Hannah B Thompson

Hannah Thompson

Hannah

Hannah B. is my aunt, age indeterminate. She has lived on the island since before the Second Great War to End All Wars. To keep and inhabit her little bit of paradise, she has resisted eminent domain, hurricanes, tropical depressions, tourists, the Dixie mafia, and police on the payroll of said mafia.

Home is an old school Florida shotgun shack that has grown piece by piece over the years. She incorporated amenities like running water and electricity sometime in the 50’s. Of late, a 54-inch flat screen TV covers the western wall. I have never caught her watching the television except on Sunday evening when, if invited, I join her to share a bottle of wine and a British period piece on PBS. She says she can’t stand to have it on any other time. Desperate pseudo-dramatics bandied about by the exceptionally stupid for the criminally inane. I don’t watch much either. I do listen to the Cubs on the internetz radio. I miss Brickhouse, I even came to grips with Caray, Santo always made me hungry, but I like this Pat, he’s got a nice voice.

Modernism is Dead

Point: Modernism has failed us.

My heroes have always possessed honor, a sense of community, of family, of country, of propriety.

How did we go from hunger strikes for property rights to public park riots for the pretentious over pampered children of effete lobbyists?

They hold in their expensive leather sacks computers and toys that equal a year’s pay of inhabitants of countries wherein I have fought but can no longer remember their names?

I remember the honor of my enemies. They fought to exist.

These new prancing centurions of our future know no hunger, no pain, no honor.

There do exist such men I can respect, but they are heavily outnumbered by fops and weevils.

~JK Archer

Short Story While Avoiding Work

“I’m going to disappoint you, Larry, but you knew that already.” Cheryl said as she approached the desk sergeant sitting behind bulletproof glass.

Sergeant Larry Deckard, Cheryl’s brother, looked up in surprise at the pleasant sound of his sister’s voice. She had married her high school sweetheart against the wishes and good sense of her family so Larry saw a lot her at the station.

“Hey Cher, what are you doing here today …” the smile melted from his handsome face as the object Cheryl carried registered in the front part of his brain. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” he made the sign of the cross and stood.

From her right hand, fingers entwined in the thick black pelt of hair, a gift from his Italian grandfather, dangled the severed head of his brother-in-law, Cheryl’s ill-chosen husband. Marry in haste, repent in leisure was an adage his beautiful sister had chosen to live every day for 9 years. Until today.

Larry watched drops of blood splash on the terrazzo tile as they fell intermittently from the stump of Robert’s neck. The cut was jagged and dirty, as if Cheryl had dropped him in the dirt, or perhaps, after departing the rest of his body, it fell into the dirt. She would not want to do that kind of work indoors. The mess would make her psoriasis flare. Larry felt the floor come up to greet him. His head bounced on a rubber mat covering the floor. He hoped his head wouldn’t roll away.
The stench woke him immediately. Sputtering air and shoving at the pungent odor, Larry sat up, too quickly. The world rolled twice over, slowly. “Cheryl, dear God, did you see … ?”

Martinez and Wolawitz helped him to his feet. “Dude, you gotta sit down, put your head between your knees or some shit.” Martinez retrieved the rolling chair and tried to push Deckard into it. It squirted out from under wobbly knees and hit the desk with a loud bang. Deckard landed on his ass, pain shooting up his spine. Later, much later, after an MRI, a radiologist would point out a fracture of the coccyx. Deckard grabbed the desk and levered himself upright, planting one foot and then the other, he rose in silence from behind the desk like an Asp from a Swami’s basket.

Four officers, guns drawn and pointed, surrounded his beautiful sister. Her mouth forming words without sound, speaking a language only she and Larry shared, as they had shared their mother’s womb, her single egg, split by the genetics of their father’s DNA. ‘I love you, sorry about the mess. Feed the dog, he’s in his kennel.’

Unreality threatened to ground Larry again, his vision narrowed to a single point. Harsh florescent light glinted off the door handle. It broke as he shoved it downward. He ripped fingernails of both hands prying open the heavy steel door. He shouldered the door open and skidded around the wall as blasts from high-powered weapons shattered the silence. One second behind the wall, skidding around the corner shielded him from bearing witness to his sister’s accidental murder.

On hands and knees, ears ringing, he crawled to her. A gun, a .45 caliber model 1911 Colt clattered to the ground before she collapsed. He had given her that gun. Taught her to use it. Drunkenly suggested she divorce Chicago style.

The severed head wobbled as it came to rest face up near her outstretched hand, Cheryl having released it as 9mm ammunition tore through her flesh at close range. The bullets whinged and ricocheted off the block wall painting a Pollack of gore.

Larry reached his sister and pulled her into his arms, oblivious to the officers staring at him, still in shock, four uniformed officers of the apocalypse.

Wrapped safely in his arms as she lay dying, Larry asked, “but why did you bring him here, for the love of God, I would have helped you.”

Scarlet bubbled between her lips, frozen in a beatific smile, she answered in their shared language. “I want you to put him, you should put him in the den, with the other trophies.” The light died from her eyes and she left him.

CTA Map to Lost Key

I am currently sitting in an apartment in Ocala, Florida. I am here on personal business and have a little downtime so am working on latest manuscript which has been in a holding pattern for two months. I’ve finally gotten a slot assignment from the tower, but there are a lot of wings in front of me. In case you missed the metaphor, I am finally back in the saddle and working.

However, I just spent an hour trying to figure out how to get from State Street to the 3800 block of North Paulina, city of Chicago. The sad thing is, I know this route. I know the city, I know my neighborhood, I know both the Howard and the Ravenswood lines. I know (knew – preconsolidation) my precinct and ward. I knew how to get to Wrigley, Comiskey, The Stadium, client sites, the Pump Room, the Daley Center (depending on the offense), and traffic court.

When I live in a place for any length of time, I forget street names, forget compass points; an internal auto-pilot guides me to my destination. And because I am currently in Ocala, I can’t hop on the Ryan, drive into the city and start trainspotting. No, I am relegated to the CTA online interactive mapping system, built by the same douchebags who brought us the non-functional ACA software for 3 trillion dollars. I also have the googlez so I can overlay the maps and figure out where my people are, where they are going, how they get there. With six map sessions open, I finally figured out where a character was arriving from when gunfire broke open the mid-winter quiet. Police like to know where you were, where you were going, what’s the blood on your shoes from, that kind of thing. Gotta have your information and your alibi ready and unassailable. And that’s not fiction. They are really nosy.

I’ve digressed long enough. Back to work. Question for the day: my son’s cat hates me. He’s a teenager boy cat who has not been neutered as of yet. Is this normal?

Sidenote: Do NOT ask me how to get somewhere because my skills at relaying useful directions are less than zero.

http://tinyurl.com/p9uplsv

Spiders of Lost Key

It’s that time of year when spiders begin their annual migration into my home. No chemical barrier short of DDT will stop this influx. They sense my terror. It is in their DNA, or maybe they can smell my fear.

On my way upstairs with a fresh pot of tea in hand, I spy a huge spider (larger than a 50 cent piece) hanging on the white curtain. I quietly backed all the way out of the room, set my tea on the bathroom counter top, and dashed to the kitchen for RAID. Doesn’t matter what kind of RAID. Short of a .45 or a flamethrower, I trust the spray in the can.

Not caring if the liquid turned the curtains orange, I saturated the bastard until he fell off the curtain, and made a dash for the stairs. I trapped him in a corner and drowned him in RAID. This is a two step process. The second step is the vacuum. I hate the vacuum because I somehow injure myself every time I am near it, but in the spider eradication project, it is a vital tool – hence injury free.

When people say working at home is soooo much easier than living in an office cubical, I smack them with a boat oar. People I fear not. Spiders are alien.

Mother’s Day

Think of all the women in your life to whom you owe a debt of gratitude for deeds done / words said that gave you comfort or in some way were a benefit great or small. No matter if related by blood or by acquaintance. Take the time to say thank you.

We enjoyed a lovely cookout with the folks, men manning the grill, I made a chocolate torte, we shared stories and laughed. Most of all, we shared how much we love each other.

Maybe the dark ages won’t be so bad…

This would be less embarrassing if I hadn’t spent over 25 years building custom software for companies great and small. I have desktops, laptops, tablets, portable computers with phone capability, et.al. And I still hate them all. Give me those green on black/orange on black radiation screens that shimmied if your cubical was too near the bank of elevators. Give me Rocco and Mikey in the dungeon allocating space for us coding chimps.

This was brought on my a) building a wordpress.com site for my nascent career as a novelist (is that just too darling for words?), b) trying to wish Sara Hoyt GodSpeed on her upcoming surgery in the comment section on her site. Her site told me I already had an account and that I had to log in. Log in to what? Oy vey. I had forgotten all about this posting place until her WP yelled at me.
Whether I post often or rarely is an exciting question I’ll look forward to knowing the answer to. If you would like to read my debut novel before I yank it down, goto Book 2 on the menu.

I have to work on this permalink thing. Situation fubar update: DO NOT mess with permalinks if you do not know what they are. I rebuilt the website. If you ask me about backups, I will hunt you down and beat you.

Day 1

Trying to learn WordPress while creating a whole new world is, how can I put this, nuts.

RKF Adams Perdido Key

You can’t run from trouble on an island – Sheriff Bill Thornton