Wordsmith Holler

Original Pulp Fiction

Category: Serialized

  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Four

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Four

    Through the night, we stayed huddled around Dan who alternated between sobbing and screaming. We kept him as comfortable as possible, changed his bandages, and tried to keep him from moving around with little success.

    At one point, he tried to sit and all he ended up doing was sliding across the pipe protruding from his stomach. He shouted in pain and promptly passed out. This was really for the best because if he moved anymore it wouldn’t matter what happened when we finally found a doctor.

    Charlie kept watch on the door with a shotgun. I guess he thought he was the prime choice for looters, or he expected a pack of wolves. I took a seat by the canned water and listened to the wind and rain pound the diner waiting for another tornado.

    I must have fallen asleep. When I woke it was a little passed 6 am and still dark. Everything was silent, and no one was with me in the storm shelter. The whole room was calm, and I wondered if I passed out drunk and dreamed the whole thing.

    Then I noticed Dan had stopped moaning and someone had covered his head with a blanket. I knew right away I had missed something. I pulled the blanket away and uncovered Dan’s gray face. I didn’t see him struggling to breathe or moaning anymore.

    Dead? What the hell? I lost chance at finding out what he had been up to and what the hell was going on with the weather, the Air Force, and my brother. The family and I stopped being close when I ran off, but still this was much. Family reunions don’t end in death.

    I replaced the blanket and stared across the room. It was as dark and empty as I felt.

    “What the hell is going on?” I demanded as I climbed the storm shelter stairs. A somber group scrutinized me as I emerged from the basement.

    “The storm didn’t blow us away,” Sally reported. “And, we think that guy died.”

    Her comment took me aback because it felt so cold. No one knew the guy was my brother. Still, I expected some sympathy.

    “I need a cup of coffee.” I motioned for Sally to bring me a mug.

    “How do you plan to pay for it?” I smiled and waved her over. I figured she was kidding.

    “It’s been a long night and I need it.” I held up my coffee cup and Sally stood dangling the coffee pot behind her. “You didn’t pay for breakfast yesterday and I doubt you can pay for breakfast this morning.”

    “Sally, just fill the cup!” She stood there like she was dug in. I fished out my wallet and sorted through the receipts, scraps of paper, and a picture of my mom. I found no cash hidden behind mom’s photo.

    I thought, Sally heard the whole thing. Surely, she had to know what kind of night it had been and was more than willing to help a guy out. I made me mad when she acted this way.

    I decided to beg. “C’mon Sally. Just give me a cup of coffee.”

    “No can do amigo. If you can’t pay, then you can’t play.”

    I motioned for Charlie to see if he had any cash. He shook his head no. My head was throbbing from a headache, my brother was lying dead under our feet, and the last thing I needed was the day starting without coffee.

    “The mayor came in here half-an-hour ago looking for you to do some cleanup down the street,” said Sally. “Maybe he can buy you breakfast.”

    I had many questions and glanced over to the storm cellar door. Was that really Dan? I needed that coffee. Sally wouldn’t budge, and she pointed to the pile of rubble.

    “He wants you to clean up the street, so it appears he’s doing something about the storm,” she said. The city had a habit of letting everything else go, but the block around city hall and the mayor’s store always sparkled.

    The mess went beyond a small amount of garbage on the sidewalk. Charlie and I removed a tree branch from the mayor’s store, boarded up a broken picture window at City Hall, shored up the corner of a wall where some bricks were missing, and swept out a mound of mud and rock blocking the entrance to the store. We worked three hours, and the mayor handed us each a $20 bill. “I like having you guys around,” he said.

    Carrying enough money to buy breakfast, we walked back to the diner.

    “I wonder if it is all coincidence? A guy shows up screaming and hollering, the Air Force pops in, and then a storm targets the medical clinic,” said Charlie. “Feels like more to it.”

    “Maybe. Or, it might just be a series of odd events.” I held the door to the diner open.

    “I don’t know,” said Charlie.

    “One thing is for sure. There is a dead guy below all those people.” We shuffled and took a seat at the counter.

    I squeezed next to a farmer and placed the $20 on the counter.

    “Hey Sally. Here’s enough for yesterday and today. Now, bring us some coffee.”

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing


    Other Writings You May Like

    control the weatherJake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Two Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Three Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Six Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Five
    Read more: Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Four
  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Three

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Three

    Before I could register what he was saying, Dan passed out.

    He had a huge bloody gash on his forehead. And that would have been bad enough, but an IV stand stuck out of his stomach.

    The wound gushed blood no matter what I did and the pipe sticking out his gut would need a miracle.

    I tore my t-shirt into a bandage and tied it over the gash. Dan lay crumpled with his hands behind him. I found my knife and cut the restraints. That took care of his arms but there was no way he could stretch out with the IV stand sticking out of him. At that point, I thought he might as well be dead.

    Yellow sparks from the overhead light sparked no color in his face, and it remained gray like the storm clouds circling the torn roof. Pieces of ceiling tile and sheet rock covered the floor. I huddled by Dan next to torn insulation, ceiling tiles, bricks, and broken glass.

    Dan moaned.

    “What’s that?” I jumped to him.

    He whispered gibberish, which I couldn’t understand except for a few pieces. He plainly said “cube” and “weapon protocol.”

    The second phrase scared me, but “cube” piqued my curiosity. Where was this cube and could it be a key to the weather machine?

    “The cube is the key,” he moaned.

    “Key to what?” I wanted to know, yet he was moaning, talking gibberish, and passing out. I doubted he could tell me.

    “The weapon protocol!” Dan raised straight up and shouted. I decided he hoped they could hear him through the hole in the ceiling. It was important to him. But for all I knew, Dan was having a bad dream. It reminded me of watching a movie with no sound: you can see the action and still not know what is going on.

    Scuffing sounds came from the front of the clinic and Earnest tossed the wall away to find us. The short-order cook wiped a dirty hand on his apron.

    “We heard a roar and followed a huge funnel,” said Ernest, reaching out his hand. “It came out of the sky, set down, and wiped you out.” The way Earnest described it, the funnel targeted us before ripping up the clinic.

    “Nothing else in town is destroyed. The funnel only set down on the clinic and tore it up.”

    Earnest reviewed the room.

    “Where’s Doc Martin and the sheriff?”

    I had forgotten about them. They were here and then they weren’t.

    “Likely half-way to Iowa by now,” I mumbled. Earnest gave me a confused frown.

    “It sucked them out of the building.” I pointed at the hole and the gray sky.

    We were interrupted by the lights of a black 4X4, which lit us up in a yellow wash as the driver raced to a stop. “You hurt?” the driver asked. “What can we do?” He sounded like a pent-up Boy Scout. I shrugged my shoulders.

    I recognized the driver and his passenger as a couple linebackers from the high school football team. They always wore their Letterman jackets and pranced around the diner after school.

    “The sheriff’s gone,” Earnest called out.

    “Where did he go?” the driver peered through the broken window.

    “He went that way.” I pointed north in the direction the tornado carrying the sheriff, the deputy, and the doctor went.

    “We’ll go get him.” And before I could tell them about how the funnel cloud had sucked all three men from the clinic, the driver punched it into reverse and tore away.

    “I suppose somebody should fetch them,” I stuttered.

    Thinking about all that happened, I realized we had bigger problems to deal with. My brother Dan was dying, again, and I didn’t really know what to do about it.

    “The flag burner is bleeding good,” announced Sally, who sneaked by when I looked away. She had lost the gum, so I had no way of knowing she was near. She had a worried frown and touched Dan’s face. “We need to do something.”

    “We’ve got ice and a first-aid kit at the diner,” Ernest disclosed. “You will find a bunch of civil defense stuff in our storm shelter.”

    Charlie crawled over the debris and shook my hand.

    “Did you have a good nap?”

    “Well, I was doing good until all this ruckus.”

    My brother, who I was now thought of as the weatherman, moaned again. He tried to rise but the IV stand kept him pinned to the floor. He groaned and placed a hand on the bleeding cut, pulled back a red hand, and fainted.

    “We need to move him inside and find a doctor.” I gestured forCharlie to help me carry him out of the clinic and over to the diner. A crowd shuffled around us and some men offered to help carry Dan.

    Four men carried Dan like he was in a coffin while two others struggled to keep the IV stand from hitting the ground. They failed, and each time the stand struck the ground, my brother wiggled out of the hands of the four carrying him. And did he scream. This went on a few times until the weatherman passed out again.

    Ernest and I looked at the rubble of the clinic.

    “We will need a new clinic,” he contemplated. I stared at the rubble and the storm clouds floating away. “And a new doctor,” I added.

    Inside the diner, the men dropped my brother on a table. He still had the IV stand sticking out of him and it was bleeding even more. They propped the stand beside him and a group of ladies stood around whispering. Sally found a pair of scissors, a pile of cloth linens, a tablecloth, and some tape from the first-aid kit.

    “Go on. I found the first-aid supplies.” Sally turned to the other women in the room. “You do something.” The women stared at Sally like she was asking them to strip off their clothes. Finally, one of them picked up the gauze.

    I thought Dan was nearly dead, and before he passed out again or died, I needed to figure this out. With the women doctoring him, I grabbed two mugs, filled them with coffee, and found a corner booth to talk with Charlie.

    “I was trying to talk to him when the storm hit.” I poured enough sugar in the mug to make syrup.

    “I caught it all from the alley,” added Charlie. “A fierce, dark funnel cloud pounced on the medical clinic. Tore it up in pieces. Then it vanished and left a pile of rocks.”

    “After the storm, he told me the Air Force wants him dead.”

    “Why?”

    “Because he knows how they turn weather into a weapon.” I could tell Charlie was trying not to laugh. He smiled at me with skepticism and I barely believed what I was saying.

    A weather radio warned us of another impending tornado. “The National Weather Service in Springfield has issued a Tornado Warning for Reno County in central Kansas until 10 pm central time.”

    “A tornado warning means we need to take cover,” urged Charlie.

    “There is your shelter?” Sally pointed to the floor in the center of the diner.

    Men and women rushed out of the diner and I guess they had better shelters to hide in. This left me, Charlie, Ernest, Sally, Dan, and two grandmas who I thought needed me to carry them down.

    “Can you two manage?” I reached out to help.

    “Don’t worry about us,” one of the grandma’s said. “We can move when we need to.”

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing


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    Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Four Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Six Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Five control the weatherJake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Two
    Read more: Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Three
  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Two

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Two

    The stranger lay on his stomach randomly screaming about “the tyranny of the state” and “the air force knows a secret.” At one point he caught my eye like he was pleading “help me, man.”

    “I swear he could be your brother.”

    “I know. I find it hard not to stare,” I replied.

    It was improbable and impossible because Dan was dead.

    The sheriff and his deputies raised the flag burner from the ground and led him to their car. I wondered why they were putting so much effort into the arrest. It’s not like he triggered a bomb. But again, looking around at the shocked faces, I suppose lighting up the U.S. Flag in the center of town was just as bad for these folks.

    “I will try to talk to him,” I told Charlie who gave me a notion he was done with the excitement.

    “You go ahead. I will go take a nap.” Charlie walked off towards the hardware store, where I presumed, he planned to count cars and sleep.

    They took the guy down to the medical clinic where I waited until dark clouds rolled over the west. A steady stream of thunder boomers headed north to Nebraska and Iowa to dump rain, hail, and perhaps, a tornado in a cornfield. We had missed the brunt of the storm.

    In fact, all the thunderstorms this spring rolled away from Pretty Prairie. Even though I could use the work clearing debris, I am no fan of tornadoes. The thought Mother Nature can swat me away like a flea sends lightening bolts to my boots.

    I lit another cigarette and strained to focus through the glass window of the clinic. They still had the flag burner locked inside for medical tests and whatever else they decided he needed. I imagined he had to focus on pictures of patriotic children saluting the flag to prove he was squeamish. Goodness, who burns a flag in one of the most backwater places in America? Not for the TV trucks because there were none. He had to be nuts for even trying it here.

    Besides wondering what would happen to the guy, I also wanted a second take of him. My brother Dan died when he stepped on one of those homemade explosives in Afghanistan. He was dead. I went to the funeral. So why did this guy remind me so much of Dan? There had to be a believable explanation.

    I dropped the stub of the cigarette and crushed it with my toe. As I reached for my another, a weary Air Force truck stopped in front of the clinic. It was rusted like it needed a bath and a shine.

    A baby airman climbed from the driver’s side of the truck and ran around to the other door. He soon followed a cranky officer wearing a blue field shirt with a bunch of patches above the words “US Air Force” and a patch on his right arm showing he was Special Operations. He was important enough for the baby airman to rush to yank on the door of the clinic. They passed me loitering by the door without even looking my way.

    The clinic door slowed to a stop, and I slipped in behind them. The clinic waiting room was empty but I could hear shouting from the back. I creaked the door to the hallway and heard the important officer standing and shouting. He demanded to talk to the flag burner and a young nurse was stammering.

    “I… I… can’t let you bother him,” she squeaked out.

    “I don’t care what you can’t do,” the man barked. “I’m only interested in seeing my airman.”

    An older man in a white robe entered the hallway followed by a deputy. The doctor took no time in confronting the angry man.

    “You need to leave,” he declared. “We are not allowing anyone in to talk,” he paused, “or threaten him.” The doctor pushed the air force colonel with a jab of his thumb. This didn’t go over very well and the officer did not hide his irritation. The deputy placed his hand on his gun as a precaution.

    The cranky officer and the doctor stated a stare down and I wondered who would blink first. The officer let out a blast of air like a punctured tire and placed his flat hand on the doctor’s shoulder. He leaned in until he was inches from the doctor’s nose. Even I flinched at his sneer. This went on for a few minutes until I decided it was a good time to interrupt.

    “Um,” I paused because what I was about to say sounded impossible. “Um. I think he might be my brother.”

    “That seems far-fetched,” challenged the doctor. “Why would he be your brother?”

    The cranky officer and the doctor finally agreed.

    I shrugged my shoulders, “I recognize him.”

    The officer rushed to yell at me more. “The guy you think is your brother is a deserter, an enemy, and he needs to go with me.” He stressed with a hateful face. “This guy is just one of his anarchy friends.”

    The baby airman showed me disdain to add emphasis to his boss’ words.

    “Honestly, I’ve never seen him. He feels familiar,” I replied with more than a little nonchalance. Everyone waited for me to go on.

    I told them about my brother Dan and how this guy resembled him. I made myself out as a neutral party and explained how it couldn’t hurt to talk to him, and besides, as soon as I cleared this up I could go find some work. I waited as the cranky officer, the baby airman, and the doctor weighed what they would say.

    The commotion had made me more curious than anything and I wanted to figure out this thing about my brother Dan.

    “Maybe I can check?” I offered and started toward the door.

    Everyone stared at me until the doctor spoke up. “Sure. Let’s see if you’re related to him,” he decided. “You gentlemen can just as soon go. I’m not letting you back there.”

    I squeezed passed the officer, and he snarled as I went by.

    “Oh, we’ll be back with some MPs,” barked the colonel. “And we’ll take that airman back with us. You can count on it.”

    “Don’t you worry Colonel Cox,” the deputy chuckled. “He won’t spill any state secrets.” He laughed as the cranky officer huffed and stormed down the hall.

    I followed the doctor and the deputy into the middle of the room, where the sheriff and another deputy towered over the flag burner. He sat on an exam bed wearing handcuffs and a restraining belt.

    I could tell the stranger had been struggling to get out of his cuffs, and he was only sitting still because he had decided he couldn’t flee. It made sense because a wide deputy stood next to him like a bull terrier. The flag burner wouldn’t be going anywhere.

    “What’s your name?” asked the doctor.

    “I’m Jake. You stitched up my hand last week.” The doctor ignored me.

    “Well, Jake, I doubt he’s your brother, but we’ll see.”

    The wind kicked up and whistled through the vents sending debris into the utility pipes on the roof. Leaves and broken branches danced over the skylight. I assumed the edge of the storm had moved closer to Pretty Prairie and was taking some of our garbage with it.

    I took stock of the flag burner. His eyes were brown, while Dan’s were blue. His chin appeared wider than Dan’s. Although, he had my brother’s scar from when he flew over the handlebars and landed hard on the pavement.

    The stranger had Dan’s blonde hair, slender nose, and my thin lips. But it was the feeling I got inside when he glanced back that suggested familiarity, like I had eaten breakfast with this guy or hung out in our Dodge Charger drinking beer.

    It was a familiarity; like we shared a secret.

    “Dan?” The flag burner did not respond. I knelt down in front of the stranger and put my hand on his shoulder. “Dan?”

    The stranger smiled.

    “Do you remember the time we set off bottle rockets and almost took down the Pine Street bridge?” The guy just stared.

    “How about the time we slid down the ice sheet and ended up sliding across the road in front of those cars?”

    The flag burner followed my eyes, and I tried to see some recognition. He turned to the deputy and shuddered. He returned to my eyes and laughed.

    “This is my brother Jakey.” The flag burner went from pointing and laughing to pointing and crying. “He’s my brother Jake,” he stammered.

    I rose to give the man a hug, and the deputy took a step back. Something about the hug appeared off and as I brought my brother closer he spoke into my ear, “You’ve got to rush me out of here before that colonel comes back.”

    I pulled back, and the guy whispered, “We’re not safe.”

    A huge gust of wind ripped the roof off the clinic like it was a sardine can and it sucked the doctor, sheriff, and the deputy into a violent funnel cloud. The wind tossed Dan into a corner and me under a table where I clung to the legs as the wind tried to suck me out. Then the wind stopped and an eerie silence took over.

    “Dan?” I yelled. “Dan? Are you alive?”

    I rushed to the corner where Dan lay on his side bleeding from a gash in his head.

    “I need your help,” he gasped. “The Air Force wants to kill me because I know all about their weather machine weapon.”

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing


    Other Writings You May Like

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Four Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Six Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Three Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part One
    Read more: Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Two
  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part One

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part One

    I like my steak well-done, my eggs runny, and my toast black.

    My waitress, who always wears a blouse with just enough cleavage showing, popped my toast in again to make sure she charred it. I appreciate the little touches provided by this dive of a cafe on the main drive of Pretty Prairie in southern Kansas. A regular three-calendar restaurant where the farmers arrive early to drink coffee and fight over who has the tallest sweet corn. Ever since my car overheated on the outskirts of town, I have sipped Irish coffee, listened to the squawking farmers, and dabbed my runny eggs with black toast.

    As far as engine trouble, I might have done worse and ended up in Nebraska. Besides, this town needs me. A small place always favors a guy willing to do the stuff no one else will do, and well, I am that guy: Jake Rutledge, handyman. I am that roustabout people call when they need something fixed, thrown away, or made better.

    Early this morning, I eyeballed a fortunate sign on the western horizon as storm clouds formed at daybreak. The chance of a windstorm always meant someone would need a fence repaired, a tree cut, or a something found. I had no worries of the threat of a tornado. The fight over nature is something I can handle.

    I waved at Sally and pointed at my coffee.

    “You want to fill my mug?” I gave an expectant glance with a hint of sarcasm.

    Sally rested on a hip and stared through me. Like everyone else in this town, I got the impression she took joy in taking time to ponder if she wanted to help. Sure, a small puddle of coffee had dried in the bottom of my mug, and I wanted more. Nevertheless, I had to give Sally time to decide if I needed another cup. She took her time to reach for the pot and shuffle over to my end of the counter.

    As Sally lifted the pot over my cup, she teased, “So, do you still love me?” She had a sweet smile.

    “Pour the coffee and we’ll talk.”

    “Oh, the man doesn’t approve when I refuse to jump at his beck and call.” She returned the coffee to her hip.

    “I don’t care if you jump, as long as you’re quick about it.”

    The coffee filled to the brim and a steam cloud rose from the mug. Sally curtsied. Then she blew a bubble, snapped the gum with a pop, and winked before turning away. I admire Sally’s sass, but she should spit out the gum.

    I took a sip of the coffee and realized it needed a refresher. In my coat, I reached for my flask of whiskey, poured a finger into my mug, and took a sip. Overall, a fine version of a leprechaun’s kiss.

    “The car is still dead?” This line of questioning was rote. The person sitting next to me always started the morning by asking me when we were leaving.

    “I have my priorities. I would love to leave but I couldn’t hang out with you.”

    My neighbor laughed a deep hoarse rattle that became a cough.

    “You know Charlie, you ought to visit a doctor.”

    “Well, I ain’t got the money,” Charlie stated.

    We made a pair; two drifters stuck in Pretty Prairie, Kansas. Charlie Wadmeyer, landed here by riding with me in my junk of a car. He has always been tailing me and helps me when I need it. We go back to kindergarten, and he is my best friend. When he’s not following me around, he sits outside Honeyman’s Hardware down the street and watches the traffic. Once he counted two cars at once. You know how slow it can get in a small town.

    The noise from the farmer’s corner reminded me of hens in a chicken barn. I sipped my coffee and eavesdropped.

    “And so the guy shows up and plugs in a doodad and tells me the alternator is bad.” The old farmer nudged his glasses above his nose.

    “In the old days, you could diagnose it yourself.” I thought he might shout. His friends stirred their coffee mugs and waiting for him to continue.

    “Well, now a guy with a computer needs to tell you what’s wrong.”

    “Computers run everything nowadays,” another farmer waxed philosophical wearing a John Deere hat.

    “Yeah, unless I need a refill,” the old farmer remembered. “Hey, Sally. I need more coffee.” I held in a laugh. Darn if she didn’t glaze through him too.

    Sally eventually shuffled over to the farmers snapping her gum and balancing the coffee pot in her left hand. I could never call her one of those quick diner waitresses. It didn’t matter. Before she made it to the table, the whole booth of faded blue overalls stood to peer out the window.

    It had to be exciting for these guys to jump out of the seat, so when the farmers craned their necks to take it in, I decided I had better watch too.

    I had to push through the farmers to spy what was happening, and from what I could tell, nothing good would come of the spontaneous outrage in the parking lot. Surrounded by two cowboys, a pregnant mom, her kids, and a deputy sheriff, a lanky blonde stranger was dragging Stars and Stripes on the ground. He was shouting at the crowd.

    The deputy sheriff pulled the mom and her boys away from the protest. The two cowboys flanked the man who wore a black riding boots and full leather motorcycle gear. He pulled out a lighter setting the national emblem ablaze. This only enraged the cowboys. As flames touched the stars, both of them tackled the stranger to the ground. He let out a scream as the deputy stomped out the burning flag. Those cowboys might as well had hog-tied the man. He struggled to push away a boot on his back and squirmed around toward the cafe.

    By now we were all outside, me, Charlie, the farmers, Sally and everyone else. The guy rolled away from the cowboys and stood with one cowboy holding his leg. Charlie and I ran over to stop the guy from leaving. He threw a punch that landed right on my chin. I stumbled back while Charlie ducked another punch. I shook off the shock of the upper cut and tackled the guy to the ground. He landed hard enough to knock the wind out of me, and he appeared winded too. I rolled off the stranger as Charlie ran up.

    “Hey Jake,” Charlie noted. “That guy could be you.”

    Charlie was right. The man resembled me and how my face might appear if I was trying to fight off my attackers in a parking lot in Kansas.

    I took a second glance and then it hit me. The guy reminded me more of my brother Dan who died fighting in Afghanistan.

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing


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    Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Four Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Six Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing – Part Nine Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Three
    Read more: Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part One
  • Sheep May Safely Graze: Sheep May Safely Graze – Part Three

    Sheep May Safely Graze: Sheep May Safely Graze – Part Three

    The hunters saw the sheep ripe for harvest. Xabier needed to do something. He pulled a book on photon electronics from its place on the workbench and flipped to metamaterials. He needed to uncloak the hunters.

    The middle refrain from Cantata Nº 208 seemed to doubt his resolve. The sheep fidgeted, taking turns climbing on each other’s backs. A line of ewes stood apart from the herd, staring at Xabier who sat at the workbench pondering the music as he fiddled with bits of wire. Bach intended the piece as a hunting song. Its true meaning rang in Xabier’s ear as he combed through the chapter. Soon he knew how to reveal the hunters.

    On paper, he drew a map of the far corner of the field. Around the triangle perimeter he marked squares and linked each with a thin wire. A tunable antenna would defeat the cloaking. Do it quickly, find their frequency, and reveal their hiding places. He would have to use the flock as bait.  It would be worth it if he could defeat the hunters.

    “Gizon adimentsua naiz, Xabier.” He smiled at his self-proclamation of brilliance.

    He picked out the sheep, pointing at two rams, a doe-eyed ewe and her lamb, and an older ewe. He mentally pictured them in the corner of the field waiting for the hunters with their bows and arrows. He would wait on the opposite corner, twisting the knob on the controller and revealing each hunter before they could kill. It might give his sheep a chance.

    “Hau lan egin behar da,” he said out loud and under his breath. Xabier knew his plan must work if the sheep had any chance.

    In the deep purple glow of dawn, he ran the last wire connecting all of the posts. He ran another length of wire away from the array up the hill and behind a rock. He then hurriedly buried the wire to hide it from view. The only thing left was the bait. He moved the five sheep into the corner of the field and let the others run up the field. 

    As the suns rose over the west horizon, he hid himself behind the rock and waited.

     


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  • Cindy's Sin - A Las Vegas Story: Cindy’s Sin – Chapter 12

    Cindy’s Sin – A Las Vegas Story: Cindy’s Sin – Chapter 12

    The Coin Castle King

    All the discarded neon from the hotels, motels, clubs, and casinos of Las Vegas ended up in the boneyard. Once shiny and bright, signs now waited here to die. Tucked behind a sign company, the boneyard only took visitors by appointment. It made a kitschy place to meet.

    Todd preferred this spot to any other place in Las Vegas. It wrapped up all of the glitter, glamour, and glitz into one place where secrets came to be forgotten.

    Wallace and Cindy found Todd standing beneath the Coin Castle King. The massive statue offered anyone a coin. For years, the king stood on Fremont Street until Todd decided to build his office and turned the casino below into a slots parlor. Nothing in Vegas lasts; the Coin Castle King stood rusting in the boneyard.

    Two men approached Wallace and Cindy. A bigger man with a mustache outstretched his hand. He pulled Wallace closer as they shook hands. The big bodyguard whispered in Wallace’s ear. The man stepped back and waited. Wallace took out his revolver and handed the gun to the man.

    “We’re just here to talk,” Wallace said. He regretted parting with the gun, but it made no sense to start a fight.

    The smaller bodyguard smoothed his hands over Cindy’s leather pants. He found no weapons. Wallace never gave Cindy a gun, a pocketknife, or anything that could be used as a weapon. She even left the rim fire pistol behind.

    She stood behind Wallace and peaked at Todd. A flood of emotions ripped through her and she lunged at him. Todd took a step back and let his bodyguards stop her.

    “Look girl, my fight was never with you,” Todd said. “Me and your dad had a disagreement, but you never came up.”

    (more…)


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  • Sheep May Safely Graze: Sheep May Safely Graze – Part Two

    Sheep May Safely Graze: Sheep May Safely Graze – Part Two

    From his knapsack, Xabier retrieved a crust of sourdough bread and a jar of jelly made from some red berries that resembled pomegranate seeds and tasted like earth apples.

    He thought about his mother making jelly. Long dead, he presumed. When he signed up for this job, he was told time took on a different meaning here. Although he barely aged a year, decades passed on Earth, and his mother now likely rested in a plot under the olive trees.

    He covered the bread in jelly and brought the crust up to his lips for a bite.

    “Ze arraio?”

    He saw the flock rush away from the center of the meadow and make a stand against the far rocks. Xabier saw the black and two white sheep fall on the ground, bleating like they were dying. He rose, grabbing his staff and using it like an oar to bounce across the field to the fallen sheep. He dropped to the ground in a dead run to the center of the herd. He touched the neck of the nearest animal and brought up a hand covered in blood.

    Another animal fell, and the herd ran away from the danger. Xabier thought he saw a ripple of light and a blue flash right before the ewe fell. Her lamb spun away as another blue flash zipped from a ripple of light.

    Something was out there hunting the sheep!

    “Atzera,” he shouted, but the threat seemed to move closer to the herd. He saw another ripple and, for an instant, he thought he saw a face. Another animal fell, and he decided that instant to move the herd.

    He whistled long and hard. The sheep scrambled away from the rock fall and ran toward the barn.

    “Laster exekutatu. Run, my lovelies.”

    He flew the length of his staff and bounced up to the herd. He paddled forward until he reached the barn door, opening it quickly to let the sheep spill in. Safe inside, the animals stood in their breathing masks against the far wall of the barn. 

    A collective bleating sound could be heard as ewes searched for their lambs. Xabier looked through a portal to the meadow below. He saw a distinct ripple pattern moving the dead sheep off the field until five animals bordered the far side of the meadow.

    He then saw the dead sheep vanish from the meadow as if they were erased. He had been warned about the hunters but never thought he would encounter them.


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  • Sheep May Safely Graze: Sheep May Safely Graze – Part One

    Sheep May Safely Graze: Sheep May Safely Graze – Part One

    Tin, ting, tin, tang rang the bells of Cantata Nº 208. The boy rubbed sleep from his eyes and covered them to block the dancing sunlight streaming through a slit in the roof. He slipped on boots, a filter, and gloves.  The red sun inched across the sky and it would be half an Earth-month before nightfall. Without the chimes, he might have missed feeding time.

    Small frame, calloused hands, and a full head of sandy-brown hair, he looked very much like a boy, although he celebrated his 20th birthday three Earth months ago. He lost track of the time on this planet where the sun hung in the sky for roughly 37 Earth days. 

    Xabier escaped indentured Kleroaren army servitude by signing on as a shepherd on Caelora. Neither the nobles nor the clergy appealed to his solitary habits and rural ambitions, so he ran as fast as he could to the spaceport outside Barcelona. 

    Nineteen months of hibernation, passage in the Soliton Fold, and then he arrived. Xabier was left alone with a coat, a knapsack, a blanket, a staff, and some sheep to herd on the outskirts of the galaxy.

    The Caeloran atmosphere scattered sunlight into shades of violet no Earth sky could reproduce. The air felt dense as he floated to the barn sitting in the center of the Slydal Plain. The sheep numbered 99 and 1 huddled in a stable fashioned from a rusting freighter. The herd had trampled bracken across the metal floor, which the sheepherder had cut earlier when the sun sat only inches from its current position. He wished for nightfall if only to see the stars of the Pyrenees Constellation.

    While Caeloran came close to breathable air, the shepherd and sheep still needed a filter to achieve a good mix. He retrieved a bag of filters from the tack and proceeded to fit them around black noses. 

    “Egun ona Maite.” Xabier pulled the filter straps tight against the animal’s neck, then placed a weight belt on her haunches.  

    “Egun ona Ander.” He wished each animal a good day until the wooly faces stood in a corner anticipating the rush to the pasture.

    Xabier slipped on a weight belt, picked up a staff, and opened the gate. Bright, white light rushed into the barn, and the sheep bounced back into the shadows. “Nire maitaleak. Run, my lovelies.” 

    The sheep leaped from the barn, spilling out on the bright green pastureland, their front feet floating off the ground, anchored to the soil with only their hindquarter weight belts. Soon they settled down, their heads bobbing off the ground with each taste of the grass, as if they were bottom-heavy drinking birds bouncing into a glass.

    He took flying leaps over to a rock slab, watching the sheep graze nestled between towering cliffs and rock outfalls in the high-mountain valley. Nymphs and prairie gnats bounced in his hair, he smelled lavender rose, and he heard the sound of locust hum interrupted now and then by the bleating of sheep. 

    The shepherd believed this valley felt most like his home on Earth.


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