Gone, Parts 1-4 9-28-2017

I had forgotten I was in the middle of this series. I started with the Daily Post’s One Word prompts, then ran out of time to continue. Part V does not have a One Word Prompt, but I might go back to using the Prompts for the rest.

Below are the links to Parts I-IV and I will be posting Part V shortly.

Gone, Part 1

Gone, Part II

Gone, Part III

Gone, Part IV


If you like this kind of continuing story, you can search “The Midnight Hour” on my site for another.


Daily Post One Word Prompt – The Midnight Hour, Parts 1-7

For anybody trying to keep up, here are the links to The Midnight Hour so far.  Since I was so far behind with the DP Prompts, I decided to write a continuing story using each day’s prompt.


The Midnight Hour, Part 7

The Midnight Hour, Part 6

The Midnight Hour, Part 5

The Midnight Hour, Part 4

The Midnight Hour, Part 3

The Midnight Hour, Part 2

The Midnight Hour, Part 1






Daily Post One Word Prompt – Sacrifice


The Midnight Hour, Part 3

Death was odd, he thought.  Or would have thought if he’d been able. Death had a way of taking away the ability to think, leaving only a sort of suspended time, fly trapped in the spider’s web. What he would have thought, he’d become. What he’d become was a sacrifice, but to what he’d never know. He only knew what came before.

He and Bobby had been fighting, not with fists, but with words. Sticks and stones and all that was one of the biggest lies fostered on man. Bobby knew how to hurt with words. Maybe it had something to do with the bad boy image he cultivated.


But they’d been hurting each other with letter bombs, always about the same thing. Mary.

See, the problem was, they both loved her, they both wanted her, they both claimed her. Stupid really, but what did kids know?

The dead were damn good at hindsight.

He shouldn’t have gone, should have known bad things would happen. There it was again with that hindsight. But he had and bad things had happened.

They’d been at their hang-out, down the steep hill at the end of Rugers Road, where they gone since forever, first in childhood to play Kirk and Spock. He’d always been Spock, but now wondered if he shouldn’t have been Kirk. But no, Bobby was the brave one, the smart one, the foolish one, always jumping in without bothering to look either way.

How he’d envied Bobby that.

Then to smoke and drink and dream. Make out, with girls of course. Neither of them went the other way. Then Mary was there, the third-party, the breaker of friendships, the only girl he’d ever loved.

Apparently, Bobby felt the same, but Bobby could have any girl he wanted. Girls loved the boy-gone-bad.

Voices raised. Shouts. Angry words. The next thing he knew were stars.

Did one recall the moment of death? He didn’t. Just falling, rolling, tumbling, smacking into the big rock, their Enterprise, at the bottom. Eyes wide. Stars receding, far and far away.

Far in the distance, the whine of a siren startled the night. Stars became darkness.


JSW Prompt 11-20-2015

The story begins in a marina
Someone hitches a ride home during a train strike
It’s a story about the effects of war.

He watched the sail boats going out to sea, taunt sails catching the wind, skimming the surface of the bay like dragonflies. Around him the marina was quiet, still but for the last sailboats, rushing out to catch the sunrise. He came here everyday, every morning and night, to watch the sailboats going and coming. Most days, he ate in the little cafe just outside the marina; two eggs scrambled, toast, sausage, bacon, grits. What they call a Poor Man’s Breakfast. He wasn’t sure of that. Seemed to him most poor folks couldn’t afford sausage and bacon every morning, but what did he know? He afforded the food because of his pension check, money given to silence him, make sure he never told the real story of the war.

The sun rose slowly over the ocean, casting the boats into long shadows over the water, filling the sky with brilliant reds and oranges and pinks streaked with dark slashes like claws from whatever might live beyond.

He rose, stretching to ease sore muscles, a leg that would never work right again, the forever pain in his shoulder. Today he wouldn’t eat. He hadn’t gotten his check yet. It was late. If he didn’t get it soon he would be sleeping on a park bench somewhere, not his favorite place to be. Park benches. They reminded him of Paris during the war, every park bench stinking of the enemy.

Stiff-legged, he walked back up the path to the marina itself, nodding to the fellows he knew, at least in passing. He didn’t think he really knew anyone anymore. Not like he used to. In the war he had never been alone. Afterwards, when they’d come home to silence, to hard looks, mumbled accusations, he felt as if he was the last man in the world.

Making his way out to the street, he started to walk along the road out-of-town. Normally, he rode the train; another plus of the pension. Today there wasn’t a train. Those folks weren’t working, wanted more money, more holidays more everything.  Folk that didn’t fight didn’t know, didn’t understand, didn’t value what he and others fought to give them.

 Maybe he’d get a ride. Sometimes people stopped. Not as much now as years ago. People were too afraid these days, afraid of strangers, afraid of rabid dogs, afraid of anything possible. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t go to a stranger’s car because they will take you. Don’t walk alone at night. Don’t ride the bus alone. They will attack you.

Who were these people called They? People didn’t understand. They were tame compared to the war. Sane. War was insanity. He’d never understood that before, before he enlisted, before he thought he was heading off to the glory of defending his country, killing the enemy, returning a hero.

He wasn’t a hero. He’d never been a hero. He was a murderer, nothing more.

A car passed him and pulled to the side of the road. Best he could, he trotted forward, leaning down to look into the passenger side window.

“You need a ride?” A stranger. Don ‘t talk to strangers. Don’t go to stranger’s calls. They will take you and you will never be seen again alive. Didn’t their fighting mean anything?

“Yeah,” he side, opening the door and sliding into the car.

“Where are you going?”

He didn’t look over, didn’t do anything but stare out the windshield as if he was seeing his past again, hearing the rockets. Murderer.

“Don’t matter. Just drop me off wherever you like.”