Another short story. It's done for now but I will be working on it should something come to mind.




                          The Friend

A bead of cold sweat ran down the side of his face...camouflage glistening in the midday sun. He perched his friend onto a small flat patch of the broken down encampment overlooking the target. Sighted in, he was waiting for the right moment to engage. There it was...the perfect shot. He started pulling back on the trigger, probably the tightest, most difficult pull he'd ever made. Somewhere halfway, he stopped. It was as if something was pushing the trigger back to rest, not willing to let go. The kill was the last thing on his mind.

He had been a dignified, proud warrior since the day he enlisted. Day in, day out, he looked over at the enemy, and pulled the trigger. Today, though, was special. It was to be his last mission overseas. Codenamed Shadow, he had all but forgotten his real name. The two things he didn't forget, though, were his objective, and people back home. He knew that all he had to do was finish the mission, listen for commands...and wait. Wait, just wait. Anxiously wait for the transport to land on home soil. A mere shell of the man who first arrived in the desert, he didn't know how he would react when he returned to his home town.

His trust was broken. After seeing the enemy lay waste to his fellow warriors, he trusted no one. He trusted only his one friend. The two worked hand-in-hand like an intricate masterpiece. Their partnership was the one sign of peace and calm in the blazing hell that surrounded him. All he had to do was sight in, take a deep breath, and pull. His friend did the rest, never jamming, always working without a hitch. Shadow felt incomplete without his friend rested against his shoulder, his eye pressed tightly to the round eyelet that brought even the most distant person closer.

But today was different. The relationship was disturbed by thoughts past and future uncertain. He knew his duty...and wanted more than anything to fulfill it. In the distance, a dark silhouette moved about an abandoned building, no doubt also looking for the best shot. A sudden gust of wind blew a large cloud of dust and sand into Shadow's face. His heart kept pumping as he pictured the news headlines. “Troops Return Home from War,” they would read, with a picture on the front page of soldiers stepping out of a plane to their loved ones. His target stopped moving for a split second, and this was Shadow's chance. His friend gave him the perfect shot, but he hesitated.

The moment was gone and the balance was interrupted. The prey had momentarily eluded the hunter. Shadow tried to collect himself but through his scope he no longer saw the enemy; he saw his nation's flag, and his family. Blinking, he wiped his eyes to clear his vision and complete the mission. His finger began to tremble as he tried to steady himself and he again let off the trigger. It was the hardest shot of his life.

Then...the sound of rounds fired reverberated through the earpiece, and the moment of silence ended. The words “Man Down” struck him like a bolt of lighting, and his daze quickly disappeared. Blood began rushing through his veins. His hands relaxed, his heartbeat settled. Checking his surroundings, he dug in, and put his friend up to his cheek. The eyelet that moments ago gave him despair suddenly gave him a clarity unlike anything he had experienced before. In cold blood, he was Shadow, and nothing else. His fellow man was injured, the enemy was clear. Like a hawk readying its talons, the scope zeroed in. The harmony of man and friend was restored, and things began to once again make sense. He was Shadow, he was going home. Saying a silent prayer, Shadow depressed the trigger, feeling the familiar bump of his recoiling companion. The dark silhouette in the distance slumped over, lifeless. They had just taken another life, one that could not be returned. They completed each other. His friend was sending him home.

“Oscar-Mike” came the call through his headset. His friend was sending home. Shadow looked at him, and knew that this was the last time the two would ever meet. “Target acquired”, he said, knowing that in a matter of days he would be back home with a full name, his time in the desert a distant, painful memory.

Rust-A Short Story

My first short story. Hope y'all enjoy it. Please leave feedback and any/all comments.

 Rust. From the abandoned ships on the Marina to my little coupe, rust was everywhere. After the end of the war, everything, even the people, seemed to grind to a halt and nobody knew how to get the wheels turning again. But I did. I kept willing the thing along down Lombard on my way to the Marina. I loved the little grenade on wheels. With all its rust, creaking doors and bumpy ride...it made me feel alive in a time when people couldn't figure out what to do with themselves. I knew that this little relic on wheels would keep ticking like a finely-crafted Swiss.

My little rusted coupe sputtered down the boulevard. I got it from a shady little old man who looked like he couldn't even see over the steering wheel. He told me he had no use for it. I knew, though, that the real reason was he didn't want to be killed by it. He was practically giving it away, and frankly, I could see why. I thought it would be the end of me at one point when the bloody thing seemed to cough, sneeze and choke as the rusted parts almost creaked to a stop while turning onto Lombard. Getting looks left and right for the sheer hilarity of this little red deathtrap, I willed it on down the twistiest street in the city.

That street...it was a killer. Go too fast, you missed the turn and paid an unwelcome visit to one of those rich pricks that live on that street. Rich pricks, they were. Looking outside windows, giving drivers dirty looks for disturbing the deathly silence of their lavish bunkers, they had no names. Go too slow, and those same people poked their heads out their windows and yelled at you for blocking traffic. They couldn't make up their minds. I just kept going.

I finally got there. It was a battle, Normandy. The loud pangs and other indescribable noises coming from the car rivaled those of a rifle mowing down the enemy on the front lines. I hopped out and planted myself in a little nook. Some fat, jolly black man was stroking his sax playing a melody that I'd never heard. Those crazy blacks, nobody played the sax like they did. It's like they were having a romantic affair with the damn thing every time they put their lips to it. He was drunk...he had to be drunk to play that sax. I ordered a double of rye and sipped on it as the fat black man kept playing. Then the rest of the band chimed in. It was unlike any band I had ever seen, all fat, happy, and drunk. In a difficult time like this, you either drank and pushed on, or you stopped moving.

The rye went down smooth. A day like this asked for a stiff drink. My hands were itching to write. I pulled out my pad and jotted down some words. Words...a writer's goldmine. The fat, black saxophone player was really somethin'. “I'll probably write something about him later,” I thought. Things were looking up, finally. I had my rusty ol' coupe, my words, my pen and my tiny apartment. I needed nothing else. Before I knew it, I had my first page and I knew this was going to be a hit. The sax player was really something...with his fat pouting lips, the crowd really loved him. I guess he wasn't rusty like the rest of San Francisco...he had it all figured out. Play the sax, flash that fat smile, and drink. That was his calling. Mine was my little rusty coupe, with its sun-baked paint and broken everything. I loved it, I couldn't figure out why.

Ilya Faynshteyn