Runaway Train

Train keeps a rolling down the tracks. There is no way to stop it. Too much momentum has been built up over the years.

We don’t know how fast the train is moving, or how long it will continue its journey. The trestles up ahead are rotted and cannot take the stress. They’ll collapse under pressure and the train will pitch into the gorge.

There is no way to stop it. We stand and watch as if predestined.

Whew! Whew! Engineer toots the whistle and stokes the fires.

Burn Ward

Oh god, it hurts. Everything hurts so excruciatingly bad. The last thing I remember is . . . Wait, what do I . . .

“Good Morning, Sheila.”

I looked over at a homely woman dressed in a white hospital uniform. “Where am I?” My voice cracked, shaky and hoarse.

She smiled but her smile was a mask. My mother had been a nurse and I knew that mask well. It was used to hide things. The woman was figuring out how to answer my question.

I knew I was in a small white room. It reeked of sanitizer and bleach, definitely a hospital room. I was in bed, hooked up to an array of machines, humming silently. Why was I here?

“Oh God! What happened to me? Please tell me!” My panic rose and my chest grew tight. I struggled for breath and searched her face for an answer. It was blank.

“Sheila . . .” She called my name like a mother calming her child.

“Why am I here? What happened to me?” My voice grew frantic. I tried to rise but I was restrained. My arms were tied to the bed. I could not touch my face or reach out.

I glared at the woman in anger. What the hell was going on? When I tried to speak again, the pain returned, mostly on my face. I must have winced because she walked towards me.

Suddenly, the pain subsided. I turned to see her tweaking one of the machines. Whether she was killing my pain or calming me for information she was about to dish, I wasn’t sure.

“You are in the ICU burn ward of St. Mary’s hospital.” She paused to make a final adjustment. “You had a horrible accident. Thirty percent of your body was burned. The reason for the pain around your eyes and mouth is because we had to replace them. Any questions?”

Ha! Any questions? she asked. Of course I had questions. What about my eyes and my mouth? “Woah, woah, woah, did you say replaced?” My pulse began to race and the monitors started to sing.

“Calm down, Sheila. If you panic, you’ll only make it worse.” Her voice sounded concerned.

That worried me. “Ha, don’t panic? Calm down?” I gasped. “My entire body is burned and you replaced my eyes and mouth. Can you hospital junkies actually do that?”

“Sheila . . .” Her face was no longer blank but appeared to be honest and sympathetic. I hated it. I knew she’d say something like: Everything is going to be all right, just calm down.

I needed to know what happened. I couldn’t remember anything! She mentioned short term memory loss, but how lost? Gone forever lost or just temporarily unavailable?

My anger suddenly welled up into a swirling hurricane of rage. “Look, lady, I know you’re trying to help, but telling me to calm down is plain ridiculous. I want answers now, or I’ll do something drastic that both of us could regret. Comprende?”

I only planned on screaming bloody murder, not causing a ruckus. I just wanted some answers. If she wasn’t going give them, I would find someone who would.

Movement out of the corner of my eye startled me. Was she leaving? Hell no, she’s not leaving me here!

“Hey . . .” My voice wavered as she quickly re-entered the room.

This time her face was flushed and angry. I must have pissed her off. Damn it Sheila! You should know better than to anger the person taking care of you.

She walked towards me with a menacing stride, like a cat stalking its prey. Something had changed, as if she knew something I didn’t.

“Okay . . . look . . .” I stammered. “We got off on the wrong foot . . .”

She came closer, her face a sinister smile. I noticed what was different. She was hiding something behind her back!

“Hey, what the . . .” Slam!

It was a needle, right into the big vein in my neck. Everything changed into a hazy fog. I struggled to keep my eyes open, to stay alert and fight on, but my mind was slipping into the unknowing abyss.

Where was I?

Short story by Kelly Cofrin

Crazylegs

Jimmy could not have been more pleased when his girlfriend’s parents announced they were all going to the Rams game. Tickets on the 50 yard line were provided by the owners of the Rams who were chummy with these Beverly Hills neighbors.

The game was action packed and they dined on hot peanuts and cheered as the Rams fought yardage at every play. Jimmy was ecstatic to be with his Natalie Wood lookalike girl and her movie industry folks watching the great Crazylegs weave through the defense with legs that went six seperate directions while huge men grasped at thin air trying to gain purchase of him and bring him down. His evasive tactics years ago in college had given him the “Crazylegs” moniker and he was an unstoppable giant spider on the field who could only be caught if 5 or six players created a web that he could not outstep.

In the 4th quarter the game was tied and the Rams were taken down at the end of the field and had 90 yards to go for a touchdown that could win. The clock was running out and the excitement was palpable when his girlfriend’s mother disturbed Jimmy’s feverish concentration with a request. “Jimmy ─ run down under the stadium and bring me back a hot dog ─ lots of mustard and relish ─ would you, Dear?” He could not believe what this Maven was saying ─ after all the next play could be the save of the day and he tried to ignore her request. She scowled at him and looked at him like Queen Victoria as if only his accomplishing the task she had set would redeem him.

He rushed to the cement halls down below in the tunnels where even the restrooms were empty as fans with full bladders were riveted to their seats for the next play. He could hear the tinny metal cone speakers blurting the sportscaster’s comments and speculations on what might happen. Jimmy ran for the hotdog area and the old Italian behind the counter pulled one out of the steamer as Jimmy expressed the condiments required. With the hotdog in his hand burning it through the waxpaper, he trotted and then ran down the booming cement hall ─ his leather boots with catspaws on the heels clicking like a tapdancer and from the speakers came the play. “The quarterback has handed the ball off to Crazylegs and look at him go folks ─ he is at the 50 ─ the 30 ─ the 20 ─ My lord the entire defense is trying to grab a leg but Crazylegs is all over the field!!!! ─ slippin and sliding ─ dancing and jumping over the tackles!!! Look at him!!!!!”

But Jimmy was huffing and puffing with lungs begging for air, trying to reach the entrance of the stands that would allow him to see the action. He could hear the crowd cheering and imagine the faces full of heartstopping joy. The fans were on their feet as he made his way back to the box and thrust the hotdog dripping relish all over his trousers at the insistant Queen. On the field the players were carrying Crazylegs from the end zone. His helmet was off and he was waving to the fans, having just run the greatest play in Rams history and winning the game.

Jimmy had missed the entire play and he seethed next to his girlfriend while her Mother nibbled on the hotdog ─ oblivious to his rage. No matter how many years passed, he would always hold a grudge. Some things in this life can never be forgiven.

Short story by Rob Kunkel

Are We Afraid of Change?

Every two to four years we carry on with the charade. We trudge off to the polls and dutifully vote for the lesser of two evils. We view the election results and hope things will turn for the better.

And if they don’t, so what? At least we can say we voted and exercised the power of the ballot box. These sentiments may tide us over for a time, even as inner voices tell us that something’s not right.

Truth is, we’re powerless to enact real change. So we order another round and yak about those “Idiots in Washington.” We laugh merrily through the night and accomplish nothing.

Political humor has always been the refuge of the hopeless.

Barack Obama campaigned on “Change” but his presidency promises more of the same. Same foreign policy and corporate bailouts. Meet the new boss same as the old boss.

Repeating the spin cycle while expecting different results only defines the essence of insanity. Big money campaigns and slick television ads will always promote the usual suspects.

Those paying attention do not expect results. Common sense has long pointed out the lunacy of this process.

But what to do? No one knows. We appear to be frozen in the time warp of the status quo.

Could it be we’re afraid of change?

Idiot Proof

A boy and his father are riding in a London taxicab. The father is reading the Financial Times while the boy fiddles with a rectangular device and looks aimlessly out the window.

An idea suddenly comes to him. What if? He points the device at the taxi driver and pushes a button.

The driver stiffens momentarily then relaxes.

The boy isn’t sure. He does it again, a bit longer this time.

“Oouuff . . .” The driver makes a huffy sound and his hands jerk on the wheel. The taxi veers slightly. “Oohhh . . .” He exhales in relief as the boy releases the button.

“What going on?” his father says, putting down the paper. “What are you doing with that, son?”

“I was just seeing if it would work on . . .”

“Of course, it works. It works on all the idiots. Has the taxi driver done something wrong?”

“No, not really . . .”

“Well, it should only be done as part of their training. So the idiots can learn from their betters,” his father lectures. “Like that bellhop yesterday. His behavior was most unbecoming.”

“Yes . . .” The boy remembers the rude man at their hotel who didn’t salute them properly. His father showed him the device and let him give him a good sized zap. He remembers how the bellhop became more courteous after being straightened up, stiff as a board.

“But you can’t go zapping the idiots just for fun. It’s not a toy.” His father’s voice is calm but stern. “Here. Better give me that.”

“Okay . . .” The boy reluctantly hands it over. But not before upping the voltage and giving it one more squeeze.

“Aaeeiiah!” The taxi driver shouts out in pain.

The Gamer

Grandma Rae could never understand that boy. A bright young lad with a good future in front of him.

But he was always playing that cursed video game. Every time she came over to visit, he was there planted on the couch, furiously pressing the buttons, yelling out “Kill ‘em! Kill ‘em!”

“Those things are a bad influence,” she muttered to the boy’s parents. She’d heard about how video games were corrupting the youth, what with all the violence and blood and gore.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Gram,” the father said. “He’s doing well in school. Good grades and lots of friends.”

“Hmmm . . .” Grandma Rae just sat down to dinner and stewed. It was about time she had that talk with her daughter about that overly permissive, no-count husband of hers.

One day she came over a bit earlier than usual. There was no one in the living room. Grandma Rae walked in, sat on the couch and glanced up at the big screen.

There was a figure standing there, dressed in some kind of armored clothing with a shiny silvery sheen. In his hand was a gun, something like an over-sized pistol.

She absently picked up a plastic object from the coffee table and felt it in her hands. Suddenly a voice boomed out “Time to die, scumbag!”

“Huh?” She started and dropped the plastic object. But on the screen something was happening. Another man appeared, dressed in black, who raised a gun and fired. The silver figure fell down and the screen went black.

“Gotta know when to use cover.”

“What?” She turned around and spotted the boy, standing not ten feet away from her.

“Hit the triangle button,” the boy said. “That’ll restart the game.”

“Ohhh . . .” Grandma Rae retrieved the plastic object and fingered the buttons. “Don’t really know . . .”

“Here . . .” He came over and pointed at the game controller. “Hit this one here.”

“Okay . . .” Grandma Rae pressed the button with the symbol of a triangle on it. The game re-started.

The voice boomed “Time to die, scumbag!” once again and the black figure marched on screen. Grandma Rae did her best to work the controller, but it was no use. Her character, the silver man, was gunned down just like before.

“Don’t worry,” the boy said. “You get killed lots of times.”

“But I . . .” She fumbled with the controller. “Why don’t you . . .”

“Nah. You do it, Gram.”

“Well . . .” She hesitated then re-started the game.

This time he gave instructions on the fly. “Use your left thumb on the lever to move. Take cover behind that tree on the right. Good, good,” he encouraged. “Now go into a crouch. Use the square button.”

“Uh . . .” She pressed where he indicated. Her silver character went into a crouch and narrowly avoided a hail of red-tracers.

“Excellent! Now move to the left like this.” He indicated with his finger. “Raise your weapon with the circle button. Aim with your right thumb. And fire with the button on top here.”

“Oh . . . ah . . .” It was all happening so quickly. The man in black stood dead center on the screen. He was re-loading his weapon. There wasn’t much time.

“Come on, Gram. You can do it.”

“Yes . . . ah . . .” Grandma Rae struggled with the action. She broke into a sweat as the cursor moved closer to her target. “Um . . . ah . . . think I . . .” She closed her eyes and squeezed.

There was a series of loud bangs. Grandma Rae opened her eyes to the sight of bullets spewing from her rifle. The man in black staggered and fell to the ground.

Her grandson gave a triumphant shout. “Yeah, you’ve done it. Your very first kill.”

“Yes . . . I just . . .” Grandma Rae felt a strange tingling race thru her body. It was her first adrenaline rush.

“Now you’ve gotta rescue the hostages.”

“Really . . . oh . . .” Now she was off on a mission. Her silver character ran past the vanquished foe towards the village. Grandma Rae was amazed at how real the buildings looked.

There was more instruction on the fly. Her grandson showed her how to move quickly, take cover, reload, and change weapons.

Grandma Rae took to it well. Her man in silver crouched behind a wall, gunned down two sentries with the assault rifle, then took out a small band of reinforcements with her grenade launcher. The explosions were awesome. She found herself laughing with glee.

The final objective was a fortified bunker. She consulted the map and made her approach. After a couple hundred meters, she hit the ground and crawled, inch by inch, until she was within range. She steadied the flame thrower and aimed through a narrow gun slit.

A torrent of fire shot through the air. The bunker erupted in flames. Right on target. She rushed in and promptly dispatched the remaining enemy survivors. A trap door lead to the basement where she located the hostages. She cut them loose and spirited them to safety outside.

It was just in time. Moments later the entire building exploded in an earth shattering roar. A watchtower adjacent to the bunker complex teetered and fell into a mass of flames.

Grandma Rae just sat and watched the spectacle. She’d completed her mission and rescued the hostages. The game went to a cut-scene of a family of six hooting and hollering their congratulations.

“Great work, Gram,” the boy said. “You’re a natural.”

From then on Grandma Rae always made it a point to arrive early every week. When dinner was served her family had to pry her away from that game. She was always there planted on the couch, fingers mashing the controller, yelling out “Kill ‘em! Kill ‘em!”

Nicole the New Attraction

“I hear we had a new admittance, Bernie,” the psychiatrist said to his chief orderly.

“Yes, we did, doctor sir.” The orderly was 6’5” and barrel-chested, well-practiced at restraining lunatics while pumping them with trancs.

“Got the case file?”

“Ah . . . should have it here . . .” Bernie fumbled around his desk and gave the doctor an apologetic shrug. “Anyway here’s the basics. Female, eighteen, legally committed by court order . . .”

“Really!” Dr. Chumley was stubby, flabby and reeked of body odor, a repulsive non-starter on the dating market. “Is she attractive?” He clasped his hands together and beamed. The only action he got was from his patients.

“Don’t know, doctor sir. Didn’t get a good look . . .” Bernie winced and rubbed his forehead. He was still suffering those damned nightmares!

They’d started two months ago. A fourteen year old girl had been admitted with Tourette’s Syndrome. Dr. Chumley took an immediate interest and performed a lobotomy within the week.

After that, she became the doctor’s pet, confined to a padded cell while doing his sexual bidding for a bowl of soup or a candy bar. The poor girl finally committed suicide by swallowing a can of Drano which she’d taken off a custodial cart.

“I can bring her file to your office when I . . .” Bernie sniffed and searched aimlessly through some loose papers.

“No!” Chumley growled. “I need to see her immediately.” By his order, all new admittances were strait-jacketed, sedated and locked in a padded cell.

“Yes, of course.” The orderly produced a clipboard.

“Hmmm . . . Nicole Larsen . . .” Chumley smiled as he glanced thru the pages. “What time she come in?”

“11 o’clock last night, doctor sir.” Bernie grabbed the keys and led the doctor down to the dungeon of padded cells.

“Ah! Ahhhhh!! Aaaahhhhh!!!” Dr. Chumley moaned in appreciation as he studied his newest patient. “I like her.”

The orderly said nothing and merely cracked his knuckles. They were still sore from busting the heads of some graveyard shifters who’d lined up to form a gang rape welcoming committee.

“Oh, Bernie,” Dr. Chumley sighed. “I think she’s the one.” Nicole was slumped against the wall, bound and unconscious. Even with dark circles under her eyes, she was very beautiful.

“I . . . uh . . . understand, doctor sir.” Bernie could still hear the screams of terror as she fought to resist the needle.

“I only wish I could’ve watched them bring her in.” Dr. Chumley stood transfixed and gazed at the love of his life. “We’ll perform a lobotomy first thing in the morning.”

“Of course, doctor sir.” Bernie nodded his assent. Fortunately, he’d been able to make an urgent call. There was still hope.

Deadly Angel author Andrew Cofrin

Trunk Music

There are lots of thrillers on the market but not like this one. This guy can write. Connelly keeps it fast and furious with plot twists and mysteries which hold the reader in thrall right to the end.

The spartan gift shop on our cruise ship to Hawaii had literally no magazines or newspapers. My brother was desperate for reading material and somehow fished out Trunk Music from a flimsy rack of no-name paperbacks. Guess he struck it lucky.

We had loads of fun with the title. My brother thought it described the rattling sound of the hapless victim being tossed around to and fro whereas I surmised it signaled the scream of terror of the poor soul making the horrible discovery.

Best find out for yourself. Harry Bosch will keep you hoppin’.

A Stimulus for Everyone

“An Ignorant but entertained populace is especially dangerous in a democracy, where the ignorant majority, basing their votes on 30-second TV commercials, can outvote the educated minority.” Jim Trelease.

Those of us paying attention to recent events have cause for concern. What with our economy, the rising unemployment, the endless wars, the fact we no longer manufacture anything, the mounting deficits, the big-business bailouts, the declining dollar and the proliferation of nukes.

Are viable solutions being offered to the public? Nope. Looks like the same old palaver and pandering.

A stimulus package for everyone should fix everything right up. Economy will be back on track in a jiffy. Interesting how the voters seem so eager to wallow in the cesspool stench of corrupt politicians and media toadies.

Linda Schrock Taylor has written a telling critique about the problems confronting our nation, especially our system of public education. You can read her article, along with the quote above attributed to Jim Trelease, here.

Let’s keep up the good work, guys. Keep those minds sharp and those brains churning. Critical thinking is in desperate demand.

Happy reading to all and a personal shout-out to Lew Rockwell.

Hawaiian Cruise

Ah! Just got back from a two week cruise to Hawaii.

My very first cruise. We sailed thru a fierce storm on the way over. The boat was rockin’ and rollin’ for four days. My body didn’t take it too well. Spent most of the time flat on my back in the stateroom.

Lots of old folk on board. Walkers and wheelchairs. All those gray shadows staggering around seemed like the Night of the Living Dead. A bit too claustrophobic and creepy for my tastes.

The weather got better finally. Time to enjoy. Warm ocean breeze on the foredeck, poolside jacuzzi and tap beer in the sunshine. Ah, yes. That’s more like it.

Stopped at Hilo on the Big Island. Visited the famed Waikiki Beach at Honolulu. Swooshed down the water slide at the Grand Hyatt in Kauai. My favorite was the old whaling village of Lahaina in Maui. Loved the huge Banyan tree there.

Of course I had to buy several “Here Today, Gone to Maui” t-shirts. Even though it was funny like . . . twenty years ago . . .

Hey, we all have our oddities . . .