the merchant and the soldier (i don't remember where i was going with this.)

Hell had broken open like a gasping clam, lain wide to the ravages of air. Hanging heat clogged Ames' throat, the saliva in his mouth slow as stale honey. He couldn't swallow. His throat worked and struggled, the thick juices coagulating under his tongue, filling his cheek-pockets, seeping from red pores. A flash of panic blinded him a moment; he saw only red. His lungs, already hugged tight from the clinging weight of sweat-soaked cloth, began to puff rapidly, unevenly, and for the first time since arriving in that forsaken land, Ames knew fear.

The sand in which he knelt had worked itself into his boot, had infiltrated his tucked cargoes, his tight laces, his socks, and was tickling down the soft arch of his left foot. Still he could not swallow. Briefly the thought occurred to him that he might never swallow again. His eyebrow itched. He would never be able to rub away the tickle on his foot, coffined as it was in stiff leather. He frowned, attempting to relieve himself, but still his brow itched. Ames could not remove his finger from the trigger, not for anything, not an instant. He knew it meant death to itch his brow. He desperately wanted to push a finger down his throat, to plunge the blockage. He found that the more he thought of it, the more he knew he must. He blinked once, hard, and squinted, trying to focus on the dusty vehicle that was the target. Frustration began to overwhelm him, to rise and prickle within him like dammed water. Ames clenched his teeth and wondered if he had forgotten how to swallow. His foot tickled, his eyebrow itched. Panic propelled his heart. Sun beat him. He couldn't swallow. His finger trembled on the trigger. A thin creak, and the driver door swung open. A boot hit the ground. He pressed his eyebrow lightly to the sight, thinking the cool metal might ease his itch. Grains of sand rasped his tender arch. Another boot. A man. Like the catch on a trap, Ames' finger pinched the trigger. The man fell, blooming with red. He slapped his palms to his face and rubbed hard. Gulping, his mouth finally drained, and relief swept through him. Ames sunk onto his heels, smiling slightly.


It was a Tuesday and there was a sweet scent to the air, a smell that only comes about when a man's good mood commingles with the new blossoms of a Southern spring. Markedy punched a button and with a cheery jangle the register burst open, green bills greeting his eyes as welcome as any vernal growth. He whistled as he counted the till, his eyes roving now and again from the money to his wares, from his wares to a stray customer or two, at whom he would wink and flaunt his many delicate laugh-lines. It was clear to anyone who entered the shop that Markedy took a great deal of pride in it. The pastries and sweets in the display case were poised to perfection, the glass clean and clear as water. Each jar, can, and bottle on the shelves neatly displayed their bright labels, while framed photographs adorned the walls, detailing fading images of Markedy and Markedy's father over the years: showing off this or that award, posing with a patron, always smiling. It was easy to mark the progression of his laugh-lines, grooving deeper into the corners of his eyes and the sides of his mouth as the years passed, and when Markedy was nearing middle-age and his father exiting it, the only way to discern between the two was by counting the hairs left on their balding pates.

It was a Tuesday when Markedy finished counting his till and, smiling absently, waited for someone to help. He drummed his stubby fingers on counter-tops worn from long years of use and thought fondly of his father, of how it had felt so right to run the shop with a man he loved. He missed his father, sometimes terribly. There had been overwhelming moments when he first passed on, when Markedy would close the shop and retreat to the back room, to finger through lovingly-penned tax logs and Polaroids and sniffle from time to time. There was, however, nothing Markedy hated more than being sad, and so whenever such moods caught him, these days he would pop a hard candy into his mouth and force all sadness from his mind. He sucked hard on a lemondrop behind his smile, cracking it with his molars.

The tiny warning bell on the door tinkled lightly as a peculiar man loped in, breaking his wayward reveries. Markedy ran a clean business and, though unerringly friendly, was ever wary of an unwholesome stranger. Clad as he was in frayed jean-pants and a soiled tee shirt, Markedy watched as the man handled this souvenir or that knick-knack, examining it and quickly replacing it like a squirrel questing for ripe nuts. Something was pinned to his left breast, reflecting, as the man turned here and there, sunlight from the window. Bright triangles of light danced about the store. The shopowner would have found it whimsical, had he not been preoccupied. Markedy cleared his throat, ready to deliver a loaded “can-I-help-you-sir,” when the man caught his glance, held it, and smiled, almost warmly.