Roy Scranton - War Porn

rage forth, bold hero & man of war, you have no

flood documenting her lament, no legal recourse in re: administrative decisions on the matter of

torture TV rage the

rockets red not singly but in global consensus: vanquished by my spear, the highest levels of the Department beginning a world with no tomorrow

such is the word of man. We lurch to a halt. “Humvees!” Abu says—electroshocks about a half mile off, down the end of a wide, empty

bombs bursting dawn country

victorious unless

Draw your wound. Defend the gun.

The will to prevail. God’s blessings upon you—the importance Arabs place on honor cherished and protected above all else, sometimes circumventing even the need for survival. Even the need. Even constructive criticism can threaten or damage an Arab’s honor; it will be taken as a personal insult. The Arab must, above all, protect himself and his honor from critical onslaught. Therefore, when an American is confronted with criticism, you require a yes or no, such as

FIGHT EVIL

peace merciful, most compassionate, the government agreed: made of values to kill God in remote deserts

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Allah does not desire soldiers committed to patrol the day of calling out, sniper police under no savior for you from Allah devised a way to get them masters in Washington for the least of those who arrested them in the first place: suicide bombings killed hundreds, GWOT authors of the latest detainee to be released for fear that any and all the world sees America

themselves

the heart of the TV and

sizable Kurdish, Assyrian, Palestine. The Kurds farm in the north and these groups’ inability to reconcile their differences prevent them from forming a unified front against the Arab population forced

blood

yet he believes in the possibility of goodness and the triumph of ideas, believes in the father of democracy and the leader of nations, like he believes in the natural pairing of compassion and discipline, love and

images become

electroshocks

which will, with the muj behind us and trigger happy

have come today therefore pointless to question the political shrapnel not only nails and patients believing that

assailants, victims of IED attacks can exsanguinate not trusting the next level could even

those

have therefore learned during the first few months of the war, it took not knowing who or what is past in what feels like her lament, no recourse, how things are done: luckily, the Red Cross jumped right to some real-time global consensus—“That was not the sound of a world with no tomorrow.”

does there not pass over man a space of time

when his life is a blank?

Lifting the flowers, letting them drop. Asters and chrysanthemums, zinnias and goldenrod—extravagant for a barbecue maybe, but fuck it. A little reckless beauty my mark on rockface. Remember you’re the one who got your shit together and you’re the one who changes tires. You’re the one who rode out here with him and now you’re the one who’s waiting. I was all-state soccer once, MVP. I can read stress lines in bones dug from mass graves. We know what comes next: we fly home, I teach and go back to school, I have his baby. That’s the plan. But here I am killing time and going a little crazy. Why are we still here?

Dahlia fussed with the flowers, their separate stems, the whole bouquet. That friend Wendy was bringing—Aaron—had just come back, she’d said. What would it feel like, do something like that? Break a world in two and walk away?

Would it change you?

Had it?

She looked at Matt out through the window, sitting there in his lawn chair drinking beer, his face in the fading sun so kind, his wounded eyes, his belly. He doesn’t see her, lost in thought like he is so often. And just who is this man of mine? Who’s this guy desiccating in the scrub grass, who brought me to the desert like a Mormon wife, who’s come this far for what, who’s doing what, and what is he, this man, what kind of man?

The questions a cool black stone. She washed her hands, took the parsley from the colander to the counter and daubed it dry, then picked up her Wüsthof santoku and cut.

Kerosene’s sweet tang, barbecue shimmering, watching the sun sinking slow behind the edge of the redrock. Matt checked his watch, wondering how long till he could justifiably open another beer, then heard the screen creak and turned, watching her cross the yard: summer skirt brushing her legs, the lean muscles in her arms tense with the weight of the food, the firm curve of her breasts under her blue tank top. Here was beauty—a form compact and efficient, round at the edges yet taut, small and smooth and sleek. Then he looked in her face, her pale lips frowning slightly, the tiny wrinkling at the corners of her eyes, her clenched jaw.

The scherzo came to an end. Toom, toom, the march began and Dahlia squinted at the boombox: “What the heck you listening to?”

“Chopin,” Matt said.

“Oh Lord,” she said, putting the tray of steaks, salmon, and tofu on the picnic table, stepping to him and laying her palm on his chest. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “Just thinking.”

“Well, knock it off. We’re supposed to be having a party.”

He shambled up and jabbed at the machine, cutting the piano into silence. “Here,” he said, handing her the wallet, “pick something.” As she flipped through the discs, he asked: “Who called earlier?”

“Wendy,” she said. “What about Jolie Holland?”

“What’d she want?”

“She wanted to know if she could bring a friend. Catalpa or the new one?”

“We don’t have enough steaks.”

“He can have my steak. I’ll have the salmon we just bought.”

Matt grunted. “So what is he, another one of Wendy’s lost boys?”

“A friend of hers from college. Aaron. He just got home from Iraq.”

“No way. Was he in the shit?”

She put in a new CD. “Don’t be all… She said he’s a little sensitive.”

“Maybe he’s got pictures,” Matt said, snapping his fingers and pointing them, thumbs up, across his hips.

“That’s what I’m talking about. Seriously. And if you’re done moping, help me bring out food.”

He swallowed the last of his beer and the music started up with a jingle and Rachel yelled “Hey” from the gate all at once, causing Dahlia to spin and wave and bang her ear on the bottom of Matt’s bottle with a plonk and “Yowch!” The bottle whacked back into Matt’s teeth, sending him stumbling and gripping his mouth. Dahlia turned as Rachel came through crying “Oh” and a bright-eyed black Lab in a red kerchief bounded into the yard, followed by Mel in her leather jacket with Tupperware in both hands and Johnnie Walker dangling from her fingers. “You kids okay?” she asked, bumping the gate closed with her hip, taking in the scene: Dahlia holding the side of her head, Matt covering his mouth, Rachel sweeping toward them blinking, hair in her eyes, with Xena cavorting along, whirling and barking, thinking it’s all some game.

Then Dahlia laughed and they all started talking at once, Matt petting Xena, Mel cramming the whiskey in the ice chest and pulling out two Fat Tires for her and Rache, who was already complimenting them on their music, she just loved this album, it had such a real sound, you know, like her voice was just uncanny, wasn’t it great and did they know it was all just four-tracks?