Sweat

A bead of sweat dropped from my chin, closely followed by another. And another. And another one after that. The dirt where they hit the ground began to absorb them one by one. It devoured the moisture. Just like this place devours the psyche of everyone that comes here. Godforsaken place.

Should have packed the sweatband. Then again, I’m beginning to think that I should have never enlisted. Too bad life doesn’t offer savepoints. What counts now is that I’m here, in this desert, without any backup or any supplies. To put it short – I’m, in all probability, fucked.

The squad got slaughtered half-a-mile down the road. First an IED, then an onslaught of bullets finished off what the explosion had begun. The screams of the guys muted by the steady rumble of SMG fire. Or the other way around. I can’t tell which was louder. Or more terrifying. Jackson had the back of his head blown off.  Pollock got a burst to the the stomach with one bullet piercing his femoral artery. They were lucky. They died within seconds. McNeil didn’t have the luxury. He took three in the chest and drowned in his own blood.

It was nothing like the movies. Those tend to overemphasize either the tragedy or the heroism of those that died. In real life there’s a little bit of both – but not nearly as much as you’d expect from watching Hurt Locker or Green Berets. And its far more odious. And mind-fucking. You see, an actor will never convincingly portray the last gaze of a dying man. Impossible. Pollock’s eyes, going from focused on surviving to blankly vague could never be recreated on set. Nor the sheer terror that emanated from McNeil’s gape. He knew what was coming. But he frantically tried to fight it off. Jackson never even got to that part. The hollow-point that  went through his forehead eviscerated him of that luxury.

Another bead drops to the ground. This time of day I’ll fry before any help arrives. Or dehydrate.Or get shot by one of them. If I had a choice, I’d go for the last option. Shouldn’t have run from the Humvee. Should have let them shoot me there. Should have died with the rest. Too bad life doesn’t offer save points.

All I was offered was the M14 with a scope and 120 rounds of ammo. I’m down to 5. And the last clip in my M9. Resigned as I may be, I’m not going to go down without a fight. If there is an afterlife, I’d never be able to look myself in the eye if I did. The paradox of dying I guess. It happens to all of us, but we always try to fight it. To postpone it. To get one more breath in.One more stolen wink at the outside world. Pollock and McNeil did. And failed. Jackson got no such chance. In hindsight, I guess he was the lucky one.

I scan the area surrounding my current position. The wreck is half-a-mile away. I can still see the bodies of the guys. I can still smell the burning diesel fuel mixed with gunpowder. Or my imagination says I can.

Flashbacks of the explosion. Broken glass. The numbing pain of hitting the ground yards away from the Humvee. The sight of muzzle-flash in the middle of the night. Then the hiding. The cowering. The shots taken from clandestine locations. The sight of them falling lifeless to the ground, not knowing what exactly hit them. More importantly, not knowing where it came from. Jackson getting out of the wreck, firing his M249 in every direction. His unbuckled helmet hitting the ground right before his head does. Pollock throwing grenades, and firing his M9. And Mcneill, hit before he could even take the safety off. Two of them left. Both hit right in kill spot. Both dead. Blackout.

Creativity hampered… No more!

This post should probably start with my admission of pure laziness, but that would turn out to trife. Plus, if you are reading this, it is more than likely that you know me personally, hence no real need for such a confession exists. You know better than I how long it takes me to get around to doing something.

That being said, and a “meta-confession” somewhat extracted, I’d like to present my latest project – a narrative that you will find unravelling here. Do take a look, an if you feel like it, do leave some sort of opinion.

Just a few more clicks of the keyboard

I’ve finally sat down and written a new short. Nothing fancy, mind You, but a story nonetheless. Now, if I just find the time to polish it to a nice shine, I might publish it here. Wait and see.

And for a while it did.

It made perfect sense. Those few careless years still hold some of the fondest memories of pleasures that only became guilty when I attained the almost-adult age of about fourteen. Fate, or the good Lord, if You choose o believe in him, as I have my small doubts, decided to intervene, and presented me with the opi of a small group called Pearl Jam and their predecessors– Sound Garden. Even I, with my almost chaste and still underdeveloped taste in music, began to feel something was blatantly far from right with those simple tunes I found so pleasing. They became simply pleasing. And in a certain way derogatory and insulting to the taste that had agreed with them not so far back. Suddenly, I rediscovered the very sources of my musical identity. The Rolling Stones and the Beatles returned to my Walkman, and the LPs they recorded played continuously on my parents’ adapter. These bands never took away their cool temper, though, as they were the ones who actually introduced me to the classic, timeless and, as I understood it then and they still understand now, innocent music of rock ‘n roll.

Here’s to humble beginnings

I discovered the Beatles when I was six. The Doors came rushing down on me a few years later, followed closely by Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, and Jimi Hendrix. I became a cliche at the ripe, adult age of ten and ever since have tried, more or less unsuccessfully to free myself from this framework. I took turns into musical and literary genres that I despised beforehand and despise now. I developed a profound affection for Eurotrash, which might have budded because of the music itself, or, with myself being a boy on the verge of puberty, because of the performers, the female ones at least. I also had an insatiable lust for the kitschy art of mainstream comic-books. Marvel Superheroes, novel-to-film-to-comic adaptations, those were the things that made my literary taste buds tingle. Now I look at my past photographs, and remembering myself from those times, sport a little blush of shame on both cheeks, the sort You get when You sleep with your best friend’s more-than-hot sister. On the purely physical side it is a blast, but it still inherently makes you feel wrong. At those particular moments in my life, though, it all seemed to make perfect sense.