M.I.L.K
By: Greg Prince
Tags: Creative Writing, Stories, Poetry, Fiction, Short Story

Shaping character in battle.

Making Milk

Once I had eyes and once I had a face but then duty came along, led to disgrace. Along came the sun and the moons washed it away but the mind of my shadow lingered and stayed. Together we battled, for country and pride many a transgression shoved, put aside. New days can and will dawn in fevered light but undrawn lines in my soul blister in swelling blight. PAULA

Chapter 1

Restraint

Austerity, conservative, what did it all really mean? Who were these religious, right-wing idiots telling me what to believe and how to act? Why did I loathe every word coming out of each of the Republican candidates for president's mouth?

It seemed like I wanted to watch them and hear their message so I could pick it apart but maybe I was also looking for some hint for hope.

Driving Rebecca to school this morning and listening to NPR excited me, fueled my anger with the political choices I would be making in the coming year, and distracted my attention away from the line of cars dribbling down the street toward Avon Elementary.

Perhaps, one of the only things that scrapes down my spine more than the puppetry and false pledges of the United States of America race for the presidency is traffic, specifically traffic here in Orlando.

It begins here the last half mile to drop Rebecca at the school entrance.

Cars inching along at about 2 miles per hour. Half-awake parents driving to school while managing to yell at their children in the back seat. And, asinine swerving in driving lanes endangering kids and every other vehicle on the road.

Tailgating is incessant in these school drop-off zones. It amazes me that there isn’t an accident here every day. I hate when Rebecca’s best friend’s mom drives her Hummer right up my ass every morning.

I don’t confront Roberta right there and then for Amy and Rebecca’s sake.

Roberta apparently times her arrival at Avon Elementary to coincide with mine so she can yell pleasantries at Rebecca and me from their rolling tanker. Amy always follows in suit and mimics her mother by screaming.

“Hello, Becca. How ya doin!” Greetings to compliment our last hundred feet before disembarkment for 3rd-grade classes. So annoying.

This morning was no different from the rest, and driving my Nissan Murano in front of the pink Hummer with its grill hovering over my bumper flared my temper more than usual.

Roberta trumpeted, “Hey Paula. How ya doin?”

I gave her a little curt wave, and just then, Amy chimed in from the open window of the back seat of the Hummer, “Waz up Becca?”

Becca ignored my disgust for the morning drop-off shouting ritual and howled back, “Hi Amy,” before returning her gaze to the video game displayed on the monitor hanging on the rear side of the seat in front of her.

I slammed on my brakes, jamming my right foot hard into the brake pedal. Directly ahead, a little boy chasing another boy shot out of nowhere in front of my bumper. I heard Roberta screaming behind us from the window of her Hummer.

“Eyyahh! Hey, watch it.”

“Sorry,” I replied, not meaning it all.

After dropping Rebecca off at school, I stopped at the gas station on the street corner down the road to fill up the tank and get a coffee cup. Unfortunately, Roberta followed me into the station.

“Paula, what’s up with that? Are you trying to get us into an accident in front of the school?” Roberta just couldn’t let the little meaningless incident go. She had to press on.

Not having my morning coffee and my tense nerves surrounding the morning school ritual added to my growing anger. I actually enjoy the smell of gasoline.

The fuel scent brings a vivid recollection of my service in the army, during my tour in Iraq, coinciding with the rotgut black coffee at this gas station. Being interrupted by Roberta’s insolent tone set me off.

“Just who in the hell do you think you are, Roberta? Didn’t you see that young boy darting in front of my bumper? Get over it already.”

I dismissed any pretense of being polite. Our girls were in school together, but I never pretend to like Roberta or speak to her outside of the school setting.

Roberta acted as if I smacked her in the face. “Well, I didn’t notice, but you have to be more careful and…”

My thoughts drifted off as Roberta continued an attempt to chastise me. I didn’t hear a word she said after “careful” because the flashback of a scene one dusty morning in Fallujah came screaming into my mind.