Prose Poem: Red for the Rebel

Red for the rebel, for the blood spilt in the name of revolution. Red for the battered flag and the men weary of freedom fighting. Red for bullet-ridden brick, for the child's shoe laying in a puddle. Red for the raging battle cries that make throats hoarse. Red for the red-rimmed eyes of the captain who lost too many men. Red for the angry mother who will never see her child again. Red for the father too old to fight but may God damn him if he watches another son die. Red for the festering wounds. Red for the championed weighed down by medals, for his lost friends he couldn't save. Red for the sunset, another day. Red for high noon when heat simmers blood and the dying cry out "God, let it end!" Red for the boy ripped from his family and handed a rifle too big for his hands. Red for the sister who wants to fight. Red for the women left in the doorway. Red for the barefoot soldiers stealing a dead man's boots who won't need them. Red for the fire, the only warmth they have. Red for torn uniforms. Red for the unmarked graves. Red for the enemy passing through town. Red for the citizens who don't know who is right and who is wrong, only who is dead. Red for the triumphant day when the sun reveals victory. Red for the day when friends fall. Red for the red haze of adrenaline, for the heat of battle. Red for the fight. Red for the bullet. Red for the dead. Red for the rebel.

Flash Fiction: When the Letters Stopped

war

/wôr/

noun

1. a state of armed conflict between different nations or states or different groups within a nation or state.

There were two times my brother came home. The first was before Christmas. He came stumbling through the door lips purpled by the cold but smiling. I, heedless of the chill of his clothes, jumped up and wrapped my skinny little girl arms around his neck.

"Hello, little colonel. Miss me?" he asked.

"No," I insisted just before Mum and Dad converged on us and squished me against my brother's strong legs. They pushed him into the kitchen where Mum shoved a mug of hot coffee into his hands while Dad hung his jacket in the closet and put the duffle bags into his old room.

Mum dragged me into the kitchen "so the boys can talk" and made me heat up some of the Christmas stew she was saving for Christmas Eve. When I brought a big bowl out to my brother Dad was talking in his gravelly, angry voice and my brother stared at the wall, but he smiled when I gave him the bowl. My palms were pink from the heat.

"How ya doing, colonel?"

bully

/ˈbo͝olē/

noun

1. a person who habitually seeks to harm or intimidate those whom they perceive as vulnerable.

"I punched William in the nose yesterday!" That was my proudest fact for many years after and, much to my mild mother's chagrin, I would tell anyone who asked me how I was doing.

"Did you now?"

"Yeah! You shoulda seen him cry and his nose got all fat and ugly."

"Honey, why don't you go help your Mum in the kitchen."

"I'm talking, Dad."

"Go."

"Fiiine."

kitchen

/ˈkiCH(ə)n/

noun

1. a room or area where food is prepared and cooked.

My brother didn't come home again for another year and then only for a few days. He didn't say much other than ask me how I liked school, I didn't, and if my teacher was any good. I liked her, but I thought she was kind of dim. Before he left, he told me he'd be gone for a long time, that I might almost be done with school.

school1

/sko͞ol/

noun

1. an institution for educating children.

For a few years we received letters each month telling about what he was doing in his spare, the people he'd met, how terrible the food was. He never wrote about the war. Mum said it was because he didn't want to worry me, but I wanted to know the details. I had to know what it was like to tramp across the land with a weapon in hand, to feel the midday sun burning your skin. I was obsessed with war and the gross, gritty, nasty things that came with it.

Then the letters stopped.

missing in action

adjective

1. (of a member of the armed forces) not yet traced or confirmed as either alive or dead.

We got one more letter weeks later. Mum wouldn't let me see it, but I saw her cry before she finished reading. Dad sat down and didn't say a word. He looked like a melting statue. Teachers at school pulled me aside, said they understood if I needed to take some time to myself, said they were there if I needed to talk.

"He's coming back," I'd say. They'd pucker their lips, smile sadly, and pat my back.

"Okay"

prisoner of war

noun

1. a person who has been captured and imprisoned by the enemy in war.

"So, go get him."

"It's not that simple, honey."

"Why? They know where he is. They can just go in and take him back."

"Honey, your brother knows a lot of things. It won't be easy to bring him back, but they're doing everything they can."

"If they were, he'd be back already."

homecoming

/ˈhōmˌkəmiNG/

noun

1. an instance of returning home.

I was done with school and intending to visit my parents after a date gone sour with some wannabe college jock who didn't know the topside of a football from the bottom, only that the topside of a beer went against his mouth and the bottom went up. I walked in to a gaunt-faced stranger sitting on my favorite chair. His military uniform was decorated with a dozen medals that meant nothing to me.

"Mum...?" I called, frozen at the top stair, captivated by this man who I could probably snap in half without straining.

"Hey, colonel," the man said distantly. Mum came out just before I could rush headlong into my brother's arms and stopped me. I tried to wrench free, but she gave me a stern glare.

"Slowly," she breathed.

"Hey," I croaked.

"How ya doing?"

"Good. You?"

"I'm alright. Mum said you work down at the store."

"Yeah. Other places wanted a degree. I don't have one of those."

My brother laughed. For a moment I recognized him. Mum pulled me into her room and closed the door.

"What happened?" I hissed. Mum tried to hug me, and I pulled away. "Tell me."

"They found him. They found your brother."

That wasn't my brother. My brother was loud, happy, bigger than life. He filled the room with warmth whenever he entered. That frail man sitting in the living room was not any of those. He wore my brother's body, or what was left, but he didn't act like him.

That night we tiptoed around my brother, barely speaking to him. Mum was overly cheerful, but I could see the tears brimming in her eyes when she thought no one was looking. Dad sat on the couch reading his newspaper. I'd never seen him read before. My brother sat in the chair, alternating between watching us and sleeping. I watched him while he slept and wondered if he really ever came back.

I didn't think so.

Flash Memoir: Blood Hands

Hands are red: little fleshy pink thing laced with blue veins and crimson tissue.

My hands were always chapped from the cold until they bled little metallic drops of red.

They say humidity helps, but going south reminds me of my violent red splattered youth

When the mosquitoes filled up fat and lazy on my red, red blood

And the fleas feasted until they burst.

The mosquitos were the most annoying.

Droning on and on and on, they demanded

Blood.

Blood.

Blood.

When the winds died down and the sun lowered, they come:

Thicker than fog, louder than a tornado siren.

The fleas are more subtle, smaller, no bigger than the period at the end of this sentence.

But look at the under a microscope.

Scrutinize them.

See that they become huge, horrifying monsters underneath a clear lens.

Mosquitoes are red: bloodthirsty and hungry.

Fleas are red: monstrous and dirty.

Now look at my hands.

Now look at your hands.

See that they take and they take and they take.

See the mosquito and how it sucks up blood and leaves behind disease

See the flea how it carries disease that wipes out vast populations

See our hands; fleshy pink things soaked in blood, leaving behind war and ruin.

Do you see why I can't go back where the mosquitos suck up my blood and fleas bite?

It is because the remind me of the blood I have taken.

I will stay where the cold takes a little metallic blood at a time as payment for my past.