by 
by
A loud blast from the dinner horn sounded across the camp. Dobbins tossed the letter onto his bunk, stood up, and pulled back the flap of the tent door. He cocked his eyebrow and grinned, “Well, boys, what do you say? Wanna go get us some of that crap they call ‘food’ from the Dog House? My stomach is literally eating itself.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s about that time,” I drawled as I grabbed my jacket from where it was hanging at the end of my bunk and followed the rest of the men out of the tent.
“Watch out for that… hole,” laughed Dobbins as several guys sunk up to their ankles in mud. As he tugged his own foot free, Dobbins’ hand went to his pocket where the stockings were kept. As we stomped and scraped our boots on the steps at the mess hall, I glanced back and saw Dobbins pause at the edge of the porch, breathing hard. “You ok?” I asked, turning back to give him a hand.
He waved me off, “Naw, I’m good.” He grinned, grabbed the door handle, and, pulling it open, bowed with a flourish of his arm, “After you, my friend.” I chuckled and threw my arm over his shoulder.
As we entered the hall, I could feel the tense and uptight muscles in my shoulders and back instantly relax. Men were sitting close together around the long tables in the room and the air was filled with the sounds of joking, laughter, and camaraderie.
“Time to get us some grub!” Dobbins patted his belly and strutted over to the end of the line at the back of the building, picking up two trays and handing one to the guy behind him. He called out to one of the men serving the food, “Hey, Cal! You seriously don’t think I’m gonna waste my time in this line of yours? That slop isn’t even worth the wait!”
Cal gave Dobbins a give-me-a-break look and laughed, “Dob, you ask that question every day you come in here. Do you really think the answer’s gonna change?”
“You never know,” Dobbins grinned. “You could have a change of heart one of these days for a good ol’ friend who hasn’t had a decent meal in who knows how long.”
“Ain’t happenin’. You gotta wait your turn just like everyone else does”
“Grump. See if I ever do you a favor again.”
“You never do anyway.” Cal smirked as he plopped meat and potatoes on Dobbins’ tray.
Dobbins winked, “You’re catchin’ on pretty quick.” As our group sat down at one of the empty tables and started eating, the loudspeakers crackled to life, making some of us jump:
“All troops are now being put on immediate stand-by. I repeat; all troops are on immediate stand by. Await further orders. Over.”
At that, Dobbins slowly pulled the stockings out of his pocket and wrapped them around his neck and shoulders. All eyes were drawn to him. “No sweat, guys. We’ll make it.
-Written for Creative Writing on October 30, 2011
by
A blood red sun shone through a thick veil of smoke over an ominously quiet town. Black ashes fluttered in the wind, like the snow of death. Traces of gasoline lingered on the light breeze blowing through the skeletal structure of what was once a house. Charred doors stood as if still attached to a non-existent wall and shards of glass littered the surrounding grass. Large crows with black, beady eyes pecked among the burnt remnants of what was once a kitchen. Blackened cupboards with their doors lopsidedly hanging, melted trash cans, and a shattered cookie jar yielded their contents to the persistent pecking. Metal bed frames stood out in stark contrast to the ghostly white remains of a bedroom wall that easily flaked at the slightest touch. A smoky mirror hung, cock-eyed, in what was once a bedroom. At its foot lay the broken pieces of picture frames, a young child’s smiling face peeking out between the remains of a hand-crafted frame that had managed to escape the hungry flames. Outside, on the scarred lawn covered in debris, there stood a sturdy sycamore tree. Several of its branches had been suddenly amputated and a large chunk had been gouged out of its trunk. Tucked in the nook of the roots at the base of the tree, a well-worn rag doll sat with a childlike, yet expectant look on its face. Her body was disproportionate from years of cuddling and the smile on her face, though nearly worn off from numerous kisses, was one that even tragedy could not erase.
– Written October 6, 2011 for Creative Writing
by
It was the day before Christmas Eve in New York City. Blaring car horns traveled through the alleyways and down the streets, while the sounds of Frank Sinatra’s “White Christmas” drifted out of store entrances, beckoning to the passing shoppers. White flakes danced on the wind as they swirled down from the thick, gray blanket of clouds. Children’s faces were turned up to the sky with their tongues hanging out in an attempt to catch the small, cold morsels, while parents and grandparents held tight to their coat sleeves so as not to lose them in the stampede of Christmas shoppers.
Amongst all the hustle and bustle of the city, a small, round man shook his head as he watched passers-by scurry from door to door as if they could keep the cold at bay by moving faster. Sitting in a little run-down shack, surrounded by racks of soon-to-be Christmas trees, Elias watched as young Islamic women made their way up the stone steps of the new Islamic Cultural Center across the street. Elias rolled his eyes, “America; the land of the free,” he muttered with a harsh laugh. “I guess that makes New York the city of diversity.”
Elias looked like your stereotypical Jew: a gartel was hanging from his waist, a kippah was perched on his head, and he was sporting a thick, curly beard. But, while he looked the part, Elias certainly didn’t act the part of a devout Jew. While other Jews didn’t observe the Christmas holiday, Elias could be found every Christmas season on his little portion of the sidewalk, surrounded by rows upon rows of trees.
Turning, he straightened his cloth belt and glanced around at the mixture of prospective buyers wandering among his blue spruce and white pine trees. Moms and dads stood in small groups while their kids ran helter skelter, pointing out various trees they thought would be the perfect size for their house. Elias heard their giggles and laughter ringing through the air as the wind whipped toward him. Pulling his coat closer around him, he burrowed his face down into his beard, trying to defrost his nose.
As he watched a small boy in an oversized blue winter coat, wearing a fluffy coonskin cap pulled down low over his ears, bouncing around like a jumping bean as he pointed out the perfect tree to his chuckling father, Elias thought. “This is the life I want for Tina and me.” Just then he caught the disapproving glance of the Jewish rabbi as he hurried past on his way to the synagogue to pray. Every year, during the Christmas holiday, Elias always felt like throwing his head back and screaming to the wind, “This is America; the land where anyone can be anything they want to be!” So what if his girlfriend, Tina, was a Christian and believed that Jesus was the Messiah? So what if the Jews and Muslims that surrounded his little Christmas tree stand didn’t agree with his beliefs?
Yet, Elias acknowledged the rabbi with a nod, all while grumbling under his breath, “Judgmental old coot.”
by
The lines of traffic seemed endless. Fumes from hundreds of exhaust pipes choked the air surrounding Anthony Peccari as he brooded in his idling blue Ford Ranger. His normally slick blonde hair stuck up in odd places, his dress shirt was untucked and rumpled, his suit jacket tossed carelessly on the passenger seat. A blast from the car horn next to him jerks him back to reality. Mindlessly glancing up at the red light, he let his thoughts drift back once again to when he had received the devastating news that afternoon. 
by
© 2024 Anna's Alcove
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
