O-Dark-Thirty

Nov 5

The Road Once Traveled

by Joel Seppala

2007
near Atchison, Kansas

I traveled down a familiar road I knew many years ago. With fondness I looked upon barns, trees, and houses I had admired in peaceful drives of quiet days gone by. The air smelled the same; the green grass gleamed the shade of spring it had so many times. The road had not changed. What was different? It was I. Images of yesteryear passed through my memory’s filter. Carefree days of college replaced with the everyday blessings of life. The road that once carried me to school now transported me, my wife, and child, creating new memories on this road I had abandoned while life carried me away. When I returned the road was still there with all the familiar sites. Same road. Same path. What was different? It was I.

Joel Seppala is currently serving on active duty with the Army in Okinawa, Japan. He began writing poetry while stationed in Korea in 2001-2002. He also writes poetry, plays, childrens’ fiction, and is currently working on writing readers’ theatre. His work has been published in Stars and Stripes Okinawa and online at army.mil. He is inspired by the world around him and looks for the extraordinary in seemingly ordinary surroundings.

Oct 31

Dead Reckoning

by Stephen Saunders

My most powerful memory has been on stage since 1967, rerunning behind my eyes in virtual reality. The drama plays on and on in this theatre of recall, a horror show with no finale. Emotion holds the limelight. I was 19 when I killed a man. He was no older. He has the lead role. Once you see war it plays endlessly.Many wince at such a young age for combat. Nineteen was common. A 17-year-old “man” in our rifle company was killed in action. In war boys act like men and men act like boys.

A North Vietnamese Army (NVA) soldier was the first man whom I killed for dead certain.In earlier actions, with others also firing, you couldn’t be sure. There was no doubt here. I saw his living face three separate times. The first glance of him was whisper close and gave me a breath-slurping startle. He should have killed me. That lapse was one of my lucky breaks in the war. Minutes later, when I next laid eyes on the man, he was my quarry and I was keen to kill him. I could have given him a pass. We would all die anyway, I thought, and he had provoked it. The last look was eye-to-eye. It was for keeps.

This scene is but one blotch on the picture of Vietnam that stowed away in my gut. The war painted an internal scene, sweeping and jumbled, impossible to brush onto canvas for others to see. Colors blur one into another. Many are faded; others shine bright and vivid, but cast dark shadows.

Oct 29

T.B.I.

by Charity Winters

Blast
Hit
Head
Hurt

Invisible Holes
Anxiety Grows

Perforated Thoughts
Scattered Lost

Whoops
Slipped
Repeat
Forget

Swiss cheese memory
Traumatic Brain Injury

Charity Winters is a 2003 graduate of the United States Air Force Academy. During her six years on active duty as an Air Force Security Forces Officer she deployed three times to Iraq, conducting security operations. After separating from the service she earned a Doctor of Physical Therapy degree and currently practices in Clarksville, Tennessee. She is also a graduate student at Austin Peay State University’s English program and a freelance writer.

Oct 20

The Weight of Our Years

by Garland Davis

For a time, the old men would tell of years and wars past…
Stories and laughter among a forest of empty bottles
scattered in a graceless pack across the table.

Rain filled the darkness outside the window,
and the tables filled with memorabilia abetted the
desperation with which they yearned for those long gone days.

Reluctant to leave the companionship, once again
found for a few days at the spring reunion
and held close in that bitter pall of tomorrow’s leaving.

But, the thrill of our shared derangement, and stories
true and not that evoked both joy at remembering
and sadness, knowing that one cannot go back.

The old men remain, with their lives caving in around them,
crushed by the weight of years and lost among memories and bottles.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing, but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

Oct 16

Unstable Cliff

by Leo Cunningham

I stand there,
large as life.

Dangerous,
sharp edged cliffs.

Piercing eyes watching a surfer’s freedom.
Feet stuck in the sand,
head in the clouds.

Beaten by the rough sea.
Chipping away slowly,
pieces of me.

I remain unmoved.

With a sign on top, labeled…
“Stand Back! Unstable Cliff!”

Leo Cunningham enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps Infantry and advanced to Recon serving in Operation Enduring Freedom, on a Mobile Training team to Yemen, in support of the Special Operations Command. Upon his honorable discharge, he moved to California to pursue his passion for storytelling, graduated from the USC: School of Cinematic Arts and studied Film and Television Production. Currently, he is an independent filmmaker and founder of Wood Table Productions, an independent video production company. He resides with his wife and three sons on a family farm and writes original poetry, novels and screenplays.

Oct 13

1 Comment

Permanent

by Brooke King

Camp Liberty, Baghdad, Iraq
October 2006

Across the aisle from my hooch, Private Ricky Sullivan sat on his stoop in full battle rattle clinging tightly to a set of dogtags that weren’t his. Rubbing them back and forth between his fingers, he gently wiped the blood from the name that lay stamped into its silver face. He lowered his head, the dogtags firmly in his palm. He pressed his closed hands to his forehead, the metal chain of the dogtags dangling down, almost touching the grated step. I didn’t say anything to him, not because I didn’t care or because I couldn’t find anything to say. I said nothing because nothing would’ve comforted him in the fact that he was holding the dogtags of a dead soldier, his friend. Read more

Oct 11

Kicking Against the Pricks

by David Buchanan

Two women were in the front of the line chatting up a Navy Admiral. The first one was tiny—about five feet tall—dipping and twisting as she fixed her hair and checked her dress in a mirror on the far wall. The dress was fitted and yellow, with sequins and a small purse to match. She wasn’t attractive, but the Admiral looked down the freckled cleavage of her fallen breasts and they exchanged kisses—left, right, left. She threw her red hair back, laughing to something he whispered in her ear. I could see the crowns on her back molars.

Oct 8

Sweetness

by Donald Miller

Mac shouldn’t have been shot. His good shoulder is now ripped to shit. The bandage I wrapped on is holding but soaked with blood. It’s bad.

Oct 6

Here’s to Us

by Andrew Jones

Here’s to you, my famed big brothers of ‘Nam.
Of Belleau Wood, the Chosin Reservoir
Tripoli and Beirut, Mog’ and Inchon.
Here’s to you, to us and to the Corps.

To Chesty and Smedley and Dan Daly
To the giants and the legends of lore.
Though moving forward has been hard lately
Here’s to you, to us and to the Corps.

Here’s to the ones who did not make it home.
Whether in the sands, a jungle, a shore,
We live in your honor—never alone.
Here’s to you, to us and to the Corps.

We’ll meet at The Gates, with wings we will soar
Here’s to you–to us–and to the Corps.

Andrew R. Jones is a Marine Corps combat veteran of the Iraq War and has been featured in over a dozen publications, including International War Veteran’s Poetry Archives, War Writer’s Campaign, Outrageous Fortune, and The Blue Guitar and has authored two collections of poetry titled Healing the Warrior Heart and A Warrior’s Crown. He is currently pursuing an English Creative Writing degree with Arizona State University and lives in Phoenix, AZ with his wife and two children.

Sep 23

1 Comment

Joe

by George Cramer

Forty years ago Agent Orange covered Pete head to foot. Not yet known as killers, his platoon cursed the mess left by the defoliate. Later he laughed at their ghost-like photo images. Now sixty-eight, he mused, I’m just another casualty of the Vietnam War. The doctors gave him six weeks. Read more