Sunday, May 06, 2018

Unpublished Excerpt - The Dragon of Dallas

The previous excerpt I published was from a false start on what would ultimately become "Another Girl, Another Planet".

Today's offering is in a similar vein - a false start from 2007 to what became in 2008, "The Witch of Waxahachie", published in Jim Baen's Universe.


The Dragon of Dallas

Football is King in Texas and every Homecoming football game has its Queen—but this particular game had something extra.

The Waxahachie Indians were the visiting team for Southlake’s Homecoming game, which was held rather late in the year--the third weekend in October. I got to sit in the press box  so I had an excellent view of the half-time festivities.

The Southlake Homecoming Queen beamed as she clutched her bouquet and the hand of her escort, the captain of the football team. They held hands above the team’s mascot, who squatted rather handsomely between them.

His name was Priefert—and I got to know him a lot better shortly thereafter.

Oh, I forgot to mention that the Southlake team mascot is a dragon. That’s what Priefert was—a dragon. I mean, not some teenager in a velour and plush suit.

Priefert was a real dragon.

At the conclusion of the Homecoming ceremonies, Priefert’s handler trotted him back to the sidelines. As I mentioned, it was late October and a chill was beginning to creep into the air. The cheerleaders wore their letter jackets, leg warmers and gloves.

As Priefert went over, they gathered around him, and he breathed on them. They huddled in his “smoke” and rubbed their hands as he helped them warm up.

I leaned over to the scorekeeper. “That’s a heck of a sideline heater.”

He leaned back towards me. “We’re proud of Priefert. Do you have a dragon in your home town?”
“No, not at all,” I said.

I didn’t bother to mention that—where I come from—we don’t have magic, either.


It was the previous February when an experiment gone awry at the former Superconducting Super Collider lab south of Dallas punched a portal through to an alternate timeline where magic—instead of science—had been developed and codified since the time of the French Revolution.

I had only been there as a witness for the instigators—Brad Vavra and “Doc” Melancon—in my role as local newspaper editor. Needless to say, I never wrote up what I found.

Strangely enough—for someone in such a mundane profession as journalism—I was the only one in our group who seemed to have the innate talent to use spells, and so I was the only one who had the freedom to traverse the portal.

Mistress Pennoyer—Penny Pennoyer, the head of the Ellis County Magic Council—was my protector when I was in the other world. She had invited me to come along to the football game that night.
My doppelganger—the other Larry Anglen in her world—died years earlier of an infection that couldn’t be stopped in a world without antibiotics. My cover story on my visits to the alternate dimension was that I was his cousin.

Of course, I had to watch what I said to avoid tipping anyone as to what was really going on. The existence of the portal between the magical and scientific worlds was a Republic of Texas state secret, under the authority of President Holley himself.

Mistress Pennoyer and I took the sailroad from Waxahachie that afternoon into Trinity—as Dallas is called in their world—and to Southlake north of the city.

“You need to see some of our local culture,” she had said. “You might understand us better.”

I wasn’t sure if she was entirely serious. “You just don’t trust me to leave me behind,” I said.

“Well, one time I left you alone, you ‘borrowed’ my highest level spell book and used a Teleportation spell to bring your old high school sweetheart, or at least her doppelganger, here for a roll in the hay.”
Ouch. She wasn’t ever going let me forget that one.

“Football” as played in this world was more like rugby—which makes sense, given the common origins of the British and American games—but many of the trappings were the same.

And just as in my world, everyone turned out once a week for “Friday Night Lights—except here, the lights were powerful gas lamps.

After the game, Mistress Pennoyer and I had to cross the field to get to where our host’s wagon waited. Priefert was still on the field, and many of the students patted or petted him for good luck.
I tried to give him a good looking over without obviously gawking. He was a nice jungle green with a ferocious frill behind his head and a fat, long tail.

“No wings, “ I thought. “Probably hops Southwest when he need to fly.”

Priefert swung his head around and looked at me. “You’re not one of us!” he said telepathically.
I tripped over my feet and fell face first into the turf. Mistress Pennoyer heard the dull thud and turned around.

Some other people stopped and helped me to my knees. Pennoyer leaned down and gave me her hand.

“What happened, Larry?”

As she helped jerk me up, I leaned in real close. “The dragon’s spoke to me, mind to mind.”

She turned her heard quickly and gave Priefert a look. “You know that is forbidden!”

“Sorry, mistress,” he responded, “but I overheard him.”

I stood up. I didn’t know they had telepathy here. “OK, can you guys hear me, then?” “Yes,” both responded.

“We need to talk,” she said.

“Very well, mistress,” said the dragon telepathically. “At your convenience.” I just nodded.
Priefert  then looked at me.

“Who’s Joan Rivers?”


Our original plan was to take the late-night sailroad back to Waxahachie after the game, but instead Mistress Pennoyer asked our driver to take us to a large farmhouse on the edge of town.

In my world, Southlake is a city of 20,000 located north of Dallas. Much of its economy is driven by the proximity of Dallas/Fort Worth Airport. Needless to say, it’s a lot smaller in a world with no flying machines—perhaps 200 people. And Mistress Jordan’s home was outside the town.

Mistress Jordan was the head of the local Magic Council, said Penny. That’s all she told me as we rode through some very dark countryside on the way to her home.

Mistress Jordan greeted us at the door holding a tall whale oil lamp aloft. She was as round and short as Mistress Penny was tall and willowy. She genially waved us inside as she sent the driver away.
“I understand you have a subject of some discretion to discuss,” she said.

“I hope my Commune spell didn’t seem abrupt,” said Penny. “This is my friend, Larry Anglen.”

Mistress Jordan shook my hand warmly. “I detect without much prodding that you’re a great wizard,” she said. “But you use none of the language and carry none of the trappings.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not a wizard,” I said. “I’m a journalist.”

She obviously didn’t know what the word meant.

Penny interjected. “Larry is a writer for a newspaper, but more importantly, he’s not a wizard because where he comes from, there are no wizards.”

Mistress Jordan’s jaw dropped. “My god, you’re not from Comstock, are you?”

“No, nothing quite so bad,” said Penny. “He’s from much further away.”

Penny then—after making Mistress Jordan swear on a Reversed Reveal spell—told her of the portal, and of our world where science and the Industrial Revolution had happened instead of their Magical Revelation.

Mistress Jordan was equal parts fascinated and aghast. “It sounds like a dead world,” she said. “With more machines moving about than living creatures.”

“Well, for better or worse, it’s home, “ I said, “and it does have its advantages—like penicillin.”

Jordan ignored the unfamiliar word. “But what does this have to do with us here in Southlake?”

“Larry met Priefert at the football game,” said Penny. “The dragon was caught unawares by Larry’s, uhh, different mind, and violated his oath by speaking to him.”

“Priefert must have been startled.”

“Nevertheless, if Priefert read enough of his mind to learn who Larry is…”

Jordan went to stop here, but I jumped in instead.

“He said to me, “you’re not from this world.”’

Jordan stood up quickly. “I’ll summon Andy Griffin. He’ll bring Priefert.


Griffin was Priefert’s handler. While we waited for him to arrive, the two sorceresses filled me in on the history of these real dragons in their world   As in our world, their 19th century was an era of sea trade and great clipper ships. Early in that century, an enterprising captain captured—while visiting a tiny island in the Sundra Straits of Indonesia—a very large lizard.

Now in our world, the Komodo dragon was a curiousity at best—to be stared at in zoos, perhaps—but in a world where magic users knew the value of a good sidekick, they became a valuable commodity.
After over 150 years of selective breeding, they had also grown especially large and ferocious-appearing. Early cross breeding with much-smaller frilled lizards from New Guinea produced that impressive fringe.

The breeding had been improved by the judicious use of magic—getting the frilled lizards to fertilize Komodo eggs was a good example—but all attempts to introduce wings had been unsuccessful.
The breeding of these especially intelligent lizards created some who had excellent language and communications skills—except they used telepathy.

Over a century earlier, a handful of magic users had their latent telepathy stimulated by the dragons’ contact. A dialogue ensued.

As it happened, only people with excellent magic skills also occasionally possessed telepathy. Both humans and dragons agreed that, because of the inherent dangers of mind reading, the telepathy had to be kept secret.

“When someone becomes a master magic user, they are screened for this power,” said Penny. “We’ve never found anyone except a Mistress or Wizard who possesses the skill.”

“All our dragons possess this ability,” said Jordan. “But they have agreed never to speak to a human unless spoken to first. “

“That explains why he talked to me,” I said. “When I gave him a good looking over, I thought of a wisecrack because he doesn’t have wings.”

“Our telepathy, as you call it,” said Jordan, “call it seelesprechen, only works with dragons, or when a dragon is present.”

She looked at me a little askance. “For someone who isn’t a wizard, you seem to have some skill.”
“He has a great deal of innate talent,” said Penny. “One time, when my back was turned, he ‘borrowed’ a spell book and used a 13th level Teleportation spell to summon an old lover.”

I didn’t think it would be smart to offer my side of the story, so I just shrugged.

We heard the clatter of a wheel and wagon. Mistress Jordan went to the window with a lamp.
“Griffin is here, with Priefert. “Let’s go to the barn.”

Priefert clambered head first down a ramp Griffin leaned into the back. Mistress Jordan said something to the young man, and he stayed behind at the wagon.

When the barn door was closed and the three of us were inside, Mistress Penny spoke to Priefert. The entire conversation was carried on telepathically.

“You can speak freely, friend.”

“Thank you, my Mistresses. I can sense some concern on your part.”

“Our friend, Mr. Anglen, is a visitor and not familiar with our ways,” said Penny. “He is unfamiliar with our Compact.”

“I understand now,” said Priefert. “He actually did not intend to address me, at the football field.”

Thursday, May 03, 2018

Unpublished Excerpt - "Murder by Earthlight" (Conclusion)

Four years before I wrote "Another Girl, Another Planet" - I made a false start on that story, a murder mystery set in space in an alternate universe. I got to 2,700 words before I abandoned it. Here is the beginning of what I wrote in 2011. If you have read "Another Girl, Another Planet", you can see the development of many crucial plot concepts here. This follows up the first half of the excerpt, published April 25.


Nobody wanted to go to the moon right out of college. Your amenities would be pitiful, tiny living quarters. Even the engineers had it cramped. But I learned one thing when I was growing up, to be clever and think of things other people didn’t. I think I invented thinking outside the box.

My parents had fled from the Italy to North Africa as boat people in the late ‘40s when it became apparent the Americans wouldn’t launch a second attempt at Fortress Europa. They got out early, before Germania leaned on the Vichy occupation force to return the refugees crossing the Mediterranean, and they hopped a tramp steamer that dropped them off in Boston. That’s why I was born in Massachusetts.

I was the youngest of six children, and my father was an upholsterer, my mother worked in an office, so I studied like heck in high school, I knew I would need a scholarship. By the time I would be ready to go to college, there’d be no money left. And I was right.

I always had two things going for me. First, the guilt the government felt about the people trapped behind the Steel Curtain because of the failure of the Allies to dislodge Hitler in World War II. I was five when the Germans erected the Wall of Moscow overnight to keep the Russians in West Moscow from fleeing into the Allied Sector.

Second, I grew up with the space program, I was born in January 1957, and my mother bounced me on her knee as we all watched Chuck Yeager become the first man in space on Oct. 4, 1957. I grew up when the race for the Moon was on with the Nazis and JASSECA was in full swing.

Of course, we beat them, and although President Kennedy sounded peaceful as he congratulated Glenn and Gagarin on the moon’s surface, we all knew they had a pair of warheads with them when they landed on Nov. 22, 1963. Suddenly the Nazis started talking a lot less aggressively, and when that drooling old man Hitler died a month later, everyone hoped for the best.

The JASSECA moon base was dedicated July 23, 1969, so it was ten years old when I graduated from college. And that summer the administration was about to rotate back to the American team.

The JASSECA agreement was the U.S. and Soviets would administer it in a five-year rotation, with the U.S. starting and the Soviets taking over in 1974. The plan I worked was to be one of the administrative grunts coming on board the summer of 1979.

The part I finessed was siding with the Republicans. President Ford had barely squeaked back into office, and I gambled--correctly--that the Republicans would load up the moonbase admin with as many GOP diehards as possible as a practical political power base because they would probably lose the 1980 election. When Ford smoked Carter out by offering him the moon executive position at the start of the year--and Carter turned him down cold, not even flashing that peanut-eating toothy grin--it was obvious “Jimmuh” was looking for a rematch in 1980, and Ford would be toast.

“You’re playing this like a poker hand,” said Melody one afternoon at lunch. “The next election after the upcoming one will be in 1984, right as the admin changes again. A bunch of these Republican appointees will be coming back earthside, right in time to join various campaigns.”

“Yes, and I’m playing the Bay State card to the hilt,” I said.

“Is that a pun?” she said.

I laughed. “Aw, crap, I didn’t mean it!”

Having thrown my lot in with the College Republicans, I had some special leverage being from a state with a weak Republican Party during a Republican administration in Washington. Like any good poker player, you make the best of the hand you’re dealt, and in my case, the “ace in the hole” was that my hometown rep on Beacon Hill was one of the few Republicans in the Massachusetts House, a bright Greek-American kid named Andy Card.

“The family name was something like Cardmastimides,” I said. “Card is not a bad way to shorten it.”

Southeastern Massachusetts is full of Greeks, Italians and Portuguese--like Melody, who grew up in New Bedford. We met and began to date in college, but she was a year younger than me.

“At least his family had the sense to shorten it,” I said. “And not keep a clumsy name like Santangelo--or Leverinho.”

She fixed me with her big, dark eyes. Her pupils were so dark they blended with her irises, and her hair was jet black, which--combined with her pale complexion--made her look unnervingly like Snow White.

Except she was better built.

“Leverinho is a fine name, with a great history,” she said, a bit touchily. “I’m proud of my heritage.”

“I didn’t mean anything,” I said.

“So Card wrote you a letter of recommendation,” she said. I kept eating my gyro and nodded.

“What if you get the job?” she asked.

“Let’s see what happens, it’s a shot in the dark,” I said. “A long shot at best.”

She gave me look I didn’t quite understand at the time. “Are you sure you are thinking this all through?”

“Trust me, even being seriously considered for this job is a plus, “ I said.

We had been eating on a cement bench on 116th Street. She looked around distractedly and got up quickly. “I have to catch my professor,” she said. “I will call you tonight.”

I thought she wanted to cut the conversation short because she was afraid I’d ask about a place to stay again. Columbia’s graduation is always the third Wednesday of May, and I would have to be out of the Furnald dorm by the end of the month--which was in three days.

I had tried to play some strategy, too--but this wasn’t working. I don’t think she was willing to let me move in.

She gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Be safe,” I said, feeling a bit cold for late May.

I turned and walked up the Low Plaza, heading towards Uris Hall. I looked around the campus as I walked towards the business school.

Graduation and the prospect of leaving after four years had somehow wrought a change in perspective. Somehow, the familiar buildings seemed to be receding.

“Can I be getting nostalgic?” I thought.

“For this pile of bricks and attitude?”

I stopped and turned around. “Professor Bawke!”

He laughed at my expression. “Why are you mumbling to yourself?”

I coughed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “You look preoccupied. Worried about that job?”

“More like female problems,” I said. “It’s a tough time of the year.”

“Comings and goings, jobs and graduate school, yes, I understand,” he said. “Well, I have some good news. I was hoping to find you.”

I looked up. “Any feelers from D.C.?”

“Better,” he said. “I got a call from Dick Obenshain’s Chief of Staff.”

He smiled at my expression and nodded. “Wow, that’s great!” I blurted.

Richard Obenshan lost the race for U.S. Senator from Virginia by less than 500 votes the previous fall, and President Ford had nominated him to head the moonbase administration. While the White House was assembling the incoming administration in D.C., Obenshain was assembling his own staff in Virginia.

“You’ve got a shot at it,” he said. “Card must have praised you to the moon--pardon the expression!” said Professor Bawke. “You must be in the running for press liaison or personal aide.”

The news that the Obenshain would get the top post at the base was a piece of luck for me; with his deep ties in Virginia, Obenshain had to work to reach out to find staffers in the rest of the country.

The good recommendation from a rising young politico from New England must have had its effect.
Professor Bawke now grasped my shoulder. “Come back to the office with me, I want to talk.”

Our shoes clacked across the brick sidewalks. “You are in a unique position, you may be only person on Obenshain’s staff from Columbia, as well as Massachusetts,” he said.

“You make me sound like some kind of Republican token,” I said, a bit unsure where he was going.

“When Ford gets turned out of office next year, you will be especially useful in having insights to some places where the opposition is strong,” he said. “The Republicans will want that, if they want to make a comeback in 1984.”

I held the door open for him as we entered Uris Hall. “Some of my friends say if Ford is smart, he will simply retire and through the race open,” I said. “Some people think it’s time to let Reagan go for it, like Goldwater did 20 years ago. It will get it all out of the system.”

Professor Bawke smiled as we entered his office. “I guess the reactionaries needs to run amok every generation.”

He pulled off his scarf and draped it on the hat rack, then sat down.

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Unpublished Excerpt - "Murder by Earthlight"

Four years before I wrote "Another Girl, Another Planet" - I made a false start on that story, a murder mystery set in space in an alternate universe. I got to 2,700 words before I abandoned it. Here is the beginning of what I wrote in 2011. If you have read "Another Girl, Another Planet", you can see the development of many crucial plot concepts here.


Because of the Recession – I suppose – the small patio behind the office building was overgrown and unkempt. As I walked through the fire door, I saw him sitting in a rusty metal chair, a Reuben on wax paper sitting in his lap.

He was alone.

He looked up and swallowed. “You looking for anybody, son?”

I pulled the book from my side pack fanny and nodded. “Are you Thomas Santangelo?”

He nodded and wiped the mustard from his gray beard. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

“They told me inside you were eating lunch out here,” I said.

I walked over to the table and put the boon down in front of him. “I found this is in the dollar bin at the Friends of the Library fundraiser sale,” I said. “It has your name in it, I tracked you down.”

I sat down opposite him. “I thought you might want it back.”

He peered through bifocals at the cover--and gasped, very loudly. He reached out with both hands and grabbed the book, hard, as if to assure himself that it was real.

“Oh, my God, it was real, it was all real,” he said, to no one in particular. Tears began to stream down his face, and he dropped the book as he tried to wipe them aside.

I had memorized the cover, and I looked at it upside down.

“A Decade of Progress: The Programmatic Outline of the International Space Colonization and Exploration Agency – 1980-1990: JASSECA.”

Below is smaller letters, it read: “Joint American-Soviet Space Exploration and Colonization Agency.”

Stamped in red stencil, it read at the bottom “Advance Review Copy – Return to Agency.”

Santangelo’s hands shook violently as he alternately tried to wipe his face and pick up the book again. I laid my hand on top of the book and steadied it. “Take it easy, it’s real, and it’s yours.”

He looked me in the eye. “You’re my witness!” he croaked.

He shook for a minute or two more, but soon he began to calm down and as he did, he began to flip through the pages of the book. His eyes glinted, as he obviously saw things he recognized.

It was a cheaply printed galley proof, a trade paperback sized book with sketches on the cover and where the art and illustrations would be inserted in the final printing.

When he was halfway through the book, he spoke without looking up. “Where did you get this?”

“Like I said, it was in the dollar bin at the Friends of the Library fund raising garage sale, where I live.”

“Where do you live?” he said, still without looking up.

“Natick, Massachusetts,” I said. “It’s west of Boston.”

“I know where Natick is,” he said. “I grew up in Rockland.” He looked up. “Do you have any idea where they got it.”

“The group takes donations of all types of books, They recycle a lot for pulp, but they save some for resale. This probably came in through some estate sale,” I said. “They had no idea where it came from. The only name I found inside was yours.”

I reached in my wallet and pulled out a yellowed cash register receipt. “I found this, stuck between pages like a bookmark.”

I held it out, and he reached for it with two fingers, grasping it gently like a butterfly’s wing. It read:

“Astro Gyros
“Our Middle Eastern Cuisine Is Out Of This World
“Lunar Base Mall Kiosk 37
“Dec 12 79
“Lunch Special # 5: FelGyr Pltter $5.47
“Thomas R. Santangelo
“Mastercard XXXX-XXXX-XXXX-5545
“Exp. 05-82
“Authorized Signature:”

I pointed to the receipt. “I assume that’s your signature at the bottom.”

He looked at me, and said--his voice trailing off softly--“Yes, it is.”

I cleared my throat. “I like science fiction, and I like alternate history. At first, I assumed--like the folks sorting through the books for library fundraiser--that this was a science fiction book, some sort of nerdy RPG guide, perhaps. I didn’t even pay a buck for it, I got it in a pile of a dozen books they let me have for five bucks. But when I got home and began to flip through it, it seemed--well, it seemed a lot of work for so specialized a goal.”

I pointed at the receipt again. “Then I found that, and I thought: ‘I can imagine some nerd making up a fake report to go with some RPG world, even if it is 200 pages long--but why counterfeit a receipt from a kebab stand?”

“It’s not fake,” said Santangelo. “I ate there, I had lunch there, the last day…” He looked away. “The last day…”

I tapped my finger on the table. “Is this an artifact from another quantum universe?”

Santangelo looked at me. His eyes were dry, and wide.

“You get it!” He said. “You get it!”

“There are 24 Thomas Santangelos in the U.S., according to Google, but there are only two Thomas R. Santangelos, and the other one is 84,” I said. “You’re only 54, I took a guess you might be the guy I was looking for.”

“I am. I grew up in that other quantum universe,” he said.

“Jeez, how did you cross over, then?”

“I didn’t, the universe changed on me. I woke up one morning in a different place, with a different past in a different history, but with my memory intact,” he said. “I don’t know why it changed.”

He held the book with both hands. “This is the first time I’ve seen anything from the world I grew up in.” He took a deep breath. “This must have had something to do with the change. I have to try to remember the last time I saw this before.”

He leveled his gaze. “I remember. It was in my apartment, on the moon base, in the moon colony.”
“You lived on the moon!”

“Shit, kid, that’s where I had my first job out of college, I was hired as an aide to the moon base governor right out of school,” he said. “That was in the summer of 1979.”

I must have looked stunned, because he snorted. “You like science fiction, young man? I can tell you a story times better than anything Admiral Heinlein or Harry Turtledove could have dreamed of. It happened to me, it was real.”

He looked around. “You came all the way from Massachusetts to Dallas, you can’t be in any kind of a rush.”

“No, no. I have all the time in the world,” I blurted.

“Give me a second, I’ll tell them inside I’m taking the rest of the day off, we can sit here while I tell the tale,” he said. “Maybe talking it through will help me remember something that will explain what happened.”

He got up and walked into the office building. A minute later he walked back out and sat down.

“You haven’t told me your name.”

“Jim, Jim Gibbons. My friends call me Jazzman because I listen to classical Jazz.”

“How old are you, Jazzman?”

“Twenty-two, I graduated from Emerson College last month.”

He looked thoughtful. “That’s how old I was when I went to the moon. Like I said, I was hired right out of college. I thought I was lucky at the time. I didn’t realize how much my luck would change when I set foot on that crunchy moon mud.”

(To Be Continued...}

Sunday, April 22, 2018

Original Fiction - "False Flag" by Lou Antonelli

The school shooting wasn't what it seemed...

Dickey slammed the hatchback shut and handed Marissa her assault rifle.  She looked at him.

“This is a rotten job, you know,” she said softly.

“Just remember why we’re here,” he said.

He took his rifle off his shoulder, and the pair walked to the entrance of the elementary school.  As they approached, a school police officer stepped outside.

“Halt, drop your weapons!” he shouted.

Dickey sighed as he shot the man in the forehead.

“Well, with all the practice, your aim has certainly improved,” Marissa said bitterly.

The pair sprayed the entrance of the school with gunfire, and then passed the shattered door.  There were shouts and screams as teachers and students ran away down corridors, followed by the heavy slamming of doors.

“I’ll take care of the classrooms, you do the office and teachers’ lounge,” said Dickey.

Marissa walked into the school office, where a young woman threw her hands up in the air.

“No, please, no!”

Marissa shot her in the face, and then walked into the suite of offices.  The principal tried to fight her, but she dispatched her easily.  A few people hid under desks. She shot them all.

One teacher hid in the supply closet.  She stared at the gunman, eyes wide in fear.

“Why are you doing this?” she sobbed.

“You’ll learn soon enough,” said Marissa as she shot her.

After ten minutes, all the people in the administrative portion of the school were dead, and Marissa followed the sound of gunfire to find Dickey in one of the classrooms.

“There are only a dozen classrooms, I’m halfway through,” he said.

“I’ll start at the other end of the hallway,” she said.  “We’ll finish faster.”

“You get warmed up after a while, don’t you?”

“There’s a kind of shock that wears off,” she said.

Many of the children huddled together under desks.  That made it easier for them to be killed. One young male teacher charged Dickey.

“The police are on their way,” he screamed.

“No, they’re not,” said Dickey and he shot him square in the chest.

Dickey turned away, but was startled to hear the teacher moaning on the ground.

“Why are you doing this?” he gasped.

Dickey went into a half crouch and looked the teacher in the eye.

“Be at peace, my brother, you’ll learn soon enough.”

He put a shot into the young man’s forehead, and then moved on.

After a half hour, the screams and sobs subsided.  The pair of “killers” walked back to the entrance of the school, and sat down on a broken brick wall.

Dickey took out his iPhone.

“We’ve cleaned it out, you can bring over the Sensitive.”

In a few minutes a battered pickup truck appeared, and a man in a military-like uniform stepped out from the driver’s side.

Two more men exited the bed of the truck, as a young woman stepped from the passenger side.

“This is Kaylee,” said the driver.

Marissa grabbed Kaylee by the wrist.

“As hard as this is for us, I know how difficult it is for you,” she said.

The Sensitive smiled sadly.  “It is what I must do, to help the others,” she said. “The living, and the dead.”

She walked forward towards the scattered remains of where the school once stood.  Marissa and Dickey watched as she looked over the field where the outlines of walls indicated where the classrooms had been.

“It’s amazing how little of the structures remain, only 25 years later,” said the driver.

“The firestorm burned everything to the ground,” said Dickey.

Kaylee closed her eyes and moaned gently.  The others watched intently.

After a minute, she opened her eyes.  “Just sadness remains, fading quickly,” she said quietly. 
“They’ve left, moved on.”

“Excellent,” said the driver.  “I’ll notify the others. They can bring in settlers tomorrow.”

Kaylee dropped her arms at her sides.  “I hope I don’t have to do this many more times.”

“Most of the known haunts have been cleared out, but settlers keep finding new ones,” said Dickey.

“I’m surprised there aren’t more haunts,” said the driver.  “This area had millions of people living in it at the time of the Sun Stroke.”

“Yes, but most adult spirits eventually discern what happened, and have dissipated by now,” said Kaylee.  “The schools, nurseries, playgrounds and such are the hard ones, places where there were a lot of children.  They can hardly understand that a solar flare killed them instantly without warning.”

“Among all the innocence of the children, the teachers remain oblivious, also,” she added.

“A few always fight or challenge us,” said Dickey.  “They always say the same thing, ‘Why are you doing this?’”

“Well, thanks to you two, the new people will be able to live here and start up again without the spirits,” said the driver.

The others got back in their truck and left the pair of shooters behind.

Dickey and Marissa stashed their rifles in the hatchback.  Dickey slid behind the steering wheel, and Marissa sat down.

He set his mouth.  “They’re already dead, you know.”

“It’s sad,” he continued, looking over at her.  “But it needs to be done.  Otherwise they don’t know to move on.”

Marissa exploded.

“No, you know what’s sad?  Not that a sudden solar eruption struck down millions of people without warning.  Not that ghosts linger for decades because what happened to them was so sudden they don’t know they’re dead.”

She glared at him. 

“What’s sad is that we had a society where a madman killing helpless children at a school was a regular occurrence,” she shouted.

She looked out the window. “None of them question what we did, and now they accept they’re dead.”

She looked forward.

“Let’s get out of here, let’s just get the fuck out of here.”

And they drove away through the empty landscape.

-The End-

Saturday, April 21, 2018

Not my problem!

I have an adopted son, my furbaby Peltro (a Catahoula Leopard Cur) who is sleeping on the couch right now on his back, legs akimbo, nether regions rampant. We all know the sight of a dog sleeping like this. It's cute.

Over 20 years ago I had another adopted canine kid, named Luke. He was German Shepherd mix, with the resulting long and pointed muzzle.

One night he was sleeping on his back on the floor while I was on the couch watching television when he sneezed violently.A few seconds later I heard a grunt.

He had sneezed so hard his tongue had fallen out of his mouth.

He grunted again and I realized he couldn't reel his tongue back in. His hyper-extended tongue was flopping on the floor.

He grunted a couple of more times and then rolled over on his side, and was able to yank his tongue back in his mouth.

He looked around somewhat sheepishly.

I looked over and said to him, "Luke, old chum, that is one problem I don't think I will ever have!"

Sunday, April 15, 2018

A nasty visit to the Paris zoo

 It turned out OK in the end, but I had to take Patricia to the ER of the hospital in Paris Saturday afternoon.

Starting Friday afternoon she started feeling abdominal pain and nausea. She ate and drank very little. This afternoon she threw up and suggested we go to the hospital ER.

They hooked her up to an IV drip (she was very dehydrated) and took some blood samples.They then gave her a few stopgap medicines and later, took her for a cat scan.

The process took about four hours. The report from the cat scan showed she had a spot of colitis. She's snoozing on the couch and feeling better. We have four prescriptions which I will have to get filled in Paris Sunday (there are no 24-hour pharmacies anywhere near here.)

The medical staff we interacted with at Paris Regional Medical Center were quite helpful, friendly, and professional.


The ambiance was a combination between a zoo and a riot. It may just have been our bad luck, but we eventually stayed behind a closed door in the examination room, because we felt we were in a combat zone.

Early on, we had to close the door because a patient across the hall was loud and using the most vulgar language possible. It was really scatological. Sometimes he may have been on a cell phone, other times I think he was talking to people in person, but wow! This guy had the loudest, dirtiest mouth I ever heard.

We were able to muffle his foul language by closing the door, but then - believe it or not - things got worse. A lot worse.

While Patricia was getting her cat scan, some people - who must have known someone also getting a scan - camped out in a waiting area just outside that door.

It looked like a mom, a young daughter, and maybe four or five toddlers. I really couldn't tell, it was such a fiasco.

By the time Patricia got back, as we waited a couple of hours for the results, the kids screamed and shrieked and cried to make the doors shake and the windows rattle. It was obvious the kids were badly out of control and the adults either couldn't or didn't want to control them.

This time the door was no barrier to the noise. It was like being in a hurricane. Patricia started to get sick from the racket and I was getting woozy myself.

The hospital staff was nowhere to be seen. They all seemed to be clustered around the nurses' station. socializing and trying not to get involved.

I cracked open the door and saw hands trying to grasp the various limbs of the toddlers, who were squirming and on a complete warpath. I polite suggested from across the hall that it would be nice if it was quieter.

That didn't seem to have any effect, so maybe 15 minutes later I went down the hall and alerted the staff to the problem. Then I retreated to the exam room.

Instead of abating, it got louder, and after a while I cracked the door because I was genuinely curious if something was seriously wrong. It sounded like these kids were cannibals doing a war dance as they roasted a sibling over an open fire pit.

I saw maybe two staff members were in there, perhaps - I hoped - trying to get control of the situation. As I looked out, the older of the two ladies seemed to be saying that I was the cause of the problems by complaining, and then said, pointing, "And there he is sneaking a peek through the door."

OK, that was it. I do not sneak. I flung open the door and shouted at the top of my lungs "CONTROL YOUR LITTLE...!!!"

Now, that last word I used is a standard English plural noun used to denote children whose parents were not married at the time of their birth.Although often considered a malediction, I felt personally assured, under the circumstances, that it was probably accurate.

It was rude, though. A staff person told me to get in the room and shut the door and stay there. Which seemed like a good idea.

After a while the ruckus finally dissipated. Barricaded as we were in the exam room, Patricia and I were happy to believe the hurricane had passed.

A while later there was a knock on the door and the same staff person who had admonished me to get back in my room entered with a security guard. She chewed my ass for having the temerity to do her job in trying to abate out-of-control visitors. She said I can't use that language around children.

I bit my tongue and didn't point out it was probably a description rather than a curse. I admitted I lost my temper - which was true - and said I was sorry, which was also true.

They left, and a while later a real doctor came in and explained the results of the cat scan and the diagnosis of colitis. We left shortly thereafter with prescriptions in hand.

Back in the car, we agreed never to set foot in the place again, and if need be we'd rather go to a hospital in Texarkana or Mount Pleasant than back to that hell hole.

Although the medical professionals, and most of the staff, were - as I said earlier - helpful, polite and professional - failing to keep even a minimum of decorum in an emergency room is abusive and just plain damn lazy. I have high blood pressure, and I'm lucky I didn't have a stroke over the affair.

It was one of the worst Saturday evenings I've had in my life, and with that lack of detail to simple decorum, I suspect Paris will soon be another small city without a hospital.

Saturday, April 14, 2018

Cold calling

I know what it's like to have someone call you out of the blue (the proverbial 'cold call') to sell you something, and you are real busy, or tired, or sick, or right in the middle of something, and you listen for a while and realize you can't even come up with a decent brush-off, and so you simply hang up.

Since taking over The Clarksville Times, I've made a lot of cold calls to build up the paper's business, and I've had great success. But the other day I called a business in Paris and after 15 seconds got hung up on.

Well, I thought, I've done it to other people a few times in my life, so I have no kick. All you can do is try.

And maybe wait a few weeks and call back again.

Unpublished Excerpt - The Dragon of Dallas

The previous excerpt I published was from a false start on what would ultimately become "Another Girl, Another Planet". Toda...