Posts from the ‘Fiction’ Category

May 23

No Fear on Earth

by J. L. Schmidt

Sergeant Ledbetter discovered his favorite haunt home after his first deployment. He couldn’t sleep. One night he drove down the main thoroughfare and onto US-1 North headed for the next state. He entered trucker territory, out past empty church parking lots and rows of self-storage units, in between cow pastures and one story motels. He slowed at the sign flashing Night Moods and followed the gaze of its motionless fair-skinned blonde looking off toward an entrance not visible from the road.

May 21

The Gift

by Bruce Colbert

I sat very still in the living room watching the hazy screen of my grandmother’s old Motorola black and white television set that Saturday afternoon, watching Westerns, if I can remember correctly, or maybe it was the kid’s science show, Mister Wizard. I wore a blue Yankees baseball shirt, and jeans, both fresh from the clothesline in her tiny yard. It was a hot August, and I was eleven.

May 5

The Partial Assassination of PFC Johnny Little Wolf

by Jack Shakely

I first met PFC Johnny Little Wolf at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C.

May 1

Minutes to Seconds

by K.R. Dounglomchan

Stephanie’s eyelids closed as she piloted her car down the curving highway towards home. Only three more hours to go. Her daughter, Valeria, was asleep in the backseat on their midnight sojourn; the deep vibrations of the rumble strips marking the edge of the road kept jolting Stephanie awake—the cup of coffee and cracked window had failed to do so. But the next part of the road contained no rumble strips and Stephanie felt her heart flutter and the ground raced towards her like she was falling in a dream. She woke up expecting to hear the comforting rhythm of her husband snoring, but was startled awake by the screech of her car careening through the splintered edges of a metal retaining wall.

——

Apr 26

Goodbye, Poppy

by Margi Desmond

A trumpet played “Taps,” along with a drum’s cadence, while the horses’ hooves click-clacked on the pavement; the majestic animals pulled the carriage transporting the fallen soldier’s casket. Katherine watched the somber procession through Arlington National Cemetery on the television, and she read the information on the screen regarding the latest three casualties. The Ultimate Sacrifice, an Armed Forces Network public service announcement, appeared repeatedly on every AFN channel throughout the day, reminding viewers of the human sacrifices made on behalf of the United States of America.

Apr 22

Skeletons in the Mud

by William Lapham

The rains came cold off the North Sea. Drops felt le pellets, found the narrow slit of his open trench, and bit his exposed face. He turned away. Mud flowed down the sides of the trench, around roots and exposed bone. It pooled on the bottom, sucking on his boots, penetrating the leather, and soaking his feet. His socks bunched up in places; grit rubbed his feet raw. He heard the mechanical noise of machine guns rattling in the distance, bullets snapping overhead. The trenches stank like rotting flesh, the lingering scent of mustard gas, wet dirt and ash, burnt hair and tissue, and curdling blood. This was Passchendaele, in Belgium, northeast of France and the rest of the civilized world. The enemy was in the next trench. He could hear them cough. Read more

Apr 11

Marigolds and Lilies

by Zackary Dryer

A while back, in early fall, I was standing in the yard, covered in cow manure, baking in the Austin sun. Sarah came out with the phone, mouthed “Ryan,” and walked back inside, rolling her eyes and shutting the door. Old Army buddies are the natural enemies of ex-Army wives.

Mar 21

One Dumb-Ass Down

by Marie Colligan

Her body—engulfed in the perplexity of pain preceding shock—recoiled.

Mar 17

How the Sausage Gets Made

by Luke Bruhns

Corporal Brad Snow manipulated an arrow on his screen with a mouse until it hovered over the word “send”. He waited, staring at his computer which sat on his desk in a small hut on asprawling airfield outside of Kabul, Afghanistan. His muscular frame sat slouched and visibly nervous pondering whether anyone would ever see what he found. Brad had been working as a 25B or network specialist for the army for four years and he knew every communication going in and out was closely monitored by any number of three letter agencies. Would they stop it before it ever reached the list of reporters he had copied into the “to:” line from a list he found on a government watchdog website? Would those reporters do anything with it? Brad had seen reporters come and go through this airfield, none of them had gotten it right yet. Would it be different this time? He had to decide soon, he knew the anonymous email service he subscribed to was shutting down due to a court order forcing them to release their data. The website owner decided to shut it down rather than give in to what he saw as oppressive demands. Brad used this service already to send encrypted data to that same list of reporters. All he had to do now was send the 16 digit key he saw flickering on his screen.

Mar 12

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Number 237

by Mark Andersen

“You’ll never make it through boot camp,” my dad said as we stood there at the intersection of the old Milwaukee Road freight tracks and East Washington Avenue. It was just a few days after I graduated from high school and I was waiting at the bus stop across the six-lane street from the U.S. Army recruiting station. My dad’s comment started thoughts coursing through my mind: Am I doing the right thing? What will the drill sergeants do to me? Four years is an awfully long time. Will I make it or will I wash out? My God, what have I done? Would anyone notice if I just didn’t show up? Will I be a good soldier? I don’t want to go, I want to stay home.
I could see the worry in my mom’s eyes. I tried not to look either of my parents in the eye for fear that I would begin to cry. Instead I just drew circles in the dirt with my dirty white Nike tennis shoes. I looked down the road and saw an outline of a bus approaching.