Foliage
I place my boot on the neck of this commie bone bag, the toe resting on his chin. I think, I hate this wet heat he breathes. At least there is no rain in it--for now. I hate his elusive sky, too. A sky filled with foliage, unlike the limbs and leaves of the hickory or oak trees back home. "Slats, you and Mad-dog planning to marry that commie beaner," Luke hissed at me. I watch as reality seems to shift; 5' 7", 176 pounds of ground foliage in front of me apparently transforms itself into a Forced Recon Marine, even though my mind knows it is just Luke stepping out of the underbrush.1 Foliage, there is an appropriate sound--and smell. Foliage, aged and weary foulness. I long for a dry breath of clear air from home where foliage is something read about in the geography books, not swum through, or sloshed through, or sunk into. I glance at Luke. Luke and I are similar. There are just some minor differences between us. I am 11 1/2" taller--part of the reason I'm called "Slats." I can tan, even in winter, as long as the sun is out. He is from the smog and the city. Luke notices my rambling thoughts, and grins. It's a grin that reminds me there is a whole lot of menace compressed in that ash white bod
Eleven more uniforms of democratic manhood materialize out of the nowhere. A lightening of the heavy pale air and surrounding yellow-tinged foliage encompasses me. When I half-consciously shifted the move of the team around a giant fallen tree, I had cut around three stragglers, technical support probably, resting against the tree's base. However, on the run, like now, we go in a straight line. Given an even chance, I could take him. I was trying on loud, gaudy, clothes. The other team member's start sliding into the clearing. "4 Mad-dog flows into my hands as I pull the aged and weary foulness around me. I watch as my hand is animated by Mad-dog. I use the foliage once more to cloak the predator. It is either a few more moments for this worm food to protest its lot in life or an added chance for me and the others. With a frown I tell Mad-dog, "Shut up, or I won't clean you, oil you, I may just throw you away". A time-off period given to personnel after certain missions or duties performed. Anything to not disappear into the background around my hometown.
Common topics in this essay:
God4 Mad-dog,
Reconnaissance Team,
Mad-dog Shut,
R Recon,
R Presence2,
Luke Luke,
,
Recon Marine,
Situational Report,
Slats Mad-dog,
tracking communications,
2nd looey,
tracking communications station,
communications station,
aged weary foulness,
forced recon,
aged weary,
mud foliage,
recon marine,
forced recon marine,
jungle foliage,
soup mud foliage,
wet air,
struggling wet air,
commie beaner,
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Acceptance Essays
