Over the Moon Travel Treasures: A Collection of Diverse Short Stories

By C.D. Sutherland, Judy Burford, Wanda Bush and 4 more

The seven short stories contained in Over the Moon Travel Treasures are as diverse in technique and theme as one could hope for; nevertheless, they are united in the fact that travel is a common element, along with the appearance of something to do with the Moon in each of them because this book is dedicated to those brave travelers of Apollo 11, who flew to the Moon fifty years ago. Take notice for those appearances. C. D. Sutherland reveals life-altering events for Samuel Strong in his coming of age experience found in Uncle Chuck’s Fantastic Story. Share Casey Stewart’s renewal as she deals with the loss of her aunt in Judy Burford’s New Things. Experience an aging hero’s challenge as Tom Blakewood deals with a gang of opportunists in Wanda Bush’s Hurricane Heist. Feel the challenges of sisterly love and elder care in Beverly Flanders' The Scar of Dementia. Struggle to understand the meaning of chance meetings and wondering of what might have been in Donna M. Copeland’s Unspoken. Finally, follow along on the interrelated, time-traveling, romantic adventures of Carole Lehr Johnson’s A Rose in Time and Tammy Kirby’s Crowns of Destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Narrow Way Press
• Release date: Feb 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781937366223

C.D. Sutherland

Charles David Sutherland signs his books as C.D. Sutherland. Across three decades, he flew B-52s for the Air Force, where he was known among his fellow warfighters as The Chuck. Then he turned novelist with his "The Chronicles of Susah" series novels, which shook up the fiction world as they defied conventional classification. They blended action and emotional tension with technology and spiritual intrigue in a coming-of-age story wrapped in an epic adventure set in the antediluvian age marking the birth of a new literary genre. His readers called it Antediluvian Steampunk and declared C.D. Sutherland to be its father. If you like Biblically-based action adventures for all ages, then look at his books—you’ll be glad you did.Born in the Virginia foothills to a coalminer’s son, who long ago joined the Navy to escape a life in the dark Appalachian mines, C.D. Sutherland also joined the military. After high school, he served in the Air Force for thirty-two years, seeing much of the world, flying jets, and doing other things most men have only dreamed about doing.C.D. Sutherland married the love of his life, and they are well into their 45th year. The two of them are raising a couple of their grandsons. While C.D. Sutherland is a Baptist deacon, author, and ACFW Louisiana chapter President and project manager, he is also the owner and executive editor of Narrow Way Press, LLC, a small independent publishing company. His philosophy for life is to "do the best you can with what you have to work with.”His power verse is:“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” (Philippians 4:16 KJV) *(*note: You can too!)

Book preview

Over the Moon Travel Treasures

A Collection of Diverse Short Stories

Over the Moon Travel Treasures: A Collection of Diverse Short Stories is a collective work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The following works were used by permission and agreement:

Uncle Chuck’s Fantastic Story Copyright © 2019 by C. D. SUTHERLAND

New Things Copyright © 2019 by JUDY BURFORD

Hurricane Heist Copyright © 2019 by WANDA BUSH

The Scar of Dementia Copyright © 2019 by BEVERLY FLANDERS

Unspoken Copyright © 2019 by DONNA M. COPELAND

A Rose in Time Copyright © 2019 by CAROLE LEHR JOHNSON

Crowns of Destiny Copyright © 2019 by TAMMY KIRBY

Cover photography © 2019 by RAY POHL

Scripture quotations marked ESV are from the ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version) copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Concerning the anthology itself:

Over the Moon Travel Treasures Copyright © 2019 C. D. Sutherland

Published by Narrow Way Press LLC, eBook via Smashwords

www.narrowwaypress.com

Cover design by C. D. SUTHERLAND

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-937366-21-6

eBook ISBN: (Kindle) 978-1-937366-23-0

eBook ISBN: (EPUB) 978-1-937366-22-3

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the contributing authors.

Dedication

In 2019, we celebrate 50 years since brave young astronauts

flew a quarter of a million miles through space to plant the

American flag on the face of the Moon. Buzz Aldrin served

as lunar module pilot on NASA’s historic Apollo 11 moon

landing mission. Neil Armstrong took that first great step for

mankind as their crewmate Michael Collins remained in orbit

aboard their command module. Their great feat is a testimony

to the truth that a nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to

the proposition that all men are created equal shall not perish from

the face of the Earth but rather lead humanity’s reach for the stars.

Table of Contents

About the Short Story

Uncle Chuck’s Fantastic Story by C. D. SUTHERLAND

New Things by JUDY BURFORD

Hurricane Heist by WANDA BUSH

The Scar of Dementia by BEVERLY FLANDERS

Unspoken by DONNA M. COPELAND

A Rose in Time by CAROLE LEHR JOHNSON

Crowns of Destiny by TAMMY KIRBY

About the Authors

Judy Burford

Wanda Bush

Donna M. Copeland

Beverly Flanders

Carole Lehr Johnson

Tammy Kirby

C. D. Sutherland

About the Short Story

Silly Short Story Sonnet

My short story, you inspire me to write.

How I love the way you cause me to edit.

Invading my mind day through the night,

Always dreaming about getting the credit.

Let me compare you to a shining moon?

You are more flowing, foregoing and clean.

Clear sun heats the succinct peaches of June.

And summertime has the perfect convene.

How do I love you? Let me tally the ways.

I love your ongoing mood, short and sweet.

Thinking of your characters fills my days.

My love for you is filling a spreadsheet.

Now I must away with a concise heart,

Remember my nice words whilst we’re apart.

This publication stands as a testimony of the second year a group of authors have assembled their collective muse to create an anthology celebrating the short story. Last year’s anthology was appropriately named Celebrating the Short Story, and it proved to be a great success in advancing the craft of Christian fiction writing in Louisiana. This year, five of the six original cadre of authors have been joined by two new writers to produce the wonderful collection of diverse short stories you’re now viewing, Over the Moon Travel Treasures.

The short story has long endured since the creation of language. It is a useful vehicle for presenting an account, more often concentrating on the creation of a mood rather than a plot. A short story can range from a cleverly crafted sentence all the way up to 20,000 words. Whatever the length, a short story is typically centered around one plot, one main character, and one central theme. This stands in contrast to a novel, which is capable of weaving multiple plots and themes among an array of central characters. The writing styles used in short stories can be somewhat unusual or surprising to its readers, sometimes their writers use literary techniques which might wear down a reader if employed through the length of a novel. Being short, by definition, they provide the perfect fodder for being assembled into collections, usually with some unifying theme or common element to tie them together.

The seven short stories contained in Over the Moon Travel Treasures are as diverse in technique and theme as one could hope for; nevertheless, they are united in the fact that travel is a common element. Additionally, as the cover suggests each of these stories includes the appearance of something to do with the Moon because this book is dedicated to those brave Apollo 11 astronauts, who traveled to the Moon fifty years ago. Back in 1969 on July 20, they left footprints in the lunar landscape.

Take notice of the techniques used by this array of talented authors to weave those Moon-related appearances into their stories. Even with the interrelated travel theme and Moon element, you’ll soon discover these stories are quite different from each other, in a good way. As some have said, Varity is the spice of life.

Enjoy these seven adventures as they take you places you probably have never been. C. D. Sutherland reveals life-altering events for young Samuel Strong in his coming of age experience found in Uncle Chuck’s Fantastic Story. Share Casey Stewart’s renewal as she deals with the loss of her aunt in Judy Burford’s New Things. Experience an aging hero’s challenge as Tom Blakewood deals with a gang of opportunists in Wanda Bush’s Hurricane Heist. Feel the challenges of sisterly love and elder care in Beverly Flanders’ The Scar of Dementia. Struggle to understand the meaning of chance meetings and the wonderings of what might have been in Donna M. Copeland’s Unspoken. Finally, follow along on the interrelated, time-traveling, romantic adventures revealed in Carole Lehr Johnson’s A Rose in Time and Tammy Kirby’s Crowns of Destiny.

UNCLE CHUCK’S FANTASTIC STORY

By: C. D. Sutherland

I was barely more than a toddler when my father left for Vietnam; therefore, I don’t have a memory of what he was like then. By the time the war finished with him, there wasn’t much left to remember. At first, his wounds didn’t show, but he was dying on the inside. Something called Agent Orange had transformed him into a stranger.

Rashes plagued him for the rest of his years. He didn’t resemble our old family pictures, the ones where he was broad-shouldered, tall, and smiling. I remember my father as thin, stooped, and walking with an unsteady gait—until he could no longer walk at all. Then he would sit in his wheelchair on the front porch, watching me play basketball with the neighborhood boys. He never smiled. His stoic countenance rarely showed any emotion. During his last weeks, he tried to apologize. It didn’t make sense to a twelve-year-old at the time. He’d never done anything wrong to me. As much as I could remember, he’d never done anything with me at all.

The funeral home had dressed my father’s body in an Army uniform, complete with a set of medals, which included a Silver Star for valor in combat. Many of his friends traveled from all over to pay their respects. Additionally, dozens of uniformed men, whom I’d never met or even heard of, showed up to say nice things about my father. Before the funeral service had begun, several of them told stories about him, which I could hardly believe. They called him Cannonball, and it turned out that my father had not only been an extraordinary athlete during his youth, but he had also shown great courage during his combat adventures.

First Sergeant Highlander wasn’t much taller than me, but he had a dangerous, chiseled look, with a skin-close haircut, which formed a short flat-top so stiff across his crown I imagined it was capable of cutting you if you got too close. He said he was the motor-pool NCOIC, that’s Army lingo for the Noncommissioned Officer in Charge, in my father’s unit in Vietnam and told us an interesting story about a bold acquisition of a pallet of PBR, that’s Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.

Captain Cannonball flew the UH-1, Huey from our combat base in Dong Ha down to the supply depot near Que City. Hanging beneath the chopper was one of my spare Hobart generators that I’d brought from Fort Carson. Before we deployed, I caught a lot of grief from everyone because I was taking six generators. One of them could run all our motor pool power tools, so having more than two didn’t make sense to them. After all, who needs more than one spare?

As he told the story, it didn’t make sense to me either. Generators were large pieces of hardware, which took up a lot of space. I wondered why anyone would go to all the effort and expense of taking extra equipment if they weren’t going to need it. But that was the twist of Sergeant Highlander’s story, he didn’t need them but he knew other people would.

I knew there’d be other things I wished we had after we deployed, but I wouldn’t be able to have them shipped over. Because everybody wants electrical power, I figured the chances were good that I’d be able to trade a generator for other things. They were like money in the bank. Sure enough, about six months later after we got to Viet Nam, I found out from Sergeant Smithy, an old friend of mine working at our regional supply center, that a pallet of PBR was sitting in the depot waiting for the fat cats from down south to come pick it up. Sergeant Smithy and I had been stationed together at Fort Riley years earlier, so I knew what he wanted—a trade. After I offered him a fully functional Hobart for the beer, he agreed but only if I could get there that same day.

Pure genius, whispered Uncle Chuck as he chewed on some gum. He was sitting on the other side of Mom, who was beside me.

We dropped off the Hobart, and Smithy told me where the PBR was. He said I had thirty minutes to get it out of there. Cannonball hovered the chopper over the pallet while I hooked it up using the same cables that we’d used to carry the Hobart. I gave him a thumbs up and away we went, back toward the DMZ with me sitting on top of our prize.

Several soldiers laughed at the nerve it must have required to have pulled that off. Sergeant Highlander went into detail about how spectacular the view was during the return trip. Precariously clinging to a cable, from which dangled a pallet of American made beer, he crouched under the Huey’s belly with the wind in his face the entire way.

The powerful thud of the helicopter blades beating the air above me put me in the mindset of how soldiers of long ago must have felt as they marched to the beat of a drum corps. Captain Cannonball and I were bringing home the goods to a bunch of thirsty soldiers. I’m not sure I’ll ever have another day as good as that one.

For some reason, the risks of the physical danger the sergeant faced hadn’t fazed him at all. Interestingly, the potential of falling or being shot by a sniper only made the event more exciting. He thrived on risk, enjoying the dangers of war for their own sake, not to mention the possibility of facing legal charges for misappropriating property. He must have considered what might have happened, as he was a proven long-term planner, having the foresight to bring surplus equipment for future trades.

I wondered if my father had joined in with the drinking of that PBR during their adventurous time. Not that it mattered now because I’d never seen him drink nor heard him mention drinking any sort of alcohol. The sad truth is, he didn’t talk to me about much of anything. That’s what I missed most. I never knew much about my father until he was gone.

The next soldier had jowls like a bulldog and shoulders as wide as an NFL lineman. His name was General Glibsteen, and he told us a more harrowing story about how my father had led a team of soldiers into battle to rescue several other soldiers who had been pinned-down after being ambushed during a routine patrol. As he described how the enemy used the thick jungle to hide their positions, he used quite a bit of profanity. While I knew what those words meant, they sounded out of place. My father had never used them, at least around me he hadn’t. I first heard them from kids like Jamie Young, a self-important tough guy, three-years-older but only one-year ahead of me in school.

His parents owned the local dry cleaners, and I suppose they must have been hard-working and smart business people. If so, Jamie was not like them; he was an aspiring thug and not very bright. Infamous for picking on the smaller kids, and back-talking teachers, his sloping brow cast a shadow over his eyes and reminded me of a caveman. I supposed Jamie smoked and used profanity to make himself appear more mature to the rest of us, but we mostly considered him to be an idiot. When General Glibsteen used profanity, I struggled not to think of him as a caveman.

It was General Glibsteen’s opinion that their enemy would have killed them all if my father hadn’t shown up when he did. Somehow, my father had coordinated artillery strikes to clear the jungle as they made their approach.

While we had killed the Viet Cong at a rate of ten-to-one, we were out of ammunition, and our future looked dark. Hell . . . He looked at Mom and said, Oh, hello. He nodded at Mom and shrugged a quick apology as he cleared his throat. Apparently, he wasn’t aware of his previous coarse language.

After we tossed our last grenade, I gave that ageless order that sends chills down a commander’s spine. Fix, bayonets! We steeled ourselves for a warriors’ end when all of a sudden, like a rolling thunderstorm, an artillery barrage chewed right through the middle of Charlie.

Charlie was Army lingo for the communists. It was a collective term they used for either the North Vietnamese regular military or the insurrectionists, better known as the Viet Cong.

Trees exploded, and bodies were tossed about like yesterday’s garbage in a windstorm. It sounded like the end of the world. With nowhere else to go, we hunkered down. The general put his hands on his head and pulled his elbows together in front of his face. I could visualize how he probably felt during that dark moment of the battle.

The old soldier relaxed his arms, showing us his wide-open eyes, and he said, By the grace of God, the death shower stopped just short of our position. I looked up at the wall of smoke and haze. A dark figure was moving toward me. All I had to defend myself was an empty M-16 a bayonet, but I vowed that I’d die well if it was my time. Then a miracle happened. Cannonball pierced the darkness and fog, sporting a smoking M-60 machine gun with a glowing red barrel, his dog-tags swinging outside of his flak vest, and he was wearing a set of mirrored sunglasses. If I live to be a hundred years old, I’ll never forget the booming sound of his voice when he shouted, ‘Red Devils! We will!’

After the general said those words, all of the soldiers seated near us sprang to their feet and cheered. Their enthusiasm made me want to join them, but since Mom stayed seated, I thought she probably wanted me to stay with her, so I sat there like a good boy.

Later on, during the graveside ceremony, Sergeant Highlander explained that the 5th Infantry Division’s unit nickname was Red Devils and their division motto was We Will. It became self-evident that men who served together in physical combat, even for a brief time, seemed to retain a spiritual brotherhood that could last a lifetime. I wondered what it would be like to have such a bond.

I thought about the forty-second Psalm, where the psalmist said that his soul pants for God the way the deer pants for water. Seeing how much these strong men cared for each other, my soul panted to be a part of such a brotherhood. I wondered if I would ever acquire such a precious thing.

As far as the general’s war story went, only a few Americans had been killed during that battle, but General Glibsteen named them all as if they’d been his children. He emphasized the disparity between the body count of both sides with the vigor of a sports announcer shouting about a huge victory, one hundred and thirteen to one.

The Army used the body count as a way to explain away our lost soldiers. Using their rationale, as long as we killed more of them than they killed of us, it was somehow okay. Their logic escaped me, as I wondered how they would explain a situation where the enemy successfully killed more of us than we did of them. It wasn’t hard to envision that happening.

Much later, after the graveside ceremony was completed, I was able to talk to General Glibsteen about the folly of body-counts as a measure of success.

Sir, have you ever heard about the infamous 1920 Wall Street Bombing?

Can’t say that I have.

I read about it in our library.

You’re a reader, good! You might actually do something worthwhile someday.

I hope so, Sir. I wasn’t sure