air_fletcher

Outside Stalingrad

Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:10:45 GMT

I awoke to an unfathomable confusion. First silence, then bright light, then unimaginable noise. Explosions. Bombs. Gunfire. A mortar explodes nearby and we are covered with ice and mud and ash. Someone is directly over me, his face inches from mine. Suddenly it all comes back. I am outside of Stalingrad. We are finally pushing the Germans back. I don’t know how long I’ve been out. In my confusion, I yell, “Is it still today?’ He looks confused at my question, then asks, “Are you OK? Does it hurt?” He looks down at the ground as if embarrassed at having asked a stupid question and corrects himself, “How much does it hurt?” I am still dazed and go over his words. I don’t know what day it is or what could or should be hurting. I look into his face. He is young, half my age, maybe fifteen. He probably became a medic when they ran out of guns. I see a tear in his eye. He is crying for me. A tear enters my own eye for him, for his compassion, for his lost youth. He calls; “your arm, what can I do for your arm?” I follow his gaze to where my left arm should be. There is a mutilated piece of flesh. I grab it. It is cold and without feeling. I lift it. It completely severed from my body. I slowly turn it in my hand as if to see how to reattach it. I look at my shoulder to see where it should go. My mind is totally baffled. There is a third arm. I have grown a new arm? It occurs to my new friend before I figure out what has happened. The severed arm is not mine. It was torn from some other poor soul’s body. A slight smile of relief crosses both of our faces. We are two strangers , but as close as any two men have ever been. For an instant we share a joy of life and brotherhood. A 20mm shell enters the back of his helmet, mushrooms out and his face disappears. In war, joy is short lived.

Abrum

Thu, 30 Apr 2009 16:22:39 GMT

The tall hansom young man rises to stretch his lean back as he finally reaches the end of another meticulously hoed row of vegetables. He watches as a car full of his classmates roar down the dusty lane. He knows they’re headed to the swimming hole. To play. To while away the day. They’ve packed a lunch and might even share a bottle of pop. They might even flirt with a girl, but that is extremely unlikely in the Pennsylvania Dutch farmland community. He watches them pass, but his face gives no hint of his anguish, nor does it reveal that something has snapped and he is forever changed. He turns, and starts the next row.

The sun slowly crosses the sky, inch by inch. Finally it reaches the sycamore grove and The young man gets his first break from the heat, and relief from the headache of toiling in the hot dry dust stirred up by his hoe. This job, as compared to his many others, is less strenuous, but takes the greatest toll on his young back. His father, his brother and he had worked all day without a drop of water. Each had a roll in his pocket, and would take a crumb from time to time. The sun sets. There is neither moon nor starlight sufficient to work any further. He looks to his father and brother, and, in unspoken concurrence, they each shoulder their tools and walk to the house. Not a word has been spoken all day. Occasionally his father would summon his attention with a whistle, and then point to where he should turn his attention. No break was taken.

The house is in stark contrast to the field. The kitchen is brightly lit and bustles with the constant chatter and girlish giggling of his seven sisters. There is some bread, potatoes and greens left on the table, but the girls have finished off the milk. The young man stares briefly at the trace of butterfat left in the pitcher from the fresh raw milk. A blessing is repeated as it has been before each meal of his sixteen years. The same blessing, mumbled in unison thousands of times, but he does not know the words. He then takes a bite of the stale bread. He rises and pours water for his father and brother. They eat in silence. The women continue to chatter. They had baked a cake that day, and, as a well deserved reward for their efforts, had eaten it. The young man glances briefly at empty plate, the returns to eating his chard.

To anyone unaccustomed observing this scene, it would seem totally bizarre. Three gaunt, but strong silent men sit at the same table with eight plump incessantly chattering women. The same table, but miles apart. By any standard other than Pennsylvania Dutch, the women would be diagnosed as obese. The men were, by any standard, too lean. They were tall and straight and strong, but did not have enough fat on their bodies to sustain them should they become ill. They wore suspenders not just because it was the fashion, but because they lacked the fat to hold their pants up.

The young man was comforted by void that separated them. His seven older sisters were his greatest fear. Their remarks at his gaunt body and his scruffish appearance crushed his soul. Their tone and manner were light and gay. No menace was in their voice. The were neither evil or cruel at heart. It was if they were teasing the family dog which they loved dearly. Sugar and spice and everything nice. He took this abuse with neither tear nor tantrum. No attempt at retort crossed his mind, much less his lips. After all, he was snips and snails and puppy dog tails. The young man s mind wandered. He dreamed that someday he might go to that swimming hole. He might have a taste of soda pop. He excused himself, rose from the table and headed for the barn to finally rest his weary body. He slept in the barn because it seemed improper to allow a young male in the same house as seven sleeping young ladies. However he did have to occasionally have to share the barn with a passing vagrant who promised to work for a meal. The young man always had to redo the sloppy job the spoiled.

On cold nights The young man often found himself uncomfortably close to some stinking vagrant. One night he awoke awash in some man’s urine. He was angry as he had never been before. He had been well taught that no problems were solved in anger. On the farm he had also learned that every problem had a solution. He went to the tool shed and clipped off a piece of bailing wire. He wrapped the wire securely around the man’s penis and twisted it tight. He meant no malice, it seemed a simple solution to the problem at hand. It just had not occurred to him that the man would eventually lose his appendage.

They were not poor. The farm was run with the greatest efficiency and was very productive. They had some of the finest milk cows and healthy productive chickens. They had rich perfectly tended fields. The land, which they owned without mortgage, was incredibly valuable. Selling the land, or any piece thereof, was unthinkable. The family had been on that land since William Penn deeded it them.

They did have one financial problem that would now be referred to as an impending cash/labor flow problem. Too many daughters, too few sons. If the young ladies weren’t plump and pleasing to the eye, If they showed wear from the sun and the elements, they might not find a husband, or they might be lured to the city and go astray. So the eggs and cream, the sugar and spice and everything nice went to the girls.

Years ago he found a pop bottle that his sisters had discarded, and pretended he was drinking from it. He finished each imagined gulp with a satisfied “mmmm”. It was as truly as good as he could ever imagine.

On his eighteenth birthday he rose in an uncommonly good mood. He ate his breakfast, grabbed his hat and walked to the door. He looked back and surveyed the room and the familiar faces. Without a word he stepped out the door, never to return.

Hard Time - an excerpt from the story of M.

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 18:28:19 GMT

I sat alone in the car, in the parking lot, in the dark. I had traveled three hundred miles on a whim of a friend. We were like princes. We had money. We were from powerful families. We could travel on a whim. My friend had made a date and was gone. I had come to see the girl I loved. I brought flowers, but they were in vain. She said she promised a friend she would go out with another - a brother or a cousin of a friend – whatever, I had difficulty catching up with the conversation. I left the flowers at her dorm. She gave them to another girl. On the phone she said to come by after her date and we might talk for a minute. In the background I heard a roommate yell “Yeah, come, and he’ll beat the shit out of him”. The roommate was loud and brash, often drunk and always fun. He paid little attention to what she said. I left and went to a bar to pass the hours. I hadn’t eaten, and soon realized that I was apt to pass out if I didn’t leave. I returned to the parking lot outside her dorm.

I took occasional strolls to try to sober up. I reflected on the roommate’s words. “Beat the shit out of him”. I was strong, very strong. But I had never been in a fight. Although I was of average height, I was intimidating. Daily weight lifting and running had given me large lean muscles. I had never fought because I never had been challenged since I was fifteen years old. If I stood up, the biggest bully would sit down. I had worked hard for the muscles. I was driven by fear; A dark ugly secret. I was the youngest and had been picked on ridiculed and beaten by his older brother and sister. But this was not my motivation. I could escape that abuse by running into the forest. I would lie by a brook in a field of tiger lilies. I would listen to burbling of the water and the songs of the birds. I found peace. I caught bugs and crayfish and salamanders. I climbed rocks and trees. I explored caves. I marveled over nature. It was mine alone to enjoy. Only once did I see another person, a young woman. I watched her pass from a distance, and then she was gone. I thought she might be a soul mate: the one other person in this forest, or even this world, who felt as I felt. And then she was gone, never aware of my presence.

I couldn’t stay in the forest forever. I was sent to a military school at twelve. My parents left me off, but before they had driven off campus, I had been sodomized at knife point on the bathroom floor in front of a dozen fellow students. The whole time there at the military school was one of constant fear and constant self loathing.

Time passed and I spent more and more time alone in the forest. I loved the smell and the sounds. It was a constant adventure. When I was fourteen his mother took his sister and two of her friends to an artist community on the North Atlantic Coast. Later I was allowed to take the 53 hour bus ride up to join them. The bus had no toilet. It was a unforgettable ordeal. My mother was constantly in classes. My sister wanted nothing to do with me, other than to sneak the car out at night so they could go do whatever girls do (I had no idea) and I was left to wander the streets all night. I was befriended by a man, who, despite his full beard, seemed childlike and unthreatening. I went to a quaint cottage with the fellow where we were joined by four other men and I was gang raped.

That is when I began to lift weights and exercise. I avoided people as much as I could. I felt that there must be something deeply wrong with him that people could feel they could do this to him. I didn’t become bitter. I didn’t become mean or abusive. I became cautious and so strong that no one would ever again look at me as a victim. And I never had to fight.

And so I was puzzled at the “beat the shit out him” comment. Another car pulled into the parking lot. I could see the silhouettes of the two occupants. My excitement that I might be finally seeing my love faded. This couldn’t be her. Arms were flying about and it appeared they might be fighting. Then it became apparent they were undressing and the frantic activity subsided.

Time passed. I needed another stroll. I respected the privacy of the other car and walked on the other side of the street. I also needed to use the rest room, which required me to walk close to the other car. As I approached I could only see a male sitting in the driver seat with his head back as if he were sleeping. I assumed I had imagined the earlier activity, then he opened his eyes and when he saw me, he said something. A head quickly rose from his lap.

It was her, my love. A look of terror flooded her face when she saw me. She bolted from the car clutching her open blouse and discarded undergarments and ran for the dorm, looking back at me in obvious fear. I stood blank, confused and motionless, trying to comprehend what was happening. Then the other male leapt from the car and, while his eyes were directly on her, he was running directly at me, as if I were invisible. He was tall and dark, a good four inches taller than I. He continued running directly at me, looking over my head at her.

When he was within a foot of me, I struck. Teeth and blood spewed and all directions. I had hit him with an uppercut that slammed his teeth together so hard that they split and sheared off in fragments. He went down so fast I thought he had disappeared. I’d never been in a fight before, and I was still under the effect of too much alcohol so I did as I had seen in western movies. I picked him up with my left and struck him with my right. I picked him up again and started to strike again. But his face looked like a bomb had gone off inside it. There were no lips, just deep gashes leading in all directions from where his mouth had been. There were no teeth, just glistening jagged white stubs in a sea of blood. I dropped his limp body into an ever expanding sea of blood.

I stepped away, still not fully comprehending what had happened or why. Why did she run away from me? Why did he run toward me? Why did I strike him? I looked at my hand. It had swollen to the size and shape of a gallon milk jug. The bones of my knuckles were visible through the skin that had been sliced by the jagged remnants of his teeth.

A friend of my victim approached me and said he deserved it. That comment was all the more puzzling. What could a person do to deserve that? He had died with the first punch. Friend and lawyers whisk me away. It was called self-defense and I never saw a courtroom.

For months I wrote her, asking for forgiveness, but she did not respond. Then finally one day she agreed to see me, but would never speak of the incident. Strangely, we quickly became engaged and were married within months. One day I noticed among her belongings boxes of unopened letters from me. I would have thought that at some point before we married, she would have read them. But I said nothing.

Soon after we married, it seemed that she was never around. She would take the car to go shopping at seven and come home past midnight. Whenever I happen to see away from home she was always standing very close to one male or another. If she saw me, she would call out and wave. Her body looked as though she were in actual contact with whatever man she was with. I really didn’t think much about it; after all, she wouldn’t be seeing multiple men. We wouldn’t be so open about a serious flirtation. I would smile and wave back.

At parties she would be surrounded with men, and their wives were none to happy about it. Within minutes of meeting a new man she would be touching first his hand, then his chest, and then her arm would be around his waist. It made the party atmosphere gayer. It was all part of the fun.

Soon we started our family. Any concerns I might have had about her fidelity vanished. My only focus was providing for her and the children.

We enjoyed camping at the beach with the children. We would find a secluded spot and she would often sun topless or nude. One day she happened to see a nude couple and waved them over. I was surprised, since we always picked secluded places along the beach.

Before I knew it, she had arranged to meet them for a moonlight stroll on the beach. This quickly became a nude stroll on the beach. That was very pleasant, but the other couple seemed to repeatedly try and walk between us. The conversation was about being lost and how will we get back. But I wasn’t lost at all, and wanted to know what was really going on here. But no one responded. Finally I said I know exactly where we are and I am becoming concerned about the children and that I was going to go check on them. I noticed my wife wasn’t following me, but the other woman was. I ran down the beach knowing that she couldn’t keep up with me. I sat with the children until the others returned much later. I asked where they had been and wife started describing the sex acts they had performed and how she now had sand all up her vagina from screwing in the surf. I was flabbergasted, but they all agreed it was somehow my fault and I had started it and the offended the other woman by running away. I thought of the children, and decided to let it slide, that possibly something I said or did had mislead them all; that when I asked what was going on I was suggesting something ought to be happening and they thought I had run off just so I could be with this guys wife. The other fellow was better looking than I and I knew my wife was attracted to him. I suggested that we make things clear before she does that again, vowed to be more vigilant in the future, and forget it.

Not long after that we were asked to a hot tub party by one of her co-workers. It was a large party with thirty or forty people, and I didn’t know anyone there. We climbed into the tub and as the tub filled with people, she asked me to get her a drink. There was no formal bar, so I hunted around for the ingredients she liked. I returned to the tub to find it completely empty. I went from room to room in the huge house, but couldn’t find her. Finally I went looking for a bathroom in the master bedroom. She was in bed with three males. I stared for a moment not realizing who or what I was seeing. I figured I would only look stupid if I said something now, so I put her drink on the nightstand and walked out of the room. I went to the bar and had a few drinks. Later I saw her having sex with yet another man in the hot tub. I politely said I needed to go and lifted her off his penis. Cum was running down her leg.

I decided that was enough. If she had expressed desires of this nature before, maybe we could have worked something out. But she kept springing these things on me. We always would say that she hadn’t planned or even thought about any of her sexual encounters. The opportunities presented themselves to her, and it seemed like the thing to do at the time.

I had decided to leave. I got an apartment and arranged for movers to meet me after she went to work so that I could get a few of my things. She found out, and asked the moves to arrive early and she stayed home from work. I arrived to find the three of them in bed. The covers were thrown off. She straddled one man and the other was braced against the wall before her. She slowly and carefully drew her head away from his groin. A long slimly beaded thread extended from his black shaft to the tip of her tongue. As it started to break, she slurped it in. She tilted her head down and looked at me coyly. I had seen her give this look to other men, but never to me. She slid her mouth back on to him, and again drew a beaded string of jewels from tip to tongue.

The room seemed to slowly spin. All perspective was distorted. I seemed close enough to touch her, but somehow miles apart, as if viewing through a telescope. I recognized the room, the bed, the night stand, the lamp, the picture on the wall. I had seen her with men before, but this was different. I was sober and this was the last thing I expected to see. I was nauseous and weak, but strangely aroused. She looked as beautiful as I had always seen her. Perfect. Her skin, her neck, her face, her back, her rump were all as perfect as the first day I saw her body. I was repulsed and I was attracted. I had never witnessed as erotic a scene. I noticed that her normally small but exquisite breasts were slightly enlarged. I knew she was pregnant. She flexed her back and rose up, and then she arched her back and drove her hips down hard. She repeated this time and time again. All the time she looked deeply into my face. With each thrust she bit her lip, then extended her tongue, closed her eyes, licked her lips and moaned. Then she would look coyly back at me. She took the immense snake before her deep into her throat then slid it into her cheek. I could see her pink tongue slide up and down the shaft, the roll over the head. Her eyes would close as if in ecstasy, and then open slowly with her gaze directly on me. The two black men were sweating profusely. My legs were trembling. There was this deep sickening feeling of shock and disbelief. I wanted to run, but as repulsed as I was I also was witnessing the most erotic scene that I could ever image. A drop of milk emerged from her ripened nipple. Then a squirt. Then a stream. She took a drop and placed it in each lover’s mouth. What had started could no longer be stopped. A bullet through the brain would not have stopped the participants. She started to lift, twist, arch, and thrust her hips in every conceivable contortion imaginable, but slowly and erotically. He head mimicked the movements, the point of his lance sliding from cheek to throat to cheek. Her tongue sliding up, then down his shaft, over the head once, twice, reverse, repeat. His leg began to shake. She quickly withdrew and held him in a tight fist and glared at me. His head fell back, with a thud, making a dent in the wall. She writhed and twisted her hips on the man below her until he too lost control. She released her grip on the shaft and allowed a long stream to shoot across her face and drape down her chest. She took him back into her mouth again slid her tongue up the down his shaft. I could see her cheek pulse with every spurt that gushed into her mouth. The juice would run down her lip, and, with the aid of one finger, she would slurp it back in, making an exaggerated kissing sound. Each spurt could not be contained, but was again greedily sucked back into her mouth. With each spurt, first one, the then the nipple would eject a stream of milk. The man on the bottom had lost control. His back arched and thrust her high into the air. She lost her lip lock on the shaft in her mouth. She smoothly slid around. A huge sticky mass poured down her leg. She reached back and forced what had been in her mouth between her legs. And from what had been between her legs, she now sucked the last drop of nectar, again drawling what were once strings of jewels but now were thick bubbly masses. A writhing string of bubbly slugs. Thought the men were obviously spent, she never paused her writhing and mouth play. She tried to blow bubbles in the spawn. The man still standing could no longer stay up, and fell face down on the bed. She placed her face between his thighs and slid it up deep into his crotch. He arched his back and gave one, then two, then a third violent thrust of his hips. He rolled onto his back as if in total submission. She turned again and raised her shoulder on her hands. She gazed at me, arched her back, then slid her rump down his chest and over his face. She writhed playfully, then she ground her body forcefully on his face. Her other partner seemed to be enjoying his break from the action, but she grabbed him by his testicles and drug him to where she could again take him into her mouth and try to suck the blood back into his penis. Except for their heavy breathing, both men were now too weak to move. She curled back between her two new fiends and stroked their now flaccid tools. She managed to milk one last drop from each, and placed it on her tongue. She placed her hand the small stiff matted patch of hair below her navel and ran her fingers through the gooey slime, allowing it to slide between her fingers. She beckoned me with her finger. I went to the kitchen and opened a can of soup and ate it cold.

She said she thought it wouldn’t mater to me, since I was already leaving. I started for the door and she blurted out, “I’m pregnant”. I gave her a blank stare. “It’s yours.” I didn’t say a word. “The DNA test is on the dining room table.”

She knew I would never leave a child of my own. She knew I was a slave to her beauty. She knew I still loved her and always would.

I only discovered then that she had been punishing me for what I had done to her new boyfriend, forty years ago.

Bull

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 01:45:53 GMT

I caught the first scent of her two days ago. She was not yet ready then, but now she is fresh. I have also sensed a rival. He is younger than I, and I assume less experienced. Although we have not seen each other, I know he is as aware of me as I am of him. I rend trees from the ground and leave my scent hoping to threaten him. My displays are more awesome than his, but he persists. I stand all night on top of the cliff, hoping to intimidate him if he gazes at the sky. I hold the pose for hours. Neither of us has slept for days. Neither can think of anything but the other. We amble cautiously amongst spring flowered fields and sun dappled forests. But each of us is only aware of the other.

Today is the day. She is ready. But I can’t think of her now for first I must meet my rival. Hopefully I can catch him off guard. My experience should make me more stealthy and cunning, as well as a more skilled fighter. But with experience come injuries that never have the opportunity to completely heal. I have vulnerabilities that I must not show. His youth will make more apt to bolt and run, while I would like to meet him head-on. A chase would take a bigger toll on me than on him.

I see him, across the clearing. He must have seen me first, for his gaze is already fixed on me. He is as young and beautiful as I am ragged and worn. He has never fought. He bares no scars. A fog rises up the hill from the forest. The sun suddenly breaks and the dew glistens on the mountain bladderpod, the kinnikinnick, and the lavender pasque flower. A small tunnel spider web becomes a delicate garment for a forest fairy. The sun lights up the mist around the buck like a garland. He is magnificent. But truth and beauty have no relationship here. A fight will be waged, and it will be as ugly as my scared body.

He has the advantage of first sight with his head higher than mine. The advantage is psychological, but only I know that. I snort and shake my antlers. I take two steps toward him so that he can see my full size and that I will look more intimidating. I outweigh him by four hundred pounds. It works, he glances away as if looking for an escape route, but only briefly; then his eyes come back to mine. The beast inside him is born. He knows he can no longer run. He must meet his adversary. He is now a bull, and there is no choice but to fight.

Every breath is measured. The world seems to melt away. Only we exist, there is only he and I. He nervously takes a timid half-step, and then starts his dash toward me. I had hoped to start the charge, for it takes me longer to get to full speed, especially going uphill. It seems like I’ve only taken three strides when we collide. My footing isn’t perfect, and I take a jolt. I have to step back to get better footing, a sign of weakness, but then I charge and butt, charge and butt and we lock antlers. We are temple to temple. Every muscle is tense. I wrench my head to the least comfortable position, assuming it hurts him also. But my mind is on my feet. My stance is all important. I can not falter or stumble. The dance is painfully slow. A slight twist here, a step, and then we are nearly motionless. He has the advantage of being slightly up hill, so I must get him turned around. First, however, I must wear him down. As long as we are locked together, I have the strength advantage. When we break, he will have the speed advantage. . We stand like this for twenty or thirty minutes.

The field is raked with the fiery sunrise. Our hot moist breath looks like the fire of a dragon. Steam pours off our necks and shoulders as if we were smoldering. Then we break, scramble for position and then are locked again. The intense clashes come only as brief interludes to our locked-horn embraces. The fight wears on. We lock, strain, and then break. I am aware of thick slippery blood on my face. I don’t know if it is his or mine. It drips on the ground.

The doe has wandered into the clearing, almost oblivious to our combat. The brutal fight for her rages on. She is the instigator and we are the victims. One will win, one will lose, she cares not who. She has no favorite. But her nearness affects the combatants. Our strength and fierceness double.

We break, we lock. We beak and lock again. By this time we both know that I will in all likelihood, prevail. But the fight is never certain. I could slip. He could out-maneuver me. From time to time the ground will slide under our feet, and we quickly reposition. Our breathing is deep and rasping.

I make my move. I make three evenly spaced lunges, which he counters. On the third lunge, I back off and he stumbles forward. Before he realizes what has happened, I am on high ground. The battle is all but over. I lunge and butt, lunge, and lunge again. Then I hear a sickening sound. A limb of my antler has snapped. Time freezes. We both know what has happened. I can not run. I am a bull. No such thought enters my tiny brain. I repeat my lung, and my broken antler severs his shoulder. I lunge again. Blood spurts from wound. We are drenched. The ground is drenched. The air is thick with foul smell of blood. He stumbles. I lunge. He falls. His leg is broken. I stand over him, watching as he tries and fails to come to his feet. He never will. I step away. I have no desire to deal a final punishing blow. All my rage has subsided. He was the better animal. Next year he would have been better than I ever was; he would have been invincible.

Exhausted, I wander over to the doe and take her. It takes less than a minute. I am glad to have it over. I wander wearily into the comforting arms of the forest to lick my wounds. Driven by some force over which I have no control or understanding, I carry on one more year. I have no choice. I feel no joy, no love, and no hate; except for this brief annual rage brought on by the scent of a doe, I have no emotion. Without a doubt, next year I will lose, and finally I will be free.