By B.G. Smith
He sat on a bench at the bus stop and watched youngsters play tag in a schoolyard across the street. A smile appeared on his unshaven face as he recalled his youth – years before he went off to fight in Iraq, where his inner child died in a bloodstained building in Fallujah.
The laughter of children at recess was drowned out by the unrelenting screams inside his head. He signaled to the bus driver to continue, took a long pull from his whiskey bottle, and laid back down on his makeshift bed of wood and steel.
“I write because I couldn’t hit the curveball.” – the writer