Roses Are Red

Roses are Red

Aug 11, '08

A short to keep in mind as you do your summer chores outside...

Kate Murphy was a good woman. She had a nice house on the corner of Elm and Prescott streets. She had worked hard to keep up after her husband Leo up and disappeared some fifteen years ago after a drunken fight which he had actually struck her. No one knew what ever happened to Leo Murphy, but he was not really missed by many.

Mrs. Murphy had rose bushes in her front yard, large, award-winning rose bushes that she tended to on a daily basis. Folks in the neighborhood would use them as a landmark.
“Turn left at the house with the roses out front,” they would say.

On a summer’s night, the aroma of the bushes would fill the air in the area and always put people in a good mood when they walked by.

Well, not everyone.

Jake Sally was a bully. Seventeen years old and a recent dropout, he was on a fast track to nowhere. He lived just 4 doors down from the kind little Kate Murphy. He had few interests, and the ones he had were not good.

His current hobby was making the life of Jimmy Gutz a living hell. The young Mr. Gutz had offended Jake one day by not having any money to buy Jake a cold Coke at the corner store. For that offense, Jake had began tormenting Jimmy at every opportunity.

Last Thursday was no exception.

He had chased Jimmy from the corner of Elm and Hancock all the to the corner of Elm and Prescott. Jimmy was fast. With speed born of desperation and fear, he managed to stay just ahead of Jake.

When the pursuit reached the front yard of the Murphy house, Jimmy cut the corner. Jake, larger and full of anger, ran very close to the rose bushes that sat in mute witness to the human drama. Jake's arm brushed the roses and he ran past, the thorns on the bushes ripping his arm open, blood welling up fast.
He growled and stopped, his hand over the open wounds, blood seeping between his fingers.

“Goddamn plants bit me!” He forgot about the rapidly diminishing Johnny Gutz and returned to his house to nurse his wounds.

Friday night came around, as it always does, and it found Jake hanging out at “Dog” Turner's garage, as he did every Friday. Dog was as much a loser as Jake was, and the two just would sit in the garage and drink and smoke and talk trash about the world in general.

As he sat there, Jake saw the rusty clippers hanging on the wall of the garage. Being drunk, and just as angry as he normally was, he decided that the rose bushes of the kind Mrs. Murphy needed to be taught a lesson. He told Dog that he was “gonna borrow them things” and would back in a while.

He set out into the darkness with the clippers and mayhem on his mind.

The moon was full that night and the residential streets were quiet, as they normally were. Jake walked the few blocks to the corner, and stood there and looked at the rose bushes. He figured it would take only a few minutes to reduce the once proud roses to a heap of green kindling.

He stalked across the street and bent low to get at his first victim. He reached in with the clippers, spread them apart, and was ready to cut , a evil grin on his face.

The clippers never came together.

The plant he crouched next too lashed out. A thick thorn-filled vine wrapped itself around his throat, choking off any attempt to cry out.

He dropped the clippers and grabbed at the vine that seemed to pull him in. Blood ran like water from his tortured neck and grasping fingers.

A second vine snaked out, wrapping around his wrist. A third joined in, twining around his other wrist with a speed unlike any plant could muster.

His eyes wide with terror and pain, Jake knew on a primal level that he was in real danger. He fought back, his youth and strength seeming to gain ground on his attacker.

But the rose bush was not alone. The one next to it joined in the attack, grabbing his legs and slamming him to the ground. He twisted and turned, but the thorns and vines held. Blood stained the grass as he was slowly pulled into the leafy mass.

The roses moved slightly, as he fought a bit more. Then, as the moonlight poured down on the scene, they were still.

A few minutes later, a single vine reached outward and grabbed a hold of the clippers, and they, too, were slipped into the bush.

The next morning dawned as the roses blossomed full and rich, bright red and beautiful.

Mrs. Kate Murphy walked out onto her porch, bent down and picked up the shiny set of clippers that were lying there. She calmly walked out to her shed and hung them up on the wall next to the other new cutting tools that hung there, the first one being the large machete her husband had been wielding the night he disappeared so long ago.

“All you have to do is feed them,” she said as she walked out to admire her roses.

This Was Not Going To Work

"This was not going to work"

This was not going to work. But my options were limited. The Jerry behind me in the Messerschmitt was not going to go away on his own, so I pulled the stick back hard, and dropped the flaps.
The Mustang just sort of stopped, like it had been pulled up short on its reins. The Texas Bitch did what I asked of her, even if it wasn’t in the manual. The German hot shot must have been as surprised as I was by the move, as he ducked under and below me, unable to bleed of airspeed as fast as I had. I did a bunch of thing all at the same time, slammed the stick forward, sucked in the flaps, and put fire walled the throttle. As the nose of the Texas Bitch dropped, I flicked the gun trigger and sent The Jerry a present. All 6 Browning’s thumped and a row or tracers reached out for the 109. I saw a bunch of them hit the outer wing as he rotated right, out of my sights.
The sudden demand on the engine was too much for it, and the big Allison coughed, sending a plume of black smoke and sparks from the exhaust stacks.
I eased back on the throttle, and pulled the Mustang in to a sweeping right turn, following my adversary.
I was supposed to be escorting a beat up B-17 back to base, since I had to abort as well, my left drop tank not coming loose as it should have, and even now I could feel its drag on the plane, and ever so often it would make some a banging noise like it was trying to rip the damn wing off. I was hoping it would just come off, but it was well and truly stuck.
We had been easing home when this single Jerry in this gaudy yellow and black ME109 came down on us from our 6. I admit he surprised the hell out of me, and must have the guys in the ‘Fort since they never got a shot off before the Jerry’s nose cannon tore the left wing clean off, and the big bird just turned over and fell out of the sky. I didn’t get a chance to see if anybody made it out as I pulled hard up into him and tried my best to shoot this son of a bitch down and quick.
We had been told last week that there was some sort of Kraut “gunslinger” in the area, one who could operate alone and pick his own targets. But none of us in the 23rd had seen him so we figured it was some sort of rumor.
Well, that rumor had just downed a ‘Fort, and was gunning for me, and I was pulling horseshoes out of my ass to keep from being added to his tally.
I swung in behind him, the Mustang easily keeping up. I would have liked a bit more altitude, but I would have to work with what I had.
He jinxed left and I started to follow, the pulled right a bit, sure enough, he came back right and I managed to put at least a few rounds into his tail.
I stayed with him. As he flew the shit out of that Me109, I saw it. He would twitch the rudder a bit in the opposite direction them turn, He telegraphed his moves. I had him.
Sure enough, he twitched the rudder right, and I swung left, pulled the trigger and he walked right into all 6 .50’s. They walked the length of the 109, smoke blossomed out of the nose and a engine panel flew off, he pulled up, and as I passed him I saw him step out of the cockpit and do something I will never forget,
He saluted me, before disappearing into the distance.
I swung around, and saw the 109 auger into the countryside, and his chute hung in the sky.
I turned toward home, feeling a bit relieved, when the damn drop tank came loose finally.
The problem was now it was leaking fuel from my wing tanks, and I was not going to have enough to make it home.
I clawed for altitude, hoping to get up in the light air where I could ease up on the throttle, when the rest of my day went to shit.
I don’t know if I had taken a round in the engine earlier, or just had done some damage myself, but the Allison, normally a real trooper, just gave up the ghost with a bang and a strange grinding sound. Oil covered my windscreen, and I knew I was done for.
I eased the Mustang over, and popped the canopy and yanked my ass out of the stricken fighter.
“So long ole’ gal” I yelled as I cleared the tail.
I pulled the cord and floated on the breeze for a few minutes.
I watched the Texas Bitch roll over twice more as she raced toward the ground.
I didn’t see her go in, as I was a bit busy getting hung up in some trees.
The next 3 weeks were a blur, being rescued by the resistance, and smuggled out of France in everything from a horse cart to a milk truck.
I was handed over, dazed and confused, to some British SAS guys who got me across the channel.
I walked into the ready room to a standing ovation. Seems I was the new hero, a modern day Roy Brown, for shooting down the new Red Baron.
Evidently the Jerry I had downed had racked up a real tally, and now out of the game, since the partisans had grabbed him and traded him to the Brits who had him hidden away somewhere.
The fact that he had made it to England in less than a week kind of pissed me off.
I got a new ship, a D model, which I named Texas Bitch II, and added 3 more kills which made me an ace, and got me sent home.
I got a job at North American as a test pilot, and when they got into the missile business, I went to work for American Airlines.
It was a summer day in 1973, I was based out of LAX, when I got a call from a friend of mine over at United, who said he had somebody I needed to meet.
So I drove over to the United side of the airport.
I walked into the pilots lounge and was greeted by a bunch of young pilots standing around a older guy, about my age, as he recounted a flying story,
I listened to him he had a slight accent, but the story seemed familiar.
He paused and looked at me and did what he had done so many years ago. He saluted me.
His name was Karl Bucher, and he was the German ace I had shot down so many years ago.
He shook my hand, and the years faded away.
Karl and I became fast friends, and stayed in touch over the years and the distance.
I was there for his funeral in ’91, and as I stood next to his son, grandson, and great grandson, I remembered that single fleeting thought.
This was not going to work.
Thank God it did.

Visual

my take on the classic zombie themed story...

"Visual"

The following is the remains of a logbook found in the arms room of the State Police Station in Painted Post New York. Most of it is damaged, due to exposure to water and the elements. The undamaged sections are reproduced here. The log is approximately 25 years old, and may be the best example of what the early survivors went through in the first days following the Techophage.



July 17th

I am dead. You aren't. At least that is the idea behind this journal. If you are reading this, what ever I did, didn't work, so maybe you can learn something from me screwing up one last time.
It all started for me pretty much the way it did for you I would imagine, well, maybe not. But here it is anyways.
I took the week of the 4th off like I always do, to do some hiking and camping in the mountains. Being an IT guy means I lead a pretty dull life, so any chance I get to get out and get some air, I take it.
Had convinced Jenny from accounting to come with me. We had been dating a few weeks, and she said she liked the idea of just the two of us in the woods. Sounded like a plan to me.
We spent the week in the back woods. She was no hiker and even less of a camper. But hey. I got to play He man mountain man a few times and it worked out pretty well overall. She did complain that we didn't have any music on the little radio she had, but I figured it was just the mountains. Little did I know what was really happening.

By the time we had loaded up the last day, she was really looking forward to getting back to civilization
She was going to have to wait a while we found out.
We had gotten to the truck we had left at the trailhead about noon and headed back down out of the mountains. We didn't see any traffic, but on the back roads, that was not unusual. Jenny had tried to tune the radio in the truck, but all we got was static. That bothered me a little, but I didn't say anything to her about it.

The first one we saw was just standing in the road, right in the middle. He was a big guy, with dirty shorts and no shirt on. He was facing away from us, arms outstretched, like he was trying to block the road. I pulled up next to him and was going to ask him what the hell he was doing when he looked at us.
The eyes just freaked us both out, I never did get used to that. They were just that weird silver grey color. No pupils, no color. He, or It, just looked at us for a few seconds, then it came at us. He slammed into the side of the truck, trying to reach into the window, when I gunned the truck, sending him spinning to the ground. I braked a few hundred feet up the road and watched him get up, and start walking toward us. He didn't look hurt, and by this time, Jenny was freaking, screaming at me to just go.
I took her advice, and stomped on the gas, leaving him or it , behind us. The last time I say him he had stopped and raised his arms again like he was when we say him.

The next ones we came across were the worst. There was a minivan in the ditch on the other side of the road, all the doors open, and no one in sight. I stopped, thinking they needed help, and Jenny and I got out. Looking back, that was the worst choice we made.
As we got to the van, I saw the mom, laying in the grass, face down, and Jenny yelled that there was a kid over on the other side of the van. I ran over and bent down to take a look when the Father came up from the ditch and grabbed Jenny. His clothes were torn, and there was blood all over them, but he didn't look hurt. Hell, he sure didn't move like it that was for sure. He grabbed Jenny around the neck and threw her to the ground, I heard her neck break from where I was, a kind of snap like a twig makes.
I jumped at the guy, driving him against the side of the minivan, and screaming at him, I pounded his head against the door frame until it I felt it cave in. I let him go, and he dropped to the ground, face up, his eyes that same silver color as the guy we had seen a few minutes before.
I rushed over to Jenny and held her. Her head just kind of hung at a weird angle, her eyes open, staring into space. I knew she was dead.
I started to cry, when I saw the change in her eyes.
The silver color just kind of flowed from the sides until it filed them up. Then the shit really hit the fan.
Her neck stiffened, her face turned toward me, when the dad who I had just put down, blindsided me.
He knocked me down, and grabbed my neck, his hands tightening. I was on my back and with my best WWE like move, I got my knee between us and kicked off, sending him over my head. I rolled over and got ready for him when I saw that I had sent him flying into the sharp end of the front bumper of the minivan, torn loose when it came to rest in the ditch. He was literally impaled on the thing, the end of it sticking out of his chest. He was trying to grab it with both hands, like he wanted to pull it free.
I glanced over at Jenny and watched as she slowly got up, and really slowly came toward me. I saw movement and the kid was also getting up. I heard the mother moving around the back of the van.
I decided that this was a no win situation, and with screens of dawn of the dead flashing in my mind, I took off running. I made it to the truck, with the 3 remaining things right behind me. They didn't move real fast, like they were unsure of how to walk.

I took off, and really don't remember the next few hours. Just flashes of car wrecks, burned out houses, and buildings, and all of the things just walking around, It wasn't until I hit one with the truck because it just stood there in the road, looking at me with those dead silver eyes that I kind of came too.

I found a sporting goods store that I had stopped at before, and I figured I needed to restock my supplies and then I would head back up into the mountains for a while.
As I walked toward the back door, which hung open, torn from the hinges that I realized that others had proba....

September 3rd

.....took two rounds in the chest, knocking it down. I stepped back into the doorway and reloaded. I knew it would be online in a few seconds, and I was running out of options. Just as I chambered the first round, it came thru the door. I aimed high, and blew its head off. The body took a few steps, and stopped. I had seen this before, and knew it was scanning for data flow from any others in the area. I didn't give it a chance and jabbed the taser into its chest and triggered it,
The shock did its work, the thing jerked back, and fell over, spasming and thrashing around.
I needed new batteries soon, I could tell from the things attempt to do a repair.
I shot it two more times at point blank range, knowing it would not be able to handle that much damage.
Always remember that they reach a point that the zoids cant fix them. Massive damage will do if you cant get a taser.
I remember the one last week I blew up with a claymore. It really worked hard to repair itself, and only running over it with the Striker finished it off.
I worked my way out of the school, checking for any more of them, my flashlight the only light.
Remember to shield your flashlights with a red filter. They don't react to the light that way, and unless you want the bastards flocking toward your light like a moth, red is good. Forget NVG's. They see the infrared really well too.
When I got back to the Striker, I let the noob know that we were clear in this area. He raised the rest of the guys and I had them meet us at the Pizza Hut on Greenwood.
One of the teams radioed that they had some sort sort of problem with the truck they were driving, so I had them ditch it, figured they had some ooze get in the system and had them hole up until one of the others got over to them to pick them up. By the time the other guys got there, I think it was the Air Force crew, they had been taken down, and hard if the number of spent rounds and disabled zoids were any indication. I hated the loss. Two more decent dudes gone. I had the flyboys salvage anything they could from the ride the lost had, and to get the hell out quick. Once the zoids find us, they all know where we are. Two other teams rolled in, one still had smoke coming from the pintle .50 cal. I had heard it barking in the distance, and knew we would have to move soon.
We had about 2 hours till sunrise, and needed to go to ground quick. The fact that they zoids were up and moving around in the dark was kind of a worry, since up until now they had not been.
We got everybody together, and made our way over to Link Highway were we knew were some good secure warehouses that we could get all the vehicles into. I put two teams on watch on the roof and the rest of us got some downtime, some catching a nap, the others working on weapons and the trucks.
We were down on heavy munitions, and I told everybody to take it easy on the .50 cal for a while. We would have to make our way back to Corning in the next day or so and restock.
One of the crews took the time to put the finishing touches on the paint job they had been working on.
The sight of a Striker painted orange with huge black numbers 01 and a rebel flag on the top made me smile a bit. They were really proud of the “General Lee” on the top sides as well.
The noob was busy laying out the sharks mouth I wanted on the front of our Striker. He never got to see it finished, he was taken the next week during the whole highway cluster thing.
Still can't remember his name, he will always be the noob to me.
Hell, I called them all that when we first found any survivors.



November 23rd

....the Striker was out of action, stuck in the rubble of the building, so we unassed it, taking everything we could. She and I made it the old State Police barracks up the road, and held them off for the next few hours. It snowed some more, which slows them down a bit.
Darkness was a relief, and we had a chance to make love once more, and had some energy bars for breakfast. We were almost out of ammo, and the batteries in the tasers were long gone. I figured we had a few hours at best before all of the bastards knew we were here. I hope that you learn something from this, and make it further than we did.
They are outside right now, not much longer. I saved a stick of C4 and am going to rig a surprise for them when they come in. We will not be taken intact.

Letter To Yourself

A short story written with the idea that you could send your past self a letter...

"Letter To Yourself"

“Ok, nimrod, pay attention”
Thats how the letter started.
I sat in my truck outside the base post office. It had started to rain, which was not unusual here in Washington. I had been here at Ft. Lewis for a year, and had gotten use to the weather.
I held in my hands a large manila envelope with no return address, with my address written in black marker in what looked like my own handwriting. In place of the stamps was some strange bar code.
I had opened it gently, and taken the letter out, a few sheets of paper, with some sort of corporate logo and an address in New Mexico on it. They had not been folded, but stuffed into the envelope. As I gently unfolded them I realized there was blood smeared all over the pages, making them stick together in places.
Ok, I was starting to freak a bit.
The thing that got me was that it was my handwriting, written in the same marker that the address was, and from the look of it, written quickly, a lot of the words were misspelled, and a few crossed out.
“Ok,nimrod, pay attention.
I, I mean you, oh fuck this is weird are gonna get killed in 10 days, if this is monday. I just hope all this hocus pocus science crap actually works, its a bit shot up and if it does, you, I mean me, will get this letter and and all the rest of it and I ,you can get it to Ramsey in time to fix this cluster before it happens. Take this whole thing to Major Ramsey, just drop it on his desk, he already has the initial Intel and knows.”
I had written this. I knew it. Somehow I knew it was my blood on the pages too.
So here I was, sitting in a truck, with a letter from my self, telling me I was going to get killed in 10 days.
Damn, I need a beer.
I peeled the pages apart and continued to read.
Some of the pages had some sort of technical drawings on them, I set them aside, and continued to read .”You and the team are going to be sent here to retake the facility. It is some sort of science lab, doing some kind of physics work for Uncle Sam. Ramsey told us that they have a time travel device that allows things to be sent back in time. Some unfriendlys has sent a team to take and hold the place, giving them time to do something. The science guy at the briefing says that they could send a bomb
or something back to someplace. I don't get it all, but I do know that the intel is all wrong. They know we are coming and are ready for it. Duke and his guys buy it first, the Blackhawk was hit by a what looked like a stinger, they never made it over the fence. The bad guys have set up outside the fence. Make sure Ramsey knows this.”
Sgt Henry “Duke” Wayne was my support team NCO. I was getting pissed now.
“Money and Fletch get it next, there is a shooter on the radio tower in the south west corner. .50 cal. He is well hidden but Jesus got him with his first shot.”
Seeing what looked like an After Action Report from something that hasn't happened yet was getting weird.
“Stay away from the big brown building as you make your approach, you should out of his sight.”
I was thinking maybe I should write this down. Oh wait, I had, or was going to, or what ever.
I really needed that beer.
It was really raining now, sheets of water blocked the view out the windshield.
I sat and stared at it for a few minutes, and finally forced myself to keep reading.
It was hard, this part was covered in blood, the page was brown and sticky.
“We hit the main building hard, the shooters inside were waiting for us. Without Fletch, we had to do the door with a satchel. They managed to get Spock on the way in. Wait a few seconds after the door blows before you breach.”
Spock always had to be the first in. Figures.
“I'm loosing a lot of blood, so going to have to make this quick. We made it to the main lab, lost Bambi, Alley and Quincy on the way. Only Jethro and I were left. The place is pretty shot up, lots of the computers are wasted, all the hostages are dead. Before he died, one of them told me what to do. The shooters sent a package back already. Seems this is some sort of mailbox from hell. It sends letters and packages in the mail to the past. You have to know the person you are sending it too. I'll be damned if I understand it, but I hope it works.”
I set that page down and started the next.
“Tell Ramsey that the package will be delivered to some address in San Diego. It has some sort of device in it. It has to be intercepted”
Jethro got hit by a shooter hiding behind a door. I took three rounds before I nailed him. I am bleeding out and ain't going to make it.
I hope you get this, and can stop what ever is going to happen. We screwed the pooch here. But maybe we can fix it there.”
At the bottom of the page was more writing. It was barely readable.
“One more thing, just a word of advice.”
“duck”




In the News today, the US Postal Service has said that the explosion and fire at their main distribution point in San Diego was caused by a natural gas leak. 12 workers were killed, along with one fire fighter, who died when a wall collapsed during the all night fire fighting effort. There has been no estimate of the amount of mail that was destroyed or damaged in the fire.

In other news, All of the members of a Army Special Forces team where killed yesterday when the helicopters they were in collided during a training exercise in New Mexico. The Army is investigating the cause of the crash.

The Report

"The Report"

A Sloan Story

November, 2008

I hated this.
I know, stuff like this is the stock in trade of PI's like me, but sitting in a car taking pictures of some poor slob who is stepping out on his wife or vice versa just doesn't seem the way to earn a living.
But I had to do just that. Earn a living.
So there I was, in a dark parking lot, camera in my lap, waiting for the money shot. Once I had it, I could pack it in and get home where there was a glass, some ice and some Jack waiting for me.
This one rubbed me the wrong way from the start.
Maybe it was the client: Mrs. Kimberly Stark-Murray.
The hyphen in her name said it all.
I checked up on her after the visit she paid me a week ago.
“Mr. Sloan. I understand you are cheap.”
Good way to start there, sweetheart.
“I prefer the term reasonable,” I said as she swept into my office, almost an hour late for the appointment she had made earlier in the day.
“I want to to follow this lowlife and tell me everything he does,” she proclaimed, tossing a small picture on my desk in front of me as I started to get up.
I ignored her.
“Have a seat, Mrs. Murray,” I said, pointing toward the wooden chair on the other side of my desk. She looked at it like it was some sort of animal.
“It's Stark-Murray. I'll stand, thank you. I won't be here that long,” she huffed, flinging her dark hair back over her shoulder.
She had just had her hair done, I could smell the sweet/sour smell of a perm job from where I stood. She was not bad looking, medium height, a bit full in the waist, very expensive taste in clothes. Something told me everything about this woman was expensive.
“And who would this gentleman be?” I asked, picking up the picture.
“My soon to be ex-husband, William.”
I felt sorry for the guy already. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I said, walking over to the pot on the shelf in the corner of the office.
“I only drink hand brewed. Not that machine-made swill,” she said, digging in her Prada purse for something.
Okay, then. This was not going well for the home team.


I poured myself a cup in my BPD mug. Clients liked the idea I was a former cop.
“So, Mrs. Murray, what has your husband been doing that you feel I need to follow him for?”
I ignored her hyphen on purpose.
“It's Stark-Murray, for the last time, and he is cheating on me with one of his slut students.”
I really felt sorry for the guy now.
“He's a teacher?” I asked, picking up the photo.
“A professor. Just an accounting professor at Grant College.”
Just a professor at Grant? One of the best private business colleges in the area? I knew that he no doubt had heard that statement before, along with some others no doubt.
The guy in the picture could have been sent from central casting. He looked like an accounting professor. The picture was one of him getting some sort of certificate. He had a suit on, but I could tell it didn't fit him. A little pudgy, balding, with salt and pepper hair. He looked a bit older than Mrs. Stark-Murray.
He was the kind of guy you saw drowning his sorrows at Killian's Bar after he got taken by some woman like this.
“$500 a day, plus expenses.”
“What? You said $300 on the phone this morning.”
“It's $500, and from where I stand, you can swing it!” I snapped back. “If not, there is a few other guys in town that do this, but they are not known for being too discreet.”
Actually, the other PI's I know were great guys, and did a good job, but she didn't know that.
“Yes, of course, that is important, I would just be crushed if my friends found out I had to stoop to this.” She pulled a leather-covered checkbook from her purse. “Here is a check for a thousand dollars. I want a report in two days.”
I took it from her. “It may take longer than that, and I need some background info on your husband, schedule, type of car, license plate, hang outs, things like that.”
“Here.” she said, handing me a folded pack of papers. “Everything is in here.”
I unfolded them, and saw they were a packet done up by Newman Brothers, a corporate PI firm that had an office downtown.
“You had Newman do this, why not have them follow him?” I asked, looking through the papers.
“They were idiots. I fired them last week. My husband spotted them following him He even said something to me about it.”
Something told me that the good Professor Murray didn't say a lot to his wife.
“It happens sometimes in this job,” I said.
“I only hope you are better at it than they are or I will be forced to take my business elsewhere,” There was venom in her voice.
“Would not want that to happen, Mrs. Murray.” I smiled.
She started to say something then stopped. She turned and headed for the door with a flourish.
“Two days, Mr. Sloan. I will call you,” she said, slamming the door for emphasis.

I sat down and reached into the top drawer of my desk and pulled out my flask, added a bit of its contents to the coffee, and started to read all about Professor William Murray.
I added more to the file by making a few calls. Seems Mrs. Stark-Murray was the money of the house, heiress to a small wine importing house from downstate. She had married the then-younger William Murray in a fit of youthful payback aimed at her rather dominating mother. No big surprise that she had then taken the wheel in the career of Mr. Murray. Her family name, which she held onto in a hyphenated form, greased the wheels of an up-and-coming undergraduate accounting student, and moved him into society and money circles that made him a favorite with certain well-heeled private colleges.
I was sure that the very loving and sweet Mrs. Stark-Murray would do well for him after a divorce. Yeah, right. This poor guy was going to get run over, and big time. All she needed was pictures, and he would be toast.
All I had to do was get them for her. Great.
I got right on it. Spending the grand she had given me, I mean.
Actually paid my tab down at Killian's. Had some left over, too.
She called two days later.
“Do have something to tell me, Mr. Sloan?” she asked rather tersely.
“Your husband left from the school and drove straight home the last two days,” I said.
He actually had.
“I told you this would take more time,” I added.
“Idiot!” I didn't know if she meant me or him. “I am out of the country, so I will have money wired to you. Just get the proof I need to see him ruined.”
“I thought you wanted a divorce?” I asked her.
“A divorce from me will ruin him. I promise you that,” she answered. She hung up before I could say anything.
I followed Murray a few more days. He was as predictable as my alarm clock. And just about as interesting.
Leave home in his rather beat up minivan, drive to the college, park in his spot, tote an old briefcase into the building, come out eight hours later, and return home.
For four days, this was the pattern. No sign of any affair, love interest, hobby, or wife, for that matter. Somehow I knew the good professor was happy with this arraignment
Then Friday night happened. I was watching the lot, and realized Murray was late leaving. Okay, it was five minutes, but for him it was late.
He came out of his office and tossed his briefcase and suit coat in the back of the van, and literally ripped off his tie. The man was an animal. Then, he did something really crazy.
He didn't go home.


I followed him to a nice quiet area just east of the college. He pulled into a driveway, got out, looked around, and walked up to the door. He knocked, and the door opened up revealing the other person in his life. A quick kiss, and the two disappeared inside. Of course that moment was captured on film. I am a pro at this.
About an hour later, the two came out and got into the other car in the driveway, a nifty little import. By now I had made a call and knew who rented the house.
Ashley Yates, senior at Grant College, born in London, England. Ashley was tall, blond, athletic, and would be considered attractive to some. Not my type, but I was old-fashioned and liked them a bit more feminine.
I followed them to a well-known night club on Chippewa Street, where they spent most of the night, leaving at almost closing time. They returned to the house, where Professor Murray ended up staying the night.
The old “when the cat is away” thing.
He left in the morning with a quick kiss, and drove home with a smile on his face.
I had burned two rolls of film of the two of them in action, since they had forgotten to close the blinds on the back bedroom where they had finally settled down. I had all the evidence I needed, as would the lovely and sweet Mrs. Stark-Murray.
I had to sit on the pictures for a few days until she blew into my office the following week.
“You have the proof I want.”
Not a question.
“Mrs. Stark-Murray, nice of you to stop by.” I motioned her toward the chair again.
She surprised the hell out of me by taking it.
“You have proof that my husband is having an affair with some little slut co-ed?”
It was a judgment call. I have made some bad ones in the past, but with this one I knew was right.
“Your husband is not having an affair with a female student,” I said, reaching for the folder. “I followed him for several days, and besides being an overly cautious driver, he has done nothing out of character.”
“ Are you sure he is not sleeping with some little tramp girl in one of his classes?”
“Your husband is not. You are the only woman in his life. I guarantee it. Would you like to see the file?” I asked, holding it out for her.
“No. If that is what you found, then I will accept that. I don't need to see a report of how boring he is.”
She handed me a check, which more than covered my costs. “This concludes our business then, Mr. Sloan.”
“Have a nice day,” she added as she stood and walked out.
The money was good. But I hated this part of the job.


I opened the folder and as I marked paid on the invoice, I saw the writing of the report.
“Subject is engaged in a relationship with one Ashley Yates, Senior at Grant College and team captain of the College's Men’s Soccer Team.”
I stood up, grabbed my coat, and headed for Killian's.
On the way, I stopped at a florist and had flowers sent to an address east of the college. The card read, “Happiness is where you find your heart.”
I didn't sign it.
And I paid for my own drinks at Killian's for once.

Language Barrier

A neat little sci-fi piece I did in November of 2008...


"Language Barrier"


“Transit error. Dropping into Realspace now”
Oh what the hell.
I keyed off the book reader. My reading would have to wait.
The ship slammed to a stop, or at least it felt like it. Realspace was so slow.
“Transit error. Realspace location shown on main nav display”
I looked up at the nav screen and saw a pretty blue and green planet hovering in a black void.
“Planet designation Sierra Oscar Lima 3”
I pushed the auto orbit button and waited a few seconds.
“Auto Orbit malfunction. Auto Land sequence initiated.”
I pushed the override button really hard.
“Command Override malfunction. re-entry in 14 minutes.”
This was not good. As a matter of fact, this sucked.
“Landing coordinates plotted. On main nav screen.”
I saw the blip located in the southern corner of the smaller northern land mass.
The auto land system was bad. It never seemed to get it right. I was in for a rough ride.
I slid the control keypad out from under the console and tried to override the system
If nothing else, it passed the time until I started my re-entry.
“Re-entry mode initiated”
My seat slid back, the console went to the stow position, and I was committed.
For the next few minutes, my little scout ship was a bright stream of fire and heat across this planets upper atmosphere. I was a shooting star.
“Auto land commencing”
All I could do was hang on.
The only thing I remember about the landing was the noise. There was a lot of it.
I undid my harness and popped the hatch. Breathable atmosphere. That was a plus.
I had already set off my emergency locater beacon. The Patrol guys would find me soon enough.
Maybe I will do some sightseeing first.
I called up the data on the planet I had found myself on.
Pretty generic place. Kind of in the middle of nowhere, but worth a look.
The main life forms here were similar to me anyways.
No record on tech levels, or any language samples.
Great. I was the first one here.
I grabbed the recon kit from the aft compartment and headed west .
I figured that any locals would have seen my re-entry and I has spotted a few settlements as passed over them. I always liked to meet any new contacts half way. A little less threatening that way.
The language barrier would be a problem, but I had enough training on how to get around it.
Hey, thats what the Scout Fleet was for.
I walked up to the top of the small hill and saw the first signs of habitation.
It was a metal plate with alien lettering on it posted next to some sort of raised artificial surface that was layed out in a perfectly straight line.
I had no idea what it said.
Thats when I saw the alien machines coming toward me. Large green wheeled vehicles, with black sooty smoke coming from what looked like exhaust stacks.
Well, time to put on my game face. I loved my job. First contacts were always so important.
I glanced up at the metal plate and wondered what it said.
WELCOME TO ROSWELL, NEW MEXICO

A Sloan Christmas

A Sloan Christmas.
By SEF, Christmas, 2008

It was snowing again.
Great. The already crappy driving conditions would get worse.
Not that I really cared, I wasn't going anywhere.
I had my spot at the end of the bar already staked out.
I had paid my tab and was well on my way to running up another one, or at least that was the plan.
It was also Christmas eve.
I hated this time of the year. All the good people got all high on Peace On Earth and Good Will Toward Men while down here, survival continued to be the name of the game.
My name is Sloan and I'm a survivor.
Jack was my partner tonight. If he died, he always came back for the next round.
Not like Hank Limkey.
His blood staining the dirt and sand as I held his head in my lap screaming for a medic.
Or Dominic Lorenzo.
His body painting the inside of the APC after the mine went off under it.
Or John Gleason.
Dead in the street, pistol still in it's holster.
So much blood on my hands, so many good men dead around me.
The ghosts of Christmas past were many
I took a swig and put the glass down, empty again.
The door opened and a blast of cold filled the bar.
She walked in, snow covering her narrow shoulders, her light denim jacket not doing much to keep her warm.
She looked around and walked over to me.
She was maybe 18, if that.
Slim, almost gaunt face reflecting the harshness of the street.
“Buy me a drink?” she said in her best grown up voice
“Not in this lifetime sweetheart. Find another john”
“Please?”
“What part of no don't you get?”
“You gay or something?” she asked, suddenly getting all puffed up
“Or something” was my reply.
“Asshole”
“So I have been told. Now get lost kid” I filled the glass back up from the bottle next to me.
She turned and walked away, over toward the two guys sitting near the old dart board.
One was smiling a crooked smile at her like Santa had just delivered a new bike to him.
The barkeeps name was Link something. He was about 200 years old. And he owned the place.
“Keep right on walking girl” He yelled at her.
“Take your business elsewhere” He said, as he wiped down the glass in his hand.
The one guy glared at him like he had stolen his lunch money.
She stopped and glared at Link and walked out the door.
The guy got up, threw a 5 on the table and followed her out.
His partner stalled for a minute, and did the same, a look of guilt on his face.
Deck the Halls indeed..
I drained the glass and refilled it.
I don't know how much time had passed when Link came over to me and put the empty bottle down behind the bar.
“Go home Sloan”
“I am at home”
“Fine. Try to remember to lock up”
He put another bottle on the bar.
“Merry Christmas Sloan”

I drained my drink in reply.
A few hours passed. Or a few lifetimes. Don't really remember which.
The door opened again. I had forgotten to lock it.
The cold air swept in like death, then was blocked by the shape in the doorway.
He was over 6 foot tall, 350 pounds, clean shaven head, dressed in jeans and a leather vest over a short sleeve shirt.
There was only one person I knew that looked like that.
Hog.
The meanest human alive.
And the closest thing I had to a friend outside of a bottle.
“It's Christmas morning you know” He said, his voice booming in the empty bar.
“So what” I said.
“It is time for the spirit of the season to fill you Sloan”
“Did you bring another bottle?” I asked.
“Link put away the good stuff' I said, gesturing toward the back of the bar.
“No, my alcoholic friend, I bring tiding of joy”
“Fuck off”
He grabbed me and stood me up.
“I have come to save you from a life of sin and depravity”
“You are too late”
I twisted away and sat back down.
“I don't need saving. I need a drink”
“No, I disagree. You are coming with me”
Normally when Hog said that to someone, it happened.
One way or the other.
He grabbed my arm again.
“We are going to go forth and save the weak and down trodden, now come”
“We can't save them all you know” I said, following him out.
“No, just you” He exclaimed, guiding me toward his big Mercedes, which sat at the curb, engine running.
“I am taking you to breakfast, and then to the mission to help serve dinner. I told the Padre I would bring help.”
“Great. Community Service” I muttered.
I looked at him as he pulled away from the curb.
He was positively beaming with joy. This was not usually a good thing.
I turned at looked out the window.
“I sent money to Gleason's kids again” I said.
“I know. I talked to Joan last week”
“You're a good man Sloan.”
“That is the worst thing anybody has ever said to me”
“You make a difference you know” Hog said, suddenly serious.
“No I don't. There is too much evil in the world. I can't stop it.”
“Nobody says you have too”
“Inside here does” I said, pointing toward my chest
“You do what you can. We all do” he replied.
“One at a time” He added.


We drove for a few moments in silence.
“Stop the car” I said suddenly
He did. The big sedan sliding a bit in the snow.
“Wait here” I said as I got out, the bitter wind off the lake taking my breath away for a moment as I stood up.
She was laying in the alley, I almost didn't see her, covered in a piece of cardboard and a plastic bag, like so much refuse.
It was the girl from the bar, she had been beaten pretty good, her face puffy and swollen, a huge bruise filling one side of her face.
I helped her up and threw my coat over her shoulders.
Hog met me after few steps.
“Do you know her?” he asked.
“Yea. I turned her down last night” I said, guilt filling my heart.
“She left with two guys from Link's”
We helped her into the car, laying her on the back seat, as she faded into unconsciousness.
We climbed into the Benz and Hog romped on the gas, fishtailing into the street.

We pulled up in front of the hospital and Hog went in to get help.
He returned with two nurses and a gurney.
They helped us ease the girl on the stretcher and rushed her inside.
A thousand questions followed, none of which I had answers for.
She was taken away for xrays and I was told they would do whatever they could for her.
At least she was warm and safe for now.
Sure, she would probably end up back on the streets, but at least today. Christmas Day, she would be taken care of.
“You can't save them all Sloan” said Hog as we walked back out to the car.
I looked at my hands. The blood had faded a bit. Maybe someday.
“No, but I saved this one. That's what matters”