Robert Jack is a freelance artist and writer living in Michigan with his beautiful wife, children, and a variety of ill-advised pet choices. You can see his work at Apt22Art.com
Doctor Samara Quinlan sat up in an instant and rubbed her eyes, trying to adjust to the angry red glow of emergency lighting. The echoes of the crash were already fading. Thunder? An explosion? Close, whatever it was. Distant klaxons began wailing an alarm, and seconds later, combat boots scrambled down the hallway outside her quarters. Predictable. Soon would come the rhythms of gunfire and the screams of dying men. The dream was always the same, though it rarely started with such a literal bang.
Once Upon a Time in Spain
May, 1968. A cowboy struck the hot Spanish ground, not dead, but dying. Al Mulock had leapt from the rooftop, boots and all. It was a three-story drop.
Nahum struck the axe into the chopping block and raised his hands, turning slowly to face the lawman. “You be careful with that sidearm, son. Making me a might nervous, it must be said.”