The Young Die in War
Into the turmoil of war, he went.
That young man in love with a dream,
showing his loyalty and patriotism,
what he can do for his country,
his tribe, his people, his gods.
Willingly, eagerly,
into the hazy war he went,
returning home bagged as meat and bone,
into the war he went.
Look both ways in school but keep asking, keep your mind aware,
why are we… why do we?
Mind the gaps in the destruction and rubble and remember why.
It is not difficult for me to write about war or things military. My difficulty is to not.
I wrote this as directed by today’s dVerse prompt.
His Secret War
When he emotionally told me—
he confessed, he squirmed—
with the guilt and shame
that had long lived in his gut.
For him,
it was a hard story to tell.
Surrendering emotions,
“If evil were evil enough;
if good were good enough.
“I would find the courage.
I would fight for right,
one war to end war—forever!”
He was conscripted. Drafted!
It was what he could do
for his country. To serve. To kill
(or be killed).
Maybe he’d find glory. Heroism.
Maybe death.
But wait.
He opposed this war.
He was to fight and kill
but he hated this war.
“Is there another war
more to my liking?”
He felt that killing and dying
were not in his peacenik milk nor
cup of tea.
“Send another,” he protested.
He was ordered to report.
But he was too good for this war.
Too smart. Too woke!
Too compassionate.
He was above it.
But war he did.
And he killed so as not
to be killed. To survive.
And when his war
was no more,
he came home
to discover
that he too,
was no more.
Sadly, he missed it.
Look both ways in war and peace
because each is merely the absence of the other.
Mind the gaps, the traps, the mines, and bombs.
Win your battles to lose the war.
***
Inspired by “On the Rainy River,” a section in the book The Things They Carried, by Tim O’Brien.
Click here to read more poems based on the same prompt.
My book.
They called him Tom—not his real name.
This guy was no head-hanging Tom Dooley.
Tom liked to watch. A voyeur. A peeking peeper.
A people watcher of the lowest and riskiest form.
Yet, old Tom was submissive. Not dangerous. But who knew?
Night was his time—windows framed his fantasies.
One day Tom saw something that made him
stop peeping—almost. “Now I’ve seen everything.
My life is complete. And I need to go to confession,
but not with that priest.” Tom, confided in himself.
Then, late one warm summer night, there was a scream.
Someone else yelled.
Dogs barked.
Tom ran.
He heard a gunshot.
Maybe Tom had seen everything. But he never made it
to confession. He died doing what he loved.
What he needed.
And he died running,
just not fast enough. Peeping Tom was no more.
“And another one gone” and
“Another one bites the dust.”
Look both ways.
Exhibitionists and watchers can work together,
each according to his, her, or their wants and needs.
Kicking off the twelfth month of twenty-twenty-two, artist, businesswoman, swimmer, writer, mother, wife, sister, (I could go on), and our friend and fictioneer leader, Rochelle, has provided us with a peek out from Roger Bultot’s window with his inspiring photo as a bridge to creativity.
It goes like this. We look at the picture and write whatever story (beginning, middle, & end) we want. Easy, right? It’s doesn’t even have to be pure fiction. But we must prove our micro (or flash) – (non-)fiction bone fides by trimming our stories to any number of words under 101. Try it!
The directions are simple and available on Rochelle’s blog page, reachable with a simple tap, click, or press on Roger’s picture, like it was a detonator.
Genre: Espionage Fiction
Title: Truncated Bridge
Word Count: 100
***
Looking out the window, I felt stress. Ignorance fed by fear. After this job, I’d comfortably retire. To what? Sad.
The morning sunrise lacked hope. It was threatening. A foreboding bloody sky in a randomly meaningless universe. I didn’t care. It was time.
I lit what I promised myself was my last cigarette and sat by the window as I’d done hundreds of times before. When I saw the target on the bridge, I pressed the detonator button and watched the explosion. I always hated all the collateral damage. The news would blame the old bridge. Everyone lies. Everyone dies.
***
Look both ways to find happy endings.
Mind the gaps because that’s where the bridges collapse.
And for the music lovers among us, I present the Eagles singing “Seven Bridges Road.” If it works. I suppose I took the bridges thing a bit too far.
No Quid Pro Quo
I have nothing at all to sell.
Or to trade.
I walk alone because
we must.
It’s just me
with my own thoughts,
maybe music or a book,
as I deal with some pain.
A good thing,
claim my many doctors.
Not the pain—the dealing with it.
I like the thought of it—alone time,
but it’s not. Not really.
The Universe, also not for sale,
is with me. Always with us.
I call it being alone
because it makes me feel good,
but I know
I am never totally on my own,
without a piece of eternity
talking some quid pro quo.
Look both ways when dealing, feeling, or logrolling.
Mind the gaps between your steps and use the poles lest you fall and break your nose.
An oldie and a goodie from Mr. Poe.
Hopeless is bad enough,
often said with sarcastic humor.
But helpless is feeling
a deeper truth.
We believe we can,
and maybe
for a time,
we can, and
we do. But we are
being watched.
An inevitable
universal reality
brings truth to
the rarity of existence.
Entropic inevitability,
be it a mayfly, a giant star;
you, or me, degradation
into disorganized chaos
and randomness rules.
As everything changes,
nothing ever changes.
Look both ways into the abyss of eternity.
It is the way, the only way.
Mind the gaps and appreciate the flashes of life.
When does it happen, if it happens at all?
The innocent child becomes a troubled teen,
Then a vicious young man with an M-sixteen,
Or a rivetted young woman focused on his fall.
Is this the formula of a coming dystopia?
Is the excitement of the fight so much greater
Than desire for tranquility and gods’ opium?
Is power over people the dark masturbator?
Some change. Many don’t. Over time
We all morph and grow to some degree
For better or worse, but will I ever be free?
Human life’s permanent paradox of paradigm.
Look both ways with conscious contemplation of then and now.
Mind the gaps for lessons of fortitude,
not the comfort of fear.
You can only die once, Bukowski notwithstanding.
It was unthinkable, back when
my without-resumé or bona fide
job was Dad: our father,
leader, wizard, fixer of all
things and people broken,
savior of my tribe; shaman,
vet, and driver out of all demons.
Despite my foibles,
hidden as many were—
we managed to cope.
Burdened with adversity and misguided history
we owned our piece of the world,
we held the keys that controlled the universe,
wherein I was (am?) suddenly
no longer the center to which they would turn.
Call it what is, that’s life, dismissing
whenever shit happens, when I’m forced
to admit I don’t know why. To say
I was wrong about so much.
I think and think again about it all,
the ultimatum. It wasn’t you. It’s me.
Look both ways when seeking the mysterious purpose of life,
or finding of the true self, or taking on the vocation mantle of service.
Mind the gaps for the distractions of relief are dear.
Our Friday Fictioneers Mistress Rochelle has conjured up an inspirational prompt photo of her own, which sent my muse back to the beginning of it all. My story follows Rochelle’s picture.
Genre: Travel Fiction
Title: You Again?
Word Count: 100
***
I saw the snake, backed away, and warned Sarff.
“Is it poisonous?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
A feminine voice said, “I’m not poisonous.”
Sarff said, “A talking snake. How cool. What’s your name?”
“I’m Petra. You’ll be okay. Just watch your step.”
I said, “Snakes can’t talk. It’s a trick.”
“You’re such a skeptic, Ormr. Read the Bible,” said Sarff.
Petra said, “The pomegranates at the top of the hill are yummy this time of year.”
As we climbed up. Sarff said, “Thanks. I love pomegranates.”
I said, “It’s forbidden to eat the fruit here.” They laughed at me.
Look both ways when reading fact or fiction.
Mind the gaps for hidden serpents.
Each Wednesday, the wonderful and majestic Rochelle sends a photo to inspire us to write one-hundred or fewer words that tell a story. Friday Fictioneers is fun. Click on the prompt photo for the access to her special page.
Here is the prompting picture and my fib.
Genre: Sci-Fi
Title: It Is What Was
Word Count: 100
“This SUV is a time machine that transports mentally, not physically. You can only go back during your lifetime, not forward.
“That mirror shows exact time and place holographically. You go from now to then for about five minutes, then you are back here. You may change any past decision of yours, but rules disallow affecting life or death—kind of a prime directive. Your life will change based on the new decision. Any questions?”
What if I change my mind afterwards?
“We allow one free return trip to reset things. So far, everyone has done that. Ready?”
Not yet.
Look both ways, regret little, love much, and be yourself.
Mind the gaps and SUV, time machine sales staff.
“Finish each day and be done with it.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
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