Thursday, March 15, 2007


Arizona, last winter:

"A sub, Sir, with turkey please", said the gray man at Pilot.
- "No fire arms are allowed in here, Sir." replied the young kid.

Now how to handle the shift in the eyes of the man, the need to chase evil with the gun by his side. Skinny with lightless eyes, he is as stained as was his life. Not dirty, grimy but unclear with the fog of his mind around him.

The kid does not know about the man's fearful, fiery dreams of shooting at what doesn't breathe, shooting at the stillness of the night, the noises, voices in the clouds. He doesn't even know about the war never called a war while soldiers killed and died. The war, like all others, that should not have been. The boy with confident smile knows of Mohave greens, gila monsters but nothing of the sharp sticks hidden on the jungles paths, the snares, the tunnels, the distrust of friend and foe.

The man just stands there, doesn't move nor speak. Looks at the boy's hands cutting the sandwich with the glimmering efficient knife.
- "Here you go, Sir." handing him the sub with turkey. After all his father is a hunter and does no harm killing quail and deer for fun.

The man reaches for his order, eying the now resting knife and breathes more even now. He is OK. All is well. He goes out in search of a lifeless place.

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