By Peter Barden
Standing in a boiling concrete hole.
Steel ball and spoon. Ringed pin. The Missouri sun beats down on my Kevlar helmet and thick wool clothing as my heart pounds hard enough to gag me. There is yelling. Always yelling. Words become indistinguishable from the constant chaotic clatter as numbness invades my ears. Pin pulled. Spoon released. Frozen.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.
I think of my father yelling at me. Calling me stupid. Lots of yelling now. Four Mississippi? Heavy boots land as I’m grabbed, lifted violently, and thrown from the pit.
Blast rings in my ears as the yelling is silenced.
Love.