By John-Paul Marciano

    Sgt. Jim Hanson dug into his musette bag for the Very pistol he took from a dead captain three days prior.  He set the pistol aside and searched in his musette bag again.  He pulled out two flares, one each for the sniper and the machine gunner.  He loaded one of the flares into the pistol and waited for Sam’s signal.

    “Honker,” Jim called.

    “Yeah, Sarge,” Hank answered.

    “There’s going to be some fireworks in a couple minutes.  Just keep your head down.”

    “I can do that.”  Hank thought for a moment.  “Sure there’s nothing I can do?”

    “Nah, not the way you shoot,” Jim replied.  “I’ll let you know if we’ve got some figures that need tallying.”

    “Thanks, Sarge.”

    “Don’t mention it.”

    Jim rolled onto his stomach and scanned the area in front of Sam’s hole.  A narrow strip of amber light was starting to peek over the horizon.  Eerie shadows dotted the landscape.  He cautioned himself against letting his imagination run amok.  He took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly.  He repeated the process a couple times trying to lower his heart rate and steady his nerves.

    It shouldn’t be much longer now.  Where the hell is Sam?

    Jim unslung his rifle and laid it on the ground in front of the hole.  As he waited for Sam, he surveyed the area to his front left.  He couldn’t make out any movement and shapes were still indistinguishable.  He pushed a mound of dirt beyond the front of the hole then grabbed his rifle.  He gently rested the barrel of the rifle on the mound of dirt and slid it back and forth to create a firing slot.  Looking out over the front sight he was satisfied with the firing position he created.

    Jim placed the rifle to his right, then took his helmet off and loosened the chin strap.  With his bayonet he dug a 4-inch slit into the bottom of the hole long enough to fit the handle of his shovel.  After strapping his helmet to the shovel he propped it up and packed dirt tightly so it would stand up on its own.  He grabbed the Very pistol and waited for Sam to give him the ready signal.

* * * * *

    Sam peered at the area from which Jim thought the sniper was firing.  He was in a comfortable firing position but he was still unable to make out any shapes.  He needed more light and he didn’t see the need to alert Jim just yet.  Sarge was pretty good with a gun for a Yankee but he didn’t have much hunting experience.  Better to wait then start things prematurely.

    Sam spit out his chaw of tobacco.  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly while checking for signs of life.  Stillness gripped the area.  With no wind to speak of, the air hung thick with moisture and the cloying stench of rotting flesh.  All was quiet except for the rumble of artillery fire far off to the south; too far to tell who was shelling whom.  Those beasts and fowl that weren’t killed had fled the area long ago.

    It was time.  Sam flipped up the rear sight of his M1903 Springfield rifle and centered the front sight on the trunk of a tree that was stripped of its bark and branches.  He slowly worked the bolt action to chamber a round, then applied just enough pressure on the trigger to take up the slack.  He took a deep breath and let out his best cardinal call.

* * * * *

    Jim was looking where he thought the sniper would be and spotted the Maxim when he heard Sam’s whistle.  Using the Very pistol, he fired a flare at the machine gun and ducked.  The Maxim opened up, firing a burst toward Jim’s position and then spraying the area for good measure.  Mordecai responded with his Chauchat while rifle fire on both sides added to the cacophony.

    The Maxim went quiet while Jim was busy reloading the Very pistol.  A sharp metallic crack over his head made him start.  The shovel with his helmet toppled over onto his legs.  Retrieving the helmet, he tightened the chin strap after placing it on his head.  After taking a deep breath, Jim fired the second flare; this time about 20 yards to the left of the Maxim.   Jim dropped the Very pistol and grabbed his rifle.  He peered over the sites looking for targets but couldn’t find any.  The rifle fire continued for what seemed like eternity but in reality was no more than a few minutes.

    All went quiet.  Jim surveyed the area in front of his position but saw nothing.  Next he concentrated on the area around the Maxim position and all was still.

    “Bird Dog,” Jim called while putting the Very pistol back into his musette bag.

    “Yo,” Sam called back.

    “You get him?”

    “First shot,” Sam replied.

    “I’m going forward.  Cover me.”

    “Sure thing,” Sam said.

    Jim checked the area one more time then scooted forward, hunched down low in the direction of the Maxim.  He moved as fast as his legs would move, continuously searching for the enemy, always prepared to drop to the ground at the first sign of trouble.  He reached the Maxim without incident.  It was the sled mounted version.  The gunner was slumped sideways, hands still clutching the firing grips; shot in both the head and abdomen.  Closer inspection revealed the gunner was chained to the sled to prevent him from retreating.

    Jim slung his rifle over his shoulder and inspected the area one more time.

   “All clear,” he shouted.

—

By Ed Baranosky 

     Detective Inspector Ian Baxter was lying in bed looking up at the ceiling. He finally had a weekend off. He could hear kitchen noises as his wife Maggie made breakfast for the children to get them off to school. The plan was for Maggie’s sister to pick up the children and keep them over the weekend. He had rented a cottage on the Firth of Clyde near Dunoon so he and Maggie could have some time to themselves.

     Ian got out of bed, brushed his teeth, got dressed and went down to have breakfast.

     He kissed his wife. He tussled his son Robert’s hair and gave his daughter Jean a hug and said “good morning all.” Maggie pointed to the tea cozy and said “It’s hot. Your eggs and bangers will be up in a jiffy. Toast is under the napkin.”

     Ian sat down and poured a cup of tea. He just finished his breakfast when the phone rang.

     Maggie picked it up saying “Hello.” With a scowl she handed the phone to Ian. Somehow Ian knew it was Superintendent Macgregor at the Glasgow precinct.

    He said “good morning sir.” He listened for a second and said “yes sir.”

    Ian said “yes sir “twice more and hung up. He turned to Maggie and told her they had some trouble at Glasgow University. 

     She asked “what about the weekend?” He threw up his hands in exasperation and replied “I don’t know. I’ll have to call you when I find out what’s going on. I’ve got to go.” he picked up his coat and left.

     Turning into the university grounds he saw two squad cars parked in front of a four- story building. That must be where the problem is. He parked next to the cars.

     A sergeant he didn’t know saluted and told him Inspector Tomlin was up on the second floor waiting for him. He took the stairs two-at- a-time. At the top a constable was standing by a door halfway down the corridor.

   The constable at the door said “they’re waiting for you inside Inspector.” Ian went in.

   Inside the room Ian saw a sign in red by a door with a small window. It read: “Danger No Admittance Without Hazmat Suit.”   There were three people in the room, Sgt. Jim Tomlin and two men in a lab coats.

   Jim introduced them as Dr. James and Dr. Edmons. Ian asked Jim why they were there?

   Jim took him to a door with a window and pointed inside. Ian saw what was a laboratory with all its paraphernalia. The bodies of two men clad in white suits were lying on the floor close to each other. One of the men was in a pool of blood with a scalpel protruding from his chest. Why the other man was down Ian would have to determine when he got inside the room. Ian asked the names of the men

   In the lab. Dr. James answered the man with the wound is Dr. Sam Trent. The man next to him is Dr. Chad Fried.   Dr. James said “It’s time for the warning.” Ian told the sergeant to leave the room. He didn’t want him to get involved in what was going on here.

    Ian said “the last time I heard that was when I was in the army. You’re talking about the Official Secrets Act. What the bloody hell do you people do here?”

    Dr. James told Ian he had now been warned. “Anything I tell you is classified Top Secret under penalty of 30 years imprisonment if you divulge what I say. We are engaged in much the same work as we did during the war on Anthrax on Gruinard Island.”

    “If you were injected with Black Mamba venom without getting treated it would take about 20 minutes for you to die. We’ve developed a neuro-toxin that can kill you in a matter of seconds with a touch of it on your skin. We mixed it in a gelatin base and for the want of a better container put it in a woman’s lipstick tube. You can guess who our contractor is.”

    Ian said “that’s all well and good but I still have to get into the room.” James showed him to a room with the Hazmat suits. Ian put one on and went to the lab door. James punched   code and Ian went into the lab.

   It was obvious how the stabbing victim died. What he wanted to know was how the other man died.

   He saw that the rubber glove on his right hand was pulled halfway off. Above the glove on his wrist was a small round spot where the skin had turned black.

    He had seen what he wanted. He walked to the door and left the lab.

    James pointed to a room where he could get out of the suit. He took off the suit by turning it inside out. There was a container marked “Bio-Hazard Only.” He pressed the foot pedal to open the container to throw in the suit. He saw another suit in the bin.

    He left the room. To James he said “I have two questions. How many people have the code to the lab door and how often is the hazard container emptied?”

    “There are five people who have access to the lab. Those two in the lab, Edmons, me and our neurologist, Dr. Emily Rand. The container is emptied at the end of each day.”

    They were interrupted by rapping on the outer door. James opened it to find Sgt. Tomlin and a young girl who seemed to be out of breath. Between gasps she said “Dr. Rand is dead.” In unison Ian and James asked “where is she?” The girl answered “In her room at the women’s dorm.”

    In the corridor he told the constable “nobody’s to go into the lab.”

   He followed as James led the way to a building across the Quad. On the ground floor a group of girls were looking into a room down the corridor. Ian told Tomlin to move the girls out of the room. Then he went in. Lying on the bed was a woman, her right arm outstretched. Her left arm was alongside her body. Above her partly exposed left breast was a small round black spot identical to the spot on Fried’s wrist.

    He was beginning to put two-and-two to together when the sound of a frantic scream came from down the hall. He emerged from the room and saw a girl with one hand to her mouth, pointing into a doorway with the other.

   Ian went to the sergeant and told him to clear the corridor.

   Ian entered the room. A young woman was on the floor. In her left hand was a small hand-mirror. Half of her upper lip was black. A glint caught his eye. Just under the bed he saw a lipstick tube and said to himself “Aha.”

   With that he went out to find James and Edmons. He summarized his findings to them. “What we have is a crime of passion. Rand obviously was having an affair with either or both Trent and Fried. She was in the room with them. Probably in a jealous rage Fried stabbed Trent. Trent had the lethal tube.”

   “In the second before he died Trent pulled the glove off Fried’s hand and pressed the tube to Fried’s wrist. He got his revenge. Fried has small black spot on the back of his wrist.  Rand picked up the tube and left the room. I saw her suit in the bio container.”

   “She took the tube to her room. I think she was so distraught to see her lover killed she committed suicide. She didn’t have ‘Cleopatra’s asp’ but she had the next best thing.  The dead girl in the room probably heard her fall. She went in and saw Dr. Rand. Seeing the lipstick tube, picked it up and took it. Thinking it was lip balm, she was applying it and was dead before she hit the floor. She’s the innocent victim here. You’ll find the weapon that caused this death under her bed.”

   “I would suggest you call your sponsor whom I assume is either the home office or MI5 to come clean up this mess. That’s what you should have done in the first place.”

   Ian entered the corridor and told Tomlin to stay until higher authority showed up. He was going back to the precinct to fill out the paperwork.

   As Ian crossed the Quad to where he parked his car he had a bit of spring to his step. He and Maggie are going to have their weekend getaway after all.”

                                                                #

      By Ed Baranosky

      I was in line behind an older man. A woman who appeared to be in her 30s was in   front of him.

There were about 30 of us lined up waiting our turn to speak to a bearded old man in an immaculate

white robe standing behind a lectern that held a large tome.

       I was startled when the man in front of me turned said “this is my third time.”

        I replied “I’m sorry I don’t understand.”

       The old man asked “what’s the last thing you remember?”

       “I was in my car it was raining I approached a stop sign at an intersection as   I applied the brakes.

My foot slipped and got wedged under the gas pedal and that’s the last thing I remember.”

      “The thing you don’t understand young man is you are dead like the rest of the people here.”

      “What did you mean when you said this is your third time?” I asked.

      “The man at the lectern is like an expediter. He reviews what you did when you were   alive. If you

screwed up your life he sends you back until you get it right. What did you do when you were alive?”

       I explained that all I was ever good at was electronics. After I got out of the army I opened repair

shop. My dad gave me a green tackle box I used for my small tools. RCA had a promotional deal

where if you bought a certain number of vacuum tubes got you a red caddy the size of a suitcase to hold

them.

       I was in a bar with a friend. He told me of a man who wanted a sensitive high-quality Hallicrafter radio

installed with a rotating directional antenna and instructions on how to   use it. My friend gave me the

man’s phone number. I called him and we struck a deal.

       After the job was complete he told me he was a bookie and the radio and antenna were used to pick

up racing broadcasts from the Narragansett and Sarasota race tracks for results before they were posted.

Somehow my name had been passed around to some shady characters who were told I could keep my

mouth shut.

       One of the jobs involved the family that controlled the area numbers racket. They owned two duplex

 houses side by side. I had to call before I made service calls. And it had to be after 2 p.m.

      The father would meet me in the driveway. He would take me to the second floor of the one of the

houses to work on the radios.

      A few weeks later I was called for another problem. I said I had to come early because I had to catch

a plane later in the day. He said I could come at one.

      When I got   upstairs I saw the reason why I had to come after 2 p.m. On the living room table

   were stacks of money. Two women were sorting and counting it.

      A local drug dealer bought a big screen projection TV for his mother and shipped it to her

   in Puerto Rico. When it needed repair my wife and I spent a week at a posh seaside hotel with

   all expenses paid so I could repair the TV.

     The man in the white robe called the name of the old man I had been talking to. He spent a

   few minutes at the lectern. He turned, waved to me and was gone.

     I heard my name called. The robed man opened the tome and with his finger went down the page.

   He bent down to take something from under the lectern. He came up with my green toolbox and

   my red caddy. I screamed “Oh No!”

     My wife bolted upright in bed and said “Go back to sleep. You’re just having a bad dream.”

                                                                      #

By Juan Rodriguez 

    I am most content in the moments between the tasks of everyday life.  

    The moments between a delivery and walking back to my truck. Leaves crunching underfoot breaking the silence leading to the incessant rattling of the truck. 

     When I am no longer torn between Scylla and Charybdis and the odyssey in my mind ceases, albeit momentarily. 

     When the thunderous cacophony of thoughts is reduced to static if only for the moment. 

     When past and future are cast aside and I’m forced to embrace the present.   

     When my love places a hand on mine and asks “Where’d you go?” Reminding me that she holds the switch to turn my thoughts off. In the past, I’d always settle for a dimmer.  

    When my mind is clear after I’ve cataloged all the thoughts that threatened to burst out my very soul. 

   When I’m free to be as verbose as I want to be. Unapologetically allowing words to spill from pen tip and on to the page.   

    When I’ve let them dance across the edges of the page and allowed ink to bleed through. Knowing that a few illegible lines are a small price to pay for catharsis.

                                                                    #

By John-Paul Marciano

     As Sgt. Jim Hanson crawled away he heard Mordecai warn H.B., “I’ll be joining you in a few minutes.  Don’t get jumpy on me.”

    Jim made his way to his own hole.  Exhausted, he took his helmet off and used it as a headrest while lying on his back.  He looked up at the stars and briefly thought of home.  He missed teasing his mother and his kid sister, Ann.  He missed bumming around with his pals.  He missed his father’s rebukes.  He missed the sounds of the city.  Then he caught himself before the “what ifs” came calling.

    Get it together, Hanson, he chastised himself while rubbing his eyes hard with the palms of his hands.

    He rolled onto his stomach and put his helmet back on.  His stomach gave up a deep audible growl while the acidic taste of bile simultaneously crept into the back of his throat.  He swallowed hard and took a couple deep breaths.

    “Bird Dog,” Jim uttered barely above a whisper.

    “Yeah,” Sam quietly answered back.

    “I’m coming over.  See you in a few.”

    “Okeydoke.”

    Jim took another deep breath as he made the sign of the cross.  He crept out the right side of his hole and began to work his way over to Sam.  He got most of the way there but stopped when he heard a buzzing noise.  He reached out and placed his hand in a wet gelatinous goo.  As his eyes fixated on the form in front of him, he realized what he thought was a boulder was the trunk of a man with half an arm, no head or legs.  He dry-heaved when it dawned on him the goo was someone’s entrails.  As he quickly pulled his hand away, gorged flies followed the fresh meat.

    “Ugh,” he groaned as he wiped his hand on his trousers.

    Jim swatted at the flies then scooted around the remains and worked his way over to Sam’s hole.  His heart raced as he squeezed in alongside Sam and breathed deeply to gather himself.

    “Y’alright there, Sarge?  Ya look like ya saw a ghost.”

    “I’ll be fine, just give me a sec.”

    “Sorry it’s so cramped.  Aah wasn’t ‘spectin no visitors,” Sam said as Jim continued to take deep breaths.  His heart continued hammering the inside of his chest.

    Jim patted Sam’s arm and gasped, “That’s alright, Sam.  I didn’t come to socialize.”

    Sam waited patiently for Jim’s breathing to normalize, staring at him with dark brown eyes like a dog waiting for a treat.  It took a few minutes before Jim got his breathing under control.

    “How’s your night been?” Jim asked.

    Sam snorted and said, “Had better.”

    Jim gave Sam a sideways glance but the understated Arkansan offered nothing more.  “So what’s Wolf Creek like in July?”

    “Hot,” Sam replied.  “Ain’t much ta do ‘sept hunt.”   

    “You care to do some shooting now?”

    “Aah’m listnin’,” Sam said and spat a wad of tobacco juice through his teeth.

    “I want to draw that sniper out,” Jim said.  “Think you can nail him?”

    “If ya git em ta poke his head up Aah’ll git em,” Sam said confidently.  “Ain’t no wind ta speak a.  Shun’t be too hard.  What’s yer plan?”

    “I was thinking I can get his attention by taking a shot in his general direction.  I’ll give him a target by scooting over to Hank’s hole.  I figure between you and H.B. we can take him out before he can make our day miserable.”

    Hank (Honker) Lewis was one of more than 1,600 men who transferred into the 1^st Infantry Division from the 41^st in June to fill the ranks after Cantigny.  An accountant from Eugene, Oregon, Hank probably could have better served the army with a pencil in a supply depot than with a rifle in the infantry.  But this was the army and, right wrong or otherwise, Hank was in the infantry.  Mordecai started calling him Honker the first time he heard him laugh, saying Hank sounded like a flock of geese flying south for the winter.

    “Ain’t ya kinda hangin’ it all out there?  Maybe y’oughta rethink that one.”

    “You got a better idea?”

    “I dunno, but sposin’ yerself’ll jus git ya dead.”  Sam snorted and spat some tobacco juice out the side of his hole.  “Ya kin tra smokin’ em out,” he said.

    “How do you propose I do that?”

    “Got anymore a dem flares fer dat Very pistol ya been carryin’ ‘round?”

    “I got a couple,” Jim said.  “Why?”

    “Ya know where he at?”

    “Sort of but he might have moved.”

    “Ain’t likely,” Sam stated.  “Snipers ain’t much fer movin’ ‘round.”

    “Ok, I’ll take your word for it.”

    “Strap yer tin hat t’yer shovel.  Give em a target ta shoot at.  Shoot da flare ta where ya think he’s at.  That should git his tention nuff ta tra n shoot ya.  Aah’ll put one in his ear from over yonder,” Sam said pointing with his thumb toward Jim’s hole.

    “There’s a body about 10 yards straight out,” Jim warned.

    “Yeah, Aah saw em,” Sam said as he started to crawl out of the hole.  He turned toward Jim and said, “Use da spade end.  It’ll look more lak a head at first light.”

    “Thanks for the advice,” Jim said as Sam crawled away.  ”Let me know when you’re in position.”

    “Aah’ll jus whistle lak a bird.”

By John-Paul Marciano

     “Enter,” said a baritone voice as the front door swung open.

    Peter and Maria stood at the threshold and peered down the dimly lit hallway directly in front of them.  To the left of the hall, a staircase led to the second floor.  Every other stair had a lit candle next to the stringer on either side.  Unseen from the threshold, an organ was playing softly inside the house.  A skeletal hand floating above the right banister beckoned.

    “Enter,” the voice repeated.

    “You first,” Maria told her older brother nervously.

    Peter took a couple steps into the house and turned as Maria followed inside.  As soon as Maria was alongside Peter, the door slammed shut.  Maria twisted the door knob and gave a tug, but the door wouldn’t open.

    “Welcome,” said the voice.

    Maria turned to Peter and admitted, “I’m scared.”

    “Don’t be such a baby,” Peter replied with false bravado.  He turned to his right and started down a long hallway in the direction of the music.  “Let’s take a look around.”

    Maria scurried after him and latched onto his arm when she caught up.  “I don’t like this,” she declared.

    Peter checked the three doors they passed on the right but all were sealed shut.  The hallway was dimly lit by flickering candles in the windows on the right.  The hallway opened into a large room with an oversized fireplace in the center of the far wall.  Flickering candles on the mantle revealed a pair of crossed halberds mounted above the mantle.  Portraits of unknown individuals adorned the walls.

    Maria gasped and squeezed Peter’s arm.  Peter looked to his right to see the source of the music.  A skeleton with a raven perched on its right shoulder was jauntily playing the organ at the far end of the room.  A candelabra on the organ cast an eerie glow on the skeleton.

    As if sensing their presence, the skeleton rotated its head 180 degrees to stare at them with its permanent smile.  A few seconds later the head completed a full 360 rotation.  The skeleton continued playing the organ with its right hand while pointing with its left.

    Peter and Maria looked to where the index finger was pointing and saw a door swing open. An orange glow revealed a table next to the door.  In the center of the table was a bowl filled with what appeared to be white marbles.  They scampered across the room hoping the open door was their way out.  Maria screamed when she realized the marbles were actually eyeballs; some brown, some blue.

    Peter tugged at Maria to hasten her out of the room.  They stopped just beyond the doorway.  Before them, embers cast an eerie glow upon a field of impaled bodies stretching as far as the two could see.  They stared aghast as the Angel of Death harvested eyeballs and vultures picked at entrails.  The skeleton let out a blood curdling ghoulish laugh as the door slammed shut behind them.

    Maria shot up in bed gasping with eyes wide open and screamed, “Momma.”

 By Ed Baranosky 

   Zack Terrel sat astride the big black stallion. He was on the East bank of the Pecos River. He was contemplating where to cross. The river was swollen with spring rains.

    Downstream the river narrowed and there was a swift current. Upstream the river was wider and it appeared to be a less turbulent. It was there he decided to cross. He took off his gun-belt and buckled  it around his neck. He wrapped his Winchester in his slicker to keep the water out.

    He touched the flank of the horse with his heel and went upstream. It was there horse and rider went into the water. Coming out on the West side of the river both were soaked through.

    If he were to make it to   Santa Fe by nightfall he would have to stop and make a fire to dry off. Riding wet would chafe the back of the stallion.

    There was a small rise just ahead with a stand of cotton woods. A small brook ran alongside the rise. When Zack got there he dismounted and took the saddle off the black.

    Gathering some dead branches he started  a fire. He then stripped naked and dried himself off.

     When his blanket dried he rubbed down the horse. His clothes dried and he got dressed. The saddle was going to take a while to dry. He went to the brook, filled a pot for coffee and topped off his canteen. He put some oats into his hat and fed the horse.

    He sat with his back against a cotton wood sipping the strong brew in his coffee cup and pondered about what had happened a week ago in the saloon in Castle Rock, Colorado. He was in a four-man poker game. A kid about 21 years old sat on his left. Two gamblers sat across the table from them.

    They had been playing for an hour or so. It was obvious to Zack that the game was crooked. The gamblers were working together. They would wait for the pot to be worth their while and then would do some fancy dealing.

    Zack looked over to the kid. The kid seemed to read Zack’s mind. Zack decided it was time to call the gamblers on their cheating.

    When Zack did they all stood up. Damn the gambler facing Zack was fast. As the gambler’s gun cleared leather he heard the distinct sound of the click of a single action Colt being cocked as the Kid drew.

   In that split second the gambler facing Zack was distracted. Zack’s .44 slug hit him in the chest throwing him backward. Zack heard the gamblers bullet go past his ear.

     The kid’s slug hit the gambler facing him under the chin, whipping his head back and  his body followed. That gambler’s bullet went into the ceiling. All this occurred within a fraction of a single tick of a clock.

     Zack put out his hand and said “Zack Terrel.” The Kid shook it and said “Dixie Ragsdale.”

     Zack walked around the table to where the gambler he shot was lying and with the muzzle of his gun flipped open his coat. In a pocket of the gambler’s vest he saw a derringer pistol. Zack took the small gun and tucked it in his belt. Zack then went to the table picked up the money, counted it and gave half to Dixie.

     The bartender came over to Zack and the Kid and said “I seen it all. They drew first but that ain’t going to mean nothing. You just cost the sheriff his whiskey money. They were giving him a cut of their take. If I were you I’d leave before he gets back from Denver.”

   Zack asked “when is he coming back?”

  “The stage runs between Fort Collins and Pueblo. If he gets on the stage at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning he’ll be here by two.”

  They didn’t have to hurry before the sheriff got back. Zack turned to Dixie and asked

  “You hungry?”

    Zack asked the bartender where they might get a meal. The bartender went to the swinging doors and pointed to a place called “Mollie’s.” Zack turned to Dixie and said “let’s go.”

    Dixie pointing to the two bodies asked, “What about those two?” Zack snickered “between the bartender and the undertaker they’ll probably be buried in their longjohns.”

    At the eatery while waiting for their steaks Zack asked “where you headed?” Dixie answered “I’m going to Cheyenne to buy some horses for our ranch. My family has a spread outside El Paso.”

   Zack asked “was that the money for the horses you gambled?” Dixie replied “Hell no. That was my poke I was using. My father telegraphed the bank in Cheyenne and has a draft waiting for me.”

   Dixie asked, “What about you?”

   Zack answered “I’m Going to Santa Fe.” A man I was in the army with is the sheriff there, he needs my help for some reason or another.”

   After finishing their meal they paid their bill. Dixie said “If you’re ever down El Paso way look me up. Anyone within 50 miles of El Paso knows where the Double R ranch is.”

   Outside, they shook hands said “adios” and parted ways.

   Zack must have dozed off because he was awakened by the stallion nudging his shoulder with it’s nose. Zack shook himself awake, realized where he was and got up.

    The saddle had dried. Zack cleaned his utensils in the brook, stomped out the embers of the fire and saddled the horse. He put his left foot in the stirrup swung his right leg over the saddle, touched his heels to the stallion’s flanks and headed for Santa Fe.

By John-Paul Marciano

    It took Sgt. Jim Hanson the better part of an hour to make it back to his original hole.  He lay on his back collecting his thoughts.  He really craved a cigarette but decided to resist the urge.  He had things he needed to get done before daybreak.  An hour crawling on his belly gave him time to think about how to bag that sniper and, if possible, the German Maxim machine gun too.

    “Chicago?” Jim called softy.

    “Yeah, Sarge,” Chicago replied.

    “I’m coming over for a visit.  I’ll be there in a few minutes.  Don’t shoot me.”

    “I’ll be waitin’.

    Jim grew up in the Yorkville section of Manhattan on East 81^st Street between Madison and Park Avenues.  He stood 6-feet-1-inch with brown hair and thoughtful brown eyes.  Although he was sharp he was aimless.  So with no idea what he wanted to do with his life, he joined the army after graduating from Xavier High School to give himself some time to think about it.

    Just before he came to France with the American Expeditionary Force, Jim was given his first stripe.  He earned a second stripe at Cantigny a week after his 20^th birthday.  From all outward appearances it seemed as though he made the right decision.  But after the last few days he was starting to have his doubts.

    After gathering his thoughts, Jim slung his rifle over his shoulder and rolled onto his belly.  Making the sign of the cross he slid out the left side of his hole and began the crawl over to Mordecai.

    Because Mordecai dug his hole deeper than usual, Jim awkwardly fell in head first on top of Mordecai; the business end of his rifle jabbing Mordecai hard in the ribs.  Mordecai grunted and then he and Jim arranged themselves side by side on their backs.

    Jim composed himself and said, “Nice place you got here.”

    “Hey, Sarge, thanks fer stoppin’ by,” Mordecai quipped.  “What’s on yer mind?”

    “You got any ammo left for that French machine gun?” Jim asked.

    “Ya mean the Chauchat?  Yeah, I got a couple full mags.  Whatcha got in mind?”

    “I want to draw that sniper out.  See if we can’t shut him up permanently.”

    “I dunno, Sarge,” Mordecai said sounding dubious.  “The sights on the damn thing are crap, all out of whack.  If I hit him it’d be pure luck.”

    “Yeah I know.  I was actually hoping H.B. or Sam would be up for some plinking.”

    Sam would be Sam (Bird Dog) Littleton from Arkansas.  Sam was a lanky individual standing 6-feet-3-inches who always seemed to have a chaw of tobacco and looked like his pants needed to be taken in at the waist.  But the reason H.B. tagged him with the moniker “Bird Dog” was because Sam’s oversized ears, droopy jowls and a keen sense of smell reminded him of his spaniel back home.

    “Them boys is always up for a little shootin’; kind of a sickness with them two.  One of them two should be able to nail him,” said Mordecai.  “But why ya askin’ ‘bout the Chauchat?”

    “I’m going to get the sniper’s attention.  See if I can’t get him to give up his hide,” Jim answered.  “But I need you to keep that Maxim gunner occupied.”

    “That’s a dangerous game yer playin’ at.”

    “It’s a dangerous world we live in,” Jim replied.  “So what do you say?  You game?”

    Mordecai thought it over for a moment.  “Oh what the hell, I sure got nothin’ better to do.  I’ll play.”

    “Good man,” Jim said patting Mordecai on the shoulder.  “Look, it’s going to be daylight soon.  I need you to get H.B. up to speed on this while I tell Sam what we’re planning.  Tell H.B. the sniper’s about 300 yards directly in front of your hole.  The air is dead so that should make it a little easier.  The Maxim’s a bit to his left.  I just need you to pin him down for a couple minutes.  Taking him off the board is a bonus.”

    “Got it,” Mordecai said.

    Jim got to his knees to climb out of the hole.  Over his shoulder he said, “See you when this is done.”

    As Jim turned back to leave Mordecai said, “Hey, Sarge.”

    “Yeah?”

    “For the record, my money’s on H.B.”

    “I like Sam for this one.”

    Mordecai smiled and said, “Two bits?”

    “You’re on,” Jim said and crawled out of the hole.

By John-Paul Marciano

    Kriminalinspektor Gerhard Engel was searching for an empty trash can in the refuse storage shed when he detected movement out of the corner of his eye.  He looked in the direction of the movement but didn’t see anything.

    Maybe a feral cat in search of scraps, he thought.

    Gerhard resumed his search, going down the line of trash cans one by one.  Again he detected movement and again he saw nothing.  It had been a long day and he was tired and he was beginning to wonder if his mind was playing tricks on him.  But, as he leaned forward to put his bag of trash in a half-empty trash can, he saw the faint glow of an eyeball in the back corner of the shed.  He closed the lid of the shed gently and hesitated for a moment.  He shook his head and returned to his third floor apartment.

    When Gerhard reached his apartment he went into the kitchen.  He took the loaf of sunflower seed bread from the bread box and cut off a chunk.  He opened the refrigerator, extracted a sausage and placed it on the counter next to the bread.  Next he went into the sitting room, grabbed his copy of Das Schwarze Korps (the weekly paper of the Schutzstaffel) and tossed it on the counter next to the bread and sausage.

    Gerhard stood with both hands palm down on the counter looking at the tops of his shoes in thought.  He was torn.  Why should it matter to him what happens to a litle Jewess he doesn’t even know?  It was his sworn duty as a Kripo officer to turn the child over to the Gestapo and let them deal with the problem.  But on the other hand, what the hell has this kid ever done to warrant being sent to a German concentration camp known as a KZ?  If the wrong person found out he could be sent to a KZ himself if he was unlucky enough to live that long.

    His hands shook as he lit a cigarette.  He took a deep drag on the cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs before he exhaled.  He smoked the entire cigarette and then stubbed it out in the sink.  Taking a deep breath, he wrapped the bread and sausage with the front page of the paper.  Who knows?  If the kid can read she’ll take the hint and find another hiding place.

    Gerhard took the package out to the refuse storage shed and pretended to look for space in one of the trash cans.  When he saw the glint of an eye he took the package and dropped it behind the closest trash can.  After closing the lid of the shed he sighed and shook his head.  He looked up at the stars, then went back upstairs.

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By Ed Baranosky

     I have no memory of being held upside down by my bare feet while a sharp slap was
  applied to my bare bottom. Whether I wanted to or not I was shoved into the  current of the river of life in a small boat. If you don’t quickly learn to paddle  the boat the current will sweep you downstream to take you over a  waterfall.

     You have to learn to read the river as Mark Twain did. The river has all sorts of  rocks and underwater snags that will to punch holes in your boat and sink  you.

     As you struggle upstream you may find a quiet little cove where you can tie up  to watch a beautiful sunset and reflect on your journey. Along the way you will meet other people who are going your way. If you’re lucky they may befriend you.

     I was in an eddy of water at the base of roaring water flowing over boulders. The  area was called the Korean Cascade. It was the scene of two events that changed the  course of my boat. The first was my boat being commandeered by the army. The second was I married my life’s partner. As we portaged around the Cascade I was ordered to a place upriver called Germany. I had to leave my partner behind.

     When I came back my partner was there to greet me. She had a baby girl in her arms. The years went by and there were two more baby girls in our boat. The river of life flows on. The girls grew up and found men and they left our boat to make families of their own.

     A terrible storm came up and when it had passed my life’s partner was gone.

     My boat is now anchored in one of those quiet coves. The fantail is facing south so  I can sit in a chair with the warming sun on my body. I put my hat over my eyes and doze off.  I am awakened by the boat rocking. I can hear the flapping of little feet in flip-flops and the shouts of “Papa we’re here.”

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