"Going against logic is . . . . . is not logical".

"Oh that is the great thing about being human, Mr. Spock. Because of our skills of being illogical we will have the element of surprise against the Klingons."

"Scotty -- what is our status?" Looking up from his console, sweat dripping down his chin, Scotty rolled every "r" he could with, "Total output energy capacity down to twenty-seven percent. I can divert some power from support systems to the torpedo tubes for our last shot at those devils".

"Make it so, Scotty"

"Lieutenant Uhura, contact the commander of the Klingon vessel, politely ask him to surrender.”

Lt. Uhura stood up and yelled, "Enterprise to Commander Casak on the Klingon vessel, do you surrender?"

Across the field Commander Casak stood up just high enough to show his head above the plywood board stuck in the sand hill protecting his crew. "Ain't no way. We'll destroy you all before this day is done!" Turning to his crew, Casak yelled "Let's blast 'em". All three boys stood up and let fly a volley of dirt balls at the boards in front of the Enterprise’s sand pit shifting it as the left side of their protective hill collapsed.

Mr. Spock, without emotion stated, "That was a hard hit Captain, our shields are down to ten percent efficiency. We have severe damage to our port bow."

"Our last torpedo is ready, Sir," Weapons Specialist Ryan whispered in my ear. I looked down in the bottom of our pit at the projection weapon -- a two by four sunk at an angle in the sand, and a loop of inner-tube band nailed to the board, then at W.S. Ryan holding a red plastic mixing bowl filled with a huge wad of mud.

A shadow fell over Ryan; I couldn’t quite comprehend which of the crew wore beige house slippers. My mother stood there with her fists propped on her hips. “I swear Abigail K. Snyder how many times do I have to call you to help me with supper?”

Suddenly the air was filled with shouts and exclamations colliding with each other: Noooo! You can’t leave now! It’s not dark yet! We can’t stop we are at the best part! Rats! S…! Not nowwww!

Mom turned and sent out a glare that melted the alloyed steel of both ships. Immediate silence crashed over the field with everyone staring at me. Chocolate colored sweat slid down Ryan’s mud smeared face, Gloria’s communication stylus was shaking, and Steve was biting his bottom lip. My eyes came to a rest on Mark to whom I said, “Mr. Spock you have the com.”

Hooking my thumbs into my back pockets, I trudged home behind my mother.




This beautiful story draws on characters which, of course, remain ©CBS/Paramount

Brady sat alone at a back table in Gleason's Place drinking a glass of beer when Torrence came in, tromped across the room and stood glaring down at him with clenched fists.

"You ornery bastard," Torrence said, shaking his fist in Brady's face. "You done seduced Lola, and you know she's my gal. I'm gonna mop up the floor with what's left of your worthless hide after I stomp you to a pulp first! Now stand up and fight."

Brady slowly lowered his glass, a sign to his two bodyguards standing casually at the bar. They silently slipped out the front door.


"Let's not disturb all these good folks in here, Torrence. Go on out front and I'll meet you there. I gotta hit the men's room, then I'll be right with you."


"You damn well better be," Torrence said, turning to leave. "You got five minutes," he said over his shoulder. "If you don't come out, I'm coming back to get you!"


Brady smiled and took another sip of beer; then the glass was empty. He waited another ten minutes until he was sure his boys had whisked Torrence away to someplace from which he would never return, then motioned the bartender to bring him another beer.


He had an hour more to kill before his date with Lola.

I once had a calico cat named My Lady. She was a frisky ball of fur that would leap up onto my chest and purr away like a miniature buzz saw when I lay down for an afternoon nap.

She passed on at the ripe old age (for a cat) of 18, and I grieved for her the longest while.

One day I lay down for my nap, dozed off, and was half-woken by what felt like a slight weight on my chest. Then, still half-asleep, I heard it: a soft, steady purring, as from afar. But I knew, groggily, what it was--and who it was.

"Hello, My Lady," I said, rubbing the air a few inches above my chest. "It's good to have you back..."

“I know online dating seems so… tacky, but I’m so busy I never seem to get the chance to meet anyone in the ‘normal’ way,” says Trace, as she sketches quotation marks around normal.

I look at her askance – she is a stunning girl – long glossy hair, which shifts and gleams in the light, manicured nails, slim but with enough curves. What are the single (and I’ll warrant, attached…) guys not seeing? Has the Sony Playstation totally blunted their senses?

I feel for the less fair female population if Trace is having to resort to listing herself on a bulletin board.

“And you have to work at it – you need to check your messages and begin a conversation with anyone who seems a possibility. I started seeing one guy and it was going well. Then he was busy at work. It hasn’t really gone anywhere since.”

“Does it not feel totally weird turning up in a bar and hoping that the photo and brief online chat you’ve had matches up to whomever you’re meeting?” I ask, curiously.

“Totally, there was one time, he was at least 10 years older than his picture and there was no way he worked out. It’s not so much the lying I hate, as the thought that they think I’ll just be prepared to let it pass.”

I sense things are looking up for Trace, though – a really hot guy is glancing in our direction. He doesn’t need an online link to show he’s interested.

The two guys in the booth across the aisle didn’t fit together. Not even close, man. All you had to do was listen to them. They were about the same age, maybe 23, and both chain-smoked while they drank their coffee—that’s all they seemed to have in common. Their breakfast plates sat to the side where they’d pushed them, bits of uneaten eggs crusting over. It was always crowded in there on Saturday mornings when most of the clientele had partied all night, failed to hook up with anyone, and ended their evening with “Hey, do you want to get some breakfast?”

One of the guys was Latino; the other Anglo. They both had accents. Doesn’t everyone? The stocky Latino guy had an Afro haircut and spoke fluent English with a Mexican accent; the scrawny Anglo wore his black hair in a pony tail and sounded like someone from western North Carolina or eastern Tennessee.

The Mexican dude said, “I can’t see any reason to live past thirty, man. I want to shoot my wad by then and check out. How about you, hermano?” He lit up again, handed his butt to the scrawny guy, who jump-started another one.

“No, I wanna live a lot longer than that before I die.”

“How the hell old do you want to get before you check out, then?”

“I don’t know—old, old like Granny.”

They both held it in and then blew the smoke out against the window. 

Part I

So they told us before we left to walk to the station that we should huddle in a large group in front of the train depot and wait for the sergeant to come and tell us what to do. The sergeant was late, and it was cold, so we huddled for the warmth, all pressed together. There was a lot of coughing and sneezing and cursing and pushing and shoving; it would have been worse--the pushing and shoving--if we hadn't been so pressed together.

When the sergeant arrived, we were a pretty sorry looking lot. Several had passed out from sickness, and from being pushed so close together, and the sergeant elbowed his way into our midst, looking about and shaking his head and calling us pigs and brainless jackasses and many other things just as bad--and worse.

"Get back there! Go over here! Line up in three rows! Come on, come on--we don't have all day, you stupid yokels. Get in line, that's right, three rows; face the man in front of you and stand still." He pointed to me and three others. "And you four look around and see if any of the fallen are able to get up and move under their own power. Quick, quick! Dammit, the train we have to catch will be along any minute!"


Part II

I hurried around with the other three, and we looked over the fallen men, and shook their shoulders, and told them, "You'd better get up. We're going to catch a train. You'll be all right then. You can sit down and rest." Most of the men got up, dusted themselves off, and got into one or another of the three lines, and waited with the others. But several men did not get up right away. We had to help them over to the lines so they would not be left behind.

The sergeant motioned for three of the men to get in line, and told me, "You're going to be my assistant. You're going to help me keep these other asses in line until we get them to camp. Do you understand?"

I didn't, completely, but nodded my head, not wanting to make trouble.

The sergeant said to the others, "This man is my assistant. You will do as he says. He outranks all of you, and you will obey him the same as you obey me--or else!"

No one said anything, but some of the men glared at me with hatred in their eyes. But moments before, I had been one of them, a draftee in the army; but now I was their master--and their enemy.


Part III

There was not much to do on the train. The men were packed into narrow seats like sardines for the four-hour journey; the sergeant and I were at the back of the passenger car, with a whole seat to ourselves. I could feel the other men's animosity toward me; I was one of them, yet had somehow been elevated miles above them in the blink of an eye. They were angry, they were jealous, they did not wish me well--this I could tell.

When the train stopped at the station outside the army camp, the sergeant and I yelled at the others to get off the train, form two rows, and walk toward the camp, which we could see in the distance. The walk was uneventful, for the wind had died down a bit, and it did not seem to cold.

Inside the camp, an officer came to replace the sergeant, and I was sent back in line with the others. Apparently my assistance was no longer required.

The officer proceeded to tell us that we were no longer needed in the army. He thanked us for our time, but without much enthusiasm, then sent us in to an administrative office to receive our discharge papers, even though we had never been properly sworn into the army. Then, the officer again put me in charge of the others and told me to march them, loose step, back to the station. He gave me a paper which would allow us to ride the train back to our starting point, and dismissed us.


Part IV

On the way back to the depot, the others called me "Hey, sergeant!" "Greetings, general!" and many other things half in earnest, half in jest.

By the time we got back to the train station, I was tired of them all, and told them flatly, "Go to hell, you guys!"

Then the train came, I gave the conductor the paper allowing us to travel, and we came back home.

And on the way back we became friends again, and began wondering aloud why the army had called us in the first place, since it refused to take us when we did show up.

Many years have passed since then, and we are still wondering. We have come to the conclusion that, like God, the army works in mysterious ways.

Everyone had done a well-nigh impossible job of keeping The Project secret. There were rumors--quickly squelched. After a dozen years of planning, preparation, building and training, all was ready to GO.

Colonel George Wetzell, U. S. Space Command, sat beside General Tyndall Slocraft in the back seat of the unmarked staff car. The General laid his hand lightly on Wetzell's arm.

"God how I envy you, George. Why couldn't I be twenty years younger and in my prime like you, instead of a desk-bound, pseudo-politician Space Command C.I.C! I'd gladly give up these four stars and make the sacrifice you're going to make if only I could."

"Yes, sir," Wetzell chuckled. "You and a thousand others! I'm the luckiest man in the world for having the opportunity to make this trip. But your role, General, was what got us this far--lobbying Congress to send a manned craft instead of another probe. Hopefully the data I can transmit back to you and The Program will convince Congress to continue The Program far into the future." What Wetzell didn't say was that his trip there was projected to take 90 years or more, and that he was likely to be little more than a pile of space dust by the time his craft arrived.

Wetzell's position was primarily symbolic: He was to be the first Earthman to man an ion-plasma craft out toward the nearest star system. Even though he would spend some time in suspended animation, he would still be a very old man when he reached his destination--if he reached it alive. Once there, his propulsion plant would be depleted, so he would die in some lonely orbit light years from Earth.

He was thankful that his farewells had been only to a few family members and close friends. He had never married, so wouldn't be leaving a grieving widow or children behind.

The staff car swerved to miss something in the road, rousting Wetzell out of his revere. The vehicle's headlights glared off a road sign informing them they were almost there. They could just barely see the dim glimmerings of light from the super-secret launch position.

"Thanks again, sir, for bending security procedures and allowing me to travel by car from Headquarters to launch site. I always did enjoy driving down lonely back roads--and this will be the last one I'll ever see."

General Slocraft made a soft sound deep in his throat as he replied:

"You're wrong there, George. This is your penultimate road trip. The last highway you'll travel is 'way out there--the one that will take you to the stars!"

June’s mind wandered. She sat three booths from the counter, looking out the window as vehicles blew by—21-ton trucks with a few semi’s and an occasional pickup or SUV mixed in.

On her third cup of coffee, she watched the deputies eating breakfast at the counter. Celeste—skinny, flat-chested, and pale—had carrot-top hair held in place with a scrunchie in back and by clips on top to keep any wisps from her eyes. It annoyed June that younger women let hair fall into their eyes and tossed their heads to flip it out of the way. Celeste had that problem beat.

Light-colored, faded freckles covered Celeste’s forehead, arms, and hands. June imagined what Celeste would do if she had to tackle some big, drunk cowboy and slap the cuffs on him. Probably she’d have to pull out one of those weapons from her duty belt—maybe tase him first. Some of the fellas they had to deal with on those 911 calls used to ride the rodeo, were still made of knotted up muscle, and kicked like mules.

Celeste’s partner, Buck, sat next to her, maybe a little close. They talked in low tones. He was three or four inches taller than Celeste but every bit as skinny. He had knobby elbows and sunken cheeks. June figured she could whip them both. She had to sling hash all day while those two spent their shifts sitting in the SUV, writing up reports. Somehow, they got it done, though. Maybe there was more to police work than brute force. Celeste, at least, could probably talk her way out of some tight spots.

They were both single and spent hours together every day. If they’d gotten together, June thought they’d done a good job keeping it quiet. Something no one else around there did.
People had nothing better to do than gossip, and when they weren’t doing that, they’d keep track of your business—when and where you went each day, with who, and what time you came home. When your neighbors drove by your place at night they’d even check to see which lights were still on so they could tell what room you were in and from that figure what you were doing.

The deputies got a call and left.

Roy, the cook, looked over at her and their eyes met.

“Junebug?”

“What, Roy Boy?”

“Did it ever occur to you that. . . ?”

“Yep. More than once. As far as I’m concerned, more power to ‘em.”

“Yeah, June, I guess it takes all kinds. What about us?”

”Hmm.”

“We’re here all day together, so why not?”

“For one thing, Roy, no one’s ever accused me of it. At least not to my face.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

“There you go then, Roy.”

“So, it must not be a good idea if no one else can see it, huh?”

“I didn’t say that, Roy.”

“June, I’d like you to go in back and help me take inventory, okay?”

Somewhere on the Mekong River, Vietnam, 1967: We sat in canvas chairs in front of the hooch drinking Bud and smoking Pall Malls when the boat pulled up to the dock and the guys started to get out. They were dirty and tired and had that look about them. Like we would have the next day when we went out on patrol. We counted the holes in the river craft, and watched as Sammy and Fricks were brought ashore in body bags and Shorty and Warphead were met by the medics to have their wounds tended to.

"Fifteen and a wake up for me," I said, draining the last of my brew.

"You're really a wise-ass," Grover growled at me. He had six months to go.

Lt. J.G. Wilks stalked by, cursing under his breath as always. We gave him a wave, which he returned with a grim grin. Three other guys came stumbling toward us, heading for the hooch with the beer supply. They didn't look at us, but stared straight ahead, their eyes filled with the shock and mystery of what they had just been through. We knew what they knew: No matter how much booze--or whatever else--you put in your system it wouldn't blot out the memories of something as numbing as the witnessing of sudden death.

The boys returned from hunting but brought nothing back. Jedediah, the oldest, kicked his boots against the door buck, trying to knock the snow off so Mom wouldn’t yell at him for tracking slush and mud into the house. Why not head it off at the pass.

She told him not to get comfortable, to go out back and split some logs for kindling. There never seemed to be enough small stuff, at least to suit her, to get the stove fire started. It must have gone out while the three of them were searching the dark woods for the past five hours behind their neighbor’s place.

Since they’d come back empty handed, they’d have another lunch and dinner of beans and vegetable soup she and his little sister, Kate, had canned last summer. At least it’d be hot. Once he got the fire set up, anyway. Maybe there was still some jerky, too. Mom wouldn’t want to break out the frozen bass from last summer yet. He was sure of that.

Jedediah told his little brothers, Adam and Micah, to kick off their boots and get inside. Why not give them a break once in awhile. Their old man never did. Besides making the three of them do all the work, he drank up any money they earned selling firewood and eggs and fixing fences. They always owed everyone until he disappeared last year.

The troopers thought Jedediah might have had something to do with it. They took him in for questioning a couple of times. They even kept him overnight once. Maybe they thought he’d break or something. He had nothing to confess anything about his old man—All they knew was that one day he was there and then he was gone. Permanently. The cops didn’t like it that Mom took four days to report him missing, either. They threatened to accuse her of something, too. Jed got really pissed about that.

“What did your old man say before he went out that last time, Jed?”

“He said he wanted a pint and a pack of cigarettes.”

“How did you feel about your dad?”

“He was okay, I guess.”

“Just okay? Not great?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, kid, did he ever rough up your mom and sister, or maybe your little brothers?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I hear things, Jed, okay?”

“You didn’t hear ‘em from me.”

So, did the old man ever go after you?”

“He’d be sorry if he did.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere, Jed. When’s the last time you and your father got into it?”

“Shit, Sergeant, not since I was maybe sixteen—like three years ago. He knew better after that.”

“Okay, then. Where do you think he’s at now?”

“If a man has a truck and a full tank of gas there’s no telling how far away he might be by now. Right?”

The troopers kicked over Jed’s chair. He hit his head, but they let him walk out.

I stopped over to visit a several times removed cousin who lived near Portobello, a coastal suburb of Edinburgh. One evening he took me to a quite nice eating establishment with a cozy bar affording us a fair view of the Firth of Forth.

I noticed right away this strange-looking chap at the bar. Fellow wore a kilt (this was Scotland) and a tweed jacket. He held by his side a crooked walking stick on top of which perched a Tam o'shanter hat. He reminded me of a grown up elf, with a smiling face and friendly word for everyone.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Oh, he used to live 'round here. Ages ago," my cousin replied.

Then the chap slid off the barstool and gave us all a deep bow, then called to the bartender:

"I'll be goin' now, Fred. But before I do, how's about a wee deoch an' doris--or as they say in the Colonies, 'one for the road!'"

He downed the drink in a single swallow, the out the door he went.

I could not believe the notion that popped into my mind. I had seen old photos of that chap. He was quite famous . . . and had been for a long time.

"Good Lord," I said, choking up in disbelief. "I must be seeing things. I must be delirious. That can't be he!"

My cousin grinned from ear to ear, clapped me on the shoulder and said with a laugh, "Oh but it is, me laddie. It most certainly is!"

When Uncle Henry came to dinner, he nearly always fell asleep in one of the living room recliners after eating.

This both frightened and angered Little Johnny. His uncle's snoring sounded like a death rattle, and the sudden stops and starts and grunts and snorts infuriated the youngster so that he saw red.

One night Johnny could tolerate it no longer. He found his father's ball peen hammer and tapped it against the top of his uncle's all but bald head. The blow didn't draw blood, but left a tiny dent in Uncle Henry's scalp.

No one laughed, but everyone except Little Johnny (who was suddenly appalled at what he had done), wanted to.

Johnny's father shooed the boy upstairs to his bedroom then told Uncle Henry:

"Hey, Henry. You'd better get along home to finish your nap tonight. It'll be a lot safer!"

Part I.

The remnants of the Imperial Regiment marched down the gentle slope toward the narrow strip of beach bordering the sea.

"Regiment halt!" the General called out, for all his officers and noncoms had been slain so that there was no one else of a fitting rank to transmit his orders.

The General stood on a small, humped knoll, his sword held diagonally across his chest, and surveyed his men. They were almost totally exhausted, yet stood at rigid attention facing the sea. They were woefully overtaxed from a long, brutal battle, then a forced march of fifty miles or more without a rest break.

It would soon be over for them but, mercifully, they were too fatigued to care.


Part II

The General, his armor battered and his uniform in tatters, stood ramrod straight, and pointed his sword out toward the sea.

"We suffered grievous defeat but fought a hero's fight before retreating in the face of overwhelming odds. I am proud of you all, though woefully disappointed in all of us for not winning the battle. You know why we are here. It is the King's Decree that no Commander bring home his troops in defeat. That is why I marched you here, to the World's End shore, and the closest waters deep enough for our final purpose."

Raising his sword above his head, the General gave another command:

"Bugler, sound the order to charge!"

Though the bugler was wounded and exhausted, his bugle call was loud and clear. The General strode from the knoll and made his way toward the water's edge.


Part III

Again the General motioned with his sword, and broke into a double-time march until his heavy, scarred boots were splashing in the surf. Behind him, his soldiers managed a final outcry of warlust as they surged forward after their Commander. Very soon the whole lot of them, weighed down by their weapons and armor, floundered and sank beneath the gentle waves.

The sounds and movements of the soldiers reached the super-sensitive ears of a family of hungry sea serpents barely a mile distant. These titans of the ocean undulated toward shore, and the drowned corpses of the Imperial Regiment were ravenously devoured.


Part IV

When word of his Regiment's defeat reached the King, he flew into a rage and ordered all members of the soldiers' families be put to the sword.

The next day the King dispatched another Imperial Regiment to destroy the enemy, pointedly reminding the new General of the penalty for defeat.

Meanwhile, the family of sea serpents continued to linger near the shore in hopes of receiving another bountiful feast, while many miles to the east the new General began the long march to do battle with the thus far undefeated enemy.

Like the defeated General before him, the new Commander marched briskly with a confident gleam in his eye and the firm resolve that defeat was not an option.