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Some Fiction For Interest
Here's a little fiction.
It's not polished. It's just a draft. Some of you might like it. Some of you might identify with it. BWB __________________________________________________ ______ It was the most God-awful sound I ever heard, but I couldn't figure out what it was. This loud drone beat me in the head as if a sledge hammer were pounding my entire body from front, then behind, then from the front again. What the hell was going on? I struggled to think, to see, to feel. Was I being electrocuted? What was that piercing, killing sound? I knew it was not good. It even sounded diabolical, but how could I stop it? How could I even figure out what it was? I strained to peer but my eyes were useless. All I could see was a wall of red. All I could hear was that loud sound of: "Bang-bang-bang-bang," hammering me in the head every second. The red was confusing. Why wasn't it black, or white or clear? Christ, what the hell is going on? Where am I? What is this? I heard a scream from somewhere, a long way off. It almost sounded like it was coming from the end of a large tin water-pipe. It came again, then a lower pitched scream down the same pipe. Am I asleep? I don't think so. I struggled for consciousness. Things wouldn't come quick enough. That sound? The "Bang-bang-bang-bang," every second or so. Then it changes a bit. Now it's a piercing "bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep" at the end of that tin pipe. At least I'm not being bashed by that sound anymore. I just simply hear it. It's familiar for some reason, but what is that reason? What is going on? I know that sound. God, what is happening, where am I? Christ, I have to figure this out. I'm almost awake now. I can feel that I am, but I can't see. The sound isn't right. I know it's not RIGHT at all. But why not? What the hell is that wall of RED I see? The screams become more clear then I hear a rifle pop. It too is at the end of a long tin pipe. I hear a couple other pops from things that sound like hand guns ... way down the pipe. Where did all this come from? What are these familiar noises? I don't get it, but I feel like I better start making sense of it soon or I might have bigger problems. Something is horribly wrong. I feel like I've done something that I'm guilty for. I feel like I'm about to go to the principal's office because I just kicked the **** out of somebody, but I don't know who. The world feels like it's whirling around in circles. Now I can sort of feel the forces on my body, but that damn "Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep," just continues to pierce my ears! It pierces my brain, my nerves, my soul. The sound of rifles gets louder but doesn't seem to overcome that damn bleeping. I hear more screaming, then I hear a voice in my head. "Captain, Duke is dead. The son's a bitches got him. And, Pete! His leg is gone and he's bleeding out. The femoral artery Captain! I can't get to him Sir, and the left half of his head...Christ, I didn't know that brains looked like that." I struggle for consciousness but I just can't get a clear view of what's going on. My mind is scrambled. This can't be a dream. What is all that red? What is that God-damn bleeping sound that is drilling me? Why doesn't someone shut that thing off? Nothing is clear. Nothing makes sense. But-I do feel that it's paramount that I figure this **** out, and figure it out as soon as I can. Then out of nowhere my mind seems to "just return." I didn't do anything, it just came back on it's own. Men in combat have this happen a lot. They are completely disoriented and the out of nowhere their senses just seem to miraculously return. It's a common thing in combat. I watched a buddy of mine once who didn't even know his name. He could walk around, look at things (he couldn't speak), seem somewhat normal although he was GONE. Then all of a sudden, he's be back. He'd return to the world. I wiped the blood from my face. I was back and things weren't good. I wiped the blood from my eyes as I heard the low rotor rpm horn bleeping-bleeping-bleeping. For Christ's sake, I have to see. We've had the **** shot out of us. What the hell is going on? Is the main rotor gone? Has it stopped? Are we dropping like a brick into the jungle? I wipe my left hand across my eyes to blot up some blood into my Nomex flight gloves. It's like taking a paper towel to a windshield that is completely slaughtered by bug-guts. If you drive down a road and hit a million grasshoppers and their guts splatter all over the window to the point you can't see, then you take a paper towel and smear it all around so you get a tiny little port-hole, you can view the world out of it. That's how the world looked to me while we were spinning out of control and dropping like a brick into the jungle. I could hear more clearly now. I had no idea why Gil was shooting that damn M-60 while we were spinning out of control. I wiped my eyes once more on the back of the glove of my left hand. The world was spinning and that damn low-rotor rpm horn was pulsing and piercing my head to the point of insanity. Christ--- I'd pull the circuit breaker on that prick if I could find it without dying. But screw that, I have to see what the hell is really going on and bail this out if I can. There it is! It's all there in tones of gray on the helicopter instrument-panel in front of me. Every engine gauge is setting on zero! But, thank God we have 90% main rotor rpm. Damn... I might be able to fix this crap. I drop the collective and watch the rpm whirl up past 95%...then all the way up to 110% as the autorotation spools me back to the NON-BLEEPING zone. God damn, I hate that horn! I'm going to cut those wires if I live through this. I jam the pedals a bit to get the nose straight and I'm a glider pilot just flying an airplane, but an airplane with a 4 to 1 glide ratio. We do have some altitude. We're lucky. The clock may have not run out, quite yet. There's a clearing up ahead, someone's even popped smoke. Interesting how "gone" my brain is, purple, green, red smoke? I can't tell what it is. It's just smoke. The blood in my eyes makes the whole world look red anyway. The gooks are shooting the **** out of us. I hear the ping, ping, ping of the bullets going through the chopper. My right Plexiglas window disintegrates and fragments hit what is left of my helmet. The front windscreen was gone when I came back from my dementia. I hope that the equal opportunity employees of Bell did their job when they bolted this "SLICK" together. It's a hell of a machine. This old Huey's been hit before but it's never been turned to Swiss cheese like this. I can feel there's something wrong with the lift of the rotorsystem, but, what the hell, it's flying. I'm not dropping like a Roll's Royce engine strapped to my back. The blood clouds my vision once more and I wipe it away. I hear Gil screaming in the back as he blows away an endless stream of rounds through that M-60. There are some things in combat that you never forget. I had an instant to turn my head right and try to see what the hell Gil was shooting at. I saw nothing but jungle. I cranked my head around to look at him. I saw a crazed man with eyes the size of silver dollars, blood running out of his helmet and his mouth in a contorted geometry that looked impossible to duplicate. Gil keys up his mic, "I'll kill everyone of these son's a bitches Captain! I swear to God. The *******s blew Duke's head the **** off." "Just hang tight Gil. I'll probably slam this bitch down on the LZ ahead. I'm sure they've punched holes in our rotorblades. I'll never get enough lift to bail this **** out of the flare. We have to be full of holes man...so hang on." "Okay, Captain, gotcha. If you can't bail this **** out, then see ya in hell Sir. Can't be much different than being in country." I keyed up again, "****, I'd give anything to be out of gas at this point. Too bad that 'Ops' juiced us back on hill 83. If it weren't for the gas, I think we'd have a fightin' chance Gil." "Don't worry Captain. If anybody can fly this pile of Colorado Cool Aid, tin-can muther-****er into a safe landing at a 'hot' LZ, it's you Sir. If we don't get creamed, I just wonder what the rest of my life will be like in the Hanoi Hilton. Hey maybe that bitch, Hanoi Jane Fonda will come around an flash us Sir." A bullet in my brain, blood flowing down my face from a lacerated forehead and my eyes red with flowing-red-goo, I had to grin. It was just the way it was. The whole war was a piece of crap. All of it. Fighting people we didn't hate, killing people we had no idea about. It was all a pile of ****. Then you have some celebrity like Jane Fonda, traitorous bitch. This had to be a cartoon. I landed that UH-1H that day in a rice field that had been owned by a family for thousands of years. They didn't know what government was in control that day. All they knew was that they had owned that little piece of earth for some 5000 years. In fact they didn't even know that. It was a given. They had passed that little plot of land on from generation to generation through hundreds of wars. This war was no different in principle. It was only different in technology. It was the 20th century and the machines were more capable of killing. The smoke I saw was them cooking a pig. It was a sacred and religious day. Although a holiday to them, it was just another day for us to kill people, or be killed. We were lucky, they were "Friendy's" and hid us until a Jolly Green came in and picked us up two hours later. They even fed us some of their pig. It was Friday the 13th. BWB |
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#3
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Stu & Kathy Fields wrote: Bill: While you might say that it is a draft and could use a little polish, and I might agree with you, I nevertheless was glued to the CRT reading it. I like your style. I kept dumping collective for the last half looking for a clearing. You need to tackle a book. You may be the next Tom Clancy Stu Fields And get him to show you the picture of him parked with the R22 on the Whitehouse lawn, just as a protest, after being knocked off for parking it next to that lake. That's a story in itself. Fact or fiction? rm "Badwater Bill" wrote in message ... Here's a little fiction. It's not polished. It's just a draft. Some of you might like it. Some of you might identify with it. BWB ________________________________________________ ________ It was the most God-awful sound I ever heard, but I couldn't figure out what it was. This loud drone beat me in the head as if a sledge hammer were pounding my entire body from front, then behind, then from the front again. What the hell was going on? I struggled to think, to see, to feel. Was I being electrocuted? What was that piercing, killing sound? I knew it was not good. It even sounded diabolical, but how could I stop it? How could I even figure out what it was? I strained to peer but my eyes were useless. All I could see was a wall of red. All I could hear was that loud sound of: "Bang-bang-bang-bang," hammering me in the head every second. The red was confusing. Why wasn't it black, or white or clear? Christ, what the hell is going on? Where am I? What is this? I heard a scream from somewhere, a long way off. It almost sounded like it was coming from the end of a large tin water-pipe. It came again, then a lower pitched scream down the same pipe. Am I asleep? I don't think so. I struggled for consciousness. Things wouldn't come quick enough. That sound? The "Bang-bang-bang-bang," every second or so. Then it changes a bit. Now it's a piercing "bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep" at the end of that tin pipe. At least I'm not being bashed by that sound anymore. I just simply hear it. It's familiar for some reason, but what is that reason? What is going on? I know that sound. God, what is happening, where am I? Christ, I have to figure this out. I'm almost awake now. I can feel that I am, but I can't see. The sound isn't right. I know it's not RIGHT at all. But why not? What the hell is that wall of RED I see? The screams become more clear then I hear a rifle pop. It too is at the end of a long tin pipe. I hear a couple other pops from things that sound like hand guns ... way down the pipe. Where did all this come from? What are these familiar noises? I don't get it, but I feel like I better start making sense of it soon or I might have bigger problems. Something is horribly wrong. I feel like I've done something that I'm guilty for. I feel like I'm about to go to the principal's office because I just kicked the **** out of somebody, but I don't know who. The world feels like it's whirling around in circles. Now I can sort of feel the forces on my body, but that damn "Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep," just continues to pierce my ears! It pierces my brain, my nerves, my soul. The sound of rifles gets louder but doesn't seem to overcome that damn bleeping. I hear more screaming, then I hear a voice in my head. "Captain, Duke is dead. The son's a bitches got him. And, Pete! His leg is gone and he's bleeding out. The femoral artery Captain! I can't get to him Sir, and the left half of his head...Christ, I didn't know that brains looked like that." I struggle for consciousness but I just can't get a clear view of what's going on. My mind is scrambled. This can't be a dream. What is all that red? What is that God-damn bleeping sound that is drilling me? Why doesn't someone shut that thing off? Nothing is clear. Nothing makes sense. But-I do feel that it's paramount that I figure this **** out, and figure it out as soon as I can. Then out of nowhere my mind seems to "just return." I didn't do anything, it just came back on it's own. Men in combat have this happen a lot. They are completely disoriented and the out of nowhere their senses just seem to miraculously return. It's a common thing in combat. I watched a buddy of mine once who didn't even know his name. He could walk around, look at things (he couldn't speak), seem somewhat normal although he was GONE. Then all of a sudden, he's be back. He'd return to the world. I wiped the blood from my face. I was back and things weren't good. I wiped the blood from my eyes as I heard the low rotor rpm horn bleeping-bleeping-bleeping. For Christ's sake, I have to see. We've had the **** shot out of us. What the hell is going on? Is the main rotor gone? Has it stopped? Are we dropping like a brick into the jungle? I wipe my left hand across my eyes to blot up some blood into my Nomex flight gloves. It's like taking a paper towel to a windshield that is completely slaughtered by bug-guts. If you drive down a road and hit a million grasshoppers and their guts splatter all over the window to the point you can't see, then you take a paper towel and smear it all around so you get a tiny little port-hole, you can view the world out of it. That's how the world looked to me while we were spinning out of control and dropping like a brick into the jungle. I could hear more clearly now. I had no idea why Gil was shooting that damn M-60 while we were spinning out of control. I wiped my eyes once more on the back of the glove of my left hand. The world was spinning and that damn low-rotor rpm horn was pulsing and piercing my head to the point of insanity. Christ--- I'd pull the circuit breaker on that prick if I could find it without dying. But screw that, I have to see what the hell is really going on and bail this out if I can. There it is! It's all there in tones of gray on the helicopter instrument-panel in front of me. Every engine gauge is setting on zero! But, thank God we have 90% main rotor rpm. Damn... I might be able to fix this crap. I drop the collective and watch the rpm whirl up past 95%...then all the way up to 110% as the autorotation spools me back to the NON-BLEEPING zone. God damn, I hate that horn! I'm going to cut those wires if I live through this. I jam the pedals a bit to get the nose straight and I'm a glider pilot just flying an airplane, but an airplane with a 4 to 1 glide ratio. We do have some altitude. We're lucky. The clock may have not run out, quite yet. There's a clearing up ahead, someone's even popped smoke. Interesting how "gone" my brain is, purple, green, red smoke? I can't tell what it is. It's just smoke. The blood in my eyes makes the whole world look red anyway. The gooks are shooting the **** out of us. I hear the ping, ping, ping of the bullets going through the chopper. My right Plexiglas window disintegrates and fragments hit what is left of my helmet. The front windscreen was gone when I came back from my dementia. I hope that the equal opportunity employees of Bell did their job when they bolted this "SLICK" together. It's a hell of a machine. This old Huey's been hit before but it's never been turned to Swiss cheese like this. I can feel there's something wrong with the lift of the rotorsystem, but, what the hell, it's flying. I'm not dropping like a Roll's Royce engine strapped to my back. The blood clouds my vision once more and I wipe it away. I hear Gil screaming in the back as he blows away an endless stream of rounds through that M-60. There are some things in combat that you never forget. I had an instant to turn my head right and try to see what the hell Gil was shooting at. I saw nothing but jungle. I cranked my head around to look at him. I saw a crazed man with eyes the size of silver dollars, blood running out of his helmet and his mouth in a contorted geometry that looked impossible to duplicate. Gil keys up his mic, "I'll kill everyone of these son's a bitches Captain! I swear to God. The *******s blew Duke's head the **** off." "Just hang tight Gil. I'll probably slam this bitch down on the LZ ahead. I'm sure they've punched holes in our rotorblades. I'll never get enough lift to bail this **** out of the flare. We have to be full of holes man...so hang on." "Okay, Captain, gotcha. If you can't bail this **** out, then see ya in hell Sir. Can't be much different than being in country." I keyed up again, "****, I'd give anything to be out of gas at this point. Too bad that 'Ops' juiced us back on hill 83. If it weren't for the gas, I think we'd have a fightin' chance Gil." "Don't worry Captain. If anybody can fly this pile of Colorado Cool Aid, tin-can muther-****er into a safe landing at a 'hot' LZ, it's you Sir. If we don't get creamed, I just wonder what the rest of my life will be like in the Hanoi Hilton. Hey maybe that bitch, Hanoi Jane Fonda will come around an flash us Sir." A bullet in my brain, blood flowing down my face from a lacerated forehead and my eyes red with flowing-red-goo, I had to grin. It was just the way it was. The whole war was a piece of crap. All of it. Fighting people we didn't hate, killing people we had no idea about. It was all a pile of ****. Then you have some celebrity like Jane Fonda, traitorous bitch. This had to be a cartoon. I landed that UH-1H that day in a rice field that had been owned by a family for thousands of years. They didn't know what government was in control that day. All they knew was that they had owned that little piece of earth for some 5000 years. In fact they didn't even know that. It was a given. They had passed that little plot of land on from generation to generation through hundreds of wars. This war was no different in principle. It was only different in technology. It was the 20th century and the machines were more capable of killing. The smoke I saw was them cooking a pig. It was a sacred and religious day. Although a holiday to them, it was just another day for us to kill people, or be killed. We were lucky, they were "Friendy's" and hid us until a Jolly Green came in and picked us up two hours later. They even fed us some of their pig. It was Friday the 13th. BWB |
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On Tue, 2 Mar 2004 18:13:14 -0800, "Stu & Kathy Fields"
wrote: Bill: While you might say that it is a draft and could use a little polish, and I might agree with you, I nevertheless was glued to the CRT reading it. I like your style. I kept dumping collective for the last half looking for a clearing. You need to tackle a book. You may be the next Tom Clancy Stu Fields Thanks Stu. I appreciate your comment. I need to tackle a book alright. I've started three times but for some strange reason always get bored doing it. I like short stories better because you can finish them in a couple days and publish them. Magazine articles are even easier, so I have always taken the path of least resistance. But, my wife is harping at me to write a novel for real. And I think it will be my next project. I have invented a character named Jack Shawhan who has done it all. It will be an adventure story when I do it. I only hope I can hold and grip the reader for a long period of time. That's the task. When I get in the mood to write it's usually only for an evening or so. I will expand that to do the book. Books are a funny thing. I bought the book "Cold Mountain" and tried to read it four times. I got into it 100 pages and just couldn't gag it down anymore. It was well written, but there was no gripping plot at that beginning level. I gave it to a buddy of mine (my mailman) who, like me is an avid reader. I told him my problem with the book. Being a physicist, I read slowly, about as fast as I talk. He reads about three times faster so I figured he might enjoy it by speeding it up three fold. He gaged on it in 130 pages too and brought it back. It was in my mailbox one day with a note on it saying, "Bill, thanks, but I agree with you, this book is a drag. I was bored for 130 pages last night. I give up too." Then the damn thing is made into a movie and it takes all the oscars. I don't know how anybody could stomach reading it long enough to write a screen play out of it. It's funny how things work sometimes. I'd like to write a story like that one that Meg Ryan did where she was a helicopter pilot that got shot down, then there was an investigation. But, if I were to write that story, I'd have more of it in the air. Too much of that was on the ground watching people bicker. The beginning of it was great. That's the spirit I'd like to capture all through a novel. Just like my little story I posted here. Keep it exiciting all the way through. That's the challenge, is to come up with enough that you can captivate the reader for a long time, many days hopefully. I appreciate your remarks. I need to kick myself in the ass and get to it. Bill Phillips |
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Then the damn thing is made into a movie and it takes all the oscars.
Hehehe, your TV watching must be wanting also. It only won one Oscar. The "Lord of THe Rings" won ELEVEN Oscars. And THAT was a great book(s). :O) |
#7
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(Badwater Bill) wrote in message .. .
On Tue, 2 Mar 2004 18:13:14 -0800, "Stu & Kathy Fields" wrote: Bill: While you might say that it is a draft and could use a little polish, and I might agree with you, I nevertheless was glued to the CRT reading it. I like your style. I kept dumping collective for the last half looking for a clearing. You need to tackle a book. You may be the next Tom Clancy Stu Fields Thanks Stu. I appreciate your comment. I need to tackle a book alright. Do it Bill. I bet you I've read it five times by now. I was so glued I followed you over here searching to see if you've got any others stashed away. What about bundling all of your usenet short stories together? Call it something like: "Blood on the Rotor" by Badwater Bill. pac |
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If I could write as well as you, I would. You have done just about
everythingelse, now it is time to be an author. "From the Badwater file", by Bill the Grump. Go for it! Bryan |
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