Jacket Girl
In my head, I called you Jacket Girl. You sat in front of me in class everyday, two seats forward, one seat left. I knew you by the sound of your voice, the stretch of your hand into the air, and by your jackets.
Monday was always casual, some variation of a quarter zip with a random corner logo, emblematic of one of the many organizations that I was sure you were in.
Tuesday was consistent. It was the brown leather jacket, with the zippers at the cuffs. The metal would click on your keyboard if you were typing too quickly, and I always learned to seek out the noise - knowing it was telling me to pay attention.
Wednesday was all business. Some smart looking blazer to match the confidence in your voice. Wednesday was the day firms would always table in the buildings- and you? well you dressed for success.
Thursday was a wild card. I never knew what type of jacket would end up showing up on Thursdays. One week it was the faded jean jacket, Shakespeare painted along its sleeves. Another week it was an old-school varsity letter jacket, adorned with all manner of accomplishments. I lived for the surprise.
But Fridays were my favorite. Fridays were for the trench coat. You always swept into class with it swishing around your legs, hands in your pockets, and a grin on your face. Fridays were for the trench coat. Fridays were also the day when Professor Shannon would turn over the class to the students for open speech and debate, and somehow you always ended up at the front of the classroom. Your words flew wild and I fell a little bit in love with the way you talked, hands in the air, talking circles around the rest of the class. Fridays were for the trench coat. But, Fridays were also for me. I got into the habit of sending you a thumbs up every time you went to take your stage, and with each week that passed, you eventually started looking back. I'd applaud and you would smile, walking back to your seat with a head nod in my direction. It was our routine. You, me, and your trench coat- and that's all it needed to be.
The Trench Coat
It will arrive as no surprise
this postcard from 1939,
dug from my time capsule.
Every one of us has this war
seamed inside-- to survive.
Yes, I was digging with the bros
in arms, deep, a quick graveyard,
for "others" 'cross the borderline.
Before I was gone, remember me?
I said, "Sugar," everything'll be fine,
and over, for the rest of our lives.
It felt fat, on the tongue; wrong.
but you kissed me off, anyhow,
fixing my collar up with a little pride
rolling from the corner of your eye.
You waved on the ship, and I, I,
thought I'd dive, right there, out
on the spot... stop the dig then,
but, I put a cold clammy hand in
into the long breast pocket, and
found this blank, with a stamp,
and your note, in pencil scratch,
... wherever you are, w rite me,
from the trenches... my heart.
10.27.2023
FFF#3: The Trench Coat Challenge @ChrisSadhill
Highlander
Adelaide visited the café, bright and early every morning. She sat, for the most part, unnoticed, just as she preferred, sipping coffee and struggling to write on a laptop. And each morning, she looked forward to seeing him, the man in the trench coat. He arrived at nine on the dot and without fail, always wore the trench coat. He cut an impressive figure, handsome and confident in his demeanor. He never looked her way, but from the corner, Adelaide would watch him through half-shuttered lashes. What was beneath the coat, she couldn’t help but wonder.
It had been many years since she’d seen episodes of a show her mum had watched called "Highlander", but the main character had always worn a trench coat, too – and he had carried an impressive, gleaming sword beneath it, ready to fight for his life and the life of those he loved. Duncan McLeod, handsome, rugged, and a fierce Scottish warrior. Adelaide’s mind ran wild with images the memory evoked. Was this man like Duncan, hiding something so important beneath his coat that he could use to save the day?
The door’s bell sounded and Adelaide looked up to see him enter. Nine o’clock. Right on time. She shifted back in her chair a little and pulled her hair down to partially cover her face. She had no desire to be noticed while watching him. Still, she could not help herself. He was quite handsome and the trench coat made him all the more intriguing.
She heard the quiet, indistinguishable murmur of his deep voice as he ordered. She imagined he liked an espresso con panna. It was a strong, rich, well-balanced, smooth, delectable coffee with a bit of cream. Yes, that would suit him. With the thought, her mind evolved to a strong, well-balanced, and smooth body, possibly clad in a kilt, beneath the trench coat. What an enchanting thought.
There was a loud clatter as someone nearby dropped a plate, and Adelaide was brought out of her dreamlike trance. Embarrassed by where her thoughts had wandered, her face turned a bright shade of red. She stole another glance at the counter to find he was picking up his order and turning to leave. Quickly, she lowered her head, pretending to read what was not on her laptop and finding comfort in the shield her long hair provided.
Click, click, click….the sound of someone approaching drew nearer until Adelaide could see gleaming, Italian leather shoes beside her table. Startled, she looked up to find him, pausing to place a cup of steaming, hot coffee before her on the table. He smiled. It was absolutely glorious.
“Good morning. Americano, I believe, is your drink of choice,” he said with a wink. “My treat, so please enjoy. Best of luck with your writing.”
Ignoring her look of surprise, he turned on his heel to leave, but stopped suddenly and spun back around.
“The name’s Duncan. Duncan McLeod. It’s a pleasure to meet you, lass.”
“The Last of the Wasteland Knights”
In the wasteland that had once been an Energetic city, a relentless howl of the wind now sweeps through the crumbling skyscrapers. A lone figure, known simply as "Strider," navigates the treacherous ruins, his long, weathered trench coat billowing in the toxic gusts. He was a survivor in this post-apocalyptic world, and his trench coat was more than just a garment; it was his armor, his sanctuary.
He had seen the world change beyond recognition. In the wake of nuclear devastation, civilization had crumbled, giving rise to lawless marauders and mutated monstrosities. Strider's trench coat concealed his arsenal of weapons, a sawed-off shotgun, a battered revolver, and a pair of wickedly sharp combat knives. These tools of survival were never far from his grasp.
As Strider ventured deeper into the heart of the desolation, he clung to the tattered shreds of humanity. Memories of the old world haunted him, and he couldn't help but fight against the changes that had befallen it. He knew that beneath the tattered remnants of society, there were still those who clung to their humanity, like him. Those were the ones worth saving.
Amid the ruins, he spotted a group of scavengers ransacking what remained of a pharmacy. Their leader, a hulking brute with an ironclad arm, was mercilessly taking whatever he pleased. Strider's jaw tightened beneath his dust-covered scarf. He couldn't stand by and watch these scavengers desecrate the remnants of civilization.
Strider slowly drew his shotgun from under his trench coat, its worn stock nestling against his side. The weapon's familiar weight and the comforting touch of cold steel reassured him. The scavengers, engrossed in their looting, didn't hear him approach.
As he crept closer, Strider's heart pounded in his chest. Every step was a battle against the tide of despair that threatened to overwhelm him. His finger tensed on the trigger. The leader, still rummaging through the pharmacy's remains, remained oblivious to the threat lurking behind.
In an instant, Strider unleashed a deafening blast from his shotgun. The leader's iron arm exploded into a spray of shrapnel and sparks, sending him crashing to the ground, bellowing in agony. The other scavengers scattered like rats, their looted supplies abandoned in their haste.
Strider, his trench coat now stained with the blood of the oppressor, stood alone amid the chaos. The wasteland's relentless changes, the constant struggle for survival, weighed heavily on him, but in that moment, he had made a stand against the tide of darkness.
The wind howled around him, carrying with it the acrid stench of a dying world. Strider couldn't stop the changes that had befallen the world, but he could make a difference. In the fading light of the wasteland, Strider's trench coat flapped like a tattered flag of defiance. He would continue to battle the changes, one step at a time, for as long as there was breath in his body. In this dystopian world, he would become a beacon of hope, concealed beneath a coat of survival.
Trench Coat
The setting sun was giving a bloody picture to the world around me. I peeked at the fast food restaurant. It was never crowded and that was the reason I came here. People are not thrilled when they see me. They flinch and curse me for ruining their day with my bad luck. They fear breathing the same air will make them ill too. Children cry looking at me; I don’t blame them, I used to cry too. But now, years have passed since I saw my reflection.
The world around me was losing color, as the October breeze was passing through the shirt holes. The restaurant was well-lit. I saw a car stop in front of the restaurant, and a couple walking in. My stomach churned and the delicious smell coming through the air vent was adding fuel to the already starving stomach. I looked around and found no one.
I silently walked to the dumpster and opened the lid. As I was going through the trash, I heard the bell ring and stood still. The oncoming footstep halted.
“Hey! What are you doing?” asked a puzzled voice. I wanted to run, but my legs were not moving. It was more than a year since I conversed with a human, and all the bad memories came back. I slowly turned around, head down, I hoped my hair would cover my face. I felt him flinch and my heart felt a pang. I thought I would not care, but I was wrong. He took a step back. I stood still, my eyes welling up.
“Here, take this!”, he stuttered, and stumbled in. I heard the bell ring and the door close. I closed my eyes and tears rolled down my cheeks, I opened my eyes and saw a brown bag on the floor. I took it and slowly walked into the shadow. The food was warm and it smelled delicious. I gobbled down the food. It was days since I ate, and to get a full meal was a blessing.
As I sat down in the darkness, pondering about everything and nothing, I fell asleep. It was all dark when I woke up. It was cold and light rain was pouring. It took me some time to gather where I was. I stood up and started running towards the light when I stumbled and fell. A cozy cloth felt warm to my touch and I tried to pry it from the branches it was tangled. After some arduous pulling, it came free. I covered myself with the cloth to stay dry. I felt the sleeve holes and poking my hands into it, I felt grateful for the person who left it there.
At that moment, a big lightning struck and I saw myself wearing a trench coat on the reflection of a car. My heart sped up, I turned around in time to see the body of a person lying all bloodied on the ground lit up in the lightning.
Trench Coats
Trench coats could be beige, some would say often so. Standing in line in a trench coat will give you a different reception than walking on a rainy road. Either way you look like you'd be hiding something, which is a way of showing on something, like mysticism, a quiet guy talking - not so quiet, not at all, some might say.
Do you have to wear that? said Glenda nervously, you do what you want, she added.
You don't like it? Said I, maybe
And she didn't repeat what just mentioned, as that would take too long, as well as perhaps, although she doubted it, would be taken as a sign of hostility or rudeness or just plain hurtful.
I still felt quite awkward over my trench coat, and sat with it for a few minutes in the rain on a dark street. Trench coats could also be black, or dark blue. For example.
@ChrisSadhill
From the Trenches
Trench mouth befouls my baited breath
With gingivitis from all the Meth
I've done on the street
'S the trick from the treat
Brush over
Trench foot befalls my feet
With frozen heel and nails of sleet
But I can still dance with missing toes
Though, it goes, my gait is froze
Move over
Trench wench becomes my wrench
That turns on the pipe of life's sweet stench
Flowing from the depravity
Involving the anal cavity
Bend over
Trench warfare belittles the way you fight
When you live as you do in weighted blight
Pop your head up and dodge projectiles
Fret you not your dysfunction erectile
Tower over
Trench coat bespeaks my loathsome quote
That keeps my twisted boat afloat
The curtain call that closes the show
Ends naked truths I undergo
Take over
Befouling, befalling, becoming, belittling, bespeaking
Is life in the trenches without all the shrieking
It's not a gilded path we walk
But future regrets we anxiously stalk
Start over