When he made a fist, we kicked in windows and dragged infidels into the street. When he muttered, “Breathe,” we silenced our war cries and heeded the breeze as it wound through the long grass.
We ate only when he decreed—nuts, uncooked rice, beetles. His scar ran behind his ear, curled through his armpit and halted just below his ribs—a river of pink magma forging through a pitch-black tundra. We longed to hurt our enemies as deeply as they had hurt him. When he held a lit torch, we each hoped to be the one he burned next.
Richard K. Weems (weemsnet.net) has work forthcoming in The Potomac, Inscape and Web Del Sol. His latest collection is Stark Raving Blue. Other appearances include North American Review, Pif Magazine and The Portland Review. He lives and works in New Jersey.
A Quiet Courage 