HONORABLE MENTION, WINTER 2022
The Screw Turn Flash Fiction Competition
BY MONA SUSAN POWER
Death-Giver stalks me since I hopped the Greyhound bus for Parris Island. My folks stood in the road, watched as I found a seat. The dust-smeared window made them look old and worn-out, though my father stood straight as the Wisconsin pines behind him, to remind me that I come from a long line of warriors. Hell, Natives were fighting this nation’s wars when it hadn’t made us citizens yet, my family included. I’m a third generation Marine.
A small crowd gathered to see me off, and I scanned their faces, trying to ignore the thought it might be for the last time. A man walked out of the woods and joined them, taller than everyone else, mighty arms crossed over his bull chest. He was naked to the waist, so I could plainly see he was split down the middle—the right half raven-black, left half green as the jungle. My hand scrabbled beneath my shirt to grab the war bundle that hangs around my neck; a protection bestowed on me in ceremony. The pouch was small comfort against Death-Giver staring at me through gritty windows. He faced me straight on to hide his intentions, offering neither the side of him that brings death, nor the side that brings life and triumph in war. He peered at me as if wondering what fate I deserve.
The next time I glimpse that powerful god, I’ve been in Vietnam for six months. I have family here: Pharaoh from Chicago, head shaped like an Egyptian king, Dipshit from New Orleans who can cook better than my Gran, Scribbler from South Boston, Eggs from Arkansas. There were more, but they’re gone now. My buddies call me “Geronimo,” though I’m not from that leader’s tribe—over here an Indian is an Indian.
We’re on patrol one night, not far from base camp. We pass an exhausted cow, hauling an old man perched on his cart. “Hey, Gramps,” Pharaoh calls. We know this elder, never without a smile. But Gramps ignores us like he’s lost his hearing. My body tenses at this shift in emotional weather. Change is bad news over here.
I check his cart and note the contents are covered by a tarp. My vision blurs as I watch a coiled snake emerge from beneath the canvas, growing as it slides along until its body is thick as mine, its scales glistening as they shift from green to black. When the creature lifts his head, I realize it’s Death-Giver camouflaged as a serpent. His eyes crinkle in amusement as he nods. He opens his mouth and I shout: “RUN!”
My quick action saves our squad. We’ve hauled ass and leapt over sandbags lining the road, buried our faces in the ground. The cart explodes and showers us with the fruit of an old man’s labor blown to fragments.
My platoon is sent on a search-and-destroy in an area heavy with NVA. Spider walks point, grinning through his nerves. He’s our favorite because nothing stops that boy from smiling. He likes to tell stories so much, our LT once threatened to keep his mouth taped shut whenever he wasn’t eating. He guides us into a village of friendlies where we check for new faces, any hint of tension. The people rush to offer us bowls of food, share what they have. We parcel out goodies we can spare. A small boy climbs into my lap, and I bounce him up and down with my tired leg. His laughter warms me like letters from home. He looks just like my nephew.
When we head out, I walk 40 yards behind Spider. He’s taught me a few tejano songs that roll through my head as it swivels to take in as much of this sweltering plain as possible. I jolt to a halt—Spider is gone. I should be cautious but jog to his last position, stopping in time before I follow him into the trap—a pit of sharpened stakes that skewer him. He dies before we go through the hell of plucking him out, and the LT who wanted to tape his mouth shut says: “We’re gonna get these fuckers.” So we become dragons—flamethrowers pour heat on the village in retaliation, like it’s coming from our throats.
We watch the small village roast alive. The smoke burns our breath, causes us to choke. The smoke makes us cry. We’ve become old men in the time it takes to snap your fingers. Perhaps our spirits melt into the lush rice paddies and will remain here, separate from our bodies.
Our rifles are aimed and ready—nothing, no one, is going to make it out of this inferno alive. Not that orders are given—we just know. I see what looks like a matchstick running through the flames, flickering its own light. The figure is quick as a slash, one blink and it becomes a beautiful lady wearing an elegant áo dài—the tunic an emerald green atop black trousers. The fabric ripples and shines like satin. She’s carrying something in her arms, the boy I played with this morning. I can tell by the way his body hangs that he’s dead. But she runs anyway, as if there’s hope.
The moment I realize she is Death-Giver in yet another guise, I hear gunfire. The men in my squad are shooting at the young woman and the bundle in her arms, unaware that she’s a powerful god none of us can kill. Yet I join them, raise my own rifle and instinctively aim high given her distance. I pull the trigger. All the firepower in the world can’t bring this being down, so I’m not surprised when the lady turns abruptly and offers her back to us, unafraid. She heads back to the village which is unrecognizable now—rippling in the heat like a mirage. She walks straight into the monster blaze as if it’s home, the flames close behind her like curtains.
Long after we move on, the mood is still heavy. We eat like robots, attend our busted feet. We barely speak. You could say we’re in shock, even after all we’ve seen and everyone we’ve lost. When I was a kid dreaming of battle, no one ever told me the things we do can scare us more than the things we suffer. Perhaps we’re all pondering that idea since I can feel us collectively turn off the lights in our heads. We’re trained for forward motion, not deep reckoning. I pull out my war bundle and squeeze it for comfort, then dispense forgiveness on myself and my boys because we’ve got to keep going. Because we’re teenagers far from home who don’t know how else to make this right. Because Death-Giver scares the shit out of me, offering comfort to the enemy in this foreign land. Like he’s saying he can’t pick sides because this is a war no one wins.
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Mona Susan Power is an enrolled member of the Standing Rock Sioux nation, currently residing in Minnesota. She’s the author of three books of fiction: The Grass Dancer, Roofwalker, Sacred Wilderness, and the forthcoming novel, A Council of Dolls. The Grass Dancer was awarded the PEN/Hemingway prize in 1995. She is currently working on a new novel, The Year of Fury. Her short stories and essays have been widely published in journals, magazines, and anthologies including: The Best American Short Stories of 1993, The Atlantic Monthly, The Paris Review, The Southern Review, and Granta.
