(Author’s note: G’day, everyone! First classes have come and gone for the week [or at least they will as of tomorrow night at 6:30PM]. I hope to be writing a bit more, considering I am going to need some time away from writing autobiographical pieces, biographical pieces, short fiction, and scripts. So much writing, so little time. Anyhow, here’s today’s Fictioneers.)
“Big ones! Small ones!” Beano slurred, “So many different types!”
Beano looked completely hammered. and fully animated. I was merely annoyed.
“Beano! What the heck are you talking about?!”
He turned his rotund frame my direction, and smiled one of those smiles that can irritate an IRS agent. It was the smile that I knew from my time in the Army with him.
“Mexico!”
Again, flustered was I.
“What about Mexico, Private?!”
“I found all these bottles in an empty house. And I drank them all.”
“And that’s why you’re drunk now?” I asked, blinking at him.
Beano grinned.
“Permanently drunk. Not sure how!”
And now people know why I will never visit Mexico.
Author’s note: Since classes will soon be starting up again, I will likely be updating with mostly Friday Fictioneers stuff and short writings that result from my “argle-bargle” sessions of getting frustrated with being a grad student. At the very least, enjoy today’s selection for Friday Fictioneers.
“Why did we travel an hour to this place for food?!”
Chandra Barker was not a happy person, and her fiancee, Mark, knew it. He sat her down on a bench and looked her in the eye.
“When I was 9, my teenaged sister and I came here for fun. We had these cinnamon flat disks for a snack, before we went onto the ice. It was the last thing that we ate together before the day she fell through the ice. Coming here is a reminder of what we used to do.”
She looked at him, and a tear fell.
“And you wanted to share this memory with me?”
She planted her lips firmly on his cheek, appreciating the gesture.
(Author’s note: This is a fictional account based on stories relayed to the author by a third party.)
PFC Rocky Andersen was not a happy camper.
He was laying on the ground, grumbling in pain as he waited for help to arrive. The stocky marine had problems with his legs in recent days, and having to climb telephone poles at his base was not a good thing for him to do. Camp Pendleton was the Marines’ West Coast base, and it was also known for being remote in some parts. This meant that help may not arrive for a half an hour or so.
At the medical truck approached his position, his gunny, Gunnery Sergeant Charles “Brick” Brigman, leaped out.
“Andersen! What in the blue hell happened to you?”
“I was climbing the telephone poles, Gunny Brick, and I got blindsided by a bird,” he said, crisp yet with a strip of pain.
“Well, what are you laying there for?! Get up and walk!”
“Gunny, I can’t move.”
Hospital Corpsman Roger Baltrick had run over from the main truck and took a look at the PFC’s splayed legs. After a cursory exam, he looked up at Gunny Brick
“I can tell already that his right leg is broken in two places. We’ll have to look at his left leg back at the infirmary, but I have a feeling we may have a double break.”
Gunny Brick furrowed his brow.
“Well, this is just fan-freaking-tastic, isn’t it?! Andersen, you may have just lucked out. Your platoon is being called to Vietnam! They’re outta here in 2 weeks, and I hope to see you on that flight out.”
Rocky just grimaced, as the threat from the imposing Gunny reverberated through his head.
—
Two weeks after he arrived back at the base hospital, Rocky looked out the window of the room, his leg still elevated and bound in casts and slings. He looked down at the field, where he saw his fellow platoon mates lining up to head to the airfield at El Toro to fly out.
Over the previous two weeks, various platoon mates with the nicknames of “Grunt”, “Pickle”, “Big Zeb”, and “Sticky” all came by to say their goodbyes and swap stories of what’s been going on. Even on that last day, Gunny Brick even came in to say goodbye, though no one would call it a “goodbye”, formally.
“Andersen! You better get out of those casts and get on the next flight once you do!” he said, looking down with a slight smile on his face.
“Gunny, where are you guys heading for?”
“Our next orders are apparently going to be Khe Sanh. Seems like more of our boys are there right now.”
“Thank you, sir. Drop me a postcard once you arrive.”
Gunny Brick smiled at Andersen, shaking his head as he left.
“Don’t get thrown in the brig while I’m gone, Donut. I don’t want to have to come back to bail you out again.”
Andersen laughed, being reminded of the many times he was thrown in the brig for being UA or being stuck on “weird duty” at Treasure Island.
—-
The middle of February was unusually cool for California. It wasn’t normal for the temperatures to be any lower than the 60s, but it got into the high 40s at night during this period.
Rocky was finally out of his casts, but he was on restricted duty until his legs healed permanently. That means five more weeks of therapy and processing papers, along with such fun jobs as helping in the mess tent or assisting in other tasks. His gunny sergeant for this end, GySgt. Mike Layton, was less abrasive but more of a rules-man. He appreciated Rocky’s work, though wouldn’t always say so.
Rocky was finishing the stamping of important base requisition forms, when Gunny Layton walked in. Rocky saluted.
“Andersen, as you were.”
‘Yes, Gunny.”
“Andersen, I received some news this morning from Cam Ranh. It’s about your platoon.”
“Gunny, sir?”
“Your platoon landed at Khe Sahn. As they were deplaning, they were hit by mortar fire and snipers. Gunny Brick and about half of your platoon didn’t make it to the terminal.”
Andersen’s blood ran cold.
“What’s left of your platoon is being merged with another in Khe Sanh. You and 5 others who are still here will be assigned to a new platoon.”
“I…understand, sir.”
“Andersen, you can be real with this. You don’t have to hold it in. Ya lost some of your friends, and so have I.”
Andersen used his crutches to move himself a few feet back to his desk, and sighed.
“I was supposed to go, Gunny.”
“Yeah, I know. But, Andersen, you have to realize that things happen for a reason. Gunnery Sergeant Brigman and the others had to go over there. Apparently, someone else had plans for you.”
Rocky blinked, as he sat looking straight at his superior.
“When are they arriving?”
“Within a couple weeks. They will be brought to Oakland from Da Nang, then either families will pick them up there, or we’ll bring them back here for the families to identify and receive. I would like you, if you can, to accompany the ones who will be brought back to Pendleton.”
Rocky sat for just a moment before giving a salute and a “yes, sir.”
“You’re relieved of duty for today. Head on back to the barracks, and you can do what you usually do. Consider this time to grieve. Be back at this post tomorrow at 0800.”
After a salute, Gunny Layton turned his heels and departed.
Rocky lifted himself on his crutches, and hobbled out the door. The 15 minutes it took him to cover the length from the main base office to his barracks, he though about all of his buddies who were over there…and those who were gone.
He barely made it back to the barracks. Seeing no one around, he collapsed on his bunk. His tears, for part of that evening, were his only companions. And while he felt like he should have gone over with his boys, he yet realized that for him, he was given a gift that many in his platoon did not receive: The gift of being able to live to an older age.
This gift would be borne out in 3 children, who he was able to see grow up and become their own people. He would never forget the contributions of his platoon, as it was his children who were the result of that sacrifice.
(This is your birthday gift, Dad. Semper Fi, and I love you.)
Author’s note – Trying my best to do more than just fictioneers stuff on here, but kinda stuck dealing with pre-grad studies “crunk”. Hope to be back in form next week.
“I found a little place. In fact, look down the street. See the man holding a cigar?”
“Yeah, I see him.”
“We’re gonna go clubbing tonight.”
She looked at her boyfriend and smiled. Finally, doing something she wanted to do. She hopped up and down as they walked down the small “street”. They finally reached the man with the cigar. He sneered.
It was said that a couple could walk through the Macquarie Station tunnel, and after coming out the other side, they would have a child 9 months later. Just like magic.
I saw it in my childhood friends, Alistaire and Ophelia. They were enemies, and both about the legend when they chased after each other that fateful June afternoon.
I saw them running towards it, and I called out to them, “Don’t go in…” And yet, they did, running all the way through.
9 months later, they were enemies no more. And they’ve been that way for 20 years now.
Here I stand today, looking at the demolishing of the station and the tunnel. The legend lives on only in those who have passed through the fabled halls. And me, the only one too chicken to do so.
From the Author: “Heyo, everyone! I’ve made it to Australia. How long I stay down here depends on a variety of factors. You may see an increase in my writing, or you may not. It depends. But, a new location leads to a new sensation and new developments. So here’s the latest micro-fiction for people!”
copyright Jean L. Hays
Cars
by Miles H. Rost
The steel monstrosities were planted in a circle.
The small ragtag group of wanderers knew that they needed to watch the openings between the cars. They didn’t know what would come in.
“Alright, we’re protected from the beasts. What do we do now?” a teenage girl wanderer asked.
“We have a fire, we’re stuck here for the night,” one of the old wanderers replied, gruffly, “Someone should probably sing a song.”
All 17 of them looked at each other, trying to figure out who could sing. That is, until an 18th man cleared his throat.
For some reason, I am not sure why, this is the second week I have done a Fictioneers story with a girl’s name as the title. I guess that’s what happens when you’re in the middle of making a move. Next week’s Fictioneers story will be done from Melbourne, Australia!
copyright Kent Bonham
Valerie
by Miles H. Rost
Lollipops.
She walked up to the DJ booth that I was sitting at, and plunked a sack of lollipops next to the control board. She looked at me with those blue eyes, framed by aureolin-tinged hair, and a sly smile.
“I figured you could use these.”
I looked up at her, one eyebrow arched, giving her a querious look that could only be reserved for certain people. I looked at the flat candies on a stick and popped one in my mouth.
“Thanks, Val! You’re the best cousin around!” I beamed back with a cheesy smile
She furrowed her eyebrows at me, and stomped away, her attempt at flustering me failing miserably.
(Author’s note: Hey folks! Glad you’re on board. 1.5 weeks left until I pick up sticks and head off to the land Down Under. If you are curious about the latest furor over “The Warrior Series” of stories, go ahead to the story “Unstoppable God, Invincible”. Otherwise, enjoy today’s Friday Fictioneers and be ready for new stories to come in the next week or so!)
“Nadia!”
“Yes, papa?”
The 6 year old’s father walked out into the entryway.
“My child, what are you doing?”
“I’m dancing, papa!”
He started chuckling, smiling down at his little girl.
“Would you like to teach your papa to dance?”
“Of course I want you to dance!”
She put her hand in her dad’s, and showed him how to turn around. He already knew how to do so, but humored his daughter, who loved him so.
“My daughter, you will make a lot of people happy in the future.”
“I know! I will be the best dancer in the world!”
The Gathering – Part B: Callings
(Story V of the Warrior Series)
by Miles H. Rost
(To see the start of The Gathering subset, go to the last story “The Gathering” (Part A) at the link.)
—-
“All these are empowered by one and the same Spirit, who apportions to each one individually as he wills. For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ.For in one Spirit we were all baptized into one body—Jews or Greeks, slavesor free—and all were made to drink of one Spirit.
For the body does not consist of one member but of many.” – 1 Corinthians 12:11-14
—-
“New Recruits, come forth!”
The man we all called P.S. was a commanding figure. He wasn’t a tall man by any stretch of the imagination. He was shorter than other warriors, but his voice and his spirit commanded attention. He was a slightly tanned man, looking to be of Asian descent. In spite of his shorter stature, he maintained his health well and looked formidable. He wore a dark blue tunic, and work trousers that were just a few shades of blue lighter. His buzz-cut hair symbolized the seriousness of his charge, of his role.
When those of us looked at him, as we moved forward to the “river area” in front of the stage, we could feel the atmosphere of authority flow off of him in waves. Even some of my fellow recruits were taken aback by the amount of authority that surged outward from this grand commander.
As we approached and was in front of where P.S. stood, I saw a familiar face. A fellow warrior from Antioch Division named Joseph was standing next to me, ready to receive the words that were about to come. Joseph was a man of great knowledge, and a man of prayer. He was able to talk the old language of machines, and could be of great use. He gave me and Tia a nod, as we stood there. The music that was playing before had died down, but was not out as our general started to speak.
“Our Father is rich in many different ways. I pray that each one of you recruits will be richly strengthened in the Spirit, so Christ may live within each of you.”
P.S. looked down towards each one of us, a mixture of compassion and stern military discipline in his steeled eyes.
“Each one of you have had to deal with being opposed in your faithful walk. You’ve been attacked by the devil! You’ve been told to stay when God wanted you to get moving, or vice versa. That’s when we gotta rely on the Spirit! That’s when we need to call on The Spirit, to give us reinforcement and strength. You are warriors, but warriors cannot fight when they’re deprived of the source of life.”
Tia lifted her hands to the sky, as I bent my head and opened my hands in front of me. Joseph raised his hands in front of him, parking them just in front of his shoulders.
“We need the grace and strength to continue to walk this walk of faith, to fight, to continue onward! No matter what tribe you’re from, what lands you may have been in before, you are here on this day! The outpouring of the Holy Spirit is absolutely critical to your success and endurance!”
P.S. paced on the stage in the way a General paces when they assess and exhort their troops.
“New Recruits, I can see that some of you were reluctant in accepting the training to become leaders. But understand that our Father is raising up an army from the dry bones of our old lives. He is fulfilling the promise of Ezekiel 37, to breathe his breath on the valley of dry bones, the people who haven’t been walking well in His grace.”
His voice started to lift and to quicken. It became more urgent, more focused, and with more force.
“It’s only when the spirit of God our Father enters into these dry bones, that they can stand up and begin to move. And I have some news for you, recruits! Those dry bones, the ones that God our Father is breathing into right now…they are you!”
The air around all of us new recruits started feeling heavy. The heaviness wasn’t a smothering type, but instead a thickness that felt strong and full of life. I perceived that Tia was being prepped in her spirit, as I could feel the displacement of air that signaled her arm’s movements. I could sense the placidity of Joseph, the calmness of the readying that he was receiving. I perceived my bent head, arms stretched but bent in front of me, with my hands out like a farmer praying for rain.
“We require the breath of God to continue our fight! To continue doing what we have been charged to do. Each one of you new recruits, open your hearts! Open yourself up to the life-giving breath of God!” P.S. said, the fire and steel in his voice rising with even more authority, “Commanders! Division commanders! Sergeants! Gunnies! Come up here and minister! Pray for these new recruits, officers! Help them receive what God wants to pour out on them!”
I could feel a great electricity in the air, a rushing spirit flowing around our legs and our heads like a raging river. I heard the voices of my fellow recruits rising up, urgent in their prayers and quickened in their pleading. My own prayers started coming forward in spurts, like it wanted to come rushing out but was behind some sort of a barrier. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear and perceive what was happening around me, even through my own prayers to my Father.
I heard the voices of my fellow warriors around me. I could hear the cries of Tia, the pleading and the laughter in her voice as she continued praying. I recognized the voices of various sergeants and commanders as they walked around.
I didn’t count how long it was, but I felt a hand on my head. My hands were out and in a receiving mode, and I heard the voice of someone praying out loud and in earnest. I couldn’t make out the words very well, and after a short time, he left. Shortly thereafter, another hand was placed on my head, in the back. I recognized the sound of my mentor, Brian. He was there for a short time, but also left. I felt all of this and heard all of this, but I did not see a single thing.
Suddenly, I felt a white heat on my ears. I felt a great sound fill my ears. I could feel and hear the sound of Miguel, the leader of the Freedom Division Martial Band praying over me, but it was at a great distance. The heat spread to over my eyes, and I felt a greater voice fall upon my being.
“Kneel, and receive.”
A great weight fell on my shoulders, and it felt like it had a strength that was inhuman. I knew it wasn’t from Miguel, and I had no choice but to fall to one knee.
Suddenly, a flash came to my mind. A flash of a memory. A memory of kneeling by my bed, praying for my classmates, praying for my mother, and more.
“Knight. You are a warrior,” the great voice said, “You were a prayer warrior a long time ago, my son.”
It finally clicked. The gears and the mechanics finally hit the top of the hour in my head. My Father was talking to me.
“You have come this way, Knight. Your path has taken you here. Now, pick up the mantle you were given.”
Before I could even ask the question out loud, the answer came.
“I commissioned you as a prayer warrior in the past. Continue it, son, from this day on.”
I could say nothing except “Thank you, Lord,” repeatedly.
As my eyes and ears calmed from the meeting with Father, P.S. gave the signal that all was clear with us. It would take a few minutes, but slowly I was able to get up and walk to my seat, balancing myself with the edge of the stage.
I sat back on the wooden half-log bench, taking in sharp breaths, as Tia smiled down.
“What were you feeling, Knight? What was it you were feeling?”
I looked up at her, as I was heaving breaths and getting in a lot of air.
“I know what my role is. The training I have done in the past in the Western Lands, everything that led up to today, has been to give me back the role I had.”
Tia looked at him, hands out and eye open, as if she was saying “What was it?!?!”
“I’m in the Prayer regiment. I’m a prayer warrior”
Tia laughed heartily and beamed after hearing that, giving me a hearty slap on the back. I coughed, but felt happy because of what happened. I then asked her how she felt.
“Me? I felt…” she paused, thinking back a second, “…I guess I felt joy. A joy in freedom. Like I didn’t have all this baggage hanging around and dragging me down. I felt light, not only physical light, but also light weight. Like I didn’t have to worry about anything.”
This was something new. Something I never experienced before. Hearing people have their burden lifted, and me getting my new marching orders. From God, the Great General, no less. As I was thinking about this, suddenly we heard a scratching up on the stage.
“This gathering, warriors, is one where not only do we learn about ourselves and our Father, but we also learn about tactics and strategy here. And we have some visitors from the Western Lands, who traveled here to speak with all of us about things…”
That night was a full blur of so many different things, that we had to take more notes. For a good long while into the dusky night, we listened and learned. We rejoiced, we prayed, we were called forth, and we were even given release from problems that were affecting us.
Even I received release from the disappointments in my life. Me, Knight, the one who always worried and expected the worst case scenario, now was released from the old disappointments and was brought into the light of truth and confidence.
The thing is…this was not the only big thing that happened at this gathering. There was one more event that totally blew me away.
(Author’s note: As you can tell, I have finished with my job in Korea. I am on a “working vacation” while I get things ready for my move to the land down under. If you want to see what I’ve been busy on, please go read the Warrior series of stories that have been put up over the last month. Can’t wait to hear from you all. And now, here’s today Friday Fictioneers post.)
The door burst open, a flash of grey and black rushing past the kitchen counter.
Within a 3 minute timeframe, another flash of white, black, and red barreled into the rest of the kitchen. At a breakneck speed, refrigerators were opened, utensils used, ingredients piled, and sandwiches made. At the same speed, everything was put back or wrapped up in plastic bags.
For a moment, Dan Magnum looked around the kitchen, his brown hair still moving from the activeness he just displayed.
“Alright. Sandwiches made, clothes changed, suitcase in the car. It’s vacation time!”
He grabbed his sandwiches, got in his car, and zipped down the road to his next destination: Nothing.
Music and Fiction 