death

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Reflections (aka How I Survived…)

Reflections
(How I Survived…)
by Miles H. Rost

(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.)

 

 

 

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Friday Fictioneers – The Letter

I’m back, though still at limited action for a short bit of time. I will be up fully this week when I can pull my head away from other things.

copyright- Jan Wayne Fields

The Letter

The young lady looked at the paper in front of her. She sighed, as she pushed the chair away from the old desk. Putting the quill back in the ink well, she stood and grabbed her bag that was sitting off to the side.

She expected that her husband would read the letter and get the message. She wanted to get away from the boring nature of life, and this would give some excitement.

She waited for his phone call. And waited. And waited.

She waited a year, and finally said no more. She entered the house, and walked to the study. Her husband lay on the floor, a pool of blood under his head, dried blood on the corner of the small table.

The letter was untouched.

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Fool’s Gold

(For Kristi, in the tough time she’s going through)

Fool’s Gold
by Miles Rost


Teresa Farmer’s hand let the phone slip from her fingers.

She was in shock, she didn’t know what she could do.

“Hello? Hello? Teresa? You still there?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked, shaken with fear and peppered with worry.
Teresa picked up the phone and breathed again.
“Yeah….yeah…I’m here. I just…I…I’m not sure if I can say anything…”
“I understand. I guess, all I can say is that I am so sorry for what’s happened, and I wish I could be there to help.”
“Yeah, I know,” Teresa told her friend, who was stationed in Germany at one of the Air Force bases.
“When I get leave, I’ll come back and we can have a gripe session about this.”
“Get here when you can.”
They talked for a couple more minutes, said their pleasantries, and Teresa hung up her phone.

She walked to the living room, the place in her house that became her conversation parlor. She leaned back in her rocking chair and just pondered her situation. She lived alone in her house, her husband moving out many years ago after a rocky fight. 6 years of marriage, suddenly gone. No kids in the house to yell at, or to pick up after.

One more lonely piece of news filled the room, a room that was slowly becoming a room of memories. The news from her friend of her mother’s passing was intensely tough. While Helena Farmer was not a rough and tough rancher’s wife, she still held her own after many years of battle. Whether a battle against a railroad company to reclaim the mineral rights under her farm, or the battle against a major crop company that tried to force her to use seeds she didn’t want, Teresa’s mother was steadfast. She may not have been physically strong, but she made up for it plenty with sheer will, guts, spit, and vinegar.

Now, she was gone. It was less than a year after being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and she was now gone. Teresa did not know what she was going to do. As she rocked in her chair, a warm afghan wrapped around her, the tears started to fall. As the cracks in her “armor” started to grow bigger, she wept louder, until it was unstoppable.

For the rest of that day, she grieved. She remembered, she cried, she wailed, she sobbed. She would go through the five stages of grief a few times before she could finally release. For this day, however, she needed to grieve.

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Friday Fictioneers: Memories

By Miles Rost

copyright-managua-gunn

copyright-managua-gunn

Memories

I remember the day very well.

I was standing at my post, looking out at the rest of the city. It was a warm day, and I sometimes cursed the fact I had to wear such an unappealing uniform on such days.

It was the day when I could do nothing. I stood as a young man drove across the bridge I was facing, and ran over a child.

I wanted to help, I pleaded in my head to help. But I was sworn to a duty to protect this place.

That was the first day when I started to hate my job.

 

by

Demolition Man

(aka The Adventures of the Losers)

by Miles Rost

Their makeshift hideout was compromised.

They knew that there were going to be many enemy agents and mercenary troops outside waiting for them. Their only way of getting out of there was to fight there way to a vehicle that would be waiting for them in camouflage, and try to make it to the edge of the city. If they could make it to the bridge on the far end, they could trap the troops inside the city and make their escape.
Former Gunnery Sergeant M.D. Parkinson, known to everyone as “Park”, was an expert shot with rifles, shotguns, positronic rifles, direct energy weapons, and the occasional acerbic pun. He was in the corner of the building nearest to the door, “suiting up”. Each part of his body had some sort of name attached to it. Beretta on his right arm, Ruger on his left, Claymore on his belt, just to name a few.

Claire “June” Fujima was a Chinese-trained Japanese militia member, who had emigrated to this part of the United States to help out in getting people out of tough situations. She was in the other corner near the door, using lasers to sharpen both katana. She would carry shurikens on her belt and mini stun grenades on in her hair, in her earrings, on her necklace, pretty much anywhere you could put jewelry. Her skills with the katana, a dual wielder, were considered lethal to those who knew her.

Combined with computer technician and resident media Simon “Skullcap” Ramsey, the three were on the run. They were charged with crimes from the murder of military officials and bail jumping, to treason and crimes against the empire of the new Western Government. In reality, the reason they were being pursued so heavily were due to their tendency to expose multiple nefarious schemes of the Western president and members of his military.

The Western Government stretched from the Mississippi and the St. Croix rivers all the way to the Pacific Ocean. The bombed out hideout where they were located was right on the border at Clinton, Iowa. If they were able to make it across the river, they would be in safe territory with the Canadian-American government, which held territories from Alberta on east to Ontario, and all of the Eastern United States.

“Ready to go with this, June?” Park asked, as he moved to the door.

“Run like hell, attack when we can, and do what’s necessary to keep Skullcap going,” she replied, putting the newly sharpened katana in her sheath  with a “sh-tick”.

Skullcap, with his iPads strapped to the front of his body and covered with protective armor, looked a bit green. Park put his hand on his shoulder and whispered to him.

“You’ll do fine. Remember, you’re with us. We’ve taken on the Western forces before, and we’ve come out on top. You’re safe with us.”

“I wish we could just teleport there. You know how I hate dealing with violence,” he said, the green slowly creeping up his neck.

They all stood on one side of the door, getting themselves ready to run.

“On three.”

They counted slowly, waiting for the right possible moment.

One…

Park’s grip on the door handle was tight.

Two…

June’s hand was ready to push Skullcap out the door.

“THREE!”

Park pulled the door open quickly, and flew out the door. Firing off a few rounds from his Baretta, he provided cover for June and Skullcap, who bolted out from behind him.

All three ran quickly down the stone and rock path, the groomed low hedges allowing them a view of the mercenaries that were positioned to take them down.

On Park’s side, he ran with all the force that his feet could take him. The one-two marching sound of his shoes crunching under his feet was only punctuated by the rounds he fired off. As the opponents came forth, each one crumpled into a heap at the hedges, blood oozing from each of the wounds.  He pulled a grenade from his belt with his free hand and put it in his mouth, his teeth holding the pin. As the mag emptied, he discharged it and slapped in a new one, without skipping a beat.

On June’s side, she unsheathed her katana and kept running behind Skullcap. With a sickening look of glee on her face, she spun both katana around like fan blades, chopping and slicing the approaching mercenaries with reckless abandon. Occasionally, when the katana wouldn’t work, she would punch the offender in the nose, sending bone fragments into their brain and them flying into the bushes.

A break in the action allowed them a chance to gain speed and run as fast as they could towards the end of the property and a small bridge that crossed a small gully. At the end of the bridge, however, stood 15 armed mercenaries who were looked like they weren’t having any of it. Skullcap slowed down, allowing June to pass him and jump high up in the air. At the same time as she jumped, Park pulled the pin from the grenade and tossed it in the air towards the 15 guards.

The grenade sailed past June and into the face of one of the guards, who had a millisecond to react before it took his entire head off. As the fragments blew through some of the guards, June’s fan blade attack shredded those who happened to be near where she landed, the bullets that were fired against her bounding off the katana like armor.

Of the 15 at the bridge, only one would make it out alive, and he couldn’t do anything as his arm was sliced off. Skullcap kept running, with Park helping him along with a burst of speed through the gore that was left over.

They looked ahead, noting the absence of mercenaries or troops. They kept running down the greenway until they heard a “beep beep.”

“Benny’s here!” Park yelled out to June and Skullcap.

For the first time in the entire adventure, Skullcap’s greenness started to subside. As they finally reached the car, Benny smiled.

“Ready to head for East Clinton, Illinois?”

“Punch it.”

They jumped into the converted 1971 Oldsmobile 442, it’s top cut off and the back and trunk gutted for ease of munitions storage. As Skullcap lowered his head under the dashboard and proceed to hide from view, Benny jammed the gear and punched out. The old car tore out of the park area and headed straight down 8th Street.

“If we don’t encounter civ traffic, and we can keep the Westies off our back for the next three miles, we should be able to make it into Illinois,” Benny called back.

“Just drive. If something gets in your way, run it down. You’ve got pure steel in your grasp.” Park barked back, as he readied a mounted gatling gun on the back. June sat on his right, ready to mow down any foot patrols with her katana.

They tore down the street, accelerating into high speeds. As they approached downtown, three or four jeeps full of mercenaries pulled in close behind them. Park aimed the gatling gun and proceeded to fire in a spray at them, gritting his teeth all the while. The 10 second long spray of bullets took down three of the jeeps in a short time, with one of them being able to avoid the fire.

Cursing himself, he bent down for a few seconds. Grabbing onto a large cylindrical object, he pulled it up and extended the barrel. With a missile already loaded and ready to go, he aimed at the jeep. Bullets flew from the jeep towards Park, and whizzed past his head. Park took a steady breath, and with an exhale, he mashed down the button.

The missile flew straight out of the chamber and went flying straight into the windshield of the jeep. The Jeep exploded into a firy mess, tumbling end over end behind the 442.

Park pulled another rocket out and loaded the launcher, sheathing the cylinder quickly in case something else came forth.

June looked back, smiled, then looked forward.

Only to see a line of gunmen on her side of the road.

She grinned a sickly grin, as she stabbed her Katana through the side of the door, the blade sticking out in front of her. As they passed by the line of gunmen, they all topped to the ground, bodies sliced in half and their innards falling out. She laughed maniacally as she pulled the katana out and she wiped the gore off the blade.

“3rd Street! 30 more seconds!” Benny cried, as he punched the accelerator to the floor. The car lurched and sped up, Park nearly falling out the back. Park, annoyed as hell, would smack Benny for that after they got into Illinois.

They sped onto the approach to the Gateway Bridge. Park poked June, and gave her some cloth.

“Give it to Skullcap. It’ll indicate the Can-Am to let us through. It’s their flag.”

June gave the flag to Skullcap and told him what to do. He smiled as he proceeded to hold up the flag in front of his face as he stood up.

They approached the middle of the suspension bridge, where the Can-Am forces had a major checkpoint. As they approached the checkpoint, a Western helicopter surfaced from the right side of the bridge. It was too close to call, and the modified Bell 222 had it’s guns trained on the Olds.

Park took out a small grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and fired it at the helo. The helo broke it’s concentration on them to avoid the grenade, giving Park time to pull out the RPG. He extended the barrel and pointed it up at the helo. Not even bothering to take a breath, he fired the rocket. It sped at the airborne gunship, looking like it was about to miss. The rocket blasted it’s warhead into the tail of the helo, shattering it to pieces.

The helo and it’s crew were helpless as to what they were going to do, and within moments they crashed into the side of the bridge, making the Iowa side of the bridge unstable.

As the Olds zipped past the checkpoint, the Can-Am troops waving them through and giving a salute, the Iowa side of the bridge suddenly collapsed. Any chance of the Western army coming across at Clinton was unlikely to happen now.

Park sighed, and dismounted the gatling gun. He sat down in his seat and looked over at June. June looked back at him, and gave a bright smile.

“Where do we go next?”

“Let’s report in at Milwaukee and see what happens. They may want to hear about what we saw in Iowa.”

He then pulled June over and gave her a long kiss, his way of saying “We’re safe.”

by

I Don’t Believe Anymore

(aka Sherry’s First)

by Miles Rost

(Author’s note: Start the music before reading)

The town was stunned.

Parents, teachers, administrators, and students were mystified.

The newspapers didn’t know what to say, at first.

Many of the witnesses could not believe what they saw.

For those who witnessed Charlene Herrera keel over in 6th period Chemistry class, they were in a daze. Some even trying to block out the memory of what seemed to happen.

Sherry Makinami was a witness to what happened. What people didn’t know, and what she was unsure of, was that she may have been the one who caused it.

She read the headline in the morning paper: STROKE TAKES LIFE OF LAKE GROVE SCHOOLGIRL

She remembered everything, and what was happening that day.

A junior at Lake Grove High School, Sherry was not exactly the pick of the litter. She was mostly average. Average height, average weight, and didn’t really stand out. She did her work at school, socialized a little bit, but didn’t stand out in anything. She was not the type of person to be outspoken, as she rarely raised her hand in class. She kept to herself many times.

This made her a bit of a target for some in her grade, including Charlene. 6th period chemistry class, the last class of the day, was always the worst for Sherry. No matter where she sat, there was some form of adversity. She had to adapt to survive, but chemistry was an unadaptable situation.

For most of the day, she was being harassed by Charlene and her entourage. The real events, where it all came to a head, started with a missed question, and an experiment.

The chemistry teacher, Mr. Palachuk, was finishing his lesson before they were to do their lab work.

“Alright, class. As a quick review, who can tell me why the alkali metals are reactive as they continue down the chart?”

Sherry was about to raise her hand, when she felt a solid piece of something hit the back of her head and proceed to plop to the ground. She felt behind her head, and looked at it. She saw what was a remnant of a spitball that was in her hair. Sherry turned around, sighed, and looked back at the teacher.

Someone gave the answer to the question, and he let everyone move to their workstations. The directions were clear, to experiment with alkali earth metals and see what happened.

Sherry moved to her workstation and looked at the metals in front of her. She started to do a little bit of work, when she was bumped from the side. Water spilled across her hands, and she looked over at the rotund form of Charlene’s bottom.

“Oops! I didn’t even see you there!” she said with a sickly and sweet smile, “You should have said something if you saw me coming.”

Sherry just looked at her, and shook her head. She picked up a piece of magnesium ribbon with her tongs, and put one of the ends in the bunsen burner. It glowed brightly, as the white flames slowly traveled down the strip. She was studying it intently, when she spotted someone about to crash into her side.

Charlene moved backwards again, this time pushing Sherry over. She fell with her to the floor. People started laughing and joking.

“Charlene, what are you doing?! That’s on fire!”

Charlene sneered.

“And she finally speaks, only to yell at me,” she said, looking down at Sherry. Sherry got up and put sand on the magnesium strip, while Charlene and her entourage in class laughed.

Sherry looked at her intensely. She felt the anger in her chest beat heavily, threatening to betray the calm exterior by which she stared at her.

I wish she would just go away.

The thought spread across her sub-consciousness, peeking itself into the conscious for just a moment. She turned and looked down at the magnesium, covered in sand. She kept looking down, but pointed her eyes straight in Charlene’s direction.

I want her to leave me alone, she cried out in her mind, I want her to leave everyone alone!

Suddenly, without warning, Charlene winced. A small pain started in the center of her head. She put one of her hands to her head and tried to feel where it was, as it wasn’t a normal headache. As the seconds ticked by, the pain grew.

She doesn’t know pain, she doesn’t know anything, Sherry thought, spitting the words out in her mind.

The pain in Charlene’s head grew. For her, it was like a migraine that just went supernova. She clutched her head and gritted her teeth.

“Char, what’s going on?” one of her friends asked.

“I don’t know. My head is just….owwwwwww.” she cried out, the pain ratcheting up a notch.

Sherry continued with her gaze, not moving an inch and not doing anything. She didn’t seem like she was doing anything except sulking.

Charlene started to scream, as the pain in her head grew to a point. Her brain felt like it wanted to rip her skull open and run away. The pressure grew to be incredible. Blood leaked from her nose, and started to drip onto the floor.

For a split second, the screaming stopped. For Charlene, the last feeling she had was of a pop and a pressure release in her brain.

Her body crumpled like a weighted tent, splaying her on the ground, her head hitting the floor with a sickening *crack*.

Sherry looked over at her lifeless form, and did the only thing she could do.

She screamed, then fainted.

——–

The next day, as she looked at the paper and read the headline, she looked at her family at the table. They were all silent as they ate breakfast.

Her mom put down her butter knife, and looked at her daughter.

“Sherry, I think we need to talk,” she said, plainly.

Sherry looked back at her mom, and tears started to fall down her face.

“Mom? Did I do this?”

Her mom got up from her chair, walked over to her, and put her arms around her daughter.

“That’s why we need to talk. I think I know what happened, and it’s something that you’ve inherited. It looks like we’re gonna have to have ‘The Talk’.”

Sherry breathed a heavy breath, and she started sobbing into her mom’s shoulder uncontrollably.

by

I Still Believe

by Miles Rost

The hut in the middle of the flat expanse of “wilderness” was a tough place for a missionary to live. For Rene, however, it was the place that he called home. It was the place where he was able to meditate and to craft his work for sale. It was the place where he could study, and when he wasn’t working, he could leave and go teach the Word among those who were lost.

It was a hard road for him. Originally from France, he grew up in the tough lands of Algeria and in the palatial estates of Nice. Sand in his skin, and grit in his mind, it took the saving grace of Christ and a couple of good friends to get him where he was able to be of some good. And his place as a missionary took him to the lands of Patagonia. He lived in his hut for many years, and did his work as a maker of threads and cloth. If one asked him how many people he saved, he would say “I have saved none, and gave the Word to everyone I met in Patagonia. That’s all.”

However, it was time to go back to his old home. He had to go back to Algeria, then to France. He had to bury his parents, who had passed on one after each other. With no other siblings, he was the last of his family’s line. And at age 35, if he was going to continue with the family line, he would need to get married.

He landed in Paris, and took a train from Paris to Nice, where his parents lived. Many of the people in the neighborhood where his parents lived, they remembered young Rene. A spitfire of a boy, they would call him. Today, they looked at him as a stranger, and upon recognizing him, he would be looked on with a slight bit of disgust at what he had done in the many years away from there. He did not mesh well there, and people would keep asking him why he was there.

After a few days of getting re-acclaimated, the time came to bury his mom and dad. Everyone in the church, staid and stoic people who weren’t necessarily believers, but were there out of respect, waited for Rene to give the eulogy. And as he stood and walked up to the pulpit, he seemed tired. He unrolled his paper, and cleared his throat to speak.

“As most of you probably know, I’ve been living in a hut for many years. I have lived among the people of Patagonia, away from my mother and my father. I had a spark of life to light my way, put there by both of my parents, of whose light has gone from this Earth. They raised me to be a loving son, and while some here may not think so much because of what has happened in the last few years, I can state that my parents did not leave this Earth regretting what their son has done.”

He took in a breath, and proceeded to let the hounds loose.

“I still believe. I still believe! Through this pain, and through these tears! Through the lies I hear around here, and through the storms that the people in this town create. Through the cries and the words of war, no matter what the people here say, I still believe!”

He wipe a tear from his face, and continued to speak.

“My mother and father, they cared for The Lord. They didn’t say much, but their lives said everything! Their faith was evidenced in how they took care of their friends, and how the people of Nice paid them back with scorn! While I was away, my mother and father did what the Lord would want them to do, and in the days I have been here, I have seen with how much regard they have been given by everyone. There has been very little!”

He wound himself up in his mind, and let go with passion and fervor.

“You white-washed walls! You claim to be here to honor my parents’ memory, and yet you spit on their contribution to a better land. You mock how they raised their son, and the Lord that they worship! For people like us, and in places like this, we need all the hope that we can get! I can see why this town, this country, are doing very poorly in faith! There is no hope among you!”

He took in a breath, and made his final statement.

“My parents will be laid to rest on the hills outside of this city. Their bodies will decay and rot, and will feed the earth once more. Their souls, their true being, are with Christ my Lord right now. If any of you were actually touched by my parents and what they had done in Christ’s name, you will do as they did: Believe in the Lord with their heart, minister to those who need it, and for all that is holy and righteous, shut your mouth and stop being a bunch of gossiping busybodies! That is all.”

He took his paper, walked down the aisle, and sat back in the pew. For a good long while he sat, and waited. He waited for them to come at him screaming about being insulted.

All he received from them was indifference, which reminded him of the last thing he saw as he boarded the plane at Charles de Gaulle, bound for Buenos Aires, then to Asuncion.

He saw an old man turn his back from his son, who was crying as he was carried aboard another plane at a neighboring gate.

by

Against All Odds

by Miles Rost

“Shandie!”

Brian Charles looked up at the second-floor bedroom window of his ex-girlfriend’s house.

“Shandie! C’mon! We need to talk!”

No answer came.

“Shandie, if we talk this out, you won’t have to see me again. I just need to get this out.”

After a few moments, “Shandie” came to the window. A beautiful redhead with long hair, she wore the mean look of an Irish lass.

“You got me here, Brian! Spill!”

Brian looked up at her with eyes that were near overflowing to tears. This was a man with a mission whose heart seemed to be ready to pop things open.

“Do you want to know why I did not make it to the hospital to pick you up?”

“Does it involve some lame excuse? If so, I don’t want to know!”

“This is the problem, Shandie! You won’t listen to what happened! If you were willing to take a second and actually hear what happened and look at the report in my hand, you’ll know that there was a very good reason why I was not there.”

“I’ve seen you do this before, Brian! You did it to Elena before you met me! You did it to Raisa! And now you’re doing it to me! I don’t want to hear it!”

“How can you just walk away from me? How can you do this without even letting me tell you why I wasn’t able to make it there?”

“You’re going to say something fantastical, Brian, and try to get me to forgive you. Well, it’s not happening! I don’t want to hear your excuses!”

“You coming back to me is against the odds! I see that! I don’t care if we’re together anymore! I just do not want to this to end with miscommunication!”

“Miscommunication? MISCOMMUNICATION? YOU LEFT ME OUTSIDE A COLD HOSPITAL IN A FOREIGN TOWN! There is no excuse for that!”

Brian tore at his hair, frustrated and about ready to burst. Shandie looked back at him, a slight smirk on her face.

“Couldn’t handle the truth? That is why I won’t believe you!”

She turned around and

Brian growled and threw the paper-wrapped tennis ball into her room. He grabbed his hair and screamed at her.

“IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT? TURN AROUND AND SEE ME CRYING, WHY DON’T YOU! I DID NOT PICK YOU UP BECAUSE I WAS ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. AFTER I KILLED SOMEONE!”

Shandie stopped smirking. As his loud sobs resonated through the neighborhood, she slowly walked back and picked up the paper. She looked at it, a police report. She noticed the time and the date, the location, and what had happened. It was as though everything she had thought about started to crack right at that moment.

She looked down at him, and those cracks in her mind got larger, and more spidery.

“Brian,” she said, a bit softer, “I…I think I need to hear what you have to say after all.”

Brian choked out the story in between tears, about how he was running late due to a long line at the local Target store. He tried to use a shortcut, but it was blocked by a creek that was flooding due to an ice jam. He drove down a hill and lost control of his vehicle as it slid downhill. He cried as he recounted the old man who just entered the roadway just at the moment he reached the bottom of the hill, and how he went through his windshield, and how Brian went unconscious after the car came to a rest in a yard.

“I…” she mumbled, “I remembered what you did before, with all these fantasy stories with your past girlfriends. I thought that it was just the same thing.”

Brian sniffled, and looked at her with a sorrowful but hateful glare.

“You thought wrong,” he said, his voice calming down, “You’ve always jumped to conclusions about things. Even after we started dating. And now, after today, I don’t want think about you ever again. Not after what you have done.”

Shandie did not know what she could do. She wanted to run down there and comfort him, but she also knew that she couldn’t. He was right, she didn’t listen. And it cost her a relationship.

“Brian, I am….I am sorry.”

Brian just turned around and started to walk out of the yard. He cleared his conscience, she got an explanation, and he found out just how it was to truly end a relationship with honesty. He looked back up at her one last time, and called back.

“Take a look at me now. There’s just an empty space there, now.”

by

Where Do The Boys Go?

by Miles Rost

(From a yet unpublished story)

The van that carried Brad Pershing and his fellow bandmates screamed down the 101, heading for the western side of Santa Barbara. Mackie “attempted” to drive carefully, with Brad hoping to arrive at the Seawalk Grill along the channel on time and alive.  Blazing past the exit for Cabrillo Boulevard, the van started to accelerate to the point where it started to shake slightly. Brad, looking straight ahead and white knuckled, was incredibly worried at the sight of the lampposts moving quickly by, and looked over at the speedometer.

It registered a reading of 95 miles per hour.

“Mackie! Slow down!” he said, looking at Mackie with panic.

“Do you want to get there in time, or do you want to lose the money we’d be making?” Mackie retorted, with a wild laugh.

“I want to get there…” Brad started to say, before a pungent odor wafted into his nostrils. The overpowering smell of burnt sage, all too familiar to him in dealing with his pot-smoking sister, caused him to start coughing and gagging.

“My God, Mackie, how much weed did you smoke?”

Mackie laughed and groaned dazily as he drove, now starting to move across the white lines of the 6 lane highway.

“I only had a few joints.”

“A few…JOINTS?!”

Seth sat up and tapped Brad on the shoulder, giving him a stern look indicating displeasure at the questions. Brad made a sideways chopping motion, silently informing Seth to stay out of it.

“What’s the problem? I can drive!” Mackie laughed, as he turned the wheel from one side to another rapidly, making the vehicle weave.

Brad was about to say something more, until he noticed a red, then a blue flash. He looked in the side view mirror and saw a police cruiser with its lights fully on, close on their tail.

“Mackie, that’s the cops! Pull over!”

“Wah Uh OH!”

Mackie floored the accelerator and started speeding around slower moving cars. They were halfway through Santa Barbara, approaching State Street, when they noticed a second set of lights joining the pursuing cruiser. This had officially become a high speed chase. Brad sat to the side, making sure his seat belt was on tight.

“Oh God, it’s OJ Simpson all over again…” He moaned, as he looked straight ahead, his face already white as a ghost.

The police cruisers behind the van stayed back behind as drivers started moving to the side of the road. Within a few moments, a third cruiser moved from behind the first two and started to gain on the rapidly moving van, already clocking over 105 miles per hour. They quickly passed the State Street exit and headed straight towards the exit for the Santa Barbara airport.

“Our exit is coming up!” Mackie exclaimed, “No mercy for SWINE!”

He passed a big rig after passing the Turnpike Road interchange, and quickly moved over 2 lanes of traffic, causing 1 car to run into the ditch. He finally reached the right hand lane to take the exit. Just as he was about to go under the underpass, the right tire of the van hit a board in the road. The nail hit the sidewall of the tire, causing the tire to violently explode and cause the van to start skidding to the side.

“Oh, hellfire!” Mackie exclaimed, “Look ou-“

The van tipped to the side and rolled over multiple times. Inside the van, screams of pain eminated as the members of the van started to be thrown in the vehicle. Their keyboardist was thrown out the window and crushed as the van rolled through the underpass.

Seth continued to be tossed around the van as it continued rolling past the embankment under the bridge and into a stand of trees. The van finally stopped as the driver’s side door slammed into a thick scrub tree with a sickening thud.

Seconds felt like hours as the van rested. Brad, still sitting in his seat and buckled up, had his eyes covered with his arms and his head in his lap. The sound of his breathing filled his ears as the sounds of the van quieted to silence. Brad pulled his head up and tried to move his right arm up to his neck. A sharp twinge of pain shot through his arm and he cried out. He tried to lift his left arm, and was able to rub his neck. He looked towards the driver’s seat, slowly.

His eyes filled with the vision of his lead singer, Mackie, with blood gushing down the right side of his head, and upside down. Brad was filled with horror at seeing his friend, dead, and he screamed. Muffled sounds coming from outside and the flashing of red and blue lights filled his vision as his door was opened and he was extricated from the vehicle by a member of the California Highway Patrol.

“Son, are you okay?”

Brad, upon hearing words, started to sob openly. The vision of Mackie, one eye open and blood streaming down his face, continued to be all that he saw as he bawled into the shoulder of the officer.

“Sanchez!” the officer called to his partner, who was peering into the van with his flashlight, “Are there any others in there?”

“I’ve got two, Benny. Both gone.”

Brad overheard this, and screamed out a scream of terror. His friends, his bandmates were dead. He was alive. His system shut down as he went limp.

Brad Pershing was the only survivor of a car accident that should not have had any.