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 Category:  General Fiction
  Posted: July 21, 2019      Views: 70

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 TPA 
IN PRINT 


 ABOUT
TPA 
I am retired a x-ray techician. I have Cerebral Palsy since birth. My hobbies are photography and writing. I have published an article for the disabled. I received a college degree. My quiet time is listening to jazz and reading mysteries. My favorit - more...

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Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
Exceptional
This work has reached the exceptional level
A solider is captured.
"Carousel" by Tpa



How long have I been here? Two, three days? Could it be months, maybe years?

"Private Jensen, Sargent Franklin are you here? Are you behind these dingy, gray walls?"

Oh for God sakes no one answers me. My throat is so dry like someone lit a match to it. I need water, lots of it.

"Water, will somebody give me some fucking water? I'm dying of thirst. Please."
Nobody gives a shit.

This room smells like rotten eggs and fucking dark without windows, just a dim light bulb over my head, barely enough to light up a closet. Is it night or day in this rat hole? This concrete floor has bugs, and droplets of water are coming through the cracks in the cement.

"Sargent, Jensen. Can you hear me? We're going to get out of this. They are going to find us, you'll see. Don't give up."

Lord knows I'm not quitting. I have too much waiting for me back home. Geez, I can't wait to wrap my arms around my wife, Robyn, press her soft, thin lips against mine. I would give anything to stroke her silky auburn hair that falls beneath her narrow shoulders and the opportunity to look into her gleaming green eyes and tell her that she is so beautiful. No. I'm never giving up.

"You hear me, Sarge. I'm not quitting. You shouldn't either, and Jensen you owe me two tickets to the Yankees, Red Sox game. I wrote to my son and told him about the box seats behind home-plate that my buddy, Jensen is getting for me after winning a shooting match. Am I right, Jensen?"

Gosh, I miss my son. Jason is ten-years-old and such a skinny kid. When I get back, I'll take the boy to the Carousel and devour enough strawberry milkshakes until the strawberries are coming out of our ears. Then, I'll take Jason to the batting cage. He loves baseball, and I can't wait to teach him to hold the bat correctly and pitch those fastballs. After all, I did pitch a no-hitter that made my high school win the state championship, but that's years ago, now it's my son's turn to get all those accolades. I'm itching to get home. I'm also itching for something to eat. I wish that I was at the Carousel right now.

"Hey you mothers, I'm hungry in here. Prisoner or not, I have a right to eat. Don't you assholes follow the Geneva Convention? I could hear my stomach growling. Please, anybody, give me some food."

What's crawling by my shoe? A cockroach? It looks like one. It's a big mother. Let me pick it up and make sure. Yep, it's a cockroach. I'll give it a squish with my fingers before putting it into my mouth. God makes everything for something. The bug didn't taste too bad, and it was very crunchy.

"Hey Jensen, Franklin, did you eat? Talk to me, fellas, please. I'm lonely."

I never should have signed for a second tour. I remember the conversation that Robyn and I had.
"You do enough service fighting fires," she cried. "Why Ken do you want to go?"

"9/11 was too much for me. I saw my hometown destroyed. Buildings were toppling down on screaming, frantic people. I carried away dozens of burnt bodies and watched an avalanche of tears on people's faces. Robin, I have to be more than being a fireman for my city and my country. I have to give my service in tribute to those persons that never made it home that day."

Her tears almost made me stay, but she gave me her blessings. We kissed and wrapped our arms around each other until dawn the next day.

I remember not seeing any action at first. I was a station at Fort Bragg and did mostly clerical duties. Finally, my unit went overseas. I saw plenty of action then, watched missiles light up the dark sky, and engaged in combat through the strong winds of sandstorms and scorching heat. It was a time of my life that I felt a sense of accomplishment, doing something for my country and hoping that a 9/11 would never happen again anywhere in the world.

"Hey Sarge, I hear gunshots. Are you guys, okay? Jensen, say something, anything."

Jensen, the guy that is never a loss for words, now I can't get a squeak out of him.

"Jensen, tell me a joke. I need to laugh."

He is always the comedian, a young athletic man who had graduated high school, a few months before enlisting. We met in boot camp. If laughter was anywhere in camp, Jensen was the culprit.

I remember the time he asked me why a badminton racquet studied meditation? I shook my head, and Jensen replied that the racquet was high-strung. I laughed mostly because of its stupidity, then again most of his jokes were. I needed one now, and maybe it would help me forget the night our enemies captured us.

It was cold that night. The winds must have been blowing about forty miles per hour. The sand blinded three of us and separated from our unit. Our radios had lost the signal for contacting headquarters. Franklin, a no-nonsense soldier of ten years who would give his life for his men, thought it best to stay in our location until daybreak. Unfortunately, our enemies had other plans.

While sleeping, I felt a sting across my face. I opened my eyes, and a man hovered over me. He held a thick, leather whip in his hand. He mumbled words in a foreign language that I couldn't understand, but his whip said it all as he flogged it across my face, feeling like a straight razor cutting across my cheek. I got the message that he wanted me to stand. Franklin and Jensen were already in an erect position. Their hands were tied behind their backs as two enemy soldiers stood behind them with bayonets nudging into their backs. The soldiers yelled, then blindfolded us, and whipped us a few times and threw us in this God-forsaken place.

Suddenly, I hear the door open? A tall, dark-skinned man is coming towards me.

"Hey, fella, who are you? When do I see my pals? How about something to eat. How about a plane ticket back to the States? Say something. Did you have your tongue for breakfast?"

The soldier takes the gun from his holster. He presses the muzzle against my forehead, but suddenly I see only Robyn and Jason. We are drinking strawberry malts at the Carousel.
I hear a loud pop as my body falls forward, slamming against the cold, damp concrete floor. My insides are burning. My arms and legs become weak. I try, but I can't keep my eyes open any longer.

Author Notes
Words=ll84
This is a prompt. A person is locked in a room. Will the character get out or not?

My thanks to the artist, Cammy Cards.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

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