Hey! You're makin' that up!

One of the frequent questions most authors get is, "How do you come up with your stories?" For me, writing is an outlet and my stories reflect my experiences. Pat answer, eh? Yeah but it's true.

When most people have a long day, they come home and tell their significant others about the asshat who berated them or the boss who took the credit for their work or the co-worker who... -you get the idea.

When a cop has a really bad day, it usually involves some type of death, destruction and mayhem- a macabre, horrifying extravaganza that seemingly doesn't faze the cop but the human psyche is not wired for the instant stress, sudden adrenaline dumps and the emotional roller coaster of police work.

In short, the job takes its toll. Somewhere, somehow, the stress manifests itself. How it manifests itself depends on the officer.

So, officers come home from the job, often physically and mentally exhausted from the daily grind. Some grab a few long necks, some grab a lot of long necks. Others take their days out on their spouses. As everyone knows, the alcoholism and divorce rate is statistically much higher for police officers.

Still others take more reasonable approaches- weight lifting, running, biking- great, healthy releases that improve the mind and body while clearing the stress hormones from the body.

I have a beer and I get a hangover. I like Margie and she's been working out. I'm not arguing with her. Besides, just mention formatting a book and my beloved mate turns into a monster. I'd hate to see her really pissed. Strike that. I've seen her really pissed. I'm fairly resilient. The other survivors are still in therapy.

I do spin an occasional pedal and I run when chasing some clown but neither give me the release filling white space with words gives me. So, I  write.

I spend hours my cruiser, monitoring traffic, waiting for the next dispatch and thinking about plots. I start with an incident, my overactive imagination takes over and soon, I'm itching for the end of my shift and a blank screen.

An incident from the other night is a great example- There I sat, stopwatch in hand, secluded behind the stop sign on the hill, waiting for the preoccupied speeder. Of course no one can see the Vicky hidden behind that stop sign- damn my cloaking technology- so people fly by me. Go figure.

A box truck lumbered past me, under the speed limit but without tail lights. That's a problem because on the country roads of my jurisdiction, someone doing, say, the average speed for our area, approximately mach five, could come up on the truck and not seeing tail lights, blast into its rear bumper. I'm suspecting the truck driver would feel a bump and complain about the poor roads while the car would be an accordion and the driver... hey, that's why they make paper towels and sponges.

I activated my lights, gave chase and soon had the vehicle stopped in the only safe area in the vicinity- the intersection of a little-used street and the main road. Between the cruiser and the truck, we blocked the intersection. I made contact with the driver and obtained his information. He said the interior lights weren't working either and thought a fuse blew.

The driver was a male in his fifties, as was his passenger. The driver was from out of state. The truck was from a different state and registered to a different person. I was suspicious.

I ran the driver and found he was suspended. Just as I received this tidbit from Comm Center, a pickup truck pulled alongside my vehicle. I clicked off the dome light and my hand slipped to my weapon as I heard a voice say, "Could you move your car so we could get by?"

So, to recap, I've got something going on in the truck that could be just an unpaid citation and a blown fuse or something much worse. I don't know if the two males had weapons, just did a crime and I was in the way of their freedom or if the pickup truck occupant was a friend trying to protect his buddies or accomplices. Cops get killed in situations like this.

I yelled at the driver, "Back up now!"

From the truck I hear, "Back up?" and a woman's voice saying, "you want us to back up? Why the hell should we back up?"

I yelled back, "Then stay there and I'll cite you after I get done with this driver!" The truck suddenly disappeared. I took a deep breath and let go of my weapon.

I got out and talked to the driver. He had an unpaid ticket from his home state, eventually confirmed by Comm Center- hence the suspension. His buddy had a valid license. I sent them on their way with the buddy driving and the vehicle flashers on. They were only a few miles from home and towing the truck would have been a nightmare.

The driver also got a four part mandatory request for a donation to the state treasury in the form of a citation. Driving on a suspended license is not cheap.

It was just another incident, another day in my life. But as an author, the incident sent my imagination into overdrive. What if the driver was hauling drugs? What if the driver was high or drunk? What if the truck was leaking a reddish fluid from the cargo area? What if there was a smell of cat urine- a sign of a meth lab?

Then there's the pickup. What if they were there to protect their fellow terrorists and I just interrupted their plans to set off a truck bomb outside a nightclub later that night? What if the truck driver was the father of the... my mind raced through the scenarios.

Back at home, the story begged to be told. I'm not sure where it will show up, a book or short story, maybe but it illustrates the process:

"I remembered seeing several alerts in the past several months to be on the lookout for suspicious vehicles possibly hauling AN/FO explosives, a mixture of Ammonium Nitrate and diesel fuel. The alerts had the standard "stop and hold" tags and I didn't give it much thought. In my jurisdiction, we consider a DUI a big deal.

In fact, the truck without tail lights didn't immediately set off any alarms in my head as I pulled it over. I thought I'd warn the driver and he'd be on his way. After all, nothing exciting happened in our little town.

I approached the box truck and immediately smelled a strong odor of diesel fuel, mixed with ammonia, my suspicions aroused because the truck was from out of state and had an "unleaded only" sign over the fuel door. I asked the driver for his info like a regular traffic stop. This wasn't going to be a regular stop.

I told the driver, a tense, slightly built, blond male with a crew cut and a pock-marked complexion that I pulled him over for a bad taillight. I explained that if his license was ok, I'd give him a warning and send him on his way. The driver visibly relaxed as I told him to sit tight.

Back at my cruiser, I used my cell to alert Comm Center I had a suspicious vehicle and to send backup. I also told Comm I would call in the license and they should tell me to stand by because the computers were down for a few minutes, just in case the driver had a scanner.

On the radio, I requested the license check on the driver. Comm Center responded as requested. I began to approach the driver to explain the delay as a pickup pulled in alongside my cruiser and fired two shots where I would have been sitting. The driver of the pickup couldn't see the cruiser was empty because his truck, a big F250, sat above the car by at least two feet.

I was trapped between the driver and the pickup!

I pulled my weapon as the truck door opened and I saw the barrel of a shotgun arcing toward me. I dropped to the ground and fired twice as the shotgun exploded, pellets filling the air where I stood a  moment ago. The driver staggered back, hit the truck and slid to the ground.

I rolled under the truck and saw a pair of feet walking around my cruiser. I fired once, striking the calf visible from my vantage point and the gunman from the pickup fell moaning and holding his leg with both hands, a gun lying a foot away.

Seeing no other targets, I grabbed my radio and yelled, "Mike 4, shots fired! Officer needs assistance! Officer needs assistance!"

In seconds, sirens filled the air. The two units already headed to my location for the request for backup surrounded the scene, taking the injured pickup truck driver and his passenger, a woman with a loaded shotgun who was waiting for me to pop out from under the truck, into custody.

The truck driver was dead. The ton of AN/FO explosives in the back was still live. Homeland Security later told me the driver and his associates were planning to take out a Family Clinic in the next state. Apparently, this crew was part of an extremist group who saw the clients of the Family Clinics as "welfare cheats, lowlifes and abortionists" and thought they'd rid the world of some "freeloaders," as they called them,  with a little pyrotechnical assistance.

In the end, ten members of the group were arrested and very likely, twenty or so clients, several nurses and a couple of doctors went on with their lives.

I went home that night, grabbed a beer and made a new floor panel for my Maverick. Twice. The first one was destroyed by a sledge hammer, the sound of a shotgun blast echoing in my head at every blow."

There you have it, the bones of a chapter, based in reality, bathed in fiction, ready to fluff and insert into a book or expand into a story.

Now, it's time for a beer and a little work on the Maverick. Maybe a new floor pan.

       Want more? Get to know Rog and Morris- In Another Life!                      

If you haven't already done so, click on the title for a free copy of Thirty and Two,  and a sample of  In Another Life! 


And after you finish the sample, don't forget to buy a copy of In Another Life!


***Update! Margie's done cursing up a storm! She finished formatting "Drop a Dime!" Cover Goddess Deb delivered yet another stunning cover and my latest short story is up!


Rookie police officer Rog Mackay is getting tips from a very unusual confidential informant- one who seems to know more than he should! 

Robberies, attempted murders, suicides- who is this mysterious citizen who has the info and is ready to drop a dime at just the right time? 

Find out in this new short story, "Drop a Dime,"  just in time for Halloween!

That damn cop's just sitting there watching the construction! Useless waste of time!

The other day, I was the officer everyone sees as they drive through the construction area. I was directed to "make a presence." I asked the Chief, "should I get out and help direct traffic?"

"No," Chief said. "The construction crew has their own flaggers. I'm putting you there because if you're not there, some people ignore the flaggers and we've had several near misses."

I wasn't thrilled. I'm not one to spend the day parked in a cruiser, in all reality trying to look good for the public. And some of my detractors might offer that I am ill-equipped for any job that requires good looks. But when the Chief gets an idea, it's best to go with the flow- even if he tells you to do nothing . Hell, If I ever wanted to be a Chief, this assignment would prove I could do the job. Did I mention the Chief doesn't read blogs?

I pulled up to the construction site, hit the lights and got out of the car. As I closed the door, I saw a construction worker look at me, get that look of terror in his eyes, drop his tools and start running. They're still looking for him. Not even out of the car and I'd made an impression. Today might be fun after all.

I approached the foreman, figuring he'd be pissed at the intrusion. "Morning," I said. "I've been directed to sit over there with my lights on."

"Hey, that's great!" the foreman said.

I must have looked confused and I was. I expected to get the "lazy freakin' cop" look. But the foreman looked happy.

 "These freakin' people think my flaggers are targets. With you here, maybe they won't get run over. Yesterday some asshat nearly clipped Chunky."

The foreman nodded to "Chunky," obviously not named for his svelte figure. Chunky was at least three hundred pounds and he wasn't a tall man. Any car that hit Chucky would remember the collision.

"Well, if you have any problems, give me a yell. I'll be in the car."

The foreman thanked me, shook my hand and went to find out why the guy he called "Lucky Eddie" bolted when I arrived. He seemed to think Eddie was just being proactive, the result of many run-ins (no pun intended) with officers over over the years.

I got into my car, pulled out my latest batch of training materials and tried to get a little work done but the ten year old boy in me was fascinated with watching the crew rebuild the road. The Gradall, dump trucks, vibrating compactor- they even had a backhoe! I was in Matchbox heaven!

I took a glance around the site, just in time to see an older, obviously well cared-for Mercury Marquis, mangle several pylons and end up in a ditch. I headed over, knowing this story would be good.

I took one look at the driver and for a moment, I thought I finally had the privelege of meeting Yoda. Well, maybe not the actual Yoda but possibly a stunt double?

A little old man I'll call Mr. Mort, managed to extract himself from the car and headed for the flagger with a full head of steam. Apparently this Yoda was not one to spout Buddha-like philosophy while maintaining an even temperament.

"You bastard! You lazy bastards are tryna kill me!  I'm gonna put my foot up your...." Mr. Mort was yelling as loud as a pissed off old goat could yell. I got between Mr. Mort and the flagger.

The flagger was caught off guard by the sight of the little old man, hell-bent on using more than the force on him and he looked confused, unsure whether he should be laughing or running for his life, a pissed-off Jedi puppet nipping at his heels.

"Sir, sir, calm down! What's going on?" I asked, noting Mr. Mort had a hospital bracelet on his wrist.

"You saw him! That fat bastard put those cone things in my way so I'd have an accident! Arrest him!" Mr. Mort Screamed.

I nodded to the flagger to go back to the now-knotted traffic. I said, "Sir, come talk to me and we'll figure this out.

I obtained his license and called comm center, asking them to contact the local hospital listed on the bracelet  while running his information.

Turns out Mr. Mort was a guest of the local hospital. He managed to drive himself there a couple of days before and they had admitted him. A call to the hospital confirmed he was a guest suffering from the onset of  dementia, diabetes, heart disease, psoriasis, deafness, partial blindness, incontinence (oh, no, a transport via my cruiser there will not be), chronic halitosis, several unnamed and miscellaneous other maladies, the ever-present anger management issues and the occasional hallucination.

For his safety and that of the general public, the only wheels Mr. Mort should have been piloting was a hospital bed.

An ambulance was dispatched to pick up the recently found, formerly lost patient.

I called for a tow for the car, got Mr. Mort calmed down and kept him from his plans to assassinate the flagger. Mr. Mort still did have a valid license and I would have to deal with that administratively but for now, the hospital swore he'd be staying in a secure geriatric wing. I wanted to ask why he wasn't there in the first place but being the firm believer in discretion that I am (no comments from the peanut gallery), I let it go.

I also called the number for a granddaughter Mr. Mort gave me but it was disconnected. I hoped it was just a wrong number. My experience with the elderly these days is not riddled with supportive family members just waiting to help their family. Unless there's a mess of zeros at the end of a bank account in Grandpa's name- then, Grandpa's every movement, from the cha-cha to the latest find in his depends becomes an adorable and oft spoken-of event.

Traffic soon returned to the normal construction-related confusion.

I was sitting  there watching the progress of the project when the emergency siren went off for an auto accident, outside our jurisdiction. Traffic became a mess as vehicles climbed curbs to get out of the way of the volunteers and their blue lights. (I highly respect volunteers but sometimes their driving is on par with Mr. Mort. With the full agreement and support of the Fire Chief, who has suspended volunteers too for the same reasons, I might add, I've cited responders several times- after they responded to the incidents- for careless driving.)

I saw that only one engine and a single ambulance headed past me toward the wreck.

These days, volunteers are hard to come by. Jobs, the state-mandated firefighter/EMT training, child care, apathy- these factors all conspire to reduce the volunteer pool. As I sat there, a second tone went out to neighboring stations for more manpower and a crew to man a landing zone for a medivac chopper. But within seconds of  the first paramedic unit calling on-scene, the second tone and chopper were cancelled. The wreck was a one-car fatality. Another life lost to a traffic accident. Time was no longer a factor in extracting the driver from the car.

The coroner was contacted and one fire unit remained on-scene until the State Police found their way to the site- budget cuts are really hampering the State Police. It can take an hour or more to get a unit on-scene, depending on the circumstances.

In this case, the decedent wouldn't be complaining but in a domestic, an injured person could conceivably die with a rescue squad staged a block away, waiting for a police response to give scene-safe confirmation. Protocol and standard safety practices forbid EMS from entering a domestic without police clearance. There's a saying in Emergency Services- don't become a victim. No clearance, no access. No police, no clearance.

I watched as the volunteers, heads a little lower at the loss of a patient, straggled back to the station.

Rush hour, or what passed for rush hour in our little corner of the world hit. I got out of the cruiser and stood on the sidewalk by the flagger. Several times, the flagger motioned to cars to stop and they kept coming. I stepped off the sidewalk and the cars suddenly stopped. The flagger blamed the Sun. "I think they're having trouble seeing me," he said.

"No, that's not it," I said. "The car behind him stopped. The driver saw you. The driver just chose to ignore you. You're interfering with their lives. Sheep only care about their agenda when they drive."

"Good point," the flagger said. "I just don't have the authority to make them stop. You do."

"Yeah, it's amazing how an invitation to discuss their driving with a magistrate works better than a stop sign. The fines don't hurt the cause either."

As quickly as "rush hour" began, it was over and the number of cars dwindled. As I opened the cruiser to get back in, my phone buzzed. It was the Chief, asking,  "do you see the smoke?"

I scanned the horizon and saw a plume of smoke. "Yeah, it's coming from the south."

Chief said, "I was headed home and when I came around the corner, all I can see is smoke. Did county get anything?"

"No, it's been quiet."

Just then, the siren went off. The radio squawked, 'Structure fire, county road."

I relayed the info to the Chief. "I better come in and grab a cruiser."

I offered to head up to the fire scene. "They're just about done here," I added.

"No, I'll go up. Your shift is almost over and I'm guessing it was a long day," the Chief said.

I couldn't argue the point. When the Chief gives an out, I take it.

Again, a procession of blue lights, followed by a stream of firetrucks filled the road. More volunteers came this time. A structure fire draws volunteers like a magnet. I'd probably be banned from the local MagicDonut if I asked but I'm betting my friends who volunteer on the big red trucks probably have a cooler with hot dogs and buns behind the seat, just waiting for a working structure fire.

I sat listening to the incident commander organizing the operation over the air. A pumper here, a ladder there and the ambulances staged over here. Fire scenes are like symphonies, everyone has a part and a strong incident commander can paint a mental picture in your head of where everyone should be.

The fire chatter fell as the fire was contained. The Gradall and the dump trucks were headed back to the yard.

I headed back to the station.

This was just another day in the life of a cop. This one was quiet and most importantly, I got to go home to my family, safe and in one piece. That, my friends, is a highly successful day, in my book.

         Liked the post? Here's more of my ramblings! Give 'em a read!                      

If you haven't already done so, click on the title for a free copy of Thirty and Two,  and a sample of  In Another Life! 


And after you finish the sample, don't forget to buy a copy of In Another Life!

Margie's busy formatting again! A new short story is nearly ready! -Rog is getting tips from a very unusual confidential informant! Who is it? "Drop a Dime" is due out soon!

Sheepdog's Meadow: A short story for kids of all ages, about sheep, wolves and sheepdogs!

This week, I thought I'd post a children's story I wrote a few months ago. It's a quick read if you're by yourself and even more fun if you read it to someone!

After you've read the story, please check out the link on the left, titled, "On Sheep, Wolves and Sheepdogs- Lt. Col. Dave Grossman- for the origins of the Sheep, Wolves and Sheepdogs story. On Sheep, Wolves and Sheepdogs  is included in Grossman's book, "On Combat" and is also an excellent read. I highly recommend it!

At the end of the story, there are questions designed to involve young readers in the story and stimulate conversations about sheepdogs.

 Enjoy the story!

Sheepdog's Meadow  

By W.D. James

The sun blanketed the meadow with sunlight. The grass was greening up nicely after a long winter. I lay panting on the grass, watching the sheep graze. Sheep spend their days quietly enjoying the meadow, without a worry in the world, save for the occasional bug in the blades because that’s what sheep do.

My name is Sierra and I’m a sheepdog. I watch over the sheep, confront the wolf when necessary and protect the herd at all times. It’s who I am.

The wolves, they prey on unsuspecting sheep. Wolves are predators. They live to hunt sheep and avoid sheepdogs like me.

Suddenly, a lot of noise came from one group of sheep in the corner of the pasture. I ran that way, barking to my fellow sheepdogs, alerting them to a problem. I got there just in time to see a wolf trying to drag a ewe away from the flock. The wolf saw my brothers and I chasing him. He dropped the yearling and hightailed it into the woods.

I sniffed at the ewe, who appeared scared and was bleeting up a storm. Otherwise she seemed ok.

“They’re getting brazen,” my partner Charlie said, his muzzle pointing toward the direction where the wolf ran, as Tango arrived and started sniffing the air.

“Yeah, it’s been a long winter and they’re hungry.” I said. “We’ll have to be vigilant about watching the far corners of the meadow.”

“Always, brother!” Charlie said, as Mike arrived, wandered over and sniffed at the spot where the ewe was standing when she was attacked.

Mike was an older sheepdog. He never ran at the sound of alarm but when there was trouble, he would get there in the nick of time and usually had something to do with ending the trouble.

“That smells like Victor,” Mike said. “I’ll alert the others and we’ll keep an eye out for him. Victor is vicious, boys. He’s an old wolf. Be very careful with him.”

Mike wandered away and the rest of us went back to our places amongst the herd.

I had just found the perfect spot in the grass when I heard another disturbance. Barking a warning to my partner, I ran down to where two rams were fighting over a ewe. I barked loudly and got between the two males while Charlie nipped at their butts.

We got the rams moved to opposite sides of the meadow and headed back to our spots, Charlie barking at the rams the whole time.

The meadow was quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Charlie, Mike and I were roughhousing in the lower meadow around dusk when I saw a wolf sneaking down from the bluff. I broke away and crept closer. The wolf lunged at a ewe munching on grass by herself. I made my move.

The wolf came up with a mouthful of wool and jumped back at the sight of me running at him in full attack mode. My partners, alerted by the ewe’s bleeting, were right behind me.

The wolf took off with me in pursuit, our claws throwing up clumps of grass as we tore across the meadow. The old wolf was fast.

But not as fast as this sheepdog!

I edged closer and finally was able to reach out with my hand and shove the bad guy forward. The bad guy lost his footing and fell face-down onto the sidewalk. I grabbed his arms, shoving them behind the bad guy's back, up to his neck.

I reached for my cuffs and had him secured before the others arrived.Within seconds I was surrounded by my brothers. They had my back. They were there in case the bad guy put up a fight. That wouldn't be a problem today. The bad guy knew he was going to jail.

I rolled the bad guy onto his butt and the Sgt. said, “Mr. Victor, it’s been a long time.”

Victor said, “Mike you old sheepdog. You know how it is, can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

Charlie took Victor to my car. I called Comm Center, “Sierra one, Comm, one in custody. I need the wagon for transport. One male in custody, at the intersection, Meadow Avenue and Fence Street.”

I picked up the purse Victor dropped and carried it over to Mrs. Peterson. “Are you going to be ok?” I asked.

“Oh, Officer, thank you! I’m bruised but otherwise I’m OK,” Mrs. Peterson said. “You were right there. It’s good to know our officers are watching out for us.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I responded.

The wagon took Victor away to jail and I went back to patrol.

It was a full moon that lit up the meadow as I found my spot in the grass. Joining in with Mike and Charlie, we let out a howwwwllll.

It’s good to be a sheepdog in our meadow.

Questions for discussion:

What kind of dog is Sierra?  What do sheepdogs do?  What happens to Sierra as he captures the wolf?     What happens to the wolf as Sierra catches him?   Is Sierra a sheepdog or a police officer or both?  Would you like to be a sheepdog?

 ©2012 WDJames All rights reserved. 

         If you liked Sheepdog's Meadow, please check out these stories!                       

If you haven't already done so, click on the title for a free copy of Thirty and Two,  and a sample of  In Another Life! 


And after you finish the sample, don't forget to buy a copy of In Another Life!

Coming soon! A new Short Story!

Rog is getting tips from a very unusual confidential informant! Find out more! Coming soon!