Seven pieces by Barry Basden
Farther south, the snow’s pristine, but the Hürtgen’s dirty, trampled. We wait in holes, our weapons freezing, staring into darkness, afraid they’re coming for us.
Bare It In Trafalgar Square
D-Day plus 3, wounded in a Normandy hedgerow. After the morphine, I could remember her hands guiding mine inside her dress, but not her name.
Big Apple Red
Shore leave in Times Square. The man on the motorcycle says, Climb aboard, sailor boy, I only want to kiss the head of your penis.
Mariachis, piñatas. Having fun? she says. I can smile but still I see the gunship, the burning van, and the baby, dead in my arms.
Chapel of Love
We don’t wait for Taos. We visit Billy the Kid’s grave, then exchange vows in Sister Grace’s trailer. She feeds us cupcakes and Kool-Aid afterwards.
Coney Island Cotton Candy
She licked the pink stickiness off her lips, aware he was watching her mouth. She’d get in his car but first they’d ride the Cyclone.
Puerto Vallarta Violeta
The empty beaches, moonlit water, iguanas. Nights alone in the casa. Nobody but us, not even your entourage. Here, let me help you with that.
Barry Basden lives in Texas and his writing has appeared in many fine places. He edits Camroc Press Review and has never had a manicure.