Archive of articles classified as' "Fictoids"

Back home

War Trophy


Private First Class Wilbur killed his first German at 19 years of age. He was a seasoned combat vet at that point, wading ashore a month earlier at Normandy.

He never killed a man before though he fired his rifle in anger countless times and chucked his fair share of hand grenades.

But never at a human target, only at puffs of gunsmoke in gaping windows or furtive movement in bushes and trees. He’d seen plenty of dead Germans, of course, dead and disfigured by American small arms fire and artillery but never anyone he aimed at, never anyone he shot.

He’d seen plenty of dead Americans, too.

First Lieutenant Kyle had just led the patrol to the outskirts of Saint-Michel-de-Livet when they heard the bitter chatter of an MP 40 submachine gun and screams abruptly cut off. Lt. Kyle fanned his men out to enter the village down three narrow winding streets, signaling Corporal Dugan and Pfc. Wilbur to take the right flank.

The GIs on the left flank encountered the Germans first, and the air filled with the dull barks of Mausers dueling with the loud pops of M1 rifles.

As the battle raged two streets over, Pfc. Wilbur kept his eyes and ears focused straight ahead so that no Germans could encircle his position.

He turned the corner of the small street at the same instant a German turned it in the opposite direction. Pfc. Wilbur was so startled he jerked his trigger finger without thinking and, more by chance than design, put a bullet through the German’s heart at point blank range.

The German staggered back as if struck in the chest with a baseball bat. He fell on the street, cracking his helmet hard on the cobblestones.

He was dead but still conscious, at least for the moment. He looked at his chest in dismay, realizing his injury was fatal, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness and the last bit of life seeped from him.

The shooting on the other street stopped and Lt. Kyle began checking his men’s status. The patrol had been lucky: No dead, no injured, and three Germans killed.

Four, counting Pfc. Wilbur’s.

Pfc. Wilbur’s dead German seemed to be in his mid-thirties, husky with sandy brown hair. He was an unteroffizier, the rough equivalent of an American buck sergeant, and he carried an MP 40.

Cpl. Dugan, the platoon scrounger, stepped up and began rifling the German’s uniform. “Good shooting, kid,” he said to Pfc. Wilbur. Cpl. Dugan was 21.

Pfc. Wilbur stood there, somewhat dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to think, much less what to do. The possibility of killing a man face to face had always been present in his mind, but the possibility was now a reality and he didn’t know how to process it.

Cpl. Dugan handed Pfc. Wilbur the MP 40 submachine gun. It was a valuable souvenir and by right of combat, Pfc. Wilbur’s trophy.

Cpl. Dugan rolled the German over and opened his backpack. There was nothing of value in it, just a Bible in German.

Cpl. Dugan handed Pfc. Wilbur the Bible. Pfc. Wilbur slung his M1 over his shoulder and took the Bible in his free hand. It felt very similar in texture and weight to his own Bible.

He let it fall open in the palm of his hand. There was a snapshot tucked between the cover and first page, a picture of the dead German smiling with his wife and son and daughter. Father and son wore uniforms, there was a Christmas tree in the background. They seemed like a happy family and the enormity of what he had done struck Pfc. Wilbur at that moment. That particular family had now ceased to exist, and the family that survived would never know their happiness.

Lt. Kyle radioed for backup then came over to check Cpl. Dugan and Pfc. Wilbur. He glanced at the dead German without acknowledgement. Killing Germans was their profession. Lt. Kyle was 25.

“The rest of the Krauts retreated,” he said. “Company is sending up two more platoons to reinforce us. We’re going to take perimeter positions in the houses at the edge of the village ‘til they get here.”

Pfc. Wilbur, Bible in one hand, MP 40 in the other, followed Lt. Kyle. They passed a small public square where the bodies of three children and four women lay. Two of the women seemed to be scarcely out of their teens.

The four women were naked; they had been raped then shot as they tried to protect the children. Thirty-two 9mm shell casings nestled between the cobblestones, there were no 7.92mm Mauser rifle casings.

“Did anybody else carry a submachine gun?” Pfc. Wilbur asked.

“Nah, the other Krauts just had rifles,” said Lt. Kyle.

Later, Pfc. Wilbur traded the MP 40 for a bottle of scotch. He kept the Bible because it was hard to find toilet paper in the field.


text © Buzz Dixon



No Comments

Fictoid: two ladies from the south


Edwin Georgi - ever read Man From The South

Well, have you ever read
Roald Dahl’s “Man From The South”?
art by Edwin Georgi

No Comments

Things I Do When I Should Be Working


arthur sarnoff -  want ads cap

 art by Arthur Sarnoff

That’s the title of my new Tumblr account, which I mentioned I’d be putting up back in this post.

Beast by John Byrne cap

Beast by John Byrne [tm] Marvel

This will be mostly stuff that I’ve posted on my Instagram and Twitter feeds, some here, a few (very few) on Facebook, and perhaps a few that haven’t been posted anywhere yet.

Clark Kent

The Instagram account will still be the source of most new picture posts of the kind shown here, with Facebook and Twitter getting linked from that.

who am I

But I set up the Tumblr account so it will be easier for people to share the stuff I do…and I do want you to share it.  Something I do for money, some things I do for fun.  The silly captions are fun.

hey wasnt that the generals jeep CAP


No Comments

Fictoid: punting


Edwin Georgi - how long

art by Edwin Georgi
text © Buzz Dixon


No Comments

Fictoid: one night in a flop house


James Avati - Im going to beat myself to death w this gun CAP

art by James Avati
text by Buzz Dixon

No Comments

Fictoid: Salome’s Ventriloquist Act


Mataro da Vergato - Salomé ventriloquist CAP

“Salome” by Mataro de Vergato
text © Buzz Dixon

“It’s always nice being back
here at Herod’s Palace. 
John, did you get a haircut?”

“I just had ‘em take a little off the top.”

“Are you going to sing a song for us?”

“Yeah – ‘I Ain’t Got No Body’.”

“Hey, my eyes are up here!”

“Well, mine are down here.”

“Thenk hew! 
Ya binna wunnaful
audience!  Don’t
forget to tip your

No Comments

Fictoid: one night on the phone


Roswell Keller - does that mean youre not coming over

underlying art by Roswell Keller

No Comments

Fictoid: Another Day While Arranging Flowers…


touch me again cap

No Comments

Someone Asked, So…


Someone asked for a link to all my poetry posts.  Since some of my Fictoid entries are in the form of blank verse, I’ll include those as well.

Amos Sewell - poetry howl

For those of you who aren’t interested in my poetry, here’s a great chance to avoid it all at one time!

Did I See A Ghost On The Sidewalk?

Halloween 2012

Scene Missing

The Sodomites’ Song

A Poem For Christmas 2012

Perhaps Petroleum Is A Poison



So Maybe There Was This Little Boy...

21st century sinnerman


Fictoid: into the unrealm

Fictoid: the counterfeiter

Fictoid:  some pig

Fictoid:  are you my daddy?

Halloween Poem 2013

4 haiku for the city of angels

A Factual Statement Everyone Can Agree On

Fictoid: the infernal triangle

He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands

Fictoid: the last robot

Fictoid: the last dinosaur

A Meditation On “Playing Post Office” And “Going Postal”

Fictoid:  Al’s History Repair (based on an idea by Jim MacQuarrie)

Fictoid: a horror story for believers

Fictoid:  So I Says To St. Pete…


Happy Birthday, June Foray!

a poem for eternity

out along the cygnus wall

Fictoid:  if you want the right answer, ask the right question

los angeles: a love song

Fictoid:  gamblers

they tore the roof off the poet’s house

Fictoid:  the sniper’s lament

let me show you a ghost


Ode To A Christianist Screechweasel

Imagine If Jesus Were A Vegan…

The Frustrated Communist Architect Blues

Problem/s Solved

Uncle Festus

Fictoid:  conundrum

Fictoid:  Stop Me If You’ve Read This Before

Death And The Typewriter

The Sweet, Sweet Song Of Death

look what we dug up

Fictoid: The Boogeyman

Fictoid:  monster movie mash-up

halloween poem 2015

Fictoid:  Death’s Jest

Trippi The Guilt-Spider

The Comedian’s Dead Son’s Memorial

Only One Way

the big red truck

 art by Amos Sewell



No Comments

The Last Night For A Teddy Bear Spy


“We had Beirut.”

“We had Beirut.”

“Mumbai was good.”

“It was.”

“And Caracas.”

“And Caracas.  Especially Caracas.”

“It’s sad it has to end.”

“You could always come over.”

“Would you?”



She stubbed out her Gauloises on the already scarred nightstand.

The garret felt hot and dry; outside she could hear the city softly crying itself to sleep.

The time for tears was over.

“We could have made quite a team.”

“We were quite a team.  Unofficially.”


Nobody knew the truth, not even in the official sealed reports labeled Ultra Top Secret, buried in lead-lined vaults so deep and publicly denied so often that even their existence was forgotten…

…or the stuff of legend.

They made quite a pair, one working for this side, one working for that side.

Years of surgery transformed him, changed him, altered him.  Years of training and a fanatical devotion to duty enabled him to stay at the top of the game.

He looked so harmless, so innocent.

So fuzzy.

An adept in nirodha yoga, he could remain motionless for hours, his heart slowed to an imperceptible murmur, his breathing so shallow as to escape detection, his brain operating below even the lowest detectable delta wave frequencies.

He would be a gift to a diplomat’s daughter, a present, a souvenir.

He would sit motionless on a shelf or a dresser in the child’s bedroom, or even tucked in next to the little girl as she slept.

Then, in the dead of night, he would creep out to spy on the diplomats, to learn their secrets, to betray their confidences, to thwart their plans.

He was a great secret agent, and he sacrificed much to the cause, but underneath the plastic surgery and hormone treatments he remained a man.

With a man’s wants and needs and desires.

She came from the filthy back alleys of Wahiawa, daughter of an apostate Mormon stripper, stepchild to a dozen and one soldiers and sailors and other skilled practitioners of homicide.

Her surrogate fathers liked her, and taught her well, well enough for recruiters to notice her and find her and offer her a job at the one thing she did really skillfully, the one thing she truly loved:  Killing men.

They taught her all the tricks of the trade that she didn’t already know, then turned her loose and watched in amazement as she invented brand new tricks.

Her original orders were to kill him, only nobody knew who he was, much less what he was or what he looked like.

By the time she learned his secret, she was already in love with him.

She killed his handler on that first mission, and told her handlers that the dead man had been the spy.

She didn’t tell her side that she had kidnapped the real spy, and kept him locked safely in a toy box in her closet.

He escaped, of course, but he couldn’t hate her; that was impossible.

She excited him, aroused him, summoned forth feelings he never thought he’d experience again.

His cause be damned:
She was his woman.

They hid their relationship from their superiors, and she had to hide his true nature from her side as well.

The noose began tightening around them, however.  Questions were being asked, demands were being made.

Their brief and sporadic hours of happiness came further and further apart, until finally they came to the one they knew would be the last, the climax (as it were) to their relationship.

“Are you afraid?”

“No, my dear.”

They both knew at best only one of them would leave the garret alive, albeit wounded non-fatally in the heart.

The Latvian was the best assassin for hire.  There were men — and one woman — better than he, but they were all committed players.

The Latvian would work for anyone who would pay him.

Who to shoot first? she wondered.

If she shot her lover then the Latvian (she could sense him, practically smell him lurking near the edge of the garret window) would doubtlessly kill her.

And if she shot the Latvian, wouldn’t her lover spring forward with a concealed switchblade and stab her through the heart?

You already stabbed me through the heart, you bastard.

A faint creak on the roof:
The time of decisions had passed.

Whipping out her customized 9mm Taurus PT92 from under her pillow, she fired a single impeccably aimed, instinctively guided Barnes TAC-XP round through the head of her lover and into the heart of the Latvian.

The Latvian blinked in surprise and died with a look of disappointment on his face, as if he’d already been mentally spending his bonus.

Her lover just lay there motionless — genuinely, for once – his now truly lifeless eyes staring at the cockroaches mating on the ceiling.

She gave him a last chaste kiss on the cheek, her tears soaking his fur, then dressed, turned out the lights, left the garret, and locked the door behind her.

Sixteen hours later she crouched atop the Chrysler Building in Manhattan with a 7.62mm Dragunov SVD-63 sniper rifle.

But that’s another story…

Teddy Bear Spy

text © Buzz Dixon

No Comments