Filed under: fiction
It was just after noon on a pleasant midsummer day that two American college students on vacation checked into the hostel in the picture-postcard Bavarian village.
After showing the young gentlemen their room, the hostel manager introduced them to the only other person staying there, a Spanish student named Pilar. The boys were smitten instantly and the young lady was thankful that neither knew more Spanish than he could pick up from a taco stand menu.
Herr Schnuckler gave the three a quick rundown of what little there was of historic and cultural interest in the area, and then he added an unusual caveat.
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Filed under: fiction
“Stay close, now, Philip,” Warner told his son. “It’s still a bit drizzly; you’ll want to stay under the umbrella.”
“It’s OK, Daddy,” Philip said. “I’ve got my hat on. And it’s not too wet out here.”
Warner just smiled down at his 6-year-old who was bouncing a little in place and taking in all the fascinating sights at Lakehurst Naval Air Station, New Jersey. He glanced at the truck from the radio station and that nice Mr. Morrison whom Daddy had taken him to talk to as they waited.
As always, Philip held tightly to his favorite popgun. Both barrels were corked and ready in case of trouble. He wasn’t planning to shoot because the corks in the barrels weren’t attached to the gun with string. They had been, once, but that was a few hundred shots ago and his parents hadn’t yet put new strings on the corks. Eager as Philip was to take aim and let something have it, he knew it would be a nuisance out here.
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Filed under: fiction
He was a good-looking man, and young; only the limp and the cane explained why he wasn’t in uniform.
He carefully maneuvered himself between a few tables and hitched himself up on a barstool. “Lager, bitte,” he told the barmaid.
She drew his beer and set it in front of him. “So where are you from, mein Herr, and what brings you to our little village?”
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Posted on July 30th, 2009 by bryon
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