The wailing hazzan woke him, mingling weirdly with the rock music that played through his headset. He cringed that it had no remorse for the hour. His sergeant glared up at him through the roof hatch as he shoved the stick into reverse and awkwardly maneuvered the LAV up beside the hulking transport.
He shook himself awake and looked around at the familiar surroundings. The mosque, its pockmarked walls and broken spire leaning dangerously; the burned-out school with its tattered flag shivering pathetically in the early morning breeze. He wished desperately to jump down from the turret and stretch his cramped legs. Instead he scanned the townsfolk, watching them warily as they began their morning prayers. Rituals completed, people milled around, nodded As-Salāmu `Alaykum, drank tea, smiled. A few waved, though whether to him or to the blue-bereted UN crew of the aid transport he was unsure. He waved back anyway.
With a crash, the hatch of the transport was let down, spilling it’s cargo of seed and flour sacks into the sandy street. People began to gather, first in ones and twos, then by the dozens, as word of the aid delivery spread. He watched as the crowd grew, as it became frantic, as it became a mob. The aid workers spread out with batons, their blue caps stained pink by the morning light filtering through a rising cloud of haze stamped up by hungry feet. He coughed and spit, feeling the grit between his teeth.
He glanced around again, scanning the mob nervously, eyeing hands and watching for a weapon. A group of women had gathered across the street. They too looked around nervously. Two young men succeeded in wresting a sac of grain from the throng, and raised it joyously over their heads as they escaped with their prize, only to trip, dropping it heavily in the street. The yellowed contents spilled forth like so much offal. The women ran forward, their burka’s billowing. They threw themselves on the spilled grain, at first ignoring even the curses and threats of the young men. They could not, however, ignore the boots.
He watched in shock as the mob suddenly came about face. He watched as the mob armed themselves with stones, as the first of those stones arced through the air. Without his sergeant’s command, he jerked back the heavy bolt of his gun and let a shattering series blast into the clouded air.
“Jesus Corporal, this ain’t our goddamn fight!” his sergeant’s voice splintered the final notes of The Banger’s Embrace into a mess of static.
“But Sarge, those women…”
“We ain’t fuckin’ authorized!” his sergeant bellowed, then instantly calmed his voice. “Command, package delivered. We’re Oscar-Mike. Let’s go boys.”
Furious, he pounded the roof of the LAV with his gloved knuckles. He caught a glimpse of an aid worker who threw his hands up in disgust as the rest scurried into the back of the transport. His sergeant slammed the LAV into gear and the convoy lurched forward, leaving the shrieks to rise above the cloud of dust churned up by their spinning tires.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
As promised...
Drag The Waters echoed inside his head, Dimebag’s distortion-leaden riffs made tiny and weak by his headset speakers as he dozed in the turret behind his 7.62mm SAW machine gun.
“Wake the fuck up Corporal! There's no sleeping on my watch.” his driver’s voice crackled over the thumping bass line.
“Aw, shove it Sarge,” he drawled comically into his mic, applying his southern Albertan accent liberally. “There’s nuthin’ out here anyway.” He faded back into half-sleep, to the accompaniment of shrieking vocals as the LAV rumbled across the Afghan desert, leaving a cloud of heavy metal swirling amongst the dust plume in it’s wake.
The twang of Folsom Prison Blues' opening line caused him to stir from his gentle slumber, lulled as he’d been by the truck’s motion as it rolled lazily into town.
“I said wake up, Mark, we’re here.” Dust whirled and brakes complained loudly as his father rolled to a stop outside the feedlot. He shook himself awake and looked around at the familiar surroundings. Cecil’s tavern, with it’s swinging door hanging crookedly; the Co-Op with its florescent sign flickering feebly in the early morning light. He opened the door and swung his boots to the ground, pins and needles shooting up his cramped legs.
His father shoved the stick into reverse and expertly maneuvered the old pickup under the feed hopper. The boy hopped into the bed and, at his father’s command, jerked the heavy handle of the hopper’s mouth, letting the yellowed meal burst forth.
It took ten minutes to fill the truck’s bed. He stood watching the townsfolk begin their morning. People milled, said hello, drank coffee, smiled. A few waved in his direction, though whether to him or his father he was unsure. He waved back anyway. When the truck was full, he rapped the roof of the cap with his gloved knuckles and hopped to the ground. His father pulled the truck ahead, parked, and said “Let’s get some breakfast,” before striding purposefully towards the diner. The boy ran to catch up, his child’s legs too short to match his father’s gait.
As they reached the door, a stooped figure shuffled shyly around the corner. His dark skin matched his dark and dirty clothes. His weathered hands reached imploringly. The boy stopped and tugged at his father’s sleeve. His father turned around and, without a word, tapped the faded sign beside the diner door.
“No Indians.”
He pulled the boy inside, the door slamming shut behind them.
“Wake the fuck up Corporal! There's no sleeping on my watch.” his driver’s voice crackled over the thumping bass line.
“Aw, shove it Sarge,” he drawled comically into his mic, applying his southern Albertan accent liberally. “There’s nuthin’ out here anyway.” He faded back into half-sleep, to the accompaniment of shrieking vocals as the LAV rumbled across the Afghan desert, leaving a cloud of heavy metal swirling amongst the dust plume in it’s wake.
The twang of Folsom Prison Blues' opening line caused him to stir from his gentle slumber, lulled as he’d been by the truck’s motion as it rolled lazily into town.
“I said wake up, Mark, we’re here.” Dust whirled and brakes complained loudly as his father rolled to a stop outside the feedlot. He shook himself awake and looked around at the familiar surroundings. Cecil’s tavern, with it’s swinging door hanging crookedly; the Co-Op with its florescent sign flickering feebly in the early morning light. He opened the door and swung his boots to the ground, pins and needles shooting up his cramped legs.
His father shoved the stick into reverse and expertly maneuvered the old pickup under the feed hopper. The boy hopped into the bed and, at his father’s command, jerked the heavy handle of the hopper’s mouth, letting the yellowed meal burst forth.
It took ten minutes to fill the truck’s bed. He stood watching the townsfolk begin their morning. People milled, said hello, drank coffee, smiled. A few waved in his direction, though whether to him or his father he was unsure. He waved back anyway. When the truck was full, he rapped the roof of the cap with his gloved knuckles and hopped to the ground. His father pulled the truck ahead, parked, and said “Let’s get some breakfast,” before striding purposefully towards the diner. The boy ran to catch up, his child’s legs too short to match his father’s gait.
As they reached the door, a stooped figure shuffled shyly around the corner. His dark skin matched his dark and dirty clothes. His weathered hands reached imploringly. The boy stopped and tugged at his father’s sleeve. His father turned around and, without a word, tapped the faded sign beside the diner door.
“No Indians.”
He pulled the boy inside, the door slamming shut behind them.
Co-Writing
I've got an idea. I'm going to post bits and pieces of a short story that I'm writing for a contest (a short story contest, believe it or not). Then you five (you know who you are...the ones who actually read my self-indulgent rants) can leave your comments about each part as I write it. You also get to play a game here too...try to guess where in the hell this story is leading. Hopefully by, oh I dunno...maybe the end of next week, it will be done in rough and you can then lambaste me with criticisms of the entire piece.
Think of it as a community writing exercise...mostly because I'm bored.
First few paragraphs will be up shortly, but first, I need more coffee.
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