He flies above ruinous landscapes,
pondering patchworks of castles baked in mud.
Like Alexander, Genghis, and the Russians,
he yearns to find and best his enemy here.
What does it mean that these monuments of dust remain,
that the fortress of the steppe warrior endures?
As if awaiting a deluge.
A.M. Bigler is a pilot who reads and writes. Today, he lives in Wisconsin with his wife and two sons.
Lieutenant Harold Demarest stands on the bridge, watching a kamikaze roar towards him.
Below, Gunner Frank McClelland fires the 40mm cannon and hits the suicide plane.
It veers downward, exploding into the ship.
Demarest is alive, a flimsy clipboard shielding his head. Below, Frank McClelland and seventeen others are dead.
Frank McClelland was awarded the Silver Star Posthumously. Harry
Demarest wrote this story about his father, Harold Demarest, who attended
many reunions with his shipmates until his death at age 96.
The dead got up from the battlefield. Some played with their wounds. Others witnessed the horror of what they had become. As they walked away a young private looked back and saw their bodies where they’d fallen and sighed, “If all this is for that, why did we bother coming?”
Connell writes a bit and no more.
Our ballista slams out another volley. My loader slaps my shoulder. I open up through the wire with the big Browning.
Through the fog I see burning tracks littering the wheat fields. Our main gun cycles as actinic light sears the horizon.
My melted eyes weep. Gods, please not again.
David Arnold is a former Army officer and retired academic administrator. He has recent published work in Narrative, Raven’s Perch, Microfiction Monday, and This Old Boat. He lives in the Bluegrass Region of Kentucky with his wife Rose, Bonnie the Dog, and Mosel the Cat.
Dolores smiled through venetian blinds. Potatoes boiled on the range. Fair hair fluttered as the toy gun fired.
“Bang,” little Thomas roared firing at invisible enemies. He would come home soon, hungry.
Dolores peered at her new television; more fighting, more war. She prayed Thomas would come home soon, hungry.
Valkyriekerry Kelly is a graduate writer living in Mayo, Ireland. Her short stories have featured in Short Break Fiction, Paragraph Planet, and Entropy Squared. When she is not writing, Valkyriekerry can be found exploring the heritage sites of Ireland with a camera in her hand. See more at valkyriekerrykelly.wordpress.com.
She dabs vanilla on her wrists, thick, dark and pungent, like her memory of the night before he went to war. His child plays in the garden where they will stroll. He’ll see his son, for the first and only time, his firstborn, bearing another man’s name.
Casualty of war.
Sharon Calkin is a family history writer and poet. She lives in Pasadena, CA.
Abroad, learning the language, culture, history. At the memorial, it’s hard to breathe. They couldn’t either.
A tower of names. Clocks. It is 11:02 forever.
Sugoi is Japanese—something amazing or awful.
Where are you from? They know their own.
I’m American, but those words, here, are hard to say.
Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz is a writer and photographer. She is the author of two fiction chapbooks, “Mother Love” and “Where I’ll Be If I’m Not There.” She reads, gardens, and sews teddy bears for fun. See more at wwwonewriter.blogspot.com.
What do polka dots remind you of?
They remind Grandpa of the exploding rockets he hid from every night with his face in the mud from his own sweat and piss.
I swear it got inside his mind that night because now it’s cracking.
Alzheimer’s is God giving him morphine.
Brent C. Green is a free verse novelist and spoken word artist in Central Texas. He is the president of Modern Muse Poetry in San Marcos, Texas, and the blog editor for the Front Porch literary journal.
Smoke was erupting from his engine. One more press of my trigger and his Messerschmitt would be no more.
I had won the fight, but it was the wrong time to deny a family their son for Christmas.
I banked hard right and into the clouds. The fight could wait.
Chris is a Network Manager involved in many aspects of IT. He has a love of writing short stories and technical articles, photography, and playing the guitar. He is from Dudley in the Black Country. He is also a member of The Oldbury Writing Group.
“Hey! Stick your head out, Yank. Need some target practice.”
“How ’bout this, Reb?”
“Dang! You got ham?”
“Reckon. Whatchew got?”
“Meetcha middle the creek.”
“Hold your fire! Ham for tobacco!”
“‘Preciate it, Reb. Been dyin’ for a smoke.”
“Yup. How’s Mama?”
“Sends you her love.”
Henry F. Tonn is a semi-retired psychologist who has written a sterling novel entitled “Ascent to Madness, Zelda Fitzgerald’s Gilded Cage” which is is having a great deal of difficulty finding a home in the publishing world.