The Colonel of Corn
Jonathan Greer
The boy built a little log cabin from the bones of his daddy's famous pork ribs. He reached across with his greasy fingers for the last ear of corn. A hand, clean and wrinkled, firmly clutched his wrist. The boy gasped. He saw fire in those faded blue eyes.
-I joined up in ‘42. Said I was a year older so they’d take me. Caught my fair share of shit in France. The rest of that war I won’t even mention. After Korea, I led a company across the most Godforsaken swamps you ever saw. Vietnam. Then a military desk job for thirty years, all for some damned oak leaves. And you? You’re still shittin your pants, ain’t ya? Now get your grubby fingers off my corn.
The boy’s father came out from behind the barbecue and smiled.
-Is Grandpa telling you war stories again?
The old man chuckled.
The child released the corncob.
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