Notes From My Novel Adventure

Passing the 50,000-Word Mark

     I’m sorry; it has been a while since I’ve updated anything. I’m not really sorry, I’m just being polite. I’m 85% through my first novel and it has consumed more of my free writing time as it has progressed. This is a great thing too. My first two attempts fizzed out with the second one being the farthest I’ve tried to push a story topping out at 12,000 words. With each attempt I learned a lot and I have no regrets as those attempts have paid off in this successful attempt. So I just want to share my story for two reasons: To brag, and to document certain details for the dark times ahead when future novels get bogged down by blockage, and self-doubt.

Here’s how this novel got started: My X-Box360 died after rain leaked into the window of my room and fried it. This was early November, and due to school and Christmas I had no extra money to replace it. I had been writing an hour every day anyway, but now I had tripled my free time with this loss. I already had a Chapter 1 featuring my writing crash-test dummy, Max Chrome, who I used to practice writing specific aspects of action like car chases, fist fights, shoot-outs, and stakeout humor. Max had been the subject of my other two attempts as well because I know him, and I have created a world full of characters for his universe. This is “Off the Shelf Writing”.

Off the Shelf

     I’m a Lockheed Skunkworks groupie. They’re the gang who developed the stealth fighter and the legendary SR-71. With the Stealth Fighter (F-117) they kept costs down by using as much existing, or off the shelf technology, to build the aircraft. The plane was produced under budget (unheard of in the defense industry), and years ahead of schedule. This has always stuck with me along with zillions of other things that made people successful. I’m a short-story writer, but I knew one day I would at least take a shot at novel writing. I’ve read dozens of books and hundreds of magazine articles detailing “How To…” and I began taking writing classes at Monterey Peninsula College. Max Chrome was a guy I created with action-paranormal adventure stories in mind. As I explored aspects of action and thriller writing I used Max to tell these stories, or to focus my scene. Through these scenes I created an entire world that dated back 150 years into the past, and millions of years if you count his ultimate villains. Once I felt ready to write a novel I pulled Max off the shelf and went to work.

Writing is Never a Waste of Time – Ever!

     Like I said my first to novel attempts fizzled out. I was sad each time for a week, and then I would read them closely to do a post-mortem, and figure out where and when the wheels came off. There were a number of things too. The biggest was the story itself; I didn’t give a shit if I finished it or not because I was writing just to write instead of writing a story that I cared about. The next problem was that I strayed away from the things that made my short stories good, as if my voice required a change from my short-story voice. And the other big problem was that I insisted on enforcing my plot outline instead of letting my characters lead me through the story. I discovered that I didn’t understand Max as well as I thought I did, and I had made him too rich, and too ass-kicking to be interesting. In between the second attempt and this successful shot I had written a short scene for writing class where I had to write dialog. I put Max into play with his buddy, Tom Sky, and turned them loose in a small hotel room in Prague with an uptight CIA guy. The result was hilarious, and I’d found the Max Chrome I wanted to write.

My second attempt yielded many great scenes, and a nemesis named Royce. I cannibalized the good stuff for use in this novel without shame. If you could read the failed novel and compare these scenes with how they appear in the new one you won’t recognize them. As I launched into this new project I quickly became stuck on a scene. I used the Steinbeck theory of moving past it to write the following chapters, and then coming back to fill in the problem chapter. This paid off. Later I was able to use elements from the lost chapter to finish a later one. Like Stephen King says, you have to kill your babies. I had written about Max entering a temple in the Afghan mountains loaded with Indiana Jones-type secret doors and booby traps, but the problem was it was too much for the story.

The characters who built this place in Afghanistan had built it quickly, so there would be no time to build for all the crap I put in there. I wasn’t listening to my characters. Plus I had built up Max’s fear of skydiving in the previous chapter, and I realized that this was where the story needed to go, following him out the door the plane into the night sky. This paid off with great stuff, and moved the story in a stronger direction. There would be six chapters that I would have to rewrite as they lost scent of the story. The first time I was frustrated but I quickly realized that the replacement chapters were so much stronger as I discovered that knowing where I didn’t want to go was as important as knowing where I was heading. There was no such thing as a waste of time, and this drove me farther.

Momentum

     Somewhere around chapter 17 the story took on a life of its own. By then two of my characters had become romantically involved, and I had a handful of new characters, including one named Baker who has become a central figure to the story. My story had developed a narrative engine that powered, governed, and drove the story along. Mistakes became fewer, and once I built to the climax I was able to quickly map out the key elements on the fly. When revision time rolls around I will have things to fix, but not many. I gave myself time too. I had no idea how the confrontation would go down. I tried to plan as much out as I could, but in the end when I sat down that day to begin the chapter I had no clue how the next eight chapters would unfold.

My fears vanished as my characters took charge. Not only Max, but my villains filled the chapter with surprises, suspense, and humor. It stopped being a writing exercise and became dictation as I typed the scenes inside my head as they rolled into focus. After each session I was jazzed. I would walk out of my room, often to go to work and on the drive in I would think about the next chapter. It had become easy.

The process had benefits in my short story writing too. I was taking more time, not much, but an extra beat here and there to add weight to the narrative. My shorts have become longer now that I am comfortable writing a longer story. There has been no down side to this entire adventure. So here’s my advice (again, this is mostly to my future self for when I get stuck):

1. Don’t over plan the story. Have an idea where to go, but let your characters take you there.
2. If you are stuck, write anyway. Even if the chapter you write is shit, you can rewrite it.
3. If a chapter is shit – rewrite it. It will pay off, guaranteed.
4. For crying out loud, write a story you care about. If you don’t care then nobody else will either, and you might as well write a textbook or something.
5. Have a schedule. If you don’t feel like writing your novel that day then use the time to write something else. Stick to it as much as you can.
6. Hey, if you don’t feel like writing on particular days then don’t. It’s a free country, and I’m not the boss of you. I’m barely the boss of me. But the novel won’t write itself.
7. Research your plot points; they will fill your head with ideas. Researching ferry schedules on the Black Sea I received the gift of four chapters and an important plot development.

That’s really all I have to add to the thousands of other “Write your novel” advice columns. Either you’re a writer or you’re not. It’s the easiest thing and the hardest thing at the same time. If you aren’t writing then you’re not a writer. I’m driven to write now. I think about it the most. I doubt I will ever sell anything, but it has become a part of my identity. Good luck is made, and nobody has ever sold a story that wasn’t written. So keep on writing, my internet friends, it will save you.

 

Comeuppance

 Note: This was the first full story I wrote as an adult. It’s dated April, 2010. It was written for my creative writing class. The assignment was to write fiction, and take the character as far away from my own reality as possible. So I went with a western. I’d never written a western before, and I was not a big fan of the genre. What this story did was to force me to illustrate a character through his actions, past and present. I also had to use enough description to put the reader into the story.

What you read here is the post-workshopped version. I’ve also re-edited it recently making it even shorter, and correcting a few mistakes.

 

 

   Lucky Sherman crested the desert ridge and looked down towards the wash at the base of the box canyon. He tilted back his hat to better view the cabin that sat to the rear of a mesa half way up the opposite ridge. It looked abandoned and beaten by the wind and sun. More important to Lucky was the absence of smoke coming from the chimney. He clicked his tongue twice and nudged his horse into motion. Lucky rode down into the wash and up the other side of the canyon where he dismounted his horse. After tying the horse to a fallen tree he carefully made his way to the old cabin keeping to the blind-side, which was easy seeing as it had only one window next to the front door. It had built by miners. The old mine entrance marred the side of the hill sixty yards away. Lucky’s partner, Heath Gibbons, reckoned that there had once been a flowing stream where the wash is now, and he’d heard a story about the Army dynamiting a spring not too far away to drive away the Indians. There were no tracks around the cabin; still he moved carefully to the side and put his ear to the wall. Hearing nothing he moved around to the front and carefully stepped upon the porch and leaned slowly to look into the window. The sunlight on the back of the cabin streaked in through the gaps between the planks of the walls, and dust sparkled in the golden beams. Nobody was home. Well nobody that was still breathing in any case. Lucky pushed hard to open the door and then stepped inside.

     Dry, hot, stale air sucked all the moisture from Lucky’s mouth and made him cough. “Salutations, Heath” he said to the shape slumped over the table.

     The mummified corps used to be one Heath Goodwin Gibbons; veteran of the War Between the States, and one-time stagecoach robber. “Don’t git up, buddy” Lucky joked as he walked to the table. The skin on Heath’s face had dried stretching over his skull. The lips had long ago pulled away from the mouth giving the eyeless face a grimace. A red and white checkered shirt hung loosely over the skeletal frame; brown dungarees lay almost flat against the chair with a dark spot in the seat where his bowls and bladder had released upon his expiration. Heath’s left hand still held a shot glass, and an old whiskey bottle lay empty on its side. Lucky could see the distinctive web work of a Black Widow Spider that had taken up residence inside the bottle. The back of Heath Gibbons’ head was bare bone as the skin had withdrawn due to the bullet hole from Lucky’s first Colt.45. Lucky paused a moment to admire his handiwork; then he turned to the corner where another body lay on a cot. Cletus Jones, another one-time stage-coach robber, had not fared as well over the years as Heath had. His skull was askew, jawbone over where his ear had been, and there was none of the dried flesh that was holding old Heath together. Lucky briefly wondered if the whisky had something to do with Heath’s preservation (such as it was).  Once the reunion of sorts was over Lucky went back outside to his horse. He unbuckled the saddle; the horse shifted in relief, and put the saddle up near some shrubs before digging into his saddle bags. Lucky pulled out a hammer, chisel, and a pry-bar then made his way back up to the cabin.

     A lantern still hung just inside of the door. Lucky lifted the globe and could see that the wick was in good shape. He lifted it off the hook and walked to the table placing the lantern down, and pulled a box of matches from his breast pocket. He struck the match against Heath’s dried out forehead and light the lantern which filled the corner with a pleasant light. The spider in the whiskey bottle scurried around to a darker corner of its web to escape the unwelcome glow on the table. Lucky looked at Heath and then at Cletus with a grin. “Sorry I took so long to git back.” Taking the lantern over the the fireplace he set just inside with his tool.

       Lucky crouched to enter the fireplace. He picked up the lantern and held it up near his face. With the light he then scanned the back wall of the mid-chimney searching for his tell-tale handy work.  He soon found what he was looking for: the slightly askew river rock.  Placing his left hand on the rock he bent down to return the lantern to just next to his feet, and then he picked up the hammer and chisel with his right hand before resuming his semi-crouch. As Lucky tapped away carefully at the rock he marveled at how everything was going according to how he had planned it as he lay in his cell in the Yuma Territorial Prison  for five years, four months, and twenty two days. He pictured the stealing the horse. He pictured the ride back to the Nevada desert to this lone canyon.  As the chisel dug into the wall Lucky thought about the Wells Fargo stage coach with its red doors and gold trim, and how the guards didn’t even try to defend the loot. He remembered how heavy the gold $20 pieces were and how they filled six large saddle bags, and how he had admired Heath Gibbons’ forethought to bring a mule along to carry the extra weight. He thought about how easy it was to kill two men.

As the stone began to come loose Lucky started to believe that his incarceration at Yuma Territorial Prison for the murder of a Mexican ranch-hand was fortuitous because his trail had long since gone cold, and anyone who had been looking for him had given up. As he worked the chisel to loosen the stone he realized that nobody would come looking for Lucky Sherman ever again.

 The stone came out and Lucky was instantly blinded by bright sunlight. It shocked the backs of his eyes and made him gasp. At the same time he heard the sound of mortar crumbling just above his head so he dropped to his knees, and then he dove-half fell out of the fire place onto the cabin floor. The crumbling sound grew louder as stones began to fall into the fire place from above filling the cabin with an ashen dust cloud. From the ceiling came a clap of thunder and Lucky was slammed against the floor by the top half of the chimney.

 He couldn’t see a damned thing through the dust. He lay there trying to inhale but could not get a full breath. At first he thought that this was due to the dust, but as it settled he could see that most of the chimney was on his chest. He gasped for air and tried to move and a jolt of blinding pain came from his back and his legs and he realized that his right arm was pinned underneath him.

     Lucky was trapped, and nobody was ever going to come looking for him.

 

Lucky tried to scream but the weight upon his chest would only allow a whimper. He turned to his right to see old Heath lying beside him. When the chimney came down it must have kicked the table forward knocking the bone-sack across the floor to where it now lay next to Lucky. The force had knocked his jaw open and now it seemed to Lucky that Heath was laughing at him in a frozen guffaw.   The pain was awful, and while Lucky tried to be angry he soon ended up crying like a baby there on the floor of the wrecked cabin. As his sobs continued he could taste a little more blood in his mouth and knew there were ruptured organs inside of him. For a brief second Lucky marveled at how much the blood in his throat smelled like a wet horse. Then he heard the sound of a loud snort and looked straight upwards through the open door to see his horse standing just outside. The sound of the chimney crashing had spooked the horse and had torn itself loose from the tree. Lucky looked at the horse and the horse looked back at Lucky. The horse could smell fatal blood, and walked away.

Bikes Tended to Vanish Here

     I apologize for the gap. I’ve been so busy with school, and the stories I’m writing now are a tad more complex. This is one that had four false-starts. It didn’t pop until I heard the conversation in the pharmacy, then I knew why Steven would risk the pump house.

     This story was different for me due to the sexual content. I’d never written this kind of thing before. The key was to be honest to the character, and this meant thinking about how  I would have reacted when I was ten. So I wrote some uncomfortable (at first) stuff that ended up driving the story to its conclusion. I’m glad I did it.

 

The Witch Pond

     Steven hid his bike carefully in the reeds and Cat Tails far enough off of the trail, but not too near the water. Bicycles were often stolen here. He moved to the trail pausing for a few second to listen. He came here frequently in the summer, and never lost his bike. He was a cautious boy. His big brother, Tony, had taught him many cool tricks when he came home from Vietnam a few years back; things like covering your tracks, not putting things in your pockets that jingled or rattled, and staying off trails when you wanted to sneak around.

     Today he wanted to sneak around.

     At the far end of the kidney-shaped pond stood the old county pump house which kept the pond from overflowing in springtime rains. Crossing the trail he headed up the slight rise into the thick New England forest. At the top he paused behind a tree to survey the other half of the pond. He was alone. Any other day he would have thought the absence of movement or noise strange as there was almost always someone here walking, riding, or running with their dog. He would have also noted the birds were silent today. Yet as Steven focused on the pump house he was unaware of the spell the pond and the woods were under this day.

     The pump house had been built using the foundation, and part of the remaining walls of an old saw mill. The saw mill was built after the American Revolution, and lasted thirty years until the owner went bankrupt and killed himself. With the mill a dam had been constructed to channel the water through the paddle wheel (now long gone). As the county’s population grew it was decided to build a pump house to protect the homes downstream from flooding, and the disaster that could come should the dam break.

     Steven worked his way down the hill toward the pump house tree-to-tree. The buildings half colonial stone construction was mixed with nineteenth century brick work, and none of it looked inviting. He saw it as a challenge.

     Last Saturday he had been at Vogel’s Drug Store looking at the plastic airplane models when he’d overheard a conversation. There was a man wearing a county public works uniform at the pharmacist’s window. The pharmacist must have known the man by the way they spoke.

     The man’s name was Stuart, and the pharmacist told him he’d never seen a prescription for Valium in such a large dosage. The pharmacist double checked with the doctor’s office, and then filled the prescription. Steven heard many pills tinkle onto the stainless steel scale pan. He told Stuart not to take the Valium with alcohol.

     “The doc says I need it or I could go crazy.” Stuart said. He looked at the pharmacist with pleading eyes.

     “What happened, problems with the misses?

     “No, something happened at work. I saw something.”

     “It must have been awful.”

     “It was and it wasn’t. I was up at the Witch Pond…”

     “Oh, at the pump house, by any chance?” The pharmacist said. An eyebrow cocked up scrunching a bunch of lines into his forehead.

     “Yeah, what do you know about it?” Stuart said. He leaned into the counter window. Steven couldn’t make out the immediate conversation. He slinked down the aisle to the end so he could hear.

     “Oh yes, she swims naked alright. Quite beautiful from what I’ve heard.” The pharmacist said.

     “She was naked, and she was breathtaking. Is she always naked?” Stuart said.

     “Always. She’s only seen in the summer, but only to young men who are alone. So the next time you have to go up there make sure you have company.”

     Steven forgot all about the airplane models, and walked out of the drug store thinking about his new secret. A naked woman is a big deal to any ten year-old boy. Evidently this one was so beautiful that a big man like the county guy needed to take a tranquilizer after seeing her. How had he never seen her the many times he’d been at the pond? He almost always went alone. And the pharmacist even knew about it! That man never walked in the woods, and almost never went outside. Steven decided that pharmacist must have gotten lucky once at the pond.

     A naked woman who like to swim inside the pool of the pump house? Steven had to see this for himself. He’d tell his friends, and become a legend.

     Now he stood in the reeds near the rear corner of the pump house. The large steel door sported a red and black “No Trespassing” sign. It was open, and a lavender ribbon hung loosely from the doorknob. There was no sound of movement from within, no sound of work being done. Easing up to the door he pressed his body flat against the brick wall. Pulling the door open using two fingers it moved silently until it was wide enough to slip inside. He craned his head inside and saw nobody.  He went inside.

     The pump house’s interior was lit only by four small, arched windows high up on opposite walls. To the right of the door where Steven stood was the mint-green pumping equipment consisting of an old, tractor-sized electric motor, an equally large box housing the pump, and a pair of 18-inch pipes. In the center of the building a deep, rectangular pool, and the pipes rose from one side at a forty-five degree angle, and disappeared into the brick wall heading towards the town. Steven moved over behind the electrical motor as it offered the best cover to hide behind.

     His imagination began to race as he sat on the cold concrete floor to wait. Skinny dipping in the pump house made sense with the walls, and nobody could see through the high windows. The water seemed cleaner than the pond outside. He wondered about the woman. She must have been good looking; in his mind there was no question. Did she drive up to the pond, ride her bike, or did she walk? Did he know her? It was a small town after all. He thought of all the beautiful women in town, entertaining the idea of each one naked, and soon had an erection. By the time he had narrowed the list down to the school’s librarian, and Father Dunphy’s wife he was gently stroking the outside of the crotch of his jeans.

     There was splashing in the water.

     Steven held his breath, and got onto his hands and knees. Peering around the mint-green motor housing he saw flaming red hair cascading over white shoulders in the pool below. He moved to lay flat on his belly, and he gasped at his hot groin made contact with the cold cement floor. If the woman heard him she didn’t let on. She ducked her head and kicked off from the wall gliding across the pool. It all seemed to be in perfect slow motion as he watched from above. When she reached the other side she kicked off of the wall floating on her back. Steven was amazed the red hair between her legs was as red as the hair on her head. It stood out against her alabaster skin.

     Steven placed his hand over his mouth to keep silent. This was now the greatest day of his life. A beautiful woman swam nude less than ten feet from him. He hoped it would go on forever. The first adult woman he’d seen like this and it was the best parts of every fantasy he’d ever had. She continued to swim back and forth for most of an hour. She dived straight down, and the water slowly grew still. He waited and waited, but it seemed like she was not coming up. He rose up to his knees uncertain what to do next, and she broke the surface with her head straight back.

     She lowered her face and caught Kevin’s gaze and grinned.

     He froze from embarrassment. He was so busted, and to make it worse she must have found the bulge in his pants funny. He was never going to live this down. For a brief second he saw himself an old man sitting at the bus stop in front of the market, and people driving by yelling “hey, it’s the town pervert!” She swam to the other side of the pool and climbed out of the water.

     He didn’t look away as she climbed up the narrow cement steps. The setting sunlight through the windows reflected off of the water dripping down her back from her hair. At the top of the stairs she turned and walked towards him. He stood up not knowing what else to do. She came around the motor. The door slammed. She stopped inches away from him. He wanted to say something but no words formed so he could only utter a confused moan. He couldn’t keep his eyes from darting from her face to her pink nipples, to her hips, to her feet, and back.

     She smiled as she flipped the lavender ribbon over his head, around his neck, and pulled him into her bosom. Steven’s head pressed into her right breast. He gasped but didn’t resist. Her smooth skin felt cold against his face, and he wondered if all women were so cold to the touch. If so he decided he could learn to like it. His arms at first hung limp at his sides, but to his shock they slowly wrapped around her just above her waist. She laughed in a quiet voice.

     “Come with me.” She said. Her pale blue eyes twinkled at him. He nodded. She turned walking back to the steps pulling Steven behind her with the ribbon around his neck. He followed with a dazed smile on his face; his gaze fixed on her lower backside. The contraction of her hip muscles and the jiggle of her skin made his mind empty of all rational thought. He followed willingly, and he fought to control his breathing.

     At the top of the stairs Steven briefly wondered if she wanted him to take his clothes off too, and decided he would if she asked. They paused at the platform at the bottom. She took his hand.

      “On the count of three” she said “one…two…three.” They jumped into the water. Steven broke the surface and took a breath. He was a decent swimmer. He looked for the woman as she seemed to be taking her time coming up. He felt two hands on his shoulders turn him around. She looked at him for a second.

     “Can I show you a secret?” She said. He nodded. She said “Follow me” and dove back under water. Steven took a deep breath and followed her. Her white skin made it easy for him to follow her. She kept swimming deeper, and he kept an arm’s length behind. Soon he felt pressure on his nose from the depth, and he wondered how deep the pool was. His lungs began to burn, but she still swam deeper. Finally he couldn’t wait any longer and stopped to turn up. She grabbed his arms. In the dark water her face was blurred, but he could see a grin on her face. He started to struggle. She wrapped her arms around him. His lungs were on fire.

     He felt like he was in a dream. Gray fog began to fill his vision. He felt lips on his mouth, and realized he had closed his eyes. She was kissing him. Not the way his mother or grandmother kissed him. She was kissing him like they kissed in the movies. He opened his mouth and all of the remaining air in his lungs rushed out. The gray fog turned black.

     The state police searched the forest. Unable to find Steven they ordered the pond to be drained. Stuart from the public works department entered the pump house with his supervisor, a stumpy Greek man named Darius, and they activated the pump. Stuart went back outside leaving Darius inside. He stood next to the police car to watch the water level drop. He didn’t move for the entire three hours it took to drain the pond.

     In that time a small crowd had gathered to watch. They were people from town, but a few county officials were among them. Murmuring began as the muddy bottom of the pond was exposed. Rusting bicycles dotted pond’s interior from one end to the other. Voices in the crowd noted many of them were over fifty years old. The receding water exposed an ancient stone foundation of a house.

     Darius happened to come out of the pump house as the foundation was revealed, and shook his head. Stuart saw him and asked what was bothering him.

     “The legend is true.” Darius said.

     “What legend? I’m from Boston, remember?” Stuart said.

     “This is the witch’s pond.”

     “You mean Witch Pond.”

“     No, ‘The Witches Pond’.”

     “I thought this was called the Witch Pond.”

     “Yeah, they don’t tell the story like they used to when I was a kid. There was a witch who lived by the stream. She didn’t bother anyone, and most people liked her. Some rich guy from Philly comes up here, and decided to build a saw mill. He decided the best spot is where the pump house is now. Well that witch wasn’t happy about it at all. She went into town to beg them not to allow the mill to be built, but the guy had thrown enough money around so they told her it was too late. So she puts a curse on the mill, the mill owner, and the woods including the pond. She goes back to her house where she waits for the water to rise. Some of the town’s folk tried to reason with her, but she’d locked herself inside. She drowned in the house.”

     “So what’s the curse?”

     “Someone dies up here every summer. The mill was plagued by accidents. The rich guy who owned it lost his son. He drowned near the mill. The owner went broke, and killed himself. After the war it’s been mostly kids. Someone steals their bikes, and they get lost in the woods. Others come here because they hear stories about some lady skinny dipping.”

     “You kidding me?”

     “Naw, they say she swims in the pump house pool. I don’t know. I’ve never seen her.”

     Stuart looked at the foundation of the old house. The water had dropped more and now everyone could see twenty bicycles inside the walls of the foundation. He shuddered. Movement on the far side of the pond caught his eye. A state trooper was pushing a boy’s bike along the trail to the road. Nearing the police car Stuart hears the cop telling the others he’d found the bike hidden in the reeds on the far side of the lake. It matched the one belonging to the missing boy.

     A lavender ribbon was tied to the handle bars.

A Paragraph About Nachos.

There must have been a half-pound of nachos on the plate smothered in steaming melted cheddar and jack cheese. The salsa dip and the cream cheese bowl sat waiting, but it was the guacamole bowl that called my name. I hated Neil, but he made the best goddamned fucking guacamole in California. It took my first nacho, one caked in cheese, and I dipped it into the guacamole. I got some on my fingertips I didn’t give a shit. I’d lick them clean. The warm cheese muted the crunching of the chip and combined with the avocado manna for an explosion of bitter, salty-smooth taste in my mouth. My tongue had an orgasm

Puppet Insurrection

The hot water felt good on my face. I only get one shower a week if I’m lucky, and considering how 99% of the remaining human race has it I’m pretty damned lucky. Being the host of a high ranking puppet has its perks, not many mind you, but enough that I’ve secretly kept my sanity. Today my sanity will pay off. Today, the ten year anniversary of the puppet revolution is the day we end puppet rule of the planet. I cleaned the toe-jam from my feet and turned off the water. I dried myself then slid my black leotard over my adult diaper. I looked in the mirror hoping that this was the last day that I would have to hide my face behind a tight nylon hood. I pulled it over my face once again casting my world into shadow. I sat on the old folding steel chair next to the rubber mat that has been my bed for the last decade and put on my black shoes. There was a time I would have called them deck shoes, but in this world they are the only shoe made. Puppets don’t wear shoes. Upstairs I paused before entering his room.

 I thought about how wonderful it was going to be to watch him burn.

             I knocked even though I knew there’d be no answer, but this was the established protocol. Not doing so resulted in execution. Puppets execute anyone who fails – puppets believe in zero tolerance. I entered the room where I’d left him on his special pedestal. You’d know him; he was a big name in the old world, he was famous for teaching children to count by eating cookies. His Ping-Pong ball eyes followed me as I came to mount him; my hands disappeared under his curly blue-fabric hair. My right hand became his hand, my left hand became his mouth, and the buzzing in my brain began as he entered my head. My consciousness was partially pushed aside by his. I don’t know where it came from exactly but I think it had something to do with a higher collective consciousness that hovers somewhere out in the either. Somehow the puppets had harnessed that consciousness to use against us. Suddenly his fuzzy blue hand slapped my face three times.

             “How fucking hard is it to be on time you piece of shit? You live down stairs, not on fucking Mars!” Master yelled at me. The black plastic pupils of his eyes spiraled with rage. I said nothing. I’m not allowed. Puppets speak to people, but people can never speak to puppets. My cheeks throbbed as we made our way outside to his waiting Lincoln Town car where the chauffer was waiting at the open rear door. He wore a gray leotard but he wore a black balaclava so that his eyes were not obscured. He was controlled by a sock-puppet, a black one on his right foot. Master entered first and I nodded to the driver who winked at me.

 Yes, today is the day.

As we drove to the U.N. building Master talked on the phone to the leadership via conference call. On the phone they all sounded like they were in full party mode, but I knew the truth. All was not well in the puppet world. They had made the same mistakes that people had made in that they created a caste system, and those puppets at the bottom of the system were not happy. At the bottom were the sock-puppets. They had been the Brown Shirts of the revolution waiting silently in sock-drawers around the world waiting to strike. This made sense because while not everyone had a puppet in their home they did have socks.

Ten years ago today when I and everyone else got up that morning we put on our socks, and instantly found ourselves in a waking coma. The socks took control of our minds. They had been experimenting for years seeing how far they could go. Reality TV was their idea, and all of those lousy GOP candidates were their doing as well.

 The socks marched us down to detention centers (mine was the local high school gym) where they assessed us based on our dexterity. I had been the second-chair cellist for the New York Philharmonic which gave me a high rating, and that lead to my assignment with Master. After assessment we were lined up for lobotimization, and this is where I caught my second break. The girl who hosted the sock-puppets doing my lobotomy was exhausted, so when she tapped the pick into my eye socket she didn’t tap hard enough. The pick never entered my brain, and instead ended up draining my sinuses.  The socks were ruthless as they worked their hosts to death, and this lead to many botched lobotomies. This would come back to haunt them today.

             The socks did the dirty work. The people who resisted were chased down and kicked to death. Nudists held out the longest because they had no socks, but because they lived in colonies they were easy to find. The puppets tried starving them out, but in the end they just massed an army of hosts and attacked them. Face it; a naked man can only fight with one hand at a time. Once the puppets were in power the sock-puppets were never acknowledged for their key role in the revolution.

            The car came to a stop in front of the U.N. as Master ended his call. The chauffer opened the door and I slid out into the sun. I walked Master to the red carpet falling into line behind hundreds of other hosts with their masters. This line made the caste system apparent as each host wore a different colored leotard that corresponded to their social or political status. I wore black because Master was a celebrity. Puppets honor celebrity. Those who wore white handled the marionettes. Green meant that you were a common puppet, and white was worn by those in the full-body puppet. That famous big yellow bird’s host wore blue. Sock-puppet hosts wore gray. I walked Master up to the famous singing frog with the pig girlfriend.

            “Hey jackass, where’s my money?” Master said.

            “I’ll get it to you when I fell like it, fucktard” the frog said.

            “You better, I’ll be happy to spread the word that you’re a fucking dead-beat, you stick-handed douche” Master said. A yellow hand grabbed Master’s neck squeezing it hard enough that my hand would have a bruise for a week. It was the large famous bird who used to sing and dance with children.

             “You two shit-brained assholes knock it off right now. This is not the place for your petty crap” the large yellow bird said as he shook me and Master. Master apologized and we slipped away heading for the door.

             I hated the U.N. because it was littered with skeletal remains of the dead from the revolution. Puppets leave their mess. The first year was awful when I came here because my newly opened sinuses absorbed the smell of the hundreds of rotting bodies that lay in the halls and offices throughout the building. Now it’s the sound of cracking bones as a host is guided over a corpse stepping on it. The sound tuned my stomach.        

We made our way into the big hall where the big speech would take place. Puppets love speeches. I could feel Master’s rage become inflamed as we neared our designated seat to find that we would sit next to Kukla and Ollie. Master didn’t hate them because they’d master-minded the ethnic cleansing of the traitorous finger-puppets, hated them because he was much more popular than they ever had been in the old world. I knew that on any other day that when we got home that Master would punch holes in the walls of his Manhattan townhouse until my hand broke, but today I managed to enjoy his sulking as we sat down.

      Kukla’s host had nice tits and even though she wore an adult diaper she managed to make that look good too. The way her head hung just so told me that her lobotomy had been complete so I took a second to contemplate what things would be like after today. What are the ethics for having sex with a lobotomized woman anyway? I wanted to look around to people watch but that would have alerted security to the fact that I was cognate.  I couldn’t risk it, not now when we were so close. Instead I carefully tapped my foot on the floor in a coded sequence. I was answered by tapping as each host who was like me responded.

 It was the host for the grumpy, green puppet that lived in a trash can on TV that had discovered the Achilles’ heel. We quietly spread the word with our tap-code whenever we gathered in a large group which was often. Puppets like large groups. The anniversary of the revolution was the perfect day to end their dominion over man. I looked down under the seat in front of me and there was a wooden paddle, and there were paddles under all of the other seats too. The plan had worked so far. I would have crossed my fingers if I could.

            Once all were seated the lights dimmed and the auditorium filled with applause as masters slapped the thighs of the hosts. Two hosts dressed in gold leotard, the only two allowed to wear gold, on their hands were Punch and Judy. Punch and Judy were the oldest, most famous of all puppets, and the rulers of the new puppet world. Television cameras zoomed in on them as the signal was beamed around the world to their puppet minions. Punch launched into his speech full of the usual puppet platitudes and rhetoric. Puppets like platitudes and rhetoric. Judy chimed in every so often which brought a thunder of applause. Then came the part of the address where awards were handed out. My master’s name was the fourth one called to step up to receive his medal.

            I walked Master up the stairs then stood before Punch and Judy. From behind me a gray clad host came with a box. The sock master on his hand smelled of mold because sock-puppet hosts slept in barracks-like facilities near the docks where it was humid. Because sock-puppets fear electric dryers they mandated that all wet sock were to be hung on clothes lines to air-dry. Sock-Puppets fear dryers. Master hung his head so that Punch could hang the medal and I saw the paddle leaning on the inside of the podium.    At this moment I took control of Master’s hand then grabbed the wooden paddle, and then I smashed Punch in the head.

A subdued crescendo of laughter from the hosts filled the air. Punch and Judy were frozen. I smacked Punch again hard enough the break his host’s wrist, then I swung at Judy connecting with a loud wooden pop. The laughter grew louder with each blow. I looked out and saw confusion in the puppet crowd. Their need to punish me was being over-taken by the laughter, and their innate need to be loved. Puppets will do anything to be loved. I stepped up to the microphone to tell everyone about the paddles under their seats, and then I told them to join the party.

             In a matter of seconds paddles were flying as the puppets began to beat each other. As the mayhem ensued the laughter grew louder and louder. This made them beat each other harder. I finished off Judy then waded into the auditorium swinging away as I went. It had been so long that I’d been in control of my own body that I was crying. From my left a paddle hit Master’s head hard enough to break all of the knuckles on my left hand. I screamed and laughed at the same time; I didn’t care. The U.N. auditorium was filled with the sound of hysterical laughter, breaking bones, and the pops of paddles making contact. It was the sound of freedom. The fight spilled outside as per the plan.

            As I came through the door I ran Master over to where the large yellow bird had been knocked to the ground as he was being beaten by six other PBS puppets. I figured I’d give Master one last thrill. We beat the yellow bird’s legs until they broke.

             “It’s just the fucking alphabet, you closet alcoholic” Master said. He voice cracked under the strain. I have no idea what he meant because I never watched Master’s show.

            A growing pile of puppets was being soaked in gasoline. I pulled Master from my hands and then I stripped out of my leotard and diaper. Then I shoved Master’s face first into my diaper before tossing him on the pile. Someone lit fire to the pile and I stepped back to watch Master’s blue hand shrivel, turn black, and melt away. I looked across the river and saw smoke rising from many places as hosts had broken free.

The speech was televised worldwide, and now around the world puppets burned. I heard crying. Most crying was stilted because those people had been lobotomized, so the emotions came from a misfiring brain. The rest came from people like me, the lucky ones, at least at the moment. We would have to put the world back together.

             I stepped away to begin the long walk back to Master’s, no, my townhouse. I heard a honk from behind me, when I turned I saw the Lincoln Town Car from this morning. The driver rolled down his window.

            “Nice legs” the driver said.

            “Hey, who hasn’t wanted to walk 42^nd street naked in broad daylight?” I said back with a cheesy grin.

            “Need a ride?”

             “You know what? No. I think I want to go where ever I want to go. It’s been ten years since I could do that. You know what I’m saying?”

            The driver looked at me; tears came to his eyes. He waved and drove off. On the way home I must have passed twenty puppet bonfires. The hosts shuffled around in a pleasant haze, and I realized that we’d have to figure out how to take care of them. That was a problem for tomorrow. In my townhouse there was a well-stocked wine cellar, and I was going to get plastered.

IROC

Two years ago there was a story about some guy getting a call from police to tell him his car , stolen twenty years before, had been recovered. The car was in mint condition. By the time I’d finished reading the story I already knew what was in the trunk…

 

Stuart sat in a cheap folding lawn chair in the guest bedroom of his house. Aside from the inflatable mattress he’d bought from Walgreen’s it was the only furniture remaining in the home. His clothes were divided into two large plastic storage bins. One contained his two suits, and dress shirts. The second contained some of his old clothes from the 1980s. Thanks to the divorce he’d lost fifty pounds, and he discovered he could fit into them again.

His weight loss was not cause for celebration. He wrote it off to his ex-wife sucking his soul from his body. He stood up and shuffled out of the room. His jaunt down the hall had become quick, and he usually looked at his feet because his wife had left most of the family photographs hanging on the walls. Tonight he stopped to look at each one for the last time. The most recent hung in the back of the hall where he stood. They were in chronological order; his daughter’s high school graduation, her middle school graduation, various family photos, a couple of vacation pictures from Disneyland from twelve years ago, and finally the wedding portraits.

Looking at the large picture of him in a black tuxedo embracing his wife, Trisha, he couldn’t believe it had all happened. Love is such a weird thing. She must have loved him once, but now he found this impossible to believe. Next to the large portrait was a smaller picture of the wedding party. In it Stuart stood with his old friends Ted, Jim, and Randy. They had been a rock band since high school. He’d lost touch with them after the wedding.

His loud sigh echoed through the large house. He crossed the house quickly. There had been enough nostalgia. In the kitchen the large bottle of Jack Daniels waited for him in a plain brown paper bag. Taking the bottle out he twisted the cap free of its paper seal. He recoiled at the strong scent. He set the bottle back down on the counter. His gold wedding band came off of his finger with little struggle. He set it on the counter next to the empty bag, picked up the bottle, and headed to the rear door leading to the garage.

He turned on the garage light.

Stuart couldn’t have closed his gaping mouth if he wanted to. Staggering forward he reached out his free hand. He wasn’t dreaming because he felt the warm, polished hood, and he could smell pine scented air freshener. It was his stolen 1982, IROC Camaro Z-28. It was in perfect shape. Though it vanished from his driveway in July of 1982 this car showed no sign of age, it gleamed under the fluorescent garage light.

The sound of breaking glass made Stuart jump. The Jack Daniels bottle he’d brought with him into the garage had slipped from his hand to the floor. He looked at the broken glass in the pool of whiskey for a moment, but his mind didn’t register the mess fully.  He stepped past his mess to the driver’s side door of the shining black Chevy, his face frozen in confused wonder. Something in the back seat caught his eye, leaning up to the glass he saw his old white Nike high-top sneakers sitting side-by-side on top of his leather fighter-pilot jacket where he’d left them thirty years ago.

He slid his hand under the driver’s door-handle; the door popped open, sat down behind the wheel, and caressed the dashboard slowly. His eyes locked on the odometer.

“No Way!”  he said. The mileage was the same, at least he was pretty sure, but he’d have to double check with his records. They were somewhere at his mother’s house out in the valley. His late father, Lloyd, had him keep a mileage log to make sure he wasn’t driving around like an idiot; that log info was also on the insurance declaration too.

The next thing to catch his eye was his old Judas Priest key ring hanging from the key in the ignition. On the ring were his old house key, and the key to the movie theater he was working at in 1982.

“No fucking way!” he shouted surprising himself. The cassette deck was still there, and there was a tape sticking out. Stuart pulled out the cassette, it was his Journey: Captured live album that he kept for when there were girls in the car. He smiled for the first time in a year, and opened the compartment under the arm rest. His tapes were still there, the ones he thought he’d never see again, the tapes of his first band.

These he kept out of his carrying case – which he realized was still on the floor of the front passenger seat – because his drummer had a habit of swiping the tapes. He pulled out a cassette case marked Halloween – 1980, swapped it in the tape deck with the Journey tape, and turned the key so the power came on. He pressed PLAY. The stereo system came to life with the voices of his band mates Ted, Jim, and Randy.

“You ready” said Ted.

        “Ready like Freddy!” Jim answered.

        “Stu, you rollin’ tape?” Ted asked.

        “Yeah, let’s do it to it.” his voice on the tape answered. Then with four clicks of drum sticks they launched into “Beatin’ the Odds” by Molly Hatchet. He sat back in the seat and bathed in the sound of his old band.

Stuart had gone out to the garage to kill himself. He’d given up everything for her. He’d stopped playing guitar to focus on a real job at a canned vegetable company in Spreckles, he’d cut his hair, got rid of his cool wardrobe, and got fat being the domesticated animal his wife demanded he be. While he got fat she went to the gym, and met Frank who made more money than he did. The economic crash cost him his job, and that was her excuse to leave. There was nothing he could do but watch the movers carry out his furniture. The divorce settlement that mandated he move out and sell the house. The proceeds would be divided evenly.

He figured that the house would be worth much less if someone committed suicide in it. So he figured he could screw his wife one last time, he would get drunk, and run his car engine in the garage until he expired from the exhaust fumes. She’d already destroyed him as a man, and as a father. He didn’t see how he could move on living with this kind of pain.

The pain vanished the moment he saw his old car.

As he listened to his band launch into an original song called “BONGO!” that he’d written back in 1979 sitting at Ted’s mom’s kitchen table, he opened the glove box. Everything was still there: his registration, his old Swiss Army knife, his plastic string-winder, and his Monterey Peninsula College parking pass for the spring’82 semester.

The car was stolen before he could sign up for the fall semester. It was the morning of the big Day on the Green concert up at the Oakland Coliseum. His girlfriend, Julie West, Ted with girlfriend, Kendra Wayne, were to spend the day rocking out to a day-long show that featured Cheap Trick, Sammy Hagar, Night Ranger, Ronnie Montrose, and Journey. Instead Ted took the girls up while Stuart spent the day with the cops, then driving around in his dad’s Chrysler K-car searching Monterey, Pacific Grove, Seaside, Fort Ord, Marina, and Salinas for his Camaro. He was crushed.

He had earned the car working part-time jobs after school, and by getting straight A’s in school. His father and his uncle had contributed half of the purchase price as their graduation present. He would cruise the strip on Friday nights in Salinas and patrol the sunset along Carmel, and Asilamar beaches with Ted, Randy, and Jim in the car. They would listen to cassette tapes of the previous night’s rehearsal session, and argue over who’d fucked up.

The car was also a great place to make out with Julie. The bucket seats reclined all the way back so she could straddle him. They never went all the way in the car, he wasn’t that kind of guy, rocker or not, and Julie wasn’t that kind of girl.

Mostly he loved driving alone. The power of the engine with the wind coming through the open window made him feel free, and made him feel like a man. Sometimes he’d drive down the coast to Big Sur while imagining he would keep on driving all the way to Argentina. Sure he could drive all the way down in any car, but the IROC would do it in style.

Then it was gone.

When the insurance check came he bought a Honda Civic because he figured nobody would want to steal one. He never loved another car again.

He still loved this car. It felt good under him. Suddenly he could care less about the house. Trisha could have her half of the money, and this was fine with him now. He got out of the car and swept up the broken bottle.

He opened the trunk and gasped.

The three-foot-long submarine sandwich he’d bought for the concert was sitting on top of his gym bag. Half was missing, but carefully re-wrapped  He couldn’t see any mold, and it didn’t stink. Opening the shrink-wrap the flavorful aroma of the meats and cheese filled his nostrils. He pried back the bun looking for black, fuzzy mold, but even the mayo smelled fresh. It should have been black and reeking of death, but the bread was still supple. He took a bite expecting the illusion to vanish, yet the sandwich was still good, and damned good too. Stuart ate most of the sandwich as he circled his old car. What the hell is going on? He glanced at his plain old Honda to make sure that his lifeless body wasn’t slumped over the wheel, and it was not. Good, I’m not dead.

He was glad he wasn’t dead.

Back at the trunk he began to look through his old stuff when he came across an envelope addressed to him. Inside was a letter written on stationary from an Oklahoma motel.

Kid,

Sorry about taking your car. It was too nice to pass up. I took good care of it. I was to return it a few years later but you’d stopped rockin’ out. You can give up a little here and there for some tail, but buddy you can’t sell out like you did.

I knew it was only a matter of time before the witch hung you by the short ones.

It’s my fault. I’m told by the powers that be that if I hadn’t taken the car your life would be different.

So here’s your car back. I know that you sold your guitar and amp to that Ted guy, but I bet you don’t know that he still has them, and he’s waiting to give them back.

I don’t have a lot of pull in the universe, but I can promise that as long as you are playin ’guitar in a rock & roll band this car will always have gas in it. Your gal Julie’s kids just left for college, and since her old man left her she could use a friend. She looks better than you do too.

Good Luck,

 Jiles Perry, “The Big Bopper”, Richardson Jr.

p.s.

Buddy gave you his Stratocaster as payment for the sandwich. – JP

Stuart pulled out his gym bag to see the distinctive tweed guitar case. His hands shook as his pulled it from the trunk, his fingers fumbled with the three latches, but he got the case open. Sitting on red velvet was a 1958 Fender Stratocaster. His fingers caressed the steel strings along the length of the neck.

“Thank you, Buddy!” he said. He let out a howl that cause dogs to bark for a radius of five blocks in each direction. He closed the case carefully taking it with him into the house.

Searching on his iPhone he found Ted’s number. Ted still had his guitar and his rig just as the letter had said. Stuart asked him if he knew how to get in touch with Julie, Ted laughed and said he’d talked with her a month before. She’s asked Ted about Stuart. Stuart had a grin on his face that would not go away for a very long time. Ted asked if he’d like to come over and jam. “Hell yes!” Stuart said

With the guitar case firmly strapped into the front passenger seat with the seat belt he started the car. The engine purred to life. The garage door rose behind him and he backed out onto the dark street. As the Chevy prowled forward the weight of the world dissolved from his shoulders. Everything was possible again. He decided not to tell Ted about the car, or the Stratocaster over the phone. It was time to start surprising people again.

Fair Fightin’

See the notes that follow the story…

 

 

The battle had worn itself down to small skirmishes along defensible parts of the Mexican-owned ranch. My boys had chased fifteen Mexican soldiers to the edge of a corral. The Mexican Lieutenant formed his men into a smart-dressed line with admirable flourish; his sword glinting in the afternoon sun, the brass buttons on his dark blue coat shined, and red feather in his high-peaked hat seemed to wave defiantly.

My boys knew to stand and wait for the smoke plumes from the Mexican’s rifles before they dropped flat on their bellies. The rounds would have flown over their heads anyway as the Mexican army wasn’t big on teaching marksmanship to their conscripted soldiers. Still, there was no point in takin’ chances. The boys rose from the ground shoulder abreast, raised their rifles, and fired a volley. Their rounds found their marks, and ten of the other side went down. The Lieutenant stood gesturing with his sword silently. I guess he was hoping his rank held magical powers to raise the dead.

I raised my rifle and shot him. I struck him in the chest just below his heart. Our gazes locked for an instant. He seemed incredulous that he had been shot by a Yankee enlisted man. He dropped to the ground gurgling for a few seconds, and then slipped into that awful limp silence. The four survivors hid behind the low adobe wall that held the wooden gate in place. The ground here was uneven, and there was a small rise ten yard behind them with good cover allowing advance.

Taking five of my best shots we went to the left about twenty yards where we went over the fence. Crawling on our hands and knees we made the rise in good time. The Mexicans were frantically trying to reload, and arguing they had no more powder. My Corporal, a man named Walter, called out to them in Spanish to surrender. They looked at each other with wide eyes. I looked at Walter and said “Surrender?”

“Sarge, ain’t no point in killing unarmed men.” Walt said. He was right. He called again, and the Mexicans tossed their rifles clear, and put their hands up. Walt put his hand on my shoulder and said “Besides we didn’t have time to load our rifles, including yours.” He tipped his hat, which was his way of oh-so politely flipping the bird.

I took a second to stand over the dead Lieutenant. He looked to be around my age. I began to wonder about his life, his mother, and if he had a sweetheart somewhere down south. I quickly chased those thoughts from my head. I would have plenty of time to let him haunt me after the war. There was a beautiful French pistol on his belt. I picked it up, and wandered into the pasture as I admired it.

Suddenly there were hoofs beating behind me.

There were men on horseback with a coach approaching. Walt began yelling at them to surrender. They ignored him. The first two men, both officers, rode past shoulders slumped, and their glassy eyes fixed straight ahead. I began shouting for them to halt and surrender. I pointed my new pistol at them. If they even knew I was there they didn’t let on. The first two rode on past me, and now I was the incredulous one.

I looked back to my right to see the black coach drawn by six weary horses. The coach must have been a sight when it was new, but the black had faded the way black does in the sun suggesting a beaten condition. A woman’s face filled the rear window. She was pale, but her eyes burned with rage.  The coach passed me, and I lowered my pistol for a second so it didn’t point at the woman. I raised it again at Walt and I continued to yell for surrender. The coach was followed closely by two men, the closet one saw me lower my pistol for the woman in the coach, and he thanked me in Spanish. He was a general, and I figured the woman was his wife. I yelled at him to surrender, and he shrugged as he rode past me.

There was one final rider. His silver hair and beard stuck flat to his head from sweat. His coat and boots were dusty. This man was a fighter. I called to him to surrender. He looked at me and spit. I pointed my pistol and fired at him. The ball went wide. The man smirked as he turned his horse to me, and pulled his sword. A shot rang out before it was completely out of the scabbard. The man frowned as he fell from his mount. The horse stopped.

I walked to him. I saw Walt lower his rifle. I said to him “I thought your rifle wasn’t loaded?” and he smiled.

“I reloaded” he said. We stood over the dying man. His groans grew weaker with each breath, and his eyes seemed to lose focus as he stared at his hand. A voice called to us from behind. It was the captain. He held his coat away from his body.

“I, I fell from my horse right into a cow pie. It’s my only coat.” He said. I looked at Walt, and Walt looked at me lowering his eyebrows letting me know the Captain was my problem.

“Sir, there’s a well near the house. I’m sure you can wash it out there.” I said. The Captain nodded, and looked down at the Mexican officer at my feet.

“Looks like he’s done for.” He said before walking off to the farm house. I kicked the dead man in his face. My boot slapped into his skin, and his teeth clicked as his jaw went sideways.

“Whatchya go and do that for?” Walt said.

“I wanted to watch this one die.” I said.

“Why?”

“He’s the reason we’re here. He wouldn’t surrender. We whooped these guys fair and square. When you get whooped you’re supposed to put your hands up, and surrender.”

“Well, I guess he wanted to keep fighting.” Walt said. I kicked the body again, this time in the stomach. I looked at Walt and said “You’re supposed to stop when you’re whooped. Otherwise the war keeps goin’ on. You surrender, and then your government gets together with my government and work out a peace. Then we all go home, and get on with our lives.”

“Sounds nice, but it doesn’t always work like that.”

“It’s supposed to,” I said, and I pointed to the riders with the coach smaller in the distance “and those are the people who make the rules.” Walt regarded them for a second, and then looked down at the dead man. He placed his hands on his hips and looked at me.

“Sarge, I fought the British in 1812, and I fought Injuns from Cincinnati to the Chattahoochee River. There ain’t no rules. Least as far as I’ve ever seen.” He said. I started to kick the dead man over and over until Walt pulled me away. He said “Sarge, I think it’s good that men like you believe in rules. I think they keep you sane. Maybe someday enough men will believe in the rules, and nobody will fight any more.”

“I guess you’re right.” I said. I looked down at the dead man. I wanted to feel remorse but could not. I looked at Walt and said “I guess I just want a fair fight.”

 

     This came as the last dream of the night. It was so vivid, the coach, the uniforms, and the smoke from the fighting. The last half of the story I changed as my characters came to life, but everything through to the black coach was just as it happened in the dream. The difference is the officer my character shoots at keeps riding on, and the Captain keep rambling on about how well he does with the ladies back in Boston.

This story is a throw away, but I didn’t want to lose it.