Retreat

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

For "Her."

  His eyes were drawn to her instantly. Like a firefly in the dark, she was a brilliant flash in the gloom. Catching sight of him, she waved. Memories flooded his brain: how he'd craved her like a drug; the indescribable pain of her leaving; how he'd desperately clung to shreds of sanity while hoping she'd come back, and how she did – more times than he'd admit – only to abandon him once he'd surrendered again. In that moment, his heart realized – finally, reluctantly, accepting – loving her would always end that way. He managed a weary smile, then turned to walk away.

'Twas the Night Before Shutdown

By Bud Koenemund

With apologies to Clement Moore

‘Twas the night before shutdown,
And all through PIT land
Every creature was stirring,
From podium to TDC stand.

The new hires were nestled close to their coaches
As a winding queue full of passengers approached.
Laptops were divested by DOs with care,
Along with shoes, and CPAPs, and products for hair.

X-ray ops still kept a keen eye;
Detecting those objects prohibited to fly.
And, bag checkers checked, as they are wont to do,
Ensuring those gigantic masses are only food.

AIT officers begged people to empty their pockets
Of coins, candy, gum, papers, and lockets;
Then, cleared inevitable groin alarms
Using a firm hashtag pattern, but causing no harm.

The Leads went mad, managing multiple lanes,
While half their team members moaned and complained
About getting their breaks and lunches too early or too late;
A daily occurrence that’s beginning to grate.

Supes ran forward and back, for numbers and IDs;
And, watched the organized chaos of their busy bees
Striving to keep the skies safe for democracy,
So that people and commerce can flow carefree.

Then, down in Washington, arose such a clatter –
A sad, sobering reminder that politics matter –
Our Representatives debated both to and fro
While in the balance hung the TSA’s payroll.

And, in the mind of each employee essential,
Crept the lack of a budget, and the shutdown potential.
They fretted ‘bout food, gas, and mortgages or rent;
Worrying over every single dollar and cent.

Though, as they work, they’ll find comfort in knowing
Congress gets paid while their anxiety’s growing;
Concerned about utilities and college tuition;
Left, by politicians, in compromising positions.

They are the red-headed step-children; considered exempt;
By the General Schedule held below contempt.
But, they show up and do their job day after day;
Even sometimes… occasionally… far too oft’… without pay.

I am the Very Model of a Modern Model Officer

I am the Very Model of a Modern Model Officer
(Sung to the tune of Gilbert and Sullivan’s I am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General.)
By Bud Koenemund

I am the very model of a modern Model Officer;
Each day I deal with passengers both fanciful and comical;
I know the checkpoint positions, and work through them rotational;
From the floor, up to baggage, out on Atlas; I can do it all.

I know the SOP backwards and forwards unequivocal;
I quote the book so often some will surely call me know-it-all;
I follow every rule, even ones seeming antithetical,
Obliged to satisfy all my leaders organizational.

I endeavor to keep my TIP score greatly astronomical,
While keeping watch for explosives both man-made and organical;
I advise people to divest large objects electronical,
And, when their laptops are discovered they are held responsible.

At AIT, I operate the scanner most methodical,
To complete screening of folks who rarely step in a shower stall;
My actions keep the country safe from forces diabolical,
As I pat down groins to find things not strictly anatomical.

I deliberate on amounts of liquids, gels, and aerosols.
Without remorse, I dispose of bottles containing alcohol;
I toss away peanut butter according to our protocol;
And, seize all weapons ranging from pocket knives up to cannonballs.

I screen dogs, and cats, and fish, and every kind of animal;
I stumble upon Coke, and Meth, and other drugs botanical;
While avoiding Personal Pleasure Devices mechanical;
Striving to make our bag searches invasively minimal.

I beg for OLC time, and computers operational,
Completing, and repeating, courses which fade quickly from recall;
And attend Training Department classes battling caffeine withdrawal;
While learning ways to counter every threat geographical.

I attempt to maintain sanity with comments sarcastical;
Questioning passenger’s excuses and stories fantastical;
Maneuvering precisely around people packed-in wall-to-wall;
And, every day I ask myself why do I put up with it all?

In truth, my time here has been nothing short of tragi-comical;
I’ve witnessed displays of stupidity that are phenomenal;
I’ll take my pay from TSA until I hit the Powerball;
I am the very model of a modern Model Officer.

Salvation

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

Inspired by J.S.

  He found something almost religious in making a woman cum; something beyond her calling out to a deity who may or may not exist; beyond the sound of her breathing; the taste of her; the smell of her; the feel of her body. It was the look on her face as an orgasm consumed her – the purity; the erotic symmetry of pleasure and pain twisting her features – that promised salvation.
  Worshiping at her altar – knelt between her legs; his prayers kisses along inner thighs; fingers and tongue eliciting hymns of praise; bodies entangled – their holy spirits discovered ecstasy transcending flesh.

Confessions

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

  Every eye in the hall turned to seek the source of the explosion of laughter filling the air. Their attention focused on the most beautiful woman in the room – suddenly the most beautiful woman in the world – clinging tightly to his right arm. Her smile, and the slowly fading giggles she struggled to control, ignited a fire in his soul, and proved that she was the right one for him.
  Just moments before, she’d leaned close and whispered, “I’m not wearing panties tonight.”
  He’d carefully considered this confession for a second, gazed into her eyes, and said, “Neither am I.”

Busted

By Bud Koenemund

A 200 Word Story

  The two agents sat side by side in a pair of dark leather chairs. The Director of the Office of Professional Responsibility frowned as he stared at them from behind an impressive, hand-carved, mahogany desk. Half a dozen Bureau lawyers, and the agents’ union representatives, filled the rest of the room.
  “Normally, we don’t care if co-workers conduct a consensual relationship; as long as it doesn’t become a detriment to job performance,” the Director said. “Though, we do try to discourage partners from dating.”
  “Sir,” one of the union reps began. “We recognize this situation…”
  “But,” the Director continued, cutting off his response, “this will, in all probability, result in a lawsuit for cruel and unusual punishment.”
  The lawyers nodded in an almost comical unison.
  “While we do acknowledge… an unfortunate equipment mix up… due to the agents being called into service after their office received a tip in the middle of the night,” another union rep offered, waving his hand toward the two, “these agents did manage to apprehend one of our ’10 Most Wanted’ fugitives.”
  “And, they brought him in,” the Director exploded, “wearing fuzzy pink handcuffs!”
  Agents, union reps, and lawyers fought to muffle their laughter.

Love

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Exposition

  Love begins as the most perfect, pure thing in the whole world. Maybe in the entire universe. But, loving someone – even purely – is imperfect. Being loved by someone is imperfect. Doubt creeps in, weaving through every thought and action; playing tricks on the mind. Its shadow gathers – unnoticed, at first – ‘til trust and affection are obscured in darkness; strangled in a shroud of gloom.
  Once tarnished – its purity sullied – that perfection is lost forever. And, while love may be discovered again – may be tried and treasured – the heart knows its flaws. Still, despite contamination, our hearts long for love again.

Two Haiku

By Bud Koenemund

How Long?

How long does it take
to identify a face
you know like your own?


Forever

Someone tell my heart
Forever is a long time.
It won’t heed my brain.

Erased

By Bud Koenemund

Vows are only words;
powerless ‘gainst desire:
erased by passion.

Revelation

By Bud Koenemund

  He slouched on a park bench as heavy flakes of snow fell. Forcing his eyes open, he tried to watch them descend through the muted, yellow illumination of gaslights lining the walkway before him. The agony in his chest, however, made it difficult to focus on anything beyond taking the next breath.
  Blood trickled over his stomach in thin rivulets, soaking his shirt and pants. It dripped to the concrete below and quickly froze. Hearing movement behind him, he tried to turn, but a lightning bolt of pain ripped through his upper body.
  “Is that you, Yuri?” he asked the darkness.
  “Da,” a voice answered.
  “I figured it out,” he said. “Just too late.”
  “Always trust your gut,” Yuri said. “This is what you Americans say, is it not?”
  “I’ll remember that next time,” he said, with a laugh that devolved into a choking cough.
  “For you, my friend, I fear there will be no next time,” Yuri replied, taking a seat on the bench opposite his.
  He nodded, but remained silent for nearly a minute.
  “How did you find me?” he asked, finally.
  “This is your favorite place,” Yuri answered.
  His head lifted drunkenly.
  “How do you know that?” he asked.
  “Matthew,” Yuri clucked, “give me some credit, please.”
  He drooped at the sound of his real name.
  “We’ve learned much about you over the years,” Yuri assured him.
  Yuri stood and slowly approached him.
  “Perhaps it is fitting our little game ends here,” Yuri said, removing a pistol from his coat.
  Matt thought of the girl he’d kissed, right here on this bench – the first real kiss for both of them. Her face materialized in his mind: her curly red hair; striking blue eyes. He’d loved her, and told her so. She’d requited the sentiment. It was love before either truly knew what love is.
  “Goodbye…” Yuri began.
  Matt didn’t hear the shot. But, the thud of a large caliber bullet striking a human body, and the sickening sound of the air being forced out of Yuri’s lungs, was unmistakable. For a moment, a confused look twisted Yuri’s face. He staggered backward, his arms went limp, and he crumpled to the ground.
  “Goodbye, Yuri,” Matt wheezed.
  “You are a fool,” a female voice said.
  “I’ve never been accused of being very smart,” he said.
  “Letting him shoot you, though?” she mused.
  “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” he joked.
  The woman stepped out of the shadows.
  “Hello, Lyla,” Matt groaned.
  “You Americans…” she said, “always so foolishly heroic.”
  “That’s us,” he agreed.
  “Hmmm… at least you helped us uncover the traitor,” she admitted.
  “You’re welcome,” he said.
  “You should get to the hospital before you bleed out,” Lyla advised.
  Three men joined them in the light. Without a word, they retrieved Yuri’s gun; then lifted his body and carried it away. Lyla followed them into the gloom.
  “Oh, no; don’t worry,” Matt called out; struggling to stand. “I can make it on my own.”