Gun oil. He smelled gun oil, drifting from the barrel of his shock carbine and up his nostrils. A deep inhale drew the smell deep into his mind, soothing his nerves and helping him mentally prepare for the coming ordeal. The sound of the transport’s engine rumble distorted the light conversation from his squad members, resulting in a sort of droning, oddly rhythmical chatter. Although he struggled to keep his stomach from churning over, the bitter taste of his own vomit, occasionally threatened to spill out of his mouth, hinted ever-so-slightly on his tongue, distracting him slightly from his meditation. Another deep breath, and a realization that his hands had gotten clammy. He flexed his fingers on the barrel grip of his weapon. One of his knuckles popped.
The engine rumbling dropped slightly in pitch, prompting his eyelids to dart open. His vision was met by the dull red glow of the insertion shuttle’s cabin. In the gloom, he was able to make out several human forms, each dressed in light combat armor and gripping a weapon similar to his own. All soldiers, under his command. All nervous, he knew, even though a couple of them were capable of masking their apprehension.
Read the rest here.
Or another one, with a bizarro, comedic flair…
The Adventures of Bob
In a nondescript city, there’s a nondescript street, with a nondescript house, with a nondescript car in a nondescript garage, owned by a nondescript man who has a nondescript wife, and they both have two nondescript children and a nondescript dog, and they all eat nondescript food and watch nondescript TV shows. The husband works at a nondescript job, the kids attend a nondescript school, the wife has a nondescript affair with the nondescript poolman (this nondescript house has a nondescript pool). All in all, their lives are completely nondescript.
Fortunately, this story doesn’t involve any of that. ‘Cuz in a different city, an exciting city, there’s a cool street with this really bizarre house (it’s shaped like crusty underwear) and an old souped-up Edsel (renamed a Bobsel) in the garage and it’s owned by a really odd dude with funky hair. He ain’t married, has no kids, no pets, and can’t watch TV ‘cuz the cathode-ray tube always explodes around him. He doesn’t work ‘cuz every month a check arrives in his mail (the return address mentions The Bad Luck Research Institute of New Jersey) and his primary source of sustenance usually involves “Deep Fat Frying”. He doesn’t have a pool, but he did carry on an affair with the poolman (until he found out that the poolman wasn’t a woman).
So, basically, he’s an interesting (if albeit stupid) guy.
And his name is Bob.
Wow, how’s that for an intro?
And the story continues, here.