ashesonfire

Posted 8 Years Ago

Hey! It's been awhile! Are you still writing?! Black Oval was amazing! I really hope you finish it and pursue publishing!

Posted 9 Years Ago

Posted 9 Years Ago

How are things going in your neck of the woods?

Posted 9 Years Ago

Pretty good site so far. A lot of reading and reviewing is required, but your work gets reviewed as well. Hope all is well!

Posted 9 Years Ago

With patience worn thin, Smith verbalizing his frustration without restraint, “Hurry up and grab your s**t and follow me.”
Lugging the bulky green sea bag in one hand while following Smith to a group of Marines in PT gear standing in a modified formation conducting calisthenics’ and other warm up exercises, “Sgt. Greene, here are the new guys I was sent to picked up.”
Moving to the position of attention, the short stocky dark skinned Marine with a horseshoe cut barks out a command, “At ease…”
The platoon size group begins, in a low volume, talking to their neighbors in the modified configuration. With hands resting on hips, head cocked to one side, the dark green Marines turns to face our group. The moment eye contact is made a sinister smile stretches across Greene’s square jaw face sending shivers down my spine. Eye balling his watch, you can see in the small slit of his eyes, he’s a calculating man, “What do you know, just in time for PT,” pausing to expel a big glob of brown tobacco spit, “I hope you have running shoes, because I would really hate to see you four run in jungles.”
LCpl. Smith seeing it’s time to exit the scene without finishing the task placed in his hands. Not being fooled by the junior Marines’ escape attempt, the non-commission officer that looks like he can separate your head from your shoulders in one pull, catches him in the act, “Smith, where in the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Sergeant?” acting oblivious to the superiors’ challenge.
“I said,” closing the gap separating the two men to a point of being right up in his face, “where do you think you’re going?”
Not sounding intimidated but facial expressions tell a different story, “Back to the duty shack Sergeant.”
“Didn’t you fail the last PFT?”
“Yes sergeant.”
“You may think you have a get out of jail free card with duty and all, but it’s business hours and the chair will not miss your a*s,” looking dead into the eyes of Smith, Greene finishes, “Put these four in the two vacant rooms on the north side and after you get them squared away come back here ready for PT,” bringing his watch up to his face, “You have ten minutes.”
Our group turns; walking back in the direction we arrived all stiff like the boot Marines we are. Not moving fast enough, a drill instructor like voice erupts from behind us, serving as a motivator, “TODAY!” Causing me to have flashbacks of boot camp. Wanting no part of Sgt. Greene and the hell he can bring, pace quickens. Directing his attention back towards the platoon, “YOUR NEXT EXERCISE WILL BE MARINE CORPS PUSH-UPS. WE WILL DO MANY OF THEM. STARTING POSITIONS. PUSH-UP…”
One voice rings out behind our small group, “MARINE CORPS,” as we make our way down a breezeway bisecting the halves of the barracks. Smith quickly enters and exits an office no bigger than a small bathroom, just large enough to fit a single size bed and a mini-fridge.
Feverishly moving along a catwalk to two rooms that sit side by side. Smith, obviously feeling the pressures of being under the gun, points to Sneed and I, “You two numb nuts in here.”

No time to muddle in the living arrangements. If it were up to me, Sneed would have been my last choice in roommates. For a guy that has no problem airing his sexual exploits candidly, this is a recipe bound for turbulence. With that aside, going straight for the squad bay Suribachi, the unhesitant method of clearing any sea bag of its contents on the deck simply by upturning the oversized duffle on its head.
Quickly working through the heap locating my P.T. gear, go fasters, white socks, red shorts and gold shirt. Exchanging the dress uniform for the Commandant approved physical training uniform as fast as possible, but the same can’t be said about Sneed. Running into a bit of a snag, apparently he’s unable to find his running shoes. Clawing through wads of clothing revealing his short, uncontrolled temper, “F**K,” throwing his empty sea bag across the room.
Before we knew it, a knock at the door followed by cultured obviously frustrated words, “HURRY UP NUMB NUTS. GET YOUR A*S TO THE BASKETBALL COURT.”
Still not managing to locate running shoes, I advise him to put on his jungles. He gave me a look that can be translated to, “are you out of your flipping mind?”
Tell me what you think...

Posted 9 Years Ago

Another ten minutes went by before all were seen. A loud authoritative blast bellows from the open hatch of the small duty office, “Smith, bring your a*s here.”
“Yes sir,” Smith mumbling under his collar oh s**t! as he walks into the duty hut faking the funk.
“Smith, I want you to take these boots over to the barracks, get them put up and have them get out of those damn pickle suits and into BDUs. While you’re at it, be sure to introduce them to Sergeant Greene. Do I make myself clear?” One of two things was evident as we four stood outside the door listening to the directives, Lt. Granger was naturally a loud talker or Smith was the company b***h or both.
Emerging from the lair in just about the same fashion he entered moments earlier, tense, and from the looks broadcasting on the young Marine’s face you can see the disdain for the task. You can see that Smith rather be doing something else than handling us four non-rates.
Being led back out to the white government owned passenger van and loading back up; within three minutes time found ourselves pulling up in front of a set of barracks with a rather large wooden red faced yellow trim sign with the words “1 FSSG, Military Police Co., Headquarters & Service Bn., Grunt with a Badge.”
With patience worn thin, Smith verbalizing his frustration without restraint, “Hurry up and grab your s**t and follow me.”
Lugging the bulky green sea bag in one hand while following Smith to a group of Marines in PT gear standing in a modified formation conducting calisthenics’ and other warm up exercises, “Sgt. Greene, here are the new guys I was sent to picked up.”
Moving to the position of attention, the short stocky dark skinned Marine with a horseshoe cut barks out a command, “At ease…”
The platoon size group begins, in a low volume, talking to their neighbors in the modified configuration. With hands resting on hips, head cocked to one side, the dark green Marines turns to face our group. The moment eye contact is made a sinister smile stretches across Greene’s square jaw face sending shivers down my spine. Eye balling his watch, you can see in the small slit of his eyes, he’s a calculating man, “What do you know, just in time for PT,” pausing to expel a big glob of brown tobacco spit, “I hope you have running shoes, because I would really hate to see you run in jungles.”
LCpl. Smith seeing it’s time to exit the scene without finishing the task placed in his hands. Not being fooled by the junior Marines’ escape attempt the sergeant that looks like he can separate your head from the shoulders in one pull catches him in the act, “Smith, where in the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Sergeant?”
“I said, where do you think you’re going?”
“Back to the duty hut Sergeant.”
“Didn’t you fail the last PFT?”
“Yes sergeant.”

Some of my rework. Tell me what you think?

Posted 10 Years Ago

HAPPY FREAKIN MONDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Posted 10 Years Ago

January 09, 2014, 1900, Paradise Valley, Arizona, a rather dry, raspy voice breaks through the elusive darkness with a question peppered with uncertainty, “Are you sure you want to go through with this James?”
Almost without hesitation my middle-aged beaten down response rings out with clarity, “I can’t go on in life with a clear conscious by silently standing-by while America is ripped apart,” taking a deep breath and finishing my answer during the exhale, “the truth must be told Dan.”
And with that, the unfolding begins…………..

May 24, 2000, 0813, Baltimore Regional Hospital, Baltimore, Maryland, fluorescent bulbs emit a soft cast on an already pristine white maternity room. A steady hum of electricity conducting through mercury vapors breaks up the otherwise still silence that would normally proceed after a long labor.
Unable to rest, I sit staring at both the newcomer and her mother with utter joy. Not fully comprehending what the future holds for our young family. Dumbfounded by the whole idea of being a father and a devoted husband.
Three knocks on an insolated door that deadens most of the outside noise cracks open, dropping the pressure dramatically. From around the edge of the threshold a young maternity nurse pops her head in, “How are they doing Mr. Philpot?”
Looking at the nurse then returning my gaze back to the two on the medical bed, “They’re both so tired.”
Now standing more in the room than out, “I can get you an extra pillow and blanket so you can get some rest too?”
“Why bother? I can’t sleep…”
“Well, if you get hungry or want a coffee there’s a cafeteria down the hall and if you change your mind about that pillow and blanket, just let me know.”
“Thank you! I’ll keep that in mind…”
With a small wave of her hand the nurse vacates the room going about her routine.
Staring at these two ladies, so deep in sleep, I can’t escape the thought my whole life will be of secret to them. These ladies will never fully know me, and what I’m paid to keep silent about.
Just then, the little one opens her big amber eyes. Shedding what looks to be a smile shining in my direction. Mentally silencing the hum of the lights I move in to talk to my daughter Brooklyn, being sure to keep my volume at a whisper. I all of a sudden find myself overcome with emotion.
“Hello beautiful, welcome to the world,” reacting to the sound of my voice by wiggling her tight balled fist uncontrollably, producing what looks to be another smile. But I’ve been told the professionals it could be gas.
Afraid to touch out of fear of breaking her, I lean in to whisper, “No matter what takes place Brooke, remember your father will always love you, and I will never let you fall.”
CRACK, CRACK, CRACK… Gunshots ring out jolting me from the memory.

Here's that opening section again. Revised and getting closer to that finished product. Hope you enjoy?

Posted 10 Years Ago

Here's a challenge I created for the inspiring writer to construct a prologue that leads into the first chapter with strength and momentum. Pass the word along. The challenge remains open till the end of February.

Posted 10 Years Ago

I watched it on live streams when it aired in the UK. I heard we might get a Sherlock Christmas special.