Voyages of Discovery: Landlubbers beware! Voyages destined for lands of yesterday, lands of today, and worlds of wonder

By Donald R. Sellers

Do you enjoy mysteries? Drama? Action-Adventure? Westerns?

Voyages of Discovery is an outstanding collection of flash fiction and short stories by award-winning writer Donald R. Sellers. It features:

•   "Dead Eye Dan"-A Western tall tale

•   "The Wings of a Tiger"-A story packed with aerial adven

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donald R. Sellers
• Release date: Feb 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958711347

Donald R. Sellers

Donald R. Sellers served in the military for 25 years, including four years in the Iowa National Guard and two years on active duty in the Army. He earned a degree in physics from Iowa State University and immediately joined the Air Force in their officer training program. He earned a master's degree in logistics management at the Air Force Institute of Technology. After 19 years of Air Force service he retired. Donald lives in Fircrest, Washington, and is the father of three grown daughters and grandfather to five.

Book preview

©2023 by Donald R. Sellers

ISBN: 978-1-9587113-4-7 (e-book)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any other information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author or publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, events, and incidents in this book are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental and not intentional. If long-standing institutions, agencies, public buildings, and geographical locations are mentioned, the characters and events surrounding them are wholly imaginary.

Printed in the United States of America

Published in Hellertown, PA

Cover design by Anna Magruder

Library of Congress information available upon request

For more information or to place bulk orders, contact the author or

[e-mail].

Contents

Foreword

Don’t Ruffle My Feathers

Dead-Eye Dan

Mud Puddles and Comic Books

The Wings of a Tiger

The Trophy

Family Blessings

Little Boy Fighting

Remnants of a Memory

Mrs. Whatchamacallit

Elderly Fellow

Dream Catcher II

The Rescue of Ole Rocky Top

Shower Protocol

Help Me

Murder à la Mode

Christmas Cheer

Christmas Had Come

Resurrection

The Meeting

Traditions

One Summer Day

The Mulberry Tree

The Game at Smokey Joe’s

Acknowledgments

About the Author

To Rob Miller

Rob was my constant writing companion

And my constant critique group shadow.

We called him the Comma Man.

He taught us rigorously the use of the comma.

We lost the finest of writers and editors

When Rob passed at the tender age of 50.

Thunder and lightning reign if we misuse a comma,

And Rob's visage smiles down on us.

The Comma Man is relentless.

Foreword

I’ve always believed that reading, speaking, and writing are like first cousins. The more we read, the better we can speak, and the better we can speak, the better we can write. Reading gives us a greater vocabulary and more topics to talk about. Speaking gives us immediate feedback from our live audience. Then, when we are writing, we will have a better idea how our unseen readers will respond.

Retired Lt. Col. Donald Richard Sellers, the author of this book, has now come full circle and does all three extremely well. Before putting pen to paper or his fingers to a keyboard to write these stories, Sellers worked harder than anyone I know to develop the skills needed to capture and hold a reader’s full attention.

His home book collection looks like a public library. Unlike many book lovers, however, Sellers has actually read them—sometimes more than once. Not only has he read hundreds of books and magazines, but he actually studied them—underlining each and every word or phrase he especially liked.

After Sellers retired from active duty as a U.S. Air Force officer, he took editing and writing classes, worked as a paid editor for other authors and was actively involved in writing groups for at least 20 years.

When I was married to him, I worked as the editor of an Army newspaper, and Sellers wrote many articles and often helped to edit the final copy of the paper before it went to press. Therefore, I can attest to his writing skills firsthand, and I believe his short stories have now reached the level of the best authors I’ve ever read.

When I attended my first Toastmasters International local club meeting, Sellers was a speaker. His speech objective was to read from a book and practice eye contact with the audience at the same time. As he read from the Stephen King novel It, his love and appreciation of a well-written book was immediately obvious.

That’s why I am so happy that at age 88, Sellers has decided to publish his first book of some of his best short stories for your reading pleasure. Sellers always put his whole heart and soul into each and every word in each and every story. For most of his life, Sellers was too busy making a living to become a published author. However, he proves it’s never too late, regardless of age, to make a positive impact on others as long as we are still breathing.

I am very happy to highly recommend this book. If you enjoy reading, I guarantee you will love this book.

—Barbara L. Sellers, author of Get Tough or Die: Why I Forgave My Parents for My Abusive Childhood and That's Life in Poetry and Short Stories

Don't Ruffle My Feathers

A Grandpa Stone Story

G ather round, my children, Grandpa Stone said, and you shall hear of the tale of Rooster Robespierre.

Six youths, ranging in age from 8 to 12, hunkered round his favorite easy chair. The cinnamon brown chair mocked the years of use with arms indelibly inked with coffee stains, a back ragged with the scourges of time, and a seat worn smooth by an endless supply of ample buttocks.

Is this going to be like the last one you told us? Gertrude asked, hugging Grandpa Stone’s knee. A Stein from next door, she asked always to be present when stories were told.

The one about the cottage made of good things to eat, she said, and Dracula. That was a scary one—even if the cottage would have tasted good.

I’ll make sure this one doesn’t frighten you, Grandpa Stone said. Although, I make these stories up as I tell them. I never know where they will end.

Well, I don’t care, said Billy Bob. You make up good stories. Maybe if you knew what you were doing, they wouldn’t be so good. He was one of Grandpa Stone’s three grandchildren. The remaining three kids lived within a two-block radius of the Stone residence. They had grown up with the Stone grandchildren.

C’mon, said Belinda, the youngest of the lot. I wanna hear the story about a rooster. How can that be bad?

Okay, everybody, said Grandpa, a big smile hidden by a straggly, gigantic, white bush of whiskers. Be quiet, and I will tell you a story called ‘Don’t Rue My Feathers.’

We always begin my stories, he said, by jumping on board my Magic Storytelling Machine. Is everybody ready?

Yes ... Yes ... Yes, the group chorused in ragged strands. All right.

Once upon a time ... no, wait a minute. It wasn’t that long ago. It was just last year in a barnyard in that great midwestern state of Ioway.

Most of you young-uns may never have heard of that great midwestern state. But they are famous for growing corn ... and for raising chickens. Folks come from all over the world to feast on the ears of corn ... and to take their baby chickens home.

Of all the barnyards in Ioway, and perhaps in all the world, the most famous rooster of all was Rooster Robespierre. He ruled as King of the Walk and Master of the Barnyard.

Nobody dared to ruffle his feathers.

Other farmers from far and wide wanted to buy his chicks.

Nobody got any ’cause nobody dared to enter Rooster Robespierre's territory. Not even his humans.

Hens and chicks flooded the barnyard. His brood sat everywhere, perched on the chicken coop roof, the hay mount, the water trough... wheresoever clawed feet could scrabble for a hold.

Yup. No other rooster ever thought about entering Robespierre's barnyard.

Nobody dared to ruffle his feathers.

That is... until Princess Gussy came along. She hailed from another land, a land so far away, Robespierre had never heard of it.

She came with her humans.

Robespierre strutted to the barnyard gate. Chest puffed out. Coxcomb, fiery red, raised straight and true. Beak gleaming polished and sharp. He was indeed Master of the Barnyard and King of the Walk.

Before him stood beauty. He had never seen a hen of such magnificence and loveliness. Colors of the rainbow radiated from the feathers of her body, bathing Robespierre in sheer delight.

His coxcomb wilted, the sharpness of his beak drooped, and …

His feathers ruffled.

I hear you are Rooster Robespierre and Master of this Barnyard, Princess Gussy said. The sweetness of her voice washed over Robespierre like a warm summer rain drenching all hope of resistance.

His feathers ruffled once more.

I am Princess Gussy, and my home is in Illinois. Perhaps, in all your knowledge and wisdom, you have heard of my great state.

Robespierre managed to shake his head no.

His feathers ruffled.

He no longer could stop the sensations that raced through him. Nor did he care to.

Princess Gussy looked about the barnyard. Are all these your children? she asked.

Robespierre straightened up. His manner turned rooster sure, his coxcomb straightened. Now he was getting somewhere. This he understood.

Yes, he said, nodding his head in the direction of the clustering of hens and chickens. Those are my wives and children. Quite a family, isn’t it?

Yes, indeed.

Shucks, Robespierre thought, nuthing to it. A hen is just a hen, and any hen will serve my purpose. But this? Wow! Robespierre turned to look at Gussy. Nothing more could be uttered by him in his present state of consciousness.

Rooster Robespierre, I want nothing more than to have a family like this. I came all this way from Illinois with my humans for your advice.

The trilling of her voice shattered Robespierre’s presence again, his coxcomb drooped, and …

His feathers ruffled.

What advice can I give? his words slurred out weak. Then he brightened. There is none other like me. Only I can give a family like this.

Oooh, Princess Gussy said. I knew I came to the right barnyard.

Could there be a more charming cluck in the all the world? Robespierre didn’t think so.

His feathers ruffled again.

You are Master of this Barnyard, Princess Gussy said. I knew it the moment I first saw you. So regal. So majestic. So powerful. And such fecundity.

Fecundity? asked Belinda. What does that mean?

That means, Grandpa said, that all those hens in the barnyard can lay lots of eggs.

Ohh, said Belinda, that’s a strange word for egg-laying. Never heard of such a thing.

Grandpa Stone stifled a chuckle. Let’s get on with the story.

When Robespierre heard that, he slowly rose to his full height, puffed out his chest, and …

a ruffle of his feathers

… began at his neck ran in a wave to the end of his magnificent tail feathers.

All your power goes to waste here in this barnyard, Princess Gussy said. You’re already the master. No other rooster dares to enter your domain.

Yes, Robespierre’s coxcomb gleamed fiery red. This is my kingdom. He strutted in a circle in front of Princess Gussy.

What challenge is left for you? she asked.

Challenge? Who needs a challenge. After all, this is my kingdom. I came. I saw. I conquered.

Veni. Vidi. Vici. Princess Gussy thrust her chest, arched her claws, and spoke to the heavens. Oh, Robespierre, you know Shakespeare. We’re going to get along famously.

Shakespeare? Who’s Shakespeare? Robespierre blinked not once, not twice, but three times before he spoke. Princess Gussy, really, you must speak in clucks I understand.

Corn shucks, thought the princess, one simply can't have everything.

Undeterred, she continued her quest. Robespierre, you are at the height of your powers. Should you not look for more challenges? More worlds to conquer?

Robespierre didn’t think it was possible to thrust his chest out further, but he did it anyway, throwing another wave of ruffled feathers along his body. You like what I’ve done here?

Of course, she clucked in a soothing manner. But you need other worlds to conquer.

Really? The wheels and gears finally began to click in his bird brain. What do you have in mind, Princess Gussy? You didn’t come here just to pick corn from the dirt of my barnyard.

I've got him now, she thought. You’re right. I have more pleasant things to discuss.

Such as?

This guy's a patsy, she thought. Nothing but a bird brain behind that bee-yew-ti-fool beak. I'm gonna take the bull by the horns. Whoops! Maybe I mean I'm gonna take this rooster by his coxcomb. "Robespierre, I came here to take you home with me."

What? Robespierre spread his wings and his chest rose in defiance. And leave my ock? Never.

Rooster Robespierre, you are a brute of a rooster. A magnificent specimen. There is none other like you.

Yeah, I know.

I have need of you. Together, we can raise a brood like the world has never seen.

I just can’t leave all my chicks alone. What will they do?

I brought with me another rooster. A replacement.

You’ve done it, Chick. No one can replace me.

You’re quite right, Robespierre, Princess Gussy said. "Absolutely right. Would you like to take a look at this rooster? My humans named him Mongrel."

Princess Gussy turned and clucked to her humans. A tall man with short hair, wearing bib overalls dropped a cage onto the ground and uncovered it. A white rooster with a drooping coxcomb and blunted beak strutted forth.

Princess Gussy turned back to Robespierre, saying, The rooster we have brought is ... is quite ordinary.

Harrumph, I don’t want him in charge.

Rooster Robespierre, now you listen to me. You’ve done your job here. Left your legacy. It’s time for you to move on.

Can’t do that. These chicks need me. No way this ragged rooster can replace me.

Robespierre, as Ruler of the Roost, I know that you have done your job. Do you not have a rooster in training?

Robespierre’s thoughts sluiced over a few kernels of corn lodged in the remote recesses of his bird brain. After a few moments of rumination, the truth burrowed its way out of his barnyard of neurons.

Of course, he said, that would be Little Robie.

Little Robie, he thought, wasn't so little anymore. I don't think Little Robie likes being number two. Maybe he wants to take my place. If he gets any bigger, and any nastier, he just might be able to do that.

But what about my humans? He was grasping at the final straw. He looked beyond Princess Gussy at farmer Wells, dilapidated Hawkeyes ballcap tipped back on his head and chewing on a strand of wheat. His wife stood nervously at his side, continually wiping her hands on an apron stained from years of use.

Oohh, said Princess Gussy, that’s been taken care of.

Yeah. How?

My humans gave your humans something called greenbacks. Everybody’s happy.

Well ... nobody consulted me. Maybe I’m not so happy?

Princess Gussy sidled up to Robespierre and rubbed her beak against his. I can make you happy.

Robespierre's feathers ruffled.

Harrumph ... a rooster likes to be Master of his own Barnyard and make his own decisions.

Princess Gussy backed off slightly and pecked his beak. You are making this decision, Robespierre, and you can be Master of My Barnyard.

Robespierre's ruffled feathers ...

… pointed toward the heavens, the barnyard, the ground, and anything else that lay in their vision.

Ah, well, he said, let’s start our journey.

Lead the way, Rooster Robespierre. You are indeed my Ruler of the Roost.

Dead-Eye Dan

A Tall Tale

Lean and mean, sinewy and tough as rawhide, Dead-Eye Dan, six-feet-four-inches, towers over other hombres from Arizona. Standing on a boardwalk two feet off the ground, he overwhelms any cowpoke’s thoughts of doing him in.

He watches cowboys, ranchers, and drifters as saloon doors swing in and out. Men short and squat. Or scrawny. None tall or intimidating. None loom above five-feet-seven inches.

He settles himself on his sun-dried, wooden chair, leaning the back against the hardened mud-brick of the Hanging Tree Saloon. On the new, imported pine boardwalk, the chair balances solidly on two legs. He thrusts his Stetson back on his head and pulls his right six-shooter, spins the cylinder, checks the loading. He draws from his left holster, counts six shells.

Nobody challenges him. Faster than anybody in the West, comparing him with Billy the Kid or Jesse James is like contrasting lightning to molasses. Folks say he’s even quicker than Shot-in-the-Nose Sam.

Bartender Bob, who runs the Hanging Tree Saloon, declares, on a $10 bet, he dropped a silver dollar belt high. Dead-Eye drew and blew a hole through the middle of that coin halfway to the dirt.

Nobody ever sees him dressed in anything other than black. Boots polished to deep lustrous