“Boneheads,” Taylor said from the doorway. “They've killed a Marine.” He came into the room, hugged Hardesty hard. “NCIS will be all over them, before you know it.” Hardesty managed a wry smile and forced herself to relax enough to reassure the boy. She looked up at Bidwell, who patted her shoulder.
“I wish the world did work more like TV,” Hardesty said quietly.
“It will if we help it,” Bidwell told her. He gestured at the screen.
“Hey,” Taylor said. “Those are the people who were chasing us in the woods. The ones we hid from.”
Wilson, catching sight of the screen, almost dropped the dishes he'd been carrying back to the sink. “I can't hear that – what are they saying?”
Bidwell thumbed the remote and the volume rose. Read more…

Taylor's eyes began to leak. “Will they be all right?”
“If we have anything to say about it,” Hardesty growled, “They will.”
“What do we have to say it with?” Wilson asked quietly. “That sniper rifle? You told me you'd used it like a club.” He rolled his shoulders, walked around behind the couch. “Bend the barrel? Throw off the sights?”
“Marksmanship instructor,” Hardesty said, “doesn't mean sniper. Does mean gunsmith, though.”
Wilson blinked at her. She smiled a slanted smile and raised a shoulder at Bidwell. “Your responsibility, Wilson. Mine's different.”
“Vengeance?” Wilson's voice and expression went arch. Read more…

“They might be right,” Bidwell said. “The next in line under the Constitution is the Speaker.”
“The Speaker is Colonel Robertson's brother-in-law,” Wilson said. “Is there any indication that the Speaker might be inclined to go along with all this?”
“All what, Uncle Tim?” Taylor came out of the bathroom.
“It's on the television, Taylor,” Hardesty said quietly. “That story that we heard on the radio in the car – the story that you and your dad and your Uncle Tim were missing, and that I was holding you hostage.”
“But that isn't true,” Taylor said. Read more…

Five hours later Bidwell asked, slowing down as traffic thickened, “Stay on this road or switch to 81 up ahead?”
Taylor, who'd been alternately dozing and amusing himself with license plate bingo, announced, “I'm starving.”
“I could eat, too,” Hardesty admitted.
Wilson tapped the map on his knee. “Let's get off the road for awhile. Maybe spend the night in Cumberland. I'm tired of wondering what's going on out there.”
“Talk radio,” Hardesty said. “Boneheads.”
“That and a gift for saying things that I'd just as soon not hear,” Bidwell said quietly, “or share.” Read more…

“That's it – there's the car!” Taylor said excitedly. The SUV rolled to a stop after turning the corner and passing a house. Bidwell glanced in the rearview mirror.
“Okay, Angela,” he said. “How do you want to do this?”
“I think I'll run up and ring the bell ...” she thought carefully. “See how it goes. Do you want me to carry enough cash to pay for it now, or come back to pick it up if we want it?”
“If you can get a test drive,” Wilson started, “that would be good. We don't want to buy something we can't use.”
“Oh, I can,” she said. “Woman on the phone a couple of hours ago really wants that car out of here. Says her ex spent all his spare time and money, and then some, on it. I think she's jealous.” Read more…

“I'd just as soon not make it easy for them,” Bidwell said. “What if we ditch the SUV instead of filling it up?”
“And leave on foot?”
“We might be able to do even better than that,” Hardesty said. “Look here.” She had brought a local giveaway advertiser out of the farm-supply store a few moments earlier, and folded it open to “For Sale: Autos by Owner.”
“Oooh, that color would be great!” Taylor said, tapping an ad. Read more…

Taylor blinked sleepily. “What're you so happy about, Miss Angel?”
“Your dad is a very smart man, Taylor. Thanks to his thinking ahead, we're a lot less likely to get caught now.”
“But I thought once we got back to Dad everything would be okay,” Taylor said, clearly puzzled. “Aren't we going home, Dad?”
“Eventually,” Bidwell said. “But remember I told you there were people trying to make us upset?”
“And remember I told you that man might've hurt your dad?” Hardesty made her voice soft. “That man's still out there, Taylor. We're not sure who's helping him. We're not sure where he is. Getting you and your dad home safe means we still have to not get caught.” Read more…

“Mr. President,” the man in the black suit repeated, “we need to move right now.”
Taylor stared at the man, then at his father. “Dad? I thought Uncle Benny was President.”
“That's right, son,” Bidwell said. “There's a lot of confusion right now. Colonel Robertson and some other people are trying to ...” his voice broke as he cuddled the boy's head against his shoulder, looking past Taylor to the man in the black suit. “They're trying to upset us.”
“Boneheads,” Taylor said, muffled, and Hardesty flinched. Read more…

Taylor stared up at her. “Should we go home now?”
“I don't know,” she answered honestly. “If that man hurt your dad, home isn't very safe.”
“Will they hurt us?”
“They might,” she said, “if they catch us.”
Taylor looked determined. “Then we can't let them catch us, Miss Angel.”
“Right,” she whispered back.
Crunching noises diminished as Waddell and his – partner? Keeper? -- moved off through the woods. Hardesty knew better than to take for granted that their departure meant safety. Read more…

Liberator 1

Morning broke with a lemon line of light along the horizon, and Angel Hardesty knew she had to go. Time had run out on her. Fortunately, the child -- ostensibly her student -- she guarded still slept.
Fifty feet away she could hear the group gathering. She knew Colonel Robertson would not let the prospect of traumatizing her charge interfere with his operations; this particular day's action could seal his ascension to command. Ambitious to the edge of ruthlessness, Robertson had no patience for collateral damage as insignificant as a second-grader's nightmares. Read more…

2nd Revision--

The man with the beard is crossing over to the other side of the street. He is smoking a cigarette. His stride is long. He makes his own path on

the grass not using the sidewalk. Pace remains constant.

Sounds of Detroit give passerby’s eyes, I nod to a woman wearing the navy pea coat. She has the same ipod as me.

The man with a beard is crossing towards the street, a cigarette dangles from his lips.

I look down, my nose feels cold.

A couple laugh at the intersection. They are oriental japanese or chinese? . I can hear their voices but I cannot tell.

The man with the beard crosses over to the street, cigarette swirls smoke, grey sky snaps a black and white photograph. Read more…

Welcome to the Sunday Morning Book Review, Jane Austen style. I apologise-it has been a long time since I have written a book review, but I will try to do this book justice. First though, I would like to give a little overall introduction to the world of Jane Austen for everyone, especially those who are wary of it or haven't picked it up b/c they think it might be boring, b/c I admit, I thought it was silly romance stories at first too. (And no, I haven't watched the movie.) Read more…

So, first off: Happy Birthday MJS! We miss you! And love you! And your beautiful, gracious, thoughtful wife, who in turn gave me a gift by asking me to give you one. I hope you enjoy your book. Secondly, I'm too heartbroken to explain Tel Asmar; just google "Tel Asmar UChicago dig house" and you'll understand- it's gone. My pain is nothing to the families of the dead who have lost infinitely more than that thanks to a reckless war of lies and greed.

Seeing as how Corrente is now a High Literary Society, I thought I should contribute something. The background on this short fiction is this: it's "historical" in feel and tone, but in no way up to the scholarly standards of my past. I feel badly I'm fuddling some historical and philological fact for the sake of fiction, so to my Assyriology friends: take it easy on a sister, yo? Also, due to a mix-up on the due date, I wrote this in exactly one morning and gave it all of one look-thru before publishing it for MJS' gift. So forgive the slightly choppy and unfinished element to it, it's essentially a first-draft. Someday, I may go back and clean it up and turn it into a long book; I've been sitting on a larger story of which this is part for some time. Anyway, here you go, Birhtday Boy and Gentle Readers.

"The Ashes of the House of Ur"
I

The tall brute looked and sounded exactly like his name implied; son of the war goddess indeed. Hulking over Ibrahim’s second wagon like a trained ape at the temple fair, he could hardly articulate the goods of passage, let alone write them. Lucky for him, a clever palace scribe was there to cover his ass and get the job done.

“Twelve woven blankets,” the brute slurred.
“Actually, your honor, “ said Ibrahim. “That’s ten. The other two are for the flooring.” He tried his best to look unconcerned, but the high ranking palace scribe's presence implied that the political scene was as dangerous for him as ever, perhaps more so. “That looks like more than ten to me,” the hulking mass of a beer-guzzling Akkadian said. “Are you saying I can’t count?” His muscular concern mirrored the urgency with which his scribe sought to insert herself into the conversation. Ibrahim took advantage of this.

“Lady Lali,” he said to the skinny scribe and using her nickname, which was known to him because they shared the same blood of the old families. “What say you of these blankets?” His deep, liquid eyes pleaded with her. He knew she knew all he wanted to do was leave; to escape the increasing burdens of all merchants of the Old Blood in a crumbling empire. To take his family, herds and goods to a new land; one long since abandoned by the ancient people of the sea, where the hills where green, and lightly populated by wild flocks or predators. The rumors of the place had spread in the last famine, when the empire had failed to provide for the people. Ibrahim had spoken out against the temples and their increasingly anti-traditionalist leadership then. He had paid for it ever since.

Lali looked at the small herds and poor-quarter quality of Ibrahim’s carts. Another reject of the new order, refugees taking flight, she thought. They were so common these days, what with the empire restricting its support to the “loyal families” and all. Sad, she thought. In the old days, merchant princes like Ibrahim would’ve been invited to compete for choice temple bids, their herds culled for the finest representatives for use at the city festivals and temple competitions. But no longer; the young prince was woefully easy to sway, and mostly a fool. His advisors had convinced him that a “loyalty” purge was long since due, and that the gods demanded it.

“Geb,” she called to her co-worker. “I’ve got to get some beer, and take a piss. It’s too fucking hot for this shit.” It was true, the midday was nigh, and they’d been processing passers at the gate for six hours. Some beer and dates, and an indoor break, were long overdue. Read more…