Circumstance Of Victims

Title: Circumstance Of Victims

Word Count: 700

Name or Twitter Handle: Jeffrey Hollar @klingorengi

Category: Diesel

Content label : Safe For All

To the esteemed Jawarhalal Nehru:

Envision an India not a chattel state but an acknowledged partner of those nations dedicated to technological advancement and modern thought. Imagine an India with unquestioned sovereignty, freely exercising its right to self-determination unhindered by circumstances. To that end, our representative is prepared to meet with you to discuss what can be accomplished by dedicated men working toward common goals. If this proposal is amenable then raise and lower the window shades of your office at precisely noon today. By that signal will our agent proceed with our offer. Be advised that, should no signal be provided, you bid fair to doom your homeland to continue in its servile state likely for the remainder of your days. 

The letter bore no signature or other identifying device and, at first, Nehru thought it to be an incredibly poor joke. Nevertheless, every fiber of his being cried out it was not. He had, for some time, been at polite but undeniable odds with the Mahatma. Though he respected the depths of his mentor’s belief in diplomacy and passive resistance, they often argued as to whether, at some point, more…aggressive measures might be called for.

As morning passed and the moment for decision was nigh, Nehru realized he was unwilling to dismiss any possibility for his homeland to achieve the greatness he knew was so deserved. No sooner had he lowered the blinds back when a knock came at his door.

The man who entered was of middle age, strongly built and dressed in a linen suit of Western cut. His skin was browned as one who had spent much time out of doors. He held himself at ease, setting down a large valise before offering a slight bow. Had Nehru felt astonished by the letter, a feather could have knocked him senseless at the realization of who this mysterious agent was.

“Why, you are…” Nehru stammered.

The man nodded curtly, “Yes, I am Joseph Rudyard Kipling and you are Jawarhalal Nehru. That being settled shall we get to the business at hand? Lest you wonder, my position as an author of some repute allows me travel to unaccustomed places and to meet with unexpected individuals without arousing undue suspicions. Now, have a seat and listen.” Nehru complied.

“I represent a consortium of men who feel it necessary to intervene in the matters of India. You are aware, I am sure, Misters Woodrow Wilson and David Lloyd George are no friends of India…nor, of late, of each other. Suffice to say those stinking Ottoman bastards bear you no good will either.” His grin was decidedly disconcerting.

Reaching into the valise, Kipling withdrew a single large rifle cartridge and what appeared to be an incredibly small telescope. “This bullet is .45 caliber and is fired from a rifle capable of firing five such without reloading. Fitted with this sighting scope here, that rifle can strike a target over half a mile away. The combination is courtesy of two of our dedicated membership…an American chap named Browning and an odd little Swiss fellow…Carl Zeiss, I believe.”

“Upon receipt of a coded telegram, our men on the ground will be dispatched to send a leaden message to the brain pans of Wilson, Lloyd George, a few Ottoman dignitaries and, likely, a dozen or so others just to muddy the waters a bit. It is our belief with no clear culprits to blame, the inevitable finger pointing and recriminations will provide an atmosphere of unparalleled uncertainty and discord in the world. We feel this confluence of events would present a…unique opportunity to a man with prior knowledge to exploit matters to his benefit. We feel you are such a man. Now, if we are mistaken, only say so and that will be that. Pray remember, though, we’ve placed ourselves in a most vulnerable position telling you of our…options. I am sure you must realize that would be a position we could not allow to exist if you decline our aid. I give you until morning to consider.”

Nehru sat pondering long into the night before, at length, convincing himself a deal made with the Devil could be made for the greater good.

This story was written for the Dirty Goggles Blog Hop  sponsored by Jenn (Brewed Bohemian), Steven Paul Watson & Ruth Long. This is my first attempt at writing steampunk/dieselpunk and may or may not have hit the mark. It was, in any event, a LOT of fun and, if nothing else, is some darned intriguing alternative history.  

The Wheel Goes Round

Remy recalled a time in his life when carnivals and fairs, parks and boardwalks, bright lights and music were things to be appreciated, savored and enjoyed to the utmost. That time…those sensations…those sentiments were gone from his life never to return again. 

To this day, the thought an improbable mechanical malfunction could derail an amusement ride from its course and, in less than the blink of an eye, take from him a wife and a pair of angelic children still seemed inconceivable to him.

After three years of hospitals, rehabilitation protocols and psychological counseling he’d, at last, been declared well and sent back out into a world which no longer held any attraction to him.

As he sighted through the rifle’s scope, taking aim at his first target aboard the Ferris wheel, Remy decided it had perhaps been a bit soon for the doctors to consider him “well’.


This story was written for the weekly Five Sentence Fiction prompt: festival. 

Frying Pan To Fire

Janx was most displeased to have barely settled into the squalid Felinoid headquarters before sensing the aggressive psychic probes. His people couldn’t possibly have found him this quickly without…assistance. Though he couldn’t spare the time now, he swore that duplicitous bastard Gunther would pay for his treachery.

Bursting out of the warehouse, he found himself on the docks. How cliché a choice of locations for a bunch of trumped up house pets! Assaulted by blinding sunshine and nearly rendered insensate by the appalling stench of fish, he realized his only hope lay in camouflage. A frenzied molecular transformation later, Janx thought he made a rather convincing-looking sea bass. Or did he? 

Too late, he realized the little girl peering so intently at him was anything but what she appeared to be. His worst suspicions were realized when he heard the voice from his past.

“Why Janx, fancy meeting you here!” 

This story was written for the weekly Visual Dare flash fiction prompt: inspect. As a personal challenge, I have been stringing the prompts from week to week into an ongoing story. This marks the eighth such and previous installments may be found here. 

Josiah Teague: Territorial Agent XIII

Teague steeled himself for the next challenge, the ritual greeting. Before becoming an agent, he had assumed, like most people, that the Vamps had some sort of spoken language. While, of course, they did it was seldom used since Vamps shared a mental link, a form of telepathy, that they used among themselves. The spoken language was used only with Outsiders. 

That spoken language was simply not intended to be spoken by anyone who did not have Vamp physiology. The hissing, spitting and low, gutteral growls were painful, at best, for humans to make. By the terms of the Vamp-Human treaty, Vamps were required to learn and use the human language. 

Teague was barely surprised to learn none of his predecessors had bothered to access the Bureau database of Vamp language training. Once he accessed the recordings and heard what comprised Vamp, Teague didn't relish the thought of learning it but had no choice. Given the depredations the Lost Valley Vamps had endured under the "guidance" of previous agents, Teague owed it to them to try.



This snippet was selected for the weekly Science Fiction Fantasy Saturday Snippet and is from a work in progress, Josiah Teague: Territorial Agent (a paranormal Western)  Previous snippets in this series may be viewed here.

Concept Meets Execution

photo courtesy Mensatic, Morguefile

“How the heck did you get that thing up in the tree anyway?” 

“That’s hardly the issue. We finally have the means to put that damnable bluejay in his place once and for all. Well, not like we have all day, chap…up you go.”

“Wait. You want me to climb up that? Are you insane? You are, I assume, aware we are cats and do not have opposable thumbs? We’ll break our fool necks.”

“Oh, I’m not climbing. I’m a big picture type….an ideas man. I’ll leave the grunt work to you. Now, go on.”

Grumbling, Mittens began his ascent.

This story was written for the weekly Flash Friday flash fiction challenge photo prompt. 

Nothing To Hide

Driving down the road with Wiley strapped to the back of the vehicle like so much cord wood, Joleen kept telling Mabel to relax. The beauty of her plan to get rid of Mabel’s worthless bastard husband’s corpse lay in nobody believing what so obviously looked like a dead body actually was a dead body.

The story was written for the weekly 55 Word Challenge flash fiction photo prompt.

Two Ships

Bernie and Gladys were the geriatric equivalent of two ships that passed in the night though, in point of fact, it was broad daylight and neither of these two “vessels’ took the slightest notice one of the other. 

To be fair, it wasn’t an intentional snub on either of their parts, merely an unfortunate consequence of the inevitable passage of time. After all, Bernie didn’t see so good anymore and Gladys, well…she spent more time wandering about in the dusty passages of her own mind than she did interacting with the real world these days.

They’d met at the Belvedere Hotel ballroom on New Years’ Eve, 1920 and, with Prohibition looming in the foreseeable future, danced and drank the night away, like the young upstarts they were, before parting ways to never meet again.

It was a waste of truly delicious irony that neither of the two would have understood or much cared they had lived out their entire lives alone, unwed and unloved and yet only a mere six blocks apart.

This story was written for the weekly Five Sentence Fiction flash fiction prompt: shadows. 

Strange Bedfellows

Though he was thoroughly conversant with conveyances on this primitive mudball, Janx hated these damnable two-wheeled contraptions. But, as the old saying goes, “Needs must when the vornax bites your hindquarters”.

He knew responsibility for the unfortunate disappearance of the Review Committee would be foisted off on him and so he needed to make himself scarce until the furor died down. That was why he’d been forced to contact Gunther. 

As a senior Felinoid Science Academy researcher, Gunther had already been on this benighted backwater when Janx first arrived. He had excellent contacts and if anybody could help him, Gunther was the one…for a price.

As the pudgy xenobioligist strolled out to meet him, Janx was annoyed to see Gunther had ignored his request to keep things quiet and had brought his entire team with him. With an exasperated sigh, Janx wondered if anything would ever go as he’d planned.


This story was written for the weekly Visual Dare flash fiction prompt: a cat's world. As a personal challenge, I have been stringing the prompts from week to week into an ongoing story. This marks the seventh such and previous installments may be found here. 

Monday Mixer Winners, Week 19

I owe a very big thank you to both the returning entrants as well as the first time contributors for keeping this challenge fun and interesting. I promise all of you that, in the very foreseeable future, the life and work distractions that keep interfering with my ability to get this contest judged and publicized in a timely manner will be resolving themselves. Thanks for your patience in the meantime. 

Marje Myers for her story No Regrets. This was a wonderfully complex little tale that managed to work all nine prompt words into a single offering. It was an excellent story of fighting the odds to follow a dream and, sadly, paying the price for that dream when you fail. I wanted to rate this story much more highly, but the use of the word "visage" when I suspect what was intended was "vision" threw things off track for me.

The Imaginator for his story Yegg. This tale packed a lot of action, adventure and adrenaline into a very short space. There's nothing worse than pulling off the snatch of a lifetime to only almost get away. In this case, the use of the word "penetrating" as a verb rather than an adjective took the story out of contention for higher regard. 

redshirt6 for his untitled story. This story had a delightfully dark sense of magic and mystery, evil and betrayal. That's a lot to fit into such a tight word count. I really enjoyed this story but, again, the use of "penetrating" as a verb rather than an adjective was a limitation to rating it more highly. 

Lupus Anthropos for his untitled story. This week's prompts seemed to lend themselves well to deception, betrayal and the demise of someone. This little tale pulled me along just as seductively as the female character drew in her unexpected victim. I liked that I wasn't, entirely, sure where this story was headed and how it took me almost as much by surprise as it did the unfortunate chap with the knife stuck in his rib cage. Ouch. 

Bullish for her story  Purlwise. This was a simple, homey tale of unexpected romance set against the backdrop of a country craft sale. I loved how the prompts seem to fit in so effortlessly and advanced the story at a comfortable rambling pace. Working in the imagery of yarn and knitting along with the down home rustic phrasing made this a truly enjoyable read. Nice. 

Rebekah Postupak for her story The Throne. This tale literally brimmed with fantasy, adventure and an amazing degree of world building within the constraining word count. The struggle, the danger, the loss of life on a quest were all elements that combined perfectly. I was presented  with a complete and vivid mental picture with just enough mystery as to what happens next to keep me wondering. This story had the distinction of also meeting the Over Achiever standard but going just that wee little bit beyond to garner the top spot. I think this an excellent example of flash fiction that could easily lend itself to becoming something more vast. 

Please bear in mind my decisions are entirely subjective and may not find favor or agreement with all, but decisions are like that. For those writers not mentioned, no slight is intended and I hope next week will find you back for more.

Here is the link to view and read all of the truly inspired offerings for this week.  Please show a little Monday Mixer love and make a point of clicking on each entry and checking them out. Remember, each link clicked on takes you directly to that particular writer's page and provides them blog traffic and, hopefully, feedback to encourage them to come out & play next week.

Do Not Disturb

I saw four men on horseback coming over the low rise to the east and, just that quickly, a typical day on perimeter lookout became anything but typical. Now there was a time when that would have been a commonplace enough sight as to elicit little, if any, reaction. That time had been more than five years gone now. That time was before ballistic death had rained down from the skies and made it expedient to express the planetary population using not a ten-digit number but, instead, only six digits...and that was an overly-optimistic estimate. 

I probably should’ve bugged out back to the settlement and gotten help but if I did, the riders would be way too far inside the perimeter for us to deal with them without the possibility of taking casualties. If they were on horseback and coming from the east, they weren’t anybody we wanted to give the benefit of the doubt to anyway.

Deacon had been telling us all along the only reason we hadn’t sickened and died like most of mankind was the caves shielded us from the fallout carried on the howling winds. To the east was where the major population centers had been and those had, sure as Hell, been bombed back to the Stone Age. While it wasn’t entirely inconceivable folks to the east of us had survived this long, it was damned unlikely they’d managed to do it and have had the resources to sustain livestock too.

I’d set my helmet down in the shade since it was so damnably hot today. Deacon would have been pissed had he known I wasn’t wearing it regardless of the temperature. I didn’t quite understand what UV radiation was but the helmet was supposed to keep it from frying my head. Snatching it up, I toggled the optic enhancers online and took a closer look at the strangers.

Their clothes were dusty…sweat-soaked but better quality than anything we’d seen in a long while. The saddlebags on their mounts bulged, indicating they had enough of…something…to make it worth packing around. All four carried MIL-SPEC rifles that gave every appearance of being well-maintained and fully-functional. The heat shimmer made it impossible to see their faces but that didn’t really matter. Whoever they were, it was time to deal with them.

They were just entering the narrow pass that would lead them right into our back yard when I depressed the activator switch on the perimeter mines. The confines of the rock walls focused the blast and they vanished in a shower of dust and rocky shrapnel. When things settled down and I got a clear look again, I confirmed they were all down and nobody was moving.

It was a new age of Man when trust was gone and self-preservation was the order of the day. Whoever they’d been, whatever they wanted was now moot. They’d come too close to knocking on our door for comfort and the days of welcome mats were long gone too.

This story was written for the weekly Motivation Monday flash fiction challenge prompt: I saw four men on horseback. 

Something Borrowed

Analise surveyed herself in the full-length mirror with a critical eye. She was forced to admit, under the circumstances, the dressmaker had done a wonderful job. Gone were the days when a blushing bride could swathe herself in crinoline and lace, organza and satin. Gone were the days of off-the-shoulder gowns and décolletage. Full sleeves and Victorian collars were the fashion now…Kevlar and carbon fiber and ballistic cloth.

She did her best to relax but her mind was awhirl with so many thoughts. Why did the damnable Zombie Apocalypse have to dictate not only what she would wear but every aspect of this day? The guest list had been completely redone since half of those invited were no longer living. She and Mitchell had decided on a different church than St. Stephen’s. St Michael’s did, in all fairness, have a much more easily secured perimeter for the friends and family.

How her father had managed to afford to hire an entire free mercenary battalion to cover the valet parking and catering as well as the armored limousine and support vehicles for the short trip to the reception was a mystery. Throughout this all, he’d been determined his little girl would have every extravagance still available given the near-total collapse of organized society.

There was a soft knock and her father slipped into the room. He cut quite a dashing figure in his Kevlar and carbon-boron fiber tuxedo. His tall boots, leather half gloves and pistol belt gleamed. She was surprised to see he’d chosen to carry his Desert Eagle for the ceremony. It was the pride of his collection and was seldom taken out of its display case. What a delightfully touching gesture, she thought, sniffing back tears.

“Here now! No crying. You’ll spoil your makeup.” His gruff demeanor was, she knew, a façade to cover the myriad of emotions welling up in him. “Your mother would be..so…” His voice broke and he couldn’t finish the sentiment.

Analise threw her arms about him in an embrace that startled them both with its fervor. He fumbled to return the gesture while taking care not to drop the object in his hand. A corner of the polished oaken box poked her even through the ballistic fabric of her gown and she took a step backward, confusion coming to her features.

“If I remember wedding traditions right, then I think what I have here will cover both “something old” and the “something borrowed”. Go on, sweetie, open it. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” He set his gift down on the side table.

Opening the lid, her eyes grew wide and she gasped. Within was the most beautiful handgun she’d ever seen. The grips had, quite obviously, been replaced since she couldn’t imagine her father owning a pistol with mother-of-pearl and gold-filigree. He was, no doubt, responsible for the nickel-plating, as well, since it wasn’t common for a 1911 .45 to be so adorned. It was…gorgeous.

“Your grandpa brought that back from the Big One. Yeah, I sissified it up for you a bit but I don’t think the old man would mind too much. Now, I know what you’re thinking. It’s only seven shots in the magazine but I taught you how to shoot well enough it should do just fine if you find yourself in a bad way. It’s…well…I can’t imagine it going to a better use than keeping my angel safe in the mess this world is coming to. Well, go ahead…try it on.” 

Hiking up her dress, she removed the Baretta Hi-Power from her thigh holster and slid the Colt into its place. Not a perfect fit, she mused, but she couldn’t imagine walking down the aisle with a finer gun.

Noting her father’s concerned frown, she giggled at her own foolishness in forgetting the most important thing of all. Withdrawing the weapon, she racked a round into the chamber and thumbed on the safety before re-holstering it. Smoothing her dress down, she looked up to see love and joy reflected in her father’s eyes. Holding out his arm to her, he waited for her to take it before opening the door.

“Now, let’s go have us a wedding!”



This story was written for the Dark Fairy Queen Writerly Bridal Shower honoring the impending marriage of Anna & Michael.


Author: Jeffrey Hollar
Words: 700 
E-Book: Yes

Monday Mixer Winners, Week 17

This week featured a wonderful combination of both first time entrants and a comfortable core of returning writers. You all made it exceptionally difficult to sort out a collection of some very high-quality and captivating reading. I extend my deepest apologies for the delay in announcing these results but the real world keeps pushing my make-believe world into the background. I hope to see each and every one of you back for the next round.

Grace Black for her story Unspoken. This was a delightfully romantic tale full of very vivid imagery. As someone who has been in the position of being in a foreign land, unsure of my linguistic skills the story had a very believable and realistic feel to it. Countered with the promise of romance and mystery it was a nicely blended tale.

Robin Abess for her story Evil Genius. This was a very captivating blend of elements of classic suspense and plenty of subtle tongue-in-cheek humor. I especially like the idea of an Evil Genius making his father his driver. The ending caught me totally by surprise which is always a good thing.

J.M. Mendur for his story Fallen. This was a delightfully spooky tale filled with dark magic, betrayal, and curses. Who doesn't love a story with those elements? I enjoyed how the tale pulled me along with absolutely no idea of where exactly it might be headed. The overall tone of somber darkness and sorcerous evil was fully felt throughout. The prompt words were worked so naturally into the body of the piece that I had to double-check to make sure they were there. 

This week offered no stories meeting the Over Achiever criteria.

Alissa Leonard for her story As She Lay Dying. Alissa has, in the past, lamented about the difficulty of taking my words and placing them into any "normal-sounding" story. Rather than make note of not being sure what exactly a "normal-sounding story" might be, I will say that with this story Alissa provided an excellent tale. The mixture of short and long sentences (while perhaps unintentional) led me along as if I were the one trudging painfully uphill. The story contains just the right blend of exposition and mystery to leave questions unanswered as part of its charm. Well done!

Please bear in mind my decisions are entirely subjective and may not find favor or agreement with all, but decisions are like that. For those writers not mentioned, no slight is intended and I hope next week will find you back for more.

Here is the link to view and read all of the truly inspired offerings for this week.  Please show a little Monday Mixer love and make a point of clicking on each entry and checking them out. Remember, each link clicked on takes you directly to that particular writer's page and provides them blog traffic and, hopefully, feedback to encourage them to come out & play next week.

Josiah Teague: Territorial Agent XI

Teague felt rather than saw the Vamps close ranks behind him. Off of his horse and standing amongst them…this was it…he was fully committed now. If things went badly, they would swarm him and he would die, no match for their superior speed and strength. Best get on with it then.

He kept his carriage tall and straight, surveying the tribe members cautiously. As he’d seen from above, they were mostly oldsters, women, and the young. Nearing the Vamp chief, he finally saw the warriors. There were scarcely a dozen of them, their muscles bunched, their crimson eyes showing contempt. He was very careful to present them no threat. They seemed ready to attack with the least provocation.

This snippet was selected for the weekly Science Fiction Fantasy Saturday Snippet and is from a work in progress, Josiah Teague: Territorial Agent (a paranormal Western)  Previous snippets in this series may be viewed here.

Josiah Teague: Territorial Agent XII

He stopped precisely three paces in front of the Vamp chief and assumed their Posture of Submission. This involved extending his arms, palm up and bent downward at the wrist. He was figuratively offering his blood to the clans. He also bent low at the waist, his head down to expose the back of his neck. He was figuratively offering his head to the clans. He held the position nervously but resolutely. 

As ceremony required, the chief let Teague stand thusly but for perhaps a bit longer than was customary. With a loud clack of his jaws, the chief finally acknowledged the gesture and signaled Teague was free to stand at ease. He did, careful to keep his eyes locked with the chief's gaze. So far so good, he mused.



This snippet was selected for the weekly Science Fiction Fantasy Saturday Snippet and is from a work in progress, Josiah Teague: Territorial Agent (a paranormal Western)  Previous snippets in this series may be viewed here.

Biding Time

photo courtesy indervilla.com

Having been convicted of the charge of scientific heresy for daring to assert he’d discovered another sentient species, he lamented the century that would be lost in confinement before he could try contacting these “humans” again.

This story was written for the weekly Triefextra Writing Challenge. The challenge was to write a story of 36 words including the prompt words: charge, century & lost.