Earth — by J.G.P. MacAdam
Artwork by James Keul
Was it worth it? Tell it to the stones. Whatever reason you want to give. Whatever makes you feel better. Tell yourself whatever you want. Bound to flitter through your noggin, he figures. That question. Though he can’t quite shape his tongue towards any answer. Who’s got the time to think on it, huh? And besides, the second it’s happening to you, a death like this, questions, answers, points and purposes, even vanity, seem not only self-serving and incidental but incorrect.
He wonders how much longer it can last, this floating feeling. Never knew dust could be so annihilating. Ain’t it beautiful? The way dirt sparkles in all its itty bits like that?
Everything spins too slow. Almost wishes things to speed up a little. Get it over with already. Must be quick for everyone else. Must look like a doll thrown up in the air by a boy. Watch him touch the sky, parts of him flying in three or more different directions. Watch him hit the ground. Going to be a gory sight, for sure. Wouldn’t want to witness it himself if he could help it. He’s seen enough these past months and doesn’t he know it.
Whole platoon’s gonna go stir-crazy after this. Everyone knew the mission was bullshit, the moment the brief left Diet Sprite’s lips. Too risky. Knew the hill was mined, even brought minesweepers from wherever they dug them up—the eighties, probably. Ain’t that why you took point up the hill? Instead of Ruscelli? Though it was his and his squad’s turn, not yours, ya dumb-dumb. Now look what’s happened.
Look at Ruscelli. Ruscelli’s own guys are having to hold him back. Don’t feel too bad, ol’ buddy. I can’t hear what you’re shouting. Don’t you know this risk we run is just another part of the job? Of course, you know. Doesn’t make it any easier. I understand.
Hadn’t broken the news to Ruscelli yet: this deployment was gonna be his last. He was sick of it, man. Just sick of it. Soul-sick. He was sorry, too, to get out. Never liked that feeling of leaving a buddy behind. But the way things been going these past months—he was done. Plus, he had a little someone else to live for now. Purse had said she was gonna mail out those ultrasound pics. Or at least that’s what he thought he remembered her saying before she hung up and there was only the dead tone of the dial ringing out into eternity after th—
The warm shame of his bladder and bowels emptying into his bottoms. The default blackness closing in. His eyes rolling into the back of his head and the succulent stench of the loam of the inside of the
J.G.P. MacAdam is the first in his family to earn a college degree. You can find his work in The Colorado Review, The Line Literary, and forthcoming in Consequence, among others. You can find him at jgpmacadam.com