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My latest in the weekly Flash! Friday competition with the word prompt “patience” and the above picture.

As my furtive eyes scanned the landscape for survivors, I heard dad’s fist connect with mom’s flesh. Kinda like the noise kissing makes but with more of a thud.

United States Marine Gunnery Sergeant Davon Porters was back between tours. And his fists craved more flesh; the brown Afghan variety had lost its luster. Some days his skin still smelled of gun powder.

My thumbs worked the controller, trying to navigate the surveillance drone over the bombed out area. Radiation controls on my dash were pinging over and over again.

“Do you know what I did over there for you two? And I come back to this disrespect? If a rag-head treated me this way, he’d have a goddamn grenade between his teeth,” dad said.

Then another thud.

“You okay, Spence? Your drone’s been going in circles,” my friend Fin said over the headsets.

“Yes, sir.”

2 thoughts on “Gunny

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