It's Wordzzle Time Soilder

Let's see. . . what day is it? Oh ya, it's Saturday and that means it's Wordzzle time! Week 24 and still counting. All this fun is brought to you courtesy of the talented Raven. I hope you'll take the time to drop by and say, "Hey".

This week, as you may know, has been a loooooooong one for me and I think my weak attempt at stories is a direct reflection of how spent my brain is. That and the fact that these words seemed as far apart from one another as they could possibly be. I've found that supplying words isn't terribly difficult, but grouping ones together that promote a harmonious story without forcing it in a general direction is completely different. My hat's off to Raven for having done this for so many weeks before!

And away we go. . .

The words for this week's ten word challenge were: ghastly, excrement, bill of sale, vague, thicket, precarious, life long ambition, gunnery sergeant, posthumous, bellowed

And for the Mini Challenge: lap of luxury, yellow-bellied sapsucker, quinine, generalization, abnormality

-The ten word-

"Come on you little pantie waste!" bellowed out the gunnery sergeant, "What do you expect is going to happen when you're pinned down in a thicket with the enemy all around and you can't even hit the broad side of a barn with your weapon?"

"Sir," replied the new recruit, "your life long ambition may be to rape, pillage and kill as many so called enemies as you can, but I'm only here because of the damn draft!"

"Look boy, I don't give a plug nickle about this peace and love excrement your kind keeps trying to peddle over here, and I'm certainly not going to be vague about the truth either, so let me lay it out for you. You are about to be thrust into a situation that by all accounts, will be one of the most ghastly things you've ever witnessed. So unless you want your damn head blown off and your story of love and touchy feelings being told posthumously, I suggest you wrap your mind around the fact that you are going into war!"

"Sir, I find myself in a precarious position," the bold private responded, "as much as I respect your passion, I I still find myself wanting to ask you for a bill of sale for the crap you're pushing on all of us!"

-The mini-

"Now this is certainly not what I'd call living in the lap of luxury. This is my proclamation, My ultimate destination has been determined by the generalization of my frustration by having to deal with this constant nauseation, all the while while having to ride on the wings of a yellow bellied sap sucker."

"Is this absurd abnormality in his speech normal?" his wife asked the doctor.

"It's fever induced hallucinations brought on by the malaria, but don't worry, the quinine we gave him should ease the symptoms soon."

-The Mega-

Dexter was heartbroken and pissed all at the same time. He was looking everywhere for the bill of sale showing he'd bought his prized yellow bellied sap sucker within the "warranty" period. It was no use though, he simply couldn't concentrate with the ghastly scene in front of him. There under a thicket of branches, at the bottom of the enormous cage, was his beloved bird Quinine lying in a pile of its own excrement with a Japanese Samurai sword pinning him to the floor.

It had been Dex's life long ambition to build a giant cage that would be considered the lap of luxury for most any bird of Quinine's size, and now in a blink of an eye, it was over.

"Where's that darned receipt?" muttered Dexter. "I vaguely remember seeing it just the other day, and I also remember it clearly stating that the exotic pet store would refund or replace my bird for whatever reason . . . no questions asked."

That was a good thing too, because his small yellow friend had not died of natural causes. He then remembered thinking that placing the cage under the precariously perched sword collection may not have been the best idea, but Dexter was never one for following reason through, at least not since his days of the war where he was a gunnery sergeant. The years of battle he'd endured had taken there toll on his psyche and it certainly wasn't abnormal for someone like him to experience the long term effects of what he'd witnessed. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is what the doctors had labeled it, a generalization that seemed to be adopted by so many people now, but in Dexter's case was spot on.

Dexter looked down at his poor stiff yellow bird and bellowed out in anguish. He now realized what a bad idea the placement of the cage was, but unfortunately posthumous thought would not help his little winged friend.