The Shine Journal
Exceptional Flash, Poetry, Art and Photography!
Three From R. A. Keenan
A Tale of Two
The Empire was climbing to the heights of glory under Queen
"Would that my efforts survive so foul an editor," crossed his mind as he hurried through the downpour.
He would soon enough have his answer.
Nearly an hour passed beyond the original appointment before Mr. Babcock deigned to grant him an audience. Leather bound books filled the many shelves behind the older gentleman who sat ensconced behind a fortress of a desk. He frowned as he began the manuscript.
A sigh floated beyond the edge of the very first page he read.
"My dear sir, how can it possibly be both? It's either the best of times or the worst."
Too Young
A casual passerby would assume we were a couple. Not really, just good friends. We sat in silence, our conversation exhausted, not much more to say.
We often met beneath the trees in the small park - the Green - a verdant dot in the cityscape. How many times had we sat on the wooden slat's of the bench and talked, shared high school stories, dreamed our teenagers' dreams? Astronaut, author, rock star, everything still so possible, the future ours to chase. Never a thought about the most obvious.
Never.
Earlier, I had listened, letting my friend go on. He needed to go on, ramble, keep his hopes high in a disjointed prayer - the news could only be good, no way but good. I acted as his willing accomplice, ignored the unspoken dread behind his words, the fear clawing up through the veneer of his denial, my acceptance.
Someone called his name.
"Bob!"
We glanced across the road bordering our oasis, saw his dad. A pall, the truth, draped across his expression. My friend stared at me. His eyes no longer denied. Certainty faced me. Faced him. He stood without a word, and crossed the street.
His father placed a hand on his shoulder. The touch released all the pent-up dread, the loss, the grief. Reality. He leaned against a parked car, his chest pressed against its door, his face buried in his arm. He slammed his fist again and again against the car's roof.
The older man struggled against the riptide of his son's emotions. He waited, steady, certain, his touch unbroken. Bob finished, straightened. They walked away, home, through the courtyard, his dad's arm across his shoulder.
I sat for some time before returning home to my Mom and Dad, my family. Thanking God I wasn't a male and my brother too young for
PANEL 48W, LINE 36
RICHARD EDWARD ADDISON JR.
PFC-E2 - Marine Corps - Regular.
Age: 19.
Race: Negro.
Sex: Male.
Date of Birth: Nov 24, 1948.
From:
Religion: ROMAN CATHOLIC.
Marital Status: Single.
Length of service: 0 years.
His tour began on Jul 18, 1968.
Casualty was on Aug 18, 1968.
In THUA
HOSTILE, GROUND CASUALTY.
GUN, SMALL ARMS FIRE.
Body was recovered.
Hi, Richie. The trees shade all the graves here along the southern fence. A peaceful site, secluded, protected from the sun on a summer day. I've visited my parents and brother resting nearby; thought I'd come over again, say hello.
Dad once called you my Negro brother, the respectful and preferred term of the time. Did I ever mention that to you? Memories are funny, what percolates to the top. Pretty open minded for an old jarhead gunny. The times did begin a changing back then. You must know about Obama, right? Have you stopped grinning, yet?
A thin blanket of green velvet covers much of the rear surface of your gravestone in the spring. The moss fades under the bite of winter - unlike the memory of you, not while those who call you brother, friend, comrade-in-arms still keep you close to their hearts. The KIA and PH engraved in the marble footing of your marker speak much about you, a good Marine, a warrior - a hero. You didn't think so, that last time before you shipped out, thought of yourself as just a "regular" jarhead. I was never there but I'm certain patrolling in-country took a lot more than regular courage, amigo.
So much more rattles around among my recollections of you - a good buddy with a wry sense of humor, quick to respond to a friend in need. Sure you grumbled. We all did, passing ourselves off as cool. Your actions spoke a hell of a lot louder, though. Quick to tease and laugh, at yourself especially. Quick on the handball court. Were you ever defeated at
One hell of a receiver, too. Remember when those older honchos, early twenties maybe, drove by, spotted the bunch of us, eight skinny teens, playing touch football? Winning their bar league's touch title swelled their heads. They stopped to show us how the game should be played - didn't know what hit them. We were practically telepathic after years of playing together, anticipated and knew each other's moves, no hesitation. Your speed and cuts, low to the ground, baffled them. The last play was broken but I tossed that bomb while you still faked left. I knew you'd be in the far right corner when the football arrived. I can still see the shit-eating grin on your face as the guys drove away pissed, their arms extended, tossing the bird at us, out the cars' windows.
Rest in peace, Richie. Keep guarding Heaven's streets. Not too much time to go before the rest of us start showing up. That grin of yours, will look so fine to see again.
I'll bring the football.
R.A. KEENAN is published here and there, and says he is older than the hills, rolling along the Hudson River Valley. He lives with his bride of twenty years and has two children from a previous marriage. They are all grown up and on there way, safe and sound as anything can be in life. By profession, he is a teacher of children who are blind - perfectly normal kids, who just can't see but certainly are raring to get along with life. Shouldn't we all be, no matter our age or circumstance?
My Motivation For Each Work: Life, capital L, and the peculiar way it has of raising the memories behind my particular life, small l - as those memories were, or, perhaps, never or if only were. Obama's nomination inspired one of the two memoirs; the consequences of war bubbles beneath both. The Tale of Two is more whimsical, an historically inaccurate flash fiction concerned with the struggle all writers must face to be published. The Tale was published by a website in England in a lulu.com anthology. I think the number of copies sold did not much exceed the number of the authors included in the paperback. :-)
Photo by: Foxumon
Email TSJ:
shinesubmit@fastmail.us
