Some Fiction for a Change

If you want to be a writer, you have to write.  This is a fictional short, short story I wrote for a contest (I didn't win).  I would love some feedback ...

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“Sergeant Mizzoli, Sergeant Mizzoli”   My eyes slowly focused on the face of a middle aged woman opposite my gaze. This was not the time she called my name. “Doctor, Doctor; he opened his eyes”.

My head was as if in a vise. I felt nothing but the rhythmic batting of my eyelids. A new face appeared before my fixed gaze displaying a serious five o’clock shadow and nose hair badly in need of trimming. “It is Sergeant, isn’t it?” the affirmation wouldn’t come and my head didn’t nod.

The hirsute face continued speaking emotionlessly, distinctly accented: “I’m Dr. Vashani. You are in Hospital. You’ve been here for 3 days in a coma while we have been stabilizing your injuries. You have a broken tibia and both your forearms have compound fractures. The paramedics found you in a sand trap at Vista Jacinto Country Club under a badly wrecked golf cart. Your brother was found on the grass nearby and is just fine, save for a badly sprained ankle. We believe you have a complete C4 injury.”

My mind was spinning. Grandpa and Nan had given permission to use their condo at the Club upon my return from a 3rd tour of Iraq and Afghanistan. My brother, Dave, my 2 best friends, Buster and Randy and I left San Diego on Friday afternoon motoring to the condo in Dave’s Cayenne just in time to squeeze in 18 holes before dark. Dave and Randy then made a beer and pizza run. There weren’t many days of lollygagging during my 13 years in the Marine Corps and I was enjoying this relaxation. After dinner we cracked a bottle of Grandpa’s Jose Cuervo and matched shooters while playing 5 card stud. Randy pulled a small baggie with a couple of joints out of his windbreaker’s pocket and the four of us shared the spleef, just like the old days. Then, Fucking Dave and his need for speed needled me into a race with Grandpa and Nan’s matching golf carts on a moonless night with stars one only sees in the desert as our singular light source.

“C’mon; I’ll race you to the 15th tee box” Dave hollered. The hill running from the condo to the 14th green was at least 2 extra clubs steep. The last thing I remember was being slightly in front of Dave nearing the 14th green with him trying to cut me off between the green and the bunker that lay alongside.

My goal during my duty in the Middle East was to keep my men safe. Safe from the roadside bombs; safe from the IEDs. Three trips over; three trips back; never a serious injury in my platoon. I knew what a complete C4 meant. I was struggling to wiggle my toes, move my fingers, hell, move my mouth but I couldn’t make it happen.

“not me. Not Me! NOT ME!!!” I screamed only in my mind.