I don’t often ask y’all for a favor, but I’m gonna ask now. Amazon has just publicly launched its Kindle Vella (serial reading) platform. I’m releasing two serials via Vella: Gridiron 2029 and Extinction Force. If you could see your way to spending around $0.50 and fifty minutes of your reading time checking out these serials it would be a huge boost for me. Vella makes serials visible to readers through a currently unknown algorithm involving “faves” and views. With a little help from y’all, several uninitiated readers will be able to find their way to my writings. And the more the merrier! [Click on the links above or the cover images further below to visit my stories on Kindle Vella, and thanks!]
[Follow these links to catch up with the #10 stupid thing, #9 stupid thing, and #8 stupid thing I survived growing up in Texas.] I waited until after the Fourth of July to share this one for reasons that shall become obvious. Every year I looked forward to the days leading up to the Fourth due to the unfettered pyrotechnics involved. While I could share about another event later in my teen years involving what most would label a “pipe bomb,” (such a nasty sounding thing these days, but was nothing more than kids having fun back in my day), I’ve chosen to lesser incriminate myself by relating a simple story involving a smoke bomb and an unfortunate cow.
Sometime every year around June 22nd, the local fireworks stand (run by the volunteer fire department as a fundraiser) would open up just off of the I-20 exit nearest my hometown. At some point within a few hours of the stand opening, I would show up with a twenty-dollar bill burning a hole in my pocket hotter than any firework possibly could. My first purchase was always a 500-pack of Blackcat firecrackers. My second purchase was always a 25-pack of smoke bombs. These were the two essential items through which I entered an explosive gateway of bliss that lasted until all my money was gone and/or the fireworks stand shut down for the season. (Back in my day we didn’t have any of these crazy, permanent fireworks shops.)
The summer of my thirteenth year, me and one of my buddies loaded up on legal explosives before promptly escaping into the pasture behind his house for some pyrotechnic fun. This involved the usual: exploding ant mounds, chucking firecrackers at field larks, and blowing up any garbage we found casually lying in the ditch. Before going further, I should mention that this pasture was surrounded by homes in an early, rural version of a suburb. (If you hadn’t already guessed where this story is leading, that might have tipped you off.)
Everything was fun and games until we happened upon a lonely cow that was not normally a resident of said pasture. Without a second thought, either I or my buddy (the truth has been obscured from history for the purposes of avoiding the death by paddling penalty) tossed a lit smoke bomb in the direction of the cow. Here is where semantics become important. Contrary to what one would naturally believe about a “smoke bomb,” they actually create a surprising amount of fire before they generate any smoke. This is a lesson I’ve since not forgotten.
Said firey smoke bomb landed beneath the cow in a clump of tall, very dry grass. Said tall, very dry clump of grass then burst into flames. At that point, it’s safe to say the two thirteen-year-olds involved freaked the hell out. The order of the following events has grown blurry over the years, but those events involved beating the fire with our t-shirts, stomping it with our shoes, sprinting home while screaming at the top of our lungs, and explaining what had happened to the volunteer firemen (who I’m sure remembered selling us the fireworks less than an hour earlier).
All in all, no houses were burned and no animals (other than ourselves) were harmed. We burned a couple of acres of pasture, blackened a fenceline, burned a couple of t-shirts, melted our tennis shoes (that’s what we called them back in the day), and singed the hair on our arms and legs. I just knew I was going to get the whoopin’ of my life and then be left to rot in juvie. I’m guessing we looked so dang pathetic standing there half-naked, lobster red, and streaked in soot that neither of our parents could stomach punishing us much beyond the punishment we had already endured. I was informed the following day that I was to be grounded from all fireworks for one year—a punishment I gladly accepted.
At the Desk This Week
I’m on vacation! Of course, I’m still more than happy to bang out an email to all of y’all! Instead of doing it at home, I get to do it while looking out over a pristine mountain lake. Of course, this was the week Kindle Vella chose to launch. Meh, nothing I can do about that. I’ll have to catch up on all the news and best practices next week. For now, I’m gonna get in 2 more days of swimming and fishing before heading back home (and doing some story mapping and brainstorming while on the road).
If You Wish to Start Reading The Green Ones…
[Click here to start at the beginning.]
Thanks so much for taking the time to read these scenes of Boundaries, Season 2 of The Green Ones. I’ll be publishing FREE daily scenes from The Green Ones until…I die…or something terrible happens. Seriously, I’ve got over 100 scenes written so far, and I’ll be writing more until the story reaches its natural ending. You are totally welcome to read the entire story for FREE! If at any point you decide you would rather finish the story in ebook or print format, just click the buttons below and you can do that as well. If you enjoy reading the serial releases, BUT you would also like to support me as a writer (my kids need wine!) please subscribe to my premium content for bonus scenes, exclusives, and insider access to my process. And of course, I’d be grateful if you would share this post with any of your reader friends who you think would enjoy The Green Ones. Happy reading!