Jim the Writer

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death

Grant’s Last Campaign

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U.S. Grant 1885 (Public Domain)

On a porch near Saratoga Springs, he gathers his forces from a rattan chair. The Great Captain, bundled in blankets against the summer air. Death is close, tasting like a damp cigar. “Grant’s Last Campaign,” the newspapers call it. He scratches away. Shiloh, The Wilderness, Cold Harbor. Has he said enough? Too much?

Blue lines sway along a sandy Virginia road. They serenade him with “John Brown’s Body.” Ahead, fast columns block the retreating army. More blood. More bodies to molder in the grave. Word comes from Lee. He will meet.

It’s all there, complete.

Victory is the only justification.

If the gods be merciful

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The good people of Kal were fixing to burn another witch. The event would close the Festival of the Tyrant’s Demise. “Third one this week,” Proffer said as we watched the wood-stack grow. “They must like the smell. The evil–”

“Judge not, lest you be judged,” I said hastily. And in a lower voice: “Be careful, my friend.”

Proffer narrowed his eyes, but spoke more softly. “You’re right, of course. I’m sorry.”

“We’ll move on before the lighting.”

He sighed, and glanced toward the great temple. “Do you think she has confessed?”

“If the gods be merciful,” I said.

I wrote this fiction for the 100 Word Challenge: “Tyrant” at Thin Spiral Notebook.

See Part II of this story: Her name is Future

Timing is Everything

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Fellowes, carrying orders for the 3rd Division, stood in the sandy track, clutching the dispatch case against his side like a talisman. Across the field, smoke rose from a distant blue tree-line.

Small groups of men moved about the field. Fellowes started toward one group. All around him, dark shapes lay in the stubble. He avoided looking at them. He couldn’t avoid smelling them.

His way was blocked by a silent tangle of men and horses. At his feet was a kepi with a sky-blue clover leaf on its top.

Fellowes let out his breath.

He’d found the 3rd Division.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #380 at Velvet Verbosity.

Last Call

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Larry told her before last call. “Your brother’s dead.”  Just like that.

Janay sagged against the bar.

“You OK?”

“For a bartender, you got shitty people-skills.”

“Take off, why don’t you.”

She shook her head. “He said he was invincible. I guess he believed it.”

Janay finished the shift. Later, her mother was predictable. “They shot him in the street,” she said. “Like a dog.”

“I never saw a dog shot.  How they do that?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“He didn’t deserve to be done that way.”

Janay wasn’t sure what he deserved.

“We gotta get out of here,” she said.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #352 at Velvet Verbosity.

Gerald the Underhanded

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Prince Gerald had an epiphany. Half-way unto the breach, he feigned a leg cramp. Thus, brave brother Rainer surged ahead and climbed the rubble-pile first, closely followed by a hundred men-at-arms.

Rainer tumbled down as fast, an arrow through the eye. The whispers began immediately. Later, the battle won, the castle carried, Gerald marveled at his insight. I will be king, he thought. And so he was. With Rainer’s bones interred and his widow warming the royal bed, the whispers grew.

“A king must rise above mere rumor,” Gerald said.

His reign was long, enlightened and generous; his name, immortal.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #350 at Velvet Verbosity.