3 Short Science Fictions

By BC Jones II

The Trip involves a strong language adventure tale of an extra terrestrial encounter with a pilot in South American air space. It has a war of the worlds flavor in a short story.

2347 Is a game changing story about economic and military interest, which create an increased World conciousness resulting in a game changing world following WWIII globally.

Join Us Is the tale of withcraft and a group of college kids. The subject; one kid's refusal to play with voodoo, and the other's stupid fantasy with toying around with the black arts. It has sexually explicit matreial and scenes of strong language of adult content. Recommended 18 years of age; restricted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BC Jones II
• Release date: Jun 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476403175

BC Jones II

Single again after 40 years: 4 chldren and 8 grands 1 great grand; and still happy, though not looking for another wife, I am seeking another girlfriend. With the right kind of womnan there is hope that I can fall in love again; and I hope I never give up on that idea; not looking, just hoping to find the right woman to end my life with. Yet, I am going to have a good time even if alone, because after all, except for my mother, that's how I came into this world alone, and my guess is "that's how I will be going out" alone all by myself.

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3 Short Science Fictions

By BC Jones II

Published by BC Jones II

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 BC Jones II

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The Trip

A Blackened Room

What in the hell is going on? Asked Theron Gregory pondering a new sensation, never before experienced. Such a darkness surrounding him he had never sensed before. There was nothing he could compare it to. Nothing could be perceived as sound except, perhaps, a faint murmur of a heartbeat, which got more pronounced with each thud, heard and/or felt. At least his five senses seemed to be properly functioning except for maybe, his sight. He couldn’t see anything at all, not even his hands before his eyes.

If I am alive, I should at least feel my breath upon my hands or in fact, at least my hands and feet. If not feeling some form of pain. Theron, advised himself. That is if I am not dead? Then, why, more importantly, how can I think about anything. If I’m not alive? What’s up with that? He asked himself astounded, by even the consideration?

As Theron strove to be more aware of his body. He became more aware of a feeling he sensed at his back. A barrier at his back prevented him from moving in that direction. With some kind of wall behind him, he tried to move forward. Probing ahead as he walked. What he stood on was neither cold nor hot, it was firm but not hard as a regular floor nor soft as a carpet. What in the hell am I standing on? Theron quizzed, groping, hands in front of him searching with out stretched arms for an exit, entrance, hatch or anything else for a way to get out of this dark entombment. There had to be a way out and he was trying hard to find it.

As he tried to contemplate how he came to be where he was, nothing came to mind. But, where in fact, the hell was that?

Again, he began to weigh the odds? The last thing he could recall was that he was flying an experimental Learjet diving for the cover of a distant mountain ridge.

As his memory returned, slowly at first he remembered what had happened. And then, quick flash, and in a hurry, it all of a sudden began to rush him. He could recall smacking the ground hard, chute failing to open properly, I... I sprained my ankle. He began remembering. But why doesn’t it hurt anymore? Fuck! Popped out of his lips as he exclaimed, I’m in some kind of South American shit hole! It was the only possible explanation he could think of recalling what he was doing prior to awakening in this black and bizarre, whatever this was.

A rather comfortable although weird whatever, as it was, for a South American hoosegow. Slowly he began to move forward, hands before him. Reaching out seeking a barrier to his forward movement. With one hand probing behind he ventured outward. Noticing the feel beneath his feet he tried to touch his feet and his shoes were gone. He was barefoot. My Rolex! It too is not here? Neither my 24 carat gold diamond studded chain and matching bracelet. But Theron wasn’t worried about the loss of material things like jewelry. The loss of such things only signaled the fact that his wealth might be used as a bargaining chip, that perhaps could free him from this South American hell hole or at least make it better for him, if, he couldn’t bribe his way out. T.G. would be as comfortable as allowed under the circumstances in any jail like that.

But.., there was something wrong with this scenario, Federal cops or whatever they were called in this part of South America, didn’t treat drug smugglers kindly, even if they did take a pair of $200 dollar ‘Timberlands’ boots and or any other material possessions. These kinds of guys were famous for kicking your ass early in the detention process.

Though he had on some kind of clothes, they had no pockets and were definitely not made out of the kind of material a poor backwards ass country like this put its prisoners in. Besides what kind of material was this anyway? And that idea signaled something else weird. He did not know what to make of it. As he groped forward expecting to run into another wall or barrier, he noticed he had been walking for quite some time. Four years of being in the Air Force had taught him that he needed to calm down and not get too excited but, he wasn't acting in the capacity of a legit pilot now. As a confused anger welled inside him those famous words most Americans use to prod them on, flew out of his mouth Fuck it! He argued in acceptance of his unfortunate circumstance.

The floor was all right, flat, but, something was wrong and it didn’t quite add up. Really, what the fuck is this, a football field? He shouted aloud.

Maybe my timing is really off, mused Theron? I have been walking far enough to be at the end of a few city blocks and still nothing, he advised. Hey where in the fuck am I! He angrily screamed, hoping to get a response and praying his captors didn’t quite understand English well enough to be offended by his choice of words.

Theron Gregory had seen Midnight Express. Though it was in a different part of the world. Jails, outside of America were hell on earth. Still Gringo’s locked in South American Jails didn’t want to piss the hacks off. Not if, they wanted to stay alive and well. Wherever they had him, he was theirs and he wasn’t going anywhere. At least, not anywhere until they were ready to let him. So, there was no sense in making them any more mad at you, as minimum, not any madder than they were already. He rightfully reasoned.

In their own time, he might find out where he was and for that matter, why he was there. So, shut the hell up TG (tough guy) before you raze one of those dim wits asses and get F.U.B.A.R.’d (Fucked-up beyond recognition).

Sensing he had gotten nowhere grouping around in the dark and not sure what he would do if, he even found an exit, he resigned himself to the position he found himself in he sat on the not too hard not too soft ground waiting for his captors to come get him.

As his sense of fear began subsiding, he began to review what he could remember about what had happened so far landing him wherever he was. He wasn’t sure for how long he had been held captive and for that matter, just where in the hell, here was. But, as strange as it sounded he wasn’t injured. And that was for sure, strange as he remembered jumping at so low an altitude that his jump prevented the parachute from fully deploying, the way it should have he recalled, and that's what had injured his ankle.

But, for some strange reason he had blacked out just after touching down, and now remembering that his pursuers seemed to have been blasted out of the same sky.

Was I out that long? Other than disorientation, he was unsure of what he could be sure of. At least what he was doing before a new awareness pushed it’s way onto his consciousness was becoming clearer, but it made it harder for him to understand just what was happening now.

Chopper Assault

One minute he had a busted ankle and the next no pain whatsoever. He began to play the tape all the way out on what he could fully recall.

T.G. what’s up, over. Came his radio. Can’t talk to you now. Fucking choppers coming at me from everywhere. Will come back as soon as I ditch these bastards. Out He easily remembered saying just prior to the darkness.

Spotting the mountain range and somewhat of a chance to ditch the choppers about a mile out. If, he could just get out of their line of sight for only three minutes, before they could detail his location to the jets he knew were on their way, he might be able to make it to the open sea and out of their air space before they could shoot him down. Otherwise he would have to get to the coast, put the plane on autopilot and hit the silk hoping to do it again. It had worked on the Peruvian cost years earlier, but this was Columbia? He remembered loosing the cargo that time and the plane too, but he didn’t get caught and cargo was almost expendable, as long as, the pilot didn't get caught and was able to