2012 chap 9 p.108

I took Ashton down onto my lap, and pointed to the cord we’d used with Rolly, asking Alex to get it for me. ‘Shh shh Ashton, every things alright now. The noise is over, we’re fine aren’t we?’ I said consolingly, hugging him all the while. Alex returned with the cord and I sat him with his brother, before getting up to tie the man’s hands. Tying the hands behind him, I asked who he was and why did they want to kill us. He explained that he didn’t, but that last man through in the county jail jumpsuit pushed everyone to it. That he had taken control of the men and the van, not allowing for any group collaborations. “He’s the one who killed your dog”, he was saying and then the boys started crying again.

I went to the other bodies to make sure they were all dead and picked up a rifle from the stairs. Wow, a Remington 30 Caliber automatic. Probably a 1980’s production and checked the magazine. One round left, so I rummaged through the three men’s clothing and came up empty, except for a lighter and two quarter packs of cigarettes. Not a wallet or identification among them. ‘Why no ID’s?’ I asked of my captured soul, and he dipped his head and said “because we are all on the run. If the government or FEMA caught up with us, they could use the addresses and search out others who might still be hiding”. That hadn’t occurred to me and I thought it was certainly a good idea. ‘When did you see me here?’ I asked of him, and he said they heard a shot and headed for it. “We watched you tinker with the car and pull it to the west of the building. My daughter sent the drone to spy on you and that’s when he knew you were alone”. ‘Well I’m not alone am I?’ And I wanted to say you stupid fuck, but I knew the boys had never heard that kind of language before and kept it to myself.

His jacket had become drenched in blood and it was soaking into his pants as well. I went over and ripped the shirt off of one of the bodies, and pressed it into the wound. This didn’t look good for him as the bullet was still inside, and he winced agonizingly as I applied pressure to stop the bleeding. The boys were settling down a bit, and I asked Alex to get some water from the duffle bag. I checked the other rifles as well, which were two 22 calibers with 20 inch barrels like the 30-30 I was using, and an M-16 with half a clip left. The 22’s were empty. ‘How much ammunition do you have on that truck?’ I had asked while taking a big swig from the water bottle, then pouring some of it over my face and down my neck.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asked, with still a frightful look upon his face, but his eyes were focused on the water bottle. ‘How much food and water do you have?’ I didn’t look at him this time because I didn’t know if he was going to die or not, and I was avoiding wasting any of the water we had. “Lots” was the answer, and now I didn’t know if he was lying either.

2012 chap 9 p.107

He fell on me with the weight of a 220 pound man, the rage in his eyes searing into mine. Only the Winchester lay between us, pressing deeply into my chest, and adding to my inability to grasp a breath. My head thrashed left and right as I struggled for momentum, and then my right hand broke free. I pushed the barrel of the rifle upwards and struck his forehead causing spittle to be thrown from him onto mine. Attempting to roll first right, and then left, we eventually rolled off the balcony and onto the concrete below. We were facing each other now, both on our sides, and I pressed two fingers as deeply into his wound as I could. The scream was even excruciating to me.

But the next blow I felt brought a momentary lapse of consciousness as a rifle stock cracked across my head. I was laying on my back now, next to the first attacker, and I couldn’t tell how many stood over me. I only knew I fired at the center one, and somehow the rifle discharged. Perhaps the fall had freed the stuck cartridge, but I was glad it did. And then he fell on me as well.

By the time I shook off the daze and caught focus of the room, two more men were entering from the north doorway. My first attacker was still lying beside us and moaning, one of them rushing to his aid, the other went for the stairwell to check on the man left lying there. I didn’t want to breathe. I didn’t want to move, and give notice that I was conscious under the behemoth covering my body. My mind raced a million miles a second with possible developments, and then when one appeared, so did I. As he assisted the wounded man into a sitting position, I pushed from under the cover I had, and shot him in the side, under the ribcage, hopefully I thought, in the heart. I rolled as quickly as I could under the loft while cocking the 30-30, and fired again between the openings of the stairs. My first shot caught a kneecap, and my second his chest. I pumped the lever action one more time, swinging my body towards the north side of the building, and aimed directly at the wounded man. His right hand was outstretched in front of him, and I could now see in his eyes…remorse? “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot”, the words resounded within the empty plant, and I lay there a second longer, catching my breath.

He was unarmed now, and the shoulder, although a small hole at first, was aggravated when I shoved my fingers into it. He leaned, resting upon his right elbow, and fought for air as I was. ‘How many more of you out there?’ I asked with the most serious tone I think I had ever possessed. “No one, just my daughter…in the van, controlling the remote”. His words came in spurts and partial whispers, and his eyes squeezed together letting tears flow from them.

Rising to my knees, I inched my way out from under the loft, and towards the wounded man. Upon reaching him, I patted his upper body, then his trousers and finally his legs for a hidden weapon, and found none. I scooted back away from him only a yard, and sat, resting my rifle at my side. Thinking someone was watching me, I turned my head slightly and saw both of the boys standing there, and crying. I slid further back to be nearer them.

 

Daily Prompt: Tantrum

I can actually remember my last tantrum, even though I cannot remember my first. It was a hot summer day, leading to an afternoon thundershower, here in the high desert of Utah (2006). I was working and selling cars for the Clifford’s, a wonderful family that exceeded consumers’ expectations. The lead salesman was an older friend of Mr. Clifford, who was personally recruited for his position. And although he was only the top salesman a third of the year, year after year after year, he acted like he was a God when among us other four. He also played upon that friendship, getting certain special privileges either on or off the sales floor.

That particular day I had opened at 7:30 a.m. and by the afternoon near 4:30 I was becoming a bit tired. If any of you have been in sales, then you know it is an attitude game. As one person’s attitude can change another’s. My smile was fading, my feet hot from the black asphalt which I had traversed a hundred times it seemed, and was yet to close my first sale for the day. Greg showed up just as the winds picked up slightly, and the huge summer drops began to fall.

Our building (dealership) was built prior to 1959, and did not have air conditioning, only a swamp cooler that magnified the summer’s heat through humidity. There was no place inside to be comfortable, and I went out into the rain. I knew it would only last 20 minutes or so, and we were always dry again in the next half hour. However, while I was walking to the rear of our building a car pulled in and Greg went to greet them. He directed them where to park and invited them inside, and when I had returned to the showroom floor a few minutes later, he was negotiating a contract with them. It was then that I recognized the couple from the previous month, and recalled the test drives that we had been on.

I went to the GM and asked if the people had requested my assistance, as it was a customary thing to do for returning patrons to allow the original salesperson to earn the commission. He didn’t know what I was talking about, and waited for Greg to bring the contract in to ask him. Greg said ‘no’ that they didn’t ask for anyone, and continued going through the paperwork with them.

As they left the finance office, they both came to me, shaking my hand and thanking me for the valuable information I had taught and shared with them. Now I was furious, and returned to the GM to see if he understood what had just happened. We had a policy at the store that once the paperwork was complete and everything entered into the computers, we didn’t alter it in any way. The GM apologized to me for the confusion, telling me that it will all work out.

I threw my hands into the air and said ‘what!  He just stole that sale, and you let him’. The GM removed me from the floor, guiding me into his office and closed the door. He explained that Greg had five children and a wife, requiring a minimum $60,000.00 annual income to live comfortably. Where I was single and lived an even better life on $45 grand. But I would hear none of it and continued my rant until the GM finally sent me home for the day.

There is a moral to this story, as it was a beautiful summer Saturday, and always our busiest day of the week. Now with only four salesmen on the floor, the next five customers who came in, all left in a new vehicle for them. And could I have held my tongue, one of those would have been mine.

2012 chap 9 p.106

As it moved towards the window I fell a bit backwards, catching myself with my left hand. It rocked from side to side, just an inch too large to fit in snugly. Regaining my balance I shoved the barrel end of the rifle into one of the blade propeller’s and tried to push it away. Gunfire was reaching the window ledge from outside and brick dust and chunks were flying everywhere. Even though one blade was now inactive, the other four kept it afloat and allowed it to continue its hovering patterns. Three assailants were reaching the south end of the car and I knew it would only be seconds until they were at the north doorway. I ran to the north window and grabbed two sticks of dynamite, lighting them together, I tossed them in their direction. The first bounced off the roof of the car just to its west side and went off, while the other missed the car entirely landing about six feet to its west before it blew up. The three bodies were indistinguishable as they flew in separate pieces and areas around the explosions. Using the scope now of the 30-30, I could see three more men leaving the site of the truck and heading in this direction.

More concerned about the three that remained just outside and to the rear of the plant, I ran back to the south window to see if they were visible. They were not, but readying the Winchester, I fired at one of the new approaches’, missing to the right. Cocking the rifle again, I took a second shot, this time hitting one in the leg. I ran back to the north window and filled my pockets with 30-30 rounds, after putting three more into the loading gate until the chamber felt full. Looking back out towards the west I could see that two of the men were still advancing. I laid the rifle across the sill and zeroed in on the leader. A hit, and at 1200 yards I guessed, was probably the best shot I’d ever taken. The other man dropped behind a dune covered with brush, and I spied for the wounded man left behind. He was limping his way back to the truck, and I knew I couldn’t hit him from here.

I refreshed my vision and looked for movement amongst the dunes until I saw the other man crawling to my south. As I spied through the scope for a clear shot, I heard Alex scream from behind me. Two men had entered the plant from the east side doorway and were heading for the stairwell. I pitched myself to the left near the edge of the loft and fired for the first of them. Flipping the lever quickly, another round was sent into the left shoulder of the man just behind him. Both men were now stuck halfway up the stairs, and I could tell the first was about to die. I pulled back down on the lever but the fulcrum jammed with the released cartridge that was now stuck under the scope.

The second man on the stairs pushed aside his partner and tried pulling himself up using the rails. I slammed the rifle on the floor to attempt to release the casing, but to no avail. I then slammed it upon the window sill, yet the casing was not budging. And then he was on me.

via Daily Prompt: Rivulet

Nebraska is famous for farming; thus the University school name of the Nebraska Cornhuskers in Lincoln. However, I grew up 183 miles north east of there in a little town called Maskell. While our family resided there, the population was 99, and it was entered into the Guinness book of records as the smallest town with its own Post Office. The nearest Doctors were 23 miles south east of us in New Castle.

When I was three years old, I had been burned severely on my left leg, requiring the burn ward in Lincoln, which in 1954 going by horse and cart, took over two days to travel. After spending two years there, I was released at the age of five, having grandpa, my birth dad and younger brother Eddie, come to pick me up.

The four of us sat inside the cab of a 1949 pick-up. The first Ford in the family, and we were able to make the trip home in just under seven hours. At five years of age though, I had never seen a pick-up and this seemed very exciting to me. Until that is, the storm hit.

Grandpa was doing the driving, and that meant both ways, so he was pretty tired somewhere around three in the morning. Dad too was asleep, with his head resting against the trucks window, Eddie to his left, placing me next to grandpa. The rain beat against the windshield in torrents, and the wipers were useless to create any visibility.

Today if you travelled that course, you’d have I-680 and several other paved roads like the 50 and the 77. However, back then there were no freeways, or many paved roads for that matter, and mud formed under our tires quickly. Our speed slowed as we bogged down and then just as a turn was approaching, a pair of headlights looked like they were right upon us. Grandpa swerved the truck to the right and drove into a ditch, coming to an abrupt halt. Eddie was launched through the windshield, and dad’s door flung open, casting him into what appeared to be a little stream forming in the gully. Still sitting inside the truck, our headlights providing a clear view of where Eddie had landed, dad got his footing and picked Eddie up, placing him back inside the truck next to me. He and grandpa then went to the front of the truck and muscled it back onto the road.

Later in life, perhaps several months, I was getting used to the brace which held my leg straight; one that I would wear for over five years continuously. I could extend it so as to be able to sit while milking the cows, and even ride horses pretty confidently. A healthy stream separated our farm from grandpa and grandma’s, perhaps seven or eight feet across, with a large tree we swung from in a tire or just gripping onto ropes. I knew it wasn’t a real river though, because I had seen the Missouri, and that was a big river.

Grandma and grandpa always came by every weekend to feast as a family, as did our aunt’s uncles and cousins, usually on Sundays; and afterwards we’d sit around a big fire and hear stories of our heritage. I asked him once, what was it that dad had fallen into when we had the crash a few years back, because it was not deep enough to cover his whole body. And he replied, Philip that was a rivulet. They form as water runs off any surface and flows along any crevice. You see them every day in the fields. Wow I thought, rivulet. What a cool word.

I would know that word a thousand times over throughout life, as my sweat would form rivulets flowing down my spine as I toiled laboriously.

 

2012 chap 9 p.105

What was staring back at me sent a chill so severe within me that I cringed, dropping again to my knees. At least twenty guns pointed in my direction, some with scopes and all with a man attached to them. The whir was getting louder again too, and soon it hovered directly overhead. Less than two thousand yards away, I knew there was no way to get the boys loaded into the car and escape. Rolly was hopping and leaping up and into the air, in an attempt to catch or snatch the drone above us. Then a crack sounded within him, his body bending in two layers, legs outstretched and upon themselves, as he flew back behind me. Then I heard the shot of the rifle, with a muffled echo resounding through the desert.

I turned to run back the way we came, grabbing Rolly at the nape, and dropping him a few feet short of the boys, who were still sleeping on the quilt. I rousted the boys and told them we had to get inside right now. Important, emergency, and scary were the words I used to expedite their movements. As soon as they had entered through the west doorway, I threw the quilt in after them. Grabbing Rolly one more time, I ran around to the trunk of the car. Ducking below the trunk line, I fumbled for the keys but finally pressed one into the keyhole and twisted, raising the trunk enough to throw Rolly inside. Then grabbing the case of dynamite and a knapsack full of ammo, I crawled backwards and into the plant through the north doorway.

Once back inside, I told the boys to follow me as I ascended the meatal stairs one more time. I looked back out through the window and saw several people heading our way. But this several only amounted to around ten or so, none-the-less all carrying rifles. I leaned the 30-30 against the window sill and dropped the other cases a foot away. Taking both boys by an arm, I led them towards the generators and showed them where to hide. Telling them to not move or make a sound, I ran back to the window, to see the advancement nearing eight or nine hundred yards from the building. I remembered I wasted a shot with the cactus earlier, so I knew I had seven bullets left. Looking around me for something to encourage me for the onslaught that may unfold, I saw the forty caliber at the base of the stairwell. I rolled across the planks to the edge of the second floor loft, and grabbed hold of the floor and let myself back down onto the concrete below. I grabbed the automatic rifle and skipped back up the stairs two at a time. Peering through the window again, they were now six or seven hundred yards away, and then a piece of the brick broke away from the sill where a bullet had just sped by.

Most of the runners coming in our direction were towards the south end and I found myself moving in that direction also. Reaching the other window with the forty cal in hand, I trained it upon them, dropping four of them before they could even take cover. Now no one was moving any longer, but here came that damn drone again.

 

via Daily Prompt: Notable

There seems to be a lot of students who are blogging here, as it would have been a cool thing to do for me 35 years ago as well. When I typed in notable this morning, nothing of substance came up…I mean, no poems, no stories. Only how I felt about particular authors…like Hemingway and Twain. As they are truly notable to me. However, I did my term paper for Literature class on Ogden Nash. Titling it as…

WHY IS OGDEN NASH NOT IN THE LITERARY HALL OF FAME?

The month prior to submitting the paper we had to provide the 5 sources we were using to create and validate the paper, for approval from the professor. Along with the argument’s as to why these were truly substantial sources. My paper is 9 pages long, and I do not want to subject anyone to that, but…I thought I’d post the sources and arguments for the students here, so they could see what the professors are expecting, when it is their turn to do the same. Here goes…BTW, it also solidified my ‘A’ in the class.

WEEK 2 COM 1102    RESEARCH PAPER     WRITING ABOUT LITERATURE    1/21/12

Assignment:  FIVE SOURCES

1. George Monteiro. MAN’S LITTLE DISTURBANCES. 116 Vol. , 2008. Print. Link
   http://QK3BW7NM6M.search.serialssolutions.com?ctx_ver=Z39.88-2004&ctx_enc=info%3Aofi%2Fenc%3AUTF-8&rfr_id=info:sid/summon.serialssolutions.com&rft_val_fmt=info:ofi/fmt:kev:mtx:journal&rft.genre=article&rft.atitle=MAN%27S+LITTLE+DISTURBANCES&rft.jtitle=Sewanee+Review&rft.au=George+Monteiro&rft.date=2008-08-01&rft.issn=0037-3052&rft.volume=116&rft.issue=3&rft.spage=R58&rft.externalDBID=PSEW&rft.externalDocID=1540774821

George Monteiro’s style of ‘Nationalizing’ Ogden’s works and life will be a benefit and an asset to the essay in regards to chronicalizing and immortalizing the Poet Laureate. His piece here will add sustenance, drawing from career, poetry, book reviews, and biography.

2. http://articles.chicagotribune.com/1990-03-04/entertainment/9001180560_1_linell-nash-smith-ogden-nash-loving-letters

S J Perelman’s accounts of the life and times of Ogden Nash, reviewed by Dorothy Herrmann, are irreplaceable in this essay do to their close collaboration and friendship. Almost a family member, Perelman will add logic and compassion to the man who would make ‘pun’ with anyone.

3. C:\Users\phil\Desktop\Ogden Nash Bio – Ogden Nash Childhood, Life & Timeline by Michael Langon.htm

Michael’s in depth biography completes the life cycle of Ogden with precise witticisms and correlating graphics needed to perpetuate a proper argument as to the talents and artistry for which he is best noted for.
4.http://www.baltimorestyle.com/index.php/style/baltimore/baltimore_what_about_nash_dec_11

This article will be the main-stay (meat and potato’s) of the essay as to Baltimore’s love for Ogden, but more-so, for ‘his’ love for Baltimore. Mikkita Brottman offers 40 years of career and family life with multiple insights as to his interaction with the people he wrote about.

5.   http://www.notablebiographies.com/Mo-Ni/Nash-Ogden.html

As a recap of fore mentioned notable tidbits, this biography will become the Piece de resistance, and add an unbiased foundation that will solidify the argument and essay.

 

 

 

For Sara in LaLaLand: The Key;

In a time long forgotten. In a land never known.

Were two hearts that beat as one, in a kingdom for the grown.

The king forsake his kingdom, the queen forsake her throne.

Nothing but their love, is all that ever shown.

But the crown could have none of this, for the flag was never flown.

So the crown beseeched the papal, to have the land for all its own.

The papal said beware, lest the land be turned to stone.

So a key was made from magic, and a locket made from bone.

That if the two would ever meld, discord would be its tone.

The king fell in pity as this music was set to bemoan.

The queen to forever sleep, forever to be alone.

But the papal knew its purpose, and the magic that was sown.

To remove the inner chalice, and into two is must be goen.

The chalice to the queen, around her neck it must be shone.

The hollowed key the king would keep, a remembrance of his bown.

Yet he searched throughout the world you see, for the missing piece the bit set free.

For the chalice of his heart’s desire, he’d suffer oceans depths or fire.

Until its presence be known, or until he could move no more. And with his last breath the key fell from his hand, buried in some forgotten land. The hollowed bit, and the chalice true, could ever reach his love, then that love would renew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

via Daily Prompt: Cur

I have mentioned on several occasions that I have had an extremely enjoyable life.

Yeah, I know. Our birth father was an abusive person. He drank too much, worked too little, and pretty much beat the tar out of us, nearly to the point of crippling us. But that was rage, and few knew how to handle that during the 50’s.

The 60’s got much better, except for the Juvenile Hall thing. But after that I got to go to a foster home that was total awesome. I learned to live with six brothers and seven sisters, and integrate into a normal lifestyle. The 70’s took me to war, and then home again, where I started to college in 1975.

We bought our first house in 1977 with the birth of my son, and the day we moved into it my daughter fell off the loading ramp right onto her head. She was only two and a half, but it must have helped because she learned to read by her third birthday. That was also the year their mother started her first job, and a babysitter became a necessity. I drank my own share back then, and probably enough drugs for a few people, but things were very good. In ’78 I met Scotty Luhm, a musician and vocalist through the job I had, and we became best of friends. His daughter was the same age as mine and he recommended a gal, Lori, as a babysitter whenever I needed one. Even though Lori was only seventeen at the time, she was very good with the kids. Besides, she liked the idea that I always had a half a pound of coke laying out, and a few pounds of weed. So one day I get a call in 1979 asking if she could bring someone by for some weed, and I was concerned as to who it was. She said it was another gal that she babysat for down in Tustin; two kids, stressful situation, possible marriage break-up thing, but Lori didn’t have a car and the lady did. I finally said okay, and they showed up a half hour later.

Well it’s enough to say that this woman became my second wife, but that was still ten years down the road. We did date for the next year though, and she had a couple of girlfriends that had just finished the Blade Runner movie with Harrison Ford. As dancers, they were the two girls in the cages when the camera went into the bar. Having the summer off, we went the Mary’s place in LA to visit on an occasion when Claeli was going to be there as well. I was on my best behavior because these gals were extremely pretty…I mean beautiful, with these perfect bodies. She had a large porch facing east and in the afternoon it provided wonderful shade and had several chairs and swings all around. I was pretty quiet during the visit, and not just because I can’t dance, but I can’t sing or do much else either. Claeli was from Greece and Mary from the Ukraine, and when dinner was ready Claeli came out to call us in.

Mary leading the way, I was the last to get near the door. But as I looked over my shoulder, a cur, and I mean the ugliest dog I had ever seen, scampered up the steps and was rushing towards us. I called out to Mary regarding this, and Sandy did her best to stifle me, interrupting and saying, ‘Oh Mary, it’s your little baby’. To which Mary returned to the doorway, bending down, and picked this disgusting thing up. Okay, I did say it out loud, the ugliest dog I had ever seen. Needless to say, I did not get invited to the production of Captain EO when Michael Jackson worked with the dance troupe, of which Mary and Claeli were two of the cast.

2012 chap 9 p.104

I turned and leaped down the stairs taking them two and three at a time. Reaching for the Winchester, I grabbed it by the barrel and headed back up. I took a dime from my pocket and started turning the screws and after removing them both, slid the scope off its mount. I laid the rifle on the floor, scope in hand and went back to the window. It had just passed me only seconds earlier still continuing towards the north end of the plant. And maybe hovering a while over the car. I started searching outward from the drone to where someone might be operating it from, yet saw no hiding places to the north. Slowly panning the scope from north to south catching a full view of the west, I caught a reflection, or gleam, perhaps from a window. Keeping my head as low to the window sill as possible, I continued peering towards what I thought I had caught sight of, and there it was again. Something moving causing the sun to reflect off of it. I clicked the sight’s adjustment to 1000 yards which almost doubled the size of everything in its view. And now I could easily see the shape of a moving truck, maybe a twenty-four footer. Its flat white paint made it difficult to pick up on, but the windows were easily the cause of the gleaming. But no people, not anyone making the door move, so I had to assume someone was inside the cab or box-container end of the truck. My mind was imagining a covert operation using sophisticated tracking and visual equipment to run surveillance’s with. But why out in the middle of the desert?

Perhaps they saw us pulling in during the morning, or when I pulled the car over into the shade to work on it. But someone knew we were here now. I slowly panned the scope towards the south, catching the rest of the west side stretching down towards Vegas. Of course Vegas was over seven hundred miles away, so I really couldn’t see anything for several miles in any direction, except for that moving truck. I left that window and ran towards the rear of the plant, maybe another hundred yards or so to another window, and slid down to catch just the bottom of the sill. From this position I could see the windshield of the truck but not if anyone was inside. I started getting paranoid, and thinking about the boys, and then wishing I was back with Ed and his crew. But I was alone, and would have to deal with whatever was out there myself.

Staying bent over and creeping back towards the north end, I collected the rifle and went back down stairs. In less than thirty seconds I had the scope reattached and went back out to check on the boys. Thank goodness they were both asleep, but Rolly raised his head in acknowledgement. I headed towards the rear of the plant and called Rolly to join me. All of a sudden I was wishing he was a Boxer or Rottweiler, and fully grown, instead of a two year old pup. Surprisingly, there was shade at the south end of the plant and we crept along its brick facing, reaching the west side, and then we crouched. Straining to see anything but brush, but to no avail, I stood and peered again through the scope.