Tuesday, December 16, 2014

I believe I’ve been eating too much ice cream, or, maybe, winter is setting in. I’ve outgrown my Levi’s again. A constant fight, that waist line thingy.

Another indicator of winter fat is the way I’ve been viewing the books I’m reading. Like, I’m doing a series again. You know pick an author that’s written more than a book or two and read nothing except his stuff to the end.

Currently I’m reading a space opera series. The hero gets into a missile or radiation gun fight every third chapter. His craft is able to jump about in space – jump about in this case is instantaneous (that word isn’t spelled the way I thought). Anyhow, the thing is first here, then it’s over there some few light years.

Avoids missiles that way, don’t you see.

That idea is through out the books so far. Which got me to thinking about fighting in space, provided, of course, we ever get out there on a routine basis.

So, lets say, we’re out there and get into a fight. As primitive as we are we’ll probably take along a howitzer or two, being oxygenated by its propellant, you see, and we fired the bugger off.

And we miss. Well, the first shot anyhow.

And that short goes zipping across space at a low rate of speed for ever. No drag, you see. And how long and how far will that thing go? I mean, really.

And then there are torpedoes, some with nuclear warheads that miss trucking along. A few fights and we have a host of missiles putt zing about in a non-corrosive environment.

Lets say I survive the fight and come home like the hero I am and father kids on an admiring opposite sex. Yeah, yeah. I know. Pretend I missed space radiation and do that.

I raise the brats and send them to space, because dad was a space hero and the kid’s get out there in one of those space ships that can outrun quantum numeral addition and subtraction and their ship gets hit by one of those loose torpedoes or a loose round my ship fired years and ages before . . .

The question is, you know, if that little brat I raised lives through the strike, can they sue me?

I mean, for all the things I didn’t give them saving money for my old age or something?

Well, can they?


From the reaches,

Ten Whiskey        

About tenwhiskey

User tenwhiskey is also the author of this blog. He currently lives in small town Kansas in a semi-retired condition. His kids are married and gone (thank you). An empty nester. Divorced. Very happy with life as it is. Ten Mile maintains a personal blog here, writing of events as they appear to him; commentary, and opinions abound. He deviates into fiction as the mood strikes and creates flash fiction stories and short stories. He will not warn the reader when he drifts from fact to fiction. He feels adults are, generally, smart enough to figure out which is which. He does, however, attempt to make his fiction sound as true to life as possible. You have been warned. He, as time permits, writes and occasionally sells writing. More often than not he gives it away to various non-paying publishers of Ether Magazines, forums or for entertainment on a wall for in need of a hand friends. He likes candy, pies and a certain amount of strife. In the matter of strife - in his yourth on the farm, he became embroiled in a slinging fight. The fight involved lath as a launcher, fresh cow patties as ammo and it was a six way free for all. A little mud only adds (Umm?) a certain taste to life.
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