Daphne saw her ex today. They sniffed each other's butts and walked away...

At least, that's how it would've been if they were dogs. Oh, how Daphne wished they were dogs! Instead, they stood in front of the conference center and chatted. The conversation got off to a bit of a rocky start. Drew never was much of a conversationalist, even with the advantage of his low, pleasantly gritty Georgia drawl. It’s not outrageous to assume his voice was one of his most redeeming qualities. That, paired with his ability to purchase alcohol made him a solid eight out of ten on a naïve young woman’s rating scale.

"You're here," he said, with what sounded like disbelief, or maybe discomfort.

It wasn’t, "Hi", or, "How've you been?" Although - much to her relief and surprise – it wasn’t anything racist, loud, or inappropriate. Maybe he’d finally grown out of all that.

“I am here,” Daphne replied confidently as she guided the conversation into small talk about the weather.

Four years had passed since the last time they'd seen one another. Yet, there was a familiar staleness between them while they stood talking. Daphne never had a name for the feeling while they were together. Although, she realized today, it was pure disconnection. She couldn’t name a time where she ever truly loved him as much as she said she did. Daphne put in a lot of work selling the idea of Drew to her friends, her family, and even herself. To be fair, she was young and inexperienced with serious relationships and desperately sought the external validation brought about by the appearance of a stable, prosperous relationship.

Daphne cringed internally at thought of the talks she used to have with her mother about the age difference. Daphne’s party line was, “Sometimes he’s very eighteen, and sometimes I’m very twenty-eight. We balance each other out.”

Grey strands had appeared in Drew’s dark brown hair, but he was still the same. His changes happened outside. Daphne’s had not. Instead of feeling rage, curiosity, or longing; or any of those typical feelings people tend to have around ex-lovers, she felt at peace. She felt secure. She’d done a lot of growing up since her 18-year-old self fell head over heels for the first man she'd ever had sex with. She set her own boundaries. She had her own ambitions. She felt confident alone. She wasn’t searching and trying to be a part of someone else anymore. Finally, she wassomeone.

Without realizing, she had physically distanced herself from him over the course of the conversation. The parting handshake felt appropriately impersonal. Although she felt like she was extending her hand over continents to meet his. It wasn't a bad talk, but she wished she could've just sniffed his butt and walked away instead.

Hot chow in one hand, a seasoned Sergeant Detters strode across the mess decks aboard the USS Bonhomme Richard. He spotted a younger Marine sitting alone and flourished his tray dramatically, “It looks like dog shit, but boy does it ever taste like heaven!” The boy smiled, and the Sergeant firmly thumped him on the back as he walked off toward the table a few of his buddies had claimed. This was the first hot meal the Marines had eaten in a minute.

Sergeant Detters and his platoon had just finished up a week-long joint training operation at Camp Mujuk, a rural South Korean Marine base. The Marines reflected somberly upon the “Frozen Chosin” Marines of the Korean War; what they must have felt as many casualties fell prey to hypothermia and infection during extended periods of heavy combat. The cold February weather bit through every warming layer Detters and his boys piled on. They cursed about it. They joked about it. At one point, even the ROK Marines joined Detters and his boys in a quick penguin huddle while they all waited for a radio message from the command deck. Patches and uniform items were exchanged, and several push-up competitions broke out. The Marines were cold, but grateful for fellowship and a change of scenery.

War, like life, is timeless yet everchanging. The “bad” part of war from an observer’s standpoint is typically death. Although, I think this is unfair; based in fear of the unknown or misunderstood. Life most certainly leads to death, but humans don’t classify life itself as “bad” – just death. As an observer thinks of war, they imagine crisis, turmoil, bombs, and merciless inhumanity; blood, fire, and desolate battlegrounds. There’s more to it than that.

War is exposing oneself completely to fate, destiny, and the universe. War is experiencing the worst times in life and witnessing the pure human drive to survive against extreme odds. Men and women push past self-perceived limits of mental and physical resiliency, beyond long-held beliefs of what they considered humanly possible. War is finding beauty, or even occasional comfort, in the most hostile and terrifying environments. This is not to say that war is wholly good or should be celebrated. War is terrifying because of the unpredictability, hostility, destruction, and violence it brings. Rather, war should be solemnly respected; not seen so superficially as “poor men fighting rich men’s battles”.

The legacies left by these warriors, the “poor men”, are rich, revealing, noble, and significant. They have left lessons from their toils, enlightening future generations and inspiring appreciation for even life’s smallest wonders – especially life’s smallest wonders. While dreaming of world peace is a common and pleasant human pastime, lamenting over the non-negotiable presence of evil, death, and war in the world is a worrisome waste of time and effort. As humans, the best thing we can do is make peace where we can – chat with a coworker, or compliment a stranger. Even better, learn from a warrior: appreciate life’s dog shit when it’s served, and lend some cheer to a friend while you’re at it.

Transmissions Scout Stokes listened attentively as the call of a distant-sounding voice rose just above the roar of static on the net.

"Charlie-6, this is Red Horse. Break. We are not alone. Over."

Stokes pushed his headset into his ear with one hand and feverishly scribbled the message down with the other.

"Copy, Red Horse. What is your grid?"

Stokes waited a few seconds for a reply, but heard nothing more.

"Red Horse, I say again, what is your grid? Over."

Silence. Static.

This was his first night on watch, and Stokes was already on edge. Had he done something wrong? He checked his notes. He had done everything correctly. Why didn't Red Horse respond?

Stokes looked over at Sergeant Riley's tent. The words, "Don't wake me up unless it's life or death," ran through his mind. Sergeant Riley was a stickler for the rules, and that was rule number one.

After a few seconds of contemplating the severity of the situation, Stokes decided it could indeed be life or death, and went over to wake Sergeant Riley.

"I don't hear anyone dying. This better be good."

"That's precisely it, Sergeant," Stokes stammered. "I don't hear anything."

"Of course you don't hear anything, you dumb sh*t. We're here to maintain the post. This net is only used for training exercises. There aren't any exercises scheduled for at least the next two months."

Stokes' eyes opened wide. Then who was on the net?

"I have you monitoring the net just for sh*ts and giggles. Captain O and I thought it would be good for you to get in the habit of standing a watch, but clearly you can't even handle that without a hand to hold. You're never going to-"

Stokes started to look pale.

"Ok. That's it. You're off the watch. We'll have to tell Captain O. He's gonna be pissed, and I won't be able to save you."

Sergeant Riley snatched Stokes up by the collar and marched him over to Captain Ortega's tent.

"What in God's name were you two yelling about over there?" Captain O growled as he stood up.

"This piece of sh*t can't even stand watch right, Sir. Now he's looking all sick like he's gonna just die on us."

Captain O looked at Stokes, then at Riley.

"Stokes, why are we awake right now?"

"Sir, I received a transmission. From Red Horse." Stokes whispered shakily. "They said 'we're not alone', but they never gave me a grid, and they never came back on the net. So, it was probably nothing. I'm sorry."

Captain Ortega stared at Stokes and Riley in disbelief. After several seconds of silence, the older man's expression hardened, and he addressed the young men in a somber tone.

"Well, boys. Do you want the good news or the bad news? Honestly, you probably won't believe me either way, but here's the short version: 'Red Horse' was the call sign for a platoon that went out on patrol from this post and never came back."

Stokes and Riley exchanged glances.

"No bodies, and no engagements reported. A lot of people lost their careers over the whole thing because nobody could figure out what the hell happened. That call sign was retired years ago. The good news is that they're still out there. The bad news is that if they're not alone, we're not alone either. Boys, we're all on watch tonight. I'll call it in to headquarters and see if we can get some backup. I'm afraid this is just the beginning."

I feel myself begin to hollow.

I'm not prepared for what's to follow.

And in the clutch of sudden empty,

my mind is heavy, dark, resenting.

I yearn for love, for voice, for touch.

To be with beings - together and such.

I wonder if they feel it too,

"someones" alone inside their rooms,

before they sleep and dream their dreams

Do they think about "someones" like me?

And if they do - well - does it help?

And if it does, how could I tell?

My thoughts begin to turn to dreams

as loneliness abandons me.

My empty's filled. The feeling passes.

Heavy's light. And love amasses.

Surround me.

As I lay my head on your chest,

your arms close around me

and take me so far

into every feeling that is lovely.

I have a thousand things to do.

- a thousand things I wish to prove.

I'm fit and fast,

and tough and mean -

I'm strong and good;

and light and clean.

Fuck my feelings

Fuck my dreams

Fuck my thoughts,

and all such things.

My dream is this-

and my esteem:

To be a picture perfect winner

-and this I mean-

To cook the PERFECT evening dinner.

To be the perfect man and perfect wife -

for men like me, there is such strife.

Fool me once.

Fool me twice.

Fuck you once.

Fuck you nice.

In the midst of my disorder

you find some love in barking orders

that make us whole

and take me over.

I've made a front

that makes you wonder.

Fuck me once

and fuck me nice.

You've fooled me once.

Please fool me twice.

In the midst of your disorder -

I find the love in barking orders

that make us whole

and take you over.

You've made a front

that makes me wonder.

Love I have, and love I'll keep -

From folks like you who steal such things.

The trouble is in your tempatation,

You lovely, lonely fascination.

My hands are tied, and heart is bound.

My mouth your name will never sound.

And maybe in another life,

our paths could mystically align.

But not this life, and not this time.

Today is my first day off of work in two years. Today, my alarm clock didn’t go off at 4:30AM. Instead, I was awakened by the white-hot light of the Florida sun inconsiderately assaulting my eyelids. Looks like my natural wake time is actually around 8:30AM. Who knew?

I sat up and stretched my arms out above my head, just like all the pretty girls in the movies do when they wake up. I popped out of bed and slipped into my coziest sweatpants. I didn’t really have a plan for the day. I just wanted to get on the next bus out of my small town and lose myself in a city - any city.

I walked over to my closet and pushed aside my usual greys and navy blues, khakis, and dress pants. What was hiding in the back? What outfit could I choose to associate this day with for the rest of my life? Then I remembered. It was crazy, but it could be perfect. I had a trashy, tiny pink glitter mini dress from my best friend’s bachelorette party and a pair of miles-high stilettos I could wear with it. I spent the next few hours on makeup, hair, dressing, laying on the couch, and eating a quart of ice cream. Oh, how I’ve missed being myself!

Armed with my showy dress, my sexiest lingerie, my trampiest makeup, and my biggest hair, I strutted down the hall with strides miles wide. I bought a hot dog from the street cart on the corner. Then, I crossed the street and walked over to the bus stop. I took a seat on the bench next to a handsome-looking business man. He was tan, with beautiful dark hair he had combed neatly up and to the side. I noticed him eyeing me while I was crossing the street. Taking an extreme risk, I deliberately placed a small dab of mustard on his pant leg when he looked away.

“Excuse me, Sir,” I began, “I hate to bother you, but I just spilled some mustard on your pant leg there. I’m so sorry!”

“Oh, that’s alright,” he said, looking me up and down.

“Let me just get that for you,” I offered. I licked my thumb and rubbed it slowly up his thigh to get the mustard. What the f*ck am I doing?!

I looked into his eyes, blushing behind my makeup. He was blushing too!

Luckily, before things could get awkward, the bus arrived, and I was separated from my mustard spill fantasy lover. I rode the bus all the way to Ybor.

I payed my fare and started my way down the street. I had almost forgotten how crowded cities could get at night. I saw a few clubs that weren’t charging covers for ladies. I decided on one called Honey Pot. It looked the most inviting, and I was beyond ready to get a drink and start dancing. I got up to the bar and ordered myself a dirty shirley. The bartender stared at me blankly. I pulled out my phone and typed. “Sprite, Grenadine, 1 x Vodka.” I received a nod, and 30 seconds later, a drink. After paying, I turned around and found myself face to face with Mustard Man.

“Oh! Hey, how’s up - I mean what’s up?” he blurted out nervously.

“Hey there, Mustard Man. Thought I lost you when the bus stopped,” I joked.

“To be honest, I skipped a meeting to follow you here,” he replied smoothly.

“Really?”

“No,” he replied as he looked me over again and ran a hand back through his hair, “I just didn’t know where else to hang out tonight, and you were pretty easy to spot in that dress!”

“Well, if you’re looking to have a fun time tonight, be my guest! I’m Rori, by the way. And you are - ”

” - Tom, I’m Tom. I’m sorry, but I can’t be Mustard Man for the rest of the night,” he chuckled.

I laughed, and then I snorted. Loudly. I'm glad that was Rori, not me.

We danced the night away and enjoyed a few more drinks together. Then, I took Tom back to my place.

The next morning, I woke up to my blaring alarm in the dark, and it was time to be Ted again. Just Ted at Best Buy, selling you some flashy new TV and upgrading your warranty on the way out. I sat in bed and contemplated the consequences of not going to work and concluded that hot water is a good enough incentive to go. I showered, got dressed, slammed a cup of coffee, and made my way to the door. Just before I left, I noticed a mustard packet Tom had jokingly left on the bookshelf. I slipped it into my pocket with a smile, and remembered how good it felt to be loved as myself.

From one lonely surfer soul to Another:

Yes.

I am lonesome tonight;

And paging you,

wherever you are;

sweetly singing siren songs

along to the reverberating melodies

of your guitar strings.

Tonight, I'll sleep

and dream of only you.

You're like a rainy day;

full of cuddles and warm blankets-

sweet, like hot cocoa.

You make me laugh, like a stack of

romantic comedy DVDs

You're like a rainy day-

refreshing everything you touch;

quenching;

cleansing the earth and my spirit,

reminding me to wonder;

and even delight in everything

stripped clean of its complications.

You're cool like the water

streaming down the window pane.

Quietly extraordinary when you look

into my eyes

and whisper to my spirit-

like small droplets on soft grass.

Yet you're thunderously bold

when you hold me close and

slide your hand down my back-

when I feel you

like I hear raindrops

beating against the thin

tin shell of my body-

pelting my skin powerfully;

sweetly assaulting my senses.

And as much comfort as there is in shelter,

I need your open, pouring love

to come down over me like a storm.

And so,

like I would on any rainy day,

I do believe I'll stay outside,

open.

to take you in

while you pass by.