#fridayflash

Hospitality

#fridayflash, Fantasy, My fridayflash, Uncategorized 16 Responses »

May 102012

The three horsemen ambled round the bend heading east, laughing at their own bawdy tales. Upon seeing a cottage the lead man, Ladif, pulled up. The other two reigned in and fell silent, their horses nickering beneath them.

“Well now, looks like we’ve found a place where we can take a load off,” Ladif said.

They spurred their horses forward, turned from the road, and ambled through the gate. The men bore no livery, their tack was old and worn, their clothing all but rags. Three desperate men, in very desperate times.

They came to a halt once in the yard and Ladif, the tallest of the three, called out for anyone in the house. The horse beneath him shied nervously. Ladif responded with a harsh yank on the reigns.

“You keep treating your horse like that, Ladif, and she’ll be done with you some day, mark my words,” Ceb scolded as he dismounted his own dapple gray. He patted her flanks and took a moment to inspect her right hoof. She seemed to be favoring it of late.

Ladif responded with a series of curses aimed both at his horse and Ceb.

“Wallup, see if anyone’s home,” Ladif told the third man.

Wallup rode right to the door and pounded on it with the sole of his well worn boot. “Oy! Anyone there? Come on, now, show some hospitality to three wandering knights.” Getting no response he leaned down and tried the latch. It did not move. “Locked,” he snarled and backed the horse away. He dismounted, approached the door again, and began to heave his shoulder to it.

“Leave it be,” Ceb called from over by the well. “I’ve found this…” He held up a piece of parchment. “’Twas in the bucket.” His horse was now slaking her thirst.

“What?” Wallup scoffed.

“Says, ‘Leave in peace and peace shall follow you.’ It’s got hex marks on it,” Ceb warned.

“Pfhat! Witchcraft. Load of crap I tell you.” The man returned to abusing the door. After three good tries it heaved to. He fell in as it gave way.

Ladif laughed when Wallup went sprawling, dismounted, and followed him in.

“Naught worth having,” Ladif complained when he reappeared a few minutes later. Despite his words he held a loosely tied bundle in his left hand.

“Too bad, too,” said Wallup following right behind, twirling a woman’s blousey tunic, squeezing the empty bosoms with a grin. “Could of had some fun, eh?”

Once the horses were watered they remounted and continued on to the east.

Ceb returned two days later, leading two riderless horses. He reigned in at the gate, dismounted his dapple gray, and tied the other two steeds to the fence. He laid a bundle, loosely tied within a tunic, just inside the gate. Then he backed to his horse, made a warding sign, remounted, and galloped away.
~

Image a painting by Paul Cézanne circa 1865-1867 via WikiMedia Commons

Reconnecting

#fridayflash, Cross Genre, My fridayflash 14 Responses »

May 042012

A glass of beer I hadn’t seen these guys in years, not since high school graduation. We used to hang out together all the time, roaming the neighborhood, never really doing anything bad, nevertheless always on the lookout for cops. Jack nearly always had a nickle bag of pot on him – just enough to keep us paranoid. People called them the Three Musketeers: Jack, Pete, and Darren. I was always the odd man out, the musketeer wanna-be. On most occasions they let me hang with them. I felt like I was in then, and took the ribbing they gave me as part of the dues for being cool.

Now we sat around a table in the dimly lit McNeal’s Bar and Grill. The place was crowded, loud, and smokey – no place I had ever been and no place I would have ever picked. But then, they never asked me. Pete still smoked like a chimney so they chose someplace where he could indulge his habit.

Jack signaled the bar girl, sticking up four fingers to order another round. He still liked to play the central roll, mister big shot, though now I knew I made more than twice his annual income. Who says high school reunions are worthless? Fine by me, let him pay.

“So what ever happened to Brenda Small?” Darren asked as he worked the shells off a handful of peanuts. Jack flinched. Pete took a quick drink of his beer.

Brenda and I had been an item in my Junior year. Beautiful girl, lovely personality, sharp as hell. Never did put out for me, but that made me like her even more.

“She died,” I said.

Darren’s smile drooped into a slight frown.

“Oh man, sorry to hear that. I didn’t know…” He tossed the shelled peanuts into his mouth and started chewing. “How’d that happen?”

“Her husband killed her.”

“No shit.” He shook his head. “Too bad you two didn’t get married.”

Wasn’t it though.

Jack abruptly stood to go to the bathroom just as the new rounds arrived. Pete followed shortly. Darren and I sat in awkward silence until he distracted himself by scanning the bar for likely pickups. No matter he had a wife and three kids waiting for him at home.

It was no secret the Three Musketeers were the ones who spread the rumors about me during our last summer of school. One of Jack’s football team buddies, Mark Ritter, had taken a shine to Brenda. Since we were going steady he needed something to break her away. I found out later that Jack came up with the idea.

Rumors started circulating that I poisoned a dog and tortured cats. None of it was true, but people started repeating it. A lot of my classmates started looking at me differently. I told Brenda it wasn’t true but when she asked around well, there were three of my closest friends all saying some version of, “Uh huh.” She dropped me like a hot rock.

Brenda went on to marry Mark Ritter. Then last year, two days before their seventeenth anniversary Mark came home drunk and beat her for the last time.

Now, a night after our twentieth high school reunion the four of us spent the evening catching up on where we were in life as if nothing had happened. I sipped my beer and bided my time. When the three of them were good and gone I suggested they’d had enough and should head home to sleep it off.

“I think Jack can still drive,” I advised as I led the way to Jack’s car.

Timing was important. I had to get them into the car before the roofies rendered them completely unmanageable. Jack climbed into the driver’s seat and fumbled to get the keys into the ignition. I helped Pete into the front seat and then barely managed to get Darren into the back. Once safely tucked away I put on a pair of gloves and turned the key. Jack’s Taurus fired right up.

The unsigned suicide note I placed between Jack and Pete read, “We made a pact in high school to go out together. All for one, and one for all. It’s time. The drugs and booze should ease the way. We are sorry.”

I ran the garden hose I’d stolen from Jack’s yard last night from the exhaust into the back window, closed the door, and quietly walked away.
~

Photo by HeadCRasher via Flickr Creative Commons – attribution, noncommercial, and share alike.

Selection Bias

#fridayflash, My fridayflash, Paranormal 15 Responses »

Apr 062012

I woke in a cold sweat, my chest heavy as if someone were sitting on it. I reached for the phone, but not to call 911. I needed to get in touch with Doctor Heady – he’s my shrink. No kidding.

I’ve been seeing Doc Head (as I call him) for about three years now. I have dreams, very vivid dreams. They are prescient in nature, and often very disturbing. The one I just had left me shaken. I fumbled for my cell phone. The lighted numbers looked bleary in my half-awake state, but I could dial his number by touch, I’d called it so often. I glanced at the clock – 2:05am. My pulse rate was already dropping as the panic subsided. As the panic subsided the dream quickly began to fade. His phone rang. Once. Twice. On the third ring his voice mail picked up.

“Hello. This is Doctor Monroe Heady. You have reached me after hours. If this is a true medical emergency please hang up and call 911 immediately. If this is important, but not a true medical emergency please call the service at…” I clapped my phone shut. I should have known better.

He used to take calls after hours. He’s a shrink. Some of the folks he sees have suicidal tendencies. But after treating me for just over a year he switched to a service. He couldn’t take my constant night calls. I felt bad about that, the thought that someone might actually go over the edge and would not be able to get ahold of Doc Head because of me. So far no one had. At least I did not have that hanging over me as well.

Doc Head says I suffer from a severe case of survivor guilt, probably brought on by the collision. I don’t buy it. I feel bad that Randy died, but he was driving, not me. He’s the one who tried to beat the train.

It took six months for Doc to dig the collision out of me. He said the fact that I had buried it so deeply indicates just how much it disturbed me. Bull. I had not buried it. I simply dismissed it as irrelevant. I’ve never felt guilty about that wreck. Hell, I begged Randy to stop.

He says I am not prescient, that I have disturbing dreams about accidents because I was in one, and that when one of the dreams “seems” to play out on the news I latch onto it as an event I had predicted. It’s called selection bias, where you remember the hits and forget the misses.

But I don’t have misses.

But I have plenty of guilt. I see these things coming, then when I wake up they immediately start to fade. I’m left with a nagging sense of doom. Then when they do show up on TV I curse myself for not having remembered enough of the details to warn the people.

He had me start a dream diary. He told me that if I wrote down my dreams as soon as I woke up then I’d remember them better, and then I’d have an objective record of what I got right and what I got wrong. Said that in no time I’d see that I was no better than random chance.

He was right. And wrong.

I do remember them better if I write them down right away, though details are often still fuzzy. However, he was dead wrong about selection bias. Every single one of them comes to pass. That stumped the old fart.

But I still can’t do anything about them. I’ve tried warning people, but they think I’m nuts. Some even call the cops. I have three restraining orders on my kitchen table – those were recurring nightmares. I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut.

We’re doing hypnosis now. It seems to help. He is often able to drag out details I failed to capture in my diary. Plus he’s got me wired for a trigger phrase that helps turn down the panic and let’s me get back to sleep. It’s, “Go back to sleep.” No kidding. Can’t say Doc Head doesn’t have a sense of humor.

I flipped open my phone and pressed the Voice Memo button.

“Had another one. This one was about Doc Head.” I sat for a moment in silence. I had waited too long. The dream had faded to naught but a sense of dread. “I think he died.”

I flipped the phone shut and laid back down. “Go back to sleep,” I said, and immediately drifted off again.

I woke again at 4:17. I groped for my phone. This time I did not bother to call, I just pressed the Voice Memo and started talking.

“Doc Head, this is really important. You need to cancel your newspaper subscription or something. You get hit by a car out on your lawn when you’re stooping to pick it up. I’m not sure of the date, I couldn’t make that out, but it was so vivid. I think it will be soon. Your tulips are blooming. The idiot never even applied the brakes. Probably a drunk, like when the Fredricks girl got hit. I think it was a red Lexus…” I paused. I drive a red Lexus. I pressed the button again to stop recording. What the… My stomach did flip-flops.

No sense going back to sleep. I stumbled into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. Then I went out to pick up the paper.

I flipped through the pages as I ate my toast and jam. Doc Head would not be taking any calls until 9:30, which was way too late if this was the fateful day. I considered driving over to his house to warn him, but restrained myself. No way I was putting a red Lexus anywhere near Doc Heady’s house. I just wasn’t going to take the chance.

Then I saw his picture on page 2B. “Local Psychiatrist Hits It Big,” read the headline. “Saw it coming,” read the sub-head. He stood there smiling as the state lottery officials handed him a huge cardboard check made out for $270,000,000 and 00 cents!!! Exclamations included. The beginning of the second paragraph leapt out at me.

“When asked how he picked his numbers, Doctor Heady replied, ‘They sort of came to me in a dream.’”

I reached for my keys.

~
© 2012 by J. M. Strother, all rights reserved.

Helping Hand

#fridayflash, Cross Genre, Guest Post 6 Responses »

Jan 272012

Tonight’s #FridayFlash is a guest post by my daughter, Emelie. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. ~jon

Helping Hand

He felt a hand grab the back of his coat and pull. His body jerked backwards. Spared from certain death, he quickly looked around in hopes of spotting his savior. A bright flash of color was all he caught. Was the individual with the orange scarf the one? He ran after the person as fast as he dared in the ice. In retrospect, he decided, it must have made it look like he was fleeing the scene.

He had barely had time to catch his breath when he was told to “Freeze.” He froze. A pair of policemen glared at him. How was this possible? He had not intended to commit a crime. He had only slipped. He frantically looked for the person who pulled him back, but the person with the orange scarf evaded his sight. If he could just find his rescuer there would be no problem.

“Are you aware that it is a crime to receive services without payment?” asked one of the policemen after he had been read his rights. “To take without giving something in return is theft.”

“Please, I don’t even know who to pay,” he protested. He thought back to the incident, trying to remember everything he could. He saw himself slipping on the ice, remembered the screech of breaks as the car skidded to a stop. It would have been too late, except for the stranger who reached out to pull him back onto the sidewalk. But no memory of the stranger’s face came to mind, just the color orange. He was no longer even sure whether the color had been on a scarf or gloves.

“Do you see yourself as entitled? Your life was spared by the hand of another, and you don’t even have the decency to acknowledge his kindness by pretending you don’t know who he is.”

“But it’s true. I never got a good look at him. I’m not even sure it was a him,” he pleaded. “Whoever it was left the scene before I could offer my thanks.”

“What a cheapskate,” said one cop to the other, “I have half a mind to push him back into the street to see if anyone would be willing to pull him back a second time, knowing that they’ll get nothing for their troubles.”

He felt the color leave his cheeks. He was about to protest again when the other officer interrupted.

“No need to threaten the man, Mike. We just need to figure out who he owes and get their statement.”

“But I’m telling you, whoever it was left. They saved my life and left without asking for anything in return.”

“Why on earth would someone do something like that?” asked Mike. His partner thought for a moment.

“Maybe he’s on the run himself, and didn’t want to hang around waiting for this guy to give him his due?”

“Only thing that makes sense, if this guy’s not making the whole thing up,” agreed Mike. He turned to the bewildered man. “You wouldn’t be lying, now would you?”

He swallowed hard before responding, “Of course not. If I knew who saved me I’d gladly pay. But all I remember is the color orange. Some orange clothing.” He fumbled with his wallet, producing a credit card to demonstrate that he would have been able and willing to pay had his rescuer stuck around.

“Please. Isn’t it possible that whoever it was just reacted out of instinct to spare me? No one likes seeing someone’s guts splashed across the pavement. Maybe they just didn’t know I needed to repay them and took off because they thought not seeing the gore was enough?” The officers considered this for a moment. To the man’s relief, they did not reject this explanation.

“Sadly you can’t prove that. How about this? We’ll take you down to the station to get your statement and keep an eye out for the rescue-and-run guy. We’ll contact the media to let them know you want to pay. If someone comes forward, we’ll question them about why they fled the scene. If we like their excuse or find that they dashed because they’re already on the run, we’ll let you off the hook.”

“Really?” He could hardly believe this. He started calculating how much this kindness would likely amount to.

“What d’ ya say, Mike, does that sound fair?”

“As long as he actually pays the guy, I don’t think there’ll be a problem. We’ll just have to deal with the one who pulled a rescue-and-run, in that case. Honestly, those guys are almost worse than the cheapskates, making it hard for us to tell when we have a thief and when they honestly couldn’t pay back a service.”

“I’m sure I’d recognize them if I saw them again,” said the relieved man. “I’ll make sure to help you get the right guy, too. The trouble he put me through.”

Old Habits

#fridayflash, Crime, Max Mann, My fridayflash 8 Responses »

Dec 302011

Max could hear it coming, the blare of the horn, the sound of tires not so much skidding as sliding through the slushy snow. He braced for the impact, tightening up reflexively when he heard the sound of metal grinding into metal. But the jolt of a rear end’r never came. He glanced into his rearview mirror and saw two cars entangled some thirty feet behind him. A late model VW had slammed into the back of an older Chevy Malibu.

“There but by the grace of God go I,” he mumbled under his breath.

An inch and a half of snow had fallen right before dawn, and that was more than enough of the white stuff needed to spell disaster in Greenville, South Carolina. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to drive in it.

While he was still trying to decide if he was getting out to help, or if that choice would be suicidal, another car – a green Subaru – slid into the back VW. The VW, in turn, once again slammed into the rear of the Chevy. The Chevy then lurched forward toward Max, and his beloved red Cadillac. He hit he gas, hoping to add more distance, but the wheels just spun in the slush. Fortunately the secondary impact did not have enough force to push the Chevy any closer than ten feet away.

That settled it, he was getting the hell off the streets. Just as he was about to ease forward the door of the Chevy popped open and the driver, a man in his late teens or early twenties, jumped out and started running.

Almost as a reflex action Max threw his car into park, yanked the keys from the ignition, and jumped out in hot pursuit. Old habits die hard.

“Hey you! Stop!” He shouted, forcing himself not to yell “Police.” That gig was over, and had ended badly.

The man made no indication of stopping and when Max tried rounding the corner of the Insurance Exchange building at a dead run his feet skidded out from under him and he fell – hard. By the time he collected himself the guy was long gone.

Must be stolen, Max reasoned as he tried swiping most of the cold wet snow off his clothing. The actions only served to push frigid water deeper into the fabric and make his hands numb. Why else would the guy run?

His attention was yanked back to the scene of the accident by the scream of a woman. A crowd was gathering at the rear of the Chevy, eliciting startled cries of dismay. Max walked back, limping a bit, and worked his way through the crowd. The trunk of the Chevy stood open, popped up by the impact. Max peered in, then staggered back a step. A man’s body curled inside, his face frozen in a leering grimace, lifeless eyes staring out upon the world.

He heard sirens approaching. “Everybody stand back,” Max ordered the crowd. Old habits again. He did not look forward to seeing his old compatriots.

What a way to start the New Year.
~

Angels We Have Heard On High

#fridayflash, Christmas, My fridayflash, Slice of Life 13 Responses »

Dec 232011

I’m told I have a good voice, but I generally don’t sing in public. I pretty well keep my performances confined to the shower or the car (when driving alone). I think my reluctance to perform publicly harkens back to my days at St. Michael’s, specifically to 7AM mass, more specifically to the choir loft during one particular 7AM mass while I was in sixth grade.

Sixth grade was a big deal for us at St. Michael’s – that was the year we got to go up into the choir loft to sing for mass during the week before starting each school day. The seventh and eighth graders got to sing at Sunday masses. We, being yet unpolished, were reserved for our classmates and the few unfortunate older parishioners who dared attend the Mass Before Class.

I was excited about singing in the choir. The choir loft had always fascinated me – it was up a winding circular staircase which was either cordoned off by a folding metal gate, or kept under the watchful eye of one of the ushers – one of those Authorized Personnel Only type of places. Now, at last, I could tromp up those steps and take a seat in a perch that gave me a whole new perspective on a church I had attended since before memory.

I was not a stand out in choir, quite satisfied to blend in with the same general undertone as all my classmates. None of us would have won any awards, but when you put all those average voices together the result is more than passable. For weeks I was quite content to meld with the rest of the crowd. As Christmas approached we began practicing Christmas carols, which I sang with more gusto than other hymns – why not, I knew most of them by heart already and I really like Christmas carols.

I also liked Gloria Zimmer, though I don’t think she even knew who I was. She sat two rows in front of me in the choir loft, the established protocol being girls in front, boys in back. One morning, just a few days before Christmas break, we turned our hymnals to P. 58 and what to my wondering eyes should appear but “Angels We Have Heard On High” – one of my favorites. We all began singing right on cue.

Knowing the song by heart I did not even have to look at the page. So my eyes wandered to the glossy black curls on the back of Gloria Zimmer’s head. I suppose my mind was more on Gloria than on world about me when we got to the refrain. I really let into it. I sang my silly heart out, belting out the long Glo..oooo..o..oooo..o..oooo..or..ria in excelsis Deo in a manner that would have made Pavarotti proud. Several of the girls sitting around Gloria tucked their heads down and giggled.

I finished the song quite pleased with myself. As Father Karlatta continued on with the mass Sister Joseph Maria wandered to the back of the choir loft. A moment later her hands came to rest, one on each of my shoulders, as she leaned down close to my ear.

“Some of us should sing more softly than others, Mister Johnson,” she whispered. She then wandered back up to the front in time to take up the organ for the exit procession – Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. I barely mouthed the words.

~
© 2011 by J. M. Strother, all rights reserved.

The Alpha and the Omega

#fridayflash, My fridayflash, Science Fiction, Uncategorized 3 Responses »

Dec 022011

NASA image of the far side of the moon If you poke God in the eye he’s bound to get pissed. At least that’s what the Luddites back on Earth are saying. We spent ten years building the Massive Lunar Interferometer, then another six months calibrating the damned thing. At last we got some clear signals – our first sampling of very low frequency radio waves from the beginnings of time. After two more months of number crunching by the eggheads back on Earth we were rewarded with mankind’s first glorious glimpse at the big bang itself.

The celebration did not last long.

While most of the world’s astronomers were focused on the view from the dark side of the moon damned if Hell didn’t open up this side of Mars in the form of an uncharted comet now dubbed Hades.

I always figured we’d destroy ourselves via one of the usual suspects – war, overpopulation, genetically modified biotics. The Near Earth Object Defense System had rendered threats from asteroids and comets a thing of the past, or so we thought. The odds of an object too large for the system to handle were astronomical – no pun intended. Well, Hades is just such an object – a mostly water/ice comet larger than Deimos that no one saw coming in anywhere near enough time.

If the calculations are right it impacted just east of the Azores about two minutes ago. So here we are on the far side of the moon gathered round the base of Array #7 watching for the plume of ejecta to rise over the horizon. Marv says it should be beautiful.

More Than Turkey

#fridayflash, My fridayflash, Slice of Life 6 Responses »

Nov 262011

On reflection, Thanksgiving dinner might not be the best time to be outed. We all sat in awkward silence after I made the big announcement – well not so much an announcement as a blunder. My dear sis, Mary, let the cat out of the bag when she asked how Bob and I had enjoyed our romantic weekend getaway to Tahoe. My cousin Rich cocked his head and arched an eyebrow at me uttering but one word, “Oh?”

Slightly piqued at the situation I turned toward him and said, “Yes, Rich. We’re gay.”

I shot a ‘gee, thanks’ look at Mary. She was the only one in the family I had told. There were never any secrets between us. Now she sat there staring down at her mashed potatoes looking mortified at her own carelessness.

At that point you could have heard a pin drop. That’s also when Grandpa came back from the john. He glanced around the silent table and asked, “What’d I miss?”

“Oh, Andy just came out of the closet,” Grandma said, waving her hand airily in my direction.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered. “About time.”

I looked at him, a bit stunned.

“What?”

“Well hell, boy, it’s not like it was a big secret,” he said resuming his seat at the head of the large table. I shot another glare at Mary who now looked stricken. She shook her head, no, denying she had let it slip at an earlier date. “Pass the stuffing,” Gramps added to Rich as he settled in.

“It’s been obvious ever since you were a teenager, Andy,” Dad said as he passed the dressing from Rich to Grandpa.

I glanced around the table. Everyone sort of nodded as if Dad had stated a truism.

“You knew?”

“Well, more like suspected,” he answered. “I mean, there are signs. When you ignored the advances of Cathy Holiday in college that sort of proved the point. The girl practically threw herself at you.”

“Plain as a toad in the pond,” Grandpa added.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I asked, now somewhat incredulous.

“None of my nevermind,” Gramps said around a mouthful of sweet potatoes. “Sort of my policy – don’t ask, don’t care.” He set his fork down and looked directly at me. The warmth in his eyes was the same as it had always been. “Hell, boy, you’re still my grandson and I love ‘ya. What business is it of mine who you live with?”

I was speechless.

“So, what’s his name?” Grandpa asked.

“Bob.”

“Well, maybe next year you can bring him,” Mom said. “Now I think I’ll have some more of that wine.”

I intercepted the bottle – it sounded like an excellent idea to me.

Sometimes Simple Works

#fridayflash, My fridayflash, Satire 6 Responses »

Nov 182011

Their footsteps echoed off the walls and domed ceiling, adding to the surreal feel of the place. Once the troops arrived all the members had been evacuated without incident. They were never actually in any danger and the troops had not been needed in the end. All the zombies had already expired.

“So they starved to death?” Captain McGuire asked. He shouldered the nozzle of his flame thrower, slightly piqued that it would not be needed.

“Yep,” Frank Martinez said. “Though technically speaking they was already dead.”

“So who came up with this plan?” McGuire asked, kicking aside a nearly detached hand that lay in his path.

“That’d be Jack, my assistant.” Frank referred to the junior member of the janitorial service he ran. “He said, ‘They eat brains’ and started barring the doors right away.”

Captain McGuire had to admit it – locking the zombies in with Congress was brilliant. He shook his head in wonder at the simplicity of it. “You just starved the beasts.”
~

So Few

#fridayflash, Ageing, My fridayflash, Recognition, Uncategorized 6 Responses »

Nov 112011

The Congressional Medal of Honor - Army An unfortunate cold front was settling in, whipping the tiny flags planted along the parade route in frenetic waves, threatening to pull some of the little dowel rod flagpoles right from the ground. Spectators tugged coats tight while trying to hold onto their hats. Through it all Harry Hernandez sat well bundled in his wheelchair, his daughter Mary Anne constantly fussing with his trappings. In the aftermath of a particularly vicious gust she leaned down and pulled his collar up, snugging it tighter around his neck.

“Quit your fussing,” he said.

“Don’t argue with me,” she countered. “I don’t want you coming down with pneumonia.”

Her daughter, Rebecca, stood huddled next to him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. While he would never admit it to Mary, Rebecca’s hand felt good there, the slight pressure just enough to cut off a little shaft of chill that tried to seep in through his coat.

He glanced up when the clapping started. A police escort of two motorcycles led the parade around the corner from Elm onto Main, followed by a red flatbed truck. It advertised Al & Ray’s Appliances, Since 1974, on the doors. Its sides bore banners that read, “They Served To Keep You Free,” and threatened to rip free at any time in the fierce wind. Atop the bed Mayor Jones and the more hardy members of the city council stood rosy cheeked, each waving an American flag. The children who normally threw candy from the truck bed were absent due to safety concerns, sensibility overriding tradition.

Harry Hernandez saluted but shook his head as the World War II contingent passed by. It was now reduced to Sam Anderson sitting in the passenger seat of his grandson’s pickup truck. Occasionally Sam would raise his hand and offer a weak wave in response to shouts of “Thank you!” from the crowd. The Anderson’s green Ford F-150 was followed by the Franklin High School Marching Band.

“Here comes Amy,” Rebecca said, removing the comfort of her hand so she could wave to her daughter, Harry’s great granddaughter. “Hi, Amy!”

The third drummer turned slightly toward them. Without missing a beat she managed to raise her drumstick to her forehead in a salute to her grandfather. Harry smiled and waved in return. She was a great kid.

When the veterans of the Koren War started rounding the corner Harry began to work his way up out of his wheelchair. He felt a restraining hand on his back. Mary leaned down and whispered, “Pop, don’t.”

But Rebecca stooped and hooked her arm under his to help raise him up. “It’s important, Mom.” It was the first year Harry was not out there marching with his compatriots. Mary Anne sighed in resignation then stepped to the other side, adding her assistance.

“Don’t over do it,” she urged.

Harry stood on wobbly legs saluting as the short column of five men came abreast. Dick Gurney turned toward him and returned the salute, while Reed Harris dipped the banner of Company A in his direction.

“So few left,” Mary Anne whispered, touching Harry on the shoulder.

“So few left,” Lieutenant Shea said, scanning down the line of the defensive positions. He looked down at his badly wounded Staff Sargent, Harry Hernandez, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re out of here, Harry.”

“I can still shoot, Lieutenant.” Harry struggled to try and sit up on the litter. The medic gently pushed him back down. Another shell exploded nearby.

“Get ‘em out of here, Charlie.” Lieutenant Shea ordered, slapping the side of the evac APC loaded with his wounded men. With a lurch the vehicle lumbered forward. Harry strained upward onto one elbow to watch as his wounded Lieutenant turned back into the fray.

As the column passed Harry sank back down into his wheelchair, muscles trembling from the effort.

“Good men, every one,” Harry said, his voice catching a bit in his throat. He gave another salute for Lieutenant Shea.

~
Historical note: First Lieutenant Richard Shea received the Congressional Medal of Honor posthumously for his actions in the final weeks of the Korean War. While wounded he personally lead several counter attacks to try and repel enemy advancements in what is now known as the Second Battle of Pork Chop Hill. You can read more about him here. All other charters in this story are completely fictional. I salute Lieutenant Shea, and all veterans of our armed forces, both living and dead.