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Micky's Woods
by Carl D. Schultz

These woods aren't good for quick movement since it's a spot on the cloudy wood's barren edge. It's wide open, asking for enemy observation and fire. The peering mountains in the distance continue to blip. There's a dirt road with a barb-wire fence on the left in the trees, nearly a hundred feet away. Waiting for a deer here in a hunt would be good, though a different survival calls.

The cool breeze's filthy ken starts with a humid stickiness that drips, to oddly cause better observation. There's a slow blue-black flux of loss though. It seems reality is now like this. This blue-black reality among other things makes it hard to open the eyes. Both the physical and subconscious selves refuse to perform without absolute attention. They easily transcended difficulties and shortcomings, but that was then. Even this physical eye thing is a shortcoming seen in the mentally deficient. It shows generally that any physical attribute or deficiency's opponent yet proponent is mental. If physical problems aren't enough, worry with making bad impressions is a major concern. Most times this fret causes a battle to rage between corpse and physical dead since all things begin and end in the noggin anyway. At first it was short hair and no folly but now it's a sty thing, the physical eye thing, being looked past because other issues call from beyond.

After all that, they have the nads to say the Nile is here. Since the river is probably in the waiting room playing into their hands, the start of sadly thinking about somebody else's problems takes the forefront. This stuff causes yet more undesirable details to be seen. Most things within are still here to concern with but not being anal, detail command is the matter. The incoming details too say to think, rather than perform badly.

"Drive on Schultz, drive on Schultz, you can take it all, Schultz, drive on," he tells himself, a usual grunt as he peeks at a map with a pen light, after he pulls both out of a trouser leg pocket. While he pulls them out he fiddles for a snuff can in there.

"Drive on Schultz," he thinks as he changes his worry to tying the map string on his trousers. The map is plastic covered with a hole punched in a side. Through the hole he slips a long strand of parachute cord that he ties to a belt loop on his battle dress uniform.

After he does stuff foot troops do when they wake-up, he looks at the map that he just tied, "Hmm, Bad Tolz, Germany." He doesn't know why he's got this one to fifty-thousand map since he likes the more detailed one to twenty-five thousand when he's on foot.

After he tries to set up a pulse in himself working off the life keeping normals already set up, he pulls off the fluorescent cammo poncho that drapes him. With tunnel sight Lieutenant Schultz doesn't see rank color as he pulls the poncho from over his head and body, glaring on the field. At the same time he doesn't see an umpire's mask strapped on his hip instead of the gas mask every troop wears in the field. Neither does he notice the toy Blamo M16 slung on his back.


Carl D. Schultz was born in Beaufort, South Carolina, in 1963. He is a graduate of Meridian High School, Meridian, Mississippi, in 1981, and Mississippi State University in 1986. Schultz entered the Army as an Infantry Officer after receiving a Bachelor's Degree in Political Science, and survived a traumatic brain injury on 31 October 1987 in a car wreck near Bamberg, West Germany.

Write Carl at Warrior1369

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