How To Dissect The Soul Of A Poor Warrior

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Abstract

ratch the blue sky with their nails. The Black Hawk is boarding every man. My pilot is a woman, a Night Stalker, Elizabeth. We were once lovers under the camouflage and the curtains of ranks. The rotor is loud; I want to tell Elizabeth that her wings make me feel safe. We take off in silence; robotic voices get lost in the headphones. Some of us pray, others sing in their heads, but we all miss home, even the places and arms that no longer love us.</p><p id="d8c6">A sense of self-fabricated pride tames the fear and allows us to look at each one for what we are: people. Romanticism is over; Tahin’s shit dried up, and now his tan boots are painted brown. We can’t even laugh at the man. ‘That’s romantic, brother,’ I say as the crewmen drop the ropes. “GO, GO, GO!” screams the team leader as we try to find the cojones to grab the rifles and do our jobs. I glance at Elizabeth as it is my turn to repel the rope. She winks. I summon a diabetic smirk. “GO SOLDIER, GO!” screams the team leader again, meeting my eyes with r

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espect. I repel; my hands are burning through the thick brown gloves. Feet first on the solid dusty landing zone that is supposedly a street in this God-forsaken country. I run forward, trusting that my friends are sword and shield. I take cover behind an abandoned car. The tornado of red dust dissipates as Elizabeth takes away the metal bird. I am sweating, my heart racing like Leclerc on a curve, and about to pee myself. Tahin is holding position, and Seon is ready to play Rambo. There are cracks and hissing sounds at twelve o’clock. We need to get in shock combat formation. I pray again, breathe, and think of my mother, lovers, Elizabeth, sisters, brothers, and father. My legs are shaking. Gotta move. I grab my knife and stab my right leg to replace the fear with pain. Good. I take the carbine, adjust my right eye to the red dot sight, and move forward. Rifle gently raised, eyes closed, I speak to the spirits. I am sorry, abuelas. I am sorry I had to come home this way. Will you forgive me?</p></article></body>

Short Story

Blessed be the Lord who trains my hands for war and my fingers for battle; I pray, in the valley of the shadow of death, I meet my maker, the Divine power. The concrete soil is trembling. The orders are clear, “shoot only when shot upon.” Seon is on my right, thrilled with the sound of chaos. Tihan is on my left; he just defecated his pants, and his smell is Tom Ford’s cologne compared to the dead bodies we bagged the other day. It is sunny; the ocean is only a few miles away. I am in my blood’s ancestral home. I am in Africa.

The fighter jets scratch the blue sky with their nails. The Black Hawk is boarding every man. My pilot is a woman, a Night Stalker, Elizabeth. We were once lovers under the camouflage and the curtains of ranks. The rotor is loud; I want to tell Elizabeth that her wings make me feel safe. We take off in silence; robotic voices get lost in the headphones. Some of us pray, others sing in their heads, but we all miss home, even the places and arms that no longer love us.

A sense of self-fabricated pride tames the fear and allows us to look at each one for what we are: people. Romanticism is over; Tahin’s shit dried up, and now his tan boots are painted brown. We can’t even laugh at the man. ‘That’s romantic, brother,’ I say as the crewmen drop the ropes. “GO, GO, GO!” screams the team leader as we try to find the cojones to grab the rifles and do our jobs. I glance at Elizabeth as it is my turn to repel the rope. She winks. I summon a diabetic smirk. “GO SOLDIER, GO!” screams the team leader again, meeting my eyes with respect. I repel; my hands are burning through the thick brown gloves. Feet first on the solid dusty landing zone that is supposedly a street in this God-forsaken country. I run forward, trusting that my friends are sword and shield. I take cover behind an abandoned car. The tornado of red dust dissipates as Elizabeth takes away the metal bird. I am sweating, my heart racing like Leclerc on a curve, and about to pee myself. Tahin is holding position, and Seon is ready to play Rambo. There are cracks and hissing sounds at twelve o’clock. We need to get in shock combat formation. I pray again, breathe, and think of my mother, lovers, Elizabeth, sisters, brothers, and father. My legs are shaking. Gotta move. I grab my knife and stab my right leg to replace the fear with pain. Good. I take the carbine, adjust my right eye to the red dot sight, and move forward. Rifle gently raised, eyes closed, I speak to the spirits. I am sorry, abuelas. I am sorry I had to come home this way. Will you forgive me?