My Mash Story

       I really enjoy entering the flash fiction competitions at Mash Stories and recently had this story shortlisted. It did well, but I didn't win. I recommend it as an excellent writing exercise. Every entry must have the three random words assigned included. It is fun to see how varied interpretations can be. I which I could transfer the graphic they included with my story, which was pretty cool. Sorry about the yelling here, I can't make it hush up.

SEMPER FI, MAC 

by Tammi Traux Views: 745

Sitting down here, the way I do, I’ve taken to looking at their shoes. Just their shoes. It’s a dizzying thing, some days, watching the hundreds of shoes as they make their way past me. All sorts of shoes. You’ve got your practical and your pretty. You’ve got those as noisy as a rocket launcher and those as silent as a sniper in the night. You’ve got your cheap flip-flopping plastics and your hand-crafted Italian leather masterpieces. The quality of the shoe tells you nothing about the possibility of conversion.

Almost all of the shoes are in a hurry, and most, when they see my filthy and worn-out old combat boots sticking out, pick up speed. They skirt past me as quickly as shoes can without breaking into a run. I can measure that with my eyes. I am well trained in such matters. I only look up when there is an adjustment to their speed; either a hitch that slows them, even momentarily, or an actual pause for whatever reason. Then, and only then, do I bother to look up, scanning from their shoes upward. Out of force of habit, I guess, I check to see if the hands hold a weapon, then I scan straight up to the eyes.

I stare, locking them into direct eye contact, looking for the soul that might be in there, to see if there might be anything in there for me. Any kind of compassion for a sick and broken veteran of a foreign war. A soldier knows that when you come eye to eye with a man you can usually see if he is willing to kill you or not. You can also see if he will help you or not. It is all in the eyes if you know how to look. Also, if I focus on the eyes, I don’t have to see the mo

uths, aghast and agape, or the nose, often covered in revulsion, or the brow, usually contracted into creases of confusion and dismay.

Then I hold out my mug. I move my arm forward and upward slowly, so as not to startle. Also silently. What needs to be said? One can see that my cup is empty. On those rare occasions when the shoes stop, and the eyes see me, and they reach inside themselves and find something to put in my cup, I feel that old sense of ambivalent accomplishment as I did each time I fulfilled my orders in Kuwait. I made a change, but will it last? Still, I fight on.

I am a converter. This is my Tin Cup Trip. The Commander-in-Chief said we are establishing a new world order. Spreading democracy far and wide. With liberty and justice for all. That is it. Liberty and justice. Happiness and comfort are irrelevant pursuits. My mission is still to build coalitions, to end hostilities. I will not quit. This is what I do.

As you were.