It was time.  The pontoon bridge had been deployed at 0300.  Now all we had to do was cross it, drive deep into enemy territory, find the exact location of the camp, take out the bad guys, rescue the hostages, and drive back out, all without the enemy finding out our position or intent.  Piece of cake. Like taking candy from a baby.  Easy as pie.  Add various other clichés here.

I may be sarcastic but I’m also realistic.  This was basically a suicide mission, which is why it was volunteer only.  The jungle made locating the base difficult, especially since they kept moving it.  Tonight’s mission was the hostages best chance for rescue–maybe their only chance.

Our team was small even though nearly two dozen had volunteered.  I had hand picked each member to give us the best possible chance.  We were going and we were coming home.  Simple as that.  I would do my best as CO to make sure every man came back safe.  We’d been over the plan enough times that each man knew exactly what his job was.  Now it was time to put the plan into action.

Writing prompts:  time, candy, pontoon

I led the last dog back to its crate.  While I loved my job at the veterinary hospital today had been especially trying.  We had four emergency cases in critical condition come in this afternoon so I had been going non-stop for close to six hours.

My phone rang from somewhere in the depths of my purse.  I almost let it go, glad to finally leave the office, but my conscience reminded me that it could be an emergency.  I flipped it open without bothering to check the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Kate, where are you?  I’m standing out front but you didn’t answer the door.”  My best friend Jen’s voice came through the speaker.

Shit.  I was supposed to be going to the opera tonight with Jen.  That’s what my brain had been trying repeatedly to remind me about today.  I looked down at my blood stained clothes and cringed.  I needed a shower and a change.  It was twenty minutes home and a least twenty for the shower and wardrobe swap, then thirty or more to the event center.  I was pretty sure it started at eight thirty, so I was going to be at least thirty minutes late.

“Kate?  You there?”

“Yeah, sorry.  I’m just leaving work.”

“Kate!” The whine in her voice came through perfectly.

“I know, I know.  It’s been a crazy day.  You go on, I’ll catch up.  I should be less than half an hour late.”

Writing prompts:  dog, opera, hospital

The couch spring pressed uncomfortably against my spine.  The ancient couch may have once been a shade of blue but now it was a dingy gray.  There were obvious sags where the cushions had been compressed over and over by the countless women sitting in this same office.  The wall across from me had peeling paint that might have been yellow and a magazine rack barely clinging to the wall.  The magazines were all at least four years old.

The telephone rang, and rang again before the receptionist finally picked it up.  She, too, looked like she had been here too long and seen too much.  Her drab green sweater was worn in places and ill-fitting on her plump frame.  Her voice was harsh as she spoke into the receiver, a result of too many cigarettes.  Though working here for as long as she had would drive anyone into vice.

The little bell above the door tinkled merrily, a stark contrast to the gloom of the rest of the office.  The door swung open to admit a young woman.  She was bundled against the cold, dry winter air that followed her in.  She looked scared, under all of her heavy clothing, as all did when they entered for the first time.

Her eyes locked on to mine and she looked startled to see someone here that shared her fate.  She smiled timidly at me.  I scowled back, angry that she could still smile, even in a place like this.  She dropped her eyes and her shoulders hunched under her coat.  I felt a flash of vindictive glee that I had made someone else’s day just as shitty as mine.  That’s right, sweetheart, life’s a bitch and so am I.

Writing prompts:  winter, spring, telephone

It’s funny what people will do for a fairly insignificant amount of money.  Especially when they are young and stupid.  I’m recalling in particular a conversation I had with my seventeen-year-old neighbor last week.  I had asked him, in passing, why there was a ramp, a kiddie pool, and a mattress in our road.

Here’s the grand plan his friend talked him into for $20.  He was to ride his bike down the hill to gain enough speed to hit the ramp and go flying.  Then he would ditch the bike, in mid-air, and land safely on the mattress.  His momentum would then cause him to bounce back into the air and land in the kiddie pool.

I must’ve looked pretty incredulous by the time he got to the end of the story because he got a bit defensive.  “This is totally going to work,” he told me seriously, as only a teenager can.

“Sure…” I replied, just barely able to keep my eyes from rolling right out of their sockets.  I must say that I then failed as a so-called adult because instead of telling him the numerous ways he was going to break something–namely himself–I just smiled and wished him luck.

The little devil inside me rubbed his hands together in glee and wondered if I could take bets with the neighbors on which bones he was going to break.  I was going with left arm.  Maybe an ankle.  Long odds on the neck, because while kids are dumb, they’re also pretty resilient.  The little angel that should’ve balked was strangely silent, probably passed out just at the thought of such a stunt.

Writing prompts:  road, money, conversation

The envelope was worn and yellowed with age.  It was wrinkled where it had once been folded carelessly in half, though it had since been repeatedly smoothed out by gentle hands.  She held it as if it was a priceless treasure–and to her it was.

This was the only letter that survived the fire, the only remnant of a young man’s love for her during a time of war.  They had gotten engaged just before he was shipped off for the service to fight in a country halfway around the world.  He had written her religiously and every letter had been stored carefully in a memory box; every letter except the one she held.

It was this letter, the one where he talked about their future, that she had carried with her that day.  It was this letter that was the only one to survive.  The firemen didn’t know what had started the house fire but by the time they arrived the house was a total loss.  The memory box was destroyed and her last connection to her love was reduced to this one single letter.

So today, on the anniversary of his death, she pulled the letter out once again and read the words he wrote, about the big plans he had and the love they shared.  It seemed like a lifetime ago now, but she had never stopped loving him, even when he came home in the simple pine box, put there by a stray round from what might have been a friendly gun.

Writing prompts:  envelope, priceless, service