The sign above the store unable to read it. does that “What front read and as you say?” I asked. “Heroes”, walk through the doors you found Without a glance to his arm, an inventory that would not be not that which is just “Fear out of place in a Post Exchange. memory. Face life with bravery There were all types of military from this time on.” he said, got “I regalia. There was clothing, boots it the day I got back from Iraq. She and hats. There were pins, used too big a needle and the ink patches and emblems. There is starting to blur.” His eyes were two cases of military knives momentarily fogged as his mind and one wall was covered with tried to see the unseen. what appeared to be military fire It was another day of patrol arms. Upon closer inspection with his unit. isn’t a war “This though, you would find that they zone.” he thought, listening to the were actually paint guns and air children playing nearby. It had pistols that look like the more become routine to walk these formidable counterparts. streets with rifle in hand. Left, Behind the counter was a right, left right, left… All sound young man and though he was lost in a deafening roar donned the shaved head that is amidst a spray of dirt and stone commonly seen on many soldiers that came from below. The and Marines, the resemblance intense heat rising up his leg was ended there. His baby face was unbearable as he went highlighted by twinkling eyes and backwards. Up, up, up, down, a boyish grin. He was definitely down. Landing hard, the back of young and innocent. Even his his helmet dug into his head. He voice was filled with the laughter could hear screaming for less than of one who has seen no evil. As he a brief moment and then silence rang up my purchase, I noticed a as all turned black. tattoo on his right forearm; two That was Johnson.” he “Wait. lines of text reaching from below told himself. his elbow to his wrist. I was
The sign above the store front read “Heroes”, and as you walk through the doors you found an inventory that would not be out of place in a Post Exchange. There were all types of military regalia. There was clothing, boots and hats. There were pins, patches and emblems. There were two cases of military knives and one wall was covered with what appeared to be military fire arms. Upon closer inspection though, you would find that they were actually paint guns and air pistols that look like the more formidable counterparts. Behind the counter was a young man and though he donned the shaved head that is commonly seen on many soldiers and Marines, the resemblance ended there. His baby face was highlighted by twinkling eyes and a boyish grin. He was definitely young and innocent. Even his voice was filled with the laughter of one who has seen no evil. As he rang up my purchase, I noticed a tattoo on his right forearm; two lines of text reaching from below his elbow to his wrist. I was unable to read it. “What does that say?” I asked. Without a glance to his arm, “Fear not that which is just memory. Face life with bravery from this time on.” he said, “I got it the day I got back from Iraq. She used too big a needle and the ink is starting to blur.” His eyes momentarily fogged as his mind tried to see the unseen. It was another day of patrol with his unit. “This isn’t a war zone.” he thought, listening to the children playing nearby. It had become routine to walk these streets with rifle in hand. Left, right, left right, left… All sound was lost in a deafening roar amidst a spray of dirt and stone that came from below. The intense heat rising up his leg was unbearable as he went backwards. Up, up, up, down, down. Landing hard, the back of his helmet dug into his head. He could hear screaming for less than a brief moment and then silence as all turned black. “Wait. That was Johnson.” he told himself.
2015%20Summer%20S&S.docx