Category Archives: Writing

Flash Fiction: Fire On The Sea

Chuck Wendig is back from his Australia-bound carcass flinging and this week we again have a new and exciting adventure for our Flash Fiction Challenge. It’s the usual “1,000 words or so” and the random song title I got from my iTunes collection (11,752 songs and growing) is track number one on Heather Alexander‘s “Insh’allah – the Music Of Lion’s Blood” album. Amazingly, I was able to get in at only 825 words, a rarity for me. As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

FIRE ON THE SEA

Omar sat on the beach, facing east. The hard sand was cool after it had bled away all of the day’s heat. Before him the sea was angry, the waves rolling in, the surf steadily crashing higher and higher. A dim bioluminescent glow lit the foam. Just audible over the growling of the surf were the sounds of chaos, sirens and explosions, coming from the city behind him.

Other solitary watchers sat on the beach with Omar, all of them silent and lost in their own thoughts. A few families were scattered across the beach as well, but the children were all quiet and sleeping, innocent and oblivious.

Overhead the stars were crystal clear and beautiful. Orion was high in the east, rising up on his side above a mass of thunderheads far off on the horizon. Above the ancient warrior, closer to the zenith, the last quarter moon and Mars hovered near Taurus, the red planet preternaturally shining far brighter than the red giant, Aldeberan.

As he watched the wall of clouds race toward him from the east, Omar could hear a few of those near him praying quietly. He had never been a very religious man to begin with, but after cancer had taken his wife when she was not yet thirty, Omar had found few occasions to want to speak with Allah. The sons he had raised without his beloved were now spread across the country and would have to decide for themselves if they needed to meet their fates as holy men or not.

Earlier in the evening, one of the television stations had been taken over by an armed mob of religious zealots. All night they had been shouting and wailing their theories about how Allah was punishing the world of men, cleansing it with fire. Without a shred of evidence to back them up, they continually promised that the faithful would be saved in order to rebuild the world in Allah’s name.

Omar didn’t know why the world was being destroyed. He had listened to the increasingly horrible news reports showing the cities of Europe and America burning before going silent. Some commentators had tried to interview experts to see what precautions should be taken in the few brief hours they themselves had. At first there had been speculation that the flames from the sun might be just a flare that would die out in a few hours, leaving those lucky enough to be on the night side to survive. Those hopes had faded as the night went on. With Japan and Asia starting to burn with the sunrise, Omar had come down to the beach to face the end on his own terms.

Throughout the city, thousands of others had chosen a different path, spending their last hours looting, killing, and raping. Others panicked and were desperately trying to flee with whatever belongings they could, although there was no place safe to flee to. Omar had simply left all of his belongings behind and managed to avoid the mobs until he reached the beach. After that he had turned up the coast and walked away from the madness until he found a quiet spot.

Omar did not have any family left in the city. The few friends he had were not that close to him and would face this in their own way. Alone with just his dignity and his self-respect for many years now, he had decided that he would do what he could to keep those things with him until the end, meeting the end of all things as he had lived his life.

While it should still be over three hours before sunrise, Omar could see that the eastern horizon was starting to brighten. The line of the horizon far out to sea was being defined by the constant flashes of lightning smashing down from the turbulent wavefront being driven away from the burning Pacific Ocean.

An intensely bright, white line appeared and grew in the sky parallel to the horizon. The tops of the clouds beyond the horizon were being illuminated by an amazingly intense light. Stretching up higher than any clouds ever seen by humans before, the inferno’s fury was rapidly hemorrhaging the planet’s life off into space.

Driven before this final storm to end all storms, the wind began to pick up, soon going beyond hurricane force. Carried on the wind was a rising wave of heat, raising the temperature beyond anything Omar had ever felt, even here near the Equator.

Omar could see the clouds and lighting were approaching unbelievably fast, towering up into the stratosphere and beyond. While many of those around him hunkered down and faced away, Omar chose to stand and face his fate. Holding onto a tree with all of his strength, leaning into the howling, blast furnace wind, Omar watched as the sea rose and the world turned to fire around him.

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The Plan For November

It’s good to have a plan. As Colonel John ‘Hannibal’ Smith said, “I love it when a plan comes together!”

November’s coming, and that means that things are going to get really, REALLY busy.

First of all, above and beyond and top priority over everything (which could completely derail and invalidate everything below) is the job hunt. Gotta find something. Priorities and all of that.

Between sending out resumes and checking out Linkedin and so on and so forth, for the last six months there’s been this blog to write and post every day. This is not a bad thing! Developing some writing discipline was (and is) one of the primary purposes for this blog’s existence. Participating in things like Chuck Wendig’s weekly “Flash Fiction Challenge” exercise is also a great part of the blog.

As I’m now joining the “Wednesday Writer’s Group”, I want and need to start actively writing again on two different old first drafts. I probably won’t be able to write on both every day, but it would be nice to set a goal of 1,000 words a day or more on one or the other. At least enough to keep ahead of the group and have something to hand out for critiquing every week.

Next, some of you may know that November is “National Novel Writing Month“, or “NaNoWriMo”. For the third year, I’m planning on trying to participate. That’s an average of 1,700 words a day every day in November in order to hit the goal.

It’s true of many of us human critters that we dislike pressure and working on tight deadlines. It’s also true that many of us perform much better when working in a high pressure situation while working on tight deadlines. (That’s why bosses, teachers, and editors use them – duh!) I recognize that I’m someone who both dislikes and needs the pressure. I’ve learned over the years that I can subvert any procrastination inclinations by proactively setting myself up in advance to perform in a public spotlight. I’ll hate it later and wonder why in hell I did that – but I know why, both now and then. (Kind of like the halfway point in a marathon. Every time I wonder what in the hell I’m doing and I swear up and down that I’m never going to run again and I’m going to throw in the towel at any second – but I don’t quit and I always do run again.)

So for my NaNoWriMo project this year, I’m going to post the daily “zeroth draft” manuscript here. Every day. Or else I’ll have to post (i.e. “confess”) here that I didn’t write that day. Every day.

Understand that this will not be polished, smooth, edited, publishable-ready prose of the highest standards. This is the “puke words onto the paper and keep writing” stuff, the draft before the first draft, the mother of all “Flash Fiction Challenges” where instead of “1,000 words or so” it’s “50,000 words or so”. Hell, I may even ask for plot suggestions and directions from the followers of this blog and go with those ideas. It will be an “adventure”.

It also means that many days in November will have two posts per day here. Over the last 177 days I have posted 182 articles here, one per day with five days that had two articles. I expect to be posting one entry a day for the “usual” We Love The Stars Too Fondly stuff (simple astrophotography, Odds & Sods, critter pictures, Random Blatherationings, book reviews, semi-sane rants, and so on) and then a second post with that day’s NaNoWriMo output. The writing on the project(s) for the Wednesday group will not be posted here – that will be a surprise in a year or so when it gets published.

If you start seeing a little daily “scoreboard” as part of every day’s post, you’ll know what it’s about.

Oh, and then on Thanksgiving weekend the annual Christmas lights madness starts. We haven’t talked about that yet… Heh, heh… Heh, heh… *rubs hand together and drools a little*

That’s the plan! (You’ve been warned.)

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Micro Flash Fiction & Soothing, Calming Pictures

This week Chuck Wendig has been in Australia, so his Flash Fiction Challenge was short and sweet. Write a three-sentence horror story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. Mine was posted on his site this morning and it’s gotten some decent feedback, which I appreciate. It is:

The call from her daughter was brief, just a panicked “Mom, he’s” and a truncated scream as the line went dead. The authorities searched for three torturous months, every long day more desperate than the last. A year later she began returning home via UPS, one gift-wrapped organ at a time.

With that, since it seems we’ve all had a rough week between this crisis and that crisis and the couple of crises that I haven’t even mentioned, let’s calm ourselves, look at the pretty flowers, and get ready to have a fun, relaxing weekend.

2009-04-15 Rio Samba Rose small OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA 2009-04-20 Purple & White Flowers small

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Unfocused Or Diverse?

Over the last couple of weeks, between the political mess and the Scientific American mess, I’ve been reading a lot of blogs written by other people. One thing that has come from this is something for me to think about.

One of the things that Mariette DiChristina of Scientific American said in her initial tweet about the DN Lee affair was that the article in question was removed because, “The post was not appropriate for this area.” In reading many other blogs from scientists, economists, political pundits, and space/rocket folks, I found that many of them are restricted to the subject matter covered by the author’s area of expertise. Finally, as more and more people have “liked” and commented on my blog and I’ve started reading their blogs in turn, I’ve seen many that have a limited subject matter.

Nothing wrong with that at all. There aren’t any rules here, after all. Every blog is the thing that its creator makes it be. I most certainly haven’t looked at even a small fraction of the blogs out there. But if what I’ve seen is typical of the whole (an assumption which can be debated in the comments below if you wish), the average blog is narrowly focused.

There are notable exceptions, obviously. The two that leap to mind immediately for me are John Scalzi’s “Whatever” and Chuck Wendig’s “Terribleminds“. Given that these are the first two blogs that I started reading on a daily basis, perhaps it’s not a coincidence that “We Love The Stars Too Fondly” also covers a diverse range of subject matter. Or maybe “WLTSTF” is just what it is because that’s what I have to write, and I was drawn to “Whatever” and “Terribleminds” because they’re similar in style to what I wanted to create. Cause and effect could be interchangeable here.

Either way, it is what it is.

I’m sure I have some folks following “We Love The Stars Too Fondly” because of the photography and they just tune out when I publish fiction or political rants. I’m sure some folks want the space and astronomy stuff and couldn’t care less when I put up travel photographs. (Adding additional permutations here is left as an exercise to the student.) The Long-Suffering Wife and my kids are stuck reading it all.

The reason that I’ve been thinking about this since reading so many science-related blogs is that I’m wondering if it’s a good thing or a bad thing to be all over the map like that. The authors of narrowly focused blogs, by nature of limiting their field of view, seem able to speak more passionately and more knowledgeably about their narrow field. On the other hand, I sometimes feel like I’m a butterfly floating from subject to subject, day to day, never really getting too deeply into anything. The classic example of “a mile wide and an inch deep”.

After thinking about it a day or two (and having the question plaguing my brain for an hour or so last night in the middle of the night) I think that I’m comfortable with that.

In my professional career I fit in best in a position and a company where there was a strong “jack of all trades” component to my daily routine. (It might be best if I can find another position with more of that.) That’s where my interests are personally and how I pursue things in the world.

My favorite music comes from all genres, from classical to rock to punk to country. My reading tends to be varied as well, although I do read proportionately more science fiction and fantasy than mysteries, classics, non-fiction, or biographies. My favorite movies come from all kinds of genres. A lightweight, modern day, Renaissance man of sorts.

“We Love The Stars Too Fondly” is an expression of my interests and passions. Upon review, the short version of “my interests and passions” equates to “a mile wide and an inch deep”.

I hope everyone reading this enjoys the ride — or at least can just ignore the things that they couldn’t care less about in order to get to the things that we share a passion for.

I and “We Love The Stars Too Fondly” are not “unfocused”.

We’re “diverse”.

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It’s A Long Way To Irvine

About seventy-two miles each way, to be exact. At rush hour, through the teeth of the 101/405 interchange and up over the hill through the Sepulveda Pass construction zone. My first thought was that the “fun” value for the experience could definitely use some improvements. At least I had some good tunes to sooth my brain. (“Return Of The King” soundtrack. Tasty!)

The writer’s group made it all worth while. I think this may be a very good thing, as long as the commute doesn’t get too onerous.

But it does make for a long day, with lots of other stuff to get caught up on once I get home. And I should eat, I guess. As well as keeping an eye on the government to make sure they don’t do something even more stupid. Or, at the least, know about it when they do. (Eternal optimism can be a real pain in the ass some times.)

So have a before & after pair of pictures:

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Busy Again

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand all of a sudden it’s feeling crazy busy for a few days.

I’m rapidly getting much more involved with my local Commemorative Air Force wing, about which you will no doubt hear much in the future.

IMG_7207_smallThe CAF logo on the tail of our B-29, “Fifi”, when she visited Camarillo in March, 2013.

Also, tonight was the first night of this semester’s “Conversational Spanish II”. Only one night a week, six weeks, no tests, no credits, but a good way to at least get exposed to some fundamentals and be able to ask where the bathroom is and, more importantly, probably understand the answer. Plus, it’s a special treat to take the class with The Long-Suffering Wife. We’re a cute couple. (A couple of what, we don’t know! Thanks, I’ll be here all week. Tip your waitress. Try the veal.)

Tomorrow I’m visiting a writer’s group which I may be invited to join for their weekly meetings. That would be a great opportunity, although it’s a good two hours drive (in Irvine) each way. But it could get me out of the house and off the streets in addition to getting some valuable personal feedback on my writing, as well as some insight into the processes that others use. It will be great! Assume y’all will be hearing more about that.

Now I have to get back to work.

Plus I have my “normal” daily writing to get to. Oh, yeah, and that whole job search thing. That’s kinda important too.

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Flash Fiction: Forgotten Mechanism

Chuck Wendig has flung his carcass across the great watery depths to Australia, but before he left he gave us this task for this week’s Flash Fiction Challenge. It’s the usual “1,000 words or so” based on a randomly generated title. I rolled a 1 and a 2 (so tempted to make the story about Lawrence Welk…) which gives me the title “Forgotten Mechanism”. As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

FORGOTTEN MECHANISM

Do you believe in Providence? (Not the one in Rhode Island.) Divine intervention? (Not the Julia Ecklar album.) Kismet? (Neither the 1944 movie nor the 1955 one.) Fate? (Not the magazine, RPG, or video game.)

I didn’t use to believe, but now I’m wondering.

I had been going out with Chris for three months. For the most part we were pretty good together. He had more of the “dumb jock” persona than I was used to in my boyfriends, but there were a lot of other things that made up for that. He was funny. My friends all liked him. And the sex was fantastic.

We had met at a party thrown by a mutual friend. I had been drifting from one short term, casual relationship to another, content with that arrangement. I had my hands full with my career and I had the freedom to travel a lot. Beyond that, I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up.

A month later, Chris and I were a thing. He had finally gotten me interested in watching a professional, team sport – who knew that ice hockey would be my downfall? Even more amazing, who knew that I would love playing it even more than watching it?

Chris had learned to appreciate classical music, at least the “Top 40”, Boston Pops versions. It beat the country twang that he usually listened to. It had been a lot easier getting him to appreciate good barbecue. Fast food sucks.

We were really getting comfortable together. Chris’s best friend had hinted that he might be about to suggest a swap of house keys and closet space. Then, on the rainiest day in recent memory, I got a call from Chris that changed everything.

“Hey, Pat, it’s me. I need some help, I’m having a car problem.”

“I’m getting ready for a meeting,” I answered. “What’s up?”

“I’m locked out of the car. Can you give me a ride? I’ve got to get back to the office ASAP or I’m screwed.”

“I can’t leave, I’ve got to meet with my boss in ten minutes. Can I come and get you in an hour? How did you get locked out?”

“It’s really wet out here, something must have shorted out in the key thing. I’m really short on time, I can’t wait an hour.”

“What do you mean, your keys are broken? Is there something wrong with your car? I don’t understand. Can’t you get a cab?”

“The car is fine, but I can’t open it to get in. Like I told you, my keys are broken. It will take too long to call a cab. Come on, I need your help here!”

“Chris, I can’t leave, but I’m trying to help. It sounds like you’re saying that your remote control is fried – but can’t you just use the key to open the car?”

I could hear the exasperation building in Chris’s voice. It sounded like he was counting backwards from ten in German before answering.

“Pat, the keys are broken. I keep saying that. I can’t get into the car. Can you help me or not?”

“Chris, listen, I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” I said as calmly as I could. “I think you’re talking about your remote control. I’m talking about the key. The key, not the remote control. How could the key be broken by getting wet?”

“You use the god damn key to unlock the car! Are you an idiot all of a sudden, Pat? It’s broken, I can’t open the car!”

It was my turn to count backwards. “Chris, can’t you unlock the door by inserting the key into the keyhole in the door? Just like in the old days before you had a car with a remote control to lock and unlock the door? Have you forgotten about that ancient mechanism?”

The line clicked dead. I was left to stew, wondering what the hell had just happened.

During my meeting I felt my phone buzz a couple of times as text messages came in, but I wasn’t able to check them for almost two hours. When I got back to my office, I found that the situation had finally been resolved. Sort of.

“Thanks for nothing! Called AAA, they opened the car.”

“Missed my meeting! Got chewed out!”

“Went to dealer and got the key fixed. Sorry that you were useless.”

“Let me know when you want to apologize.”

OK, we had had fights once or twice. Like all couples, most of our fights were over stupid things. We cooled off, we talked, we apologized, we had smoking hot makeup sex, we moved on.

This felt different.

What should have been a simple “duh!” moment had turned into a huge confrontation. What should have been a goofy brain cramp (on his part, not mine) to be laughed about for years instead had Chris completely losing his cool and becoming rude and abusive toward me.

Was he going to cool off and realize what had happened? What was he going to do when he did?

I knew that I wasn’t going to be apologizing. I hadn’t done anything except try to help. I hadn’t flown off the handle, started yelling, or started calling names.

I just let it slide overnight, but the next day his next text message wasn’t what I had hoped for.

“Ready to apologize yet?”

“We need to talk,” I texted back.

He wasn’t interested. For whatever reason, all of the good things we had done together meant nothing compared to what had happened that afternoon. Or, more correctly, his interpretation of what had happened.

That was a side of him that I hadn’t seen. It was a side I really didn’t like. Over the next week there were a few times when I missed him and felt like caving in and calling. Those moments faded every time I thought about apologizing for something I hadn’t done and admitting I was wrong when I hadn’t been, all just to stay in a relationship with someone who lost his temper and blamed me over something this stupid.

Needless to say, we didn’t swap keys or closet space. And it was all because Chris had forgotten how to open a car door with a key. What were the odds of that happening?

Providence. Kismet. Fate.

Whatever. I’m going to book a two-week trip to India.

Alone.

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Flash Fiction Follow-Up: Midair II

Last week I wrote a cliffhanger short story for Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge. This week I finished up someone else’s story from that first exercise. However, while I got several very nice comments about my cliffhanger story (thanks y’all, very much appreciated!), no one chose my story as their starting point for this week’s challenge. Yet several folks have said that they still want to know what comes next in my cliffhanger. So, here’s a bonus bit of fiction to tie up those loose ends. Even better, I can make it as long as it needs to be. None of this “1,000 words or so” to deal with! 3,200+ words! Whoo-hoo!

(Another good reason for writing this is that it’s windy as all get out here in SoCal today, which has in turn knocked out the power. It may be a couple of hours before we get it back- but I can write most of this on my iPad! Let’s here it for living the First World! Now if I could just open the fridge to get a cold Diet Coke…)

MIDAIR II

Coming down deadstick over the forest, I was trying to watch five things at once.

I needed to keep my airspeed pegged for maximum glide, but with the master switches off and all of the electronic avionics dead, I was watching the backup “steam” gauges over on the passenger’s side.

I was also looking at the terrain to make sure that I would clear the trees and land somewhere in the fields beyond.

I was also trying to watch the approaching fields through the busted windshield to see if there were any obstacles to dodge at the last second.

I was also trying to glance at the emergency checklist to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything critical.

I was also trying to get any clue from the trees and fields about the wind direction, since it would be much safer and easier to land into the wind. With the wind would be bad, a strong crosswind could be fatal.

I was trying as hard as I could to clot and coagulate so that blood would stop running into my eyes.

Finally, I was trying to remember to always fly the plane. Fly the plane. FLY THE PLANE!

Adrenaline is great stuff — ask for it by name!

About thirty seconds out I had cleared the trees and saw a big field of corn stretching out before me. There were some large farm buildings, barns, and a tent on the right side, but I didn’t need to get anywhere near them. The way the corn was waving clearly showed me that the wind was blowing straight at me. I had half expected that since I had been flying with a stiff tail wind when I had collided with the flock of geese a few minutes earlier, but it was great to get confirmation.

Perfect! It would be like landing in a big pit of foam packing peanuts.

Two seconds after that thought, I saw how wrong I was. Instantly, my intended landing sit was just as unacceptable as it had previously been wonderful.

As I approached I could finally see the far side of the barns. There sat three school buses. The corn I could now see wasn’t smooth, but had paths cut through it.

I was flying at eighty-seven knots with tanks half full of highly flammable avgas straight into a corn maze full of school kids. With my engine out, I was almost completely silent. They would never know what hit them.

It was too late to make any drastic moves. I was only one hundred feet up, with no engine. I had nowhere to go but down. But if I lost control and spun or stalled now, not only would I be down on top of the kids, I would be out of control, spinning, and crashing. Exploding and burning.

Without thinking I banked to the left as much as I dared, away from the corn field and the farm buildings. My headwind was now a crosswind, working to lift my right wing and try to roll me. The turn started killing my speed and threatened to make me stall. I lowered the nose to keep the speed up, fought to keep the turn shallow, and hoped for the best. It wasn’t much of a turn, I was way too low, but it was enough.

The trees at the south side of the farm came up at me like a freight train. They were mostly some kind of pines and it was like hitting a row of bushy telephone poles. I had just enough time to get level, pull back hard, try to flare to bleed off some speed, and brace for the crash.

The fact that I came back to consciousness meant that the plane’s cabin hadn’t hit a tree head on. I was leaning back with the nose of the plane up about twenty degrees or so. I was also leaning about forty-five degrees over to the left. The broken windshield had even more damage now and there were broken pine branches sticking through it.

I could smell avgas, so there was obviously a fuel tank rupture someplace. If that gas was soaking into the pine needles underneath me, this was a really bad place to be if anything sparked. I had to get out, fast.

That was easier said than done. I took off my headphones and unbuckled my seat belt, trying to shift my weight to start sitting up. Instead of sitting however, I almost passed out again as waves of pain came up from my right leg and foot. I settled back for a second, caught my breath, waited for the bright, red stars to go away, then carefully raised my head to check out what I had injured.

My arms and ribs had gotten bashed, but nothing seemed broken. I could move them around as long as I didn’t try to shift my lower body. The cuts on my head were oozing again and seemed to have joined by at least two walnut-sized lumps. I tried moving my left leg and found that I could shift it and wiggle my toes, but there was something holding it tight. Any attempt to move my right leg brought on incredible amounts of pain.

It looked like the plane had gone between a couple of trees and sheared off the wings, which was good. That probably also caused the fuel in the wing tanks to spill, which was bad. Missing the wings, the plane cabin had carried forward until it hit another tree, stopping nose up and sideways. The collision had pushed the engine back toward me and the firewall down by my feet had buckled, trapping my left foot and probably breaking my right leg in a couple of spots.

Adrenaline will only take you so far. I had already used a lot of it in the last half hour. I needed some help, badly, or I was going to die.

Help arrived in the form of a woman’s voice connected to jeans and hiking boots. I heard her running through the underbrush and yelling at someone to stay back. I saw the boots and jeans appear outside the smashed door window next to me.

“Are you hurt? Do you need help?” she yelled.

“Yes, I’m hurt and I need help. I think… I’m pretty sure that I’ve got a broken leg, plus some other cuts and bumps. My leg is trapped and I can’t get out right now.”

She knelt down next to the plane and looked in at me. “We’ve called for help, but they won’t be here for at least thirty minutes. What can we do until they get here?”

“You have to get back away from the plane. There’s a huge danger of fire with the spilled fuel.”

She immediately sat up and looked away from me, back through the trees toward the farm.

“All of you kids get back at least fifty feet!” she yelled. “There could be an explosion and a fire. Stay back! Jennifer, you run back to the farm and meet the fire truck when it gets here. Tell them that there’s a fuel spill and a fire danger. Go! Run!”

She leaned back down toward the ground and looked around inside the cabin. She looked at my leg and reached in through the window to feel below my right knee.

“Can you feel if it’s bleeding or just broken? Are you losing blood down there?”

“I can’t feel any bleeding but I’m dead serious about the fire danger. Don’t be stupid. You have to get back away from here!”

“Duly noted. Nothing’s burning yet. I’ll run away and let you fricassee when I smell smoke, OK? Can you move your left leg at all?”

“Yes, I can move it, but not much.”

“OK. We may or may not have much time, so let’s not waste it.” She sat back on her heels and pushed gently at the plane. She rocked it a bit a couple of times, testing to see how well it would roll and shift. “This doesn’t weigh that much, so we’re going to try to shift this all back upright, then pull you out. Are you up for that?”

“Sure, it beats any ideas I have. Who is ‘we’?” I asked.

“Wait here, try not to move,” she said, ignoring my question. “I’ll be right back.”

The boots disappeared and I heard her jogging away. There was some conversation going on back behind me but I had no way of turning to see who it might be. Several minutes went by and I thought that I could hear running back and forth.

I moved only enough to reach down between the seats to gently pull lose the small fire extinguisher there. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had. Meanwhile, I was straining my ears to hear sirens, hoping that the rescue crews were near. I was straining my nose to smell smoke, but all I could smell was my sweat and blood, mixed with the smell of gasoline.

Finally I heard several sets of footsteps crunching through the pine needles. My rescuer was giving instructions to her team, whoever they were.

“Ed, you go over on that side by the tail. Bobby, you stay on this side behind the door, there. Keith, you’re up there by the nose. Ed, stay on your toes, the tail is going to swing your way. You need to stay well clear of it as it goes. OK?

“If any of you see or smell anything that might be a spark or fire, you let everyone know and blast it immediately. Remember, aim for the base of the fire, don’t shoot up in the air at the flame. If that doesn’t work, if the fire catches or spreads, bail out of here, immediately. Run. If you get caught by the fire, remember to stop, drop, and roll. No panicking. Any questions?”

She moved up next to my broken window, her boots appearing on the ground near my head. Again she knelt and bent over to peer in at me.

“How are you doing in there? Still with us?”

“I’ve had better days but I’m still here. What’s the plan?”

“Oh, good. You’ve got an extinguisher too. You relax and try to keep still. The nose is caught up on a couple of trees here, but this whole thing is light enough. We’re going to swing the tail around so that the nose comes loose and the weight of the engine should drop you upright. I’ve got three guys here with the fire extinguishers from the buses in case anything sparks.”

“The buses? Who is all here? Who are you?”

“I’m Ellen, I’m a teacher and coach at Keys High. These guys are from my team, they’ve got the muscle to get this done. Are you up for it? I don’t know when the fire truck and ambulance will get here.”

I thought about it for a few seconds. A wave of dizziness swept over me and I was starting to get nauseous. I knew what that probably meant and it wasn’t good. I didn’t know if I was bleeding from that broken leg. Ellen’s plan seemed sound. I had gotten this far in this emergency by following the book, but there wasn’t any book for this part of it. We were making it up as we went along.

“Your guys, how old are they? Are they going to be safe doing this? Am I going to be rescued by a soccer mom and a bunch of ten-year-olds?”

That got a laugh from her. “Hardly! The younger guys are all back further and their girlfriends are all back at the farm. The guys who are doing the heavy lifting are all seventeen and eighteen. It’s not soccer, it’s football. You’re going to get your ass rescued by the Cougar varsity team. They’re smart, strong, and fast.”

“OK, let’s do it.”

Without another word to me, Ellen stood up and started giving instructions to the rest of her team. On the count of three, two big lineman leaned down on the tail while another two pushed the nose away from the trees where it was caught. In just seconds, the nose came clear and dropped with a thud, the plane rolling more or less upright.

The pain from my leg was overwhelming as we rolled and banged around. The final drop onto the bent up front landing gear led to the strut collapsing and dropping the nose down onto the ground. The engine pulled back forward, pulling the my trapped right foot with it. There was a great deal of screaming and cursing, all of it from me.

Then the plane door was pulled open and I saw Ellen for the first time. She was short, built a little bit like a fire plug, with short, flaming red hair caught up under a baseball cap. Behind here I could see a half dozen very large guys, some of them holding fire extinguishers at the ready.

“Can you get your leg out now?” she asked. “We need to get you out ASAP and take a look at your head and your leg.”

My left foot was pretty much free now that the firewall had bent back out of the cabin. My right leg was in agony and I couldn’t feel or see if it was loose or not. I told Ellen, and she peered down underneath the dashboard and panel to see what was going on.

“I see what it is. There are some pedals down there. It looks like your right foot is caught up under one of them and your ankle is probably broken, maybe the leg as well. That’ll be where the pain’s coming from. I know you can’t move it, but we can move the leg for you and pull you out. It’s probably going to hurt like hell.”

“Too late, it already does. Do it, I’ve got to get out of here and we’ve all got to get away from the plane. I don’t want you or your guys near here. I’ll do my best to pass out before the screaming gets too bad and you can tell me about it later. Do it.”

Ellen sent everyone away from the plane except for the three guys carrying the fire extinguishers and one tall, strong guy who just reeked of quarterback. She crouched down inside the door near the floorboards and gently grabbed my right leg. Mr. QB leaned in over her and grabbed under my arms, partially setting me upright.

“OK, just like we do in on the quarterback sneak play, guys. Got it? On three. One.”

There never was a two or a three. I was as faked out as the opposing defense was supposed to be. Before I knew it, my leg was being twisted and pulled free, the whole world went dark with pain, there was some more screaming, crying, and swearing, and Mr QB yanked me free and out into the open like a tackling dummy. Fortunately, I was unconscious before the leg hit the ground.

I woke up, looking at the sky that was starting to get dark with dusk. I was strapped down on something soft, with a blanket over me and an IV bag suspended above. Around my leg were a couple of paramedics, and when I turned my head I could see the football team watching the proceedings. They seemed bored, as if they saw a plane crash every day. A couple were holding their phones and taking pictures.

There was obviously something really good mixed in with the saline in the IV bag. Everything was all soft around the edges and I felt no pain at all. Great stuff, whatever it was. Even better than adrenaline. Ask for it by name, too.

As the paramedics finished putting a brace on my leg and got the stretcher ready to lift into the ambulance, Ellen came toward me from behind the crowd of her team. She stood over me, looking down for a second, then asked how I felt.

“Fuzzy. I think I’ll live. I just might not like it for a day or two. Are all of you guys OK?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. The guys all have an adventure to brag about. It will do them good.”

“Did the plane burn?”

“Nope, they’re foaming it down and calling in a hazmat team now to clean up the fuel. I think that plane’s a goner though.”

“Yeah, I knew that. The insurance company owned it as soon as the geese hit.”

“Is that what happened? It was hard to tell with all of the crash damage, but I did see the dead goose on the floor as we were pulling you out.”

“Yep, it was a great emergency right up until the end. I didn’t quite stick the landing.”

“I was going to ask about that. I saw you gliding in at the last minute and you could have just gone into the corn smooth as could be. Why did you swerve off?”

“I saw the maze and the buses at the last second, didn’t want to hurt the kids. The trees were the best I could do on short notice.”

“I appreciate that. One other thing. Isn’t that a Cirrus?”

“Yeah, it is. Why?”

“Don’t they have an emergency parachute system in them?”

It was a good thing that I was doped up. That way I could lay there slack jawed and drooling for a minute and blame it on the drugs, instead of how I was feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that the plane has a parachute. So why didn’t I use it? I just didn’t think of it. I was busy, and hurt. I haven’t flown this plane more than once or twice. I’m almost always in a Cessna and I did all of my training in Cessnas. When the emergency hit I just went by the training I had. I guess I was just stupid.”

“Given that you managed to miss me and my kids, I think you did OK.”

The paramedics picked me up and started to put the stretcher into the ambulance.

“Thank you for pulling me out of there and saving my life! And thank your guys too!”

“You can thank them all yourself, later. Me and my guys will be over to see you in a day or two.”

The ambulance doors shut and my big adventure was over for the day.

And that’s the story of how I met my wife, Ellen.

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Flash Fiction: Demonio Necrófago

When last we left our plucky heroes, Chuck Wendig had instructed us to write a cliffhanger, which I did here. This week’s Flash Fiction Challenge is to take someone else’s cliffhanger story from last week and finish it. The usual guidelines about writing “1,000 words or so” apply. In an unusual turn of events, my story is pretty spot on at 1,011 words.

I picked a story by David Coventry for my setup, which you can find here. Go ahead, read it first. It’s a nice mashup of spaghetti westerns and zombies. I do love me something warped and bizarre!

As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

Demonio Necrófago

“Jefe!” Rosie yelled. “Rápidamente!”

There must have been something in her voice that let the banditos’ leader know that she was not fooling around. While he didn’t get up and run over, his normal nonchalant shuffle was gone. His men followed him, with Rosie’s girls working their way into the crowd, craning their necks to see what was happening.

Rosie handed the looking-glass to el Jefe. She pointed at the crowd of figures, some starting to climb up the base of the bluff, some still moving out from the camp in their direction. He quickly scanned across the mob before settling on one figure in particular.

“Pablo,” he said, not taking the glass down from his eye, “can you see the man in the hat that Senorita Rosie has told you about? El banquero? About halfway between the camp and the hill.”

“Si, senor,” the kid said.

“Shoot him, por favor.”

The shot rang out and knocked down the man in question. His arms and head snapped forward as the bullet caught him square in the stomach. His hat was knocked off as he went sprawling. In less than a minute, as everyone watched, the man rose and resumed his relentless progress toward the base of the bluff.

“What in hell is going on, Jefe?” Rosie asked, never taking her eyes off of the approaching menace.

“It indeed is something from Hell, senorita. That is a great evil down there. I have never seen them, but my grandmother told me stories of the demonio necrófago. They can not be killed and they will not rest until they have fed on our souls.”

“That’s ridiculous. Whatever they are, we must outnumber them. Stop being a coward. We have to kill them.”

“We have to run, senorita, as far and as fast as we can. Crossing many rivers might help. It will not matter. They will follow.”

“You’re kidding! You said that you would not attack immediately because you did not want your men to be shot at. None of those things are shooting, they’re just walking. Slowly! We have to attack them now and take back my father’s mine. How many of them can there be?”

She noticed that the banditos were already heading for their horses. Some of them were sprinting to grab blankets and saddlebags, but many were leaving their gear.

“There are too many of them,” el Jefe said, “even if there were only two.” He turned to go with his men. “You must run or you will die.”

Rosie’s Riders looked to their leader for orders. Pablo also looked at her, torn between his desire to not look like a coward in front of all of the women, and his terror over the approaching demons.

Rosie wanted more than anything to stay and fight for what had been stolen from her. As the banditos started to ride down the back side of the mesa, she saw her girls ready to bolt. The first few of the demons below were nearly half way up the bluff. There was a horrible groaning and gasping chorus coming from them, with whistling sounds from some who had gaping wounds in their chests and necks.

“Let’s get out of here,” she told her girls. They wasted no time, abandoning their tents and supplies.

Before the women could mount up, the banditos came roaring back up onto the mesa. Their horses were lathered with sweat and wild-eyed with fear. Rosie ran over to el Jefe.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” she demanded.

“We are trapped, Senorita Rosie. They are behind us as well. We have nowhere to run.”

“Trapped? Now we have no choice but to figure out how to kill them. What do you remember from your grandmother’s stories?”

El Jefe closed his eyes and thought for a moment. When he opened them, he sadly dropped his chin and shook his head.

“We cannot kill them by shooting them, beating them, or drowning them. It might be possible to slow them down in some other way, but I do not know how.”

“Maybe we could stop them with fire. If we can get the brush below the bluffs and on the hills to burn, maybe that will be enough to get the demons to burn.”

“Si. That might work, senorita. But we will also burn.”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take. Start cutting all of the brush and pile it on the cliff edges. We can surround ourselves in a ring of fire. We must make the fire spread all the way to the bottom of the bluffs and beyond.”

“As you say, senorita. I think we will die anyway, but at least this way we will die with our souls intact.”

Quickly all of the banditos and Rosie’s Riders were cutting tumbleweeds and brush. It rapidly built up all around their camp, near the edges of the cliffs surrounding them. As the shuffling horror from below got closer and closer, the urgency of their task spurred them on beyond exhaustion.

When the first demonio necrófago were just a few yards below the ledge, Rosie yelled at everyone to start setting fires. Everyone was armed with every weapon they had, ready to fight if the flames didn’t work. Several of the banditos were arguing in rapid Spanish, apparently believing it would be better to die at their own hands instead of being taken by the demons.

Everyone moved to their place around the circle, lighting the tumbleweeds on fire and kicking them over the edge. Once the tumbleweeds were gone, they took burning branches from the fire and began hurling them out as far as they could toward the bottom of the cliffs.

In no time, the air was thick with smoke. Flames shot high into the air all around them. Horrible, guttural, non-human screams came up from the sides of the cliff. A hell on earth had literally been created.

Rosie and her girls, along with el Jefe and his banditos, huddled in the middle of the climbing flames, awaiting their fates.

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Odds & Sods For Saturday, September 28th

Item The First: On Friday I tried to donate platelets at the local Red Cross Donation Center. To say the least, it didn’t go well. On Wednesday and Thursday I got e-mails and reminder calls, all of which instructed me to make sure I was well hydrated, drink extra, and so on. OK, no problem. Then when I get there they put in the needles (one in each arm) and tell me to sit tight for two hours. This raises some concerns. THEN they add this anti-coagulant to the return stream so that I can make it through the whole procedure. (This is normal operating procedure.) The problem is that this anti-coagulant is also an excellent diuretic. Lots of fluids + lots of diuretic = I’m not sitting anywhere for two hours without a catheter or adult diapers, neither of which was provided. Epic fail.

Item The Second: Make note of the name Nick Sloane. Mr. Sloane is the salvage master who lead the team of over five hundred experts to lift the Costa Concordia off of the rocks and slowly flip it back upright off the coast of Giglio, Italy. (Stories here and here, with a great time-lapse video here.)

Item The Third: I really liked the story I wrote this week for the Flash Fiction Challenge. I was on the fourth edit and getting really, really close to being done with it Thursday night when I realized that it was already 11:55 PM. I posted the story quickly with no further edits. Thinking about it more on Friday, I think the one thing that I would change is the last line. Instead of “That’s when I saw it.”, I would have it be, “That’s when I saw it – now I was in trouble.” More cliffery and hangery.

Item The Fourth: When I left for that appointment at the Red Cross on Friday morning, I was about two blocks from home when I realized that I had not double checked the gate to the back yard after the gardeners were there on Thursday afternoon. I did a quick trip around the block and got back just in time to see Jessie pushing the gate open, seeing me pulling up, and trying to go to full reverse to get back inside the gate before it closed behind her. She’s had another taste of freedom, and the road calls to her.

Item The Fifth: Three weeks into the NFL season, no one is particularly surprised to see the Patriots, Broncos, Saints, or Seahawks undefeated at 3-0. And no one’s too surprised to see the Jaguars at 0-3. BUT…

I’d like a show of hands of those who thought that in addition to those teams, the Bears, Dolphins, and my beloved KC Chiefs would be undefeated, and the Steelers, Redskins, Vikings, and Giants would all be winless at 0-3. In addition, the Chiefs are four point favorites for tomorrow morning’s game against the New York Giants. I like this. I could get used to this. Especially when by this time tomorrow we’ll be 4-0.

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