Cracks in the old handle bit into my bare fingers as I hefted the shovel. The grip at the butt was cold, rusted at the edges. I plunged the crescent into the rich mound of dark earth, felt the shock of impact against my hands, then stomped on the back of the blade to drive it in further before pushing down hard to break the dirt free.
"I know what you said." She shrugged uncomfortably, the body in a bag slung over her shoulder. "This still feels like murder."
I shrugged and hefted the shovel again. "Only the first time."
A Service for Mildredviking_catJanuary 20 2009, 01:58:05 UTC
He had an army jacket and long hair and an urn, and a shovel lay beside the backhoe he used to dig graves. “Here’s your loved one,” he said sympathetically, and turned to go.
“No,” said my cousin. She lifted the urn in her arms. “My grandmother’s right here.”
The gravedigger took the urn back and turned it, as if it could be hiding a “Hello, my name is…” sticker. We just watched him. “Then who’s this?”
Silence.
“Oh. Right.”
“Can you open it?” I asked, thinking it might be empty.
My sister laughed softly. “I doubt we’ll recognize them.”
Strange visitor, by Brian B.
anonymous
January 20 2009, 03:03:33 UTC
"Is that a spade on your chest?"
Lois would later swear that his laughter actually rippled with its own set of muscles. The rumble sent a warm tingling through her nethers; she almost missed his reply.
"No, attractive citizen. It's a family crest from --" He glanced to his left, with an expression that suggested his attention was miles away.
"I'm sorry," he turned back. "My attention was miles away. There's a kitty-cat trapped in a tree in Des Moines. We'll have to make this quick."
Quick, slow, whatever, she thought. Let's just make it.
"My birth planet," he continued. "The closest translation of my name in english is Shov-El."
Percussion Discussionjydog1January 20 2009, 14:13:42 UTC
The scout looked puzzled. "You mean the spoons, no?"
Shaking his head, the guy reached into his very long bag. "No, the shovels. I play 'em like the spoons, but as you can see, these ain't spoons."
"Uhm." Stacey was getting all types of 'talent' at these Gong Show auditions, but somehow she'd been surprised yet again. "Go ahead, then."
The results were what she expected, a cacophony of seemingly random clunks and clangs. He banged away for a good two minutes before looking at her hopefully.
The relic of Cold War science was pontificating, this time on chaff. Tiny dipoles tuned to a radar’s wavelength, radiating back - volumetric clutter. Doppler saturation, target masking, resonant response, technical buzzword bingo.
Finally, a ludicrous example: a chaff cloud so deep it fills Doppler, so wide it fills range. Parameters? 500 kilometers deep, 200 kilometers wide, 8000 meters high, tin foil confetti the size of a hurricane. I can’t take it. “Who would make such a ridiculous chaff cloud?!”
“Soviet Union, the invasion of Hungary. They opened the cargo doors of the Ilyushin and threw chaff out with snow shovels…”
Comments 9
"I know what you said." She shrugged uncomfortably, the body in a bag slung over her shoulder. "This still feels like murder."
I shrugged and hefted the shovel again. "Only the first time."
Reply
Reply
“No,” said my cousin. She lifted the urn in her arms. “My grandmother’s right here.”
The gravedigger took the urn back and turned it, as if it could be hiding a “Hello, my name is…” sticker. We just watched him. “Then who’s this?”
Silence.
“Oh. Right.”
“Can you open it?” I asked, thinking it might be empty.
My sister laughed softly. “I doubt we’ll recognize them.”
Reply
Reply
Lois would later swear that his laughter actually rippled with its own set of muscles. The rumble sent a warm tingling through her nethers; she almost missed his reply.
"No, attractive citizen. It's a family crest from --" He glanced to his left, with an expression that suggested his attention was miles away.
"I'm sorry," he turned back. "My attention was miles away. There's a kitty-cat trapped in a tree in Des Moines. We'll have to make this quick."
Quick, slow, whatever, she thought. Let's just make it.
"My birth planet," he continued. "The closest translation of my name in english is Shov-El."
Reply
Shaking his head, the guy reached into his very long bag. "No, the shovels. I play 'em like the spoons, but as you can see, these ain't spoons."
"Uhm." Stacey was getting all types of 'talent' at these Gong Show auditions, but somehow she'd been surprised yet again. "Go ahead, then."
The results were what she expected, a cacophony of seemingly random clunks and clangs. He banged away for a good two minutes before looking at her hopefully.
"Ah, we'll let you know."
"Crud. My bottom shovel was out of tune."
"Ah . . . what?"
Reply
Finally, a ludicrous example: a chaff cloud so deep it fills Doppler, so wide it fills range. Parameters? 500 kilometers deep, 200 kilometers wide, 8000 meters high, tin foil confetti the size of a hurricane. I can’t take it. “Who would make such a ridiculous chaff cloud?!”
“Soviet Union, the invasion of Hungary. They opened the cargo doors of the Ilyushin and threw chaff out with snow shovels…”
Reply
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