Writing Samples

Bombs and Bedouins
By Charles T. Rich

I awoke to the sound of air raid sirens blaring in the distance and others in the room scrambling into their MOPP gear. I quickly donned the heavy charcoal-impregnated suit and protective mask and made my way out into the hall to wait for the incoming scud to be destroyed. Scud attacks had become a nightly occurrence so rallying in the hall, thought to be the strongest part of the building because of the elevator shaft there, became automatic and few of us were very excited. For most, the movement from their sleeping bags to the shelter of the hallway was merely a brief interruption of sleep.

To be allowed to lie on the floor and do nothing while in a MOPP suit was a godsend. The suit is a multilayered affair half an inch thick with powdered charcoal in the pores of the fabric intended to stop any gases or liquids from seeping into the suit. One gas that the suit stopped very well was oxygen, or more to the point, any airflow at all. The suit is rated for six hours of protection from chemical assault from the outside and sweat from the inside. I have, on several occasions, had the opportunity to test the limits of these suits.

Having found a clear space against a wall, I folded my flak jacket into a makeshift pillow and settled onto the hard floor for the wait for the "all clear" sirens. I had not been quick enough in getting back to sleep. The M1A1 protective mask has a rubber disk in the front of it that moves out of the way when air is expelled and sucks back in against its frame when one breathes in through the thick cotton filters. The mask works this way when the wearer is awake, but it amplifies snoring by about tenfold, like a piece of plastic flapping in a high wind. If there are more than four or five heavy snorers in a group then no one else sleeps.

Being unable to sleep, I lay in the floor contemplating everything and nothing. As I was staring out through tunnel-visioned lenses of my mask at the ceiling I pondered the building in which we were housed. My unit had secured lodging for us in condominiums, of all places. None of us had expected to end up in condos in a war zone. The operation commanders had made arrangements to lease a whole borough of Dahran, which amounted to over two hundred buildings. I often wondered how it was that there were this many condos in one area that were totally empty. I knew that the Saudi's hadn't the time to erect the buildings just for the U.S. forces. Had the previous tenants been evicted in order to accommodate us? Or, did the Saudi's have so much money that they could afford to build these structures just in case they needed them? It turned out that neither was correct.

I had gone into the central part of Dahran with the supply people for a chance to get out and see the city. Our mission for the day was to buy every generator that we could get our hands on. Our search lead us to a computer store, as in "sure, the generators are right over there between the printer paper and the flashlight batteries. No, behind the toilet paper." Dahran stores apparently did not specialize as much as we do here in America. The Pakistani manager, having found that we were big spenders, promptly tagged all of the generators "sold" and we settled down on soft chairs for the customary cup of tea. We had found that store owners were easily insulted. Failing to have a leisurely conversation over a cup of black tea could have a direct effect on the cost of items purchased. Of course since we were the infidels in this situation, the Pakistani our superior by far, he talked and we listened. He was greatly interested in the fact that we were living in the condos across town, as we had been the first to do so since they had been built eight years prior. He told us the story in detail and with much embellishment, as was custom.

"The Saudi government felt it was time to get the Bedouins out of the desert, to civilize them," he told us. These nomads had been wandering all over Arabia since before even the Roman Empire existed.. They seem content in continuing their life style and little has changed in their culture for centuries. The King had a whole section of the city razed and construction began. The building architects had been very careful to make these condos comfortable for the Bedouins without changing their lifestyles entirely. "Funny, though, no one asked the Bedouins if they wanted to move to the city," chuckled the Pakistani over his tea.

When the buildings were complete the Saudi King and his entourage of princes set out to locate the Bedouin chief and speak with him about his peoples' new home. One major flaw with this is that there are many Bedouin tribes and no one is really in charge, much as with the Native Americans here in America. As luck would have it, though, there was a tribe camped out not far from Dahran and the King set out to pick up the chief and bring him to Dahran to give him the gift of the condos.

The Pakistani stood in order to be better able to act out what came next. "The Bedouin Chief crawled headfirst out of the limousine and scrambled away from it," said the Pakistani mimicking this action. The King wanted to show the chief the spectacular view from the roof of the building so they had chosen to begin showing him the apartments on the upper floor, six stories up. "They nearly had to drag him into the elevator. Could you just imagine him huddled like a child in the corner as the elevator began to move under his feet?" asked the Pakistani from his curled up position between the counter and the wall.

Presumably, the King showed the chief the running water in the shower and the bidet. The Saudi's had planned for every convenience that modern man could need. Even I was at first baffled by the bidet, I can only imagine the confusion it must have caused for the Bedouin who did not use water to clean himself, but showered by rubbing sand on his skin instead. Apparently the contractors who built the condos were aware of this fact, as they had built a water tower for each block of buildings that would supply exactly one gallon of water a day for each occupant. For the water wasting Americans in the buildings this meant that the water supply was exhausted by Wednesday.

The pride of the architects was the fact that they were able to incorporate an open patio for cooking in the design. Each apartment's kitchen opened on one end to an area where the Bedouins could hang their cheeses and cook in the open air. "This would have been great, if they could have only gotten the chief to approach the open hole in the wall." For some reason the chief could see no reason for needing a roof over his cooking area. For us it meant sweeping sand out of the kitchen daily.

It was felt that the chief would be pleased with the fact that the apartments were unfurnished, leaving room for all of the furnishings that were currently in his tent. Unfurnished meant that there wasn't even counter space or closets, just flat walls with an occasional doorway. The walls themselves, however, were of more interest to the chief. He had, of course, seen walls as the Bedouins occasionally traded with the Saudis and had entered their stores, but the concept of actually having to be between them for an extended time seemed to make him nervous.

The view from the roof was apparently all that it took to convince the chief not to trade the wide open desert for these awkward chunks of concrete. "It is said that the chief asked the King how they were expected to move these buildings when the tribe was ready to move to a new location." said the Pakistani, in total hysterics at this point. The King was, of course, unable to properly explain to the chief that there was no need to move the buildings, that this was to become their permanent home. With this the chief proceeded to try to show himself out, but could not figure out how to get the elevator door open.

Back on the street the Bedouin chief refused to get back into the limousine and proceeded to walk back to his camp, nearly forty kilometers away. The Saudi king went back to his home to decide what to do with all of the condos that he had spent so much money on. The Pakistani had his people load up the generators and moved on to his next customer and his next cup of tea. I went back to the condo with something new to contemplate.

In the eight years that followed the Bedouins had come into the city often and the same tribe was there when we arrived to dodge scuds. I, for one, was thankful that they had chosen to remain in their tents as that meant that ours could stay in storage. I was greatful for the stubbornness of the Bedouin, and the presumptuousness of the Saudi King, as both had ensured my comfort.

The all clear siren broke the silence, jarring our chain saw quartet from their fitful sleep, and me from my ponderances. I broke past the zippers and Velcro of my cloth prison and headed off to my sleeping quarters to dream, no doubt, of bombs and Bedouins.

The Coffin
by Charles T. Rich

This story is the one that I expected to place with in The Mesa State College Literary Review. It got second runner up. What the heck, it made it into the journal. I wrote this story as a practice in sensory detail. The story came out as more of a romantic piece than a sensory one. Let me know what you think.

Frank Moynihan leaned over his work, softly buffing the thick lacquer of the fine-grained wood. Frank built beautiful wooden caskets, just as his father had and his father before him. He was no stranger to the long tedious process involved in creating the perfect resting place for the loved ones of his clients. This casket was very special; it was for his loved one, his wife Elizabeth. 

He took great care in selecting only the finest pieces of oak, pieces that he could use to build a seamless, sturdy vessel that would suit the faithful wife who had been equally strong for him. The oak was not only strong, it was perfect. The grain swept gracefully along the panels, giving the ark a feel of sleekness, of grace. This too reminded Frank of his precious Elizabeth, the way she swept into the room, as if suspended on a cushion of billowy clouds. 

Just prior to the application of the lacquer, Frank had planed the surfaces and sanded them painstakingly by hand, rendering a surface as smooth as silk. The wood was soft and supple, like the cheeks that he once cradled in his rough carpenter's hands. He had loved to hold her, to touch her creamy soft skin for hours on end. 

Frank put as much effort into selecting the lining. The satin within was fit for a queen. The vibrant crimson cloth glistened as if mysterious powers were somehow employed. This was fastened over a deep pillowy padding to cradle his dear Elizabeth. After all, his caring wife had gone to great pains to ensure his comfort in life, should he not do the same for her in death? Embedded in the lining, just above where her lovely face would be, was a picture of a loving husband carefully bordered in brass. Perhaps, if while in her deep sleep she should open the deep blue pools that were her eyes, then she could know that her caring husband had been watching over her. 

The headstone, which he regretted not being able to etch himself, was made of rich dark marble. The craftsmanship of the stone shared the same deep loving caress that the casket had in its creation. It was inscribed with nothing less than the finest poetry that Frank could possibly have mustered for his dear Elizabeth. 

After months of back-breaking labor, all was ready for his dear wife's burial. He would be able to give her the peaceful rest that she deserved. He would only have to wait until he heard her car in the driveway, arriving from a long day at the office. 

"Ah, so this is where it has finally come to rest, after centuries of searching. The sacred chalice, the cup of the carpenter, the Holy Grail."

"Yes, we are quite proud of it."

"Mmm. You sure its the real thing?"

"Yes, quite. I catalogued it myself. Prepared the display and such."

"Did you then? Tell me, did you drink from it?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Did you, you know, fill it up and drink from the Master's cup, so to speak?"

"Why would I do that, sir?"

"Oh, come on, this is the most sought after vessel in history. Kings led long crusades just for the odd chance that they might recover the Grail. They wanted nothing more than to press the chalice to their lips to sip the blood of their savior, and live forever, or so the legend goes. The myth of this thing has been around since the dawn of Christianity. You had to be tempted to see if it were really true."

"Well, perhaps a little, but I . . ."

"You can't tell me that this cup has gone totally unused since Jesus."

"Well, no, I suppose not, but . . ."

"I have half a notion to defy a little destiny myself. Perhaps I can be the first."

"No . . . No, I did drink."

"Mmm, I thought so. So tell me, I understand your collection also contains some early Roman . . ."

Tiger Tales
By Charles T. Rich

I wrote Tiger Tales to have more than one work to submit to Mesa State College's Literary Review. Suprisingly, this short parable took third place in the category of short prose. I first wrote Tiger Tales in my journal, to practice writing, in a sense to see if I could write a parable. Technically this is my first published work, though I have not published any major works, so I'm sure that I will one day claim my first novel as my first published work. For now, enjoy the story, what there is of it, and let me know what you think.

I once met a man on a lonely road. His only travelling companion was a great Bengal Tiger on a leash. This cat had been left untamed and the man was in constant danger of being attacked. I asked the man why he chose such a dangerous companion. His answer, "I know that he will eventually kill me, thus I do not have to worry so much about the details of my death. I have one less worry than most men. "