While SPC Santos was busy dying by IED in Kandahar, somewhere in California, his dog patiently waited.
She ate her fries slowly, with no hurry, savoring every bite. As of today, she had nobody to go home to.
The plane dove. Capt. Evander struggled with all his might. He had to save the passengers. The nurse gave him his medicine.
She always slept with his blackened shirt.
The soldier waddled through the limbs of his comrades, pools of blood embedding red onto his skin. He felt nothing.
He woke up asking himself what is the point of dreaming.
She posted a status on Facebook. He liked it and made a comment on it. She deleted it. He opened a bottle of pills.
He looked at himself in the mirror. He wished he still had the beard. She had liked the beard. He hated the beard.
Her finger lay on the bottom of a frozen lake.
Tom threw away his bologna sandwich. He hated bologna sandwich. Hank had dinner.
He saw what she had written and his world came tumbling down. She never knew. She had never met him.
As he cried in frustration, she threw it.
I walked ever so softly towards her and bowed.