The Unknown Tales: A Collection of Short Stories, One Shots, and More

Red for the Rebel in Three Parts

Prose Poem: Red for the Rebel

Red for the rebel, for the blood spilt in the name of revolution. Red for the battered flag and the men weary of freedom fighting. Red for bullet-ridden brick, for the child's shoe laying in a puddle. Red for the raging battle cries that make throats hoarse. Red for the red-rimmed eyes of the captain who lost too many men. Red for the angry mother who will never see her child again. Red for the father too old to fight but may God damn him if he watches another son die. Red for the festering wounds. Red for the championed weighed down by medals, for his lost friends he couldn't save. Red for the sunset, another day. Red for high noon when heat simmers blood and the dying cry out "God, let it end!" Red for the boy ripped from his family and handed a rifle too big for his hands. Red for the sister who wants to fight. Red for the women left in the doorway. Red for the barefoot soldiers stealing a dead man's boots who won't need them. Red for the fire, the only warmth they have. Red for torn uniforms. Red for the unmarked graves. Red for the enemy passing through town. Red for the citizens who don't know who is right and who is wrong, only who is dead. Red for the triumphant day when the sun reveals victory. Red for the day when friends fall. Red for the red haze of adrenaline, for the heat of battle. Red for the fight. Red for the bullet. Red for the dead. Red for the rebel.

Flash Fiction: When the Letters Stopped

war

/wôr/

noun

1. a state of armed conflict between different nations or states or different groups within a nation or state.

There were two times my brother came home. The first was before Christmas. He came stumbling through the door lips purpled by the cold but smiling. I, heedless of the chill of his clothes, jumped up and wrapped my skinny little girl arms around his neck.

"Hello, little colonel. Miss me?" he asked.

"No," I insisted just before Mum and Dad converged on us and squished me against my brother's strong legs. They pushed him into the kitchen where Mum shoved a mug of hot coffee into his hands while Dad hung his jacket in the closet and put the duffle bags into his old room.

Mum dragged me into the kitchen "so the boys can talk" and made me heat up some of the Christmas stew she was saving for Christmas Eve. When I brought a big bowl out to my brother Dad was talking in his gravelly, angry voice and my brother stared at the wall, but he smiled when I gave him the bowl. My palms were pink from the heat.

"How ya doing, colonel?"

bully

/ˈbo͝olē/

noun

1. a person who habitually seeks to harm or intimidate those whom they perceive as vulnerable.

"I punched William in the nose yesterday!" That was my proudest fact for many years after and, much to my mild mother's chagrin, I would tell anyone who asked me how I was doing.

"Did you now?"

"Yeah! You shoulda seen him cry and his nose got all fat and ugly."

"Honey, why don't you go help your Mum in the kitchen."

"I'm talking, Dad."

"Go."

"Fiiine."

kitchen

/ˈkiCH(ə)n/

noun

1. a room or area where food is prepared and cooked.