You see these small roadside memorials occasionally. This one was a white cross with silk flowers tattered by blowing rains, a frayed ribbon, a dog’s collar.
She was Abby. Her dog was Rex.
The drunk, just out of rehab, was leaving another bar, squinting woozily as I pulled the trigger.
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.
The car hit hard enough from behind to push them forward twenty feet. The force of the air bag knocked him senseless.
He shook cobwebs loose as a rumbling sound persisted in one ear. A sidewise glance and the train’s horn sounded.
He had been sitting at the crossing gate.
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.
She looks at me with big brown eyes, alive with anticipation for things to come. Her chestnut hair is a perfect complement to those eyes.
Unabashed, she is totally nude, standing anxiously by the door.
When my hand touches the leash, her tail begins to wag. Time for a walk!
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog (named Maybee) who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.
She didn’t walk, she glided to the far end of the bar. She had a body most women would kill for, plus flowing blonde hair, aquamarine eyes, high cheekbones, and a dazzling smile.
Moving closer, it became clear to me that she was a natural blonde: her moustache revealed it!
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.
It’s all left hand turns. Flaps. Slats. Landing gear. Hook. All down. As you make the last turn, you acquire the lights.
Make your corrections. Roll wings level.
Eyeball the third wire.
Wheels slam into the deck. Throttles slammed to the limits.
The hook holds.
Okay. Ease back the throttles.
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.
Editor’s Note – some context from the author:
While I doubt many people know an arrested carrier landing is actually called a trap (and every trap is graded by the LSOs, with a perfect third-wire trap getting a grade notation of simply “OK” in the logbook), most folks will get the idea behind a 50 -word description of what it’s like to stick a thirteen-ton airplane onto a runway shorter than a football field which moves about 60 feet every second (assuming the carrier is making headway at 30 knots). Oh, and the runway is at approximately a 10-degree angle as well, just to keep you on your toes. It’s even more special if it’s pitch-black dark and the sea is roiling in fifteen-foot swells and you’re at the end of a four-hour mission.
It felt like an eastbound freight train slammed into him as he moved down unmarked westbound tracks.
The impact struck first at his ribs, propelling him sideways until something hard stopped his momentum. The wind left his lungs.
A shrill whistle sounded, signalling it was all over: “First and ten!”
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.
The pilot gooses the throttles, slipping the airplane onto the catapult shuttle. Settling deeper into the seat, he salutes the catapult officer and grabs the canopy handle.
Now, wait for it…
Wham! Sphincters tighten.
Two seconds later, he’s airborne at 150 knots.
If this was Disneyland, it’s an “E” ride!
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.
We’re all alone tonight. Just two of us in padded seats and lights down low. There’s no moon tonight and only wispy overcast.
It’s perfect for what we have planned.
My bombardier navigator glances over. “Initial point in thirty seconds. No threats identified.”
They have no idea what is coming.
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.