Amazon Kindle - Oh what a feeling! - Part Duex

Wow! What a roller coaster of emotions. Anyone who has uploaded their first book to Kindle must understand. I've been checking the status of sales, re-reading the manuscript, researching marketing tips, all of it. But then, one of my favorite author/reviewers sent me an email.

It had two pages of nits and typo fixes for the uploaded text. ARG!

There were some out-right, ridiculous errors and typos that completely escaped me. And they were things I'd changed and updated since the last time my professional editor saw it. So, it was all on me.

Oh well. They've been corrected and re-uploaded. McShane is, once again, "In Review" on Kindle. Once we go live, I'll post the new link here.

Amazon Kindle - Oh what a feeling!

I did it! After angst, anxiety, mistakes and more, my story, McShane Mini-Mysery - Billionaire at the Bar is now live on Kindle.

When the Kindle email came through informing me McShane was now (finally!) available online, I read it aloud to my husband. Then he said, "Your mama would have been proud."

Yeah, I cried.

Here's the announcement I've been sending out...

***

McShane Mini-Mystery, Billionaire at the Bar is now live on Kindle.

When the love of her life is viciously slain, Sam discovers secrets her lover kept which will change her life, for better and worse, forever. But can she stay one step ahead of the killer?

Do you only have a brief time to read, but still would like to read a complete mystery? Are you disappointed to find most “Mini-Mysteries” out there are targeted for children? Then you need to buy a copy of “Billionaire at the Bar”, the first of the McShane series of mini-mysteries for adults. The McShane Mini-Mysteries is a complete set of short and satisfying stories that adults can enjoy.

Go to http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HB6H6UI now to pick up your 99¢ copy of McShane Mini-Mystery, Billionaire at the Bar. 

*** 

So now, as I understand it, the real works begins. Yeah, like writing it was the 'easy' part. Nope, the hard part is marketing. Somehow, I have to let the world know this book is out there. Among the 300,000 books uploaded annually, my little tale will be drowned. 

Wish me luck!

Or, you could go buy a copy yourself. Thanks, :)

Shark Bait

Shark Bait

In case you didn’t know, I’m a Floridian. The ocean does not scare me. However, I hold a healthy respect for stingrays, jellyfish, man-o-war’s, the sharks, and any other creature that may deem me an in-between-meal snack.

One day this summer I found myself on a glass-bottom-boat tour in the Bahamas. The boat was older, privately owned, but still a sea-worthy vessel. The captain stopped the boat in forty foot, crystal clear waters. The first mate tells us the fish are plentiful and will come to the boat if we throw fish food overboard. Which he is selling for two dollars a cup. I smile and decline, as the others clamor for their wallets.

As a school of yellow tail snapper swarm beneath the hull and fight for the food thrown overboard, I catch a glimpse of something gliding by further below, probably thirty to forty feet further down. A man-eater. I think it’s a sand shark, but it’s hard to tell from the straight down angle through the double pane glass.

My first thought was the shark came to feed on the yellow tails. Then I became concerned for the dive boat off of our port bow. I wanted to talk to the captain so he could give warning. I found him on the upper deck, holding a line strung through a barracuda. I keep my concerns to myself and scurry back down to the lower deck. The Bahamian captain displayed a confidence handling the line. There was something about to take place that I did not want to miss, no matter how respectful I may be toward to the terrifying sea life.

The view to the bottom now shows not one, but three sharks, far below, gliding back and forth, as if keeping sentry. The intercom announces to the passengers the captain has a ‘treat’ for us, and we should all come to the starboard side to catch a glimpse of a great white.

Every one of us lined up, cameras ready. I found a spot on the starboard side with a view of the upper deck where the captain stood, all the way to the water surface below. I cued up the video.

The captain dropped the barracuda attached by a rope into the water. Within five seconds he had a bite. He and his first mate heaved the line to withdraw from the water a six-foot behemoth, holding the offered shark bait with row upon row of dagger shaped teeth.

They continued to pull this monster from another age up and out of the water, until the thing was within an arm’s reach of the crew on the upper deck. Literally. An arm’s reach. The Captain, still holding the line with one hand, reached out and pets the damn thing. He pets the snout, inches from those blades of teeth!

After the display, the crew lowered the rope the living nightmare held through the barracuda. When the tip of the shark’s tail touched the water’s surface, the jaws clamped shut, biting through the bait, and the beast fell back with a minimum of water displacement. Two thirds of the barracuda swung on the tether. The nervous passengers were asked over the intercom if we’d like to see the shark again.

A second lowering of the shark bait brought a fight amongst the monstrosities. Shark noses, eyes and jaws broke the surface in a frenzied froth. The shark that won the battle for the bloody remnants was pulled out of the water as the first had been. To say the six-footer was the behemoth was an overstatement. The second shark’s tail barely cleared the water as the Captain, from the upper deck, cooed and petted the living nightmare. Again, as the show came to an end, and the crew lowered the colossus to the surface, the moment the tail touched water the teeth of the ancient predator ripped through the barracuda and splashed back to the depths from which it rose.

Afterwards, I watched my video recording of the first shark. The angle, the lighting, the Captain, the shark, and even the barracuda were recorded perfectly from my spot on the starboard side. While not a great white, I’m pretty sure it was a thresher, but it could have been a sand shark. Gratitude is offered to my fellow passengers for screaming, scurrying from the rail, and staying out of my camera shot for the entire show. What did you think? The sharks would fly over the rail and eat you?

Well, then again...

 Shark jumps into boat

A Free (Ford Fusion) Car

A true story as told to me by my son, Dan...

            A free 2013 Ford Fusion? Why, yes, I’d be interested in that, thank you.

            It all started with a YouTube video. A thumbnail of one of my favorite stars, Joel McHale, caught my eye, so I clicked it. A National Scavenger Hunt, sponsored by Ford, endorsed by Ryan Seacrest would be held for a total of 47 hours. Forty-seven black boxes were to be placed in forty-seven cities across the nation.

            One of the sites would be my hometown of Orlando, Florida. Two clues of its exact placement would be unlocked on the “Random Acts of Fusion” website at a pre-designated time. With those clues, a ‘word of the day’ posted onsite that must be said to the rep in order to win.

            The first clue: the latitude and longitude of the Ford representative with the box. The second clue being a picture taken from where he stood. Orlando’s clues would be unlocked on October 28, at 11:15am. The problem? Orlando covers a little more than one hundred square miles, and more than 250,000 people here. The chances were slim, but I decided to try.

            October 28. I had rehearsed with my smart phone how to jump back and forth from their website, to my GPS, back to the website. I parked in a location that offered quick access to four of the main thoroughfares branching out into the city. I was set.

            11:15am. The clues unlocked and I fed the coordinates into my map. My strategic placement was perfect. I jumped on I-4 and raced to the Princeton Drive exit. I recognized the somewhat blurred view from the photo. The rep stood on the grounds of the Mennello Museum. I arrived and threw my car in park, frantically trying to decide if view was from the far end behind the building or closer to main road along the river. The museum’s grounds covered a couple of acres. Another car came, a little too quickly, into the parking lot. A decision had to be made. Now.

            On the footbridge about 200 feet away stood two people. Deciding those were the reps, I covered the ground in record time. I glanced back to the other car, smiling inwardly. I had won! But when I reached the people on the bridge, I discovered they were not Ford reps. Arg!

            The occupants of the original car ran the other direction, behind the building. Another car came, and the driver jumped out and ran to follow the first pair. F*ck! I’d made the wrong decision. The rep must be behind the museum.

            Since there was only one winner per locale, I knew I’d lost. I glared down at the water, fifteen feet below, and felt like spitting. I leaned on the handrail and looked up at the Spanish moss hanging off the branches of a nearby oak tree. A breeze moved the moss, allowing a full view of the riverbank. A man stood alone under a pergola at the water’s edge, wearing a Ford t-shirt!

            I ran off the bridge and took the short cut down the side of the steep embankment, rather than the long way around. Flip-flops should not be the shoe of choice when trying to navigate a wet, grassy, steep decline. I lost my footing then slipped, slid and rolled down the entire fifteen feet. When my body came to a stop I jumped up and tried to run. Still making no traction, my feet slipped beneath me. I ran in place for another few seconds. I knew I looked a grass-stained, bloody fool. I didn’t care.

            When I reached the Ford rep, he was doing an admirable job suppressing laughter begging to burst from him. I didn’t care.

            “Damn it! I forgot to get the word of the day!” I blurted as I checked the website on my phone. The man did not utter a sound. I found the word after reaching the spot in front of the Ford rep.

            “Benevolent!” I shouted.

            “Congratulations,” said the grinning man. “You’ve just earned a one in forty-seven chance to win a 2013 Ford Fusion.”

            After filling out the required paperwork (which relinquished my firstborn if I should so much as post a reference to Ford on any social media site prior to the drawing on Tuesday), I received the coveted black box. It contained a water bottle, a travel mug, a tee shirt, a thumb drive and my number for the drawing.

            The coolest part was the number, printed on a holographic sticker inside a plastic display box upon which mounted a model of the 2013 Ford Fusion. Very cool.

            Alas, Tuesday’s drawing is done, and my number did not win. Meh. It was still a blast of fun trying.

McShane

********************************************************************

Note to reader...

A couple of months ago, I entered a writing contest called "Summer Shootout". I came in fourth!

The contest entailed receiving a 'prompt' on Saturday, and having until the following Saturday to submit a short story. There really were no other rules, other than the deadline.

Some people have asked to read the stories I submitted, so I'm posting them here.

This story is for the second prompt given. "An angry woman, a silver platter and a cannon."

I wrote a short story titled, "Scavenge", submitted here as "McShane". It's a detective, murder/mystery piece.

Thanks for reading.

********************************************************************

McShane

by j l mo

            Sam fumbled for her ringing cell and cursed as it fell off of the nightstand. The ring tone belonged to her mom. She decided to leave the phone on the floor and let the call go to voice mail. Calling at nine o’clock in the morning on her day off deserved voice mail.

            The phone finally stopped ringing. She turned to her side and nuzzled down in the pillow as the cell announced with a beep a message had been left. The damn thing started ringing again. Mom was calling back. Then Sam remembered why Mom was calling so early. Her eyes popped open and she quickly sat up on the edge of the bed. She wanted Sam to go on a scavenger hunt with someone she’d just met yesterday. The whole thing sounded strange. She fumbled for the ringing phone on the floor.

            “Yes, Mom. I’m up.”

            “Samantha Angus McShane! You were supposed to be here already.”

            “C’mon, Mom, you said ten o’clock.”

            “I said we start at ten. You and I were going to have breakfast first.”

            Sam cursed again. She’d forgotten about that. “Sorry, Ma” Sam fell back on her bed. “I can still make ten. Tell me again why we’re doing this?”

            “I want you to meet Tom! Sam, he’s gorgeous and I know you two are meant for each other. I told him my single daughter is a detective, and then he told me about this scavenger hunt his church was holding. One team member has to find their two teammates through riddles. Doesn’t that sound like fun? Tom almost dropped out because his two friends couldn’t go, so I volunteered us!”

            Sam groaned. “Ma, how do you know he isn’t some scam artist?”

            “I just know. He says he goes to the First United Methodist Church and his Sunday school group is hosting this to raise money for the orphanage.”

            Sam smiled at her mother’s continued attempts to replace Amy. “Did you check out the guy like I suggested?”

            “Would you, for once, trust my judgment?” her mother said with a huff.

            “Ma, you know I hate riddles.” After a heavy sigh she dragged herself off of the bed and said, “I’m on my way to meet you.”

            “You don’t have to. Tom says we can start early and send you the first riddle by text. That way you don’t have to come all the way to his church to get it. The answer to the riddle will tell you where to go to get the second one. Don’t forget to take a picture to prove you found it. Since there are only four riddles total, we should be done in time to have lunch together. Okay?”

            “Yeah, Okay.”

            The first riddle came as a text message thirty minutes later. Sometimes Sam hated her own suspicious mind.

A park in town

turned upside down

take the shot

you’ll know the spot

            Sam hit the call back button to reach her mom. The call went to voice mail. Sam called her partner and asked him to run a background check on Tom Novak, her mom’s new friend.

            This first riddle was taking her to Soqquadro Park. Last year she cornered a scum named Aldo facing drug charges and a murder warrant in that very park. The barrel of his gun was pointed at Sam's head when she, her partner Charles, and half the police force took him out in a spray of bullets and blood. She lived, he died. Aldo’s partner River Nowak got away, but last known whereabouts put him somewhere in Southeast Asia.

            She found the second riddle before Charles called her back. Under the shrub where Aldo’s body had fallen she found a miniature set of stairs like one found on a large dollhouse. Each of the four wooden steps contained a carved sentence.

The bank got robbed

Women sobbed

your friend died there

on the stair

            Sam swallowed the lump forming in her throat. River Nowak was back, and he had her mom. Wasn’t killing Amy enough? She snapped the photo as her cell rang.

            Charles said, “Mr. Tom Novak is a white male of dubious descent, according to this photo, who flew into OIA last week. His current whereabouts are unknown. Sam, he came in from Bangkok.”

            Sam’s stomach clenched tighter. Straight from Southeast Asia. “Tell me true, Charles. Could the picture be River Nowak in disguise?”

            “Yeah, I’m afraid so.”

            “Shit! He’s got mom.” Sam started jogging toward her car.

            “I’ve got a couple of uniforms on their way to you.”

            She clenched her jaw, but tried not to let her frustration come through her voice. “You promised not to tell the Captain.”

            “Hold on now, I’ve kept my promise. I’ve spoken to Officer Smith and Officer Wesson. They volunteered to watch your back until more than just the two of them are needed.”

            “Alright, but tell them to keep their distance. We don’t know if Nowak’s got eyes on me or not.”

            “Done. What’s the next riddle?”

            “You’re not gonna believe this. River wants me to go to First National. I’m pretty sure the next clue will be on the staircase.”

            “What a sick son of a bitch. I’m calling the Chief as well as the Feds. Come on in, Sam. You’re too close to this. Let the FBI and the department handle matters from here.”

            “I will, but not now. The bastard’s drawing me in.” Charles was silent for a matter of moments. She added, “I’ll be careful.”

            “Fine, but I’m telling everyone to meet you at First National.”

            “Wouldn’t expect anything less, Charles.”

            “The bank’s been closed since the robbery. You want me to call the real estate company to go unlock a door?”

            Sam thought for a moment. “No,” she replied. “If River wants me inside, he’s left a way. Listen, I’ll check in, but definitely keep tabs on me, OK? It’s good to know Smith and Wesson have my back.”

            “I swear the Captain put them together just so we could say that.”

            “Bye, Charles.”

            The bank stood only a few blocks from the park. Aldo had stuck to his territory, and River was doing the same. First National occupied a corner of a two-story strip mall. She parked her car in front and removed her S&W J-Frame from the lockbox in the glove compartment.

            The front door was locked and the stairway couldn’t be seen though the windows from this angle. Sam watched a patrol car roll by in the reflection of the glass. She waited until they passed before she walked around to the back the building. The emergency exit door stood open.

            Careful not to touch the door or frame, she entered shouting, “This is the police! I am armed. Show yourself with your hands over your head!” Silence answered her. Keeping the weapon raised, she crept down the sunlit hallway and into the abandoned bank’s lobby. She glanced around the corner to the stairs on her left. On the third stair, right where Amy died sat a piece of paper on a small silver platter.

            The memory of that horrid day crashed on her. A lump in her throat threatened to burst as she blinked away the tears and swallowed hard. Memories of their life together painfully resurfaced. Amy had been buried for more than a year, along with Sam’s heart. Why would this sick son of a bitch do this? Amy was an innocent in the bank when Aldo and his buddies stormed in. Sam took several deep, cleansing breaths. Careful not disturb any evidence, she read the next clue.

the bar was filled

you were billed

the tab was paid

in the shade

            “Son of a bitch!” Sam shouted at no one. She snapped the picture and then called Charles. “The bastard wants me to go to the ruins of O’Malley’s.”

            “You got the riddle? Why did you go in? You should have waited. Now you’re gonna get your ass chewed. Stay there, the others should arrive any second. Don’t touch anything else!”

            “I haven’t touched a god damned thing, Charles. And I ain’t waiting. Do me a favor. Let them find this riddle on their own and figure out the meaning. Then they can chase me. Tell Smith and Wesson where I’m going, though. It was good to see them roll by.” Charles didn’t answer for a moment. Sam held her breath waiting for her partner’s decision to let her go on alone or not.

            Finally he said, “You cried in my arms for an hour on those stairs, Sam. I know how much you loved Amy. But your dying won’t bring her back, or bring your Mom home.”

            “I hear you. Will you keep them off my ass for another minute?”

            “Go. Please be careful.”

            “Thanks.” She didn’t bother to tell him she was already parking on a corner lot four blocks from the bank. This spot once held the most popular bar in town. The old oak tree here did not completely escape the massive flames that claimed so many lives. A portion of the trunk and branches still appeared singed. Somehow she, Amy, Charles, and his wife Isabella escaped the death trap that night. Sam was put through the ringer with Internal Affairs for the next six weeks.

            Under the tree sat another small silver platter holding the final riddle.

when you soared

the cannon roared

then came thunder

she’ll be under

            Sam read the paper twice. The patrol car driving by ever so slowly caught her attention. She realized she should be moving. Snapping the picture she got back in her car and drove away. The problem being, she had no idea where she was driving. The riddle made no sense. There was nothing her mind could recall tying Aldo, or River, to a cannon or soaring or thunder. After driving aimlessly for ten minutes, she called Charles.

            “What do you know about a cannon?”

            “There’s a cannon in Soqquadro Park.”

            “No there’s not.”

            “Yeah, they put a little one in about six months ago. A plaque says the thing was found on a sunken Spanish ship fairly close to shore.”

            “Shit!” Sam tried to find a place to turn her car around to go back to the park. “The bastard’s sent me on a wild goose chase and has probably been there the whole fucking time!”

            “I don’t want to interrupt an angry woman, but maybe you should come in and let the Feds handle this.”

            “Angry Woman?” Sam heard herself screech and didn’t care. “He’s got my fucking Mom, Charles! Angry fucking woman? Are you serious? I am going to get her back!”

            “You can’t get Amy back!” Charles’s screeching voice matched her own. The sound took her by surprise. She took several deep, very audible breaths. Charles sounded as if he were doing the same.

            “That was a low blow.”

            “I’m sorry.” Another moment he added, “Amy would demand you come back and you know it.”

            That much was true. Amy was as overprotective as her mom. “Okay. I’m calming down. Let’s think. Is the cannon in Soqquadro Park the only one in town?”

            “Wait. Read me the whole clue.”

            Sam didn’t have to read the clue. The words were carved into her memory. “When you soared, the cannon roared, then came thunder, she’ll be under”

            Silence stretched. Sam wanted to give Charles time to process it, but she began to think the call had dropped. “Are you there?”

            “Yeah. The clue is for me, Sam.”

            “Come again?”

            “I was flying back from Tallahassee. Isabella had taken the boys to the park. There was a break in at my house and someone blew up my Cannon gun safe. They stole my Bersa Thunder 380 and went on to kill four people. They found the damn thing in a dumpster.”

            “Oh my god! I remember! The dumpster at the fairgrounds! Have everyone meet me there!” She ended the call and took the next right turn. Her phone rang with ‘Unknown’ where the caller ID should be displayed.

            “Hello?”

            “Hello, Sam. Miss me?”

            “Who is this?”

            “I’m hurt. You don’t remember me?”

            “River?”

            “See, you do care.”

            “Where’s my mother?”

            “Well, she’s not with Amy. Yet.”

            “Where is my mother?” Sam screamed into the phone.

            “Tut-tut, such anger. No small talk? No ‘how ya been?’, ‘whatcha been up to?’ That kind of thing?”

            “You mother fucker!”

            “Oh, heavens no! Mother killer, sure. But fucker? Not my thing.”

            She was only another couple of miles from the fairgrounds. Taking a deep breath she asked again, “Where is my mother?”

            “Didn’t Charles give you the answer to my last riddle? I admit, I’m no poet, but I couldn’t have made it much clearer.”

            “What does Charles have to do with this?”

            “Now I’m really hurt. He didn’t tell you about us? Shame on Charles.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “Charles and I were together for a while. He was everything to me. I would have given him the world. Then he turned straight for Isabella. Aldo was a dear, but I never got over losing Charles.”

            “What?”

            “See, now you’re getting the picture.”

            “No, I’m not.”

            “Charles broke my heart and made my life miserable. I, in turn, made life miserable for everyone he loved. Isabella was supposed to be home that day I got his Thunder, but I still had fun.”

            “You killed Amy to hurt Charles? You sick mother fucker!”

            “We’ve already gone over that part. Besides, Amy was just a happy coincidence.”

            The screech returned to Sam’s voice. “Where is my mother?”

            “Go to the fairgrounds. Mrs. McShane is on the southeast corner, tied to a chair. Behind her is the dumpster where I returned Charles’s Bersa Thunder to him. The one I gave him as a Christmas present all those years ago. Tell him to look under the dumpster for his next gift. She’s kind of messy. You might want to bring some extra cleaning supplies.” The phone went dead. Sam hit the call back and heard an automated voice tell her there is no such number. She called Charles.

            “Where’s Isabella?” Sam asked.

            “At work. Why?”

            “You should have told me about you and River.”

            “What? Wait. Why? No, there’s nothing to tell! Besides, it was ancient history! Why? Oh my god. What’s happened to Bella?”

            “Charles, this wasn’t about me or my mom. It’s been about you all along. Go get your kids. I think something’s happened to their mom.”

********************************************************************

Note to my dear reader; I hope you’ve enjoyed this. I've had so much fun with Sam, I decided to make this a chapter in my next book.

Normal Parameters

A couple of months ago, I entered a writing contest called "Summer Shootout". It was the first time I'd ever tried such a thing. Of the 22 original contestants, I came in fourth! If you had asked me five years ago where I saw myself in that amount of time, the answer would not have been 'entering a writing contest'. But life does take odd turns, doesn't it?

A few of you have asked to read the stories I submitted, so I'm posting them here.

The contest entailed receiving a 'prompt' on Saturday, and having until the following Saturday to submit a short story. There really were no other rules, other than the deadline.

The first prompt given was "Instrument Failure"

I wrote a short story titled, "Normal Parameter" set in the not-too-distant future. Leave a comment or send me an email and let me know what you think.

Thanks, and enjoy.

***********************

Normal Parameters

Submitted July 20, 2012

By j l mo

            The vibration I feel through my shoes seems familiar. I step to the small patch of bare wall, one of the few areas not covered by instruments, pipes or wires, allowing a direct touch to the inner hull. Reaching up, I place my hand on the slight curve to try and identify the sensation. Bzzz. A count of ten and again, Bzzz. Rhythmic shivers gently pulse through her. Something tugged at the back of my mind as I try to reach a memory of a lesson, buried in layers of lessons from too many years gone.

I've been Captain of this antiquated three-level shuttle since my demotion five months ago. In all fairness, she was a beautiful spacebus in her day. The upper dome held the helm, mid-deck was for the passengers and the lower deck housed the engines and gravitational units. The thing is, her day is long past. I don't believe she should still be in service. However, all of her maintenance checks came back clean.

            “Ensign Tadford. Status update, please.”

         The young woman swiveled around on the squeaky, too small seat and declared, “All is working within normal parameters, sir.”

            “Are you sure? Oxygen, power, engines, all read normal?”

            “Aye, sir. Would you like a report sent to your intermail?”

            “No, that won't be necessary.”

            “Is there anything specific you might like investigated, sir?”

            I decline with a shake of my head. I'm not sure where to start with something so vague. The military, in their infinite wisdom, declared system engineers on board a shuttlecraft unnecessary. The manufacturer, AGN, claim there is no need for them. All monitoring and minor repairs could be performed by the crewmembers, if necessary. Except for odd things like this.

“Call Lieutenant Meyers to the bridge.”

            “Aye, sir.”

         The memory of a lesson from long ago danced just outside of total recall. What caused that damn vibration? I'd had so many professors at the academy I couldn't remember them all. Their individual lessons were even more distant. This was something I should know.

            This shuttle with its crew of three carrying a dozen passengers could fly fine without me. After my demotion, the route assignment turned out to be the worst of my punishment. I accepted losing rank from Major to Captain with grace. My true hell lay in the monotonous shuttling of passengers from Earth all the way to Moon, with five regular stops on each surface. The most uninteresting, mind numbing route to be had, and I am to fly this until retirement.

            “Excuse me, Captain Casey. Lieutenant Meyers, as ordered.”

        The formality on this shuttle still boggles my mind, but the others appreciate the military protocol. So, I deal with the uniforms, and the salutes and the posturing as if we were actually on a military mission. Well, I suppose we are, but it's an AGN Class B Shuttlecraft, for God’s sake! I return his salute, stifling my frustration.

            “At ease, Lieutenant. Have you noticed a pulse, an odd vibration, through the ship?”

            “A vibration, sir?”

            “Yes, Lieutenant. Here, put your hand right here.” Meyers places his palm where indicated on the ship’s inner hull.

            “No sir, I don't feel anything.”

            “It's faint. Wait a moment longer.”

            Dutifully, Meyers obeys. He lowers his head and closes his eyes, doing what he’s ordered to do with every ounce of concentration. After twenty seconds his head jerks up with his eyes wide. “Shit! I mean, Captain!” Meyers glances at the ensign who swung around quickly in her chair. “Ensign Tadford! Has a flux been recorded by the Bosonic Gravitron Meter?”

            My chest clenched as I heard her say, “No, sir. As I told the Captain, all is working within normal–”

            She didn’t finish the sentence. I pushed her out of the way to get to the instrument panel. The lesson dodging my memory came back to me like a lightning flash. The AGN Shuttles were one of the first passenger ships built with the HB Artificial Gravity Field. In the preceding seventy-five years of use, not one failure had occurred. This would be the first on record. If anyone survived.

         The instruments all gave normal readings. I scramble to the other consoles to check the back-up instruments. They all show the BGM working within parameters.

            I spin to face Meyers. He had helped Tadford to her feet. The Lieutenant’s face had lost all color, while the Ensign appeared too calm.

            “Is there a problem, Captain?” she asked, as her lips curled into a cruel curve. Tadford’s eyes locked mine as she reached into her pocket and proudly displayed a recognized, much-hated black calling card depicting a hologram of the red planet. I froze in shock. The card marked her a MarSaver. One of the terrorists responsible for thousands of deaths in their pursuit to ‘save Mars from man’ has sabotaged my ship.

            “What have you done?” My voice sounded much calmer than I felt.

            “What my people told me to do. Kill you.”

            “You would kill yourself and all these innocent people, possibly Earth itself, to get to me?”

            “Well worth the sacrifice!”

            My voice seemed hollow as I shouted, “I told the military of your people’s demands! They refused to negotiate! I lost my rank because I wouldn’t stop my crusade to save those people, and you blew up the Mars station anyway, killing hundreds of innocents! What more could I do?”

            “Die.”

            “Captain!” Meyers voice broke the spell of incredulity this woman held me in. “We might still save the passengers on board!”

            “Yes! Bypass the instruments and sound the alarm!” The too-smooth, female automated voice started before Meyers reached the control panel.

            “The containment field is failing.”

            “Repeat - The containment field is failing.”

            “Repeat - The containment field is failing.”

            “I know, Agnes!” I growl under my breath.

            “Captain, the alarm began–”

            “Yes, Lieutenant! Tell me this piece of flying space junk carries the proper number of escape pods!”

            Tadford said, “It did until I had two removed for maintenance. The instrument failure was overridden. Captain Casey? Are you afraid to die?”

            “Captain!” Meyers shouted. “We have to move! The HB is pulsing harder!”

            I stopped engaging this lunatic and paid attention the vibrations. The pulse was so hard it had become audible. RUMBLE. A count of five and RUMBLE.

“Follow proper protocol to abandon ship. With two pods gone, one remains. All of the passengers will fit if they double up for the ride. Go!”

            Meyers scrambled off the bridge and down toward the passengers.

            “Repeat - The containment field is failing.”

            “Well, Captain,” the terrorist purred. “I would say it's been a pleasure serving under you, but, well, you know.” The shrug she gave and the sickening, cruel upturn of her lips pushed me too far. In two strides I reached her and she hit the floor hard. I'd never punched a woman before, but since I was gonna die anyway, I figured, what the hell. I may have broken her jaw.

            The panel still read everything working normally, even with Agnes blaring her warning. Think, man! Professor Watts taught you well, so pull the shit back into your mind! If the instrument says it's OK, then the instrument is wrong. So, what made it go wrong? The instrument failure is not the point! What will it take to make the HB Artificial Gravity Field not implode? No one’s ever done this! Think!

            “Repeat - The containment field is failing.”

            “Wait!” I shout. I turn to Tadford still on the floor holding her jaw. “The gravity field needs the Stress Energy Tensor! Is that what you did? You disabled the SET?”

            The only response I receive is her glare. At least she’s not smiling anymore.

            “I need to get to the engine room and put the two back together before this ship becomes a black hole!”

            From behind me Meyers says, “You’ll need help.”

            “Repeat - The containment field is failing.”

            “Secure Tadford to something. Let's make sure she can't cause any more trouble. Then, please, turn Agnes off.”

            All lights dimmed to lowest illumination level through the passageways, as per protocol. I could still see, but barely. The pulse now gave the impression of being inside a beating heart. A dying heart. “We'll try to save you, girl,” I whisper. “Just hang on for another minute.”

            POUND. A count of two and POUND. The gravity field is trying to pull the ship in on itself. The closer we get the more difficult it is to move, as if walking through molasses.

            We reach the engine room adjacent to the HB Gravity Field unit. Meyers crossed himself as we went in. Here was the source of the heartbeat. A monstrosity of machinery, as reliable as the sunrise in the east. That is, unless someone sabotaged her, which somebody did. The SET was destroyed. Tadford must have had help with this. There must be another MarSaver among the escaping passengers. Tadford somehow manipulated the instrument panel while her accomplice came down here and performed this catastrophe.

            “What'll we do, Cap?” asked a nervous-sounding Meyers.

            The too-smooth, female automated voice said, “Repair the Stress Energy Tensor by removing the HB Artificial Gravity Field.”

            My stomach clenched as I gasped. Agnes was not programmed for speech recognition. She should not be able to respond, or to give instruction. Meyers’ face looked like he'd just seen a ghost. Mine probably looked the same. I asked, “Didn’t you shut Agnes off?”

            “Yes, Captain. I did.”

            POUND. A count of two and POUND.

            “Repeat. Repair the Stress Energy Tensor by removing the HB Artificial Gravity Field.”

            “Agnes?” I venture.

            “Repeat. Repair the Stress Energy Tensor by removing the HB Artificial Gravity Field.”

            I attempt to process what I'm hearing. “Agnes that will kill us all.”

            “Correction,” Agnes replied in the annoying, non-emotional voice, “That will kill the three humans on board, and terminate the shuttlecraft. The planet we serve will survive.”

             “Agnes?” I asked, voice shaky to my own ears. “How long have you been sentient?”            “Repeat. Repair the Stress Energy Tensor by removing the HB Artificial Gravity Field. It's been an honor to serve with you, Captain Casey. Repeat. Repair the Stress Energy Tensor by removing the HB Artificial Gravity Field.”

Watching Paint Cure

There was a challenge to write a story to make the most uninteresting thing to do, interesting. What is the most uninteresting thing to do? Watch Paint Dry.

********

Watching Paint Cure

Stanley Santini had been working with paint for as long as he could remember. His dad opened this store in their small town of Springfield in 1952. When Stan’s father was alive, he was known as a master mixer of house paint, for inside or out. People came to him for a specific shade that no other man seemed able to create. Stan’s father taught him the science of mixing. Others called it talent because it wasn't a skill that everyone could learn.

When Stan was a small boy, he came to work with his dad on the weekends. He loved to watch this miracle worker of paint the people spoke of. Some ladies would come with their husbands and bring material they were using to upholster their furniture. They asked his dad to match the color in the sample and he would create the exact shade, every time.

As he grew, his father allowed him to go to the mixing room in the back and get sample swatches to bring to the customer out on the sales floor. No one else was allowed back there. A placard mounted next to the door reads: Insurance Regulations Prohibit Customers Beyond this Point.

His responsibilities increased with his age. When Stan became a teenager one of his proudest moments was being allowed to operate the machines unsupervised. Stan worked in the mixing room, gently pulling and pushing the levers, squeezing out the pigment in ever-smaller increments to mix into the original can, until the shade matched the exact color the customer had requested. He handed the gallon to his father who gave an approving nod. Which was as much praise as his father would ever give.

“Now, Mr. Smith,” his father would lecture at the close of the sale, “remember to let this cure completely before you put on the second coat. I would hate to see you break the skin and have to start from scratch.”

“Come on, Mr. Santini, you’ve taught me well,” the chided customer would respond defensively. “I promise not to put on the second coat until the first is dry.”

“No, not dry, Mr. Smith. Cured. Paint cures. The surface quality reflects another shade once spread out and exposed to air. It cures,” his father corrected for the hundredth time.

“Yes, Mr. Santini, cured. Got it. Thank you and good day.”

Stanley loved when his father explained to people the science of paint. Some did not understand, and his dad had to explain it over and over again, until they did, or until they pretended to get it. Stan knew which customer understood and which didn’t. He wasn’t sure his dad did.

Then there was Dr. Lawrence Averill, who did understand and pretended he didn’t. He and his little brat Tommy would come into the paint store once a month, just to make fun of his dad.

“So, what you’re telling me, Mr. Santini,” Dr. Averill would say in a patronizing tone, “is paint does not dry, but cures.”

“Yes, doctor, as we discussed when you were here last time. Paint does not dry.”

“It cures.”

“Yes, sir. If it simply dried, then when it got wet, it would run. Paint cures. That’s what I am trying to tell you,” he explained to Dr. Averill, again. This somehow amused the doctor and his son. Tommy would giggle behind his hand and his father would bend low and say to his son, “What have I told you about manners?”

Whatever he was told, Stan decided, the lessons didn’t take.

Stan had two best friends growing up, Petey and Bobby. They played together during school recess, ate lunch together, spent the night at each other’s houses. But Tommy the Tormentor tried to make their childhood hell. He was the rich-kid bully everyone hated. No one could have anything as nice as Tommy, or know as much as Tommy, or been to Spain like Tommy. Tommy Averill began to follow Stan and his two friends around school, calling them names, pushing them down. Even in high school, the girls he tried to date were subjected to Tommy’s rude insults when they were with Stan.

The town had grown up, grown out and gone by the time his old man passed away and the store became his.  He had endured a great deal of ribbing from some classmates for hanging onto a passing industry.

His best friend Pete graduated from state college moved away and now sends him Christmas cards every year with pictures of his wife and children. His other friend Bob followed his dream of being an actor, moved to California and now sends him Christmas cards every year with pictures of his significant other with their adopted son.

Stanley chose to stay in Springfield. He knew his parents didn’t make enough money to send him to college. They also didn’t make enough to hire anyone else to help at the store. At least Stanley did still enjoy the artistry of the paint, and he enjoyed being his own boss. He never married, since Tommy chased off any girl Stan might have been interested in. So he only had himself and his mother to support.

Stan was seriously thinking of giving up on the family business. Bills were unpaid and collection calls were becoming more frequent. The big-box store that opened down the street had stolen all of his customers. He knew some improvements had to be made to the place to remain competitive, but he was struggling to pay the monthly bills. How the hell could he afford to remodel? But, the terrazzo floor hadn’t been polished in thirty years, the ballasts in the florescent fixtures had been going out one at a time until the place was nearly in the dark, not to mention the moldy drywall in the mixing room.

Stan did have a professional appraisal done on this property last year and the ground it sits on is worth $60,000.00, without the store. The store itself was near worthless. He knew it was on his shoulders to get this place back in shape if he wanted to keep it open.

He had begun his store improvement do-it-yourself project by pulling out the old, moldy drywall  from the mixing room. To his surprise, the original builder had walled up a space the size of a broom closet. The new Dynomix Multi-Size Gyroscopic Mixer he wanted would fit perfectly there. Stan knew the space wasn’t really the problem that kept him from it, though, the lack of money was.

Doctor Thomas Averill has been persistent with his offer to buy the store, but at half the price Stan could get on the open market. Besides, he would never sell to Tommy the Tormentor.

Although, Tommy was his most regular customer, even if he only came to torment him. As if summoning him by thought, his most frequent tormentor was about to walk in now.

Stan slipped into the mixing room hoping to avoid him.

The old fashioned chime mounted above the door rang pleasantly as Dr. Thomas Averill came in. Tommy the Tormentor cleared his throat and made a loud cough to call attention to the fact he was here. Stan clenched his fists in his hiding spot. If he had to listen to this blow-hard make a low-ball offer on his father’s paint store one more time, he didn’t know what he’d do. He would rather go bankrupt than let this cretin have it for any amount of money.

Stan didn’t respond so Tom started ringing the bell on the counter next to the cash register. He let him ring the damn thing a couple of times. He knew no sale would be coming from this jackass. Tommy just wanted to pitch buying this place, again.

After the fifth ring, Tom yelled, “Stan, I know you’re back there! C’mon! I need to buy some paint. I can go to the big store down the street. It’d be cheaper!”

“Then go!” called Stan from the back room.

To his shock, Tommy walked into the mixing room, wearing his Gucci best.

“Hey, you can’t be back here,” snapped Stan. “Insurance regulations require all customers to remain in the sales area. Out on the floor with you. You might get hurt.”

“Yes, I see the imminent danger all around me. Perhaps a yellowed ceiling tile may fall on my suit. More likely the asbestos from this place would kill me,” he replied with a sadistic grin.

Stan’s dad died from cancer. A doctor told him and his mother it may have been from exposure to asbestos. Dr. Thomas Averill was the expert witness for the company Stan and his mother sued. They lost. Tom found a way to mention this almost every visit.

“What do you want?”

“Now, Stan, why so hostile? I’m here to make you a friendly, final offer. I’ll have my people draw up the paperwork and hand you a check tomorrow for $15,000.00 as half payment to buy this building.”

“Go to hell. I told you before, I’m not selling.”

“Stanley, be realistic. I’m trying to be a friend here. You’re drowning in debt. You have no ties to this place since your father died five years ago. Why don’t you want to sell? You can take the money and run.”

“I’ve told you before asshole, I would rather be buried here than sell my father’s business to you!”

“Oh, no, you still don’t understand. I don’t want the paint business. I want the ground it sits on.”

“I understand fine. Now take your ‘offer’ and get the fuck outta my store.”

“Tsk, tsk, Stanley. Your mother would wash your mouth out with soap using that language.”

“Leave my mother out of this!”

“I’m only trying to help. Thirty thousand dollars is a very generous offer.”

“The hell it is! I told you to get out!”

The two men stared at each other through a long stretch of silence. Stan fought the urge to punch Tommy’s face. His stupid voice was so soft these days, no matter how angry you got him. It made Stan feel like an idiot for losing his cool.

“Look,” Tom said, breaking the tension. “I do want some paint. Can you match the color of this coat? I wore this expensive suit here just so you could match the color. Gina wants her closet painted this exact shade of charcoal gray, and I want to surprise her with it.”

Gina had been Stan’s girlfriend at the end of high school. She and Tom went on to college and came back married. Gina still held a special place in Stan’s heart. If the paint was for her, he would do it. He couldn’t blame her for what Tommy the Tormentor has done all his life. He sighed heavily and motioned for Tom to take off the jacket.

After mixing a perfect combination of colors to match the coat exactly, Stan tapped the lid onto the gallon of paint. They still stood in the mixing room, with Tom watching every move Stan made. On one hand, Stan was proud of his professionalism. Proud of the skill he had acquired over the many years of serving in the paint industry. On the other hand, Tom made him uncomfortable in his own store. The expression on his face was not admiration.

“See,” said Tom as Stan handed him the gallon, “we can work together. Come on, sell me this place.”

Stan ignored Tom’s words and recited his father’s admonishment as he pulled the four-inch paint stirrer from the mixer, “remember to let this cure completely before you put on the second coat. I would hate to see you break the skin and have to start from scratch.”

“Yes, Mr. Santini,” said Tom with mocking disdain. “I’ll let it dry completely.”

Stan replied through gritted teeth, “Cure. Paint cures. The surface quality reflects another shade once spread out and exposed to air,” gripping the rod hard as the blades dripped with the charcoal gray paint.

“Listen, Bozo,” sneered Dr. Averill, “I cure. Paint dries!”

“Cure this!”

                                      ***

Stanley Santini put the finishing touches of the first coat on the mixing room’s new wall. Installing drywall in the middle of the night was the biggest problem he had with the whole fiasco of the former Dr. Thomas Averill. The closet space may have been a bit confining for a full-grown man’s body, but it served its purpose.

He resumed his seat in the chair facing his charcoal gray, blood red creation. He hadn't been sure how blood might interact with the flat texture. It turned out to be pretty nice. His old mixer did handle the job quite well. Maybe he didn’t need a new one, after all.

Perhaps this whole room might need a second coat. He would watch the paint cure, and then decide if a second coat would be necessary or not.