An Argument in Hauverstover

At a distant point in time years past, the duchy of Hauverstover was ruled by the Duke and Duchess Steinmauer. Gerhard Steinmauer had met a dark haired, blue eyed hellion named Elke Osterwald and had been totally smitten. Their courtship was a tempestuous one. Elke had led Gerhard on a merry chase before accepting a proposal of marriage.

When it became time to form an army for the defense of Hauverstover, the topic of uniform coloring had risen. Gerhard liked a white coat with blue pants, while Elke preferred a gray coat with dark red trousers. In a moment of compromise, a blend of blue and red was suggested for the trousers and a dark purple was adopted. Both Gerhard and Elke claimed this compromise as their own idea and had great fun over the years arguing about it. However, when it came to the coat coloring, neither would budge a bit.

Duke Gerhard was very close to making a proclamation that the Infantry dress would be white coats with purple trousers. He was in his study, drafting the order, when a quick tap on his shoulder redirected his attention. He turned to see Elke looking at him with a particularly mischievous glint in her eye.

"I have interesting news my dear stuffy old Duke!"

Gerhard just quirked an eyebrow, and awaited the announcement. The last time had been about gophers eating the tulip bulbs in the gardens and how a cute little rat-terrier would solve the problem. The dratted dog was constantly getting muddy paws on his boots.

"My love, you are going to be a father. I hope you are pleased."

The Duke was overwhelmed with emotion, and grabbed his wife for an embrace. They laughed and kissed and stared at each other, both delighted with the news.

"Elke my dear, this is so wonderful. May I grant you anything? The Moon? Just say the word! "

By this time, Elke had noticed the draft of the order. With a quick smile, "Gray Coats?"

The Duke smiled and wrote the following order. "On all odd numbered infantry regiments the standard dress will be a white coat with dark purple trousers. In honor to the duchess, the even numbered regiments will have gray jackets and dark purple trousers."

Over time the gray-coated regiments became known as The Duchess' Guard. That general order stands to this day.

A Simple Drink

Cletus sat at his usual table slamming whiskey shots. His complexion was flushed red across his cheeks and bulbous nose, framing deep set rheumy pig eyes. His normal surly demeanor was getting more foul by the minute; he was spoiling for a fight. The tables nearest him were empty of patrons, they had seen this way too many times.

A horse and rider slowly emerged from a billowing dust cloud at the end of town. They were absolutely covered in thick layers of dust. The horse, rider, apparel and tack were all the same dingy tannish shade of brown. The cowboy dismounted at front of the saloon. Clouds of dust kept coming off the man as he continued to ineffectually swat himself. Making sure that his horse could reach the water trough, Frank gratefully stepped into the saloon.

"Hey barkeep! I'll take a whiskey!" said Frank as he moved slowly and stiffly toward the bar. Frank plunked a dust-covered coin on the bar and eagerly started to lift the drink to his overly parched lips. Abruptly, something crashed into his shoulder, spilling his highly prized drink. Frank shook his head in disgust to the accompaniment of many more motes. Frank's eyes angrily focused on the ugly face of Cletus; intense mutual hatred blossomed immediately.

"Hell, we don't serve your kind in here you filthy shit for brains rag bag." glared Cletus.
Frank turned to face Cletus, noticing the low-slung tied down holster. "Your mother must have been some sow, pig eyes!"

Cletus made a fast move toward his gun. He was not prepared for the bullet that found its mark squarely between his eyes. Watching Cletus fall, Frank smoothly holstered his weapon, the only thing he owned that wasn't covered in dust.

"I'll have that drink now barkeep."

A Lady Named Sally

She was a sweet curvy little machine painted racing blue. Her interior featured red leather bucket seats without frills. She wasn't made for high top end speed. She was lithe, agile and pounced from corner to corner.

A quick little tap on the brakes would set her turn angle. Then she could be driven by counter-lock steering and the accelerator pedal. She was a '58 Porsche 356A Coupe named Sally. She was parked and locked safely at the side of the street.

He went inside a favorite haunt for a quick beer. Then some drunk sumbitch plowed a half ton pickup into her side, killing her.

A China Doll

An exquisite rag doll with a china face was a gift for Beth's sixth birthday. Its facial features were hand painted, and its eyes were masterfully done. No matter which angle she looked at the doll, its eyes locked onto Beth's. Years of happy playtime passed until Beth grew into a young adult. She stored the doll away in a dark chest, forgetting about it.

Beth, now thirty four, opened the chest looking for something old, borrowed, or blue. As she picked up the doll to search underneath, china eyes locked onto hers. Beth shivered as there seemed to be palpable malice emanating from the doll. Hairline cracks appeared on the doll's eyes, followed by exploding china shards.

Beth was cast into darkness as two precisely placed shards claimed her vision.

A Day At Waterloo

The day had started spectacularly. The regiment marched in nice straight lines. Shoulder to shoulder strode young men eager for a fight. Shakos, uniforms, cross-belts and muskets gleamed in the sun. Sounds of battle grew closer; lips suddenly became very dry, throats closed.

The order came to deploy into line. Drums and bugles marked the cadence. A slow advance with arms at the ready. An officer screamed "Volley Fire!" Then the repeat of "FIRE!" Reach into the pouch, bite off the oiled paper and prime the pan. Pour the rest of the powder and ball down the musket barrel and ram it home. Take aim and fire again. Can't see because of all this blasted gun-smoke.

Men screaming, crashing cannon, smell of cordite, urine and blood assaults all senses. What lunacy is this, standing here like a cow for slaughter? "Keep firing!" Mates to the right and left both scream at the same time falling dead. He is sprayed with ichor, blood and gore. Napoleon is a pompous imbecile that doesn't care if his men live or die! "Keep firing! Close ranks! Make those shots count!"

Never again, if I get out of here, never again! After an interminable age it is over. The silence is overwhelming, his ears ring loudly in the cacophonies' pause. With trembling fingers he sweeps the Shako from his head and lets it fall. He absently notes the Shako has a bullet hole and is missing a piece of chin scale. There is a burning, stinging sensation along his left rib, but it is lost in the flood of dissipating adrenaline.

"Form Up! Form UP!" He grabs his Shako, musket and takes his place in line. Merde!

A Simple Drink

Cletus sat at his usual table slamming whiskey shots. His complexion was flushed red across his cheeks and bulbous nose, framing deep set rheumy pig eyes. His normal surly demeanor was getting more foul by the minute; he was spoiling for a fight. The tables nearest him were empty of patrons, they had seen this way too many times.

A horse and rider slowly emerged from a billowing dust cloud at the end of town. They were absolutely covered in thick layers of dust. The horse, rider, apparel and tack were all the same dingy tannish shade of brown. The cowboy dismounted in front of the saloon.

Clouds of dust kept coming off the man as he continued to ineffectually swat himself. Making sure that his horse could reach the water trough, Frank gratefully stepped into the saloon.

"Hey barkeep! I'll take a whiskey!" said Frank as he moved slowly and stiffly toward the bar. Frank plunked a dust-covered coin on the bar and eagerly started to lift the drink to his overly parched lips. WHAM! Something crashed into his shoulder, spilling the highly prized drink. Frank shook his head in disgust to the accompaniment of many more motes. Frank's eyes angrily focused on the ugly face of Cletus; intense mutual hatred blossomed immediately.

"Hell we don't serve your kind in here you filthy crap for brains rag bag." glared Cletus.

Frank turned to face Cletus, noticing the low-slung tied down holster.
"Your mother must have been some sow, pig eyes!" spat Frank.

Cletus made a fast move toward his gun. He was not prepared for the bullet that found its mark square between his eyes. Watching Cletus fall, Frank smoothly holstered his weapon, the only thing he owned that wasn't covered in dust.

"I'll have that drink now barkeep."