I haven't seen this topic around here for some time, and I know we have some talented writers out there. To start the ball rolling, here's a link to twenty-two very short stories I wrote over the last month or so, based on the Major Arcana of the Tarot.

The Major Arcana: A Writing Exercise in Twenty-Two Parts

Great! I use the Tarot all the time for plot ideas. The symbols in there are ancient and universal, and if I can keep the actual reading out of it, sometimes the story line works.

Morgan Greer is the deck, also Native American for a shot of nature and tribal takes. Current work includes a regional short and base writing for the next novel, plus odds and ends.

What you've done, Victoria, is fascinating. Thanks for sharing this with us. I like the format of the short-short so I can come back to your stories throughout the day as time allows. Homelessness horror is what I've read so far, and it's good.

I'm thinking of taking up pencil drawing as a serious hobby, something tactile like guitar except with greater persistence. Portraits and landscapes are the primary draws (heh). Pencils are more simple than paints. I like simple.

Still in the process of shopping the first novel. No bites yet, which is okay. I haven't been hit by lightning or smushed by an ambitious boulder either. There's no urge to revise -- think that's a good sign that the story holds up.

BTW Victoria, I am a big fan of the canis lupis species. Also, were did you come up with name Silverwolf?

Cool, Victoria! I don't know much about the tarot, but I thought your writing was great.

Here are the beginnings of a love story (first person, male narrative) I'll share (but only the beginning, because it crosses the line of forum rules after this portion )

When I met her I was working at a pizza place near the beach. It was about 10:30 on a Wednesday night when she came in. I was behind the counter and the place was empty except for me, so I was watching TV. I had the door propped open and could still hear the waves gently collapsing onto the beach over the sound of whatever I was watching. There was a light breeze that would occasionally make its way through the door. This was one of those nights that was so beautiful it could make me forget that everything in my life hadn’t been exactly smooth. I even thought about shutting down the place early since there was hardly anyone on the boardwalk, but I knew the boss would go off the deep end if he somehow found out that I had left even a little before 11:00.

She stepped through the door and into the light of the shop and walked directly towards me. I was used to seeing beautiful girls at Santa Monica beach, yet it never got old. There was always the exhilaration followed immediately by the impulse to act disinterested, as if I slept with so many hot women that I was bored by it all. She was looking at the menu that was over the counter as she approached the register. Although I probably wouldn’t have fooled anyone, in my mind I looked perfectly uninvolved, but since she wasn’t looking at me maybe I’d sneak a quick peek. Just then she looked straight into my eyes. I was glad to have had a few seconds to get into my disinterested role because her gaze was arresting. Her eyes were so deep and focused that for a moment I lost track of my thoughts.

I smiled casually and said, “What can I do for you?” Her face was expressionless. She paused for just long enough to make me feel uncomfortable before saying, “I want something to eat.” She hadn’t reacted at all to my smile and I felt it melt away. “Well that’s what we do here. What would you like?” She looked away for a moment and then focused right into my eyes again. “You’re the chef,” she said, “you figure it out.”

Before I could think of anything clever to say she turned and walked over to a table that was next to the window. I tried not to watch her walk away, but could not help myself. She was wearing short cutoff blue jeans, a white t-shirt and flip-flops. I only looked for a second, but I was staggered. She was slender with narrow hips and had beautiful legs. Her skin was not very dark, but contrasted seductively with her white shirt. My brief stare was enough to cause a stir in me, and in some recess of my mind I marveled at how quickly chemicals are transferred around in the human body.

I looked at the few old pizza slices sitting under the shelf and decided to make a new pie for her. Certainly it did not make sense to bake a new pizza just before closing, but I could always take the leftovers home. I decided that if I were going to be cooking leftovers I’d might as well make a large. As I began work on the pizza I casually looked up to see her. She was sitting facing the door, and her head was slightly cocked towards the window. Now that she was in profile I could finally take a long look. My hands worked automatically on the dough while my mind was elsewhere.

She had a mop of disheveled jet-black hair that didn’t quite touch her shoulders. Her arms were toned and thin and she had chipped black polish on her short fingernails. Her breasts that were not very large and it didn’t look like she was wearing a bra. My gaze continued to drift down to where her shorts had drifted up to the top of her thighs close to her hip joint. Her feet were crossed underneath the chair. She was absolutely beautiful, but not in the traditional southern California sense. In fact, I’m sure that most of the local crowd wouldn’t even notice her next to all the Pamela Anderson types on the beach. As I put the finishing touches on the pizza I decided she was probably the “weird girl” in high school. Speaking of that, how old was she? I had no idea- maybe 22; maybe 32- there was no way to be sure.

She never looked away from the window the entire time I was cooking the pizza. I looked out to see what she was watching, but there was nothing but a reflection of the moon on the ocean. I would have to think of something clever to say to get her to take an interest in me. It was pretty clear that some comment about her beautiful eyes wasn’t going to work well. Watching the clock, I actually was dreading the fact that the pizza couldn’t stay in the oven a little longer so I could put off getting shot down a little while.

After taking the pizza from the oven I cut it in half and brought it over to the table. I carried the pizza tray in one hand with the other behind my back. She never took her eyes away from the window until I set the pizza on the table. She shifted her eyes to study the food I had prepared. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want one piece or two,” I said casually. She looked up at me and I brought my hand from behind my back to place a knife on the table. For a moment, her eyes changed, but she did not smile. I met her look with my own approximation of complete stoicism. She didn’t say anything for a moment, and it felt as if she was stealing my gaze so I could not look away. “And do we have anything to drink here?” she said without blinking. This time I did not ask her what she wanted, but left without a word.

I went to the refrigerator in the back of the store and pulled out a bottle of red wine that had probably been opened yesterday or the day before. I was amazed at how awkward I felt. I had dealt with plenty of girls who wouldn’t talk to you unless you were driving a Ferrari, but this was different. I didn’t know what to make of her. I poured the wine into a Styrofoam cup and took it to her. I set it on the table and noticed she had cut a small piece from one half of the pizza. She was eating while looking out the window and gave me a quick look before I departed. For the first time noticed her eyes were actually dark brown. She wasn’t wearing any makeup that I could tell except some black eyeliner that went all the way around her eyes.

As she ate I stood behind the counter and tried to watch TV, but I could not stop thinking about her. I watched her as she looked out the window and drank the wine. She had only eaten a very small piece of the large pizza I made. I felt completely uneasy about her. I had met many girls that were beautiful and cold, but something about her was different. She had a strange beauty, and she wasn’t cold. She was dark. I desperately wanted to make some kind of connection with her, but I couldn’t think of anything I could do to make that happen. Certainly I couldn’t ask her out to a movie. I felt tortured with the idea that in a few moments she would walk out and I would never see her again. There was nothing I could do about it. In the background the there was some inane applause on the TV but I was in my own private agony. I would have to let her go.

As I was contemplating my fate she pushed the chair back and walked over to me. She was still holding the half cup of wine when she reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled money. She set the money on the counter top and looked at me without saying a word. Her full bottom lip was prominent even without lipstick. “Keep your money, it’s on me”, I said with a slight smile. “Keep it,” she said. “Your pizza sucks.” With that she turned and walked out taking a long drink from the cup. The sign by the door saying all alcohol must be consumed in the restaurant seemed absurd. My eyes were locked on the area where the back of her thighs met her cutoffs. I was completely hooked and heartbroken all at the same time. I couldn’t believe that in a few minutes she had done this to me without even trying.

That night I didn’t sleep well. It seemed like every 15 minutes I awoke with the image of her sitting and looking out the window. I could see every detail clearly. I had never felt desire like this before in my life. In fact, I had never even felt anything close to this. It wasn’t just lust, but a complete fascination with this dark and brooding girl. In a way it was frightening to feel this way. It was as if there was nothing I would deny her. If she asked me to rob a liquor store to get her a piece of gum I would do it. If she told me to give her all my money I would do it. My mind was racked with ideas of how I could find her. Even roaming the streets aimlessly looking for her seemed like a somewhat reasonable plan if there was any chance at all it would work.

The next several days passed in a haze. I thought about her constantly and couldn’t sleep. At work I was exhausted. I tried taking naps but the result was the same torment I had at night in bed. I talked to people, but I would find that I wouldn’t even know what we had talked about when the conversation ended. My appetite was all but gone. My rational mind knew this was insane. A mysterious girl came into my restaurant for a few minutes and told me my pizza sucked, and for this my life was turned upside down. I recalled a quote I had once read from Oscar Wilde- “The mystery of love is greater even than the mystery of death.” This made me wonder if the long dead author had ever been in this kind of hell.

It had been 3 days since I first saw her when she walked in again. It was once again near closing time. She looked exactly as she had before, except she was wearing a loose black t-shirt with the logo of some obscure band on it. There was a couple laughing and flirting at one of the tables, but suddenly I felt alone with her. I stared blankly, but my pulse jumped erratically upward in just a second or two so that I could hear my heartbeat in my ear. Her eyes bore into me, yet she betrayed no emotion. Her black hair haphazardly framed her face.

When she stopped in front of me, I spoke first. “I thought my pizza sucked,” I said. “It did,” she said. “But you can try again, and burn it this time.” She started to turn, but I stopped her. “Wait. What’s your name?” I asked my heart still pounding. Her lips pursed ever so slightly and then she turned and walked to her seat by the window.

I was (expletive). In the past 3 days I had done nothing but think about this girl, and she wouldn’t even tell me her name. As I watched her stare out the window my anger quickly passed and returned to utter obsession. She was so beautiful in her way that my heart actually ached. The thought of spending a moment without her was almost unbearable and I didn’t even know her name.

I burned the pizza, but this time I cut it up into regular slices. I also poured her a cup of wine. I brought them to the table and she brought her gaze from the window onto me. Neither of us said anything and the second seemed freeze in time. She glanced down at the pizza glanced and I began to turn. “Rachel,” she said. I turned back around to squarely face her. As I told her my name I saw sadness around her eyes and then it was gone. I turned to go back behind the counter and every gland in my brain was releasing all its chemicals at once causing total emotional overload. This feeling passed briefly as the giggling couple approached the register to pay their bill. The transaction was automatic and I could not have recognized either of them after they left if my life depended on it.

She ate a whole piece of pizza this time, which was quite a bit more than the partial piece she ate last time. Watching her eat was bliss and torment at the same time. I wanted to tell her everything, yet there was no way to do it. What was I going to do- go up and say, “I’m madly in love with you and want to be together forever?” For a moment I almost chuckled to myself as I thought about how I had dazzled her with charm and conversation. Just then she got up and carried the rest of the pizza and her wine cup towards me. She set the pizza on the counter and said, “I want you to come with me.” I said, “okay” sensing that asking any questions could only ruin this. I flipped off the oven as she said, “bring the wine.” I grabbed the only bottle of wine in the store and headed to the front of the store, leaving the pizza on the counter. She was standing just outside the doorway in the darkness. My heart was racing as I turned out the lights and locked the door.

What a clever writing exercise!

Victoria, the Magician story looks like a good premise for a novel.

Thought this poem is appropriate for the thread.



On Coming to Terms


Everyone has to work
Within what we get at birth
Or maybe it happens a little later
When we first realize self.

Does the soul enter the body
At fertilization? How can anyone know?
Maybe the soul enters the body
When we first realize self.

The soul does not keep track
Of itself. There is no soul journal,
No history of the soul. It just is
When we first realize self.

We cannot prove that it exists,
The soul you know. But we sure
Know it when we see it displayed,
When we first realize self.

That musician has a lot of soul
Is commonly said about those who
Make music you must dance to
When we first realize self.

Or that artist shows a lot of soul
In the work of art, whatever it
May be and how it raises issues
When we first realize self.

I am not sure about writers.
This seems more of a curse than
A gift, a responsibility that we take
When we first realize self.

Writing is work! It hardly ever
Comes easy, like an inspiration,
More like a flood or drought
When we first realize self.

Salary work is a lot easier,
I would prefer to do that
If I could, but we accept this
When we first realize self.

Oh, I know that musicians and
Artists suffer, along with dancers
And actors, all in this boat together
When we first realize self.

One big boatload of suffering on
The Specific Ocean, no paddle,
Trying always to get it right
When we first realize self.

Once in a while something works well
And somebody gets fame plus fortune.
But that is not why we do this
When we first realize self.

We do this because we have no choice.
What a raw deal, it’s enough to drive
Us nuts. Abnormally we survive
When we first realize self.

Many years ago, long before there was an Internet, the name "Victoria Silverwolf" came to me out of nowhere as the name of my alternate personality. (I live in a fantasy world.) This was long before it was trendy to be New Age/Wiccan/Gothic/whatever. Since then, it seems that quite a few people in those categories use the same last name.

Viki, You little proto Goth you



Here is something old from back when I wrote:

There is blood on the sand Sire!
Blood? Aye, the bloody ruin of the Moorish host,
trampled into the wretched mire.
The city is ours! We cannot fail!
But see the crescent moon stands higher!
And the trebuchet will not reach.
Speak ye not wretch of mortal limits to quench mine desire
Get thee from mine sight, and loosen yonder gate
Forward men! Into the fire!
Unto the pitliess face of the death we soon shall kiss.
Feel the thunder, see the flyer,
Flee upon his steed, to spread the news.
The holy city is breached The walls, the temple with its spires!
The Grand Sultan, caught by the Franks,
Meets a doom most dire,
his bloody entrails slick in the dust, his body abandoned
his Nubians fled, his gaurds for hire
Dead.
Kneel with me and pray good Friar,
For thine brothers dear, in deeds of arms proven
must suffer not in the heat to tire.
Gather up the ranks!
Four deep, two hundred across, cavalry to the flanks!
Here comes the Royal heathen liar,
Breaker of oaths and slayer of kin.
Sound the trumpets, the drums, the lyre.
Forwards! Forwards!
See how the sky is dark, our archers fire!!
Yet what is this? Am I slain?
Where is my man? call for mine squire...
Shall I see thee fields of France no more? Sweet Madelaine?
and all that I admire?
No? so this field is mine end..
Mine funeral pyre?
And my last memory of glorious life,
Is nought but bitter ire.

Mrs. Pigpen -- You write from the male point of view very well indeed. Rachel is a fascinating character. This excerpt has a sort of "film noir" feel to it, and I wonder if you are going that direction.

AuthorMusician -- This poem combines philosophy with playfulness is a pleasing way. I detect some very subtle uses of sound in it; no doubt a result of your musical talent.

moif -- This is a remarkable recreation of the past. Your use of rhyme manages to be original, and yet it reminds one of old ballads. The sudden use of the single word "dead" standing alone is quite effective.

Here are four slightly longer stories, all horror/dark fantasy in a series I call "Tales of the October Club."

Vital Signs

Jackknife

Harvest

Absolution

Victoria,

The High Priestess meditation is right on the mark. Just read a novel that used reference to Roman Empire virgins in a romance scene, a few of them actually, where the virgins were burried alive if they failed in their duties, each with a lamp and loaf of bread: The Last Promise by Evans.

This take on the High Priestess left me with a similar chill. Her inscrutible face will tell you to not ask anymore. You really don't want to know. Concentrate on your fishing and your coins.

For the Roman virgins, it was that love is worth even being burried alive. Fortunately, the story has a happy ending and nobody (contemporary) dies. Evans is good with this sort of thing.

Anyway, this meditation/image could be useful in a similar way.

Thanks Viki. Personally I prefer staggered rymes that render a poem abstract (to my mind). I've tried to make more structured poems and they don't quite work as well in my opinion:


In the October rain.

Young´uns, heed your elders d´ya hear? listen and learn from our advice.
We´ve many a lesson from distant year, for which we paid the price,
I´ll tell thee a tale of young mans fear, and turn your blood to ice.
So sit thee down, and stoke yonder fire, and keep as still as mice.

T´was from this place of midwinter cold, where the robin sings, and the snowflakes dance.
In 1415 by the reckoning of old, when we broke the Dauphin´s lance.
King Harry! aye a king so bold, who played the royal game of chance.
Did carmine turn, the muddy fold, in the distant land of France.

Seventeen days is long to walk, with fingers chapped and bloody raw,
With dissention rife, and mutinous talk. For men who’ll fight by Royal law,
Stretching the days with salted pork, no rest, no warmth, and not before,
We trod the road, though some did baulk, to reach the camp we’d toiled hard for.

We crossed the river, arms held high, and met the French host standing to.
In arms attired, their camp close by, Their banners raised, their colours flew,
We set our camp, to eat and be dry, but the rain fell thick as the camp fires grew.
Be of good cheer! The King did cry, and all night we sang and sipped our brew.

At dawn I awoke on Saint Crispins day, I strapped the steel upon my breast
I strung my bow, the English way, To out play the Frenchmen’s arbalest,
We pitched our staves where our lines lay, for there to meet the enemy best.
Then in the rain, I knelt to pray, and before my lord, my sins confessed.

King Harry stood before us all, and raised his voice and held high his arm,
Bow in hand, I heard him call, whether from Lord of manor or son of the farm,
Whether poised to win, or doomed to fall, by bloody deed or mortal harm,
Brothers all, both proud and tall, we cheered the King for his wit and charm.

Upon the hill the French did cheer, forming lines of horse and pike ever intent
But in the pouring rain we felt no fear, out numbered five for one, three thousand bows bent
Three fingers to the string, pile to ear, ‘’stretch her hearty lads’’, cried Deacon of Kent
Arrows leapt aloft as swift as a running deer and dark with feathered death, the sky was rent

Like a forge hammer on glowing steel, the arrow storm rained and French blood spilled.
I saw them pause, stagger and reel, their screams dim, as their first line was killed
To remember them dying is hard to feel, and mine heart is heavy with guilt filled,
For young and old, rude or genteel, we laid them down as King Henry willed.

Their nobles charged across the field, ten thousand horse and as many men.
But the mud was thick and wouldn’t yield, and each Englishman died at the cost of ten,
The King, bloody sword still ready to wield, came from the mire, and called to cease then,
for the French envoy, under a parley shield, begged leave they might bury their dead on yonder fen.

I can still hear the silence, in the muted rain, the battle was ours, but at what a price?
So many lay dead, or broken in pain. The King spoke of honour and Gods paradise
but for most t’was nought, and all but in vain. For when glory is passed, its nought quite so nice,
but misery and hunger, and very small gain, and friends who have died, by the roll of fate´s dice

This really brought the past alive for me. It can be seen as a companion piece to Shakespeare's Henry V.

Here's a poem I wrote on the subject of African Americanism:

Black Is The Soul

Black is the Night, when fires of despair burn the tongue
Infernos of anxiety, melting cement beneath an angry son.

Black is the Day, when the pusher comes to shove
Waves of anger and violence, no place for mama's love.

Black is the Fool who dreams of a compassionate God
Who spoiled the child by sparing the rod.

Black is the Burden the penitentiary protects
Encaged, enraged, embittered derelicts.

Black is the Soul who sees what could have been
If the here and now wasn't tarnished by the dirty, white then.

~~~

This has powerful emotional content, and some interesting use of words. (I particularly like "pusher comes to shove.")

I am familiar with the name from my favorite child hood comic, ElfQuest (my nerdhood is shining bright). That was a primary female character in the story line so I was intrigued.

Here's something I wrote years ago. This is first draft and wreaks of my life as a bartender. I guess I miss it a little:

My best love affair went south
at sixty miles per hour on route 9
one night,
when our two tumbleweed
cars had to suddenly merge.

It all started with a wink of a
blinker, then a nod of the steering
wheel (like moving the bar stool closer)
I looked and she gave a corner-mouth smile
so I hit the gas and
We began to dance like
courting birds, pulling in and out
of lanes, circling, teasing
‘til we locked down hard- door to door.
Two eagles plummeting to an asphalt climax,
barreling through street lights and shadows
and crossing all the solid white lines ‘til
allofthesudden,
I pulled out of our tryst
and into the virgin sand at the mouth
of exit 25…
And the best part was, for once, I
was the one
who ended it.



Edited to try to figure out the format...cut and paste is not my friend......

I'll try to play Victoria, cuz I owe you for your helpful past posts; but, I'm a bit reclusive. So, here goes, from Lek:

I’m new to writing, and really love it for what it does for me. I recommend “flash-fiction” (super short stories) as a newish writing discipline for all to try. One internet pub of it is where I've been doin' stuff is at: http://www.gwthomas.org/flashshotindex.htm, a fun and fast site to write on. ” FYI”, my first, and my latest flash-fiction“ "stories” follow:

WELCOME HOME

The mountain air was clear, cool and clean. The forest was that emerald
green of nature's life "living."

BackShack grinned, gave DeadMeat the traditional vet-to-vet hug, back slap,
and healing words, "Welcome home."

DeadMeat's eyes misted. His shoulders shook.

BackShack held him until the shaking slowed. He had been there. He knew the
painful feelings overtaking DeadMeat against his will.

Then they turned and walked up the path, as though nothing unusual had just
happened.

But it was the "coming home."

DeadMeat walked the trail, saw the punji sticks and felt whole again.

"Welcome home." Back to reality. The Nam.

© 2006 Leslie B. Dean

DRAFTED

“Well, we did it, we’re finally registered with the Draft Board.”

Bill groused, “Sure Sue, you like it. I liked the old Draft where not everyone had to serve. Now everyone serves, no mater what!”

Sue quickly tore open her draft assignment letter and squealed in delight, “I got it! I’m going to be a fourth grade math teacher in Texas.”

"What is your assignment Bill?"

“Bill, are you OK? You look kind of sick? What's wrong?"

Bill was pale and shaky. In a soft weak voice, he answered, “My draft assignment is to be President of the United States.”

© 2006 Leslie B. Dean

I took a variety of classes with one of the editors of the original book Flash Fiction. I'd say we were friends, but really, he just put up with me. It's a great exercise in writing. My personal favorite is "The Burlington Northern - Southbound". An amazing amount said in two very short pages. Unfortunately you have to buy the book to read it as it is copyright protected material...

I was always a Strongbow and Moonshade fan myself. Something about the combination of the two personalities really impressed me.

Childhood nerds of the world unite!

My husband wrote this satirical piece this morning.

2004

The Air Force, weary of watching the Army get all the press in the Global War on Terror, initiates a program to regain the spotlight it enjoyed after the 1999 conflict in Kosovo. The plan calls for development of an Osama Bin Laden “wish you were dead” button that will be mounted on top of the presidential signing table in the White House Rose Garden. Senior Air Force officials envision a ceremony in the Rose Garden where the president will push the button at the band plays the last note of the Air Force song, followed by a dramatic military fly by. The Army and Navy are not to be invited to the festivities.

Bidding starts on the program proposal, and Lockheed Martin and Boeing emerge as the most likely candidates to produce the system. In a risky gambit Lockheed takes out a full page add in “City Life” newspaper that helps to land the deal. The add, a master stroke, shows soldiers prepared for battle and the caption “why make them fight, when we can wish Osama dead?”

The final proposal includes a very large glossy pamphlet explaining the merits of being able to wish Osama was dead. Congressmen are quick to get out in front on this one, providing much needed leadership to ensure that parts of the button are made in nearly all 50 states. A program cost estimate of $50 million seems trivial.

2005

Technical difficulties and a strike at the spring factory begin to take their toll on the program. Lockheed Martin executives maintain that the concept of the wish you were dead button is sound, but they should not be expected to develop all the technology on their own, and no one could have foreseen the impact of the strike at the spring factory. The program slips a year and the cost climbs to $700 million, which the Air Force is quick to point out “is cheap compared to what the Army is doing”.

Aviation Week publishes program details of the wish you were dead button. Most of the information centers around the Rose Garden, the Air Force Band, and the military flyby. Details of how the system works are sketchy.

Lockheed Martin admits to an accounting error. The company did not plan for Christmas bonuses in the revised budget. Uncle Sam absorbs this cost growth as Lockheed releases another full page add in “City Life”.

The Navy, not wanting to appear impotent, enters a contract with Boeing to develop a wish you were dead button capability. Boeing runs its own add in City Life.

2006

Lockheed and Boeing very quietly develop their competing systems. The assumption is that Osama will be dead sometime in fiscal 2007. Budget battles intensify as the services unveil proposals to kill Osama Bin Laden. The Air Force is quick to point out that it rejected the Boeing approach earlier and doubts whether the Navy could orchestrate a military fly over just as the president pressed the button. Lockheed begins distribution of wish you were dead button tie tacks, and much of the controversy dies.

The rest of the year sees military industry giants quietly shoring up the final touches on their systems.

2007

Amid pomp and pageantry the president makes a few remarks and the band starts to play. On the last note of the Air Force song (Lockheed finished first) the president pushes the button, as a perfectly orchestrated military fly by roars past. Senior government and military officials congratulate one another. Air Force Generals Beam. One mouths the words “honk on it” to the only Navy Admiral allowed at the ceremony.

Day later it is apparent that Osama lives…

NEWSWIRE (Washington D.C.) Investigation into the apparent failure of the “wish you were dead system” reveals that the system required the exact location of Osama Bin Laden. In addition, system specifications required that the terrorist leader not move (other than for potty breaks) for 72 hours. Since Osama’s location was unknown at the time of launch, the system attacked its default target, a spring factory in Kansas, damaging a restroom. Senior Air Force officials dismissed the miscue as “the fog of war” and stood poised to try again. “The band is on call” was the rallying motto in the E-ring of the pentagon. Lockheed officials downplayed the failure and highlighted the successful technology development and all the jobs that were created as the result of the $1.2 billion effort. The Lockheed Martin VP said, “We look forward to future partnerships in defense of our nation. God bless you, and God bless the Unites States.”

Arf! The President's Easy Button, eh?

Here's something strange that I've noticed. While living around the DC area, government contractors seemed to be all over the place, the Beltway Banditos. Now near Colorado Springs, government contractors are around but not so visibile. I guess this is where the buttons get built. Over There is where they get proposed.

We get lots of fly-bys when the AF Academy does graduation ceremonies. It's fun to go along Rampart Range Road, get a parking spot and look DOWN on the antique flying craft heading to the Academy. It's like looking down at fish in a big aquarium, an M.C. Escher moment.

Yeah, Mr P has been working with military contractors a lot for the last four years now. This assignment has been particularly enlightening (or discouraging) because of the close proximity to the Pentagon. He has come to the conclusion that 80 percent of the energy of the top officials is expended in a quest for which service branch can get the most money. The Air force competes with the other branches and if they get more they 'win', ect....So, he sees the interaction from both sides. How the contractors operate, and how the leadership operates.

The above satire is closer to the truth than many would ever believe.

Mrs. P, what if you and Mr. P were to write a novel based on his inside knowledge of the way government contracting works? Might there be something like The Firm in the fiction, and could this fiction bring out real-world money/political situations?

I'm seeing opportunity to make this novel funny. Love the idea about the Wish You Were Dead Button, a Vonnegut-like satire.