Stoplight Epilogue

26OCT 05, United States of America We were almost home when a round number fell out of the radio. I put my hand up to my mouth, remembered that I don’t smoke anymore, and put it back on the steering wheel. The traffic light ahead flashed to red, and we all stopped together. Looking straight … [more]

Gardening Children

This evening, Smalldaughter read herself to bed with Robert Louis Stevenson’s “A Child’s Garden of Verses.” The last person who read that to me was my mother, a lean redhead with a lilt in her voice at bedtime belying the circumstances surrounding her. We never knew why she barely ate at the table, took her … [more]

After the MEDEVAC

We turned in helmet, rifle, vest; packed Hollywood knife Stetson and spurs picture of a redhead’s smile and an ammo pouch with candy to send home without the teddy bear he told his son he’d keep.

Stryking out

Rush down alleys, stone walls fly past, impact bullet punched deep into fatty liver narrow young man drops gun, dogma, life itself to steal is repurposing, liberating sometimes defensible to kill is squandering everything he had trickles down filthy gutters wasted.  We never slowed down.

Sky liar

The wind was up, rain interspersed with sunshine.  One of us was being a gentleman about it, and I’m sad to report it wasn’t me. “I dunno if you want to go up in this,” Justin said politely. “Looks like we’re off for today. I don’t want anyone getting sick.” “I don’t get airsick.” “Well…” … [more]

Binned

Three days after I de-planed at SeaTac and rode home to peel off sticky, faded desert camo for the last time, I was dispatched by my exotically sexy wife to attend to her mother in the mental ward. In Texas. With barely a hug and certainly no kisses under our belts, it seemed early in … [more]

When I used to jog

The last time I remember was along mud-sand walls, buff, sizzling tink-tink-tink not too fast, they can’t shoot for sour batshit, I ran, bowing under the weight boots tight, mags full hands sweated onto parkerized dust “C’mon, Joey!” and he laughed that way like a kid, immortally cheerful, fantasy blue-eyed love doll to the Kurds … [more]

Two-Minute Drill

Last fall, I was privileged to teach a writing seminar to wounded warriors of Task Force Phoenix at Fort Lewis, Washington.  Part of the classroom curriculum was a two-minute writing exercise requiring use of an image to convey a feeling.  No particular venue, theme or genre was prescribed; nevertheless, all but one participant wrote a … [more]