Brian Allen Carr has a story up at Annalemma that meets with bullets and longing. It’s a war story, sort of, but not. I suppose a post-war story. Or a post-love story. Which, really what’s the difference. A bullet to the throat. A bullet to the chest. A surgical putting back together of oneself, a way of speaking never fully recovered. Here. Read this:
I didn’t come back from the war just because I thought you’d be waiting for me. But I did find the enemy and spat in his eye. It surprised him. My spit slinking down his cheek. He had a pistol. He cocked it and placed the barrel against my throat. He sort of chewed his bottom lip before squeezing the trigger. I could taste the bullet move through me. I thought I’d choke on my blood. I slumped to the ground gasping and I’m near certain he kicked twice at my chest before whistling and walking away. I writhed there. I tried timing my pulse. A shadow took everything. I dreamt I’d swallowed myself through a second throat and I dreamt there were hands the size of grown men messing my hair. I woke on a gurney.
Here. Read the rest.
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