Rest In Peace Henny
(HDH, Henny Dog Hampton)
August 3rd, 2008-August 16th, 2023
The Village Crier
Happy Halloween
Shadow Runner
by SS Hampton, Sr.
A kaleidoscope of changing patterns, shifting bright colors become rippling greenish-white, then reds, yellows, grays, and blacks.
Eye-burning smoke smelling of burning metal and flesh rolled down the fire-lit highway that faded into the darkness. The burning 18-wheel tractor trailer became an unholy beacon within the scorching heat of a lake of fire. An ageless shadow-filled desert illuminated by shining stars, a waxing gibbous moon, and bright forked lightning revealed misshapen silhouettes that loped across the sand with Rocket Propelled Grenades, RPGs, topped by pointed bulbous warheads, PKM drum-fed machine guns, and AK-47s with curved banana clips.
Several of the misshapen silhouettes hopped and leaped around the burning body of the driver, shot as he struggled out of the cab. They thrust their weapons into the night, grunting and chanting loudly in voices that belonged neither to the night nor daylight.
Specialist Fourth Class Dillon Frank watched and listened from where he lay next to a clump of bushes that rattled in the hot desert wind. Sweat ran down his face and gathered around his eyes under the eyepieces of the experimental Enhanced Next Generation/Night Vision Goggles, ENG/NVG, nicknamed Cyclops. He didn’t know how many insurgents there were, but they were all on his side of Main Supply Route Tampa, the Kuwait-Baghdad logistics lifeline upon which thousands of 18-wheelers escorted by Army gun trucks, rumbled to supply the Coalition Forces in Iraq. Sooner or later the insurgents would discover him.
He had to get to the other side of the MSR where he would be safe within the darkness, the same darkness he disliked his entire life. Then the insurgents would be backlit by the fire when they came after him – easy pickings with his M4 Carbine, especially with the mounted Close Combat Optical and the little red dot within the honeycomb designed eyepiece. Whatever the red dot fell upon that’s where the round went.
He saw his chance.
Run!
Dillon took a couple of quick breaths and scrambled to his feet.
The crunch of sand under combat boots was deafening. Even without the fire the night was hot, especially when burdened with Kevlar helmet, body armour, ammunition magazines, first aid kit, bayonet, and combat knife.
Run!
Shouts. Howls. Around him was the zip of coloured tracer rounds disappearing into the night.
Run!
Sparks danced around his feet. Shouts and howls drew closer. He couldn’t make it!
A squat, ugly, yet beautiful shadow that became a dazzling greenish outline emerged from the darkness. The rapid chatter of an M240 machine gun filled the air as a bright bluish stream of tracer fire resembling a space age “death ray” swept the area around the burning tractor trailer. Return fire created sparks when striking the HMMWV gun truck, the tireless work-horse of the Iraq War, or became bright orbs that bounced into the darkness. The gun truck swung into the median near Dillon. The front right door, on which was painted a blob vaguely representing human form, swung open. A tall figure wearing a helmet and NVG appeared, firing an M4 at the insurgents.
The rear passenger door opened. Dillon ran for the unexpected sanctuary gasping as he reached the door; he froze as cold air from the interior that smelled of smoke and gunpowder washed over him.
“Get in!” the soldier shouted as tracer fire washed against the side of the gun truck again, creating showers of sparks. The gunner kept up steady bursts of machine gun fire from behind the roof mounted gun shields that flanked the belt-fed M240. Dillon leaped into the cramped, dark vehicle. “Go,” the soldier shouted as he jumped into the front passenger seat. “Go!”
“My God, holy shit.” Dillon savored the welcome cold air. Gun trucks had air conditioners but move the hand an inch away from the vent and there was nothing. The interior was always a broiling oven especially with desert air rushing in through the open gun turret in the roof centered between the driver and gun truck commander. A cold gun truck was a major miracle representing divine intervention.
“You okay?” the truck commander, seated in the front right seat, asked in a gravelly voice that carried over the growling engine. His voice had a faint muffled quality to it as if coming from deep within the earth.
“Yeah, yeah, thanks,” he stammered. His dry mouth tasted gritty and sooty. “Got any water?” “No,” the figure in the left passenger seat next to him answered in a cool feminine voice. The
cyclops-eyed snout of an NVG masked her face beneath the helmet. Fingers clad in fire retardant gloves danced lightly across a large medic bag, marked by a red cross, like a line of figures dancing along the slope of a dark hill.
“No?”
“None,” she replied.
A crackle of static came from the otherwise silent radio.
No water in a gun truck on the edge of the Syrian Desert? That was unheard of. He saw the NVG wearing gunner seated on a wide canvas belt in the turret looking down at him. Above the gunner a
jagged forks of jagged lightning lit the night. Still breathing heavily Dillon removed his helmet, ENG/NVG, fire retardant gloves, and leaned his head against the cold ballistic window that was partial protection against bullets and shrapnel.
He wrinkled his nose at the smoke and gunpowder tainted chill. “Who are you guys?”
“Staff Sergeant Kent Schwarz,” the truck commander answered. “This is Shadow Runner.” Dillon identified himself as a mobilized Nevada Army National Guard soldier from Convoy
Support Center Navistar in northern Kuwait, a mile south of the Iraqi border, and in-country only since July. Their security force, SECFOR, mission was providing gun truck security for convoys.
“Shadow Runner? Interesting name,” he commented. The crews always named their gun trucks.
Kent chuckled. “As you know, convoys really start running at dusk and throughout the night. We run through the twilight, through the shadows of the night. So, Shadow Runner.”
“Makes sense,” Dillon nodded, then, “Where you from?” His head bounced against the ballistic window due to the vibration of the tires on the concrete of MSR Tampa, the four-lane highway with a sandy median between the north and south lanes.
Purple-white lightning flashed on the horizon. Dillon thought he saw bulky silhouettes, not unlike the human-like blob painted on the truck commander’s door, dodging and weaving among scraggly bushes as if keeping pace with the gun truck.
“Convoy out of Camp Arifjan,” Kent said as he glanced over his shoulder at Dillon. “Headed north and heard the radio traffic about you being missing after your convoy was hit.”
Dillon grunted in response.
South of Kuwait City the sprawling Third Army camp named Arifjan, the entryway for troops deploying to Iraq and those returning home, was also the start point for logistics convoys headed into Iraq. A few days earlier a convoy of 45 18-wheel tractor trailers arrived at Navistar to meet Dillon’s four escorting gun trucks. They dropped the convoy off in Baghdad and picked up a convoy transporting damaged trucks, gun trucks, Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicles, Abrams tanks, and self-propelled artillery, back to Kuwait.
They were approaching the Kuwaiti border when an Improvised Explosive Device, IED, took out one of the 18-wheelers. When he saw the TCN, Third Country National, driver struggling to get out of the burning cab he got out of his gun truck to help. Insurgents emerged from the desert, tracer fire whipped back and forth between them and the gun trucks, and RPG rounds streaked through the darkness. He fired his M4 Carbine at the charging insurgents until an explosion knocked him down. When he came to, the convoy was gone.
“Thank God you guys came along.”
Kent chuckled. “Yeah. Happy Halloween.”
Dillon had forgotten it was Halloween night. The nearly full moon – the full moon was a few nights off – was low on the horizon.
“Relax,” the female medic said soothingly while patting his hand.
The growl and vibration of the engine with the drumming of the tires was hypnotic, almost unnaturally reassuring, threatening to lull him to sleep. The smell of smoke and gunpowder was almost gone. Static came from the radio. He looked over Kent’s shoulder. The empty MSR disappeared into a deep blackness except when lit by lighting.
He glanced up past the gunner. A nearly starless gloom was overhead. The few stars were widely scattered, dull and non-blinking. He thought even darker shadows darted across the night sky. Dillon thought something felt out of kilter, something didn’t feel right.
“Something wrong?” Kent asked, staring ahead.
The NVG equipped driver looked in the rear view mirror at Dillon.
“No, no.” The gun truck shook as if in a strong wind. He licked his dry, cracked lips. He was thirsty. Dillon flexed his cold fingers. His hands were cold. He was cold. There was no such thing as being cold in the Syrian Desert, even at night. “Did you tell Navistar you found me?”
“No need,” Kent replied.
“They’ll think I’m Missing In Action.”
“We have you,” the medic said. Her lips curled into a thin smile beneath the dark snout of the NVG. “That’s all that matters.”
“Staff Sergeant, I think we should let Navistar know.” A low snicker came from Kent.
The gun truck picked up speed. The concrete of MSR Tampa disappeared beneath the gun truck in a dizzying blur. He caught a faint whiff of a new smell that reminded him of rancid meat left in a summer hot car. Purple-white lightning revealed shadowy hills on the horizon. Southern Iraq didn’t have hills that he remembered. If they were traveling south. He didn’t know what direction they were traveling.
Dillon picked up the chilly Cyclops. The ENG/NVG, made of plastic and metal, had two rubber eyepieces that fit over the eyes. The front, like an animal snout, projected from between the eyepieces, itself flanked by a larger pair of tubes.
The dwarfish technician from Osborne Defense Electronics, a small Salem, Massachusetts company, explained how the system worked. In a nutshell, the tubes gathered information from the entire electromagnetic spectrum, including infra-red and thermal imaging. The resulting image showed everything in a fuzzy green glow that faded into blackness beyond the range of the goggles. Flesh was an unnatural white, while clothing and everything else was shades of greenish black. The equipment was so
sensitive that everything was a greenish outline, and within the outline was shades of light and shadow; even the ground was an outline of contours containing light and shadow. Close enough and a person’s facial features were reproduced in detail. The goggles also had laser range finding capability. Most unique was a colorful aura that rippled around people and left a faint rippling trail as the figures moved through the air.
Most soldiers were duly impressed with the Cyclops though a few were uneasy about it.
“The Cyclops will show you the universe as you’ve never seen it,” the smiling dwarf promised.
Dillon put his helmet back on, adjusted the straps of the Cyclops, and pulled the nearly elbow length fire retardant gloves back on. In the distance he glimpsed several greenish white figures, their skeletal outlines barely visible, loping across the MSR. Overhead forked lightning flickered brightly in the darkness; in the momentary glare the desert night was a smoky hue of greenish blacks and grays.
He glanced at the darkness beyond the gunner and sensed more than saw drifting, swirling blacks and grays. The gunner looked down at him, flesh unnaturally white. There wasn’t a faint, rippling aura that always emanated from people.
He looked at the medic. She removed her NVG, revealing a narrow, almost featureless bright white face. A pair of cold black eyes gazed at him. She didn’t have an aura either.
An unpleasant chill raced up Dillon’s neck. Something wasn’t right. “Something wrong?” Kent asked.
There was no aura around Kent and the driver. The concrete roadway was a dizzy blur as if Night Runner was going faster. There were no lights of oncoming convoys, nor had they caught up with any slow moving convoys. Even in the dark of night there were always convoys on the move.
Where were the convoys?
And that too – the radios were always loud with traffic between gun trucks and convoys. The radio was silent except for occasional static.
Gun truck crews chattered endlessly, partially to offset the tension of not knowing when an IED might go off, or the insurgents might spring an ambush. Shadow Runner’s crew were silent unless he began a conversation.
Something was wrong with Shadow Runner and the crew. He could stay with them, or… Dillon caught glimpses of…things...in the desert.
He made his decision. “Wait, let me out.” He had plenty of ammo and the Cyclops gave him the advantage of the hated night, it showed him everything. And, maybe, more.
Kent turned slightly. “Why?
“Let me out. I’ll be okay. I’ll flag down the next convoy that comes along.”
“No.” The gunner spoke for the first time. His voice was raspy, distant, as if coming from a deep
pit. “Can’t do that. You won’t be safe.” He leaned into the gun truck, arms hanging on the ring of the gun turret, and smiled with ghostly white teeth.
Dillon shook not from the cold, but fear. Internally he was screaming to flee even though insurgents or something else was waiting in the desert. He stared out the window. In the glare of lightning spindly trees and plump bushes became skeletal figures and fat demons.
Then the gunner was inside the truck, perched on the rear center console, elbows resting on his knees, white hands dangling. He looked like something hungry. Kent turned around, a hint of a smile on his pale lips. The medic’s fingers closed on his wrist like a vise.
“Don’t worry Dillon,” she said in a soft voice. “We have you.”
He screamed and threw the door open. Sharp bursts of static erupted from the radio. He punched at clawing hands and milky white faces, using the butt of his M4 to strike at heads and shoulders as he threw himself halfway out the door. He gagged on the smell of dead meat. Overhead the early morning sky was a fast moving swirl of greenish grays, then Dillon tumbled across the hard sand. Spitting sand out of his mouth he saw Shadow Runner backing up.
Run!
A convoy appeared in the distance. He sprinted toward it, waving his arms. Shadow Runner turned into the sandy median as if to intercept him.
The lead gun truck of the approaching convoy stopped.
“Who the fuck are you?” the gunner shouted, M240 pointed at him. Dillon identified himself gasping in the clean morning air.
The gun truck commander got out and pushed the Cyclops up. “Show me your ID.”
Shadow Runner slowed to a crawl, the pale faced gunner pointing the M240 at Dillon and the NCO. He frowned – the truck commander and gunner were oblivious of Shadow Runner creeping toward them. The passenger door opened and the medic appeared.
“Dillon,” she whispered as she approached.
He shook his head and backed up a step, watched suspiciously by the truck commander and
gunner.
“Dillon,” she repeated as her white hands tipped with medium stiletto fingernails reached for him.
Her icy white face and black eyes, framed by long red hair rippling in the warm morning desert wind caused a sudden ache of longing within Dillon. Her form shimmered in the pale dawn as if she were a dream.
Shadow Runner’s gunner kept his M240 pointed at Dillon and the truck commander; Kent and the driver emerged from the gun truck.
“Dillon,” the medic whispered.
“No, no,” Dillon shook his head. A small hungry smile appeared on her face. “No! I’m not
wearing these fucking things,” he shouted as he ripped the Cyclops from the helmet mount and flung it to the sand.
The NCO stared at him. “Get a grip Specialist! I’m Staff Sergeant Campbell.”
Dillon shook his head. “No, no, no,” he moaned. The medic stared at SSG Campbell and he jerked as if spooked and suspiciously surveyed the area. Shadow Runner remained in the median as if waiting, as was the driver and Kent. Dillon wasn’t wearing the ENG/NVG, he shouldn’t see them, they shouldn’t be there, yet they were.
After another quick look, SSG Campbell asked, “Where the fuck you been?” “What?” Dillon shivered in the morning desert wind.
“Where you been?”
Dillon explained about the ambush, glancing at the medic, then Shadow Runner.
“Yeah, we heard. Your convoy looked for you but there was too many insurgents. The Quick Reaction Force couldn’t find you either.”
“Another gun truck picked me up.”
“Who?” SSG Campbell looked at the empty desert expanse save for Tampa.
“Shadow Runner. SSG Kent Schwarz and his crew, including a female medic. Out of Arifjan.” The NCO gave him a sharp look. “Shadow Runner?”
“Yeah.”
“Soldier, Shadow Runner was a gun truck two years ago, back in 2004. Blown up by an IED on a convoy mission on Halloween night. Kent, his crew, and a female medic were burned to ashes. We were in the same company.”
Dillon shook his head. “No. No. They picked me up.”
He jumped and cried out as icy fingers gently caressed the back of his neck.
Dillon looked around and the smiling medic held up one of his fire retardant gloves.
“You left this behind.” She tucked it into a cargo pocket. “We’ll meet again, Dillon, and the next time you’ll come with us. Forever.”
He scrambled into the hot gun truck and pulled the heavy up-armoured door shut. Though he stared into the growing sunlight washing away the night shadows, he was sure Shadow Runner and the gun truck crew were still there, just out of sight.
SSG Campbell stared at him. After another look at the empty gray morning desert he climbed into the front seat.
“We’ll let Navistar know we’ve got you,” he said, then to the driver, “We’re behind schedule.
Let’s get the hell out of here.”
This novel preview is Copyright 2020 SS Hampton Sr in its entirety
MANY!
My Amerika Not Yours!
Life isn’t fair. And life becomes more complicated when people have the power of life and death over others. Sometimes power rewards those with a sniveling lack of moral courage and honor or those with a mean-spirited and opportunistic lack of personal and professional integrity. Sometimes power punishes those with a personal or professional ethical center or those with a strong sense of right and wrong. A disgraced Air Force general, stripped of his rank and dishonorably discharged from the service, learns that he is being given a second chance. But, thru future life-changing decisions he’ll have to make, decisions that also impact his family, will he choose reward or punishment…
PROLOGUE
The pale dawn air was hot, heavy, still. The morning sun, a red-orange ball, barely peeked above the horizon that was marked by a dark hue of orange and red that became an inky blackness empty of stars above. The silent water was black except for wave tips that glittered darkly in the pale sunlight. The sky grew lighter. Instead of a pale dusty blue it was grayish-white with scattered patches of smokey grey that curled, shrank, and then grew in size.
The hiss of a gentle, hot breeze swept across the waters, the herald of a darker stain that appeared on the horizon. The breeze grew to a roar, the waves choppy, larger. Tendrils of darkness stretched across the sky and dipped to touch the foaming water.
A form stood among the waves, arms outspread, and head tilted back as if it bellowed defiantly at the heavy grayness above, or perhaps praying to the heavens like a Medieval supplicant. The figure was not alone. Something was hiding among the thundering waves and in the swirling grayness above. It was hungry, bloody, and insatiable. The figure wanted to run, to hide, but couldn’t because it was either frozen in place like a sacrifice or it refused to be cowed. And then anger welled up from within the figure until its angry screams matched the howl of the stormy winds.
CHAPTER 1
GREAT SLAVE LAKE IN MOONLIGHT
SUMMER SOLSTICE, JUNE 2064
A boat with a superstructure that resembled a log cabin topped by a single mast chugged through the white tipped waves beneath a cloudy orange-red dawn. Anywhere else, even in the mid-21st century, the boat would look out of place. In the waters of Great Slave Lake in the Northwest Territories of Canada, such a sight was not unusual. The people of the Northwest Territories had always been a rugged, individualistic, imaginative breed.
Seated in the enclosed wheelhouse was a tall woman with shoulder length brunette hair and watchful hazel eyes. A respirator hung loosely around her neck. It was necessary protection from the throat irritating smoke of forest fires along the West Coast that stretched into British Columbia and Alaska, as well as the deadly, airborne Igarka Virus. Laying across the top of the console behind the steering wheel was her favorite weapon – an old but reliable Russian AKM automatic rifle with night vision scope and 30-round banana clip. Additional ammo clips were laid out next to the AKM. Invented by Mikhail Kalashnikov, who also invented the infamous AK-47, the AKM was a simplified, lighter version of the Ak-47, qualities that Chelle Pauline Navarre appreciated.
Though old, she also appreciated her boat, the MHB Sophie; just as navies added a prefix such as United States Ship, USS, or His Majesty’s Ship, HMS, Chelle settled on My HouseBoat. “Sophie” recalled the 21-year old Munich university student, a member of the anti-Nazi White Rose resistance group, who was arrested by the Gestapo and guillotined after being pronounced guilty by the Nazi People’s Court. It was an apt metaphor for her activities south of the border, and if the State Security Forces, SSF, could find her, she would suffer a similar fate.
The MHB Sophie was an old but reliable flat bottomed boat propelled by a pair of diesel engines. A single mast with sail provided for a silent journey across the lake. The superstructure was built of real logs as the previous owner was a retired lumberjack from British Columbia. Behind the wheelhouse was a wood floored hallway with 2 small bedrooms, a galley, eating area, and a lounge. Behind the superstructure the stern was taken up by a large open lounge. Even the roof, accessible by ladder, was in use; there were solar panels as well as another lounge area.
Below deck was the engine room, fuel storage, and holds for cold food storage, equipment storage, and trade items. Chelle enjoyed the night and quiet early mornings – the night gave her a sense of safety while the early mornings held a sense of growing danger. She preferred paddling her canoe though the Sophie provided a greater sense of safety. Either way, the quiet of the night and early mornings provided ample time for reflection.
She was only 27; life seemed short and too long at the same time. She was born Jennifer – Chelle was a name she chose for herself later. Chelle never knew her father, only that he was a Shoshone Indian, an older, unemployed, alcoholic rodeo rider who left town with a circus before she was born. She was 4 years old when her mother, grandmother Pauline and her daughter took her north in the middle of the night, seeking asylum in Canada. After security forces discovered their trail and guessed their destination, her mother rode south to distract them. She never saw her mother again.
When she was 11 and her grandmother was on her death bed thanks to the Igarka Pandemic, she told Chelle that her mother was still alive but her identity and whereabouts had to be kept secret so that Chelle wouldn’t go looking for her. It would be too dangerous, especially if the security forces caught her. The little girl was filled with rage and sadness, she wanted to be with her mother, but Pauline refused to say more. Her grandmother barely survived Igarka though she was crippled by it. The little family made their way from Calgary to Edmonton. For the remaining years of childhood she nursed a deep anger and hatred of the security forces, the Party, and the government. She learned survival skills, first aid, and weaponry; when she became 18 she chose the name Chelle Pauline Navarre, gathered the weapons she made, bought, or stole, and rode south.
For years she traveled through Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, and into Washington. Anyone who wore a security forces or a law enforcement uniform was a target for an arrow or a bullet from a silencer-tipped AKM. Railroad and highway bridges were blown up, power station and communications hubs went up in flames. Even Party offices were firebombed. Chelle rarely returned to Canada for rest, being driven by her hatred of the political parties and government that tore her family apart. Gradually other resistance fighters found and followed her.
Chelle had a lover once, an older man from Oklahoma. In a local law enforcement and security forces ambush in Idaho, he was killed. Most of her group were killed or opted for suicide rather than surrender. The rest disappeared. She was badly wounded and spent time in hiding and recuperating from her wounds. Eventually she joined asylum seekers, most of them “runaway debtors” who crossed the border into Canada. They made their way to Yellowknife by the Great Slave Lake. She was able to get word to her aunt in Edmonton who came to take care of her. Her aunt also told Chelle that Pauline died of Igarka the same year that she lay in a small cave recovering from the ambush.
“Such is life,” Chelle murmured to the thin ribbon of orange and yellow on the horizon. She was going to Walker Ranch, nicknamed “Walkerland,” or “Dilyara’s Garden,” a reference to the Garden of Eden, for most of the week shoeing horses, trimming cow hooves, working the fields, and helping the women-folk with whatever needed to prepare for the Fall Faire at Yellowknife. The pay was a mixture of money, trade goods, a place to stay, and meals. Overall, not bad – the Walkers had a reputation for being fair. Adam Walker, the patriarch of the family, recently offered her steady employment at the ranch, including building a small cob home for her. It was a tempting offer. But she was preoccupied by other matters, including a new lover who made her happy beyond the physical.
The door behind her opened and a stooped grey-haired figure wrapped within a large trade blanket joined her. Miss Veronica was mysterious figure to most – described as a “prophetess,” “medicine woman,” “seer,” or sometimes a “witch.” The old woman with a wrinkled face and cloudy eyes that were said to see things others couldn’t, referred to herself only as a “healer.” And a healer she was, tending to her herbal garden, mixing natural ingredients to create “medicines,” and treating the injured and ill with a sureness that one would expect in a highly educated doctor. No one knew where she came from, though rumor often mentioned New Orleans. Many remembered when she appeared out of a wintry blizzard, skinny, frost bitten, wrapped in bundles of rags, and mad. She led a half-starved mule on which was packed a scattering of what barely passed for trade goods. Her only possession was a rose stem and the frozen petals of a white rose. A group of “runaway debtors” searching for a new home took her in. When they found a group of islands in the northwest channel of Great Slave Lake, Miss Veronica surprised all with forceful, logical arguments for establishing a new home there. She called it New Lexington and referred to their island as Buffalo Calf Head Island; the names stuck.
Years later when Chelle found the islands rumored to be a haven, it was Miss Veronica who counseled she be taken in. Runaway debtors or wanderers were never simply taken in, someone had to advocate for them. For some reason Miss Veronica latched onto Chelle as a special friend. The old woman sometimes held a half-way intelligent conversation and was helpful. After advocating for Chelle, she gratefully accepted the old woman’s friendship. Chelle looked at the old woman who stared at the horizon and surrounding waters. She guessed Miss Veronica was looking “beyond the world,” as she put it. Chelle cleared her throat. “What do you see?” After a moment of silence, “Madness. Blood. Death.” A chill shot through her. “I don’t understand.” Silence. Then, “He rises from Mother Earth.” “Who rises from the earth?” “He rises from the Earth. He and his kind, they raise a mountain of groaning skeletons to reach the heavens.” Chelle glanced at the red-orange sky giving way to a grayish-white cloudy sky overhead. “I don’t understand.” “He rises from Mother Earth.” The old woman moaned and placed small, gnarly hands over her ears. “Dear God, how they groan. How the skeletons groan.”
CHAPTER 2
WORLDS IN COLLISION
SUMMER SOLSTICE, JUNE 2064
Adam Walker opened his eyes. A sheen of perspiration marked his forehead. The bedsheets were damp. He heard the flutter of window curtains, the chirping of birds and the crowing of roosters. The cool air smelled of rain and the smoke of forest fires. More, the wonderful aroma of hot coffee and cooking food wafted through the open bedroom door. With a tired sigh he rose, poured water into the wash basin and cleaned himself. From the living room the grandfather clock chimed 6:00. “You let me sleep late,” he said accusingly upon entering the kitchen. “Breakfast,” his wife Dilyara smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and handed him a steaming cup of coffee. “It’s late,” he grumbled as he checked the Air Quality Index Panel mounted next to the open kitchen door. “Morning, Dad.” Their son 16-year old son Bruce was seated at the breakfast table. “The animals
have all been taken care of and let into the pastures.” “Relax. You’re retired now, remember?” He snorted derisively. Dilyara followed him to the screened kitchen door, tea cup in hand. “The air quality is good enough, 60. The radio says it may rise to 80 or so this afternoon. Mainly the forest fires. Fortunately, no fires around here.” Before the forest fires most of the lack of air quality was traceable to the auto and coal industries in much of the world, especially in Africa and Asia. The world never learned. Every summer forest fires blazed along the West Coast from California to Alaska, as well as in India, China, and Siberia. There
were even forest fires in Europe. Their combined smoke added to the poor air quality of the world.
“At least not yet,” he replied, recalling the fires of 2023 that ravaged parts of western Canada, including the Great Slave Lake region. He kissed Dilyara on the cheek and playfully swatted her rear end. She giggled. After 30 years of marriage they sometimes still acted like newlyweds. She was a curvy green-eyed beauty with a round face framed by long, graying dark hair. Her skin was a bit dark and leathery from too much sun and farm work, a necessary price for establishing and maintaining their ranch. They settled into rocking chairs on the front porch. To the northeast was the forested northern shore of Great Slave Lake behind which was Arctic tundra becoming prairie in their lifetime. Beyond the fledgling prairies, above the Arctic Circle, though creeping southwards, were the occasional Siberian-like methane craters. To the east the lake stretched to the horizon beneath a dirty grayish-white sky.
Adam was of medium height with dark hair flecked with grey, blue eyes, and a lean, wiry frame. He was a little hard of hearing, but refused to have a microchip implant that would solve the problem. Besides, weren’t old men, not that he was old, supposed to be hard of hearing and always cupping a hand to their ear and going, “Eh?” “What’s on the agenda today?” she asked. “Check the fields, the orchards, and make sure the root cellar and smokehouse are good to go.” He sipped the aromatic coffee. “What about you?” “All the women are coming over with daughters and granddaughters. Your mom and mine. We’re working on quilts and blankets. We have to do laundry first and hang it out to dry.” She smiled. “We’ve got blankets, quilts, beadwork, leather work, linen clothing, honey, fruits, vegetables, and candles, for the autumn faire.” “I’m not so sure about the candles,” he cautioned her. The utility company rationed electricity to so many hours per day. The rest of the electricity for all of the homes was provided by windmills and solar panels, and for backup numerous fully charged batteries and generators. But, he wanted to be prepared.
“We have hundreds and we make more each week. We’ll never run out.” Dilyara was an intelligent, practical, and caring woman. She had the ability to evaluate a situation and come up with an appropriate course of action as easily as him. She would have made a good Air Force officer but her interests and talents were elsewhere. “Okay.” “Are you riding or walking?” “Riding.” “You can cover more ground, but walking is better exercise.” He frowned. “Riding is good too.” “Walk,” she said and gave him a “final look,” one that said the conversation was over. Adam smiled. He thought of the old saying, “Behind every successful man was a good woman.” Or some such thing. Whoever coined the phrase had it wrong – beside every successful man stood a good
woman.
The first time he saw Dilyara in a “more word than material bikini” on a sandy beach along the Black Sea, he fell head over heels in love. He was a 1st Lieutenant, recently graduated from F-15 Eagle flight school and newly assigned to a special F-15 expeditionary fighter group based in the Ukraine – the 1943rd Provisional Expeditionary Fighter Group, Black Angels. They were the angels of death. The three squadrons were named the Fallen Angels, Red Angels, and Pale Angels, the last two inspired by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Adam was assigned to the Fallen Angels. He named his F-15 “Miss Mattie”, for Mattie Silks, an Old West Denver prostitute and madame. The nose art, courtesy of the squadron artist, was of a topless, full breasted, leggy blonde wearing a black garter belt, dark stockings, and black stiletto heels with ankle straps.
To say that Dilyara was unimpressed the first time she saw Miss Mattie was an understatement. To say that Adam was disappointed upon graduation from the US Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs at being assigned to such an ancient aircraft was a major understatement. But he learned to love the beautiful Blue Grandma as it was nicknamed, for its underbelly and bottom of the wings painted blue, the better to blend in with the sky…
Literature
Title:
Prairie Muse
Publisher:
MuseItUp Publisher, MuseItHOT
Available on Amazon:
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TAG LINE: Horus Grant and Mrs. Rachel Markham, black and white, love at first sight; one is fading into the mars black night, while the other brings the light…but, is it too late…BLURB: The fireworks are about to begin as the sexual adventure of Rachel and Burt Markham continues. Small business owners and a happily married couple of 20+ years, they live in the small town of Four Corners, Kansas. The year before, with the permission and encouragement of her husband, Rachel had the freedom to explore the depth of her sensuality through having her first Bull. After saying farewell to her Bull, Rachel and Burt settle back into the routine of small town life. Then, African-American frustrated artist and new fireworks territory sales manager Horus Grant arrives in Four Corners. He is searching for new sales territory for the Missouri-based company, and he decides to open a fireworks stand next to Rachel and Burt’s seed and feed store. Outwardly friendly and personable, he is plagued by hidden demons. Though based in near-by Wichita, Horus finds himself returning to Four Corners again and again, and not because of the fireworks stand. Rachel is also drawn to him and soon realizes she may hold the key to Horus’s slim chance of defeating his demons, of healing, and learning to live again.
EXCERPT:…They looked at one another. Burt leaned back in the chair and Rachel looped strands of hair around her fingers. She smiled, blew him a kiss, and slipped out the door.
Burt locked his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He wasn’t going through the soul searching and anticipation he did in the days before and on the day of Rachel’s first play date with Nate. He wondered why.
The afternoon dragged unmercifully, but at last it was 4:00 PM. He called it quits and walked home.
“Rachel?” he called from the foyer. The house was silent except for the cuckoo clock, classical music coming from the living room TV, and the chakra chimes from outside. A delicious smell of cooking food wafted through the house.
Burt found Rachel naked, seated on the bench before her cherry wood vanity, applying makeup. Her long hair was gathered in a thick ponytail draped over a shoulder.
On the bed lay a yellow off-shoulder bodysuit, very short blue denim jean shorts with narrow cuffs, and a thong. That was her dinner attire. Next to the clothing was her after-dinner attire: a sheer white corset with straps, dark thigh highs with a seam in back, and a red G-string, and black high heels laying on the rug. The lingerie ensemble was from a slut shopping trip for meeting Nate. He pushed the brown recliner over by the vanity.
“You’re looking good,” he said and kissed her on the back of her shoulder. She smelled freshly bathed; an exciting scent of patchouli perfume with a hint of roses hovered about her. “But then, you always do.”
“Thank you,” she smiled at him in the mirror.
“You usually don’t wear makeup for your art dates with Horus, do you?”
“No. He prefers a natural look.” She turned around on the bench and opened her legs. “I thought about trimming my pubic hair. What do you think?”
Burt looked at the thick dark triangle that graced her pussy. He sniffed at her faint, yet distinctive scent—she was already becoming excited. His eyes followed the line of her hips and legs; the toe nails were painted bright red as were the stiletto nails. Sometimes she trimmed her bikini line, but usually she let her hair grow wild because he liked it that way.
“You always look fine to me. Horus can take it or leave it.”
She smiled and examined herself again. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“All right.” She turned back to the mirrors and continued applying her makeup.
Sometimes Burt was still surprised at the level of their relationship. His wife just asked his opinion whether or not to trim her pubic hair because she was preparing to fuck a new bull.
After she finished her makeup they went to the kitchen, she remaining barefoot, where she poured a glass of wine for herself and he plucked a beer out of the refrigerator. He saw a big bowl of freshly cut fruit. They sat on the couch in the living room, listening to classical music.
A little while later Maggie barked, Burt kissed Rachel on the cheek, and went to let Horus in.
“Hi,” he greeted Rachel, looking her up and down. “You look very nice.”
“Thank you,” she smiled and patted the couch next to her. “Let’s see the latest drawings. I can’t wait.”
Burt handed a beer to Horus and stood behind the couch, looking over their shoulders. The pastel drawings included her in the cornfield, reclining on the steps in the pool, standing by the living room window facing the cornfield, sitting in the recliner by the fireplace, and several more drawings from beside the lake. All were full figure drawings accompanied by larger ones of her head and shoulders.
“Beautiful, very beautiful,” she said, and raised her index finger to her lips. “Are you sure I really look like that?”
“Thanks,” Horus beamed. “And yes, you absolutely do look like that.”
Rachel patted his hand appreciatively, then looked over her shoulder at the kitchen. “We’re having vegetable soup, a big salad, and ham sandwiches for dinner. Nothing fancy.”
“That’s fine,” Horus replied and carefully put the drawings in a large presentation box.
The dinner conversation was small talk—business at the feed store and preparation for distributing fireworks to the fireworks stands.
Burt let Rachel and Horus do most of the talking. A couple of times she looked at him, but the timing didn’t feel right to him. After dinner, fresh wine and beers in hand, they went out to the west porch to watch the sun descend toward the horizon.
Rachel curled up against Burt on the porch swing, a hand resting on his thigh, his arm across her shoulders, while Horus sat in a lawn chair against the side of the house. She gave his thigh an encouraging squeeze.
He took a deep breath, then a gulp of beer. How the hell do you come out of left field to ask a guy you barely know if he wants to fuck your wife? The whole thing last year with New Passions and Nate was a process that everyone had a part in. Horus was still an unknown entity and they were winging it.
“Horus,” Burt finally said after she squeezed his thigh again.
“Yeah?”
“Something Rachel and I haven’t told you.”
A puzzled look crossed Horus’s face. “Yeah?”
“We’re into an alternative lifestyle.” Inwardly Burt cringed; his words sounded like a stereotypical line from a bad movie rather than a real conversation.
“Alternative?”
“Yeah. For about a year now, we agreed that Rachel, when she wants, can have a bull, or lover, or boyfriend, whatever, from time to time.”
Horus’s eyes widened. He looked at Burt, at Rachel, then Burt again.
“Uhhh, oh.”
Burt almost grinned. Horus looked as confused as Burt felt when he first suggested that he and Rachel do something sexually kinky to break the monotony of an endless routine.
“It’s actually worked for us. I mean, there’s no jealousy on my part. We love one another, we’re committed to each other and to our marriage. Thing is, I have to be present when Rachel meets her bull, and I take photos that we put into private photo albums. The ultimate souvenirs, I guess you’d call it.”
Horus was almost looking at them from the corners of his eyes. “Okay.”
“What Burt is trying to say,” Rachel cut in, “is that I want to have sex with you.”
Horus looked at her, then at Burt, then her again.
“Oh.”
Now Burt was puzzled. Horus’s reaction wasn’t what he was expecting. Any man would jump at the chance to fuck Rachel.
She sat up. “You can have the guest room when you come up for the Wednesday breakfasts, or whenever we have an art date.”
Horus slowly nodded.
“Okay.” He looked at Burt. “You’re not jealous at all?”
“Well, a little, but that’s okay. It doesn’t get out of control and it’s not a threat to my love for Rachel or to our marriage. I know it sounds strange, but it’s true.”
Horus nodded again. “The two of you seem so normal and in love after so many years of marriage.”
Burt and Rachel laughed, a spontaneous laugh that thawed the puzzled chill in the air.
“Thanks,” Burt grinned. “We are normal. Pretty much that is.”
“Okay, so, let me get this straight. Rachel, you want to have sex with me? Burt, you’re okay with this? And the two of you want photographs of Rachel and I having sex? For your souvenir photo albums?”
“Yeah,” he nodded.
“Yes,” she replied.
Horus exhaled forcefully. “I see.”
He looked at the setting sun. Except for the breeze in the trees, the chakra chimes, and the awakening insect chorus, the night was silent. A few fireflies emerged from the shadows.
Rachel glanced at Burt and he shrugged.
“You two don’t consider this cheating?”
“No,” Rachel replied. “Last year this all sounded and felt very strange, but it really isn’t. My having a bull is the new normal for us. Besides, what is the harm if no one is hurt by this? Honestly, fucking is wonderful and energizing, and fucking is not the same as lovemaking. I fuck a bull, but make love to my husband.”
Horus’s lips became a thin line.
“Okay.” He looked at Rachel. “You said you’re from Atlanta. This isn’t some black bull fantasy or black breeding fantasy?”
She giggled and shook her head. “No. I’ve never been with a black man because I never encountered one I liked enough. This has nothing to do with curiosity about your package. And we have two grown daughters. No more babies for us.”
“Then what does it have to do with?”
Rachel said, “This has to do with my being attracted to you as an artist, a man, and attracted to your personality, who you are. It has to do with my being attracted to Horus Charles Grant and wanting to have sex with you.”
Burt glanced at her. Rachel didn’t mention that she wanted to help soothe the pain that Horus lived with. He supposed such a remark, like she pitied him, might turn him off.
“Okay, thank you. I’m flattered, believe me. I’ve got to think this over. I think I’ll go to the guest room and do some more drawings. Thank you for dinner. It was great. Good night.”
He rose, patted Maggie on her head, and disappeared around the corner.
Burt and Rachel sat silently, rocking the porch swing, listening to his fading footsteps. The insects continued their discordant chorus, the chakra wind chimes tinkled merrily, and the evening breeze blew through the trees.
“What the fuck?” Rachel finally said.
Burt was surprised. She usually didn’t swear. He didn’t know what to say. Horus’s reaction was nothing like what he expected. Not even in the same ballpark.
“Yeah,” he said, just as puzzled as Rachel though with less emotion.
“What the fuck?” Rachel repeated later as they lay in bed; he was watching TV, pillows propped behind his back. She lay on her back with arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, staring at the ceiling. He reached over and reassuringly patted her hand. “What the fuck?”
Title:
Washing Away (Valves & Vixen: Steampunk Erotica, Volume 3)
Author:
Ed. Nicole Gestalt
Publisher:
House of Erotica
Available on Amazon:
Washing Away on Amazon
Within the dark room the feeble light filtered through curtains that also saw better days. The solitary room was warmer than the winter night outside, but not by much.
“Why this place?” a masculine voice asked. “Why a seedy, dirty little place like this?”
His answer was the squeak of the bed as a feminine form outlined by the curtained window light giggled and crawled forward. The woman turned at the head of the bed and lowered her hips.
“Taste me,” she whispered and tilted her head forward so that her long hair dangled back and forth across his hips. A deep, masculine groan answered her, and beefy hands rubbed and squeezed her hips, then her ass cheeks. She giggled again and lowered her hips further. The groan became muffled. “Do you like my scent,” she asked and reached between the man’s legs. The excited reply was muffled as she rolled her hips back and forth, and her head rose and dipped in a slow rhythm. The man groaned again.
After a few moments she stopped and rose on her knees. His voice rose in protest.
She turned and straddled his chest. The light barely lit the long face framed by long dark hair and decorated with a bushy mustache. His hands resumed their rubbing of her hips and ass cheeks.
“You like?”
“Always have,” he replied in a low voice and squeezed, hard. “You were the best. Especially your first time. That belly dancing in Egypt did wonders for you.”
The woman leaned forward and kissed his forehead. He slipped a hand between her thighs. She gasped and sighed.
“I know.”
“I should have married you back then,” he added.
“I know.”
“You should have married me when we met in London.”
“Really?” A hint of sarcasm was in her voice.
“Yes.”
“But then, we wouldn’t be here.”
She reached behind the pillows, between the headboard and the end of the sheet covered mattress.
“What are you doing?”
“Sshhhh,” the woman replied and placed a finger against his lips.
He chuckled and trailed thick fingers through her pubic hair while he curled her long hair around his other hand.
She pulled her hair free and sat on his stomach. The light from the window shone briefly on a polished, thin round stiletto blade. The woman clapped a strong hand across his mouth and the blade disappeared into the shadow of his left temple. His eyes opened wide, the whites easily visible in the near darkness. A less than lustful gasp and groan filtered through her fingers. His body jerked, his feet kicked, and then he went limp though his limbs shuddered spasmodically.
The woman sighed, placed a pillow against the side of his head and withdrew the stiletto, now darkly stained and dripping.
She remained seated on his stomach, slowly tilting her head from side to side as if studying the now motionless body. She turned the head so that his lifeless eyes gazed at her.
“I wasn’t sure I could do this,” the woman told him in an emotionless voice. “But, it was so easy.”
The window rattled from a strong gust of wind.
“Everything could have been so different,” she said later in a matter-of-fact voice while standing by the bed, shrouded in a winter cloak, and pulling on a pair of gloves. “I’m glad things worked out the way they have.” She paused at the door and listened. At that time of the morning no one was up. Odds were, even the night clerk was asleep. The woman cast a final look at the body followed by a whispered, “Someone really should have told you, hell hath no fury like a girl scorned…or…ill-used.”
The gas lamp lit hallway decorated with a faded, frayed carpet, was empty. She hurried to a door at the rear of the hotel and plunged into the frigid night. Only a horse carriage, and a hissing steam carriage were out and about. With a final look up and down the street, she left the hotel grounds and disappeared into the snowy darkness that was Pennsylvania Avenue.
Title:
Sharing Rachel
Publisher:
MuseItUp Publisher, MuseItHOT
Available on Amazon:
Sharing Rachel for Kindle
Title:
Better Than A Rabbit's Foot
Publisher:
MuseItUp Publisher, MuseItHOT
Available on Kindle:
Better Than A Rabbit's Foot for Kindle
Title:
“Painting the Night,” Virgin Ass Anthology
Author:
Ed. Debra Hyde
Publisher:
Ravenous Romance
Available on:
Title:
Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper
Author:
Ed. Nancy Kilpatrick
Publisher & Category:
Edge SF & Fantasy
Available on Amazon:
Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper on Amazon
“We isn’t in fuckin’ Kansas no more,” Sergeant First Class Robert “Chief” Nottingham, a half-Cheyenne Indian, chuckled from behind his dark ballistic eyeglasses and a puff of sulfurous smelling cigarette smoke, as Sergeant Caleb Justus staggered up the steep trail. Caleb stopped when he saw the rolling, rocky landscape of a thin forest with broken and splintered trees. Visible beyond the trees was a ruined village nestled below a low gray rise littered with skeletal trees. A chill wind moaned across the rugged, haunting landscape.
Behind them, such a deep contrast to the land before them, the valley they emerged from was a lush garden of green grass, brush, and trees.
“No shit,” Caleb, who usually didn’t swear, gasped as sweat, mingled with the cold thin drizzle that fell from gray clouds, trickled down his face. The platoon spread out and eyed an ancient narrow trail that wound through the trees to a wide, rutted path that led to the village.
As the soldiers slipped through the trees, Caleb thought they resembled unearthly creatures moving through a blighted medieval landscape; each wore a camouflaged Kevlar helmet, Individual Body Armor weighted down with heavy ammunition magazines, first aid kits and combat knives, and grayish-green Army Combat Uniforms with dark elbow and knee pads. Each wore the trademark dark ballistic eyeglasses that hid the eyes and gave the impression of emotionless, less than human faces. They carried M4 Carbines with Close Combat Opticals, M249 Light Machine Guns, and M203s, a 40mm grenade launcher mounted under an M4.
He knew that in their minds, and in reality, they were the meanest SOBs in the valley, or any valley. He felt safe in their presence. It was a much needed feeling after almost being killed by an Improvised Explosive Device three days before.
“Don’t know how much drawing you’ll get done on a shitty day like this,” Chief commented as he ground the cigarette under his boot heel.
“That’s why I brought my Nikon,” Caleb patted a black bag nestled against the side of his IBA and first aid kit. His drawing kit dangled against his right hip, just above his holstered 9mm pistol. “If I have to I’ll take photos, maybe do some color pencil drawings…”
An Appointment in the Village Bazaar
Title:
In Poe’s Shadow
Author:
Ed. A.W. Gifford and Jennifer L. Gifford
Publisher:
Dark Opus Press
Available on:
A deafening chorus of high pitched chirping echoed through the blackness and gave way to a frantic fluttering of wings as if a great host of sparrows took flight. The chirping mingled with the beating of wings became a savage rhythmic music that became a haunting unearthly music accompanied by a sensual feminine voice that penetrated the soul with an incalculable sadness. The music grew louder and louder…
#
“Oscar?”
Oscar Bailey’s eyes snapped open; an involuntary shudder ran through him as the music faded. He sat up in the oversized, cushioned conference table chair and rubbed his forehead.
“Sorry. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
“None of us have,” replied his analytical Assistant Director Dr. Anatoli Sokolov, as he clasped his hands together as if about to pray, above the folders spread before him.
“Amen to that,” added Dr. Matthew Peters, Information Technology & Communications Director.
“So,” Oscar summed up the hours long meeting in his richly decorated office, “we are alone.”
“Very much so,” Anatoli said. “The last supply ships will enter orbit in three days time. They will be the last for the foreseeable future.”
“How about forever?” Matthew responded in a barely controlled voice. “Shanghai has fallen silent. Mumbai, Moscow, Mexico City, New York City, London, and Cairo, have all gone silent.”
“We are alone,” Oscar repeated. He still heard the frantic fluttering of the sparrows; if God knew of the death of even one sparrow, maybe He was overwhelmed by the death of an entire world of sparrows. How else to explain his disappearance? “How is everyone responding?”
“Depression,” Anatoli shrugged.
“An overwhelming sense of doom and gloom among some, denial among others,” said Matthew as he gave his detached, analytical colleague an irritated look. “I wouldn’t rule out suicides in the near future.”
“Possible,” Anatoli said, “however please leave that analysis to me. Your forte is Information Technology and Communications.”
“And you’re an astronomer!”
“Gentlemen,” Oscar held up a weary hand. We cannot escape reality. Our self-imposed quarantine is in place. It’s unnecessary because there are no more visitors, nonetheless… We have contingency plans that include food and supply rationing. We’ll expand the hydroponic gardens. Waste recycling and water and oxygen mining will keep us going indefinitely. As long as the sun doesn’t go nova…”
The Mumbai Malaise
Title:
Back Door Lover
Author:
Ed. Debra Hyde
Publisher:
Ravenous Romance
Available on:
Used to be, a back door lover was a man sneaking an affair with a married woman and a staple character in Blues music. Not anymore. Now, it’s code for anal sex and you know what? Anyone can bend over. Boyfriends, girlfriends, wives, husbands, straight or queer, it doesn’t matter. And Back Door Lover presents it all.
EXCERPT:
The most revered shrines are those long abandoned, where little remains beyond crumbling ruins wreathed in nature’s leafy green. Only the rustling of trees, grass swaying in the wind, and birdsong disturbed its silence. There, a middle-aged man followed a long abandoned walkway to the shrine of his youth, shaded by moss-draped live oaks, beneath an arch of huge southern live oaks from which hung draperies of Spanish moss.
But the Meridian Motel, once so characteristic in colonial Spanish-style with its wooden verandah and timber pillars, was a charred ruin. Its lusty companion, the Storyville Saloon, famous for its wild women and a well-beaten path to the Merdian Motel, stood quietly abandoned as well.
The man stood near the tall grass at the cobblestone courtyard entrance, the sun beating down on him. The gutted office and the motel rooms, many without doors, faced the courtyard like a ghostly court awaiting the return of a worshipper. He limped across the loose cobblestones to a corner room. Its marred door hung precariously from rusted hinges and leaves layered its floor. Inside, a shaft of sunlight from a gaping hole in the ceiling illuminated its Holy of Holies: a large bed, void of all but its bedsprings.
He leaned against the door jam and stared at the bedsprings, a rush of memories flooding him. Had decades really passed since he last visited the Meridian Motel? Was he once really so young? Was this all that remained of that time?
When his knees weren’t shaking, Tyler Gordon walked on air as he and a buxom woman followed the flagstone path from the noisy Storyville Saloon to the quieter Meridian Motel. The light of the flashing neon sign, the body-shaking throb of music, and the wild laughter of inebriated customers faded into the moonlit darkness, replaced by the solitary click of high heels. Flashing green and yellow fireflies fluttered through the warm, humid spring night.
“You didn’t ask how much,” Kimmi ‘Without-A-Last-Name’ said, lighting a cigarette. Her long red fingernails glimmered in the flare of the lighter.
Kimmi was in her late twenties, a couple inches taller than Tyler with shoulder-length black hair parted in the middle with neatly trimmed bangs. Small breasted and a little wide in the hips…
The Meridian Motel
Biography
I am a full blood Choctaw from the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma, a retired Army NCO, having served in the active duty Army, the Army Reserve, and Nevada Army National Guard, 1974-2013 (including a nine-year military break, 1995-2004). My service included mobilization for the Persian Gulf War and for the Global War On Terrorism, including a deployment to Iraq. I have decades of experience in photography, am a published author, and a would-be painter, if I ever discover my deeply hidden talent (I would like to dabble in sculpture as well).
In 2014 I obtained an Associates in Photography from the College of Southern Nevada, and in 2020 a Bachelors of Art in English with Creative Writing Emphasis from the University of Nevada-Las Vegas. At the moment most of my photography has to do with developing ideas that I have had for many years, rather than working in a studio and running clients in and out to make a buck. I've been a part of the rat race for decades, so now it’s time to focus on my ideas.