Latin and a Short Story

Howdy all. I stumbled across an old Latin phrase recently, which proved yet again there are no new ideas:

Homo Homini Lupus

Man is wolf to Man

The phrase goes perfectly well with this last week's events at my day job as we finished our studies of World War II and watched the excellent Holocaust movie called Life is Beautiful. Man is truly Wolf to Man.

Picture lifted from here 

~*~

Also for this post I moved over and edited a story from my Wattpad account. I would rather it be over here to keep my story babies all in the same location. I do this odd thing of looking over old posts and expanding them from time to time, which turns out to be a lot easier when they are in the same location. So here is Bullseye, a little piece born from a dream.

BULLSEYE

The officer went down the list. "Any distinguishing marks, tattoos?"

"Birth mark on left elbow, and I have a tattoo on my hand."

"Which hand?"

"Left."

"Show me." She talked as she typed. "Small tattoo, back of left hand, approximately half inch in diameter, bullseye with an arrow sticking out of it." A few more clicks of the keyboard. "Cute."

"Thanks." My eyes brimmed with tears. 

I was fifteen. I had a supervised visit with my dad and my brother Randy. Mom dropped me off just outside the main gate and dad honked when he saw me. His uniform was rough and smelled like the ocean and oil when we hugged.

We rode in silence for the short drive to the parking lot in sight of the water. The sky was overcast and gray, the waves were little and it was a little windy but nice. Too cold to swim. I remember the MPs, parked two spots over in the lot, pretending to watch. My little brother Randy was only five and my dad had checked him out of pre-school so he could meet me. 

We sat down at a picnic table at the edge of the sand. We huddled around and Dad tried to light the candles on my cake. With a "Ta-da!" he gifted me a camouflage backpack filled with school supplies and a stuffed dog. I instantly hated both, but thanked him anyways. He tried for once. We licked the candles clean.

After eating cake and sipping punch, my brother showed me stickers he had gotten for being a good boy at school. They were those fake tattoos, the ones you put on with a wet cloth. It was an Army base pre-school, so the stickers were bullseyes, thumbs-ups, tanks, things like that. He wanted everyone to have a sticker, so we all got one. Helped break some of the awkwardness. 

Mine was the bullseye, Dad picked a flag and Randy picked a little soldier. I still can feel the wet cloth sometimes. It was the first close contact I had with my dad in many years, him holding my hand on the tabletop and placing the temporary tattoo. I remember that moment any time the sky is gray and the wind chills my hands. I took Dad's wet napkin and put Randy's soldier on his hand. My little brother danced with joy and did his best salute to Dad. The sun shone bright as Dad returned the salute with a grin.

The MPs honked. Randy gave me another hug and kissed the back of my hand. We headed back to the main gate, the return trip as quiet as the first ride. Mom was outside, pacing away. Dad gave me a kiss on the head as we hugged and then I trudged across No-Man's Land through the gate. Mom snubbed out her cigarette and ignored Dad's wave. "Get in," she said.

When we got back home, I convinced my mom to let me get a tattoo for my birthday. I got a bullseye in the same spot as the sticker. Now every time I see my brother, that's our thing, the tattoo. No matter what trouble he is in, or how long it has been, he always grabs my hand and kisses my bullseye tattoo, just like when he was five.

The officer spoke, interrupting my thoughts. "Any other tattoos?"

I glanced down and rubbed the bullseye. A tear hit the metal surface. I wiped my eyes with a clatter of chain, careful of my mascara. I had forgotten for a moment Randy was dead and would never kiss my hand again. 

"No. Just the one."

~*~ 

Until next time, may your days be long and well upon this Earth.