How do you celebrate?

The ten-minute thrillers are temporarily on hold as I sit here tirelessly working on perfecting my latest novel, in the race to create a literary masterpiece.
As I read, I wonder… who wrote this? I don’t remember being the person who typed all those words and created this from thin air!
I am extremely proud of some of it… and some of it needs a rewrite (or in other words is utter crap!)
This brings me to my point today, sometimes we have a bad habit of focussing on our failures rather than our successes!
We should all remember to enthusiastically celebrate our achievements! Have a celebratory drink, open a bottle of champagne… remember, it’s not good for you to keep things bottled up!
Please enjoy one of my previous posts.
      It is indicative of how I am feeling as I trudge on… A Fight to the Death!
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Can they hear you scream if they don’t know where you are?

An accident at sea… no-one knows where you are!

  What happens next in this tumultuous ten-minute thriller?

     To discover more adventures,

         check out “Readers of the Lost Arkives!”

 

 

“Tell Me This Isn’t Really Happening”

By Stephen James

 

                When confronted with life’s most challenging proposition of all: “Am I ready to die yet?” Is the answer yes or no? A rhetorical question, perhaps? But… what if I do have a choice about my decision here? Try to imagine a circumstance so dreadful — that it is simply the most unbearable place on Earth right now, and… “I’d rather be dead, than living right here, right now!” This would really test a person’s resolve, would it not? The following story is based on a true one and it tolled on my imagination bell. In it, the hero, a certain Mister X was exactly that. The characters are friends of mine, but I have rattled the plot and changed a few details, including their names. Their privacy is important.
The gusto of the drama still remains the same…

 

The pair had originally met in obscure circumstances. A young spirited couple, thrust together like two world’s colliding, as quoted in INXS’s famous song; ‘Never tear us apart’. A hard worker, Ronauld was never shy of contacts. At home in Brisbane he knew what to get, and where to get it. He was the go-to man. Liara, on the other hand, was from another universe to most westerners. The wild heartland of enormous Borneo island — home to the Dayak race, has been well documented over the decades. Pretty-faced Liara was born of Dayak parentage and she was proud to be one. Here, thousands of tiny islands strewn their way around its extensive coastline. Now in the new millennium, it still remains somewhat untamed. Kalimantan, as it is officially called by its inhabitants, can be as dangerous as it is beautiful. They had first met here, some time ago, and were returning for an even greater and more widespread tour of her homeland for him to experience — open his eyes.

In no time, they had a six-week tour of Indonesia booked. Two people, two rucksacks, two strong personalities, two searching hungry minds. Ronauld and Liara couldn’t wait for the flight’s day to arrive. Finally, the day came… they boarded. From the aircraft’s window, a thousand islands scattered like blotches of forest growing from the ocean, sprawled out, littering the blueness as far as the eye could see. They were close… then, at last, the tarmac…

With her prehistoric escarpments rising from the unstable sea floor, Indonesia lay her forests and small-town marketplaces down as a gauntlet of challenges to be met. The first two weeks went so swiftly by, Ronauld and Liara could barely catch their shadows and Liara showed him a much greater depth of her homeland. The young couple’s budget was not on limits anymore. In this country, your money is worth ten times more. But they were not so foolish as to waste. Their souls grew closer. The arguments, well, practically non-existent. The pair openly confessed their love for each other in front of all who joined in on their merriment. Their reliance upon each other became solidarity. Each called the other a pillar of stone, facing back, so strong and dependent.

This would very soon be put to the ultimate test. A boat trip was planned…

Liara and Ronauld, who seemed to make friends with everybody that they came in contact with, boarded the first stage of their island-hopping five-day tour. A ferryboat to cross the span of water from Lambo Laoosutre to Papo Djkartrahn Island. The mid-sized vessel’s name was The Lady Senwiggi. This ferry was old, rusty, and very basic, with extensive passenger overcrowding.

From down near the water’s level, the island’s perspective is distinctly different than the view from the air. Needless to say, once filled to beyond her maximum capacity, the rudimentary relic-of-a-ship steamed off towards the horizon. It was mid-afternoon, the sunset’s colours would be majestic soon. The excited crowd were soon overlapping one another’s privacy. As the port disappeared out of view for the passengers, a dozen different dialects crisscrossed the fundamental ferryboat’s decks and covered seating areas. Several hours into the voyage saw a change in weather conditions, which raised some concern. Like an unwelcome sea witch, a hot north-easterly began to pitch the waves to an uncomfortable level. They collided in episodic fashion. Her tonnage was not high, and her keel sat rather shallow in the water. The Lady’s stability was not cooperating with the unpredictable cross-current wind very well. The vessel began tossing and turning, which caused some passengers to stumble and fall. Women grabbed their children from anywhere near the railings. Some had already fallen overboard. Nature had thrown them a curve ball, with everything she had. In a heartbeat, the sunset cruise across a seemingly tranquil passage of water had turned into a nautical nightmare…

The Lady Senwiggi started to falter, the constant listing eked the ocean into her hull. Every portal to the daylight was a potential drain into her empty belly. The bilge pumps were suffering under the strain. She sat dangerously low in the water. A freak wave surged below her troubled hull. It hoisted the rusting vessel up like a paper cup and pounded her spine into the blackness of the depths. She groaned like a tortured metallic sea creature, fighting in deep water. The majority of passengers became dislodged from their seats. They lay across tables and on the floor. Many sustained heavy bruising. Again and again, the swell lifted the old steel ferry, as passengers, bracing for the impact, glared into each other’s faces with the raw gasp of drowning filling their eyes. That eerie weightlessness point at the very apex of the wave, then, the freefall to instantly come to a stop at the bottom. Any person who had been managing to hold on to something, now wasn’t. Screaming figures careered down the alleyway between the seats, their heads crashing into one another, their bodies ravaged by on-board debris. With such aggression did the ocean pound the humble ship, it broke the spine of her, then, flipped her onto her back like a drowning cockroach. In a moment of luck, perhaps good, perhaps bad, Liara and Ronauld had decided to have a restroom break several minutes before the weather had angered. In this particular vessel’s restrooms, one single large room branches off to both separate sets of cubicles. Ronauld was waiting in the larger room for Liara when the largest wave had struck. The Brisbane boy stood clasping a stairwell pole attached to the deck above. After the ship was thrown back into the catcher’s mitt, he felt his entire body rotate around. It had saved him on impact. He scanned some horror-filled faces. But where the hell is Liara?

Ronauld felt the gushing surges of water rising up past his knees. Most streams were pouring from above, emptying from her lower hull. He could feel the suction of air rushing past to displace it. In an instant, he knew the ship had been inverted. To him, the burning question was; how long did they have? He made his way to the ladies’ cubicles, continually calling out loudly, “Liara! Liara!”

The sickening screams of terrified injured passengers scrambling along on the ceiling surrounded them. Like panic-stricken human-sized drowning rats, kicking, scratching and fighting, they squeezed through every available crevice. After a minute’s delay — her distressed voice called back, “Ronauld, is that you? I’m in here!” The water continued to rise.

He grappled toward her voice, in the near-blackness, past bedraggled furniture and scurrying people. Many were children. A half-full drink bottle bobbed in the water. He grabbed it. Again, he shouted. “Liara! I’m coming in to get you! Are you hurt?”

Another enduring minute lapsed before her voice became clearer. He fought against the swirling obstacles and rushing water, the doorway was still a metre-or-two away. He heard her. “I’m okay. Just shaken! Hit my damned head on the door!”

At last, they saw each other — but the light was nearly all gone. He helped her to her feet and showed her the way out. The water was above waist-high, soon they would be swimming. Now in the larger room, it became apparent that the exits were completely blocked by the twisted remains of furniture and cargo. It was jammed in like a beaver’s lodge. An explosion of loud calls for help had returned nothing. Liara and Ronauld also now realised that they were the last remaining two inside. They could not hear any voices in the water outside either. Suddenly, a haunting silence fell. All the demonic weather had calmed, and the sea also began to settle. With salty water now deeper than they could stand up in, forcing them to tread water — nothing felt settled where they were. The distressed pair began looking for a weakness in the lodge. The sea-level was ominously close to the deck above their heads. The pair hustled about in heavy wet clothes, to exhaustion, eventually finding a couple of large floating wooden boxes. They climbed aboard one each and reached out to link the other’s finger’s — preparing to die. It felt cold and was now pitch-dark. Each could hear their own breathing. Trapped like this, when she did sink, they had nowhere to go. Hours drifted past. They fell asleep. Both minds hopefully questioning; Perhaps the fatigue will act like anaesthetic?

But it didn’t go down…

Morning brought with it her joy of sunlight— and with that light, an observer from the air could now identify the situation. Their entombed rear section of The Lady Senwiggi had come adrift, leaving behind the ship’s sunken main structure. This self-contained pod of air and buoyant debris had carried on a current. It was miles from anything. Liara’s eyes opened and initially, her mind remained in confused disbelief. Why am I not dead? Was that a horrible dream? The external sun was so bright that it managed to illuminate the water and allow a glow, just bright enough to see by. She saw his silhouette and paddled over. “Ronauld. Wake up, Ronauld!”

Her companion shook his mind into consciousness. “Amazing… Liara my love, we made it! We made it!” He passed her the drink bottle and they surveyed their wounds. If he could just find a way out, they could spend time on the flat section of the hull above them – perhaps flag down a vessel or plane. But his celebrations were short-lived…

A complete underwater search of their portion of the ship revealed precisely; four more full drink bottles, some unlabelled tins of food, a large knife to pierce the tins, several backpacks — none of which were theirs, and some wet cigarettes. As for managing to force their way out, Ronauld could see through the murky depths that large segments of the debris were the very thing keeping them afloat. Masses of it were wedged under the decking between the railings, like outriggers. Besides being impossible to remove without a tool of some kind, if too much was removed, they could go down without knowing what was outside. A good guess would be a huge expanse of seawater — somewhere in the middle of the Celebes Sea. Another important thing about the hull’s current integrity, was that air was finding its way in from somewhere and he daren’t disturb its entry. Hope was the only thing they had. They sensed help wasn’t too far away now. The pair saved their strength and took care of each other until the darkness took everything away.

The next day unfolded in much the same way. The tins of food had been ravioli soup, braised steak and vegetables, peaches, and peas. They conserved water and discussed plans about what they would do when rescued. Swept along with the current, their entombing life raft began to slip further and further off the map. The sound of a light plane roared overhead but it was miles away.

Four more days dragged by, but with no more passing planes. That constant drip, drip, dripping sound that had been with them since the start. The mental side of things – a serious challenge for both. Although shielded from the blazing Indonesian sun, the interior elements were beginning to break down. The stale air was hard to breathe. Their salt-infused skin was dry. They were trapped like a pair of chrysalids waiting to pupate, slowly beginning to dehydrate, but had to keep positive and believing. Don’t worry, we’ll be all right, once we are saved.

Days turned into nights, into days and into nights and back again…

By the eighth day, to Liara, it felt almost prejudicial that she could actually see, because, vision is hope — but she no longer had any. “Tell me this isn’t really happening…” she pleaded, astounded to still be alive. She paddled over to him. “I no longer want to go on. I’ve had it… I’m losing touch with reality. There is no way out—” her words faded into tears.

Ronauld also felt the pressure-cooker situation. The food rations had finished yesterday, and they were down to the last two-litre water bottle. Both had become terrified from loneliness and the fact that they most likely will not get rescued. Neither wanted to confess to the other. The harrowing ordeal had garnished more tax than it deserved. He took her hand. “Now is not the time to quit on me, Liara. And besides, where are you going to go without me?” She forced a fake laugh.

The non-stop sound of dripping water was incessant. As was the monotonous ocean lapping around the walls. This was a living hell, in constantly damp clothes that were now rotten and threadbare. Their limit was surely not far away.

Three days of thirst and hunger later, and, like the water — her laughter was well-and-truly all used up. “I cannot go on any longer. I mean it! Like this, it could take weeks to die. Ron, should we commit suicide? Is that an option?” They held each other’s faces. She’d never seen him cry before.

He hated hearing her words. It was bad enough that his own mind kept rolling the same headline, Ronauld did not want her to help him make the same decision. “No. Don’t even suggest such a thing!” His voice sharp, almost unsupportive.

She couldn’t help it. “I have heard of people who knew it was the end… They… they hugged each other so tightly that the other couldn’t breathe. In a way, it would be a beautiful way to go… embraced together.” She wept. “I am hating every minute of this. It is like waiting to go slowly.”

“Do not speak of death!” He knew that voluntary simultaneous drowning would also be a very difficult one to pull off.

Her eyes met the knife. “Let’s cut our wrists then!”

“I know someone will come. Hold on darling. Just hold on for me.” Earlier, he had caught a fish which was one of several that had found its way inside. He’d killed it with the knife. “Here honey,” he gave it to her to eat raw. “The nutrients will work wonders—” She ignored the food – death now her only friend.

“Please, Ronauld, die with me now, quickly. Or watch me do it in front of you…”

“Don’t make me have to make that choice, Liara!” He watched her wrap somebody’s leather belt from the knapsack tightly around her chest. He sobbed. “I’ll only do it — if I absolutely have to.”

“Then, I shall choose for you! I can’t even feel the sea’s motion anymore,” she said, weak from the elements. She expelled her air, buckled the belt, and jumped in, near the deep stairwell area.

“No way!” He followed but with lungs full of air. Grabbing her tightly as they bottomed out. She began to crush him in bear hug style. He was not prepared and blew the lot out in a festoon of bubbles. Her grip was determined. It was as if she had saved just enough strength to do this and kept them under. Ronauld stared up at the last three minutes of his life, disappearing above his head, in a wobble of silvery bubbles. He hugged back, beginning to think about death and stopped kicking. His mind kept waiting for that moment when you could no longer hold nature back. That moment when your lungs give in to the fight and instinctively inhale. All that liquid rushes in and shuts the whole system down. It’s the wrong thing but it’s too late now…

Then, he thought about the last thing she’d said. There was no movement of the sea. They were no longer drifting. Their personal lagoon had been a spirit level for the entire eleven days, but he detected a distinct angle. He wrestled her free and burst to the surface, took a huge gulp of musty air and dove back for her. Ronauld unbuckled the belt despite her resistance and hauled her to some oxygen. Liara sucked it in so hard, it sounded dreadful. She’d been seconds away from inhaling the sea. He pushed her back on her box and ordered, “Wait!” Ron manoeuvred over to a spot where you could now climb down and stand up with your head just above the water. It was the most illuminated area. “I think we’re run aground.” She watched his elation grow.

He dove down into the water, trying to peer through the maze of debris. Turtles caught his eye. The murky water was too difficult to discern much else. Then Ronauld saw what he’d hoped for. He surfaced for another valuable breath. “If I’m right…” He dove during her answer.

He peered through the weakest debris, noting which pieces would need to be removed and observed sand washing into the superstructure. They were in fact, ashore. He could take the risk of digging them out. If they lost the ship now, it didn’t matter. He surfaced holding a steel bar. Her question was ready:

“Ronauld! Tell me what the hell is going on?” It took all her strength to be angry.

“I can see silty sand coming in through that side section. I’m going to keep diving until there is a clear hole, big enough for you to try and swim through. Now eat your fish!”

He dove with robot-like precision. Carefully retrieving articles one by one. Explaining to her between rests. Ron persisted for hours without fear, ignoring the fatigue. A turtle swam in through his passage. It surfaced near Liara. She knew he must be close. In the end, he’d carved a twenty-metre underwater swim through the debris. The weight transference inadvertently caused a huge list sideways, which suddenly triggered a heavy cupboard to fall. It landed in the escape route’s way, on an angle. Beyond it lay seaweed, sand, and safety. Ronauld wrestled with it. The steel bar was positioned as a prop which held the item at bay. The gap seemed just wide enough to fit through, if you expelled everything your lungs had got left. Your next breath would have to be freedom. If you ran out before then — it would be voluntary suicide. She’d get her way…

He went back for her. “Let’s go, Hon!” he barked from the water. “You’ll only get one chance, okay? If you fit through the hole without expelling, I would suggest you do it. She’s narrow — but it’s all I’ve got to offer.”

Liara rolled in and he guided her through the underwater maze. She kicked gently. The seconds ticked. Liara trusted Ronauld, she had to. However, the petite Dayak could hardly believe that a few hours ago, she was ready to give in — her threshold had been crushed, and now she must do the swim of her life — in order to save it. When they got to the cupboard, she squeezed through first without expiring her air. She turned to help pull his substantially larger frame through. She watched his bubbles vanish and hoped to God he would fit. Liara pulled on Ronauld’s hands so tightly that he felt her true inner strength and resolve. He squirmed, wrestled, and fought. With a badly lacerated chest, and lungs already bursting, he made it and swam on to the next section, with nothing on board. Ron had reached the same oxygen-void point, as she had before — when he had ripped the belt off in order to save her. He now knew what it felt like to be that close. His mind had gone blank and his vision faulty. They kept going. Two entangled decaying corpses, that didn’t make it, stared emptily back at them. He fell hopelessly, coughing and spluttering from inhaled water. The exit finally appeared. Liara helped him to his feet. The lovers staggered onto the gravelly beach. All around was perfect. It was nature in the raw. Not a soul in sight. But where? A jaded walk to higher ground showed the desolation of their tiny island. Merely a slightly larger prison…

What will happen? Will their fate be predetermined? Or, will the fist of temptation, once more, knock loudly on their door of doom — inducing them, in order that they may they succumb to the easy way out again?

“A Matter of Perception Really!”

I hope you are getting a feel for my mini-thrillers!

    Here’s another coffee cup challenge for you…

         Ever wondered why paying attention is so important?

 

“A Matter of Perception Really!” 

 

Just because you are looking at something, it doesn’t necessarily mean you are taking too much notice. As mortals, selective control of our senses is abundant; we see what we want to see, hear what we want to hear, touch the things we like the feel of, and prefer to believe the things we choose to like best, to be correct in most cases.

A sweltering day in the small desert-fringe town of Horseshoe, New Mexico had left the ground dry and hard. The inhabitants were irritable. A slow arid breeze wasn’t helping. Swirls of dust collecting on that breeze felt like sandpaper against any soft surface. Time seemed to be slowing down. It was as if the sun had paused to hover at its most potent heat-point in the western sky. The eerie silence was deafening. As the pressure of the uncomfortable afternoon built, parched onlookers swaggered along their own paths not daring to raise the attention of any would-be enemy…

Two strangers of complete disproportionate credentials were approaching each other across the gravelly road. This road was extremely broad from shoulder to shoulder, but just by coincidence they happened to both have decided to share the exact same portion of brown dust. At a short distance, with senses raised the pair of individuals began to slow their movements. It was as if each had decided to size-up the on-comer. Patience required, heads slightly raising and lowering, the weight of aggression gradually began to build within the unlikely far-smaller of these two potential combatants. He was trying to appear cooler than a polar bear’s backside. And so, the circling commenced. The looks grew steelier. The flaring of torsos now very evident of an ensuing contest added zeal to the many observing-at-a-distance females. A clock-tower ticking at fifty metres sounded like a metronomic hammer driving an endless railway spike into the ground. Without reason, the less-aggressive larger being suddenly took it upon himself to back down. An expressionless stare started to meander in the opposite direction with its hulking body slowly following. This was observed as a cowardly move by his minuscule but wiry opponent, who by this time had begun a fidgety shuffle as if securing a solid foothold on terra firma. Now with his back being the only view visible, it appeared that the antagonistic bluffing behaviour of this pint-sized challenger had prevailed. The giant waddled off, seemingly disinterested in engaging in an exhausting battle during such a searing afternoon. Shorty was having no part of fainthearted behaviour irrespective of the temperature, he wanted a fight ─ so it was a fight he would have to start, regardless of this weak-minded foe who was now several metres away and retreating at a rapid rate of knots.

A challenge deserves to be met. A charge was initiated. The first contact deserved to be made from behind. After all, it appeared only fair considering the size discrepancy involved here. Shorty scampered swiftly across the ground landing his inaugural blow to the back of the withdrawing spineless one’s head. It was barely felt. The gigantic stride continued. Another blow and another, but this time far harder caught the attention of the docile adversary. His head stung but his legs did not buckle. Like a storm turning a calm sea into a frenzy, the huge frame spun to permit a beady stare to meet his irritating enemy. They eyed each other up in hushed tension. Their silence was suddenly severed by the sound of the mission bell echoing from its tower in the city’s centre square. Amid two ticks of the clock tower’s roaming second hand, the grappling pair suddenly embraced. Hissing fury bridled pure physical strength as the war between two complete strangers erupted. Blow after blow, cannoning off seemingly without effect was infuriating the giant. He picked up his energetic little rival and tossed him away like a feather. Back up in seconds and feeling no pain from the fall, shorty launched another attack. This time with the momentum of full speed available, he seized his chosen enemy’s midsection and latched on driving with the power of his legs. The entwined couple began rolling in the burning desert grit. Over and over they tumbled, striking, kicking, biting and scratching one another whilst scraping every extremity in the process, neither prepared to recede or allow an inkling of fear to be on display. Tiny weeps of blood dripping to the ground were absorbed by the dust in seconds. Clinched together like two rampaging stags fighting for a doe’s affections with locked antlers, they spun and heaved at their opponent’s body. Fatigue started to overcome the brute. He stopped for recovery holding his lesser-strength nemesis at bay. The clock-tower sounded the hour with four clangs of its bell…

The relentless sun was showing no mercy to the foolish display taking place in the centre of the quiet street. Fortunately for our two contemporaries, this bout of ego-driven belligerence was occurring on a Sunday, hence the traffic was practically non-existent. Perhaps for the enraged duo, an interruption via car or truck would have seen an end to the boldfaced brawl. The bell ceased its marking of the hour.

In an instant, they were back at it. Both had sensed at the interval that only one would be walking away. The gauntlet had been laid in no uncertain terms that this was to be a duel to the death. Both bodies were quivering in the heat. Sheer power began to force dominance towards the favour of the large. On the ground once more in the choking dust, he seemed primed to afflict the fatal last strike but missed. A victory chance gone begging. In truth, after ten minutes there was still no clear showing of either being dominant. If anything, the only thing dominant here was the silent hatred that both had deep inside. A clever manoeuvre by the half-sized main aggressor enabled him to break the shackles and circle in preparation for the next assault. His speed and agility were clearly superior. Lunge after lunge was beginning to impede the sluggish movements of the big guy. But, he was not done with yet, there was his pride at stake here. A virtue of principle to be won. No tiny being can possibly be permitted to saunter into his territory and demand that he step aside!

A huge grey cloud steered its way across the blazing golden ball. It altered the light slightly. The twiddling bystanders felt the change of temperature and a host of glances tilted toward the heavens. Could this bring a termination to the entanglement of arrogance on display before them? It had little effect. If anything, in fact, it seemed to re-empower both ─ well beyond their second-winds by this time. They crashed together like two atomic particles for what seemed, a last gasp of hope, at the obliteration of the others meagre existence. A trip on a stone brought the large one to his back in an agonising thud. The little guy, now straddling, had his opportunity to suppress life via strangulation or dish the fatal blows. The merciless foray began. A blur of tiny impacts ground their way onto the bulky head. Again he refused to yield. Legs kicking, he summoned every last shred of energy to force off the expectant smaller combatant. A quick twist regained a foothold back on the grimy road. He backed away to recompose. At a momentary pause, a stalking promenade of respect for the other’s tactics kept them apart a slight distance. Gyrating at a similar speed at opposite sides of an invisible wall of separation they lowered and raised their centres of gravity in an effort to seek the upper hand.

The grey cloud moved on to shade another part of New Mexico…

Out of nowhere, an old black Cadillac careered around a nearby corner, it’s suspension compressing to maximum, under the heavy car’s mass. A bearded man with fire in his eyes wrestled behind the steering wheel. He had ‘couldn’t-care-less-fugitive’ scrawled across his face. A huge cloud of desert dust followed in the car’s vortex. With reckless abandon and total disregard, it shot by narrowly missing the fighters by inches. The focused pair appeared to not even notice. Both were running on empty.  Both driven by nature, who was in complete control now. By twenty past four, this exhausted couple had well and truly had sufficient time to analyse the other’s strengths and discern loopholes or weaknesses. They had seen and felt each other up close. Different species from a different side of town, with nothing in common ─ except for the will to win. It was zero hour. A glowing aura of pride awaited one, and a miserable humiliating death in front of his kind lay in store for the loser. Which was it to be?

As they came together for the final time, the fierce brutality magnified. Ripping, tearing and mutilating at will as if nothing else in the world mattered. And for them, it didn’t. Legs became severed in the process. Within a matter of moments, a big motionless carcass lay cold in the dirt on its back. Our honoured victor hobbled away. The arduous microscopic sumo-wrestling match ceased. The tiny ant had defeated the large beetle…

Did I fool you? I hope so. If you did not break into even the tiniest of smiles, perhaps you either misread the closing few lines, or maybe did not get my message. If either is true, then try this on for size: Look back at the story’s title and ask yourself about perception. Take our little protagonist for example. Ask yourself, how does he view the world? Can an ant see an elephant? Can an elephant see an ant? Strange, one might say, how two such dissimilar creatures both bare the same three letters in their names, isn’t it? It’s all about perception, and speaking about three-letter-words, let’s look at another. Try this on for size: SEX?

Got your attention this time, didn’t I?

Yes, the odd little three-letter-word that has helped sell more magazines, books, movies, TV commercials, billboards, soap operas, sitcoms plus whatever else you wish to name. Why, it has overthrown presidents and even affected royal families. Powerful little sucker, isn’t it? How on earth can one silly little word have quite so much influence on us humans? Well, look back at my depiction of the word and notice it is punctuated. What does this mean? Adding this conjures-up all sorts of different perceptions again…

Allow me to supply several answers to this tiny riddle. How you portray them may vary depending upon your own personal gender. Remember; voice inflexion also changes what is being asked. Say the word in your mind prior to each answer, and the word was SEX.

“Oh, no thank you. I’m married.”

“Sure! Where? When? How?”

“I thought you’d never ask!”

“My favourite word… how did you guess?”

Male.

Female.

Transgender.

“Not with you, pal. You are not in my league!”

“Certainly miss! But aren’t you being a little forward?”

“Thanks for offering, but you’re the wrong… well, how can I explain?”

“Sorry, I’m far too busy for that. My friend here is free right now.”

“Okay! How much do you charge?”

“How rude! No way, not even if you were the last guy on the planet!”

“Are you for real? What do I have to do to impress you enough to marry me?”

“I can’t. War wound you see…”

And, what about this one, the pièce de résistance: “Sure, but can I put your offer on ice for a couple of weeks? I’m stuck with this proper bitch. But once I have ditched her, we can get right at it!”

A little word ─ big meaning. Hope you got a chuckle this time and please remember my stories and blogs are all for pure entertainment, plus you could learn a little in their hidden meanings.

Cheers, Steve.

 

Ten-minute thrillers!

Thought I would start something new to keep all of my avid followers amused, pending the publication of my most recent mystery/ crime thriller. Stories with a twist are always a lot of fun. A quick fast read with a mug of coffee to start or end your day. Here is a “Ten-Minute Thriller” to tantalize you with the sort of thing to expect. This is the first of many. There will be one every week for you to enjoy absolutely free. Please share with your friends if you enjoyed the read. Feedback would also be greatly appreciated.

“A Fight to the Death”

By Stephen James

At a time when the plague of greed was paramount…
The foolhardy rantings of a diabolical madman, who instilled sufficient lies to persuade his cohorts to follow, demolished the peaceful harmony of society. It desecrated the very fabric of common decency. Think of the smell of death wafting through the cold night air’s shadows, chilling your every fibre into a sleepless paranoia of fear. How would it plague your mind ─ not knowing who or where your real enemy is?
But I am getting far too ahead of myself. This story begins way back in time…

When Harry Cayuga emigrated from England with his bride Shirley, way back during the freezing-cold winter of 1922, the happy newly-weds had no idea exactly what was in store. Harry, a qualified carpenter, just like his own father before him, had adhered to his Yorkshire-born dad’s advice, taken the generous one hundred and fifty-pound incentive and purchased two second-class tickets to Australia. The steamship Aryanise had delivered them safely to the docks at Sydney, and from there they had caught a train to Melbourne. The capital city of the state of Victoria had been chosen because its weather most-closely matched that of the north of England from whence they’d come. Shirley, now six months pregnant, had pushed for the opportunities on offer in the Land Down Under as it was referred to by the British of the day. Umbilical-to-his-family Harry, had at first objected to the lifestyle upheaval, but eventually came around after his father’s kind financial enticement. Shirley Cayuga gave birth to identical twin brothers on 20th February 1923, she named one Eric after her own father. Shirley’s parents had long since left England’s hustle ‘n’ bustle, and settled in the delightful hamlet of Baiersbronn, nestled in the Black Forest of Bavaria ─ not far from the French border. This was the town in which the couple enjoyed their wedding and honeymoon. Harry had the pleasure of calling his other son Harold in honour of himself. In a strange sort of irony, the two jet-black-haired boys both shared a common middle name. That being Derek because their parents both liked Vaudeville star Derek Sherrington, the popular celebrity of the era. Baiersbronn was so picturesque and romantic that it had proved to deliver the very seed of the twins’ inception.

As youngsters, Eric and Harold were inseparable. They shared a bedroom, ate together, played together, walked to kindergarten hand-in-hand with their mother, and whenever necessary ─ told little white lies to mum and dad to defend the other. As they steadily grew up this pledge never waned, if anything it tightened. Their teachers often remarked to their peers about the incredible bond between the brothers as if they shared a common soul. The outskirts of St Kilda, where the family rented a humble abode, proved to be a rugged upbringing for the without-sibling pair of healthy boys. The suburb had been selected for its healthy beachside environment. Melbourne was a multicultural city. It always had been right from its earliest inception as Australia’s potential Capital city. Most groups in this era, including the small children, were encouraged to stick to their own kind, but talkative-pair, Eric and Harold wanted to acquaint everyone in their first year of Primary School. Sometimes welcomed and sometimes scorned, the persistent pair accepted life for what it offered, black-eyed days and all. Each day, Harry would trundle off to work on one of the many housing construction-sites surrounding St Kilda’s fast-developing fringe areas. Never a drinker, in the evenings he would play with his sons and encourage their education, an area of absence in his youth, until their bedtime. After he’d tucked them in, he would discuss the family’s future in Australia over a late cup of tea with Shirley.

Which never came…

By 1929, with the boys scarcely six, a dreadful disaster overcame the world. After America’s initial stock market crash, the black cloud of depression spread like an out-of-control epidemic. It engulfed the western world, thrusting it into a suppression of industry never before encountered on such a grand scale. Labelled ‘The Great Depression’ for obvious reasons, the jobless numbers soon began to challenge the employed. Harry’s career, collateral damage like so many stalled to a crawl, then his company crumbled altogether. Australia was hit as hard as the rest, with queues of men lining up for hours for hand-outs. Harry became one of them. The dowry left by his father, which they were rebuilding during the late 1920’s, after it at first shrank whilst they established a foothold in the country, had been reduced to a poultry twenty-five pounds. A reasonable sum for the time, but it would barely see the year out.  Shirley found some work as a domestic for a wealthy banker but the meagre one-day-per-week wage did little to assist matters. They grew hungry and desperate. Arguments soon overwhelmed the once-happy family. In his frustration, Harry left himself with little option other than to take to the bottle. A shattering mistake. It led to more intense arguments. As the year dissolved into 1930, it appeared the one and only highlight was a thoroughbred called Phar Lap. The horse’s winning ability gave all Australians something to cheer about. He blitzed the field every race, also claiming the Melbourne Cup of that year, and it appeared that there wasn’t a distance he couldn’t win at. This became Harry’s saviour. He’d bet his last savings on ‘Bobby’ and did quite well. It fuelled his drinking habit, fed his family and quelled the quarrels temporarily, for a year. However, the odds were getting shorter and the handicap-weights were getting heavier. Shirley hated his new ‘punter’ lifestyle but with no other option, kept her mouth shut and fumed silently to herself in private. They ceased to be affectionate during this period. The last straw broke on 3rd November. Harry bet all his remaining reserves on Phar Lap in the 1931 Melbourne Cup and lost the lot. Phar Lap came 8th carrying a ridiculous combination of sixty-eight kilos. It nearly killed the horse.

They now had nothing…

It was all too much for Shirley.  She decided to leave him for the security of a life with her parents in Europe, which was less affected by ‘The Great Depression’. With her she took Eric, leaving Harold with his father. It seemed only fair not to strip him of everything. Devastated, the boys waved goodbye just after sharing Christmas 1931 together. For Harry, it meant doing whatever he could to support young Harold. They share-housed with other unfortunates. He laboured on the roads. He quit drinking. He even stole for him. After peaking in 1932, the depression slowly lifted. Father and son became a unified force. Young Harold did not hate his mother for leaving but struggled with forgiveness for her. His memories of childhood faded as the boy became a man. With the passing years and drop-off of letter writing, the two men galvanized strongly. Education had been substituted for a carpentry apprenticeship, and at sixteen, young Harold Derek Cayuga had it all before him. That was until September 1939 and the outbreak of war…

The Axis forces led by Adolf Hitler needed to be stopped. Great Britain and her allies surged in to assist Poland, France, Belgium and Europe’s other invaded countries. USSR, USA, Australia and New Zealand combined with forces globally to thwart the threat. Initially too young at the outbreak, Harold quickly volunteered for the infantry when permitted, without a whim of dissuasion from his dad. Photographed in his proud uniform and donning a slouch hat, the nineteen-year-old set sail for battle in July of 1942. Harold became part of a special covert group of volunteers who supported the Canadians. He fought in the beach assault at Dieppe in France, where the Axis forces won very swiftly. The allies were lucky to escape alive, many died. He went to The Netherlands and served for month after month, toughening and hardening his resolve as the troops around him fell. Friends were made quickly and lost even faster. He had witnessed bloodshed at its most extreme and was a far cry from the lad who had learned to saw timber for his dad for a living. As a corporal two years on, he was sent back to France to engage at The Battle of the Bulge, the last major German offensive campaign on the Western Front during World War II. It was launched through the densely forested Ardennes region of Wallonia in eastern Belgium, northeast France, and Luxembourg. It was one of the most significant battles of the entire six-year ordeal.

Just prior to his injection into the desecrated, snow-covered, wintery landscape, he had enjoyed a lengthy furlough from action. This temporary leave of absence saw him enjoy a much needed romantic interlude in the small French town of Vesoul. Julienne Du Manseau was a waitress at a small café. Pretty, dark-featured and petite, he fell for her elfin good-looks and pleasant personality like an anvil out the sky. Her sexy French accent only added further to her captivating charm. Harold promised Julienne that at war’s end he would return to Vesoul for her, and take her back with him to Australia if she desired it. She agreed to his offer. He carried her photograph next to his heart into battle and dreamed of her kisses when lying exhausted in the slushy freezing tent called home. He pictured her face in his mind all the time and convinced himself that it was the German army keeping them apart. It nourished his fervour. By 3rd January 1945, Harold had been away from home for over thirty months. He was mature beyond his years but longed for Melbourne, like a kid craves hugs.

Harold was now twenty-one. He had become resilient friends with Patrick Williams, a tall strong farm-boy from NSW who was in his regiment. They had shared many stories about their homeland during the halts in fighting. Pat seemed, like Harold, to be a bullet-dodger. “Just lucky I guess” they would often agree, upon the sight of one another, after a relieving embrace. It was only three months but to them, it felt like three years. Life was so knife-edged out there. The war was hell. Corporal Cayuga saved Pat’s life after a botched raid left him bayonetted in a sodden ditch. Harold shot the Nazi then carried his friend to safety under mortar fire. It went unnoticed but neither cared much for medals. Following that, machine-gunner Pat had a month’s reprieve from active duty but couldn’t wait to see his mate again. Once reunited, after the mobile hospital unit had patched young Williams up, Harold glared sternly. “Still dodged the lead… you lucky bastard! You’d do the same for me Pat,” was all Harold’s pockmarked-from-shrapnel expression said. And he was right.

Side-by-side they slugged out the long days together, always filthy, always upbeat, keeping each other sane. “You’re the best mate a bloke could ever have!” Pat would say every time their eyes locked…

One moonlit night after a bitterly cold day in mid-January, the two mates lay against a bullet-ridden shed wall sheltering from the wind. “Have I ever shown you this?” asked Williams.
“What is it?” replied Harold, taking a small square piece of cardboard from his friend.
“She’s my girl. Only known her a while ─ but we’re in love…” He smiled like a lottery winner.
Harold instantly recognized Julienne’s every feature staring back from the photo. He knew it happened when Pat was on furlough. He saw scarlet-red and immediately attacked Patrick physically, calling him all the abusive names for betrayal and disloyalty. Pat, totally perplexed, had to fight back. The two soldiers hammered each other to pieces, punching and choking comprehensively while ignoring their surroundings completely. It was boots and all. Bigger stronger Pat was getting the better of the jealous corporal. He held him against the crumbling brickwork and beat him to a pulp, trying to explain his ignorance to Harold’s previous involvement with the French lass but it seemed to matter not. When Pat let him go, Harold came back at him, but this time he’d drawn his bayonet. “You lousy bastard! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” he shouted swiping the blade at Williams’ throat. It was as if all the torment of his first twenty-odd years had exploded inside his head. The pair came together once more with Pat taking a stab in his belly. Ironically it pierced the very same point where he’d received the one which put him in intensive care for weeks, just prior to his tryst at Vesoul. As he fell to the ground, Harold moved in for the death blow. The double-edged blade sat inches from Pat’s face ─ his sorrowful eyes twinkled under the moonlight. “No, please mate,” he begged. “I swear I knew nothing, and she never mentioned a word of you!” The bayonet was raised high, Pat closed his eyes grimacing, knowing what was coming.

When suddenly nothing happened!

“Halt! Don’t do it soldier!” was the next thing they heard. It was a German accent.
Harold spun around, unable to move his arm being gripped by the hand protruding from the German uniform. No weapon drawn. “Back-off you Nazi swine!” he blasted. “This has nothing to do with you. We’ll fight afterwards if you like.” His eyes froze still at the face which was his own. Next to the face was a crumpled photograph. It was of two little boys beside a Christmas tree.
“I could hear your voice, yar vould… plain as if it vas yesterday, Harold,” uttered Eric with a tear. “We’ve lost… and I had comen to give myself up, yar. Don’t murder your friend, please. We have got so much to discuss, my brother!” Pat Williams was spared…