Lasting Image

By Lance Allen

Memories are visions of a past left unfulfilled. When time is spent creating reasons to remain in the past, with those memories, we cheat ourselves of the present. Time slowly erodes opportunity as we wear a path from then to now, constantly furrowing a gap between what is and what might be. The reasons why a childhood trauma keeps calling you back or the tug of a melancholy heart from the one that got away or the man who sacrificed his life protecting you, all seemingly tie the present to the past. What happens when the connection is broken and the tired path is finally treaded no more? Walk in the light of the new day’s sun and find closure for those ends not tied tight. The memories left behind will not disappear they’ll just make the narrative more interesting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lance Allen
• Release date: Oct 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301744770

Lance Allen

I am here to share what I see, what I hear, what I feel. I do not need to be liked so long as I am heard. I need not be believed so long as I am viewed. I am here to share the truth. Come along with me and share what you find. Together we can accomplish great things. See you along the way. LA

Book preview

Lasting Image

Four Stories of Yielding Doubt

Published by Lance William Allen at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Lance William Allen

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free eBook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Table of Contents

Living in Place

Looking in the Rearview

Forget to Remember

The Station

Living in Place

Wait long enough and it will just come to you. The story of you. The story of me. Us. The blue marble speaks. We all listen. I love her. Get the right person to tell you the right story and you'll believe anything. And so it goes like this. The narrative. My name is John. Like the Baptist. As if there was any other. Don’t talk to me about the Wayne fellow. He’s just a metaphor. I'm the real deal. And this is my story. More or less.

If you gave my grandfather a few beers and hung around long enough you'd hear him fall into the way back machine and rehash his finer moments. He'd say things like, Killing is God's work. And I was just the messenger. He wasn't trying to rationalize anything. He firmly held onto his convictions. He fought hard for his country. He lost more than I will ever be able to understand. I hope I never fully understand. His stories of combat, while filled with action and excitement are underwritten with pain, sorrow, and survivors guilt.

Horace, my grandfather, told me one day how he lost his foot. I never knew my grandfather was missing a foot. Sure he limped when he walked. But he had always limped. I never thought twice about it. He told me he had been sleeping in a shell hole, a hole in the ground created by exploding bombs. He was in a sleeping bag on the ground covered with his rain poncho. It was near zero degrees Fahrenheit. Snow was falling. Still he slept soundly. He never knew when he would sleep again, if he'd ever breathe again. He did both as often as he could.

He was awoken by chaos: mortar fire, large caliber rifle rounds, men screaming and cursing. Before he could comprehend the situation, he was stabbing a man in the throat with the bayonet on the end of his rifle. A stream of hot blood shot out into his face. He spit the salty material from his lips as he twisted his rifle free from the dying man on the receiving end.

Time passed and he expended untold rounds of ammunition. Shell casings littered the ground about him like leaves fallen from tress in autumn. Oh how he enjoyed autumn back home. But he wasn't at home. He was in the mountains of the Korean peninsula, standing barefoot in the snow surrounded by hundreds of dead and dying soldiers. Some he knew, most he only recognized as enemy soldiers. Men he had been trained to kill. Had killed. While standing barefoot in the snow.

When the action was over and the CO finally arrived at his position, he was amazed and appalled at what he saw. My grandfather had single handedly held a thousand men at bay for the better part of an afternoon standing barefoot in the snow. Someone get this man to the rear. He deserves the use of his feet and by God I see fit to make sure he has them.

My grandfather lost his right foot, just above the ankle. But he gained a purple heart and a silver star for bravery under fire. He said to me, I’d give back any medal to have my friends see what I've seen. To smell what I've smelled. To taste what I've tasted. Most of them were just boys, like me. Our time was too short. No one should have bared witness to what we endured. This ain't saying those who died before had any less of a bad time than we did. But this was our time. And our time was not filled with glory. We bled a lot. And then I cried. I want to stop crying. I guess my time will eventually come.

When my grandfather passed away I couldn’t help but notice a veil of satisfaction about his body, an air of ease finally bursting from his now graying corpse. I wanted to tell everyone my grandfather didn't want to be remembered as a soldier who took part in battle. He didn't want to be remembered for having earned distinction on the battle field. My grandfather wanted every one to remember how fortunate they are they never had to watch a friend perish before his 19th birthday. Dying before they