The Last Blanca Story

Blanca the dragon perched on a short stone wall.  Sunlight glinted off her white scales casting tiny shimmering rainbows through the air and across the ground.  She stretched her small wings and sighed.

“What’s the matter?” Naranja asked. 

Blanca shook her head and continued to stare off into the distance.  “Just waiting for Hazel.”

Naranja sat next to his daughter and put his arm around her.  His orange scales cast a warm peach glow across her neck and face.

“I haven’t seen her in a long time,” Blanca said.   After a pause she added, “Why doesn’t she come to play anymore?”

“Well… What do you think?”

“I think maybe she’s busy.  Or she found out I was imaginary.  Does she know I’m imaginary, Dad?”

“You sure you want to talk about this?”

“Yes.  I want to know.”

Naranja pulled Blanca closer and said, “When humans are little they don’t separate reality from fantasy.  Everything is real to them.  Everything is magical.  When they grow up though…  They lose that.  The magic, the unrestrained possibility of every strange idea, every enchanted landscape, every mystical creature... becomes unlikely, then improbable, and finally impossible.  After that, things are either real or fake to them.”

Blanca nodded and took a deep breath.  Her snout started to quiver and the sparkle in her gemlike eyes rippled.  A series of hitching sobs racked her body.  “Hazel thinks I’m fake?”

“Oh sweetie,” Naranja said.  Blanca clawed her way onto his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her face in his scaly chest.  Hot tears streaked down his torso as she continued to convulse and wail.  He held her tight and rocked her.

When the wail became a whimper he said, “She will always remember you.  You were a huge part of her life.  A special, magical friend.”

Blanca howled again.  “But she won’t come and play with me anymore.”

The crying continued for a long time.  Naranja did not try to console her with words.  He simply wrapped his wings around his daughter, rocked her, and stroked his clawed fingers across her pearl-white scales; from her forehead to the nape of her neck.  His own tears ran unhindered down face

“Dragon parents dread this moment,” he finally said.  “Human toddlers wander into dragon lands, befriend dragon children, and they become nearly inseparable friends.  This continues for years.  We know that one day the humans will vanish from our children’s lives.  We understood the inevitable hurt that follows.”

“Then why do you let it happen at all?”  Blanca asked, her voice wavering on the verge of tears once again.

Naranja sighed.  “That’s a good question.  And we ask it of ourselves constantly.  Do all those years of fun and adventure balance out the looming pain?  I don’t know.  I hope so.  It warmed my heart to watch you two play together.”

Blanca was silent, except for a slight sniffle and occasional deep breath. 

“Maybe she’ll still come play with me?

Maybe.  From time to time.  Most dragon children cling to that hope.  And sometimes the human children do return.”

“Will Hazel come back?”

“She might.”  He said kissing her forehead.  “It will be different though.  She might be drawing a picture of you and find herself here.”

“Or maybe writing a story,” Blanca added, her face lighting up.

“Right.  Or she might be asleep and dream about you.  Or maybe even playing pretend in her room, or exploring outside, and find her way back here.  But that’s what it will be now.  Pretend.  The utter belief, that magical confidence, won’t be there.”

Blanca nodded and smiled.  “That’s okay.  As long as I still get to see her.”

“I think you will.”

“Good.  Because I love her so much, Daddy.”

Naranja hugged her and said, “She loves you too, sweetie.” 

Party Line Battleline (part 2)

              

(Please see previous post for part 1)

  

                David has a gun but no bullets.  It’s been several weeks since he acquired the firearm and he’s spent several rounds on various Reds in that time.  He should feel guilty, but he doesn’t.  They started it.  They’re the gun nuts.  What was he supposed to do? Suffer their attacks and not fight back?

                And it felt good to take a few of their guys down.  Still, he doesn’t allow himself to think about that aspect of his recent business, or then the guilt would surely come.

                The violence has continuously escalated, both parties bringing every weapon they have to bear against their opposition.  They champion their candidates with an ideological fury that borders on madness.  As David skulks through ordinance-scarred streets he feels an urge to enter a house and open fire on the occupants simply because the car parked in their driveway has a bumper sticker announcing the owner’s support of that crooked bastard Jack Fielding.

                Jack says Blue Boys bleeding hearts will bleed this country dry!

                This infuriates David.  If only he had bullets.  And it’s so untrue.  If anyone was bleeding this country dry it was those damned Reds with their “support the rich” mentality.  Their obsessive need to put their right to own assault rifles above another’s right to food or medical care.

                He needs bullets.  He needs bombs.  He needs a frickin’ flame thrower.

                David hesitates outside a gun shop.  Bullets in there.  But someone inside will surely peg him as a liberal the moment he crosses the threshold.  He can’t just walk in there cavalierly and not expect hostility.  Then he realizes that that’s exactly how he needs to enter their domain.  With some swagger.  Some arrogance.  Some god-damn-it-all-it’s-my-right-to-be-here.

                And he does.

                Strolls right through the door.  Gun in hand because that seemed the boldest move.

                “Help you?” the man behind the counter asks.

                Quelling panic, hoping those few semesters of theater class all those years ago will benefit here, he says, “Got jumped.  Blue Boys took all my gear.  But they didn’t get this!”

                He holds up the pistol.  Grins.  And says, “From my cold dead hands.”

                The man behind the counter smiles wide and a couple of the browsing customers cheer him.

                “Holster and some ammo,” David says, suspecting the man behind the counter will know exactly what kind of bullets the gun needs from the glimpse he got of the pistol.  David fears the man might simply point in the direction of the holsters or the bullets so he adds, “I’ll be over here… rearming.”

                And David walks toward the largest, most irritatingly male, guns in the shop.

                He tries to keep an eye on the shop owner, straining the capabilities of his peripherals, but soon finds the lure of the assault weapons far too enticing.

                All these strange features.  Flash and sound suppressors, folding combat stocks, infrared illuminators, night vision scopes, rail interface systems.  A grenade launcher mount.  He’ll have to restructure his budget for the next few months.  Give up some front row tickets, do his best to avoid downtown eateries, stay clear of bookstores and electronics websites.

                He limits himself to two, admittedly bad-assed looking rifles.  Then three when the shop owner helpfully points out that David hadn’t selected anything fully automatic.  Of course he’d have to get something full auto.  To maintain his cover.

                The damage to his credit card is severe, including ammunition and other necessaries.  Of which he is forced to take the owner’s word on.

                “Wait,” David says.  “Isn’t there a bunch of paperwork?  A waiting period?”

                The owner and several patrons laugh.

                “If you want,” the owner says.

                “Better have him do it,” a loitering customer says.  “This time of year the bleeding hearts will be demanding random checks.”

                “They do that?” David asks, never having demanded an audit of gun store paperwork.  He can’t recall spending much time thinking about gun shops, much less demanding scrutiny of their records.

                The form is sparse.  Address information and some weird questions about gun models and bullet calibers.  A quiz.  Favorite hunting spot?  He hands the form back, incomplete.

                “Got all the important stuff,” David says.

                “What about this box?” says the owner, tapping the form.  “Party affiliation.”

                David had noticed that part but couldn’t bring himself to circle the “R,” knowing full well that the “D” would bring violence.

                “Thought that was a joke,” David says.  “I mean, what do they think?  Right?”

                The owner laughs and marks something on the paper.

                A few moments later, pistol holstered in a shoulder mount, armed with plenty of ammo, David leaves the store.  A pleasant, dirty feeling scampering beneath his skin.

                Roger sits in the hospital waiting room.  Blood seeps through improvised bandages on his left arm and right leg.  He wouldn’t have bothered with this place if not for Ed.  Ed took one in the gut.  Had to get him in.  Not sure if Ed has medical insurance.  He lost his job last year but is still supporting a repeal of that blasted Obamacare.

                Roger looks around.  These people.  Half of them are probably Medicaid leeches.  Feeding off the system.  He’d shoot a couple of them but they’d just end up in one of the rooms upstairs, his taxes paying for their treatment.

                He closes his eyes.  Elections are right around the corner.  Gotta keep up the fight.  Take these Blue Boys down.  That’s all that matters.  Getting back the Presidency so those Democrats can’t force through any more of their fruity little laws.  Always taking money and guns from hard working Americans.  Giving jobs to Mexicans and other illegals.  Doing everything they can to ruin the U.S. of A.

                Roger crosses his legs and stifles a scream as he accidentally aggravates his wound.

                Blue Boy bastards!  Sneaky, conniving, unpatriotic commies is what they are.  Ambushing like that!  No honor in at all.  Roger and his boys had been eating lunch in the park after a busy morning spreading pamphlets in neighborhoods with blue-hued demographics.  Assumably, the pamphlets contained demeaning, but factual, information about the Democratic candidates.  Info that those Blue Boys conveniently ignore.  Some of them must have gotten pissed and then Pearl Harbored Roger and his men. 

                A real travesty.

                And what is taking so long?

                All this Obamacare bureaucracy.  Never had to wait like this before.  A bleeding man could walk right into an exam room back in the good ole days.  No waiting.  Plenty of nurses and doctors ready to attend and treat.  So many cutbacks now.  Obama!

                Roger stands up and walks out of the waiting room.  He’ll treat his own wounds.  Fix himself up at home.  No one tries to stop him.  That wouldn’t have happened before Obama and his socialized medicine.  Someone, an orderly or med student, would have detained him, offered immediate assistance.  Look where this country was now?  What was this?  Canada?

                They had to take the elections.  Had to put more Republicans in office.  Hold those seats at all costs.

Party Line Battleline

(the way Tom sees campaign season) 

Shrapnel pings against the underside of the overturned Prius.  Dirt and other bits of debris rain down on the vehicle, dusting the inside through broken windows, and chipping at designer, sea-mist green paint that once glossed the exterior.

                David huddles against the car, sheltered on the side opposite the blast.  Though he owns a Prius, this one is not his.  Some other unlucky citizen would mourn the damage, should that person survive the tumult.  Likewise, the gun in David’s hand is not his.  David owns no firearms.  He borrowed this one off some Red who wouldn’t ever need it again.  Pried it out of his cold dead hands.  David doesn’t laugh at the irony.  He’s too busy trying not to die. 

                The next blast is closer.  They are aware of his position. 

                He needs to move.

                David rolls out from behind the Prius, his movements masked by the dust from the explosion.  Sand and slivers of concrete still patter all around him.  Muscles, fitness-center honed, execute the maneuver with ease and the low crouch he ends up in is confident and solid.  The gun is held out in front of him, like in all the action movies.  David aims it at his attackers and squeezes the trigger. 

                Nothing happens.

                He’s saved by his reflexes, which quickly engage his legs and launch him aside as a hail of bullets rip up the asphalt and adjacent lawn where he perched only seconds before.

                He ends up behind a hedge and scuttle-crawls behind a stone wall onto a well kempt flower bed.

                Safety!  Where’s the safety?

                His fingers fumble to find the switch and he curses himself for being so dismissive of firearms training courses.  Bullets continue to lance through the hedge and divot the weedless lawn.  For a moment he considers seeking sanctuary at this property’s house, but he dismisses the idea when he spots the ReElect Jack Fielding, sign in the yard.  If he didn’t already know who Jack Fielding was, the REP on the sign tells him that he will find no aid in that residence.  He also notes that his attackers have not allowed a single bullet to hit the sign. 

                The firing ceases momentarily and he knows his enemies are on the move.  David pulls himself up behind a large oak.  He catches a glimpse of a man jogging across the street in the reflection of the house’s front window. 

                The man is carrying some sort of assault rifle.

                Figures.

                David slips out from behind the tree, pulls the trigger on his borrowed gun, and fires two shots.  The first goes wide and shatters the windshield of a car parked across the street.  The second shot catches the man in the shoulder.  He stumbles back and topples.  David ducks behind the tree but receives no return fire.

                He needs to get out of here.  Fast.  Reds never travel solo, they always roam in packs.  David’s about to make his move when he sees the sign for Congressman Fielding again.  He shakes his head, the fires a round, leaving a small hole in Jack’s cheek.  A veritable wall of bullets explode in response.  The hedge, the rock wall, and the tree all suffer violence.  When the clamor dies down, David is two houses away, climbing a backyard fence into an adjoining property.  He feels a slight pang of guilt over the trespass, but the necessity of the situation keeps him moving.

                The engine of the Ford truck revs and a blast of hot diesel exhaust smothers his neighbor’s roses with the scent of Americana.

                Roger plants a sturdy work boot on the truck’s rear tire and launches himself up into the open bed.  There’s some extra effort involved in the move these days, but he can still pull it off confidently, despite the extra decade and twenty additional pounds.  It leaves him panting, though.  Okay, so maybe it’s thirty-five pounds.  Who cares?  He can still do it.

                He sits on the edge of the pickup bed and stretches an arm out, fingers splayed wide.  A rifle slaps against his palm and he grips it tight.  The barrel never points at another person during the exchange.  Only practice and proper training can produce such an automatic action.  He checks the safety, even though he knows it will be engaged.  He checks the chamber to verify it’s empty, equally confident that he will find it so.  Still, you always check.  Adhere to your procedures.

                “What’s our objective?” he asks.  There are three others in the truck with him.  All armed.  Assault rifles and shoulder holstered pistols.  And, he assumes, other weaponry of personal preferences concealed on their persons.

                “Demonstration outside City Hall,” one of the others says, “to bear arms.  A Second Amendment job.”

                “After that?”

                “Political maneuvers.”

                “Implementation of Second Amendment rights,” a man with a moustache says. They all laugh and unconsciously stroke their weapons more intently.

                When they arrive at City Hall they drop the tailgate and deploy like marines on a hostile beach.  Two men exit the truck’s cab and take up cover positions for the boys in the truck bed.  Each has to fight the urge to lay down suppression fire.

                Within minutes they have taken the stairs and secured positions outside the front doors.  Guns are prominently displayed.  Within a few more minutes they’ve grown antsy and unsure.  They have no signs, no clever slogans to shoulder, no militaristic choreography worked out that will impressively display their firearms.

                Boredom quickly sets in.

                “Anyone bring beer?” one of them asks.

                Unanimously they shake their heads.

                “Chips?  Or something to eat?”

                Nope.

                Twenty minutes later they are ready to move on.  Go grab a burger. 

                But providence intervenes.

                A group of enemy protesters comes marching up the sidewalk, chanting about their rights, carrying signs.  There isn’t anything anti Gun Control on the signs, but that doesn’t matter.  Roger and his friends level their assault rifles at the small crowd and call out warnings and juvenile insults.

                The crowd responds with more cleverly crafted retorts and ups the ante with obscene gestures.

                Roger and his friends open fire.

                The crowd of protesters scatters like a rack of billiard balls after a vicious break.  As they flee, protest signs flutter to the ground as do the bodies of their companions who’ve taken hits.

                “Yeah!  Got me one!” a buddy of Roger’s shouts.

                “Got two!” brags another.  More gunfire.  “Make that three!”

                As the escaping protesters take cover in tree lined park areas, convenient downtown business doorways, and fortuitous alleyways, Roger’s team abandons its static positioning in favor of pursuit.

                It’s been a relatively inactive election year so far, Roger thinks as he provides cover for a companion entering the park.  Nearly October and these are his first shots fired.  Still, he bagged at least two Blue Boys back there and might get a couple more in the park before the day is through.  He grins, fires some more suppression, and advances.

(The preceding was the first two chapters of the story Party Line Battleline.  Watch this space for information of how to get the entire political-thriller-campaign-saga-vote-or-die-epic)