Wrapped Around the Axel

I'm late.

Half the time I write these blogs at least a day or two ahead of time. The other half, I've gotten several weeks ahead, and Web Guy dishes them out to the wide world each Monday.

But I'm late. I was supposed to have this written and off to Web Guy by last night.

It's four a.m. The cats are confused, so I fed them early to stop their swarming. Which means they'll demand their tuna delight gravy edition dinner an hour earlier this evening.

The hubs is about to wake up for work, and he'll also be confused as to why I'm at the desk. Bless his heart, he'll probably start talking to me. Which is a dangerous undertaking even in the eight-a.m. range, let alone four hours earlier.

I'm not a four-o'clock-in-the-morning kind of writer. I'm a two-o'clock-in-the-morning middle insomniac who can mentally wrap herself around all sorts of axels of unimportance until six a.m. Then I'll write about it later.


Sherman Peter Pryor is resourceful—and patient. One must be both when dismantling generations of government interference into the sacred family unit. And a little bioengineering never hurt the Pryor’s back-alley national security efforts, either.

Sherman Peter Pryor stood at the rickety metal coffee cart in the dim break room. He chose a giraffe-themed swizzle stick from yesterday’s leftover junk for the Captain. Captain Horst was as short and stocky as he was clueless, so the giraffes served as a longstanding gag. Small towns such as Walgram had to make do with the resources available. “Stretch” turned 65, and party vibes, treats, and catering would last all week.

Stretching it out.

Captain Horst would likely ride his oaken desk into the grave. Stretching out the days before a new captain would take the reins.

The swizzle disappeared into the black murk, trying its best to incorporate some smoothness, and maybe some taste, into the brew. The add-in of the day, also a party leftover, was pumpkin spice caramel something-or-other. Sherman preferred black coffee. Decaf, at that. But times like these, one had to make do with the resources available.

Sherman pushed the gentle bustle of the station—already muffled behind the cinder block walls—into the back of his mind as he leaned against the door frame and stirred and sipped the lukewarm and too-sweet coffee. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to do its thing.

Process. Compare. Analyze.

But when nostalgia started digging in, he realized he needed another dose. His injection was wearing off. However, he allowed the nostalgia some wriggle room. For the moment.

Thank you for hanging out for a bit. Check back on the first Monday of every

month for a free fictional short, and be sure to visit my Amazon page.

Copyright © 2020 by B.A. Paul.

All work is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictional, and any resemblance to

real people or incidents is purely coincidental. All work published on this site, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Beth's passion for writing started in grade school with an epic outer space adventure scribbled on 158 sheets of wide-ruled notebook paper with not-sharp-enough pencils. That manuscript was lost in a basement flood.

Thirty years, marriage, two kids and several dogs later, she's garnered enough story fodder to resurrect her passion—and this time she backs up her work!

She currently resides in Indiana with her family and a couple of meowing fur babies who enjoy walking across her keyboard.