Hawkeye 12, #s 7, 1, 5, & group 11, 10, 4
I won't kid you; these are not happy themes. Having said that, I hope you'll still take a look.
7. In the right hand, a gun. In the left hand...
In the right hand, a gun. In the left hand, a plea: fingers spread wide, palm turned outward, thrust out before her, shaken for emphasis.
Stop.
But he didn’t stop, his red eyes angry, afraid, determined, crazed; his knife arcing, swinging, coming, closing; his scream loud, long, raw, terrible.
He didn’t stop. So she shot him.
Then he stopped forever.
Left her with a smoking gun in the right hand and nothing in the left.
Except a fistful of futility. A fistful of defeat.
1. Earrings
In Riza’s thoughts and memories, there was more than one Julie Chambers.
Julie Chambers, her classmate in Officer Candidate School.
Julie Chambers, her unacknowledged rival and tormentor.
Julie Chambers, who thoroughly thrashed her and whom she thoroughly thrashed during an exercise of capture the flag.
Julie Chambers, the bruise and beaten woman who finally confessed to having a crush on her, the woman whose feelings she could never return.
Julie Chambers, her friend.
Which was why the gift didn’t surprise Riza too much.
The note: To Riza with love. -Julie
The package: an unassuming jewelry box, soft to the touch.
Inside: a pair of earrings, round studs, droplets of red. Simple but made with care. Practical.
Found: among the personal effects of 2nd Lt. Julie Chambers. Killed in action.
Upon wearing: a perfect fit. They sparkled like the shining tears trekking down her cheeks.
5. To a city in ruins
A city in ruins. Where nothing grew from the infertile land but stunted golden towers, toppled and smashed into inglorious devastation. Where no water trickled through the fountains, where no birds sung beautiful songs. Where not even the sigh of the wind could fill the vast silence.
Here the sun always seemed to set but never seemed to rise. Here the nights were long and torturous, devouring all in its inky, starless embrace. Here ghosts lurked in every corner and crevice, relics of a bygone age.
A place Riza visited everyday.
When she looked into her heart.
To be read together:
11. An instant's respite
A day, an instant’s respite that held no respite at all, that was how long Riza rested. But she still ached. From the inside out. Everywhere. Everything. It hurt.
She hurt.
“How are you feeling, 2nd Lieutenant?”
“Fine, sir.” Automatic response. Clipped. Not all she wanted to say. What she wanted to scream. How every thought agonized over her men--her men--the blind, the lame, the dying, the dead--Don’t you care, you assholes? Don’t you care?
But he said, “I’ve heard good things about you, Hawkeye.”
And she replied, “Thank you, sir.”
Then he said, “Which is why I’m reassigning you.”
To which she responded, “I’m honored, sir.”
But what she really wanted to say was Fuck you, sir. What she really wanted to do was walk out and keep walking, take her men with her, take her men home, and never look back.
But what she did was salute. What she did was accept.
She realized then that not even an eternity of rest would be enough. Not even an eternity would be an instant’s respite.
10. Returning smile
She entered his tent, clicked her heels, and saluted sharply, saluted this officer untouched by the sand and the sun, this State Alchemist, this Major Roy Mustang.
She saluted and said, “2nd Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye reporting for duty, sir!”
He didn’t blink, didn’t rise, didn’t shift.
But he smiled. A strong smile. A smile tinged with something like reluctance, something like relief, and something she knew to be a certain brand of innocence, life--sincerity.
Even then Riza never stood a chance. She couldn’t stop her returning smile.
She didn’t want to.
4. A welcomed rain
The rain came down in sheets. A desert storm. Relentless. She welcomed it with open arms though it pounded against her violently and unceasingly. Let it sluice through the sand and dirt, roll down her cheeks, her arms, drip from the ends of her hair, sodden her clothing.
It was a relief from the war, the death, the fighting.
It was an escape from those gloved hands that incinerated so easily.
Needless to say, some kind of inspiration hit. But only in snack sizes. I'm kind of sad whatever muse visited tonight didn't inspire at least one longer, substantial piece.
7. In the right hand, a gun. In the left hand...
In the right hand, a gun. In the left hand, a plea: fingers spread wide, palm turned outward, thrust out before her, shaken for emphasis.
Stop.
But he didn’t stop, his red eyes angry, afraid, determined, crazed; his knife arcing, swinging, coming, closing; his scream loud, long, raw, terrible.
He didn’t stop. So she shot him.
Then he stopped forever.
Left her with a smoking gun in the right hand and nothing in the left.
Except a fistful of futility. A fistful of defeat.
1. Earrings
In Riza’s thoughts and memories, there was more than one Julie Chambers.
Julie Chambers, her classmate in Officer Candidate School.
Julie Chambers, her unacknowledged rival and tormentor.
Julie Chambers, who thoroughly thrashed her and whom she thoroughly thrashed during an exercise of capture the flag.
Julie Chambers, the bruise and beaten woman who finally confessed to having a crush on her, the woman whose feelings she could never return.
Julie Chambers, her friend.
Which was why the gift didn’t surprise Riza too much.
The note: To Riza with love. -Julie
The package: an unassuming jewelry box, soft to the touch.
Inside: a pair of earrings, round studs, droplets of red. Simple but made with care. Practical.
Found: among the personal effects of 2nd Lt. Julie Chambers. Killed in action.
Upon wearing: a perfect fit. They sparkled like the shining tears trekking down her cheeks.
5. To a city in ruins
A city in ruins. Where nothing grew from the infertile land but stunted golden towers, toppled and smashed into inglorious devastation. Where no water trickled through the fountains, where no birds sung beautiful songs. Where not even the sigh of the wind could fill the vast silence.
Here the sun always seemed to set but never seemed to rise. Here the nights were long and torturous, devouring all in its inky, starless embrace. Here ghosts lurked in every corner and crevice, relics of a bygone age.
A place Riza visited everyday.
When she looked into her heart.
To be read together:
11. An instant's respite
A day, an instant’s respite that held no respite at all, that was how long Riza rested. But she still ached. From the inside out. Everywhere. Everything. It hurt.
She hurt.
“How are you feeling, 2nd Lieutenant?”
“Fine, sir.” Automatic response. Clipped. Not all she wanted to say. What she wanted to scream. How every thought agonized over her men--her men--the blind, the lame, the dying, the dead--Don’t you care, you assholes? Don’t you care?
But he said, “I’ve heard good things about you, Hawkeye.”
And she replied, “Thank you, sir.”
Then he said, “Which is why I’m reassigning you.”
To which she responded, “I’m honored, sir.”
But what she really wanted to say was Fuck you, sir. What she really wanted to do was walk out and keep walking, take her men with her, take her men home, and never look back.
But what she did was salute. What she did was accept.
She realized then that not even an eternity of rest would be enough. Not even an eternity would be an instant’s respite.
10. Returning smile
She entered his tent, clicked her heels, and saluted sharply, saluted this officer untouched by the sand and the sun, this State Alchemist, this Major Roy Mustang.
She saluted and said, “2nd Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye reporting for duty, sir!”
He didn’t blink, didn’t rise, didn’t shift.
But he smiled. A strong smile. A smile tinged with something like reluctance, something like relief, and something she knew to be a certain brand of innocence, life--sincerity.
Even then Riza never stood a chance. She couldn’t stop her returning smile.
She didn’t want to.
4. A welcomed rain
The rain came down in sheets. A desert storm. Relentless. She welcomed it with open arms though it pounded against her violently and unceasingly. Let it sluice through the sand and dirt, roll down her cheeks, her arms, drip from the ends of her hair, sodden her clothing.
It was a relief from the war, the death, the fighting.
It was an escape from those gloved hands that incinerated so easily.
Needless to say, some kind of inspiration hit. But only in snack sizes. I'm kind of sad whatever muse visited tonight didn't inspire at least one longer, substantial piece.