Posts Tagged ‘fiction’

Because I’m lazy, I was going to re-post our Bi-annual standard Friday the 13th story. You know the one,  the WW2 ship yards story of building the HMS Friday. Bla bla bla , bla bla bla. How it was lost at sea on its first shake down cruise. Bla bla bla , bla bla bla. And shortly after the loss, no one could find any record, either military or ship builder records or engineering blue prints of her ever having been built or find anyone that remembers working on its construction. Ya da ya da ya da … well……., I went to our archives to retrieve  John’s last post of the story from a couple of years ago, so I could easily re-post it and the post and all drafts of the story were gone, lost, bleato, vanished.

I’m a little spooked. I don’t think I will ever tell that Friday the 13th disappearing story again.

I know, you are laughing, but until a Friday the 13th event happens to you, you can laugh all you want. But I’m spooked!!

John says he doesn’t remember ever posting it!!!

Vanished, bam!!


(Heh, OC is a little confused. It was posted last in Sept. 2013. But I’m not telling him. Be careful out there!.  John)

I just heard on the news that there could be a new trend in clothing. Due to the radiation leaks caused by the reactor meltdown in Japan five years ago, radioactive particles are being found as far away as the West Coast of the U.S. Since then the demand for and cost of Geiger counters have skyrocketed. The car manufacturer Toyota is coming to the rescue. Being the world’s innovator of new ideas, a few years ago they had discovered an experimental dye that reacts to radioactive isotopes that they thought had no practical uses.

Since the accident they have been experimenting with using this dye in cloth manufacturing. The way I understand it, the clothes made from it will change color in direct proportion to the amount of radiation it is exposed to. A different color for each level of intensity. The colors that the clothing will turn are very similar to the colors that we once used in warning levels of terror threat by Homeland Security.

The colors are the following: Exposed to Severe radiation – your shirt will turn Red, exposed to High levels and may be dangerous – your shirt will turn Orange, Elevated above normal – your shirt will turn Yellow,  Guarded, slight exposure – your shirt will turn Blue. Under normal conditions your shirt will remain Green. No need to wear exposure badges or Geiger counters.

I believe that this is a great idea. And leave it to the Japanese and Toyota to think of it. Green is also my favorite color and I wouldn’t mind wearing that color everyday. The sales of Geiger counters are expected to plummet. Going from the very short supply they are  now to totally obsolete and unnecessary.

The chemical used in the dye, Chromium isoamyl acetate, is very rare and very caustic in its raw form. It is very dangerous to handle until it is forced safe during the manufacturing process. The only known location where it can be mined is in the United States near the town of Michcaska, Wisconsin. Due to low wages, plentiful work force and nonexistent unions, Toyota is making plans to mine and manufacture the cloth right there in Wisconsin, hopefully in Michcaska near the strip mines.

Way to go Toyota! I wants me one of those shirts!


High Water

Posted: March 30, 2015 in flash fiction, Seasons
Tags: , ,

The black mud that caked between his toes and had partly dried down the backs of his heels and ankles felt oddly comforting as he paused for a moment and rested in the warm drying sun. Repeatedly flicking his disposable lighter, ridding the dampness from the flint, he was hoping his last few cigarettes were not soaked and disintegrating.
It had been years since he had seen the water this far beyond the tree line. In the 100 yard trudge from the house to the higher ground of the tool shed, the mud from what used to be his newly plowed garden had sucked his tennis shoes from his feet. Wading barefoot in the thigh high water, thoughts of what unknown things may be below the surface loomed in his mind with each careful step. As Gerald rested on the high ground, he watched as two rabbits paddled from the water to safety within his easy reach. Unconcerned with his presence, they shook, licked and scratched the water from their fur. At this moment they were all fellow survivors. “I’ll find those shoes after the river goes down” he thought as he took a deep drag from his last cigarette.


Gerald Watswigger looked only one way, stepped down from the curb and was abruptly struck by the precisely on time MTA bus. Without resistance, Gerald silently slid under the Red Line Express and was ejected out the rear as a broken tangled mass of flesh and broken bone. A closely following Prius, screeched to a stop and was left high centered, balancing on the pile of Gerald’s rib cage, hip and thigh bones.
The day began as usual, with a quick shower and masturbate, an electric shave, deodorant, tooth paste and hair cream. Weakly teetering, he clumsily pulled on his stretched shorts and struggled into his t-shirt. Still barefoot, Wiggs shuffled into the kitchen, tenuously grabbed a cup and using both hands, carefully poured his first cup of black coffee. The pot felt heavier that morning and the shaking of his right hand caused a large spill of hot liquid to run down his thumb and fingers onto his hand and wrist. He didn’t care. The pain of the scalding burn was unnoticeable. He had helplessly watched the slowly advancing disease take over his body leaving his legs and hands practically numb.
There is no way a note written by the withering hands of an exhausted man can adequately describe the despair that causes a person to do this. What goes on in the mind of one contemplating and successfully taking their own life? All we know for sure is he had had enough of life and tomorrow life would go on without him.


This was the first of a series of the flash fiction life of Gerald Watswigger. The life of a troubled and unfortunate man. Search his name for more stories.

Gerald Watswigger rose from his chair, adjusted and buttoned his pants and buckled his loosened belt. With shirttail eschew, glasses poorly aligned,  sock footed he walked to the kitchen. It was only one hour after dinner but he had to satisfy his overwhelming craving for “something sweet”. He stood leaning, staring into the cool open door of the refrigerator.

For the last few years, Wiggs had let himself go and he was just beginning to realize it. He knew something had to be done. His tightened leather belt was on the last notch and the buckle was seldom seen these days from under his extending “pot belly”. He now had metamorphosed into what he remembered as his father. The same strong over six-foot physique but carrying the family trait of swollen gut. He thought he looked as young as ever but catching a glimpse of the old man in the mirror brought him down to the reality that the years, careless eating and drinking and hard work were chiseling him into the form of someone he had sworn he would never let appear.

He was deciding to face it, he looked and felt like shit. He knew he needed exercise. It had been four years since the treadmill in the basement had been turned on. The electronic odometer/speedometer/calorie counter no longer worked. The battery having been removed but never replaced and the model number of the nickel size disc long forgotten. “Hell with it.” the pain in his chest would subside as it always did and he would feel more like doing it tomorrow.



Gerald Watswigger looked down the steep stairs, stepped down onto the high seawater and sun bleached wooden planks. He attached the end of the short rope to the old mooring cleat and silently stepped off of the pier.  With only a few twitches of his legs and feet, Gerald swung silently by his neck just a few inches above the morning tide.

It was 1982 when Gerald first started to write incessantly. Letters to loved ones, poems he shared with his family and friends, short stories filled his lead pencil stained yellow dog tablets. It seemed words and phrases poured from is head. He began writing for a small local paper and his lust to write was mostly satisfied by his twice weekly column. Being published regionally, the feedback he received was very rewarding. He felt he could add “Gerald Watswigger, Freelance Writer”  to his business card and he was not exaggerating. After a few successful magazine submissions, one to Rolling Stone, his first novel emerged. It was nationally accepted and reached five on the New York Times best seller list. He had reached what he thought was the pinnacle of writing success. Then his second was published and then his third. Both equally received and he now felt his career was firmly set both financially and creatively. He was living the dream.

But this day began as usual, with a quick shower and masturbate, an electric shave, deodorant, tooth paste and hair cream. He pulled on his shorts and struggled into his t-shirt. Still barefoot, Wiggs shuffled into the kitchen, grabbed a cup and using both hands, carefully poured his first cup of black coffee. Gerald, leaning on the kitchen counter with a tremendous headache, wondered if he would ever again be able to write just one more. Just one more story, just one more short flash fiction, or just one more paragraph. He felt the cold writer’s block setting in on his mind and he was feeling the freeze as surely as a cold block of ice. The more he tried to create an original thought the further the dark freezing vail dropped down encasing his brain.

It was just two days before that he had met her, a young vibrant beautiful Brazilian woman. Long dark hair, deep tan skin and slimmest of bikini line sun tanned hips, he was so stricken by her low-voiced accent. And now a couple of days after their passion filled affair he realized he had met her 25 years before in 1982. He had forgotten what he had sold for the 25 years of success and just three night’s love with the world’s most beautiful woman.

What goes on in a man’s mind, what deal will he bargain when he is confronted with a choice between keeping his creativity, talent and livelihood or trading it all for great success and only a few passionate nights in the arms of a beautiful woman? What disguise will the devil wear and how does he know the soul  any man will trade for his deepest worldly desires? That fog laden morning on that high ocean pier, many years after making that deal, Gerald Watswigger found out the cost.


( Some of you may recognize this man from other flash fictions I have written about him. I try to create a different but similar demise for him in each tale.)