Short Stories of a Frustrated Author

It occurred to Pooh and Piglet that they hadn't heard from Eeyore for several days, so they put on their hats and coats and trotted across the Hundred Acre Wood to Eeyore's house. Inside the house was Eeyore. "Hello Eeyore," said Pooh. "Hello Pooh. Hello Piglet" said Eeyore, in a glum sounding voice. "We just thought we'd check on you," said Piglet, "because we hadn't heard from you, and so we wanted to know if you were okay." Eeyore was silent for a moment. "Am I okay?" he asked, eventually. "Well, I don't know, to be honest. Are any of us really okay? That's what I ask myself. All I can tell you, Pooh and Piglet, is that right now I feel really rather sad, and alone, and not much fun to be around at all. Which is why I haven't bothered you. Because you wouldn't want to waste your time with someone who is sad, and alone, and not much fun to be around at all, would you now." Pooh looked and Pigl...

  Tucker stepped out onto the back porch, the wooden planks cool under his boots in the early gray light. The weight of the morning pressed around him like old armor—not unfamiliar, but heavier now with Rebecca’s face hanging behind every breath. He scrolled his contacts, thumb moving quick and certain. Found the name. Pressed CALL. Two rings. Then: “Delgado.” Luis’s voice was clipped, alert, no-nonsense. The tone of a man who hadn’t slept much and wouldn’t anytime soon. “Luis,” Tucker said. “It’s me.” There was a pause, then the voice on the other end softened by degrees. “Hey, Tucker. How can I help?” Tucker leaned one hand against the porch post, looking out across the dark silhouette of the barn. “Just took care of the El Flaco situation. The farmhouse won’t be a problem anymore.” Luis grunted. “Yeah. I heard something early this morning about some kind of internal cartel dispute. Farmhouse outside Refugio got lit up. DEA heard chatter—unconfirmed. Locals are sayi...

  0400 Road, outside Peters Ranch The Suburban sat dark and idle beneath the cloak of a mesquite grove just off the gravel lane leading to the Peters ranch. The engine was cold, lights off, tucked back from the road and buried beneath brush that hadn’t been cleared in years. Dust from the departing Wagoneer still lingered in the air, drifting slowly over the washboard trail like ghost smoke. Rafael “El Tiburón” Vargas watched the taillights of Tucker’s vehicle disappear into the Texas night, the faint red glow shrinking between trees before vanishing altogether around a bend. He smiled, slow and shark-like. “Bueno,” he whispered, barely audible over the click of his lighter. He lit a thin black cigarillo, took one long drag, and exhaled toward the windshield. “They took the bait.” The glow from the tip cast his chiseled face in red-orange relief, the hard planes of his jaw shadowed beneath his short beard. His voice, calm as always, carried across the silent vehicle. ...

Tucker stopped at the corner room—windows on two walls, one facing the front yard, the other toward the road to town. He turned in the doorway, scanning the angles. “This one.” Rebecca tilted her head. “For sleeping?” “No,” Tucker said. “This’ll be our ops center. Views both approaches, decent cover, easy access to the stairs.” She nodded. “Your call.” Tucker turned to Keys. “Toss our bedrolls in the other rooms. This one’s for work.” “Roger that,” Keys said, already peeling off his pack. Rebecca watched them both, something steady in her eyes.  “You boys get settled, set up, whatever you need to do,” Rebecca said, standing in the hallway with one hand braced on the doorframe, her hair tied loosely over one shoulder. “I’ll head downstairs and make us some sandwiches. And coffee.” She looked between Tucker and Keys, eyebrow arched. “I assume you like it like Chris does—hotter than hell, darker than night, and strong enough to make a Death Star flinch?” Keys chu...

  2007   2130 Hours   Irish Rose Tavern   Outskirts of Refugio, Texas   The Irish Rose was alive tonight. The place pulsed with the kind of energy you only got when the weather stayed warm deep into the night, the beer stayed cold, and the music was cut from outlaw cloth. The old barn-turned-bar creaked with history, its rafters shadowed in amber light and streaks of smoke curling upward from hand-rolled cigars and clove cigarettes. Thick with sweat, whiskey, and stories nobody told in the daylight.  Ceiling fans spun slow overhead, stirring the thick, humid air like they were more concerned with aesthetics than airflow. The jukebox, tucked in the far corner near the apparel alcove, had just kicked into Waylon’s Lonesome, On’ry and Mean . A band—local favorites, tough and twangy—had just taken a smoke break, their guitars propped against amps on the stage at the back. The dancefloor was half-full, a slow circle of two-steppers making the rounds, boo...

  2007, 1350 Hours  Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU) – Dam Neck, Virginia  Kill House Training – Briefing Room The room stank of sweat, coffee, and CLP, or  gun oil — the unofficial scent of Tier One readiness. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, washing out color and casting long shadows on the concrete walls. A battered whiteboard stood to the left of a massive topographical map of the compound. Marker streaks from earlier runs had been only partially erased, red circles and notes bleeding through ghost-like beneath new scribbles. Master Chief Tucker “Tushka” Nash stood with arms crossed, back straight, his frame coiled tight under a gray moisture-wicking shirt darkened in places with sweat. His eyes scanned the room, not as a man looking at peers—but as a hunter reading his pack. His team had done four evolutions since 0400. Mistakes had been made. Time to fix them. “Hey! OK, Everyone listen the hell up.” The noise dropped instantly. Six ...