Basic Training

I went through Army Basic Combat Training between May and August 2005. I spent the majority of the time keeping my head down in an effort to keep myself as invisible as I could. Any sort of attention from the Drill Sergeants - positive or negative - resulted in a lot of exercise-induced agony. I nearly succeeded, but in the last few weeks, Drill Sergeant Deunger somehow realized I existed and decided I was his favorite.  

During one of our last combat training exercises, DS Deunger nominated me to be his Radio Telephone Operator which meant that I, a former couch potato by trade, had to run alongside my gazelle of a Drill Sergeant who ran about a 4 minute mile. As if that wasn’t awful enough, I had to do so while wearing full gear, holding a rubber M16, and carrying a 30lb radio in my rucksack. Not to mention the temperature and humidity were both in the 90s.

It wasn’t long after the exercise began that I accepted my fate. I was ready to die with honor. My legs were on fire and my lungs were on the verge of giving up. My heart rate was so high, it likely would've registered as a flatline on an EKG. I could taste bile and blood.

Seconds before I collapsed like an overworked race horse, Drill Sergeant Deunger signaled us to stop. Everyone else in my squad laid down in the prone position facing out in a circle, while Drill Sergeant Deunger and I knelt on the ground in the middle. I was concentrating, willing the stabbing in my side, calves, and thighs to subside. My breathing was ragged and my boots were digging into my ankles, making it impossible to kneel in comfortably, so I kept shifting around.

My Drill Sergeant looked at me and said, “You’re making a lot of noise over there, Gollan!”

Right on cue as if I was living in a sitcom, a loud “PPPRRRTTT!” sound involuntarily escaped my sphincter. To my horror and amusement, the sound echoed through the trees. Unable to stop myself, I started cracking up, my efforts to suppress it utterly futile. In Basic Training, you’re not allowed to laugh or even smile at the drill sergeants, so I tucked my face as far into the front of my uniform and snickered as quietly as I could.

“WHAT the HELL was THAT, Gollan!?” he asked, horrified.

“I stepped on a spider, Drill Sergeant.”

“WHAT!?”

“It was a barking spider, Drill Sergeant!”

Drill Sergeant Deunger made the final two weeks of Basic Training an embarrassing hell as he repeatedly recounted the story to any other drill sergeant nearby.

Old and Young

The old man stood near the fence, one hand resting on the pearl inlaid butt of the revolver at his hip. A brief puff of wind tousled his silver-grey hair. He brought up his hand to smooth it back down. Aside from that small movement, he was stoic and relaxed, but vigilant.

The much younger gentleman next to him was quite the opposite. He paced anxiously, frequently hiking up is loose-fitting jeans. The constant stream of one-sided conversation that flowed from his mouth began the moment their shift had started. His topics had ranged from his favorite meals, to his favorite football team. From his love of motorcycles to the crew he had once run with. From women he'd slept with to places he'd visited. Now, as they were nearing the end of their time together, the subject had shifted to the old man himself.

“I don't know why we bother keeping you around. Old people are a waste of space. You probably can't even remember who you are or where you're from. The most humane thing to do would be to put you and anyone else your age out of your misery. You can't survive long in a place like this. Seriously, what do you even bring to the table?”

The younger of the two was looking at his elder expectantly as their watch relief strolled up. The old man brought up his revolver, aimed briefly, and fired a single shot. The young man's ears rang as the .45 caliber round hit its mark. In the distance, a solitary, lurching, and fetid corpse ambling toward the gate collapsed as the bullet exploded from the back of its head.

“Well, son, for starters, I'm a pretty good shot.”

The Clown

There's a clown following me. I know it sounds crazy, but there is. It never dresses the same, but it know it's the same one. It's always carrying a bunch of helium balloons. It never moves and it's always staring at me. Every time I see it, it's just a little bit closer to me. Last time it was about 10 feet away. I'm not even afraid of clowns, but I don't look forward to the day it gets close enough to to touch me.

I saw it for the first time a couple weeks ago. I thought it was odd because there was no carnival or circus or anything in town and there are no little kids in my neighborhood, so he couldn't have been there for a birthday party. It was also five o'clock in the morning as I was leaving for work.

 It was standing at the end of my block, wearing a rainbow wig, a red and blue polka dot suit with a yellow collar, and giant red shoes. It had a big friendly smile painted on its face. I passed it off as my overactive imagination and the fact that it was dark, but it didn't feel friendly. It felt menacing. It felt hungry.

I shuddered and forced myself to turn away. I walked down the driveway a little quicker than usual, trying to keep my pace under a full-on sprint. When I reached my car, I glanced back and it was gone. I sighed with relief, figuring I was seeing things.

A couple days went by before I saw it again. I was at the park reading a book on my day off. A bunch of kids ran by screaming and laughing, which pulled my attention from the story. When I looked up, the clown was standing half hidden behind a tree. If it hadn't been for the white frown painted on its face and the balloons in its hand, I would've thought it was a hobo. It had a tattered bowler hat, torn up jacket, stained shirt and pants, and an oversized tie.

I squinted and I could see that it was looking right at me, burning a hole through my soul. The balloons it was holding didn't move any more than the clown did, but the branches of the tree it was standing next to were bouncing around in the breeze. I stood up and looked around the park to see if anyone else had noticed it, but it didn't seem that way. There were dozens of adults and kids playing, running, walking, and doing other park things, but no one so much as glanced in the clown's direction. In fact, everyone had their backs to it and although the park was crowded, not one person was within 50 feet of it.

As I walked around, observing this phenomenon, it's line of sight never left me. It was quite disconcerting. At some point, I wandered onto the bike path. I noticed just in time to avoid a collision with a very angry man on a bicycle. I jumped out of the way, falling on my ass as he went by shouting obscenities at me. I would've laughed if I didn't have the heebiejeebies. I looked back over at the tree, but the clown wasn't there.

I've seen it about half a dozen more times since then. I'm always in a different place and it's always in a different outfit, holding balloons, never moving, ever closer. Once, it had a half bald cap with bright orange hair running around the back of its head. It was wearing a blue suit with giant white pompoms and a huge blue collar. The face paint was a big red smile and tall, round eyebrows, expressing sheer happiness, but I know the only feeling that thing has is rancor. Another time, I swear it was dressed as Ronald McDonald. Big red wig and a yellow and red suit. Once more, the smile was sour. A bitter lie masking the murderous hatred it emanated.

The last time was no more than a few hours ago. The clown wasn't wearing makeup, just a yellow suit and a big red nose. It had a blond beard, and a tiny top hat cocked to the side. It was close enough for me to hear its ragged breathing and see the look of pure hatred on its face. Its mouth was pulled in a grimace and its teeth were yellow and rotted.

It smelled sickly sweet. I was instantly reminded of a time in middle school when I kicked a random bag on the ground and it turned out there was a dead bird in it. The bird had been dead so long, the only thing that indicated it had been a bird was the feathers stuck to the inside of the bag. I loved my shoes and didn't want to throw them away, so after trying and failing to clean the smell out, I sprayed the shoe with my sister's fruity perfume. That's what the clown smelled like. Rotting bird with a slight undertone of cheap, girly perfume.

I tried to ask what it wanted, why it was following me, but all that came out was a pitiful squeak. I turned heel and ran in a panic until my lungs burned and my side started screaming at me. When I stopped, I scanned the street, checking for it. Checking to see if it had followed me. I was alone, thankfully.

It took me an hour to walk home. I'd dropped my purse as I was fleeing, so I couldn't call anyone to come pick me up. I looked for it as I was walking, but it was nowhere to be found. Oh well, I need a new ID and debit card anyway. I also have insurance on my phone.

I'm in my room now, typing this all out. I don't know why. Maybe so that when it finally gets me, my family will know what happened, even if they won't believe it. Maybe so I can read this and realize how insane I'm becoming and convince myself to check into a mental hospital. Do we even have one here?

Anyway, back to the clown. I can feel it long before I see it. I can't describe the feeling exactly, but my palms start tingling, my stomach feels heavy like it does when I eat a lot of greasy food, and I get goosebumps all over the back of my head and neck. I try not to look for it, I really do, but I can't control my head. If I fight it too hard, my neck hurts and my head turns on its own like I'm struggling against someone much stronger than me.

I wish I knew what it wanted. Why it picked me. Why its tormenting me. Where it came from. What it really is. I haven't slept in a week. I keep thinking it's going to follow me into my dreams like Freddy Kreuger. I keep thinking it's going to slash met throat while I sleep. I stopped going to work. I stopped bathing. I stopped eating. I only left my house tonight because I wanted to convince myself there is no clown. I made it a block before that horrible, stinking thing appeared behind me.

Oh god. I have that feeling. My hands are tingling and I can feel the goosebumps pop up one by one on my neck, working their way up to my scalp. Oh god. It's in my bedroom. I know it is. I can smell its putrescence. Oh god. I think it's laughing. Its wheezing sounds like my grandpa when he laughed, right before his emphysema threw him into a coughing fit.

Oh god. My head is turning. I don't want to see it. Please don't make me look.

Christmas - Written in December, 2000

     

      A family gets together between the blazing fire and sparkling Christmas tree. Presents are passes around to everyone gathered around. Everyone except one little girl. She’s new to the family. Her new mommy and daddy just brought her home last week. The noise and people and laughter are overwhelming. She’s never seen so many people in one place before and certainly never so boisterous. No one seems to notice her as she’s introduced to “your new cousin” and “your new grandma.” The other children giggle, surrounded by brightly decorated parcels

     

     She timidly walks to stand behind the old man in the Santa had passing out the gifts and taps him on the shoulder. She looks at him with a question in her eye. He shrugs and continues to hand out gifts. She goes to the corner and sits there, tears trying desperately to spill over and smear her cheeks with their saltiness.

                

     After presents are handed out, eggnog is passed around as people tell stories of Christmas past. The little girls is left alone, even by her new mommy and daddy. She sits politely, hands folded in her lap and listening, still struggling not to cry. As the party winds down and people leave, her new mommy picks her up and moves her by the door so she can tell everyone “Bye” and thank them for coming over. They wander through the door, barely acknowledging her existence, until a strange looking child approaches her, face distorted through her tears.

                

     He stops and stands in front of her. For a moment, she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do, then he hands her a small stuffed bear that he had been clutching tightly. Her tears finally come, rushing from her eyes in torrents. They aren’t tears of sadness, but tears of joy because one little boy had the heart to notice the newest member of his family.

Brainstorm - Written December 19,2000

     A brainstorm contemplated raining on my day and I could hear its feuding pitter-patter on my thoughts as an irrational concept began forming in my mind. Just as I was about to act on it, the rational part of my brain disagreed, sending a bolt of electricity to destroy that nasty, unwise thought. That illogical idea retaliated just in time to send his own lightning dart back. He laughed thunder when his shot hit its target. Rational dodged, the bolt barely singeing her side and sent hail upon irrational. As the ice balls were pounding his tender flesh, Irrational dispatched a series of tornadoes. Rational was sent spinning out of control, but regained her composure almost without incident.

     Just as she was about to once more argue her side, smoky clouds surrounded her, blocking her view. She howled her anger, wind scattering the clouds like frightened pigeons. She looked and caught Irrational grinning like he'd done something clever. This made her anger rise and she charged with the force of a hurricane. She caught Irrational off guard sending him whirling out of control. He seized his balance, relaying a tsunami of his quarrel. Rational early lost her balance, but found her feet just in time. She bellowed her rage, my head rattling with their feud. Irrational was knocked backwards and out of my thoughts with the force of her thunder. Rational sent her final blast of lightning before she was satisfied and smiled.

Wooded Winter Kingdom - Written December 11, 2000

     I stroll slowly through a wooded winter kingdom. No longer bare as they were in autumn, the trees are covered in a light dusting of snow. The setting sun reflects off the snow creating sparkle. A chilling gust of wind whistles through the branches, making the skin on my face prickle. A few snowflakes trickle from the branch above me, one landing just below my eyes and melting. The drop flows down my cheek like a tear, freezing my already cold face.

     Deeply I breathe the crisp cold air that turns cheeks and noses bright red. The air is filled with the scent of an impending snowstorm with just a hint of freezing sap. Ahead is a house with a chimney puffing smoke from a blazing fire. The breeze wafting towards me carries the smell of burning pine.

     Two squirrels scamper by close enough I can hear their claws on the branch. The chattering balls of fur knock several clumps of snow onto my upturned face. I open my mouth in surprise and accidentally catch falling flakes on my tongue, water with a tinge of ozone and wood chips filling my taste buds.

     I shake my head, a cloud of breath forming just beyond my lips and continue on my trek home. All I can think about is warming by the fire with a hot cup of apple cider. Getting my energy up, I sprint the quarter mile left back home, breath puffing behind me like a train.

Bye, Dad - Written December 13, 2000

     When she turned and saw her father fall, she closed her eyes and shook her head, not believing what had just happened. A minute ago, she had wished the man would disappear. After witnessing the truck smack into his side and seeing him lying on the ground, surrounded by people, she felt dazed and out of place. She slowly began walking, almost strolling to where her father lay. A single tear escaped from her eye as a single word rasped through her unused vocal chords.

     "No."

     She couldn't hear herself say the word. The familiar silence that has plagued her all her life was screaming, desperate to be free.

     After an eternity, she reached her father and knelt by his side, grasping his clammy hand. There wasn't much blood; she only saw a trickle coming from his ear. His eyes looked through her at something unseen. The blazing fire she'd always seen burning there had dimmed to a spark. There was little recognition in his eyes for his baby girl. She knew that when he looked at her flaming red hair and pool blue eyes, he didn't see her. He saw her mother, who had left this world when she was young. The look of love in his eyes what not that of a father for his daughter, but one of a husband for his wife. He struggled to reach up and stroke her cheek. He smiled the smile she hadn't seen since before her mother died.

     Still, her heart sank when her mother's name formed on his lips in that frustrating stillness she knew so well. Her mind raced with torturing thoughts. 'I shouldn't have lied,' 'I shouldn't have run off like that,' and 'Don't leave me! I need to say I'm sorry! Please!' She wanted - no needed to scream them so Heaven and Hell could hear her wail. More tears brimmed and spilled over, smearing her mascara as sobs shook her entire body.

     She felt hands grabbing her arms pulling her away. She wanted to fight them and stay with her father, but she could only manage to reach out and brush his fingers. His arm fell and the spark darkened to a spent coal. Suddenly she could move again. She beat at the paramedics dragging her. Her strength surprised them as she wrenched free and frantically raced to her father's side. As they pulled her away, she saw the spark flash again for just an instant and in that flash he finally saw her. She felt a strange calm pass through her. She understood. He needed to go.

     She closed her eyes and sighed in acceptance as one final tear streamed down her cheek. For once she was glad she was filled with absolute quiet as she thought, "Bye, Dad."