Come see me at the Westbrook Outlets!

(I decided to share some short stories I wrote in my youth. Or, like, at least this one.)

A man impales a cork on a metal skewer, holds it in the fire. Flames lick the metal, sooting it, blackening the cork. When the cork has cooled, he rubs it on his face, his hands, the shiny parts of his rifle, the medals on his uniform. He seems particularly disgruntled about having to soil his medals that way, and his rifle, which shone before as brightly as a newly minte...