8 Sentence Sunday on Dieselpunks #21

Rand Hart’s been in Europe all winter and, perhaps due to a touch of homesickness, he’s looking forward to spending some time at home with his money. We continue Hart’s adventure in today’s snippet:

Yes, Hart thought, sometimes he was lucky. This past winter, for example, his time on the Riviera had been profitable. He’d been lucky more often than not. Chemin de fer and backgammon. Those had been his main sources of income. He never played roulette. Luck wasn’t a lady often enough for Hart’s liking. Now he was looking forward to going home for awhile. Then he’d fly down to Rio de Janeiro and catch a flight on the Graf Zeppelin for Europe.

To be continued!

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Eight Sentence Sunday on Dieselpunks #17

I am presenting a new character and a new story. A dieselpunk adventure set in 1938. The character’s name is Rand Hart. He’s a professional gambler who spends most of his time on board the great zeppelins, crossing the North and South Atlantic, on the great Pan Am clipper seaplanes, flying from North to South America, and in Europe. His games are poker, Chemin de fer Baccarat, and backgammon.

Today’s snippet takes up where last Sunday’s left off where we left Rand Hart going through the probability tables in his head.

He looked at the German, in his black suit, his blond crewcut, gold ring on his finger, and the stack of chips in front of him. Hart looked at his own chips.

“I think it’s time, Mr von Osler, we see who’s bluffing.” Hart pushed all of his chip into the pile in the middle of the table. “That’s thirty-five thousand dollars. And I call.”

The German counted his chips. “It seems, Herr Hart, I’m short two thousand. Perhaps I might write a check?”

To be continued!

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8 Sentence Sunday on Dieselpunks #6

In today’s snippet, we find Lady Dru, Dunyasha, and Kit Somers (our intrepid Graham auto salesman turned secret agent) having been captured by the evil Count Neratoff and SS-Sturmbannführer Leiprecht. They are being held captive in a room deep underground beneath an old, abandoned church. Together, with Kit’s two knives hidden in his boot soles, they have cobbled together a desperate array of “weapons” to help them escape: a bucket, serving as a chamber pot, a couple handfuls of dirt scrapped from the dirt floor, and the length of electric cord for the light bulb. Now they need to figure out what to do. Kit has just said, “Our only chance will be when they open that door.” Here is the snippet:

“Yes,” Dunyasha agreed and added, “It would be be nice to know how many are out there.”

“When you roll the dice,” I said, “you have to play the numbers you get.”

“This isn’t backgammon, Dru,” Dunyasha replied.

“Close enough,” was my response.

We talked it over and concocted a plan. Probably half baked at best. But half baked was better than not baked at all. So we sat and waited; waited with our half baked plan of escape.

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