Hell Town, U.S.A.

A story told in six sentences


by Joseph Lupoli


It's a train wreck of a city that's still paralyzed and broken; a fact apparent even after twenty-five-years of being away. As I slowly cruise down Broadway, navigating around potholes, some large enough to swallow a lawnmower, my eyes and nose are suddenly assaulted by the trash-laden landscape.

 It is quite evident, in a surreal sort of way, nothing much has changed in my old home town. Filth and decay encompass everything in sight and yellowed newspapers flutter about in winter's wind like giant urban butterflies with bad eyesight, and the town's stagnation is further emphasized by a mile-long twisted row of busted up cars parked every which way except properly. 


It's plain to see that, even now, the local police department is just a call and response team; no time to enforce little lax laws, like littering, loitering, lap-dancing, lurking, or any other inconsequential L.

And as I pass by a large group of empty-eyed thugs leaning against a fence, some sipping 40 ounce bottles of Old English 800, it then occurs to me: I sure as hell didn't begin martial arts study as a little kid because my step parents thought I looked good in a gi.

So A Guy Walks Into A Psychiatrist's Office

A story told in six sentences


by Joseph Lupoli


On the waiting-room rack rests a familiar sea of psych med pamphlets with subliminal cover pictures of various pretty ladies frolicking along woodland trails or strolling golden sand dunes, or standing around laughing it up in delightful sun-drenched outdoor social settings with other pretty ladies and their handsome suiters with airbrushed teeth.
 I reach over and grab a pamphlet featuring a buxom brunette pushing her kid on a swing.


It extoles, in a Robin Leach sort of way, the virtues of Lexapro as the answer for Major Clinical Depression. But Robin fails to include a vital piece of information about Lexapro that I already know: kiss your sex-life goodbye. Even a twenty-five-year-old Sophia Loren wouldn't be able to lap-dance your over-cooked elbow macaroni back to life. 


So, when my shrink appears, interrupting my reverie to announce, "Mr. Lupoli ... please come in," I decide to tell her about last night's dream, the recurring  one.

When Fear Works

A true story (not the picture) told in six sentences


by Joseph Lupoli


Before the sun had risen enough to spread its first teasing ray of bitter cold, purple light upon us, I watched the chopper zoom upward from our LZ and quickly spin around and head north, its rope ladders pulled up along the way.

With silence restored, our twelve-man Delta Company platoon unit stood up, brushed off our dark gray field uniforms, and commenced a speed-march south down the thin, knotty trail, moving in string formation so that in the event of a grenade attack not all of us would get killed.

Only hours before, we were briefed on the latest intelligence: a small but heavily armed group of rebels were holed up in the catacombs of a dilapidated soccer stadium, purportedly to launch a raid against government loyalists sometime that day.

Our mission was not to kill the bastards, but to disarm and prep them for evacuation to Interrogation Headquarters.

We stopped within two kilometers to set up surveillance when suddenly a .50 caliber machine gun opened up, scattering us like rats and forcing each man to dive for the nearest available tree wide enough to hide a torso.

And when the first mortar hit, I realized that my tree wasn’t wide enough to protect a hamster, but just as I was about to race toward a bigger tree, the whistle blew—our Advanced Special Forces Combat Training exercise at Fort Benning, Georgia had concluded for the day.

Late Night Commercial Break

From The Apex Man told in six sentences (6S)

By Joseph Lupoli

So—you call yourself a writer…when all you know is how to compose and present beautifully written and captivating novels and short stories? Are you perplexed when agents and publishers turn you down time and time again, especially when many of the best-selling authors you read write nothing but flat, generic, easily forgettable beach book blather?

Well, here at the Apex Technical School of Bogus Creative Writing, we’ll teach how to pen and submit smut, junk, basic blood-and-gore-trash, and even children’s books by accident! But that’s not all! If you act now, we’ll get you started in our comprehensive workshop that will teach you how to downgrade your talent to the point where you’ll be able to write in a typo laden, loathsome, threadbare, shock-value-only style that will cause agents and publishers to say YES! But remember, we can’t call you—you must CALL US!

The Rock

A story told in six sentences (6S)

By Joseph Lupoli

I was three years old and I trailed close behind Aunt Nancy as she commenced up the snowy walkway with purpose and finality, as though she sought to once and for all remove the inconvenience of unraveling herself from me.

So that’s the place, I thought, when an enormous dark stone house came into view. It had stained-glass windows, but unlike the church next to it, not all the windows were stained glass. The house property was bordered by a tall, thick, black wrought-iron gate; each foreboding spike topped with a pointy arrow.

Above the framed entrance there hung a large black rectangular sign with indented and eerie words painted in gold:

THE KINDERFREUND HOME FOR CHILDREN

I was not pleased, and judging by the suitcases waiting at the door, this was to be my home…for a long time.

The Glass Anchor

A True Story Told in Six Sentences (6S)

By Joseph Lupoli

They say that back in the day, aged American Indians hobbled off alone to a sacred hill or valley and they sat and waited until their bodies mercifully expired and their souls shot up into the heavens. We alcoholic fuck-ups who crossed the invisible line of no return lumbered off to revered places too; mangy morgue-like holding tanks called bars for big-league drinkers who needed a no-frills sanctuary secluded from milk-sops, gossipy fancy-drink dabblers, yarn spinning weekend warriors, the "I have to be home by six or my will kill me" types, and anyone else who still had hope; whose dreams tomorrow outweighed the regrets of yesteryear.

Well, I selected my sacred spot and I waited--and waited, but to me, Death said 'No' and I wondered why. Maybe there was no answer; just a bunch of crazy questions like those asked by intake doctors during my three separate stays locked up a detox ward, slow-dancing the Librium shuffle with the other bloated red-faced alkies, tract-marked stick-armed heroin addicts, and wide-eyed, coke-slamming, emaciated Charles Manson look-alikes.

It took my drunken soul 25-plus-years of involuntary self-induced pain, guilt, and shame of living the rum-hound lifestyle until somebody finally whispered these life-saving words in my ear: "If you really want out, find somebody you can trust and tell them the worst things you've ever done because you're only as sick as your secrets. Then hit AA meetings as often as you used to hit the bars, and make sure you don't drink today because you may be strong, but booze is stronger. Do these things and before you know it, you'll run out of reasons to drink because, after all, there'll be nothing left to escape from."

The Fixodent Fighting Championships (The FFC)

By MMA analyst Joseph Lupoli

It’s the future of MMA.

While it may not save the likes of Ken Shamrock, I think a 40-and-up MMA league is long overdue. Aging fighters should be rewarded, not neglected or tossed out like yesterday’s newspaper. Remember: Somebody’s bruised; over-ripe bananas are somebody else’s tasty banana bread. Wouldn’t you like to see Bas Rutten vs. Don Frye go at it? It can be billed as: “Age in the Cage.” Well, here at the Fixodent Fighting Championships, you can have your Cream of Wheat and eat it too!

For starters, the heavyweight division is stacked with crotchety, arthritic warriors. Some were light heavyweights in their prime, but these days they need ‘relaxed-fit’ jeans. Besides Bas and Don, we’ve got, Dan “The Least” Severn (who is, at 52, already reaping AARP benefits); there’s Mark “The Hammered” Coleman, Randy “Captain Crunch” Couture (especially if he can’t get by “Block” Lesnar); we have David “Tanked” Abbot, and Maurice “I Beat Abbot” Smith.

But wait! Why even bother with weight-classes? These grandpas are already in a separate age class. Hell, since they’ll soon be too old to train, let’s just call it “The Overweight Division.” Toss them all in … even the guys who are not yet age-40, but almost.

How about inviting Royce, Carlson, and Rorion “Graceless”, Kimo “Slice” Leopoldo, Shonie “Mr. International House of Pancakes ” Carter, Gary “Big Granddaddy” Goodrich, Jeremy “Ear” Horn, “Toto” Ortiz, “Cry” Metzger, Wallid “Ugly As Sin” Ishmail, John “Big Bust” Dixon, and Chuck “Canvasback” Liddell.

Of course, we need a referee who’s old enough to identify with the fighters, but young enough to remember their names. So, who better than the former LA cop and UFC veteran, Big "Job" McCarthy”? He wasn’t really ready for retirement anyway. And to insure fighter safety, four fight doctors, including a heart surgeon, a geriatric nurse, and an Alzheimer’s specialist should be in the ring during all fights.

Picture this: Instead of having the fighters aggravating their gout and bursitis by walking to the cage or ring all the way from the locker-room, they should drive themselves there in MMA approved Power Scooters. And for Heaven’s sake, replace those hard ring-stools with Lazy-boy recliners. Also, oxygen tanks should be fastened to the outside of each ring-post or cage-post. I mean, what if some poor sap has a seizure while in the clinch? Have him suck on some oxygen, then resume the action.

Also, it might be a good idea to hold FFC events close to a hospital and an “Independent Living Retirement Community.” There, fighters can train in water aerobics and shuffle-board to keep their minds and bodies sharp in between fights.

Now for the fight structure: Three 5-minute rounds with a one hour break in between rounds. And to keep the fans entertained during the breaks, Jackie Mason and Jerry Stiller can provide some MMA related stand-up (or sit-down) routines. Maybe Wayne Newton and Tony Bennett can woo the ladies with a few numbers.

Just think of the promotional possibilities here! I’ll bet there’s Probate Attorneys who are dying to buy space on the fighter’s trunks. That would practically finance the entire venue. Instead of MMA gear logos and energy drinks names plastered on the ring/cage canvas, the ring posts, and on the fighter’s trunks, replace those with geriatric products. Nobody wants to talk about ‘Depends’ and ‘Preparation H’, and Metamucil, and that’s exactly why those companies will pay big bucks for advertising space.

And last but certainly not least, especially in this case, save a spot on the canvas for Guardian Health and Life Insurance.

With this kind of a set-up, Randy Couture could become the Jack LaLanne of MMA!

Nightmare on Manic Street

I have nightmares every single night ... and I remember most of them. My night terrors and nightmares go back to my early toddler hood.

For the last 30-years or so my dreams usually involve having to decide whether to be brave and take a stand, or flee. Sometimes I come close to risking my neck, only to scram at the last second. Other times I'll stand my ground and battle it out. Occasionally, I have to murder a person or two. But I can explain, honest.

I have PTSD accompanied by ESR and unrelated organic major depression. That means If I stopped taking my psych meds, I would turn manic. The major depression thing was a gift from my mother. She was pure Highland Scottish. And and those people have been known to produce their share of fruitloops.

The screwball part of my brain was genetically predisposed. My grandmother was also a nutcase who passed it down the line. Who knows how far back it goes? And I'm not even part German. Those Germans, I don't know ... even their dogs are fucked up.

And my father? Just some Italian guy who was a low/mid level Cosa Nostra banana from Conn. He died of lead poisoning ... from a .22 to the back of his head. According to my data sources, he was just a mean fuck without any diagnosed mental illness. His mean genes didn't infiltrate my DNA.

Anyhow, the dreams. All but one killing was in self defense. In the sole premeditated murder, I choked the guy out until his soul zoomed to the heavens. All because he ratted me out. (That guy actually did rat me out in real life, but I only threatened to kill him). Apparently it worked because he never ratted me out again. The other killings had to happen because those people (often times soldiers) were looking to waste me first.

I average about two-murders a week. There have been months without a single death. Then all of a sudden, I'll mow down 15 or 20 men in a single dream.

Of course, not every altercation ends in death. In fact, most do not. Usually, a few people attack me and I have to punch, choke, or armbar my way out. See? Even in my dreams I try to stay away from fire arms.

We all have our crosses to bear, and I've got the dreams. I got off the hook easy though. I'm really a nice guy in real life. If you don't believe me, ask what I do for a living.

Gray Boy

Wanna know something? I am a person of unique distinction!

In fact, I should be famous. Maybe a bit of globetrotting and a few speaking tours, because. . . 

 Now there’s no way of knowing this for sure, but I may very well hold the World record for total school detention hours served from the 3rd grade through the 7th grade. I'll remind the school secretary to call the Guinness Brothers over in London and verify. Collect call, please. And make it snappy, wench.

 I'm not a typical bad kid—never loud or overtly disruptive in class. But there is one thing which I refuse to do; something that never fails to land me in detention—that's school work. To me, school itself is the most boring institution on earth. Yes, Federal law clearly states that school attendance is mandatory. Okay, fair enough. I concede. What's also fair enough is that there are no State or Federal laws dictating that I must pay attention while in class or do homework. And this is clearly stated by me. Check and mate.

 Actually, detention isn't so bad. It lasts only an hour, but a major offense could land you in detention for up to five consecutive one-hour days. On bread and water. And hung by the ankles. And beaten regularly by spiked-club-wielding guards thinly disguised as teachers.

 Ho-hum. Although we inmates are technically supposed to be studying during that hour, I've never actually seen anyone study during detention, including myself. Only thing is: I have a problem. My mind happens to be unusually and continuously active. I can't control it. A brain on continuous overdrive, one might say. So I must think of creative ways that will kill an hour of lock-up just to preserve my sanity.

 My favorite method in which to keep my mind occupied is by hiding a book I happen to be reading inside of a larger textbook. Detention whizzes by as I lose myself in a good non-fiction story. But a few times I forgot to bring a book and I had to draw pictures instead. And I can't draw worth a shit. It is during those times that I am keenly aware of my surroundings for that one long and grueling hour.

 Today I forgot my book, but I don't feel like drawing. Instead, I'll eat the time by writing down my observations of today's detention. This is only the second story I've ever written. My first story (also, the last homework assignment I ever did) became a fiasco because when my English teacher read it, she insisted that I copied it from a book. Too much advanced dialog infusion for her to believe the work was mine. Yet it was mine. All mine. My stepmother ultimately was able to prove to her that, yeah, I wrote the fucking thing alright, and every word of it came from my head, and nowhere else. The accusatory teacher reluctantly conceded, and spun on her heel while tossing a spiteful sneer at me for good measure. Twat-waffle.

 After that bullshit, I vowed to myself that I shall never write again. But. . .

  Now I'm desperate. So, although I can't draw well (my poor spatial and abstract ability ties in with my math disability), I know I  can write. Hell, I'll bet I can pen a story, any genre, better then my jealous English teacher can, not that she'd ever admit it. It's now my secret anyway.

 So, using my sole God-given talent (if you exclude arm-wrestling), I'll continue writing this, um. . . thing. Only this time, nobody will be allowed to read it. 

********************

Lock Up

By Joseph Lupoli

 The crew of apathetic teachers here in this dilapidated gray elephant of an urban public school actually expect me, a twelve-year-old kid with the attention span of a mayfly, to sit at home and voluntarily do homework. That’s quite a laugh. A real scream. A knee-slapper. You’d think these teachers would have gotten the message by now. Doesn't the front office keep student records? Maybe some guidance counselor even reads 'em once in a while?

  For the record, I have despised school since my first day of Kindergarten, and I was never shy about telling this to anyone within earshot. I’ve never studied before (not for the sake of aiming for good school grades, anyway). I don't plan to start studying now, and I have refused to do homework since the 3rd grade.

 Anyone gotta' problem with that? Huh? HUH?

 Being in detention is not my favorite pastime, but the mere thought of bringing schoolwork home is far more repulsive. It’s like having a job and being forced to work overtime for free. All things considered, the price tag of not doing homework is affordable.

 It’s a light day,  (in terms of inmate numbers) in this hell-hole of a study hall.

The usual over-aged thugs are shifting around restlessly in the back-row seats. There’s Marcus, the class bully, a long-timer. Marcus strikes me as a sociopath in training. Next to Marcus sits Victor "The Ripper." Victor is Marcus's co-extortionist and loan-shark. Oh, and there’s Michael "The Mauler"—also an aspiring sociopath. He's a future lifer, plus 90-years. Michael is doing hard time in detention probably for loansharking or refusing to rat on a fellow hood under administrative investigation. He was once voted ‘Most likely to join the Black Panthers'. Unofficially, of course.

 Michael has sideburns and a five o‘clock shadow which make him look about 20-years old. For added emphasis, he smokes non-filtered Camels. All of this I find most disturbing. Michael "The Mauler" once threw a kid off the school roof for not paying his ‘protection’ tax on time. The kid landed in a deep mud puddle. He survived unscathed, thank you verily.

 They once tried to extort from me, but not only won’t I do schoolwork, I don't respond much to other demands either. I'm an equal opportunity ambassador of refusal.  Interestingly, when I nonchalantly told those creeps, "You want it? You'll have to take it," they just shrugged and shuffled away. I guess these clowns sensed resistance and were too lazy that day to kill me. Too bad. They would have done me a favor.

 Now, normally, this would be a routine school day in my hellish nightmare of a life. 

Only today is no ordinary day. For the first time ever, the brilliant and beautiful Amy is here in detention! Yes, Amy, the fair of skinned Nordic goddess with natural platinum blond hair and full lips and shapely of build, yet with uncharacteristically dark brown eyes. Amy's eyes are even darker than mine are. And that's dark to be. Ne'er a fairer skinned girl so round of face, in possession of eyes so dark has ever existed in the history of mankind, pray tell.

 Oh indeed, Amy is a sacred entity complete with a blueish misty hue and everything. Just her mere presence not only purifies the air within a hundred-yard radius of her, it also regulates the oxygen-to-nitrogen ratio as well. To me, Amy is light-years beyond mere mortal, and I fear her far more than all the school bullies combined.

 And Amy does her school work and homework. All of it. She thinks school is for learning. Strange and bewitching lass. 

  Naturally, my curiosity is peaked. Why on God's Earth is Miss Britannica/Americana in detention? What could she have conceivably done? The romantic in me likes to think she stabbed some nasty trench-coated molester right through the heart with her longer and sharper than legally allowed, pearl-handled nail file, then gave the blade a sharp twist to sever the aorta, and then left it in the bastard's blood-soaked chest as a stern warning to others.

 But alas, being the loner I am, I'll never find out what really brought Amy to lock-up. I’ve never heard of her getting any grade lower than an B+, and she actually cried over it! Hell, I would cry in disgust if I  got any grade higher than a D! Amy never missed a day of school that I know of, and she made the honor roll probably from the moment the attending cut her enchanted umbilical chord and gently slapped breath into her sweet and Saintly pink lungs.

  I love Amy and I dream about her in color, yet she could and should have every reason to hate my guts—if she gave me half a thought to begin with, that is. To her, I'm probably just another barely noticeable  ship-rowing slave to be lumped together with all the other under-achieving losers. The only difference being (and it's a big one), I operate entirely alone. I don't want to belong. Because the risk of being  identified and known as who I really am is too dangerous. It would certainly pose a lot of questions. And that is why I'm a gray boy.

 I was taught to read (upon my request) at age-four; a full year before Kindergarten. It was toward my second year in the orphanage. Having had the power of choice, I learned to read in virtually no time at all.  Or so it seemed. By age-seven I was averaging at least one book every two-days, and they weren't comic magazines. We're talking encyclopedias, biographies, medical journals, etc.

 Now I can't afford became known.

 Because, had I come out of the shadows and cultivated friendships, many of the teachers and even other students would quickly discover that my vocabulary, geographical and historical prowess, and medical knowledge does not match my school performance. Next thing you know, some curious and over-zealous guidance counselor would catch wind and start digging into my history and home life. The whole thing would soon unravel and they would deduce that my bruises and cuts were not the result of schoolyard fights. Then I'd be removed from yet another home. Thanks, but I'll pass. I've been bounced around too many times. I'll deal with the hand I'm dealt.

 Besides, that clique bullshit is for fake tough guys and insecure types who can't think and act on their own.

  Being a gray boy does have its downside, however. For example, I am certain beyond doubt that all the smart and pretty girls find me, at best, revolting. It's not their fault. Not one bit. They would be foolish to think otherwise, considering that I spend more time in the Principals office and in detention than I spend in the classroom (general population). Not exactly a Most Likely to Succeed candidate.

 Amy is seated in the front row to my far right, near the door. Cautious girl, smart. And with perfect posture, naturally. I’m also in the front row, but to the far left. Though tempted, I dare not sneak a glance directly at her for fear if she might happen to look my way at the same time. What if our eyes accidentally locked? Fuck, there's a harrowing thought! What’s to say I wouldn’t have a heart attack and croak on the spot, or worse yet, experience some sort of embarrassing epileptic seizure and live to face the aftermath? No, I'll wait a while on that sneak glance thing.  Instead, I continue to write this story. That should take up the whole hour.

 Meanwhile, Marcus is busy cutting dirty words into the top of his desk with an unnecessarily large hunting knife. I've seen his pearls of literary wonder engraved on other desks. Suffice to say, the Pulitzer Prize for literature is not in Marcus's future. 

 I’m slouched down so low in my chair that I’m practically laying on the floor. Victor and Michael are engaged in a spirited spitball fight. They never bully me because I’m the one who taught them how to make the perfect spitball, perfectly round and with the right weight-to-size-ratio. And more importantly,  I showed them how to assemble and utilize two spliced and taped McDonald’s straws as the barrel to achieve maximum distance, velocity, and accuracy. Prior to that, they used hollowed Bic pens as their weapon barrel. Their weapons often jammed because the barrel was too narrow and the spitballs were not round and condensed enough. The stupid fucks.

 Spitball and projectile manufacturing combined with test practice and adjustments is truly a fine art and it should be included in the school curriculum to replace say, mathematics.

 Of course there’s Miss Camp, our math teacher, at her desk grading papers or something. I feel sorry for her. So few of us legitimately pass her class, yet the system pushes us ahead anyway. That’s urban life for you. Poor Miss Camp . . . burned out like the rest of the faculty.

 I take a writers-cramp break and my mind wanders aimlessly. I feel my forearms and biceps. Today my muscles are hard and well defined. It's scary. Yesterday I was a skinny toothpick. My bones have been hurting for over a year; a frequent dull ache. I’m growing too fast. Okay, enough break time.

 Sure, this prison sucks my fat one alright, but I imagine all public school detentions are similar. Then I begin to wonder how my defiant behavior all started, and why I always become so bored so quickly in school. Certainly, it's not because I'm too smart. I just compromise doing the right thing in favor of adhering to my own set of principles, half-baked though they are, and then wind up in miserable detention. Will I ever pull it together? No time soon, you bet.

   Maybe I'll start learning on my own after I hit sixteen, once they can legally expel me. It's a cinch to work, though the plan is not entirely risk-free. In a nutshell, my simple theory is this: once the school system gets rid of me, the stakes between learning and not learning will become much higher. I'll have to make a living and whatnot. Then who knows? In a decade or two I may even consider a career and return to school. . . on my own terms, of course.

 Come to think of it, there is some amusing irony to be recognized here: because of my stubbornness, anything I’m forced to do generally remains undone, yet that same task might be inviting and fun if only I had the power of choice.

 Ah, to hell with them all—I’ll do it my way; take the long way around, the hard way, the uphill way. Sure it’s stupid, but if I make it I’ll wind up stronger than the rest. And why? Because I will have paid a higher price than the rest.

 And if suffrage doesn't bury me first, it will temper me, and ultimately I'll have developed too much self-confidence to even remember what a hue looks like.

 Ring, ring goes the bell. Time for us to scramble the hell out of here. The inmates and Miss Camp head home to live their lives. I'm headed toward the woods; I need to think first about going home.

And so I begin ...

Hi, fellow readers and writers!

I've written a few things over the years, most of which disappeared when an ex-girlfriend crashed my computer. Whether or not I have any literary talent - I have no idea, but either way, I don't plan on quitting my day gig anytime soon. Becoming rich and famous doesn't really interest me. Just being read is enough keep me happy.

Recently, I was encouraged to start this blog and share my stories and to network with others.

The smaller stories I create are born when I look at photographs or paintings. A while back, I came across an old U.S. Civil War photograph of a young teenage boy in uniform waiting to have his picture taken. His facial expression and his body language told me all sorts of things, so I decided to pen my impression of what might have been going through the boys' mind as he stares into the camera.

********************

The Soldier

by Joseph Lupoli

Now I sit forever in this hot, humid room waiting for a light flash. For hours, it seems, I wait, still and numb. At only 15, I am prepared to die for The Mighty Cause.

My sentence is already decided by the Confederate Army.

I will die.

Surely, I would have fled had they not conditioned me into trading my life to take two so that freedom for the Great South may live forever.

Everyone sings and boasts loudly, but at night I hear anxious whispers. The Union is fast pushing south.

I wonder what would happen if I just stood still on the battlefield while everyone else thrashed about, loading and firing and stumbling and cursing? All the muskets and cannons would miss me. But no, my own side will shoot me for that.

There’s a funny yet chilling feeling in my gut as I recall that only a couple of weeks ago, I was fishing along the banks of the beloved Mississippi and skipping stones along its nearby estuaries without a care in the world. Then two important looking officers on horseback came riding tall in shiny boots and gold buttons. They told me to “Sign this paper, son, and make your mother proud!”

Pretending to know how to read and write, I looked at the tiny words on the paper and then I marked an ‘x’ after the ‘X’.

The men squared up and one boomed, “Were looking for a war hero just like you, young soldier. Follow us!"

Hurry up and take the damned picture, please! This too-tight, wool uniform itches something awful. Why didn’t I pay attention in Sunday school and later in church? Is my soul clean and good? Is it pure? I think now is a good time for a solemn prayer: God, please forgive me for stealing that ladies’ underwear catalogue from Rodger’s and Drysdale’s. And please forgive me for anything else I did wrong, too.

I wonder if the other soldiers in my outfit are as scared as I am. Our grim, dirty, hungry expressions all look the same, despite our age differences. I feel drained and swindled. God forbid if all these people in here should realize how terrified I really am. My never-ending fatigue is all that keeps me from trembling or from even allowing a big tear welling in my eye to fall noticeably down my cheek. Why do we do this? Why don’t I know anything?

At last, the light flash is seen and heard, and that little puff of smoke seeps upward. I wipe my eye.

Frozen within myself, I now wait for somebody to tell me what next to do.