Tommy

By Wolf Sherman

Prologue

A frazzled mother eagle had been circling the top of the Pledge mountains, and eventually detected a narrow ledge from where she could safely spy down at the peculiar bright yellow noisy thing. She knew that it was responsible for the crumbling of the awkward stone cradle she had in her wisdom chosen to nest - seven-hundred meters up and far away from the foot of the mountain. The frantic calling-out of her two ravenous children had ceased instantly the moment their long descent down to earth ended, and she turned her head, fighting off the bright eastern light, to zoom-in for any movement down below. Each of her babies; when their roughly stacked shelter had tumbled over the edge, instinctively gripped on to as many sticks; following their frantic somersaulting, as their small claws could gather, all during the merciless pluck from breakfast on the high crevice. She swapped and let the still-spooked rabbit tire itself out more in her left machine-like claw, while wondering if her children was still hungry. Suddenly, a second massive and deafening tremor shook the mountain and thundered up in her direction; warning that the rabbit; now having surrendered to a limp act on the stage of death in a desperate plea for mercy, was not number one on her list of priorities. Releasing her left claw, she darted a last look at the bloodied fur-ball, who wasn't quite sure how to make peace with its new habitat halfway up to heaven - bolting gratefully for the full ten meters of a lower ledge that it had miraculously hopped onto, then skidded to a slippery halt as it froze when it realised that there was no way down. The distraught mother swooped down and landed next to the jumble of various sized sticks and down-feathers, to investigate what had become of her children. First nudging at the lifeless pair with her beak, she froze, then burnt her large eyes up and down at the humming yellow monster, unsure how to strategise and exact her revenge on it. In the far distance, she barely made out her regular visitors' small silhouettes. They again came to appreciate from afar the usual breakfast ritual. She noticed that the smallest of the three; when tragedy struck, had turned on his heels and bolted, screaming - still arrowing across the tall dry grass away from the mountain. The other two short silhouettes turned away too and disappeared. After hopping over to where her three regular visitors had planted themselves earlier, the still perplexed mother bird studied the remains of a broken walking stick. It seemed to her that the walking stick - now snapped in half - was no match for the enormous yellow monster.

Ten minutes later while scanning the dusty road from high above, she was surprised to see the smallest of the three creatures still kicking up dust, heading towards the main road.

At ten o'clock that night the lonely mother bird peered down from the black blanket that draped the mountain, at what seemed to be an unusual bright orange sunrise. But she wasn't certain why it was limited only to the centre of town. The noisy yellow machines never came back; not that year.

The following winter the three small silhouettes arrived back around the same time as an even bigger yellow monster's growl this time scaled the side of the mountain. Death struck again, there was a broken walking stick again, and as the mother eagle and her husband waited that night, they were not disappointed. That night, once more it seemed as if the sun rose over town - with bright red and orange tongues licking, consuming most of the town, and people scattering in every direction. This time accompanied by a blinding flash that burnt for two days. The yellow monsters that killed their baby eagles never dared to return.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolf Sherman
• Release date: Sep 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370635993

Wolf Sherman

Biography - Wolf ShermanWolf was born in 1970, grew up in Pretoria and after school joined the South African Police in 1988. During 1993 he was transferred to Johannesburg. During his colourfully interesting police career he was attached to several specialist divisions that include the anti-vehicle theft unit, organised-crime-and-political-investigations unit, and the East-Rand Murder & Robbery unit. After his police career he successfully applied his experience in the corporate financial world as insurance investigator and financial planner.Wolf is 48-years of age, have been blessed with three daughters, and is an avid blood and blood platelet donor. He fills his time by weaving his unusual life experience and keen interest in religion, metaphysics, war and political research and that of his love for food and classical music - into his poetry, fictional short stories, and novels.“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one.” - George R.R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons.I'm always curious to listen when people talk about which book - ever - they'd first read. For me it was “The Man Called Noon” that was published in 1970. I suppose that it goes without saying the 1973 film directed by Peter Collinson - of the same name - as the 1970 Louis L'Amour novel, was quite a hit in the day.I was always in love with the books in which storytellers extended an invitation right from the word go, and pulled me in into a different world. The next early love for me growing up were bookshops and libraries. But I'd consider libraries had the first place. My love for both novels and short stories grew over the years, but somehow short stories found me more often. In part, I think because one can sponge it up in a single sitting, and move on to the next world, so to speak.On the topic of short stories, the storytellers in this instance tell how they see it - but being forced far quicker to relay that. I have no doubt that any short story can be stretched out and pinned down to become a novel - if one wanted to. Obviously there is no set length that a short story has to subscribe to, but I'd imagine anything from five-thousand to twenty-five-or-so-thousand words is adequate to save someone, murder a few people, get some revenge, use most of the rope in your boot, discard the spade when you're done, and go in hiding till the whole thing blows over. Of course, if there's a body to begin with... Which really stems from poor planning - I have always thought - in a story. Naturally. Of course, we also need to fall in love at some point and give our whole heart to someone special. It makes for a more balanced killer. In a story. Naturally.Look me up on:Pinterest @ Wolf Sherman BooksInstagram: @Wolf_ShermanTwitter: @WolfSherman2

Book preview

Tommy

Copyright © All rights reserved - Wolf Sherman. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [e-mail]

Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Although this is a fictional work, some locations, organisations and events are factual. The characters and times in the storyline are fictional - therefore, all resemblances to actual people present or past are purely coincidental.

Fire And Ice

Some say the world will end in fire

Some say in ice

From what I've tasted of desire 

I hold with those who favour fire.

- Robert Frost

Synopsis

Pyromania - From pyro- fire + mania madness, frenzy. The propensity leading an insane person to accomplish their purpose by burning, has been considered to merit particular notice, and to constitute a variety of monomania.

Prologue

A frazzled mother eagle had been circling the top of the Pledge mountains, and eventually detected a narrow ledge from where she could safely spy down at the peculiar bright yellow noisy thing. She knew that it was responsible for the crumbling of the awkward stone cradle she had in her wisdom chosen to nest - seven-hundred meters up and far away from the foot of the mountain. The frantic calling-out of her two ravenous children had ceased instantly the moment their long descent down to earth ended, and she turned her head, fighting off the bright eastern light, to zoom-in for any movement down below. Each of her babies; when their roughly stacked shelter had tumbled over the edge, instinctively gripped on to as many sticks; following their frantic somersaulting, as their small