Monday, April 21, 2008


He stands in the hole, cold mud past the top of his boots, leans against the stock of the sixty, and waits. The enemy patrol comes into sight, and he waits. He watches them over the top of the sixty, their breath coming in clouds as they stagger forward through the snow, closer. He knows that they are men, like him. Men with families, men who are loved by someone, somewhere, and he knows that they will kill him if given a chance.
He watches them for a moment longer, lets them get a little closer, and then he pulls back on the trigger and they disappear in a cloud of smoke and flame as he traverses the field at waist level, then at ankle. The big gun bucks and bucks and hot brass and links fall hissing into the snow and mud. He stops firing, the smoke clears, and nothing moves in front of him except snow being shed from a tree to his left. He lights a cigarette, and waits.

1 comment:

eleKtrofly said...

"he lights a cigarette and waits"--

i like how this piece begins and ends in media res-- almost like a kafka short story, we are given only a little glimpse of a moment in time, but of course there is infinitude before and after this moment.

i really like your writing, man.
thanks again for hosting last night!