Fragments of thought and bursts of creativity from the wordsmith, podcaster and journalist, author of the Myke Phoenix Novelettes, Refuse to be Afraid, A Scream of Consciousness, and The Imaginary Revolution.
We piled into the truck, Stella, Buzz and me. We all had black on – Buzz and I with our black floppy T-shirts and black jeans and black gloves. Like everything else about her, Stella’s outfit was efficient – the T-shirt fit just fine, and so did the jeans. I know I’ve been using the word too much, but she looked trim. The clothes fit her trimly, and her blond hair was tucked into the black baseball cap so that the only thing that would reflect light would be her face.
The strap for the 9 mm Luger at her ribs lay comfortably across the center of her chest, accentuating her trim – well, accentuating her trimness, let’s say.
She also had a hunting knife strapped to her belt.
“You came loaded for bear,” I said, looking at the gun and the blade when she walked up to the cabin.
“You didn’t,” she noted. “Never hurts to be prepared.”
“I’m more of a run and hider than a stand and fighter,” I said.
“What if you have no choice but to stand and fight?” she said with a glint in her eye that suggested maybe she’d faced such a choice more than once. Continue reading Scene 5
She walked up to the cabin same as before, a week pretty much to the minute since she first appeared, not a word until we were face to face. The only difference was she walked up to the porch this time.
“Hi, Kathy,” I called, and she stopped dead in her tracks.
We looked at each other for a few seconds, calmly.
“I see you talked with Pete.” It was hard to make out her eyes under the baseball cap, so it was hard to tell what she was thinking. Continue reading Scene 4
The old truck rattled a lot. I probably should have taken better care of it when it was newer, so it wouldn’t rattle so much now. I suppose.
The important thing is I kept it running now – I know how to take care of it, and it gets me where I need to go. It’s old enough that it doesn’t have computers and GPS and all of the things that track where it is and where it’s been. Not that those things aren’t important – to me – I just don’t know whether they’re important enough to anyone else who’s minding their own business.
After awhile the rattles just fade into the background, and I don’t notice them unless I have a passenger who says, “Whoa! This truck rattles a lot!” or if the rattle changes. Change means something shifted and I should make sure I don’t need to shift that something back into place. Continue reading scene 3
I honestly can’t fully believe this is true, given all that I know about Geoff Gunderman from being his friends and hearing his music all of these years, but he said it on his deathbed, so maybe. Continue reading de Neuvillette’s confession
Darkness settled around the silent tin can as it cruised through the water like a stalking cat. Inside 44 souls worked at the task of keeping it running and silent.
“We are now inside U.S. waters, mein Kapitan,” the oberleutnant reported.
“Silent running,” the captain commanded, and the word was passed. “If this mission succeeds, the path will be set in stone and we can proceed with the taming of the Americans.”
The Amerikaner: The word lingered in his mind like stale eggs – soft, rotten. Good people at the core, no doubt, but sorely in need of discipline, the firmness the Reich could offer. On the shore ahead, nestled in their cozy homes, surrounded by comfort purchased at the expense of others, others like the German people, humiliated and looted after the Great War. This sortie would be the first step toward evening that score and restoring the Fatherland to its rightful place of world leadership. Continue reading The Battle of Seaside Heights