Cold off the river. Not winter, not yet. Close enough, though. The field had been chewed up, grass flattened where the trucks turned, green gone dark like a bruise. Frost clung only where nothing had touched it, a neat grid the tires wiped clean.
We stood in formation. Funeral spacing. Too close, then not. Breath went white, then thin, then gone. Someone cleared his throat. The sound dropped and stayed there.
The colonel walked the line. He stopped where he felt like stopping. When he planted himself next to me my heel started its little jump. I drove it into the mud until it behaved.
The order came. I locked out. Rifle up, exact. I said the words I’d drilled until they were just noise. When it ended my mouth felt hollow.
My knee caught, the way it does in the cold. Old shrapnel. I shorten my stride without thinking. Do it soon enough and no one sees.
Later I stood up front. The paper shook in my hand. I thanked men who weren’t standing anywhere. I lost my place, slid ahead, tried to fix it. Let the next line bury the gap.
That night it was the stove. Kettle tipping, steam spitting sideways. I grabbed too fast, skin to iron. Not bad enough to wrap. Cold water until the bite faded.
Some days things come wrong. Boots where they don’t belong. A thought held too long, like a breath you forget to let out.
Other days it’s just the body lying to me. A curb too tall. A floor that won’t sit still. Weight dragging me left, then right.
I tell myself it’s balance.
Some days are clean. Coffee. Clothes. Out the door.
Other days the room seals shut: cocoon till next morning.
J.S. O’Keefe’s work spans short stories, essays, and poems. They have been featured in a variety of publications, including AntipodeanSF, Roi Faineant, 101 Words, Every Day Fiction, Spillwords, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, 50WS, Satire (C&K Publishing), etc.
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