TOMORROW

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is a life away

must I wait till then

Tomorrow sometimes never comes

for an author's pen

I close my eyes to see you

whenever I'm alone

I'm here for you my magic girl

My heart's your secret home

Ride around the universe

music fills the air

Find our rainbow's end

climb the colored stair

Our love is getting stronger

the more we are apart

Waiting for the next time

kisses melt my heart

Sitting in the darkness

saying our goodbyes

Smile in close up now

flash those sparkling eyes

From girl next door to lover

I've fallen for your charm

Waiting for that next dream

when beauty holds my arm

Feelings change in seconds

pulling us apart

Hold me close now

the daydreams gonna start

There are so many others

but none love you as much

Goddess of the wide screen

I'm yearning for your touch

Saturday afternoon sitting at the back of the stalls in the local picture house with nothing better to do. My favorite star was Sophia Loren and I was just fifteen. When I was twenty I waved to her as I drove past her villa on the Amalfie Road in southern Italy. Sadly, she did not wave back so I married someone else.

copyright  Ray Stone 2011

Do you write poetry or short stories or anecdotes, sad or funny or romantic? Why not let me post you here and let the world see your talent. Any reader of any nationality will read you by clicking on their tongue in the language box above. Try it and see. The whole world can be your audience. This is a free site - dedicated to helping fellow authors. Thank you for your support.

Give us ya money - or else!

This book is packed with good advice but beware - just because the authors have been successful in getting grants that does not mean you will be. However, at $9.99 this is worth having if you are looking for a grant. Published through Amazon it is available on Kindle and in print.

Courtesy - Amazon.com


The only GRANT WRITING BOOK you'll ever need.


Ellen Karsh - Arien Sue Fox

Written by two expert authors who have won millions of dollars in government and foundation grants—and revised to include vital up-to-the minute interviews with grantmakers, policy makers, and nonprofit leaders about seeking grants in today’s economic climate—this new edition of the classic book on grant seeking provides a comprehensive, step-by-step guide for grant writers.


http://www.amazon.com/Only-Grant-Writing-Book-You%C2%92ll-Ever/dp/0465058930/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1398792330&sr=8-1&keywords=writing+aid+books

Don't get Fiscal with me!

fiscal\FISS-kul\     adjective   1 : of or relating to taxation, public revenues, or public debt   2 : of or relating to financial matters       The governor was harshly criticized by his opponent for not showing more fiscal restraint during the slow economic recovery.   "Let's remember that fiscal policy, or rather the financial management of the government, has two sides, expenditures and revenues." — From an opinion column by Gerald Petersen in The News-Press (Fort Myers, Florida), March 21, 2014     "Fiscal" derives from the Latin noun "fiscus," meaning "basket" or "treasury." In ancient Rome, "fiscus" was the term for the treasury controlled by the emperor, where the money was literally stored in baskets and was collected primarily in the form of revenue from the provinces. "Fiscus" also gives us our word "confiscate," which now means "to seize" but once referred to the forfeiting of private property to public use. Today we find "fiscal" in a number of phrases, including "fiscal year" (referring to a 12-month accounting period not necessarily coinciding with the calendar year) and "fiscal cliff," a term that rose to prominence in the U.S. in 2012 when much attention was focused on a series of anticipated year-end tax increases and spending cuts.

Chapter 3 - Kauri Jewel - Donna McTavish

Donna was born in Edinburgh and has lived and worked in Hong Kong, London, Johannesburg and Auckland. Donna vividly remembers waking up early to eat biscuits and read Enid Blyton stories when she was a youngster. English language and literature has been a constant love in her life and recently Donna has started to create stories of her own. She is a Story Mint member.

He’d slept for 12 hours, and when he woke the tiredness in his limbs was gone and the late morning sun was spilling through the cracks in the curtains and onto the faded carpet.  Somewhere on the drive to the hotel, he’d decided to stay in Rawene. He didn’t know if it would be for a week, a month or even longer, the decision was enough for the moment.

The rage he’d felt at his cancelled contract had caught him off guard. All that money spent on therapy had really paid off,  he thought wryly. His anger was still ready to pour through the smallest chink in the armour he’d created, threatening to plunge him into the darkness again. He sighed out his defeat.  Nothing had changed but he knew that it was a gift being in a place like this where no one knew what he’d done.

 His life had become reduced to this hotel room and the bright red Boat Shed cafe. Every morning the girl behind the counter tilted her head.  “The usual?” she asked, and every morning he smiled his answer. He’d ordered eggs and coffee for seven days now and he couldn’t disappoint her. He didn’t know her name but the odd familiarity between them was comforting. So was ‘his’ table in the corner where he watched the ferry disgorging several times a day its load of squabbling children and worn out parents, and cars filled with body boards, chilly bins and sand.

 He’d become accustomed to the cafe. The scraping of chairs on the bare floor and the clatter of the coffee machine were soothing and he liked watching the people come and go from the safety of his corner. But today there was a difference. He noticed it as soon as he took his position. Above the chaos there was a new disturbance and automatically his attention focused there, a table within eavesdropping distance.

 The three men looked out of place in fluoro jackets, hard hats and boots. They were sitting awkwardly drinking tea.  One was tapping stubby fingers on the table top while the others spoke. He caught snatches of conversation……. bloody  idiot………..a kid……… trouble”.  There was something urgent in their voices that made him uncomfortable and suddenly he thought of Hinewehi and her chattering. He’d forgotten his promise to visit her but he hadn't forgotten their strange talk. Why had her mother not wanted the little girl to see her father or uncle?

 Grant finished his coffee and walked outside into the sunshine needing to shake off his unease. Across the street, people were crowding into the Four Square for ice-creams and cold drinks before heading to more glamorous destinations. His mood lifted and he resolved to find out where Hinewehi lived. I’ll bring her into town for an ice-cream, he thought.

 Relieved to have reached one decision, he started to cross the road.

 “It’s Grant, isn’t it? I’m Sandra. Sandra Richter. Can I have a word?”

copyright Donna McTavish 2014

Follow this current serial  -  http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/kauri-jewel

Dead Man' Ring - Chapter 2 - Annette Connor

Vivienne smiled at Hugo from across the vinyl gingham-clad table, the flickering glow of candlelight danced in her dark eyes. Her right hand reached around the stout Chianti bottle-turned-candleholder to tug at the ring on his left hand. “I really shouldn't’t like you, after that stunt you pulled.”

     “But you do?” Hugo winced inwardly at the youthful eagerness in his voice.

     She laughed. “Enough to suggest that we leave this joint and go back to my place.” The beauty raised a warning finger. “But we go now and in my car. Agreed?”

     Hugo nodded, fumbling for his wallet. He threw three twenties on the table and scrambled to follow Vivienne as she sauntered toward the exit.

     An hour later, he sat on her couch, sipping warm cognac and staring at the tiny blue flames licking along a Presto log. Anything to keep his mind off the way her legs seemed to go on forever beneath her little black dress. As if reading his mind, she poked his leg with her bare toes and then tucked both feet under him.

     “So tell me the truth. Weren’t you just a little freaked out to wear the ring after what that woman said about it?”

     Hugo shrugged. “Not really. I think that stuff is stupid.”

     She emptied her glass. “Drink up! There’s something I want to show you.”

    Hugo chugged the liquor down. Standing turned out to be a mistake. The room spun around him. He grabbed at the marble mantelpiece, ring clunking against the hard stone. His hands and feet felt numb. His knees buckled and he fell back onto the couch. He tried to apologize, but his tongue was too big and his lips wouldn’t move.

     Vivienne’s face swam into view, a frown furrowed deeply across her brow. The room swirled again and she disappeared. His ears flooded with the sound of rushing water. Vivienne reappeared. No, not Vivienne. This woman was older. She reminded him of someone. The room convulsed again. His head grew heavy – too heavy to hold up much longer. He felt a sharp tug on his left hand. The woman waved the ring into his line of sight. The ring! That’s where he knew her – the widow with the ring.

     Vivienne’s voice came from somewhere behind him, garbled by the rushing sound in his ears. “Sorry, Momma. I think I gave him too much.” Hugo struggled to comprehend each word, but they slipped along the ebbing tide of his consciousness.

     “No matter, sweetie. The important thing is that you bagged your first dead ringer! I’m so proud of you.”

     Ring. Hugo’s vision tunneled toward darkness. Ring. Damn ring. Ring. Wait. She said dead. Hugo wanted to be afraid, but couldn’t muster the will. Dead. Ring. Ring. Wait. Not the ring, but a ringing. The doorbell; it was ringing. Blackness overtook him.

Annette Connor, USA

copyright  Annette Connor 2013

Chapter 3 - Firefly by Ray Stone

I started this while losing my way with Twisted Wire, the current novel I am writing. After posting the short story on my web site I had a few inquiries, asking if I would write some more. I wrote a second chapter and got the taste so now I have written the third chapter. There is one concluding chapter to come and I hope it might be the start of a collection of shorts - who knows.      

Rhythmic thumps accompanied by tyres singing as they rolled down the serrated metal ramp of the ferry echoed across the water.  I drew on my cigarette and inhaled, then closed my mouth and let the smoke flow out of my nostrils. As a kid I watched cowboys do it at the movies and copied them. The habit stuck.

Firefly’s shopping list was pretty extensive so Smitty and I had spent the afternoon buying each item. We had booked into the motel, a real flop house, and Smitty felt right at home. With the shopping stashed away, we waited until the last ferry was on its way from Seattle before we drove down to the terminal.

“Jeeezzuss, this is real fun, right?”

Smitty trotted up and joined me under the canopy outside the foot ferry entrance. He was holding a couple of plastic coffee cups from which steam was pouring out of the small drinking slits. I flipped the cigarette and trod on it. We stood sipping together, letting the coffee seep down into our stomachs.

Half an hour later we walked into the bright ferry terminal as some of the staff were leaving. Two lifeless forms lay on benches at the other end of the hallway. As we passed one of them the figure stirred. It was a thin blonde woman in a dirty mauve jumper and jeans, nursing a Pepsi bottle that looked like it was half full with water. As soon as she opened her mouth I knew it wasn’t water.

“Hey, shithead, keep it down.”

She gave me a sheepish look through half closed eyes and pointed to a small mongrel stretched out beneath her bench.

“You try anything and he’ll rip your friggin head off,” she said, picking her nose before cuffing it.

With that she turned over, pulled an old coat over her head, and yawned loudly. The dog retreated backwards on his stomach under the bench, his eyes never leaving me.

At the end of the hall was an open door marked ‘STAFF.’ The room was empty and there were coats hanging on racks. I walked past and waited. Smitty stood looking down along the entrance and nodded. We both slipped inside and within a minute were dressed in black all weather trousers and coats with reflection hoops.

“How are these gonna’ help?” asked Smitty as we walked out of the hall. He pulled the hood up.

“The cleaners on the ferry also clean the marina and there’s always a couple on hand in case a pump out is required.”

An empty bus stood outside the booking hall. The driver stood on the steps, just inside the door, smoking. He waved as we passed but said nothing.

A minute later I felt for the key in my pocket and had it ready as we reached the metal steps down to the marina entrance. As I inserted the key into the lock, a deep husky voice, quite close by, startled me. Smitty and I turned together.

“Hey, you guys late or starting early?”

I looked straight into the flashlight but knew I was talking to a cop. Before I could open my mouth, Smitty gave us away.

“Hey dude, we got here early,” he replied.

***

Smitty was snoring. He lay curled up on the bed. Outside our door an early riser was chatting loudly on his cell phone and from the other side of the wall behind my bed came the faint voice of a newscaster. At first I could not understand why we were not charged or why there were no checks on our ID other than a cursory glance from the desk sergeant. As we walked home I recalled Firefly’s one line she had recited a few times. ‘Follow your instructions to the letter and you’re not going to be caught.’

Well, I had blown it but something about Firefly was a little unreal. Coincidence perhaps but she had turned out to be something of a lucky charm. Whatever, I would have to call her and let her know I had failed.

Smitty stirred and propped himself up on one elbow.

“You hungry, man? Let’s go eat.”

“You go and grab something. I’ve got to make a call.” I looked glumly at him. “I guess the gravy train just dried up.”

I picked my cell up as he left and called Firefly. She answered immediately.

“Well, you sure met all of my expectations, Johnny. I set a trap and you walked straight in. I knew you lacked trust and I hope you learned a lesson.”

Her voice was quiet and I could hear her breathing lightly. There was a pause as she sucked in loudly and I guessed she was a smoker.

“Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry I let you down. I just thought-.”

“You know what thought did, don’t you, Johnny? So now you sit and listen to me and don’t interrupt. I have things to tell you about trust before we talk about what I am going to do for you.”

I saw a glimmer of light. The fact that she was still talking meant I might still be in the money. I tapped a Lucky out of the pack and held the phone between shoulder and ear while flipping the zippo. I drew on the cigarette as she continued.

“When I tell you that you’ll not get into trouble if you do as you’re told, I mean it. For obvious reasons, Johnny, I can’t tell you everything and that’s the way it has to be. Let’s just say that our legal system sometimes sucks and there are a few good citizens who want to help the less fortunate receive justice. These citizens are honest and trustworthy with connections and that’s all you have to know.”

“So we’re a kind of vigilante group then?” I said, cocking two fingers and firing at the wall.

“No. we are dedicated to finding justice in a non-violent way. You go in that direction and I’ll make sure you see the inside of a cell for a long time, Johnny boy.”

There was a pause and she said, “You’re friend, Smitty, knows what you are about. You will need to make him understand too…or else.”

“Okay, so I have one question. Why me? I answered the ad but you didn’t know me yet I got money sent to me. I could have walked off.”

Firefly cackled. Over a hundred callers replied to her ad and all told to wait for a reply. During five days each caller passed through vetting for certain criteria, she said, and my name came out on top. That’s how I got the job but she wouldn’t tell me anything else. She did, however, promise that after the next job I would have no problem in trusting her or the people she worked with.

I swung my legs up onto the bed and leaned back on the wall. It was easy to listen, understand what she was doing, and even why. Trust though, was the real problem. Since losing my mother I had no trust in the police, the social services or the legal system. When Firefly’s job came up I was looking to make some easy bucks but now things were different. I wasn’t sure any more.

“You still there, Johnny?”

On the edge of telling her sorry I didn’t want the job, I said, “Yes, what do I do now?”

“You’re going home to Mansfield, Ohio.”

The words hit me like a sledge hammer. I was sixteen when I left Mansfield. The fire that killed my mother and eventually killed my father from damaged lungs happened a year earlier while I was staying with an uncle. The police blamed my father for going to sleep with a lighted cigarette but I knew different. I’d seen the bastard giving Lieutenant Kowski a payoff the day before the court order for back rent arrived. No-one believed me and in any case I was pretty confused. I didn’t know any names. I spent a few weeks with the social workers before they arranged for me to go stay with my uncle. I didn’t like the guy so I hit the road.

“This is a different kind of job,” continued Firefly. “It’s so simple yet it will help someone get their life back together and you can feel good about that.”

“Okay.” There was a quick sizzle as I stubbed the cigarette out in a plastic cup.

“The details are in an envelope along with some money at Bremerton FedEx Office. Go pick it up and be on your way to Mansfield by the morning.”

***

“I don’t believe it,” I said, reading the letter.

“What’s the job?” Smitty hovered, both hands in pockets, hunching his shoulders and shuffling feet against the cold.

“A break in,” I answered. We’re going to open a safe and take the some papers from it to a police station.”

“What!”

copyright  -  Ray Stone 2014

Go West Young Man - Chapter 8

This was a historical serial that caught everyone's imagination, including Suraya's. At the time of writing, Mrellan Harahan who wrote the preface, is turning this into a short story. Suraya submits regularly to the serials, finding time from her busy schedule as CEQ of The Story Mint.

Liam became the assistant to Tom Brookes, a gruff New Yorker.

One day Liam was inspecting tracks when he came upon a group of black men grading them. Several children wheeled barrow loads of dirt from the tracks to a nearby pile. Newly freed slaves.

A whip cracked and one of the boys cried out, then stumbled and sprawled in the mud. The barrow fell over spilling its contents onto the ground. The child tried to pull himself back up but the supervisor whipped the boy across the back again.

“Get up you lazy good for nothing,” he screamed.

Leaping sleepers two at a time Liam ran to the boy’s aid. Just as the supervisor had pulled back the whip to beat the child again, Liam pulled the boy out of reach. “Leave him!” He shouted.

Ugly red welts seeped blood through the boy’s ragged shirt.

The supervisor’s face turned red with fury. “Them nigger kids are lazy,” he shouted. Everyone stopped what they were doing to look on.

Liam ordered them back to work and with an arm around the boy’s shoulder asked him what his name was.

“Earl, sir,” he said, his big black eyes wide with pain.

Liam glanced down. The mud oozed over the child’s bare feet and the wind whipped his tattered trousers. A violent shiver shook him.

 In the tiny space that sits between two breaths Liam became conscious of the contrast between his and the boy’s clothes. His fine cotton shirt and the boy’s tattered rags. His mind flicked back to a memory of himself in Ireland; hungry, bereft.

As Liam led him towards the carriage where he and Tom worked, the supervisor yelled after him. “You’ll give them ideas!”

At the sound of the voice, Earl stumbled. The life seemed to leave him as he sank down into the mud. Liam lifted him up and as he held him against his chest, Earl’s eyes rolled to the back of his head.

Liam ran to the carriage and burst in on Tom who was studying a map.

“This boy needs help.”

Tom leapt to his feet and ran over to the couch, throwing the books that lay strewn over it on to the floor. Liam gently lay Earl down. Lucy, who had seen the incident, bustled in filling the coach with Lavender perfume. 

She helped Tom ease Earl’s torn shirt off his body while Liam filled a basin with hot water.  Liam’s heart leapt when he saw the vicious bleeding welts crisscrossing old scars. Tom seemed unmoved.

Later, when Liam walked beside the river, trying to put the memory of Earl out of his mind, Lucy joined him. The water’s movement frayed the edges of the moon.

 “What happened today made me very angry.” She flounced her skirts and strode ahead of him then stopped.

Her eyes were dark and serious as she turned to him, body taut and determined.

“He must be stopped.”

Her chin jutted out stubbornly.

 Suraya Dewing (NZ)

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/go-west-young-man

Letter from Malta

It is hard to avoid politics on Malta. Everybody has an opinion and knows how to handle an issue better than the government. This month we have two main issues that have come about because of the new Prime Minister’s election promises. These issues have a serious side to them but watching bureaucracy tackle them can have a funny side. The first was to reorganize the public transport routes and the fares. The problem is, that in order to carry out this promises the incumbent company, Arriva, accused of making too much profit from the tourists, had to go. That was the easy part. The government came up with a great idea and put out tenders to coach and tour operators to each have a set list of routes that they would maintain. In the meantime the government hired the same operators to take the place of Arriva and paid astronomical fees to the operators for the hire of the coaches which were mixed with government owned coaches. (are you with me so far?) The Prime Minister became more popular by announcing that instead of separate fares for tourists, non-Maltese residents, and the Maltese, we would all pay the same – 50c. That went down really well except with the operators. The old fares were $2.40 – $1.60 – 50c respectively. So an awful lot of revenue has been lost. Now it appears the government cannot get any operators interested in running the public transport because – yep…not enough revenue. The buses are still running and services have improved slightly but the government still has to pay the operators for the hire of some coaches. Looking into my crystal ball I can see a lot of Maltese up in arms when the bus fares go back up – unless of course the government reintroduces a tiered fare system. I wish I worked in this government…there’s always something different going on to stop one from getting bored.

The government has made a deal with a gas company to supply our power station with cheap gas and we are doing away with the expensive oil fuel. I was looking forward to having cheaper power, another promise that the government have indeed followed through on – except it has got a little confusing for me. I recently moved to another apartment and have a card operated electricity meter. I pay up front for the power and slide a card into a slot every week. The cost is the same as it was before when I had a traditional meter. However, the reduction of everyone’s bill is 15%. I have two problems with this. No one at the moment knows if the 15% is coming off the service charge or the actual amount of power used. Second – whatever the 15% comes off of, I need to change the meter as the card meter will not automatically register more power for each card. Just to keep the issue alive in the press here, there are now people who are objecting to the supply gas ship being permanently moored offshore. It looks like a huge white three hump camel. I have to admit that living here is an interesting experience. I love the Maltese – until they start shouting politics.

My own work is going well and both books are now in print. At the end of June, Isia’s Secret will be available on audio in the USA and the UK. The Trojan Towers will follow. By the end of the year the second of the Enda Osin Mysteries will be published. One last advert – Isia’s Secret will be FREE on Amazon May 1st for five days.

Well, weather wise Malta has been slow to warm up this year. We are still no hotter than 75 during some days and this weekend we are expecting rain. I should not complain anyway. By the time I get back from America it will be a daily toast at 85+. I do intend to go to the gym and swimming pool a lot more this year. The exercise really helps keep me fit and the walk there and to the shops along the front gives me plenty of fresh air.

Ciao, ciao my friends, I love you all.

Maggie and Danny - Azadeh Nafissi

A new writer emerging from The Story Mint, Azadeh writes with an experienced eye on life. I am sure we are going to see a lot more of her work very soon. This is a serial starter.

Azadeh Nafissi is a writer/ filmmaker who lives in Paris, France. She grew up in Tehran, Iran and after finishing her BA in English Language and Literature; she traveled to New Zealand and studied MA in English Literature and PGD in Communication Studies. Her passion for cinema drew her to Paris where she studied filmmaking.

She has written several short and feature scripts and directed some short documentaries. She has recently participated in chapter/starter writing for the Story Mint serials. Apart from her scripts, she is also working on a collection of short stories.  

Maggie and Danny ©

Maggie was preparing the material scheduled for the coming week’s episode when the head of the station called her to his office. He leaned back in his chair and beamed. “Well, Maggie,  how would you like a promotion to host and be programmer for the youth section?”

While the promotion excited her she nervously wondered how she could possibly connect with teenagers. She was thirty years old and struggled to recall her own troubled teenage years. Experience taught her that writing useful programs for those viewers was extremely demanding. Their fragility had to be subtly and sensitively depicted. She needed to show she understood teenagers’ complicated tastes and that was not going to be easy.

She realized she had to put herself in their place and to recall what she liked when she was a teenager. Those were anecdotes, songs, toys and board games. As a lover of animation characters, she created a sidekick named “Jiggy Bo,” a hand puppet with inquisitive eyes and gentle manner. She based him on Mr. Pricklepants from the adorable Toy Story series.

  

As the show received many positive reviews, schools, charity events and teenage rehab centers invited her to perform.

One day she was due at one of these centers. She had watched documentaries and seen how tough life was inside them and this worried her. Her anxiety heightened when the nurse searched her for illegal drugs.

To calm down she left her team setting up and took a walk down the echoing hallway. She came upon a young person who shyly smiled at her. He was playing with his long hair and looked cutely androgynous.

He started to greet her when the nurse interrupted. “Danny, get back to the room and take a seat,” she barked.

The smile immediately disappeared from Danny’s face and a scowl replaced it. He spun on his booted feet and disappeared with a flick of tartan skirt. The nurse followed Maggie’s gaze, then rolled her eyes, “She,” the nurse rolled her eyes… “He, is only fourteen but such a troublemaker. We are all absolutely sick of him.”

Troubled by this, Maggie returned to the room where the crew was setting up. It buzzed with the sound of chattering, giggling teenagers. She settled Jiggy Bo on the table next to her and began to read some poems. She continued with a play and ended with a small quiz. The nurse told her not to make the show longer than one hour, and Maggie made sure to finish just before dinner time. As she performed, her eyes kept returning to Danny who sat away from the rest of the group, legs and arms tightly crossed.

Afterwards, instead of rushing from the room as the others did, Danny stayed and drifted about. She began playing with Jiggy Bo's arms, twisting the arms around his floppy body. Danny cautiously looked around then said through his wild brownish hair and pleading eyes, “Can you adopt me? I’m really scared of this place.”

Azadeh Nafissi (France)

- See more at:

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/maggie-and-danny-%C2%A9#sthash.wshIoAGI.dpuf

One Last Cup (cont.) - by Dan Oliver

Here is the second part of Dan Oliver's short. Some writers live their story and Dan is no exception. A terrific piece to read even if this is not your genre. This story is based on actual events. I look forward to more from Dan. 



Captain Francome carefully thought through their scenario. They were alone and too far from the allied lines to help, or to be helped.

“The way I see it, we can both ditch the Tetrarch here and walk towards German lines in surrender…” the only response to that was a furrowing of McGregory’s brow.

“Or,” he continued, “charge those Tigers from behind and try taking out a few of them.”

It was Underhill who spoke up, “Cap, we won’t last one shot from those Tigers. Sure we could hit one or two in the rear by coming from behind, but we’re too crippled to have any real impact.”

“So we surrender then?” quizzed McGregory. Silence ensued.

“Okay. There is another option here,” said Francome.

“When Maubeuge gets overrun, our guys will be forced to retreat. But those Hummels will start bombarding their escape path,” Captain Francome paused to compose himself “We could win our guys the chance to fall back by going after those artillery and taking them out.”

“How many do you think they have there?” asked McGregory.

“It sounds like there are no more than half a dozen,” said Francome.

“There will be Jagd Panthers nearby for sure,” noted Underhill, staring blankly at the ground.

These tank destroyers were the snipers of the armoured vehicle world. It was common for the Germans to provide artillery protection with the likes of Jagd Panthers.

The idea was as good as a death warrant, but Francome knew he had their assent. A short time later they were back inside the hull of the wounded Tetrarch following the path of the Tigers back toward the location of their targets.

***

 “Enemy sighted captain.”

Francome moved to the periscope that McGregory was looking through. Six Hummels sat bunched together within 200 yards of each other. The Tetrarch idled behind some dense scrub at the top of a rise looking down on a small farm yard. The family had long since fled, but the remaining few buildings provided some cover for the artillery.

The crew of each Hummel were busy, two loaders and a gunner stood inside the vehicle working away furiously as their commanders issued their targets and trajectories. In all six cases the radio operator and driver stood outside of the vehicles.

“OK, we can do this,” began Francome. “Manny, push us at full speed behind and around the rest of this rise to come out in front of them close to that barn.”

“In front? They’ll blow us to bits!” protested Underhill.

“No, they won’t have time to react. Move us in behind them quickly. Greggy, you can have fifteen high penetration rounds. Two for each Hummel and three more for luck. Throw the rest out of the tank now to lighten us up.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’ll jump on the machine gun when we get closer and target the drivers so that they can’t mobilise. Greggy, aim for their engines, fuel tanks and ammunition racks. They’re all at the rear of the vehicle.”

The hull turned into a den of excitement. The delectable sight of the unguarded German guns sitting vulnerably in front of them boosted their confidence.

***

As they rounded the rise the first Hummel spotted them.  The gunner tried to turn the gun toward the Tetrarch but the Tetrarch had sped past the range of the gun before they could shoot. Without a turret the Hummel was particularly vulnerable from the rear, especially when the driver was absent.

Drawing alongside the first unit, McGregory had the gun trained to the right and ready to fire a broadside shot from thirty yards. At that range he couldn’t miss and the shell disappeared into the side of the Hummel. A split second later it erupted into a fountain of fire.

“Good one Greggy!” shouted Francome. Without a dedicated loader, McGregory had to both load and shoot. With adrenaline pumping through his veins he was working double time. Already he was training his sights on the second Hummel sitting next to a large barn thirty yards away.

McGregory released the round from fifty yards and the shell penetrated the thin armour, but high and close to the gun. The explosion was no less impressive and the gunner probably killed by the shot. He loaded again and sent a second shell into the crippled Hummel’s rear as they rounded it in search of a new target.

The third Hummel sat further back than the first two, between the barn and a brick farm house. Underhill turned right to go around the front of the barn. The driver of the third Hummel had been alert and in the short time available to him had started the engine and reversed out of the line of sight of the Tetrarch.

“Manny, swerve left and go through the barn,” yelled Francome. “We’ll come out the other side and catch him before he is able to turn toward us.”

No sooner was it said than done. The Tetrarch wobbled around to the left and charged through the wooden wall of the barn. Inside was empty except for a small pile of hay that the tank disturbed as it rumbled through the interior. They soon exited the further wall in the same rudimentary fashion, bits of straw and splinters of wood flying. They appeared out of the furthest corner and McGregory turned the turret slightly aft to line up his third target. The Hummel was trying to turn its frontal armour toward their gun but it was too slow. McGregory’s first shot hit low on the right flank of the artillery, dislodging a track, rendering the vehicle immovable. The crew knew only too well that they were doomed and quickly evacuated.

As McGregory lined up his next shot to finish off the third Hummel, five high ranking officers exited the farm house to investigate the commotion. Seeing them, Francome realised that here were the brains of the entire operation. The commander of the Maubeuge assault had based himself there. In an instant Francome popped the turret hatch and grabbed the mounted machine gun. Before any of the German officers could move he had unleashed dozens of rounds into them, rendering them all as inert as the three Hummels they had decommissioned already.

Francome threw back his head and laughed a victorious laugh. He swivelled to and fro firing at the dishevelled German troops who were too stunned by the attack of the Tetrarch to know what to do.

The Tetrarch rounded the farm house and McGregory loosed another round into the fuel tank of the fourth Hummel. The ruptured fuel tank caused the hull to catch fire and burn fiercely. Four out of six artillery lay completely destroyed. The fifth Hummel was on the other side of the farm house to the Tetrarch and the sixth on the further side of a second farm house. Any further thoughts toward pursuing the last two targets stopped as the screech of rending metal followed by a deafening explosion caused everyone’s ears to ring with deafness. The tank spun sharply to the right and stopped, hit by a shell.

Francome turned from his machine gun to see the low profile of a Jagd Panther trained on the Tetrarch from the wooded hills behind the farm. He dropped into the cockpit to see McGregory unconscious. The shell had hit the Tetrarch right under McGregory’s seat. Francome could see McGregory’s right leg was now a bloody pulp and a trickle of blood ran from his nose. He knew his dear friend and comrade was dead. But now timing was critical, the Jagd Panther would need twelve seconds to reload; they had to get out of direct sight.

“Move!” Francome shouted at Underhill.

Neither of them could hear anything except the ringing in their ears. Underhill gestured the track was blown off. They could manage another twenty feet before the track fell off completely, leaving them stranded.  

Francome tried to indicate that it would be enough to get the farm house between them and the tank destroyer. Underhill seemed to understand the flailing arms of his commander and pushed the tank forward slowly. The stone wall to the left of the Tetrarch exploded in a cloud of smoke as a second shot from the Jagd was thwarted by the last minute movement of the British vehicle.

The Tetrarch sat immobilised, parked up next to the stone farm house. Francome knew they had a minute at best and he threw himself into the role of loading the gun and hitting the remaining two targets. The turret rotated to the right and he lined up the Hummel. Both remaining units were dashing for cover now that help was at hand.

Francome was not the ace gunner that McGregory had been. His first shot hit the ground next to the moving Hummel, but was fortunate enough that the splash damage blew off a track. In quick succession he launched two more rounds to finish the fifth Hummel as the crew frantically abandoned their vehicle.

Turning toward the final Hummel Francome suddenly realised it had turned to fire at them. It would take a long time for the Hummel to aim but had no idea how much of a head start they had. He worked feverishly to load the gun. As he raised his head to take aim he heard the unmistakeable ‘Boom’ of the Hummel followed by an audible ‘Whoosh’ and a gust of air that rocked the doomed Tetrarch. Their shot had gone wide.

With a sigh he lined up the final Hummel and sent the last of the German bombardment detachment to the scrap heap with a direct hit to the ammunition rack. The exploding shell caused several shells within the Hummel to detonate, causing so much damage that only the tracks and chassis remained.

Six German Hummels lay in ruins at the hands of the battered Tetrarch. Their beleaguered allies in Maubeuge would have an unmolested path to retreat and so fight another day.

Francome rotated the turret back to the right. The Jagd Panther rounded the barn just as he had swung the gun in that direction. Acting on instinct the noble captain of the Tetrarch fired his round at the tank destroyer, only to see it ricochet off the thick, sloping frontal armour of the villainous foe. It was over. Their tiny gun couldn’t dent the German hunter at the eighty yard range they were at.

Francome ducked out of the turret and blocked his ears as the first of the Jagd Panther shots careened into the turret, mangling it and blocking their only escape in the process.

Captain Peter Francome and Lieutenant Emmanuel Underhill both knew they had about twelve seconds left.

“Cracking job, Lieutenant. Fancy one last cup of tea?” The thermos, dented and beaten, was brought forth.

“Yes please, Captain. I would be honoured.”

[Inspired by the heroic actions of tank commander Luigi Pascucci at the second battle of El Alamein]

Dan Oliver (NZ)

Dan contributes regularly to The Story Mint.

Cock -a - doodle - do, the origin got lost - Boo Hoo!

Cock-a-hoop    Audio Pronunciation\kah-kuh-HOOP\

 DEFINITION

 adjective

 1 : triumphantly boastful : exulting

 2 : awry

 EXAMPLES

  The driver's pit crew was cock-a-hoop as they watched her cross the finish line to victory lane.

"The cock-a-hoop pride and sensitivity of these former colonials were mere annoyances, almost impossible to take seriously for a nation with a world war to win." — From Patricia Brady's 2011 book A Being So Gentle: The Frontier Love Story of Rachel and Andrew Jackson

DID YOU KNOW?

 The adjective "cock-a-hoop" comes from a curious 16th- and 17th-century expression, "to set cock a hoop," which meant "to be festive" or "to drink or celebrate without restraint." Etymologists, however, are not entirely certain about the origin of that old expression. Although no one knows if it originally had any connection with the "rooster" sense of "cock," many people thought it did—and this perceived association influenced the current meaning of "cock-a-hoop." The cock is known for its triumphant crow, and "cock-a-hoop" is now used to refer to something triumphantly boastful.

THE CHOIR - Chapter 5

We are having great fun with this current serial. A story about a choir and several women with the ‘hots’ for a fireman member of a group.

If you have a short story, anecdote funny or sad, a comment, or a chapter of your current work, why not write to me and submit so I can post you on this blog/news letter. What better way to have the spotlight shine on you.

THE CHOIR

Kathy gets desperate because there’s a flashing red message on the pager.

‘Medivac with casualties – fire engine crash – all respond.’

Breathing heavy, Kathy shouts and screams loudly to be let out, banging and wrapping her fists on the door.

A gurgling giggle comes from outside - Ruth sounds blotto. “Hello, Katheee, got stuck in the loo-loo have you? What a shame Frankeee…” there’s a crash as a glass smashes on the floor… “can’t hear you.” Then in a lower tone, "Bugger, I’ll have to get another drink.”

Ruth falls heavily against the door and slides slowly to the ground.

“Help, someone let me out.”

“What’s going on?”

Kathy recognises Geoff’s dulcet tone and pleads with him. “Geoff, I’m stuck in here. Get me out.”

Ruth, who is still on the floor, is laughing. “Leave her there, Geoff. Now be a good boy and go get me another…”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Geoff shouts. “She’s passed out. Hang on, Kathy, I’ll go get Frank.”

Kathy’s mind is racing. This could be her chance to grapple with ‘Mr. October.’ With Ruth in the land of sweaty dreams and Miss Nightingale on her way to the hospital, a snog and wrestle are definitely on the cards.

There’s a commotion as the combined cacophony of unmelodic choral voices rushes up the stairs to the rescue. Miss Nightingale’s silly laugh shrills above all the others. Kathy smiles, knowing the little cow will be laughing on the other side of her face in a few moments.

“Okay, everyone, out of the way,” barks Frank’s voice. “Stand back, Kathy, I’ll have to break the door down.”

Kathy's heart is thumping faster against her chest and her lips quiver. As soon as the door opens she plans to fall into his arms and drop the pager on the floor.

There is a loud crack as Frank pounces forward and shoulders the door but it doesn’t budge. On the second attempt, splinters fly and the door swings open and crashes against the bath. Kathy, with one eye flickering, launches herself at Frank. As his arms grab her, she drops the pager at the feet of the ensemble and goes limp, head thrown back.

Miss Nightingale takes hold of Kathy’s wrist. Kathy comes too long enough to pull her hand away and grab ‘Mr October’s’ neck.

“You’ve dropped your pager,” Sharon exclaims, sarcastically. “It’s probably a message from Dr. Kildare.”

Miss Nightingale snatches the pager, reads the message, and then screams. “Frank, you should come with me! There’s been a crash involving a fire truck.”

Kathy, seeing her lusty chance’s with Frank slipping through her fingers, lets out a loud groan and clutches him closer. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Miss Nightingale smirk at her.

“Sorry, I must go,” says Frank as he lets a furious Kathy slide to the floor.

“Crash, my arse,” mumbles Ruth. “Any more Pinot Grigio in the fridge?”

Ray Stone (MT)

Catch up on this one and all the other serials on The Story Mint.

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/choir

One's company, Two's a crowd - Chapter One - Dan Oliver

Yet again, another Story Mint talent. Dan Oliver has written several chapters for the serials. Here is one he wrote for a preface I submitted. This was about some nasty things going on out on a deserted oil rig. I think all involved in this one thoroughly enjoyed themselves. If you want to read the whole 10 chapters the link is below. It is a good read.

A crack of thunder woke Sherwin up from his troubled sleep. Bleary eyed he rolled over and looked at his alarm clock. The digital display slowly came into focus – it was 4.53am. Sherwin sighed and threw off the blankets, he knew he wouldn't get any more sleep.

A flash of lightening lit up the room momentarily followed closely by another clap of thunder. “Welcome to the tropics I guess,” Sherwin murmured. The muggy weather, frequent storms and wildlife of South America were a far cry from his pleasant suburban life he had left behind.

Suddenly a forceful gust of wind rocked the house and rain started pelting the windows of Sherwin’s bedroom. “Damn! The Daphne!” The rough weather quickly brought back the reality of the mission home to him. Tugging on some clothes, Sherwin rushed downstairs to the clandestine radio facility they had assembled.

Sherwin had not been able to raise the Daphne or her crew in almost 48 hours. The weather reports confirmed his fears – a major cyclone was forming offshore; right in the path of the Daphne.

*******

Grant Bishop felt exhaustion through every bone in his body. The last stage of his voyage in the Daphne had sapped every ounce of strength from him. He descended from topside back to the lower decks of the platform looking for any signs of life. No such signs were forthcoming and he decided to work his way across to the communications room located on the lower deck right beneath the accommodation block.

The door to the communications room was ajar. Grant could hear static from the main speaker as he approached. As he reached for the handle he hesitated - the whole platform was starting to give him the creeps. He took a breath and pulled the door outward, slowly. The room was empty. His fear subsiding, Grant picked up the microphone and started running through the secure channels that the team had agreed to use before the trip.

*******

“No luck again,” thought Sherwin. It was nearly 7am and the channels he had polled were all blank.

“Mr Landing, come in. Over,” crackled the radio, startling Sherwin. He grabbed the microphone.

“Sherwin Landing receiving. Is that you Bishop? Over.” Sherwin could not mask his relief.

“Affirmative. I have arrived. Over.”

“Are Cromwell and Downs with you? What happened out there? Over.”

A long silence followed.

“We were hit by that storm… I’m the only one who made it,” said Bishop eventually. He sounded tired.

“The Daphne?” Asked Sherwin.

“Gone.”

Sherwin had to take a moment to compose himself.

“Okay. At least you’re aboard, so we can proceed,” Sherwin’s mind was racing, Grant Bishop’s predicament had some dire implications.

*******

As Grant Bishop put down the microphone his exhaustion returned in full strength and he decided to find a spot to grab some sleep. As he turned to leave his eye caught sight of something that made his blood freeze – a dead body hunched over in the corner.

Dan Oliver (NZ)

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/ones-company-twos-crowd-fw/chapter-1#sthash.vG1hbES4.dpuf

FREE COPY - FREE COPY - FREE COPY

From May1st. to May 5th - Isia's Secret will be available on Kindle for FREE. Make sure you get a copy

Flo Ginsburg - brings to mind writers like Tom Clancy and John Le Carre,

***

Jennifer Jansen -Webbweaver books and radio at http://bit.ly/HWQKW 

 A gripping story of political intrigue,

***

Caleb Pirtle - A novel that's written by a poet and has language that's as beautiful as the plot is intriguing
Shortly on Audio through Amazon (ACX)

http://www.amazon.com/Isias-Secret-Ray-Stone-ebook/dp/B00FCRGON8/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1384027074&sr=1-1&keywords=isia%27s+secret

Sharmarak

I have long wanted to write Sci-Fi but never took the plunge. This has hung around for a while and I will not rest until I start on it to see if I can master a new genre. Here is the introduction and preface.

        Toward the end of the twenty-sixth century, a ship carrying one thousand pioneers discovered a new galaxy trillions of miles from a dying Earth. A planet, supported by a sun and two moons became their home. They found the remains of a long dead civilization and the remnants of a manufacturing process that purified sea water with a white crystalline substance. On a wall in an ancient mine some hieroglyphics were uncovered. Unknown to the pioneers, the symbols depicted a mighty battle between good and evil and the end of the ancient civilization. They also warned of the return of evil. A thousand years went by before the symbols meant something to a handful of worried leaders. The meaning remained secret and the mine was blocked and declared unsafe – but not forever.

Interior Committee Findings.

Ref: Hieroglyphics – mine DR2790

Strictly non-public domain

The following is as near as possible a complete transcript of the hieroglyphics on the wall in DR2790. I have no hesitation in recommending we seal this mine and make it government land. Whether the prediction is true or not, I see no reason to follow this line of enquiry any further.

Senator G.S.Swift

Committee Chairman.

 Starts – King Lam fought a war with Lord Grondal, an ex-faithful advisor to the King. Grondal had recruited an army from the distant Marsh Uplands where the hostile warriors and their leader, Prince Hragg, had always been in dispute with the king over territorial rights to Sharmarak. Grondal wanted to seize power from the King and in order to do this he needed control over the vast desert called the Merindil Sea. Potar crystal mines situated on one side of the desert supplied all the water purification needs of the king’s people and the Marsh Uplands. Without the crystals, both would perish.

The mines formed an important part of Grondal’s plan to rule and enslave the inhabitants of Sharmarak. Once accomplished, his next objective was to seize power in Asima, which lay a great distance to the south of Sharmarak, rich in minerals and inhabited by a peaceful race of people. Having promised the Prince and his marsh warriors one of the outposts and its inhabitants as slaves, Grondal set up his headquarters in the Prince’s ‘Uplands Castle’. After declaring war on the King, the two forces met to do battle in the middle of the Merindil Sea. The onslaught from the Marshland warriors killed all of the Kings army, driving the King and a few followers back across the desert and into the foothills and the mines.

In a last ditch effort to stop Grondal, the King ordered all the mines except one to be spelled poison by the court sorcerer, Roderick the Mighty, thus ensuring enough crystals to keep his own followers and the inhabitants of three outposts alive. The King retreated to the last mine which lay hidden in the Kasben foothills. Leaving a small band of men to work it, he sought out Grondal and died heroically in a dual to the death after refusing to reveal the location of the mine.

Grondal sent his armies to find the last mine that would keep them alive but, unable to find it and without pure water, the men of evil perished. Before facing death, Grondal’s sorcerer, Zarden, entombed him and Prince Hragg plus one hundred of their best warriors in the vaults beneath the castle and spelled the last mine flooded. Zarden also made the entombed men immortal so that on awakening, they would be able to exact their vengeance and rule the kingdom. But they would awaken only when the mines started producing Potar crystals again.

Unable to thwart Zarden’s powerful spell, Roderick the Mighty conjured a potion that if mixed with the immortals’ blood in combat, would bring instant death. Roderick knew that it would take a special warrior to defeat Grogan. And so he safely hid the potion in a secret place at the mine with instructions that could only be understood by such a man; instructions that would only appear when that man entered the mine.

Following these instructions closely the warrior would have to overcome many dangers before finding the potion. Even then, he would still have to enter the dark Marshlands and travel through the Festoid Forest before reaching the Uplands. Once there, he and his followers would have to kill the immortals by running their potion covered swords through the enemy and save the kingdom from tyranny and destruction. – Ends

We then come forward to modern times and the hero of the story flying a load of crystals back to the city - but a violent sand storm forces him to make a landing near the foothills and so the great adventure begins........

copyright - Raymond B. Stone 2013