whole body into it, Nike sneakers propelling him forward with all his might. He found that he could stay with the pack, but was unable to pass the leader. And soon, it was all over. Fifth place.

"The results are in," Limbaugh said. "you were only point nine three seconds off from the lead. You are most assuredly Kenyan. The impeachment trial begins tomorrow."

Authors note: It actually sickens me that the neocons are pushing this ridiculous conspiracy on the President

Don't Call Me Suzie

Suzetta's twin swords lie uselessly on the ground, ten feet away from her. Three ruffians stood at close range, pointing swords at her. Her back was to a stone wall, her hands clenched into fists. She could smell the alcoholic stench of their breath. Her heart was beating rapidly. Suzetta was sweating, fear had gripped her, fear and something worse. Anger. A blood red haze distorted her vision.

Blood dripped from a cut on her forehead.

"Looky what we caught ourselves here!" said one ruffian.
"And ain't she a beaut, oh I am going to enjoy her tonight," the second one sneered.
"After I'm done with her," the first replied. "Whats your name pretty girl?"

She spat in his face. He laughed, a rancorous halting sound.

"Her name's Suzetta," the third one said, "she work's for Tomas's crime ring. I use to work for that bastard."
"Aw, he won't mind if we borrow the young lass for the night." the first returned.
"No matter, I ain't afraid of Tomas, little Suzie here is gonna provide us with a good night tonight." The second ruffian grinned, revealing gaped yellow teeth.

She snapped. Catlike, she pounced, hands and feet becoming weapons. Within a second it was over. She had the ruffian in a lock, with his sword pressed against his neck.

"Don't call me Suzie," she snarled in his ear, and then slit his throat. He slumped to the ground. The other two ran after her. She rolled out of the way and picked up her twin swords. She slash off the hand of the first ruffian and before he could scream, plunged her second sword through his heart. The third one swung at her but she easily parried and impaled him through the stomach. Eyes wide, he gasped and collapsed, clutching his stomach, his hands reddening with blood.

"Don't call me Suzie," she repeated.

And then left.

Author's note: Suzetta is a character of a much larger story. She is a thief and an assassin. This particular scene came to mind as I was writing her larger story, but it really doesn't have a home, so I put it here. I might use it, I might not.

Victory for the God of Murder

The Warrior Priest named Nathasius stood looking out a window in a chamber, high in a tower, overlooking the ruined realm of Reikland. From the window, he could see the encampments of the evil followers of the Raven God. The Chaos warhost host was here. the city of Praag was burning. He could see the smoke from his window. He could hear the relentless screams of agony. He could smell the blood and the fire. Reikland was falling. Praag was the last line of defense before Altdorf, the capital, the shining beacon of light and hope. A beacon of justice under the blessings of Sigmar. But the warhost had come and was now within miles of Altdorf.

Nathasius was getting old. Like most of the priests, he was bald, but his short beard was white with age. His eyes were wizened and worry had wrinkled his brow. But he wasn't useless. Over his bloodred robes, he wore a steal breastplate and pauldrons. His ornate warhammer leaned against the wall, ready for his calloused and war-hardened hands

Nathasius left the window and returned to his desk. He consulted scripture, desperately seeking away to turn back these vile Chaos cultists. The power of Sigmar could not be undone by the Raven god! It could not be undone! He opened the book and then caught movement out of the corner of his eye. With reflexes like a cat, he had his hands on his warhammer, and he caught the blow of two sharp, bloodstained swords with its metal handle. Nathasius and his assailant were locked together for a short moment that lasted an eternity.

She was a dark elf. She was tall and pale, taller than Nathasius and Nathasius was considered tall by human standards. She was chillingly beautiful. Her white hair flowed down to the small of her back. Some of it was tied up into a ponytail. Two thin braids hung down past her pointed ears. Her eyes were a chilling yellow. She wore dark blue robes, stained with blood, and her steel swords, cruel instruments of torture, dripped onto the wooden floor. Nathasius could actually see the blood haze in the elf's eyes. Those yellow eyes that branded her as a Disciple of Khaine, the dark god of murder.

He pushed back. She stepped back. He swung. She parried with one sword and he dodged as she struck out with the other. She swung again and again they were locked together, holy warhammer against twin blasphemous blades. Her foot shot out and caught Nathasius in the stomach. The man smashed through the walls of the chamber, bricks and mortar collapsed and Nathasius fell, the ground below him hundreds of feet away. He cried a quick plea to Sigmar and then felt a gentle breeze that let him down. He landed on his feet in a courtyard, where a Raven zealot still hung from the gallows. He looked in horror at the bodies of the dead lying strewn about the courtyard. The stones were slick with red blood. She had killed them all.

From the hole in the wall, he saw her standing, her swords at her side. Furious to see that her quarry was still alive, she jumped. By some evil grace, she landed like a cat.

"Sigmar always saves those who have faith," the priest said, almost in a whisper.
"He won't save you," the disciple replied in a snarl.

She assaulted. Her savage blows came one after another, her speed and agility was almost too much for Nathasius. But still he held on. He jumped onto the stone steps leading back into the tower and swung at her head, but she ducked out of the way. One of her swords ripped into his thigh. He cried out as blood poored from the wounds. The jagged weapon ripped into more flesh as she yanked it out. He collapsed and toppled down the steps. She stood over him triumphantly, about to make the killing blow. He blocked it with his warhammer. Calling for Sigmar's grace, he hit her, square in the chest and she flew into a daze against the gallows. The gallows cracked and collapsed, bringing the dead cultist down with it.

She cursed and invoked Khaine's wrath and struggled up. Nathasius was there. He took a mighty swing at her. But then stopped as her sword entered his stomach. The warhammer dropped with a thud.

"Khaine!" she shrieked victoriously. She yanked her sword out hard. Nathasius collapsed, his eyes widening to the excrutiating pain ripped into him. One bloodied hand clutched his entrails as he lie on the courtyard dying. As his vision faded, he watched the Disciple of Khaine leave the courtyard, as if she was on a summer stroll. Sigmar would not save Altdorf.

Nothing would save Altdorf.

At least the pain had ceased.

Author's note: This event was inspired by a quest in Warhammer. I was tasked to kill this computer-controlled guy in a tower on my character, a Disciple of Khaine, which I did. As I was doing it, I was wondering about Nathasius (the guy I was tasked to kill) and what his perspective would be if some evil dark elf had come into the door intent on killing him. Unfortunately, the game's physics didn't allow me to kick him through a wall.

The Disciple of Khaine and the Warrior Priest are mirror classes for Destruction and Order factions in the game. They both are front line, melee/healer types with a few variations on the theme that make them unique. As such, you'll notice they both pray/invoke to their respective gods to help them during during the fight, they both have similar abilities and yet at the same time are opposites. Nathasius is good, the Disciple is evil. Sigmar is benevolent, Khaine, malevolent. Nathasius stands for justice and light, the disciple stands for death and darkness.

The Old Guitarist

I was rather impressed with the old guitarist I met the other day. He was at a bonfire in the park at night, playing some old Woodie Guthrie songs. It was just him and his guitar, the melodies drifted into the soft cool night, a perfect blend of human voice and guitar string.

He was selling tapes. But no CD's. Nothing digital. Being 2008, I was shocked to see that. I wasn't even sure if cassette decks still existed in stores anywhere.

I told him he should burn his music onto a CD.

He asked me why he'd want to burn a CD? He asked me, is it better than firewood?

I looked at him odd. I then explained to him that burning a CD is the act of putting music onto one.

He nodded as if he understood. I handed him a blank CD and was about to tell him how it worked, but suddenly, he threw the disk into the fire. He pulled out his guitar and started singing into the fire.

Maidenform

You'd think I'd be embarrassed by working at a store like Maidenform and being a guy, but it was the only job available in town and I have college bills. It actually isn't so bad, I run the counter and stock the shelves. They obviously don't let me in the changing rooms. If a girl needs to try something on, there's another female employee around to help out.

So one day I'm behind the counter bored as hell. I'd listen to my iPod but the manager's a bit of prick and doesn't allow such amenities, even though it's a Thursday morning and there hasn't been a customer in thirty minutes. She was out back busy with paperwork. The door chimed and a large fat man came in. He wore a plain black tee-shirt and jeans. Paul Bunyan could have poked three holes in him and used him as a bowling ball. He went over to the racks where the large bras were. Not the Pamela Anderson large, but the fat opera singer large. He picked out several bras, some of them pink and frilly and then came up to me at the counter.

"Those for the wife?" I asked genially, making small talk.
"No," he said in all seriousness and without an ounce of shame, "I'd like to try these on."
I paused.
"Fitting rooms are behind the um . . . what?"
"I'd like to try these on."
"Behind the racks over there," I pointed. I wanted to laugh or cry but couldn't.
"I'd like your assistance," he said.
I no longer wanted to laugh. Just cry.
"It's uh, against policy for uh, male employees to go into the fitting rooms. Yeah, policy."
"Oh cut that out," the man replied. "You made that up."
"Look man, I wouldn't know how to put on a bra! Take one off, yeah sure, but . . . why me?"
"I just need someone who can see that they'll fit."
"I uh . . . there are mirrors."
"But I need to know how they look."
"How they look . . . not to be mean but . . . you're a guy . . . in a bra. . . Shannon?"
The manager came out.
"Whats the problem?" she asked.
"This gentlemen would like to try on some bras, but needs assistance."
"Look in the policies, only members of the same sex can share stalls, you go with him."

This job sucks.

The Five Pointed Condom

"Holy crap!" Jeff cried out, pointing to a pile of latex that sat on the counter. "Look at that there condom! Man, I didn't know a feller could come equiped like that! You could do five girls simultaneously! Five! Holy Jesus, havin' five peckers!"
"Uh that's a latex glove . . ." I muttered.
Jeff was silent a moment.
"Oh. Well shoot."

***********

I was headed down the street when I ran into Sarah.
"Hi! You missed me at the supermarket!" she gushed.
"Missed? More like, 'narrowly avoided'" I replied.
Somehow, that upset her.

***********

FAR 91.15 states that no pilot in command of a civil aircraft may drop an object from an aircraft in flight that can cause a hazard. However, this section does not prohibit the dropping of objects if reasonable precaution is taken to avoid injury or damage.

So I shouted "Look out below" from my Skyhawk before I dropped the toilet paper rolls.

That's a reasonable precaution.

Isn't it?

***********

"Bob bob bob. Bob bob and Ann. Bob bob bob. Bob bob and Ann. Bob and Ann! Don't eat my ham! Bob bob bob, Bob and Ann, don't take my ham!" He was singing.

"Those aren't the words!" I said.

Brian Wilson rolled in his grave.

And he isn't even dead yet.

The Fall of Caledor

Orissa Darksoul stood at the end of the white stone bridge, looking across it. It spanned from the shrine to the hills beyond, crossing a deep gorge where a river flowed. The lush green hills were rent with screams of agony and grey billowing smoke rising from the fortress beyond. The keep was lost and already hundreds were racing across the bridge, the last defense before the hated forces of Order crossed en mass, a final rallying point before the whole of Caledor was lost.

Preparing herself, the Dark Elf began grasping at the Winds of Chaos, building up her Dhar and absorbing its energies. Orissa stood tall, like most elves. Her robes, if you could call them that, were a dark purple and made of rich silk, embroidered with dark designs of Chaos. The warm wind brushed against her skin, the robes did little for modesty. She was almost nude, but for the skirt and loincloth around her legs, and the ornate vest around her chest. She wore knee-high leather boots and above her flowing black hair, she wore a crown encrusted in jewels. Orissa was pale. What little warmth was left in her was her passion for power, her lust for magic and her hate for self-righteous High Elves who stole the throne of Ulthuan from Malekith, the Witch King and the rightful heir.

Beside her, the Witch Elves sharpened their deadly, blood and poison encrusted daggers. Standing tall and beautiful, the brides of Khaine wore even less than Orissa, only the bare minimums of modesty were met for the Witch Elves used their alluring beauty as their most potent weapon. Around her, the Greenskins of the Bloody Sun Boyz and the agents of Chaos, the dubious allies of the Druchii (the Dark Elves) were also preparing. The imposing green monsters, the Black Orcs, sharpened their choppas while the Chaos zealots prepared their dark rituals.

The storm was coming. The braying of horns sounded. Orissa could barely see them as they came charging down the hill towards the bridge to the shrine. Order was here. Dwarves, Humans and High Elves mixed together. Behind her, Black Orcs and goblins banged their shields and cried out "WAAAGH!" Orcs, Chaos and Druchii alike crashed into the forces of Order upon the bridge, the sounds of swords and axes and shields renting the air. Orissa released her Dhar, blowing several Order off the span, into the gorge below. But the enemy kept coming.

Arrows rained across the gorge. The hated Shadow Warriors fired arrow after arrow. Orissa jumped to the ground, the wooden shaft narrowly missing her. She unleashed her magic upon them and threw them to the ground. Chaos continued to hold the bridge, a steady line of defense. Orissa wove threads of chaos around a troublesome Bright Wizard. He responded by sending a flaming fireball at her, but she brushed it aside and tore him into pieces. But the forces of Order were numerous and Chaos was falling behind.

A Chosen took off the head of a warrior priest and then sunk his claymore into a stunty's chest but then he went down as sword and spear alike penetrated his thick armor. The Witch Elves, the lithe brides of Khaine, left their sacrifices dead on the battlefield, but arrows, bullets and Aqshy's fire were too much. The ranks on the bridge broke and a great melee broke out around the shrine.

Orissa continued to rip through the ranks of Order, tearing at the threads of chaotic magic, but slowly she felt her control of magic slip and it began to tear at her. Very painfully, she kept control over her dhar, lest it rip her apart. She unleashed the pent up magic on a dwarf, blowing his broken body into the gorge. Still, the Order crossed the bridge in great strength.

A sharp hot pain hit her shoulder and she collapsed with a cry. Ahead of her a crafty dwarf engineer was shooting at everything he could with a well built blunderbuss. With a wave of her hand, she destroyed him.

But the shrine, she could tell was lost. The grass was soaked with blood and bodies and for every dead chaos, lie ten dead Order. Chaos was losing ground. A Witch Hunter, the inquisitorial men of the Empire who hunted and destroyed Chaos with a feared zealotry, chased towards Orissa. She froze him in spot and ran, her control over her Dhar diminishing. The Witch Hunter caught her. She cried out in agony as his blade struck through her back and plunged out of her chest. She collapsed to the ground in a heap. Order carelessly trampled her lifeless body as they charged across the shrine. Caledor had fallen.

The Respawn Screen came up on the computer. I looked at the clock. 6:00 PM. My character had died and it was about time for dinner. So I logged off and went to the caf.

Oscar Christopher Duvall

Oscar was busy. He stood perplexed in a hallway, staring at a wall of family photographs which stretched back five generations. On the left were the Duvalls, his father's family, and on the right were the Duponts, his mother's family. The french-american man looked on in frusteration and he gave Olivia Catherine Dupont's portrait (his grandmother) a tiny nudge, a slight adjustment.

And then he felt rage boil up with him. After fixing his grandmother's portrait, he realized, his father's brother's portrait, one Oliver Constantine Duvall, was off kilter. He gave it a slight push. But then, Olivia Catherine Dupont somehow slipped to a slight degree. Oscar angrily pushed it in place.

He stepped back and looked at the wall. Octavio Charles Duvall was off-center. And much too high for Oscar to reach. Oscar got a step stool and gave the picture the slightest nudge.

And it fell. With a resounding shatter, the picture hit the floor, sending shards of glass all over and breaking the wooden frame.

Oscar swore loudly. Then he apologized to himself. Oscar always apologized after he swore. Even though no one was there to hear him. Oscar was alone for the week, his wife, Ottie Charlene Duvall (previously DePaul) was off at a teacher's conference in Amsterdam. Oscar had no kids. Oscar didn't like germs and he did not wish to sit on a dirty airplane seat for several hours so he elected to stay home.

Besides, Amsterdam was full of dirty pot-smoking hippies who had more germs on them than Oscar cared to know about. Before Ottie came home, Oscar intended to make her take a long shower with plenty of disinfectant.

He stepped off the stool and picked up the picture. The photograph was now scratched, an imperfection that would mar the entire hallway. Perhaps he could fix it digitally . . .

He was pondering this when suddenly the entire collage of family photographs came crashing down on him.

He swore, and then apologized for it. Glass shards were everywhere. Oscar was glad for his steel-toed boots. He always wore them, even around the house. Going barefoot, he decided, was the quickest way to catch germs. But bacteria were no match for steel toed leather boots.

Especially after he sprayed them (three times daily) with disinfectant.

He looked at the terrifying mess. Every last photograph on the wall had fallen, leaving a bare wall with a bunch of ugly nails poking out.

Then he noticed a slight sting on his hand. Somehow, he had cut his hand! He was bleeding! In horror, he dashed to the bathroom and locked the door to wash it. He opened the cabinet. There was nothing but bar soap inside. He took out a soap, opened it. He washed his hand with it and then threw out the soap. He did this two more times, throwing out a bar of soap each time. And then applied a band aid.