He was never the same after he come back from France.

When he joined up with Pershing and them, he was thirty, but full of fire to beat that old Kaiser.

Armistice was signed most a year before he got home to Jessup.

I was the only one recognized him, he looked so different.

He wheezed and rattled like an old window, thin as a stick with white hair.

He wouldn’t say nothing. Just picked up his shovel and dug. He dug all the time, dug for years, holes and holes.

Kids teased that he was like to dig to China.

 

Friday Fictioneers

I thought it was a party. Get to know the neighbors.

All of us were newlyweds, all college graduates. New jobs, no children yet.  Our subdivision mirrored how we saw ourselves. Fresh paint, aluminum siding, all the conveniences.  Like the trees on the new lawns, we had few branches,  threw scant shade.

I think it was Frank Reilly’s idea. He’d read about it somewhere. Everyone drops a house key into the bowl and gets a drink. Then they keep drinking. Night’s end, choose a key and that was your house for the night. Your wife for the night.

That’s why.

 

Friday Fictioneers

 

I’m invisible, but I see you all right. See your white pasty faces glancing through the windows of the fancy restaurant or the luxury car,  glancing away, your eyes sliding past me like a dead squirrel or raccoon on the roadside.

Maybe sometimes you wonder what it would be like to lose everything. What would you miss most? Scented soap? Your pillow?

How about sleeping in safety, or shoes that don’t leak?

An escape from the gnawing hunger that waits at the end of every hour?

You look away, not wanting the reminder of just how good you have it.

Friday Fictioneers

He crouched over her as she lay contorted on the pavement, one hand thumbing the send button on his mic, the other still holding his weapon.

“10-85 10-85! My partner’s shot! My partner’s shot! Hurry up central!”

The pool of blood beneath her spread like spilled coffee.

He couldn’t tell where the bullet had gone in, or if there had been more than one.

He holstered the gun and tried to unfasten her vest, but she began to cough a pink foam.

“You’re going to be all right, Jenny. We’ll get you fixed up.”

She stopped coughing.

He thumbed his mic. “Hurry!”

Friday Fictioneers

Ripped from the old dream where I’m back in Helmand and bleeding out while Doc White tries to clamp the artery. I bolt out of my bag and look around for what woke me. Diesels, more than one. I stow my gear and make my way up the hill, using the trees for cover. Six dozers idle in the grass valley below. I knew this was coming and have been pulling up the orange stakes wherever I find them. Can’t stop “progress,” but this means I’ll need to find somewhere else to stay close to the VA but away from people.

“He asks if you are tired,” said Father Kino.

Del Martes shook head, sweaty in the glittering helmet. Gods do not feel fatigue, he wanted to say, but did not.

The climb had been tortuous, but it was worth it. The Jesuit and his native consort had shown him the river of gold, and Del Martes had seen its glitter himself. Now, in the search for its source, he became the first civilized man to gaze out on this valley.

He thought about the empire he would build here once the mine was established. These friendly natives would make splendid slaves.

Friday Fictioneers

Staff/Sgt Hooms missed badly.

“Mother FUCK!“ He swore loud enough that we heard him in the mess fifty meters away. He slapped his holster as though about to shoot the offending golf disc, then swaggered out to retrieve it and try again, shaking his head with exaggerated disgust.

This, like everything he did, was a performance. He wanted all of us to see that, despite his lack of combat experience, he was a salty old veteran.

I’d seen his type before. Career NCOs yearning for a combat star. They strutted around the FOB like John Wayne, armed to the teeth.

Friday Fictioneers

 

I stand behind the bar in the same dirty black pants, the same stained white shirt and bow tie. Good thing they can’t smell me.

They schedule me to work just under forty hours, so no overtime. The theater can’t afford it, they say. Looking at how these crowds are dressed, I find that hard to believe. You never saw so many Rolexes and diamond tennis bracelets.

Come intermission, they’ll pile out like cattle, line up to buy a plastic cup of merlot or chardonnay for ten bucks. Then it’s back to the second-rate orchestra and the same tired ballet.

Friday Fictioneers

 

Pringle made a point of driving me by the place on the way to County Lockup. He pointed out the window and jeered to his partner driving the prowl car.

“That there patio furniture ought to get a civic medal, catching such a hardened criminal as Joey here,” he snorted. “Tell me, Joey, did you conceive that brilliant robbery all by yourself or did you go to the library to consult?” He laughed so hard he couldn’t finish his sentence.

“I didn’t take to thieving by choice,” I said, defiant. “I’ll plan better next round.”

“Well, you’ll have plenty time.”