From The Desk

  By S.W. Martin That February day  in the cold mud of Verdun seems like a dream now. Sometimes I will slip backward along the river of time, as the currents seem to travel in every direction.  I am at a Paris cafè, the sun is shining , it's warmth on my face and laughter of the young men and women filling air. Life is idyllic, and one would hardly think that war had ever ravaged and broken the land and the people. I will close my eyes for a moment, and the smell of bread and coffee turns to Gunpowder and filth. The laughter replaced by the screams of dying soldiers as they beg for mercy from a god who does not hear them.  I see Jean-Pierre running ahead of me, leading me as he always had since we were boys. I see the German, and I see the old Darkness. Then the river carries me back to the Here and Now, and I gather myself and try not to go mad.  I realize my fists are clenched so tightly that I have drawn blood from my palms.  The hotel concierge appro...

By S.W. Martin  "He placed his hand on the old metal gate that led out into the field in which he lived a thousand lifetimes as a boy. The blue paint now faded and chipping, rust now creeping along its surface, its hinges creaking as he slowly opened it. The grass was high and unkempt, not like it was when he was a boy.   He thought about that summer evening when he was 17. The two of them walked through that field and up to the hill where that single oak once stood tall and green. They were so young, and full of zeal for life, and a fervor for the unwritten future. So naive, but not quite innocent. The gold of her hair was almost luminous in the evening sun. Her eyes were as green as these fields he'd spent so much of his young life. Maybe that's why he loved looking so deep into her eyes, every time he did it was like going home.  She had conquered his soul, and planted her flag in his heart, and he welcomed her empire with adulation.  At the top of the hill...

 " We sat on the porch as the sun slowly but steadily dipped below the tree line, heralding the end of another early spring day. A gentle breeze was snaking through the pines, a slight chill in it, reminding us that another cool day could still be waiting. The weather in the Old North State was anything but consistent. My grandfather sat there, his old Barlow knife in hand, whittling away at a small piece of maple. He was not making anything in particular, simply working at that little bit of wood for it's own sake. It was a form of catharsis for him. There was no end goal. The whittling was in itself, the purpose.  I looked at his hands, old and scarred from many years of labor, wrinkled and weathered. Yet, they were still strong.  He said nothing, as he stripped little lengths of bark from the wood. The window to the front room, was up and the curtains swayed as the evening breeze moved through.  My grandmother called out from the kitchen,  " Cornbread is out ...

" The Wind Howled " A Short Story By   S.W. Martin The firelight created dancing shadows along the walls of the cabin as the old man stoked the embers, sparks jumping forth like the lightning bugs once did on a summer night.  The boy sat cross legged on the floor, watching the old man.  In his lap was a old open book,  pages with words written in a world now gone, meant for readers who were gone as well.  The boy ran his fingers over the book feeling the stiff, water stained pages and the yellow faded images painted  wonderous tales in his imagination.  It was a cold evening, flurries of snow were whipping around the cabin, a whistle of the wind as it slid around the outer walls of the log structure.  The boy looked up from the book. "Its going to be cold tonight." The old man did not look away from the fire. "Yes boy. It surely will. More cold nights to come too."  The boy looked back down at the book.  "I wish it would be warm. I ...

  Verdun A Short Story By S.W. Martin ________ The first thing I feel is the force from the blast, my body thrown like a rag doll through the air.  Every inch of my mortal frame feels as though it is on fire, every nerve,  every bit of flesh and muscle resonates with the impact of the cold February ground, ground which is ravaged and torn as far as I can see. I feel sure that I must be dying, for how could my flesh withstand such a violent impact? But within a matter of moments, as my adrenaline and sheer will to survive motivate me to step away from that abyss on the other side of this meat grinder of existence, I rise and pick up my rifle . My Lebel M93   had landed near me, and is no worse for wear.  Only about 10 yards from me I hear my friend Jean-Pierre  call out to me. "Francois! Come quickly to me!" He cries, half drowned out by the gun fire, the shelling, and the screaming of men who will soon be dead.  I run. As if the angels themselves ...