Adam Fenner's Blog

Day 4 – SPC Kevin Walsh

After breakfast, Walsh returned to his barracks. He was getting frustrated, mostly with Afsoon and the state of things on the COP. Since he arrived, he hadn’t done anything but eat, shower, and be tormented by Afsoon. Some of the other guys were content, but he was growing restless. It may have also been the lack of sleep.

“Qoo qoo qoo,” Afsoon’s song was loud enough to hear outside the barracks. She was singing loudly and off-key.

Miller was droning on about how horny he was and what kind of burger he was going to order when he got home.

I wish I wasn’t the only one who could hear her. Not just because it makes me feel crazy, but then I wouldn’t have to suffer alone.

He found her standing at his desk, drawing a photo of a Humvee rolling down the hill and crushing someone. Her tongue stuck out the side of her mouth while she concentrated on coloring the rocks red around the flattened soldier.

I’m not putting up with another day of this. I may not be able to stop her, but I’m not going to make it easier on her.

Afsoon started screaming when he reached over her, sprawling herself across her beloved drawings. Her scream was high and piercing, so sharp it made his teeth hurt. The sound filled the room, rattling something deep in his skull. He felt like a dog caught in a fire alarm.

I don’t care. This game is over.

He picked her up and set her at the edge of the bed. She squirmed in his arms and tried to get to the table before he cleared it, but she was too slow.

Her shrill scream followed him out the door.

She wasn’t out of earshot until he was beyond the barrier. Lighting the papers and tossing the crayons on top, he didn’t leave until the papers were black and the crayons were a pool of drying wax slowly dripping into the barrel.

He didn’t see her the rest of the day. His room felt eerily quiet, and he missed having her company with him while he watched movies until the lights went out, even if her company was a bit more morbid than he preferred.

Another twenty minutes passed before he finally decided to give in and try to sleep.

Walsh slid under his covers and turned his back to his door. That was when he heard her small sandals dragging across his wooden floor. She kicked them off at the box he had set up as a step for her and climbed into bed.

I hope she is here to apologize.

But he knew better.

Adjusting herself beside him, she put her small hand on his shoulder and leaned into his ear. “Ta mata darogh wowel,” she whispered.

“Zaa baa valiskala taso taa ejaza warnakram chi ma pregdam.”

“Zaa baa taata da valagha saa saza darkram chi ta wakral.”

Walsh rolled over and looked her in the face. The dim light highlighted her round features and big eyes.

Maybe if I ignore her.

She wouldn’t let him. She followed in every direction he rolled, always whispering into his ear, never letting him relax enough to fall asleep.

The night dragged on for what seemed like an eternity.

Every time he blinked, her green eyes were there, almost glowing in the dark, inches from his face.

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

If you want to know what happens after the last drawing burns, explore the larger story in Objective Two (OBJ 2)—a novel that expands beyond Kevin’s perspective and dives deeper into the haunted valley of Najil, the soldiers who survive him, and the darkness that won’t let them go.

Download Objective 2 – EPUB, MOBI, PDF

Book one of The Horrors of War series is available here.

Download O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) – EPUB, MOBI, PDF

Day 3 – SPC Kevin Walsh

The sound of Afsoon singing woke him up before the lights turned on. Fumbling around, he found his flashlight under a pile of papers on the desk where she was busy drawing. Clicking the rubber button illuminated the corner. He flashed it over toward her. She smiled back at him. The crisp incandescent light illuminated her green eyes and cast a crisp shadow behind her. Her head was outlined in red from the scarf wrapped around her head.

Looking down at the images, he was pleasantly surprised to find they were of the two of them, holding hands and walking around the base together. Several had the black dogs sitting beside them, one on either side, their private guards. Smiling, he turned off the flashlight and rolled back over in bed.

Before he fell asleep completely, he felt her climbing into bed. She had been unable to on her own, but he had set a box under the bed that she could step up on.

She slid under the covers and slid up against him.

“Zaa tasara mena larm, kion. zaa baa valiskala taata ejaza warnakram chi ma pregdi,” she whispered in his ear.

* * *

When he awoke the second time, he was alone. He rubbed his eyes and stretched out with his feet dangling over the edge of the bed. Looking at the drawings that Afsoon had left him and then thinking about getting something to eat for breakfast, he peeked under the bed to see if he was alone, then changed and headed out.

They had another patrol at fourteen hundred. This one was going to be quick. They would be working to establish more of a presence in the valley, whether the locals liked it or not. Stepping outside the gate, the cool breeze was welcome. It wasn’t until they got to the edge of the bazaar that they started to see locals. Men were busy shopping while the women moved quietly behind them, carrying the items that they purchased.

The shops were rail cars stacked on top of one another, opened to the single-lane dirt road.

Walsh watched carefully from his position near the front of the patrol, keeping his eyes up as he watched the second story of the bazaar built into the mountainside.

“I think you have a girlfriend, Walsh,” Agdal yelled behind him.

Walsh turned around to see Afsoon walking ten meters behind him.

What is she doing here? Agdal can see her.

“Where did she come from?” Walsh asked.

“Probably an Afghan man fucking an Afghan woman,” Agdal said.

“Thanks,” Walsh rolled his eyes, looking stunned at the child following him. “You know what I mean. How long has she been following me?”

“Not sure. I turned around to check on the guys behind me, and when I turned back, she was there. She has been keeping her eyes glued to you, buddy.”

“Yeah, well, you know the ladies love me,” Walsh said, staring at Afsoon.

Is she real? What’s going on?

She didn’t smile at him; she only watched him, her green eyes following him the entire patrol.

They turned around at the end of the bazaar. Walsh was careful not to draw too much attention to his concern for Afsoon.

Why can Agdal see her now?

She followed them through the field, moving beside him once they were away from the bazaar. Kerr held the door open for them, counting each soldier as they passed through.

“You’re letting her in?” Walsh asked the Sergeant.”

“Who, Miller? She is a little annoying, but I don’t have much choice,” Kerr said.

Is he fucking with me?

Afsoon smiled at him with a mischievous grin.

“Ha, ha, Sergeant, I heard that,” Kerr said, clearing his weapon inside the gate.

Afsoon ran up the hill, her small feet expertly navigating the rocky incline.

“He means his girlfriend,” Agdal said, stepping through the gate.

Good, he can still see her.

“You mean that little girl who was in the bazaar?” Kerr asked, visibly confused.

“Yeah, she dropped off once we got out of there. I haven’t seen her since. Looks like the fantasy of making beautiful, little, brown babies lives on for Walsh,” Agdal said.

So, they can’t see her anymore. This isn’t getting any easier on me.

“You are fucking brown, Agdal,” Miller said, slapping his magazine back into his rifle.

“I’m good brown, though. These people give brown a bad name,” Agdal explained, lifting the top of his machine gun, letting the belt fall out and slap against the side of the plastic drum.

“I swear I saw your dad out there. Looked just like you,” Miller said.

“Fuck you,” Agdal replied, slapping the cover of his weapon back down.

“Don’t be mad. A beard and some local garb and no one would know the difference,” Miller continued.

“This is bullshit. You are a racist,” Agdal said.

“Ha, ha. Weren’t you the one just calling them dirty brown?”

Everyone laughed and started walking up the hill back to the barracks.

Walsh found his room unoccupied. Afsoon’s crayons and drawings were stacked neatly in the corner of the desk.

“Let’s get some chow, man. I heard it’s taco night,” Miller said.

“I’m sure Agdal will love that,” Walsh said.

“That’s right,” Miller said. “Hey Agdal, they’re playing the song of your people.”

“I don’t hear anything. What song’re you talking about?” Agdal replied from his room.

“Tacos, mother fucker,” Miller said with a big smirk on his face.

“Fuck you, Miller.”

“I love you too, buddy,” Miller replied. Let’s go,” he said to Walsh.

Dropping the last of his equipment, Walsh grabbed his rifle and followed Miller out the door.

After dinner, Walsh returned to his room.

Waiting for him was Afsoon, a big, beautiful smile stretched across her face.

“Hey,” Walsh said, setting his rifle against the back wall.

“Wa alaykum?” she replied, turning back to her drawings.

Walsh leaned over her shoulder to see what she was working on now.

Her small hand held a piece of white paper with an image of various soldiers wearing gray uniforms hanging from the twisted tree in the center of the graveyard. These soldiers looked like Americans.

He snatched it from underneath her crayon, leaving a brown streak down the bottom of the picture.

What is this?

Afsoon’s head shot up, and she glared at him.

Underneath that one was another of her standing beside a figure resembling him while he was shooting a line of other soldiers.

Oh, no! I can’t. She can’t.

Afsoon tried to stop him, but he grabbed the picture. It was one of many in a pile of drawings, all grizzly depictions of soldiers dying. The final image was him standing behind her, holding a head in each hand with a black dog on either side.

I have to get rid of these.

He looked at the drawings. A shiver ran through him, but he tried to rationalize. Maybe she didn’t know what they meant. Maybe it was just… drawings. But the image of himself with two heads in his hands burned into his brain.

She began to scream, the kind of high-pitched scream that every little girl has tucked away for when they don’t get what they want. Walsh was envious of his fellow soldiers, who could not hear her.

He grabbed every drawing she had made and piled them up. He slung his rifle over his back and walked out of the room, leaving the screaming child where she stood, the brown crayon in hand. Outside, he could still hear her screaming, but it was muffled. On the other side of the barrier, just down the road, was a fifty-gallon drum that they had been using to burn envelopes with family addresses and other sensitive documents.

Grabbing a lighter out of his pocket—he didn’t smoke but found that they often came in handy—he lit the corner of the small stack, waited until the flame took hold, then tossed it into the barrel.

Why is this happening? Does she want me to kill them? Is she predicting that I will kill them? I never would.

He stared into the fire, watching the paper curl and turn black.

“Valagha zuma enzorona wo, os baa bakhana ghwary,” Afsoon’s voice yelled from behind him.

Walsh turned to see her standing in the middle of the road, a black dog on either side of her.

“I don’t care what you say. That isn’t right,” he said, pointing behind him at the barrel with her burning drawings.

She glared at him, then turned and walked up the road and around the barrier.

Walsh turned back to watch the fire burn out, then returned to his room. It was empty. The crayons were put away and in the box tucked neatly on top of a clean stack of white paper in the corner of his room.

The other soldiers milled about in their rooms until the lights went out. One by one, they all fell asleep. Walsh stayed up, expecting Afsoon to reappear, but she never did. Eventually, he crawled into bed himself.

Just as he was beginning to fall asleep, he heard someone enter his room. He knew the sound of Afsoon’s small sandals shuffling across the floor. He rolled over to see her small head peering at him at the edge of the bed. He could barely make out her outline in the room. The small lights from the various electronics throughout the barracks cast a soft glow across everything, just enough to see her shape but little more.

Her silhouette loomed at the edge of the bed.

“You are welcome to join me if you want,” he offered.

She stood there.

“Suit yourself,” he said, looking back up at the ceiling, trying to ignore her and fall asleep.

Every time he got close to falling asleep, she shifted, and he’d be reawakened.

I’m not going to be beaten by a little girl, even if she is a ghost or whatever.

He stared at the ceiling, ignoring her until the sun came up. Miller was in his doorway, asking about breakfast.

“You look like shit, bro. Did you sleep?”

“Nope, I don’t know what happened,” Walsh said, staring at the space where Afsoon had stood the entire night.

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

If you want to know what happens after the last drawing burns, explore the larger story in Objective Two (OBJ 2)—a novel that expands beyond Kevin’s perspective and dives deeper into the haunted valley of Najil, the soldiers who survive him, and the darkness that won’t let them go.

Download Objective 2 – EPUB, MOBI, PDF

Book one of The Horrors of War series is available here.

Download O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) – EPUB, MOBI, PDF

Day 2 – SPC Kevin Walsh

The sound of rustling paper roused him from his slumber.

He rolled his head to the side to see her, drawing as innocently as he imagined any other child would at around four years old. She was the same age as his niece Karina and appeared to view the world around her with the same level of curiosity and wonder.

She turned her head and smiled. “Sehehar mo pakher.”

It wasn’t an entirely bad way to wake up in the morning, her beautiful green eyes looking at him, ready to see what the day had prepared for them.

“Good morning,” he said, rolling over onto his elbow to see what she was drawing.

She had several drawings prepared. She was coloring the ground with a bright red crayon. The image was of a pile of bodies around a gnarled tree, with armed men wearing dark green fatigues and carrying what looked like AK-47s.

What is this?

There was another drawing of a woman screaming on the side of a road with a tank driving over her.

He put his hand to his mouth in surprise.

Oh my god.

The final image was of a mother holding her child and lying on the ground, with an armed soldier standing over them, a ribbon of blood drained away from the mother’s head.

I don’t even know how to ask her what this is.

Walsh looked down at the smiling cherubic face smiling up at him. He stacked the pictures up neatly and set them in the corner of the desk. He squeezed her shoulder and sat up in the bed. Quietly, she hummed while staining the stones below her pile of corpses red with her warped crayon.

What are these drawings of? The uniforms are too dark to be American. Maybe Russian. That would have happened long before she was born unless she is a ghost left over from that time. Did the Russians kill her? I wish I could speak their Derka language so I could ask.

“You want breakfast, bro?” Miller said, popping his head into the doorway.

Walsh looked over at her, still humming to herself and scribbling away.

“Yeah, let me go take a quick shower,” Walsh said.

I don’t really need to shower. But I’m not going to change in here with her. Am I nervous about changing in front of a ghost?

He gathered his uniform, hygiene gear, and rifle and walked to the shower trailer. She sang her “Qoo qoo qoo,” song and followed him out the door.

“I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I need a little privacy in the shower,” he tried to explain to her.

She smiled in return and grabbed a piece of his shirt to hold on to.

“What is your name?” he asked. “You don’t know what I’m saying.”

Pointing to himself, he said, “I’m Kevin.”

She pointed to herself. “I’m Kevin.”

“No, no, no.” He waved and pointed back at himself. “Kevin.”

He pointed at her.

She grinned and giggled.

I think I will have a very different experience at war than other guys.

“Kevin,” he said, pointing at himself again and directing his finger back at her.

“Afsoon,” she said.

“Afsoon,” he mimicked.

She nodded, pointed at him, and said, ”Kevin.”

“Afsoon,” he said, pointing at her.

“Kevin.” She pointed back at him.

“Yes. I’m glad we got that under control. Now I know what to call you, at least,” Walsh said, walking down around the barriers and opening the door of the shower trailer. Standing in the doorway was old Sergeant Krandall in all his wrinkled, naked glory.

Afsoon screamed, turned around, and ran.

That’s probably for the best.

Stepping inside, he tossed his things down on the bench and hung his towel on a hook beside an unoccupied shower.

“How is it going, Sergeant?” Walsh asked, taking off his shirt.

“Same ol’ shit. They stuck me on the LZ, told me it was my job to manage,” Krandall said, bending over to pick up his shampoo from the back corner of his shower, directing his bare bottom at Walsh.

“Is that good or bad?” Walsh asked, shying away and focusing on grabbing what he would need from his hygiene bag.

“It’s bull shit. Did a combat jump before half these clowns were alive, but whatever. I got one of those John Deere Gators. I’m going to mount a machine gun to the front. And fuck anyone who tells me otherwise.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Walsh said, turning the water on in his stall.

* * *

There was a lot of talk about the Reaper Platoon having been out on their first patrol. It hadn’t gone very well.

Walsh returned from breakfast with Miller to find Afsoon drawing away. On his bed, she had a scattered pile of images of the same massacre and the same gnarled tree, and on her desk, she had various images of the same massacre and the same tree.

“You are going a little overboard with all your drawings, Walsh,” Miller said, glancing briefly at the scattered crayon drawings in the room.

“Yeah, for real,” Walsh said, wondering where she got all the paper.

Afsoon turned around. “Kevin!” she squealed, taking a few steps toward him. He took a knee to receive her and pretended to set his rifle down while he hugged her, just in case someone watched.

She kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear. “Zaa sta sara mena larm. valiskala ma maa pregda.” Her voice was sweet and lyrical.

He squeezed her in reply, unsure what she said, then stood back up. He gathered up the papers.

There were decapitations, mass graves, and lines of bearded men besides women wearing blue burkas, who were on their knees with soldiers behind them, rifles to their heads. One horrible scene after another. She smiled at him as if she had clumsily drawn a butterfly or a flower.

He smiled back.

Setting the papers in a neat stack at the corner of his bed, he pulled a movie up on his laptop.

The door to the barracks opened. Around lunchtime, Sergeant Kerr yelled, “Suit up, boys, and be on the LZ in an hour. We have a patrol.”

“About time,” Miller said.

Afsoon drew while he put his gear on.

Walsh paused his movie and slid his laptop underneath his pillow.

Miller was out the door in fifteen minutes. The guy who would be late to his funeral was going to be forty-five minutes early to this patrol. “Come on, bro,” he said from the doorway.

“I thought we had an hour,” Walsh said, looking at Afsoon working diligently at his desk.

“Yeah, but you know how it is, fifteen minutes early to fifteen minutes early to fifteen minutes early. We are fucking late already.” Miller smiled.

“Ok, give me a minute,” Walsh said. He grabbed the last of his gear, picked up his rifle, squeezed Afsoon’s shoulder, and walked out the door.

She waved goodbye to him while he was walking out of the room.

They didn’t get back in until dinner was nearly over. Their lieutenant had to complain to the cooks to open the kitchen. After reheating chili and macaroni, which are best prepared by military cooks, they finally made it up to their barracks.

Afsoon was patiently waiting for him with a stack of drawings. He gave her a big hug and opened his laptop to start his movie again. It played while he dropped his equipment and stretched his shoulders a bit. Seven hours had taken their toll on his young body. Jumping into the bed, he leaned back against the wall of his room.

Afsoon must have heard the movie starting because she climbed onto the bed and nuzzled her head underneath his arm, snuggling up close to him. I’m glad this one is kid friendly.

She fell asleep under his arm before the movie was over. He carefully set the laptop on the table and changed into his pajamas while she shifted around on his pillow. Is it weird that I’m going to sleep with a little dead girl? It isn’t like that, though. Fuck, man. This is so fucked.

He scooted her close to the wall and slid in behind her, tossing his arm over her small body.

She grabbed his hand in hers and pulled it to her chest. She felt warm against him. He always assumed ghosts would be cold, but she felt feverish under his arm.

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

If you want to know what happens after the last drawing burns, explore the larger story in Objective Two (OBJ 2)—a novel that expands beyond Kevin’s perspective and dives deeper into the haunted valley of Najil, the soldiers who survive him, and the darkness that won’t let them go.

Download Objective 2 – EPUB, MOBI, PDF

Book one of The Horrors of War series is available here.

Download O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) – EPUB, MOBI, PDF

Day 1 – SPC Kevin Walsh

The helicopter lifted off, its rotor wash flattening the dust around Specialist Walsh and his fellow Archangels on the gravel Landing Zone (LZ). Sergeant Kerr had recommended they name their platoon Archangels because “They were the good guys, but totally badass.”

Wind from the rotor wash coated his rucksack and duffel bag with a thin layer of gray dust. He tipped the rucksack on its side and banged it against the ground, hoping to knock some off before throwing it onto his back.

The smell of burnt fuel lingered in the air below the helicopter. It blended with the damp smell of wet stone. Everything was cool and dingy here. The clouds hung low, choking out the sun. The Archangels would have their work cut out here at Combat Outpost (COP) Najil.

Sergeant Owens met them at the LZ and walked them up to their barracks. The entire base was built into the side of a hill. It was a series of steps flattened out to support the American construction, linked by a winding road that snaked its way almost a thousand meters up to the Death Star. The Death Star was an observation position designed to allow maximum visibility in the valley, and like so many other things, the previous unit hadn’t taken advantage of it.

“Your barracks are all ready for you guys. The last platoon bailed on us yesterday,” Sergeant Owens explained to them.

“No, battle hand off huh?” Sergeant Kerr asked.

“Apparently not, they took the first bird out they could, weren’t shy about it either,” Owens replied.

They walked up the sandbag path to the level above the LZ and followed Sergeant Owens to a stone path leading to yet another level. “That right there, is the Internet center,” he said, pointing at the small wooden building with sandbags on the roof and a satellite dish pointing into the sky. It was on the same level as a row of wooden barracks.

He guided them up another sandbag stairwell, which led to a larger road and a row of barracks hidden behind more sand-filled barriers. Spray-painted on the walls of the building were various images of hell.

“I would have preferred a pin-up model riding a missile or something,” Specialist Miller said.

“For real, I just want to dump my bags,” Walsh said, looking at the depiction of the river of blood with the tortured souls scrambling to get out. Devils paddled around in small rowboats, holding peoples’ heads under the water with their oars while their arms flayed above the surface.

“They did do a really nice job, though,” Miller said, staring at two centaurs on the river’s edge firing arrows at various sinners within.

Walsh adjusted his pack and pulled his rifle strap off of the part of his neck that it had already rubbed raw. “I’m going inside to dump my shit.”

“Cool, I’m right behind you,” Miller said.

Sergeant Kerr was walking into the building beside it. “This one’s mine. You guys are in that one.” Kerr pointed at the adjacent building. “That’s the junior enlisted barracks.” The buildings ran parallel to a cliffside, where a row of benches had been set up and a small pile of cigarette butts was in the center. Walsh opened the door of their barracks and found a series of makeshift walls. It looked like some Mad Max creation, an amalgamation of junk used to construct something functional.

“You got the second room on the right,” Specialist Agdal yelled. “I better not hear you masturbating tonight in there.”

“Why? You going to be too tempted to join me?” Walsh said, passing the first door and maneuvering past the protruding springs of the bed frame laid on its side to create a wall. The room was small, barely large enough for his bed and the table in the corner. He lurched forward and dumped his bags onto the bed. The cheap wooden bed was set onto four metal ammunition cans, flipped upside down, and worked well to elevate the bed, allowing more storage capacity underneath.

“Asalam alaykum,” a quiet girl’s voice said from behind him.

Walsh spun, banging his foot against the ammo can and knocking the can out from under one of the legs. The other wooden legs slipped from the metal cans and crashed onto the ground. He jumped back to avoid further damage, then looked to the doorway where he had heard the girl’s voice… but she was gone.

“What the fuck, Walsh?” Agdal yelled down the hall.

“For real, bro. What if I was trying to sleep?” Miller added from his room.

“Fuck you both,” Walsh said, turning around to his leaning bed, the back leg the only one remaining on the overturned ammo can. It listed lazily back and forth.

Climbing underneath, he raised the bunk with one hand and maneuvered the other three cans back into place with his free hand and foot. Once each can was in place, he looked closely at it to ensure it was settled.

“Qoo qoo qoo barg,” a girl’s voice quietly sang above him.

Nervously, he looked out and saw two small feet dangling off the edge of the bed.

“Miller!” Walsh yelled.

“What bro?”

“Come here and get this kid out of my room while I fix my bunk?”

“Fuck, man. A kid?”

The two small feet kicked casually and the girl continued to sing, “Qoo qoo qoo.”

From under the bed, Walsh saw Miller’s feet appear in his doorway, “What fuckin’ kid are you talking about?” Miller asked.

“Ummm, the one sitting on my bed.”

“Bro, your shit is the only thing on your bed.”

“Qoo qoo qoo,” she sang sweetly.

“What does she look like?” Miller asked indignantly.

“Fuck, I don’t know. All I see are her dirty red sandals. Don’t you see her?”

“Other than your dumb ass sliding around on this rodent-infested floor, no.”

“Qoo qoo qoo,” she continued to sing.

“You don’t see a little girl on my bed?” he asked, desperate now.

“I don’t get it,” Miller asked, confused about the conversation.

“You don’t see her?”

“Nope. But if there were a girl there, I would help you bang her. Is that what you are asking me?”

Two small feet kicked innocently above him while his elbow rested in a hard pile of rat droppings. His hand was dangerously close to a readied mousetrap.

“Well, I appreciate it,” Walsh ceded, sliding out from underneath the bed. I’m going crazy. It’s the first day, and I’m seeing an imaginary child.

“Whatever, it’s only the first day. Don’t be losing your mind just yet,” Miller said as he turned around and left the room.

He nervously watched the two dirty feet moving back and forth while she sang the same chorus over and over. A piece of him expected to emerge from underneath the bed and find two severed feet dangling. But when he looked, she was sitting as innocently as any child. She wore a long red dress with a simple red scarf wrapped around her head and had the brightest green eyes he had ever seen.

“Asalam alaykum,” she said with a big smile.

He sighed.

“Wa alaykum,” he finally replied, exhausting his knowledge of the local language.

She grinned and began to sing. Behind her was a mountain of bags to unpack. Walsh looked around and leaned around her to grab his personal bag. He pulled out a pad of paper and the box of crayons his niece had gotten for him to give to a village classroom when he arrived.

After showing the girl the paper and crayons, he set them on the small table and motioned her toward them.

“Laa ma sara marsta wakra,“ she said, extending her arms to him.

It only makes sense that the little girl I’m imagining is needy and has me wrapped around her finger already.

Walsh set his hands under her armpits and lifted her off the bed. Setting her down on the ground, she walked over to the table and began to draw. With her distracted and out of the way, he began to unpack.

For an hour, she sang quietly to herself while Walsh unpacked.

Smack.

Miller’s hand connected with the wooden frame of the wall outside his door.

Walsh jumped.

“You ready to see what kind of slop the cooks have prepared for us?” Miller asked, taking a step into the room.

“Umm, yeah,” Walsh replied, glancing over in the corner to see his companion had abandoned him and left only a small drawing behind.

“I see you have been busy,” Miller said, holding up a drawing of Walsh in his uniform and holding hands with a small girl in red.

“So it seems,” he replied, surprised that the drawing was real.

“Is this the girl you were going to share with me? She’s a little young for my tastes. You know I like my women, you know…women.” Miller laughed, setting the drawing back down and walking out of the room.

Walsh looked at the drawing and headed out the door.

This is going to end up being one of those movies in which it turns out I’m the serial killer, and I didn’t even know it.

Dinner was turkey disk and gravy with something that resembled mashed potatoes. Leave it to the army to make mashed potatoes a questionable food item. Walsh left most of the conversation to Miller, who was happy to talk about his opinions of the valley, its people—whom he had yet to meet—and their leadership.

He returned to the room to find three more drawings. Each drawing was of the small girl and himself: one inside the room, another outside the building, and a final one on the LZ with a Blackhawk behind them. Only the Blackhawk had a red cross on the side of it.

She didn’t return for the rest of the day, and although he expected her to be staring at him when he woke up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, she was nowhere to be seen.

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

If you want to know what happens after the last drawing burns, explore the larger story in Objective Two (OBJ 2)—a novel that expands beyond Kevin’s perspective and dives deeper into the haunted valley of Najil, the soldiers who survive him, and the darkness that won’t let them go.

Download Objective 2 – EPUB, MOBI, PDF

Book one of The Horrors of War series is available here.

Download O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) – EPUB, MOBI, PDF

It started with a squad in a remote Afghan valley.
An outpost no one wanted.
Orders that made no sense.
Things moving in the dark that didn’t belong.

Years later, that story—O.P. #7—has grown into something much bigger.

I’m proud (and a little relieved) to share that The Horrors of War series is now three full books deep, with more on the way. The first book has been rewritten and re-released as the Declassified Edition, followed by two sequels: Objective 2 and Casualty 6.

If you’ve read the earlier version of O.P. #7, thank you.
This new release adds depth, character clarity, and builds out the larger supernatural conflict running beneath the surface.

And if you’re new—welcome. You can now download all three ebooks for free.

O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition)
A squad is sent to Observation Post 7. The mission is simple—observe, report, survive. But the valley doesn’t follow orders.
→ [Download link]

Objective 2
The outpost falls behind them. The valley widens. A new threat emerges, and the rules of war start to bend.
→ [Download link]

Casualty 6
They survived Najil, but can they survive the fallout? Military Police ask tough questions, ghouls walk in borrowed skin, and the enemies have only gotten more dangerous.
→ [Download link]

Why free?
Because the story matters more to me than the sales. I’ve gone down the traditional publishing path, and here I am.

I want readers. I want momentum. I want these characters to have a life beyond my laptop.

I can’t make the books free on Amazon, but here—through Substack and direct download—they’re yours.

No mailing list. No paywall. No bait. Just stories.

If you enjoy them, all I ask is that you leave a review or share the link. Even a sentence helps. Even a retweet. That’s what helps this series grow.

What’s next?
There are three more books in the pipeline.
Some characters will make it. Some won’t.
The scale gets bigger—but the war stays personal.

Whether you’re just joining or you’ve been following since O.P. #7 first dropped—thank you. This is just the beginning.

Keep your kit tight.
Keep your squad close.
And keep your eyes open.

Photo by Jackson Hendry on Unsplash

For those of you who’ve followed my work here—thank you. Over the past few years, I’ve used this space to share updates, writing, and reflections. That won’t stop entirely, but going forward, I’ll be publishing most of my fiction and series-related content through a new platform: Substack.

What’s changing:

I’ll be sharing The Horrors of War novels chapter by chapter.You’ll see new field reports, flash fiction, and side stories connected to the series.Eventually, I’ll be posting narrative poetry, author notes, and world-expanding side projects.

Why the move?
Substack gives me a cleaner, more focused way to publish fiction—and to grow organically. It delivers new chapters and stories straight to your inbox without clutter, but it also helps connect my work to new readers through its built-in recommendations and network of writers. It’s not just a newsletter platform—it’s a literary ecosystem, and one I’m excited to be part of.

Most importantly, this will always be content-first, and always free. No paywalls. No email gates. Just the stories.

If you’ve subscribed here, you’re already covered.
I’ve brought over the subscriber list so you’ll continue to receive updates—this time with new fiction baked in. If Substack’s not your thing, I’ll still mirror occasional updates and announcements here.

As always, thank you for your time, your attention, and your willingness to walk these haunted roads with me.

Photo by Ian on Unsplash

Book 2 Horrors of War is available for free

No preamble. As I committed, Objective 2 is out.

This installment expands beyond the claustrophobic intensity of O.P. #7. The valley is larger, the cast has grown, and a brutal new enemy lurks in the shadows.

Objective 2 is now live. It’s free to download and read—no strings, no mailing list, just the work. You can get it here:

Download Objective 2 – EPUB, MOBI, PDF

(Free. No mailing list. No strings. Just the work.)

It’s also available in print on Amazon and for purchase at select retailers, but don’t feel obligated—this series is meant to be shared.

Who—or what—is the new enemy?

Objective 2 introduces a creature pulled from jinn mythology: the Palis. In traditional lore, they’re a throwaway horror—barely more than a footnote. But in this world, they’re far more dangerous. Think of them as the reason we all instinctively tuck our feet under the covers.

What’s Next?

Casualty 6, the third installment in the Horrors of War series, is currently being formatted for final print. It picks up where Objective 2 leaves off—with higher stakes, deeper mythology, and new parts of Afghanistan coming into focus. The world is expanding. So are the enemies. And so are the alliances.

What I’ve been up to

Since my last post, I’ve been narrowly focused on expanding the world. I have written three short stories, and had the opportunity to submit them to journals. Like any author on this journal I received the requisite rejection notices. But I’ll keep pushing forward.

Looking Ahead

I’m debating how to continue with releases. I don’t have another novel written after Casualty 6, although the sequel is framed in my mind. As well as a fully framed extended universe. I have started a bit of a bumbling Substack, here. and I do have an X account (Twitter, lets be honest), here.

For my older shorts I’m going to start releasing them through Substack. And I will be releasing chapters through there as well. Not expecting to be published through formal channels and the only goal being to be read, I have a couple years worth of content I can already feed in.

Still not sure what to do with the X account other then to have conversations with people.

Final Thoughts

Time remains my biggest constraint. I still work full time and have responsibilities as a husband and father. But the stories are coming. The world is growing. And your continued support makes it all worth it.

Thank you for reading, sharing, and sticking with me on this journey.

Photo by Riaz Kazmi on Unsplash

LindaAnn LoSchiavo

Review

Felones de se: Poems about Suicide by LindaAnn LoSchiavo is a collection that approaches suicide from multiple directions—personal, historical, and cultural—and gives each voice its own space to speak. The title’s old legal term, “felones de se,” frames the subject with distance and formality, but what follows is anything but detached. These poems are intimate, grounded, and often emotionally raw. They don’t romanticize suicide, but they don’t strip it of its complexity either. Instead, LoSchiavo looks at what leads to it, what follows, and how it settles into the lives of those left behind.

One of the most striking things about the collection is its range. The poems cover everything from personal loss, like the cousin memorialized in “Tuesdays with the Ghost,” to public tragedies like the death of Conrad Roy III, or the drowned Saudi sisters found bound in the Hudson River. The voices and circumstances change, but the sense of human weight stays consistent. The poems are full of real detail—rituals, objects, phrases, environments—that keep the stories grounded—a Tuesday lunch ritual with a lost loved one. A hula girl on a souvenir shirt bought right before a suicide. A line like “my memory’s the urn I’ll store you in.” isn’t flowery—it’s just true, and it stays with you.

Across the collection, the natural world appears often, not as a metaphor for death, but as a witness to it. That framing changes the tone—it doesn’t ask nature to explain or justify anything, it just lets it be part of the backdrop, steady and indifferent. In “The Bridge Crossing,” fallen leaves, and a “mud-tinged sky” surround two sisters in New York who are quietly preparing to leave the world. One haiku embedded in the poem reads: doves nesting at the lake’s edge knitting a new home out of trash and exhausted leaves That image sits between scenes of hunger, prayer, and final decisions. It doesn’t explain anything. It just exists, the way nature always does, even around loss.

Another example of LoSchiavo’s approach can be found in “Suicide Odyssey,” which retells the Conrad Roy story through the language of ancient myth. He becomes a mariner. His girlfriend is a siren. And yet, when the moment of death arrives, the poem drops the metaphor and delivers the event plainly, almost like a transcript: Ping! Ping! “Get back in the truck!” It’s jarring, and it’s meant to be. These poems know when to step back and let a single line carry the whole weight of the moment.

The collection doesn’t follow a single form. Some poems are lyrical, others are prose-like. Some contain haiku embedded in narrative, while others stretch out like confessionals. The variation in style helps reflect the unpredictability of the subject. There’s no one way to die, and no one way to write about those who do. But what’s consistent is the voice—clear, measured, and always paying attention. That steadiness matters. Even when the poems describe moments of chaos or despair, LoSchiavo’s tone never turns exploitative or sensational. The voice gives space to each story, even the smallest one, and that respect shapes the reading experience.

This is not a collection that preaches or dramatizes. It doesn’t force closure. But there is hope in the way these poems remember. In a culture that often turns suicide into statistics or spectacle, Felones de se insists on specificity. It keeps the names, the textures, the strange little moments—like the chipped cup on the table or the unspoken goodbye. It’s in that remembering that the collection becomes something more than just a reflection on death. It becomes a kind of offering. A quiet way of saying: this person was here. They mattered. And they’re still being seen.

Felones de se: Poems about Suicide is available for purchase on Amazon here, Barnes and Noble here, and on Storygraph here.

I’m grateful to have spent time with this collection—reading and reflecting on it was a meaningful experience. If you’ve written a poetry collection, whether newly published or a few years old, I’d be glad to consider it for review. The process is simple: I read a PDF copy, free of charge, and after a few weeks, I share my thoughts here on my blog, as well as on Goodreads and Amazon. If that sounds like something you’d be interested in, feel free to contact me.

Declassified Edition: O.P. #7 is Now Available for Free

Time is finite, and I try to treat it with respect. For the past month, most of mine has gone toward reviving the series The Horrors of War. I’ve updated O.P. #7, giving the my characters the attention they deserved but also leaving plenty of room to grow.

O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) is now live. It’s free to download and read—no strings, no mailing list, just the work. You can get it here:

Download O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) – EPUB, MOBI, PDF

It is also available for print on Amazon, and there are some sites that it is available for purchase electronically, but don’t feel obligated. This story was always meant to be shared.

A Quick Update on Objective 2

Objective 2—the second book in The Horrors of War series—is being formatted for final printing. It picks up where O.P. #7 leaves off, and the scale expands: more danger, deeper fractures, and the quiet dread of realizing it can always get worse. It’s darker, stranger, and (I hope) as entertertaining.

Looking Ahead

This series is not just about war—it’s about fear, trauma, and the bond between people when nothing else holds. It’s personal, even when the horrors get big. And now that the first piece is out, I’ll be turning my focus to bringing the rest forward.

Thanks for reading, and as always, thank you for your time.

Photo by JOHN TOWNER on Unsplash

Balroop Singh

Review

Balroop Singh’s Hues of Hope is a poetry collection that moves between nature, personal
reflection, and the quiet strength that hope provides. Each poem in the collection carries the
weight of experience and emotion, yet there is always a sense of looking forward, a refusal to be
consumed by darkness. This poetry does not ignore struggle but instead uses it as a path toward
understanding and resilience. The themes of nature, self-discovery, and perseverance are woven
throughout, making them both profoundly personal and universally relatable.

Many poems reflect on inner conflict, grief, and personal transformation. Pain – My Antidote
shows how pain, though persistent, can become a teacher rather than a burden. “You were my
constant companion, / Now I have befriended you,” the speaker declares, shifting the dynamic
from suffering to acceptance. The poem does not just sit with pain—it pushes through it,
emerging with the realization that it “cannot even touch my soul.” This is a common thread
throughout the collection: hardship is acknowledged, but it is never the end of the story.

Nature plays a decisive role in shaping the emotional landscape of these poems. Stuck at Sunset
takes a simple, everyday experience—being caught in traffic—and transforms it into something
almost celestial. “Golden glare / Evoking vibes of celestial love” turns an ordinary moment into
something awe-inspiring, reminding the reader that even stillness has meaning. Be Your Own
Light takes a different approach, using nature’s coldness and colorlessness as a metaphor for
emotional struggle, yet the message remains the same—there is always a way to push back
against the gloom. “Wear the colors of your heart,” the speaker advises, reinforcing that hope is
something we create for ourselves.

Personal reflection is another defining feature of Hues of Hope. My Intuition is a poem about
self-awareness and the ability to see through pretense. “Your illusionary world / Comes alive in
my intuitive mind,” the poet writes, emphasizing a deep sense of knowing. The poem does not
just talk about intuition—it embodies it, revealing an understanding of human nature that is both
sharp and unwavering. This self-assurance carries into My Muse, where the speaker’s creative
force refuses to be limited by expectations. “I can’t be shackled / I dwell in the wondrous
woods,” they say, asserting that inspiration and expression cannot be controlled or contained.

Hope is the undercurrent that runs through the entire collection. Even when grief and loss are at
the forefront, as in Despondency, there is an openness to healing. “I want to return to love and
laughter,” the speaker admits, even while questioning whether pain will allow it. There is no
immediate resolution, but the willingness to ask the question already hints at the answer. This
same resilience is seen in Awakening, where a moment of realization transforms despair into
renewal. “Life is more than dwelling in sorrow / Let it flow with finesse,” the poem concludes,
shifting from emotional chaos to a quiet understanding.

The most potent example of this balance between personal reflection and universal hope is found
in Ode to Poetry. Poetry is a source of light, a mentor, and a means of making sense of the world.
“You absorb all my woes,” the speaker says, showing how words can carry pain and transform it. The relationship with poetry is not passive—it is an active force that guides and inspires. This
echoes the core of Hues of Hope: finding something to hold onto, even in difficult times.

Balroop Singh’s poetry is not about offering easy solutions. It acknowledges grief, struggle, and
uncertainty but never lingers in despair. Instead, it finds strength in introspection, nature, and
hope’s quiet but steady presence. The collection feels deeply personal, yet it speaks to something
more significant. There is comfort in these poems, not because they deny hardship but because
they show a way through it.

You may find more about Balroop Singha her website here.

Hues of Hope is available for purchase on Amazon here.

I had a tremendously fun time reading through and reviewing this collection. If you have a collection, whether newly published or a bit older I’d happily share my thoughts. It is a very simple process, I review a PDF copy of your work, free of charge. It takes me a few weeks, then I post my review on my blog, Goodreads and Amazon. If you are interested, feel free to contact me.