Very Short Fiction #13: Coda

Monk · 19 Jun 2006

Coda

…exploded, ripping through the left side of the armored vehicle. Martinez felt the blast before he heard it, and turned away in time to watch Townsend’s face get struck with shrapnel. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the sun-scorched earth, choking on gravel and blood. Fifty yards away, a crowd of Iraqis ran in every direction. He thought of Jenny, and the little tan house they had bought just before his unit was called up. The cries and screams and sirens faded, and by the time the next explosion hit, seconds later, he was already gone.

…set the phone down. A tune formed in the back of his mind, something long-forgotten from his childhood. Sam tried to call up the memory of his father’s face as he played the sad little song. It was something from one of his records, a brief little snippet in a song that got to number two on the charts. Sam wondered if he’d ever played the song in one of the boozy, smoky jazz clubs he’d made his home. Eyes still closed, Sam’s fingers picked out the tune on the hotel desk, and he said goodbye to his long-forgotten father.

…screams echoed and the sickening antiseptic smell clung to him. Looking around the hallway, Chris watched two young doctors flirt playfully with each other at the end of the hall, the game they played written in their body language. A young mother stood with her hand pressed against the glass, her eyes filled with tears as she waved to her tiny pink-faced baby on the other side. A nurse led him into the visiting room and handed him his daughter. She had her mother’s eyes. He held his baby close and whispered in her ear all he remembered of Shelly.

…sank beneath the waves. The murky lake water clouded her vision. I should be afraid. No. It wasn’t the water, it was the pills. How many had she taken, swallowing one pill at a time until the bottle was gone? At least fifteen pills, and maybe even twenty. She felt her feet hit the bottom and tried to dig her toes into the soft, soupy muck, forgetting the heavy boots she wore. Her lungs burned and she wanted nothing more than for the burning to stop, so she opened her mouth and let the cool lake water fill her up.

…fell to the floor screaming from somewhere deep inside. Jenny rocked back and forth on the cold linoleum. The letter, delivered by hand just minutes ago, was a shredded mess in her hands. “You stupid motherfucker! I told you not to fucking go! I fucking…” The words stopped coming. She saw his face, so strong and proud as he kissed her goodbye. She stood up and went to the phone in a fog, somehow avoiding the half-unpacked boxes. She dialed her mother’s phone number first, and quickly hung up. Dialing again, she waited for Carlos’ mother to answer the phone.

Eric W.H. Taft · 14 Aug 2006

Fantastic, Monk. It’s an exercise in style, not story, and that sure as hell isn’t a knock because stylistically it’s some of your best writing to date. Crisp, stark visuals and small details from all senses bring each scene to life with few words. Sights, sounds smells. Fleeting images. Varied sentences, long and short, add punch where needed and give us small breaks where needed. All very effective. There is something almost hurried and harried about your tone here. It works very well. If you could harness this and sustain it over the course of a focused narrative, you’d have something very powerful on your hands.

That meddlin kid · 26 Mar 2007

That's a good way to put it--"an exercise in style, not story." As such, it is quite effective.

The first one kind of hit close to home. When my brother was in Iraq a vehicle he was in rolled over an IED. Nobody was hurt, but they had to bail out when the vehicle caught fire. One of them then hit another IED that had been planted nearby to catch the crew when they escaped. It must have been a terrifying experience.

Frank L. Sisko · 25 Dec 2006

I found myself falling into the trap of wanting to solve the "puzzle" of who all these people were, and how (if at all) they were connected.

On second read, though, I didn't care any more. I just let the language wash over me. A short but impressive ride, this one.

Very Short Fiction #13: Coda

Who is WANline