Eight a.m. phone call.
Six dead soldiers on the table, another four standing to attention, saluting, awaiting inspection. A voice, unheard for a decade. Recognized immediately.
“He’s gone. Service is Friday. You coming?”
His father’s funeral, as swift as the back of his calloused fist used to be.Walking home, past the boarded-up record store; images of the cool girl who worked behind the counter and how everybody lusted after her.
The sound of her laughter, watching her sneak a cigarette break. Wondering whether she finally quit. Taking a sip from a fresh bottle, hoping like hell that she did.
“Twenty-six letters rearranged then placed upon a page never ceases to amaze.” – the writer