Sickness Of The Young (5) John heard Joel come up behind him and then to his amazement, Joel instantly drove his bayonet into the dog’s midsection, in a move like a hand-to-hand warrior in Napoleon’s trenches. In his mind, John thought Joel must have had good night vision or at least he better have with a throw like that. The dog let out a pathetic gasp as it tried to suck air through its clogged throat. Joel stabbed again with his bayonet, and again and again, into the dog’s stomach as John kept holding it down until finally, John felt it stop moving. "Its dead, Joel," John said and Joel stopped stabbing like madman. "Help me take the it outside. Jesus, Joel." Then the two soldiers carried the dead dog outside a long way from their tent and dumped it in the sand. They stood there for a moment, breathing heavily. "Maybe we should shoot it to make sure its dead," Joel said. "Go ahead," John answered and Joel took out his .45, locked and loaded it, and aimed his pistol at the dog’s head. The gun went off with a ‘pop’ in the desert night and the dog’s head jumped up a little off the sand floor and then fell back down again, lifelessly. "He’s dead for sure now, Joel. Let’s go back to sleep," John said and they walked back to their tent side by side and then collapsed down on their cots, covered in the dog’s blood. "Jesus fucking Christ," John said as he breathed a deep sigh of relief and then continued, staring up at the dark tent above him, "Jesus fucking H. Christ. This fucking war is getting way out of hand. Where’s Johnson?" "He’s still asleep," Rodriguez answered calmly. His voice had a cold edge to it. "Thank God. The Platoon Sergeant would kill me if he got hurt. How's your leg, Rod?" John asked. "Its alright, he was only chewing my boot." "Fuck, my head is spinning," John said and then, "Don't say it, Joel." After a few moments, the exhausted team fell asleep. And somewhere in the soft, dark, desert night the dog that they all thought was dead crawled a few more feet before life left it for good. ***For more on this story, read the complete book, Scarecrow Solider, by the same author, Mike Strozier By Mila Strictzer Tenth in order of composition "I hate the captain. He pisses me off." "Everything pisses you off." "To hell with you. Why, do you like him?" "No, not really…he’s an asshole, sure." "See?" "Yeah, yeah." "When are you going to realize I am always right?" "Never." "How long before the battle?" "How should I know?" "Why not? You always know." "Probably when the sun come up, and there’s light so the tanks can see." "Right. Are you worried?" "Why do you ask me that, to torture me?" "Because I don’t know how you feel." "What does it matter how I feel? Jesus Christ." "Okay, it doesn’t matter…sorry." "Shut up." The light was just starting to illuminate the dark trees of the forest. The two soldiers did not take notice until another ten minutes that the light was arriving. They were lying in the grass, each one next to a tree, their rifles pointing in front of them as they quietly whispered to each other. "I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m tired of waking up every day to a day of fighting and maybe dying." "Quit bitching. Now be silent until we’re relieved." The two soldiers did not say anything for a long time. They each scanned the woods in front of them for anything, any sign of activity: a tank’s low rumbling, a twig snapping from an enemy patrol, anything. But for now, it was silent. And for that they were grateful. Finally, the two soldiers were relieved at their post by two other soldiers. The two soldiers got up walked with their backs crouched over for several yards, until they walked upright for the rest of the mile back to their squad’s system of trenches and bunkers. When they got back to the trenches, they saw that the rest of their squad was gone. They knew their Sergeant must have gone out on an early morning patrol, just to be sure, which made sense. He was not a bad leader, just very cautious. And there was nothing the matter with that. He could be feisty at times, though. So the two soldiers sat down under the leafy camouflage canopy that hung over the trenches that they had helped dig two days ago. It was very quiet in the woods. There was still no sign of an almost certain upcoming battle that morning. They sat down on the ground, in the soft mud of the trenches, slightly below the level of the Earth, and continued their conversation in silent whispers. "Do you think dying is hard?" "Not sure." "If you think about it, it’s only going to take about ten seconds." "You can live through that much pain." "I guess so. But that’s not it." "What else?" "The wait…and the know. That is what we’re doing every day in this shit. We’re waiting, just waiting for death. Is there a day when you don’t thing about death?" "No." "To be executed is saddest. They don’t have any more options, no free will. God gave humans free will, I truly believe that. Humans don’t have the law to take away man’s free will to the point of death." "So you don’t believe in capital punishment." "No. Unless they deserve it." "Yeah. But what about us? Aren’t we being punished by the state? The government says we are here fighting to defend our country, and maybe that’s true, but is it worth dying for?" "Probably not, in the end. But a lot would change, if we were not here to die." "What then?" "People are just scared of change. We’re all going to die." "So you want this insane fanatic to run the world?" "Well…no. I think God said, ‘you want evil? Here is real, true evil.’ Now win this one, or else." "I hope we win, then." "But what about dying?" "What about it?" "I sometimes think dying hurts others more." "It’s pretty sad, still." "It’s sad, but if you can deal with it, it’s not that bad." "Maybe your right." "Maybe." Based on The Snows of Kilimanjaro By Ernest Hemingway By Mila Strictzer First in order of composition Trains; they rolled across the flat, Midwest landscape and he could see them as if he were flying in a plane overhead. From above, they did not seem very long, but looking out from his parent’s car window, the trains seemed to stretch on forever. He had driven with his parents across Texas that summer. It took three long days to get through the state and his mother complained a lot about the boring landscape. She would comb her long, black hair, pull the hair from the teeth of the comb, neatly ball it up, and put it out a crack in the window. He watched her every time from the back seat, as the hairball would get sucked out the window in a split-second. Every now and then, she would take the brush and smack his father with it on the shoulder. His father just drove their beat-up car and stared out the window ahead of him in silence. He would tap the dashboard in time with the music from the radio. She had arranged for them to stay with some of her friends in San Francisco. It was a nice apartment near a small marina. From the living room, the sailboats in the harbor were observable, bobbing gently in the water. It was winter and the cold wind blew against the big windows of the house and made them shake. She was trying to make things better between them but the tumors in his head had started to spread, and it was only a matter of time before he would die. "I bought you a new hat today, Mark. It’s a Greek fisherman’s cap." He looked up at her and the only thing that prevented him from calling her a bitch just then was a sudden, sharp pain from one of his tumors. He could feel each one of them now. "I already have a hat." "You have a baseball cap, silly, and it’s not even a San Francisco team. This is a Greek fisherman’s cap. Don’t you like it?" "Mary, why don’t you take your Greek fisherman’s hat and shove it up your ass?"
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