This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “6 Feet Under” Down in the Dirt (v136) (the May 2016 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book A Stormy Beginning the Down in the Dirt Jan. - June 2016 collection book		get the 318 page Jan. - June 2016 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book the Chamber (the 2016 poetry, flash fiction, prose & artwork anthology)		get the 420 page poem, flash fiction & prose collection / anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Family

Tim T.K.

    “Wake up, wake up, wake up!” The screaming of the Staff Sergeant moves down the line, every non-commissioned officer repeating the command.
    My eyes fly open. I leap to my feet, rifle in hand, and scan the horizon beyond the trench. Marines scatter throughout the tunnel network. One of my brothers in arms shoves me into the sand wall as he sprints out of a makeshift command bunker.
    “Masks on!” He shouts the command as he runs down the line. “Ali Baba inbound! Masks on!” The runner jumps from trench to trench spreading the not so good word. He makes his way to the farthest tunnel where the engineers are rigging an old Iraqi weapon’s cache to blow.
    I reach into my kit and pull out a gas mask. With trained hands I swipe my glasses off of my face and affix the mask to my head.
    I check the two marines of my fire team. Two fresh privates who had only recently completed infantry training. They are both struggling to fasten the straps on their masks. The thunder of exploding mortar shells echoes from the far end of the trenches. One of my men secures his mask as the horizon is filled with rolling yellow clouds. The artillery must have detonated the old Iraqi mustard gas. God rest those engineers.
    “Lance Corporal, I think my mask is broken, sir.” One of the rifleman in my fire team rushes to me. He hands over his gas mask.
    I inspect the mask, as the mortar shells encroach upon our position. I try to pull the straps loose to inspect them. The clamps have been warped beyond repair. I toss his equipment to the ground and reach around to remove the helmet securing my mask
    “Don’t, sir. You’ll—”
    “Shut up. You’re mine to command. You’re mine to protect.” Before I can undo the first strap, a concussive force sends me flying into the wall of a trench. Yellow fog fills the trench and rolls over me. The shrieking of the private suppresses the ringing in my eyes.

****

    I awake to the sound of someone screaming. It was only me.
    “What was that,” my wife asks.
    I sit up and look at her. She is pulling herself out from under her covers, her facial features drawn wide.
    “It happened again, didn’t it?” Her expression fades and she tucks her lips.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
    “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Kuwait was over twenty years ago.”
    “Not to me.”
    She huffs and leaves the bed, then walks over to her vanity. “Look, I know this has been hard on you.” She opens a drawer and shuffles through the collection of prescriptions. “But you need to come realize that you’re home. I’m right here, and your son goes to school in the city. Your family is here. You are here, not Kuwait.”
    “I left my brothers there. It’s just hard saying goodbye.”
    “I understand it’s a brotherhood. I get that, but we’re your family now.” She looks back at me. “Well, take another one of your sleeping aids for now.”
    “I don’t think I want to sleep. I think I’ll go for a walk. Don’t worry about me. Go back to bed. I’ll only be a few hours.” I put on some simple clothing and kiss my wife before leaving.
    The bar is only a few blocks from my wife’s apartment. The walk to my barstool has become fixed in muscle memory. A marine at the the far end of the bar looks up when I enter. A smile finds its way onto his dark face.
    “Hey, devil. What’s the good word?” he asks.
    “Nothing new tonight, marine. Just need some sleeping aids.” He nods at me as I take my seat at the bar.
    “What will it be, brother,” the barkeeper asks.
    “The usual,” is my response.
    “You’re usually here until sunrise. If this keeps up, I’ll have to find a bed for you, grunt.”
    I look up at the chuckling barkeeper. He is a big man with a friendly face, despite the scars he’s earned. I nod at him. “The usual.”

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...