Three Scars
A Short Story
Copyright 2011 by Michael Angel & J.D. Cutler
ISBN: 978-1-4524-7286-7
Smashwords Edition
Includes a sneak preview of
the contemporary fantasy novel
by longtime J.D. Cutler
conspirator, Michael Angel.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Also by Michael Angel
Dayna Chrissie, the leading Crime Scene Analyst for the LAPD, finds herself transported to the magical kingdom of Andeluvia. She’s given three days to solve the king’s murder, before war breaks out between Andeluvia and the Centaur Kingdoms. The price of failure? A war that will kill millions and devastate both lands. Hope she works best under pressure.
Con artist Amanda Love and her crew of loyal misfits take their traveling ‘pay to pray’ Salvation Show out to the backwater planets that dot fringe space. But her latest outing nearly becomes her last, when she’s attacked by mercenaries sent by the galaxy’s most corrupt company: Mal Corp. And Amanda discovers the secret that has attracted the attention of its ruthless CEO, Malco Trent.
Unlikely Heroes, Strange Places: 10 (Okay 11) Short Stories
Uncover the painful, bruise-covered truth of how Shakespeare became literature’s leading light. Tag along as an investigative reporter hunts down a mysterious figure who's able to predict the future. And tune into a Texas radio station as the DJs race to stop a murder…while they’re still on the air.
See the full listing of Michael Angel’s works on Smashwords.
Table of Contents
Enter the World of Michael Angel
Meet Michael Angel and J.D. Cutler
‘Scar’ is an ugly word. Often for an ugly thing. Though ugly doesn’t have to be tragic. More often it’s a marker. I’ve been there, done that. When I’m in a poetic frame of mind, I think they’re markers of various kinds of sins that go before a fall.
Let me tell you about three of my markers.
Pride left the first mark on my right wrist and knuckles.
I’d tasted failure. I’d eaten crow. Between the two, I’d take the crow, which at least tastes like chicken. Failure has a bitter-apple tang which takes a long time to wash out.
I can’t say that I mind, considering what happened.
A corpse has no sense of taste at all.
The recession had knocked the legs out from under my first attempt at a career. I didn’t want to end up back at home. So I wasn’t about to fail at my second attempt, at being a computer wizard.
The idle dabbling around the computer lab during college had turned into a lifeline.
I got employed at the ass-end of the information technology industry. Working the graveyard shift as a network lab manager. It beat waiting tables. Not by much, though.
But the night shift can beat the tar out of you in a way that nothing else can. And, proud young man I was, I insisted that I could party during the day as well as pull off the night.
So after a couple of long shifts without good sleep in between, I hopped in my trusty sports coupe for a weekend of fun. Gunned the motor up the I-5 towards Sacramento, California.
First shoots of spring along the roadside farms. Smell of fallow earth. A good, dark, organic smell that somehow snuck through the closed windows.
The coupe’s engine had a high-revving, hard-packed, right-on sound. I had her in the leftmost of the three lanes, the passing lane. Clear today – clear as a cloudless sky.
Center lane, an eighteen wheeler. A little car, the color and general shape of a blueberry-flavored jelly bean puttered along, seemingly satisfied, in the truck’s wake. Travelling slowly. I crept up on the left.
The blue car swung out to the left with a screech.
Into my lane.
I jammed on the brakes, twisted the wheel to the left.
At my best, at my top shape, I’m sure that all that would’ve happened was that little swerve of mine. A shaken fist. A brace of curses, ‘you asshole, learn howta drive’ and other choice observations of the driver’s parents, spouse, and choice of sex partners.
I wasn’t at my best that day. Too many night shifts, too many hours awake, too much caffeine and espresso and energy drinks that gave out on me.
I hit gravel. Pings of stone off the side of my car. The left wheel dipped as it plowed into the gravel bed. The steering wheel vibrated and jumped under my palms.
Seventy miles an hour.
The coupe spun around, clockdumb, and hit the center divider, a big cement wall.
I didn’t hear the bang of impact. My life didn’t flash in front of my eyes. Too quick for all of that Hollywood stuff.