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He wanders past the boarded-up businesses in town with a look of guilty surprise, as if he’d been tapped on the shoulder while spying on something he shouldn’t have seen, startled behind binoculars, and never bounced back from the shock. We’re sitting on a wooden bench in the creaky hallway of the county courthouse during a recess, on the dustiest afternoon of a country summer, my sister and I, trying not to touch each other while Dad is in the chambers renting a judge. He only needs him for an hour. Dust like gnats, gnats like yellowjackets, swirl through the sword blades of sunlight from the transom, that stab the floor beneath our feet. Our feet don’t reach, as I recall. It doesn’t stop people from thinking we’re all grown up. The bailiff, standing, leans against the wall and snores, hat down over his eyes. We could run, and hop a train to Mexico, and play at husband and wife. I scrape a sticky century of furniture wax and dirt from the seat of the bench between my thighs and draw initials in a heart down to the wood with my fingernail. I look at her and tilt my head to show her what I’ve done. She looks between my legs and claps her hand over her mouth. If we’re not careful. Dad may never convince the judge. He didn’t scrape together much. His Honor emerges first in a tattered vest. He stands in front of the bench and talks about me, uses my name, but only looks at her. I watch Dad come from the chambers, seeming stricken. He looks at us and sees my upside-down heart. I’m destined for some lonely time at the state correctional, I do believe. My sister gets a job at the courthouse.
Copyright © March 28, 2007
Read the rest of this entry »I teach fifth grade, nothing complicated: slavery, ratios and proportions, why the good side always prevails in war. Half my students at the Army base are children of Second Cavalry, currently deployed; the other half First Infantry, now stateside, soon enough to ship out again. These kids pull extra duty at home with a soldier parent gone to war; they grow up fast and live with doubt. Mostly, though, they act like fifth graders whose parents love them and have a job. For a few, the sufferers of pre-traumatic stress syndrome, I guess, the nightmares precede the loss. For others, the combat death of a Mom or Dad does just what you’d expect. I have a classroom full of kids who go to war by webcam and, just like soldiers in the field, they react in all the ways a person could to being shot at every day. I often wonder what they hear in the background during those calls to the war zone. When individually they panic, I talk to them of training and preparedness and ask them if their Dad takes living seriously, and show them on the map just how big a territory he has to hide in from the worst of the fighting. If they ask me why my wife didn’t make it back, I say she served four tours before that last one, that long odds caught up with her, that her life was courageous. I don’t know if it convinces them. It’s just that certain afternoons when the room is hot and stagnant, arithmetic will lose its charms and I can tell it’s time to put the books away and try again. We understand that, they tell me every time. But why? We’ve heard those reasons, too, they say. But why? Why, really?
Copyright © March 25, 2007
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Very Short Novels 
Thank you so much, anhinga, but I wouldn't want to try it without the other 199. —David
Why, thank you, brother. It's wonderful to see you here. :) —David
All you need is 100 words to make an emotional impact. Touching.
Brilliant, brother. Just simply brilliant.
This Very Short Novel has a strong resemblance to Simple Lessons of War from almost 20 years ago, but is…