“Just the facts, ma’am…”Los Angeles police detective Sergeant Joe Friday (actor Jack Webb) directed the witnesses he interviewed in the 50s/60s TV show Dragnet. They so often spun off into the realm of creative nonfiction, and he and his partner had no time for that. But those with compelling true stories should write their story in just that way and bring it to life for the reader.
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“CHIVALRY AIN’T DEAD… BUT IN THIS CITY, IT’S UGLY, MEAN… AND BLEEDING OUT IN A BACK ALLEY.”
In 1948, the world’s gone to hell. The Soviets own Europe, and America’s a puppet state, its cities crawling with corruption, fear, and a few still clinging to a lost world.
John Devel’s a man out of place—too broken by war to fit in, too stubborn to give up. A cane-wielding ex-soldier turned detective, he’s stuck working dead-end cases in a city that’s long forgotten what justice looks like.
When a woman turns up dead near an outlawed dockside nightclub, it seems like just another casualty in the war for the scraps of the old world. But something doesn’t sit right when John talks to Ava Hammond, the club’s singer and bartender. Ava didn’t just witness the murder—she was supposed to be the one in the morgue.
Someone powerful wants her dead. And they’ll make sure John pays if he gets in their way.
Now, he’s in the thick of a conspiracy that runs deeper than the city’s muck. With the Reds breathing down his neck and enemies on every corner, John’s got one shot at survival: protect Ava, get answers, and pray he doesn’t end up just another body in the street.
In a city where trust is a dying thing and every alley’s a dead end, survival’s a game—and in this world, everyone’s got something to lose.
From our ‘Every Picture Tells A Story’ Series: A 1950s Cold-War-Era-warning inspired flashfiction piece.
Inspiration for ‘Honey, Get That Book’
First, an explanation. It is as Rod Stewart sang: “Every picture tells a story, don’t it.” An image or photo has often caught my attention and imagination and soon became one… a story. And I’ve had several people send me pictures and ask if I could write something about it for them. I did; many stories have resulted. Have a photo or image you’d like to test what story it holds? Contact me.
The Story
Bob and Jane sat at the table with Sandy and Timmy that Friday morning. When the work and school day ended, it was the beginning of a holiday weekend, and they had special plans.
Just the day before, Bob had picked up his new 1958-model Edsel from ‘Big Jim’ Axelrod’s Ford dealership in Union City. Jane knew he looked forward to the drive to the Poconos over the weekend. Bob wasn’t the kind—because of the ‘gaddam idiots’ driving through the neighborhood—to park his car on the street. He’d insisted on moving the Oldsmobile to get the new Ford under the carport. That he’d have to back the Olds out of the driveway each time to get to the Edsel hadn’t sunk in yet. But then, Bob wasn’t much for long-range planning.
Jane worried that bills—this new car added to them—were getting out of hand. She followed his admiring study of the new shiny-red debt through the kitchen’s carport-side windows. She wore a not-quite-latest-fashion-but-still-nice orange satin-sheen dress that complemented her hair with a broad collar that perfectly framed her strong, lean neck and high cheek-boned face. Jane smelled of lilacs this morning. A fresh scent she’d found that Arturo, the pool boy at the club, liked a great deal. He called it ‘Lilicks…’ and would laugh as he burrowed his head between her—.
“Jane?”
She blinked away the memory of what she loved so much, but Bob wouldn’t do and looked at him. He had shifted his face around the edge of the newspaper to look at her. “Yes, dear?”
“Are you okay?” He almost seemed concerned.
She canted her head, felt her hand rise to her ear, and then stopped. She’d almost tugged at her right earlobe. Bob knew she only did that when she was nervous. He’d be on to her. Instead, she brushed a lock of hair—that hadn’t fallen out of place—back from her brow with the heel of her hand.
“I’m fine, dear.”
He grunted. His usual response when he didn’t quite believe something he’d heard someone say… or, more often, didn’t really care. But then added before ducking behind The Daily Courier, “You’re kinda flushed; you running a fever?”
“Really, dear… I’m all right.” She felt a catch in her voice and hoped he hadn’t heard it with Timmy and Sandy fighting over the last slice of buttered toast. Jane was meeting Arturo early that afternoon—between the Church Planning Committee luncheon and picking up the kids from school—at the Golden Pavilion motel where 6th Street ended at Highway 9. She felt the warmth rise again. But not on her face this time; she clenched her thighs. “Anything in the paper?” Getting him to talk about the news always worked.
“Hmmph… if someone—and I mean the gaddam president—doesn’t do something about them Russkies… they’re going to take over Europe.” Bob had fought in World War Two, serving in Patton’s 3rd Army, and was still pissed the US had let the Russians enter Berlin first. “And then they’ll be landing in New York.”
“Yes, dear.” It was automatic and came out of Jane’s mouth without thinking, her mind still on Arturo singing, Return to Me, to her last weekend. He so looked like Dean Martin. Then he had put his mouth on her… and his tongue— “What’s that, dear?”
He had the paper down and surveyed her again. “What are you humming?”
Then, like God had taken their picture, a bright light whitened their faces.
Bob, Jane, Sandy, and Timmy turned toward the picture window onto the backyard; a thick, twisting column of smoke climbed and darkened the early morning sky.
“Honey, get that book, you know… the one about—” Bob started and stopped when the lights went out.
They felt the house shiver and groan. Just before the window blew in, Jane saw the frown on her husband’s face and knew Bob’s thoughts must be on the Edsel… and them ‘gaddam’ Commies.
# # #
NOTE FROM DENNIS
Someone who enjoyed this flashfiction story asked me if I planned to expand it because he wanted to know what happened to this family. I answered:
“Thanks, Damon; you never know. The saga of Bob, Jane, Sandy, and Timmy in the aftermath might continue. Does Jane leave to search for Arturo (her true love, so she believes)? Does Bob dig the Edsel out of the rubble to turn it into a shrine, memorializing what he’s lost? Does Sandy live long enough to get her braces off (or does their metal become radioactive through exposure to fallout)? Does Timmy ever tell his mom and dad what really happened to his pet hamster? So many loose ends to deal with, and we haven’t talked about survival yet.” 😉
“The girl came closer and touched, then stroked, my arm.
“Let me back up and give you the big picture.
“There I was.
“A short-haired military guy in a long-hair, redneck biker bar.
“This was back when those in service weren’t admired as much as they are today; the unfortunate legacy of the Vietnam War took years to fade. There was a nearby Army base, and it was like the scene in ‘An Officer and A Gentleman’. The locals didn’t care for service guys… especially—in this case—one singing to one of their women.”
This evocative and psychologically charged short story from Dennis Lowery is a gripping exploration of the psychological impact of long-term abuse and the desperate measures one might take to escape it. The author masterfully intertwines the fury of a literal hurricane with the storm brewing within a woman trapped in an abusive relationship. With vivid atmospheric detail, deep character exploration, and powerful symbolism, this haunting portrayal of the breaking point where survival and revenge collide is thought-provoking and unforgettable. A compelling and intense read that lingers long after the final sentence.
[Verse 1] The smoke-thick room reeks of bourbon sins. In a country that jails …for drinking gin. The rough men eye him, …a wary glance… at his cane held firmly, a lame knight’s lance.
[Verse 2] A forlorn man who met his call, Ignoring whispers, talk of the fall. At the bar, he leans in close, a man whose life he never chose.
[Chorus] Whispers in the smoke, shadows on the floor, truth just a game no one plays… no more. Should I run… should I hide, Where can I go? They won’t find.
[Verse 3] His coat still smells of city fire, of blood, and ash… and burned-out spires. He grips his cane, …I sense his ache, Still, he offers …his hand to take.
[Bridge] Some men fled, …some men fell, some woke up in a brand-new Hell. Red washed over …every street, a night of silence, a night of grief.
[Verse 4] Nowhere’s safe; …eyes everywhere. How can I trust he really cares? The men I know …all walk the line. What makes him not that kind?
[Verse 5] I shake my head and tell him… go. I can’t give him what he wants to know. Resistance won’t last too long… The Red iron fist; …just too strong.
[Chorus] Whispers in the smoke, shadows on the floor, truth a deadly game no one wins… no more.
[Outro] A siren’s howl …grows closer still, government men …with rights to kill. I watch him limp …into the night, holding on … to wrong … …and right.
You’ve got a story. A good one. The kind that only a few can tell. You’ve served. Seen things. Done things. You’ve got tales tucked away. It’s time to share them.
Enter STANDFAST, a story development service and publishing imprint from Adducent focused solely on veterans of the military, special operations, and intelligence community. Been in business since 2000; we know stories. More importantly, we know how to tell them or help others tell their story. You’re not a bystander in this… your experiences… they’re gold. You bring the story. We bring the expertise. Writing assistance or ghostwriting if needed, editing, publishing—we’ve got it all. And can put it to work for you.
Why? Because your stories aren’t just personal. They’re lessons, legacies, and a heck of an adventure. They’re about honor, sacrifice, and what it means to serve.
This is about more than just books. It’s about bringing your story to life. It’s about making sure your voice isn’t just heard—it’s felt.
So, if you’re ready to tell the world your story, STANDFAST is your means to make it a reality. Let’s do it.
We’re working with a new client/author, a former four-star commander of CENTCOM. More to come about their book and their author bio.
Several of our authors and clients are retired Admirals, Generals, and other high-ranking military personnel, as well as professionals with careers in Intelligence, Security, and Law Enforcement Agencies.
[Other clients are Senior Executives (including former CEOs, Chairmen, and SVPs of multibillion-dollar NYSE companies), retired members of Congress and government officials (within DOD), Foreign Policy & Defense Industry Professionals, University Professors, Scientists, Doctors, Surgeons, Attorneys, Entrepreneurs, and Business Professionals.]
McKenna Foel is a widow who began writing while mourning the death of her husband and daughter. Within a year of that tragic event, she left her 15-year position as a Targeting Analyst/Officer in the Intelligence Community to devote full time to writing.
She uses her middle name, McKenna, from her Scots and Welsh heritage, derived from the Gaelic name Cináed, meaning, ‘born of fire.’ And like the legend of the Phoenix, she rose from the ashes of a tragedy to establish a career as a ghostwriter for several bestselling books. That success has led to her writing her own stories under an ancestral surname, ‘Foel,’ and to her upcoming THE LIST OF NEVERs.
Want to receive news and updates on McKenna’s writing?Let us know and we’ll add you to our list of interested readers.
