“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.
The combat medic raced toward the bombed-out Opel as tracers ripped overheard.
Lower limb fractured. Gunshot to shoulder. Both cat-Cs.
His distal pulse was good. Four hours to evac.
She looked back, gave a thumbs up.
Then a mortar round engulfed them.
Again, a warbling voice cried out, “man down!”
Joseph S. Pete is an award-winning journalist and Iraq War veteran whose literary work has appeared in The Grief Diaries, The Roaring Muse, Prairie Winds, Blue Collar Review and other publications. He orders off the secret menu.
A stagnant line, clinking milk bottles and morning gossip murmur. The delivery truck arrives late.
“The price has gone up!”
The murmur rises; no complaint, only frustration. With the decade-long war, people are used to this.
The old man puts down his empty bottle and walks away, never to return.
Mehdi spent many long hours of his childhood standing in queues for groceries and other necessary items during the Iran-Iraq war.
For the Babies
Ten of us ate and ate, then ate some more. The bill was more than reasonable, considering the impeccable service, excellence and variety of food. The neat thing about dining at the inn was the nostalgic feeling of being at grandma’s house before the war. Stuffed, content, yawning with happiness.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Editor’s Note: Let’s all hope and pray for peace, not only in our own homes but in those places on the news that can seem so far removed.
Davie survived the Middle East conflicts, where he witnessed the atrocities he thought he had handled.
Returning home, full in body but mentally adrift, he found an unscalable wall around all he had loved. He drifted, with doorways becoming his refuge. He froze to death last winter.
Lest we forget.
Gordon Lysen is a fledgling writer.
On my 128th day in Afghanistan, Blackwood and I were relaxing, smoking cigarettes. He said, “I don’t think we’re going to make it out of here.”
And I chuckled. Not because I thought he was wrong, but because I was surprised it took him so long to figure that out.
Chris is a former US Marine who served in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The gun shots ring out in the night.
There is nothing I can do but hide and wait for this hell to be over.
When the morning comes I’ll leave this place forever, become a refugee, someone trying to escape this carnage.
Maybe some day I’ll be free at last.
Scott Gambon is a student at Orion High School in Illinois. He is 17 years old, the youngest of 4 siblings.
“Here’s the hairspring, son: the watch’s clockwork heart. It controls how fast the watch runs, and how long it can go before it stops.”
In the trenches it’s my father’s words that keep me going. Every night I wind the watch, and every morning I wake to face the thunder.
Jeremy Nelson spent most his life in the urban tropics of Hong Kong before life grafted him into the conifer trees of the Pacific Northwest. He received his MFA in fiction from Vermont College of Fine Arts.
Rounds chambered. Safeties off.
We face the wall.
No one’s innocent. Still, one looks twelve, another an old padre… Their stares tear through the blindfolds.
Our weapons rise. I glance at a fellow corporal. He looks away.
Wars are messy, but I didn’t expect to shoot—
Joey thinks he’ll probably be the one to be lined up against the wall when the time comes… Meanwhile, you can visit him at joeytoey.com.
Years had passed since the war, but guerrillas still controlled the city. I snuck through the ruins, hid in long shadows cast by a shy moon.
I heard rubble shift behind me, a gun muzzle pressed at my back.
“Stop,” he said. A child’s voice. Tearful. “Tell me a story.”
The closest Guy has ever been to a war zone was working in a bar on a Saturday night. This is his eleventh 50-word story.