I just looked up the pace of the average reader. It's 250 words per minute. The following excerpt is 1700+. It's the entire sixth chapter of Killing, whose protagonist is a Vietnam vet. His father is a WWII vet, and his son a Desert Storm vet. They all live under the same roof in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. The link to the book will be below. The Kindle version is only a buck.
The Gentiles rejoiced upon receiving a letter from Junior. He was safe, unharmed, and would soon be home on leave. The Christmas lights were illumined each evening. The interior was decorated in streamers and ribbons as well, although the exact date of his arrival was unknown. Now Dante's sole concern was the effect combat had had on his son. He prayed it was marginal. In light of the overwhelming success of the operation, this seemed entirely possible. The war had lasted but 43 days, the ground action a mere 100 hours. As of the moment, it was reported that only 115 Americans had been killed. He hoped there hadn't been time for the true horror of war to reveal itself.
Seated in his easy chair, engrossed in a baseball game, he frowned as the doorbell rang. The caller refused to respond verbally, choosing instead to ring repeatedly, to stand out of the line of the peephole. Sensing a practical joke by his next door neighbor's mischievous son, hoping to nab the kid in the act, Dante pulled the door open quickly. He stood stunned as a young man in uniform, duffel bag in hand, sprang before him, smiling.
"Merry Christmas," said the soldier.
Father and son leapt into an embrace and pounded each other's back. Junior noted the glaze in his father's eyes and backed off, making a face.
"Why you cryin'?"
Embarrassed, Dante turned away, wiping his eyes with his fingers.
"Wow," said Junior, noting the decorations. "Where is everybody? What kind'a party's this?" He tapped at a balloon, sending it toward the ceiling.
"You shoulda called."
"I wanted to surprise you. I wanted to see the dumb look on your face." He imitated it. "It was worth it. Where's my stupit sister?"
"Out wit' 'er boyfrien'."
"In the middle of the week? You are gettin' soft."
Dante shrugged, flushing. "He's a good kid. I like 'im. Listen, call your mother. The number's in the book there. I'll run up an' get gran'ma an' gran'pa."
Buoyed by elation, thanking God, he bounded into the driveway, entered a door at the side of the house, and ran up the stairs. When he returned he found Junior seated on the couch, shoes off, feet propped on the coffee table.
"You talk to your mother?"
"No answer. They musta closed up. She's prob'bly on 'er way."
Dante noted the time. If she were returning directly, she would arrive in less than an hour.
"She bug you when the bombs started fallin’?" said Junior, tone suddenly serious.
Dante pursed his lips and shook his head. "She let me off easy."
"I bet. At least now she'll go back to bein' 'erself."
Dante chased the dread that threatened to spoil the joyous occasion. "Gran'ma an' Gran'pa'll be right down. They were getting’ ready for bed."
"I coulda saw 'em tomorrow."
"You kiddin' me? Gran'ma woulda never lemme hear the end of it. She's been tellin' me every day: 'Lemme know the minute he gets home.'" He imitated his mother's voice. "'I don't care what time it is.'"
Beaming, he gazed directly into his son's eyes, which seemed lively and happy, no different than the day he'd left. Apparently, nothing had been taken from them. Dante was ecstatic. He sat at the edge of the couch beside him.
"So, d'you see any action?" he said softly, nervously, almost regretfully, as if he hadn't the right, as if it were an invasion of a precious privacy. He was irked at his inability to curb his morbid curiosity.
"Not much. They didn' put up much of a fight."
"You disappointed?"
Junior nodded. "Yeah. Our C.O. ragged us the whole way, tellin' us we didn' even get our cherries broke. I hardly used my weapon. Now I'll never know what it's really like."
Dante wondered if he would have been disappointed himself had a truce been declared shortly after his arrival in Vietnam. Then again, in his first few days on the line he saw enough to fill a lifetime. He quietly cried himself to sleep, certain he would never see Brooklyn again. From the looks of it, his son hadn't experienced that, and suddenly he wondered if that were unfortunate. He was baffled. He'd always thought of himself as simple, yet lately he was finding himself more and more confused about the fundamentals of life.
The elder Gentiles entered, Grandma bearing gifts.
"Merry Christmas, doll," she said, kissing Junior's cheek, her own wet with tears.
"That's right!" said Dante, springing to his feet. "I forgot. We saved all your presents. I kept the tree up as long as I could, but it got too dried out. I hadda take it down."
As Junior was unwrapping his gifts, Jo Jo entered and raced to his arms.
"Hi, Bozo," said Junior. "Stop cryin', you wuss."
"Where's the champagne?" said Grandma.
"Let's wait 'til Dee gets home," said Dante, glancing at the clock.
Nearly an hour had elapsed. Why was timing important? He was already convinced Deanna was having an affair. Apparently, he was trying to prove himself wrong, hoping to avoid the inevitable confrontation. He fought despair.
"We can have coffee an' cake, though."
"I'll get it," said Jo Jo. "Help me, Gran'ma."
The men, alone now, fell silent. Grandpa lit a cigarette.
"I hope you didn' take up smokin' over there," said Dante to his son.
"Nah."
"Thank God. I know what it’s like. When you ain't fightin' or on the move, there's nothin' to do. You feel so jumpy you gotta do somethin'. An’ you don't worry about it killin' you 'cause you know you might get it anyway."
Suddenly there was tension amongst them.
"So?" said Grandpa.
"C'mon, Pa," said Dante, pained. "It ain't right. I never asked you.""You weren't even born then - how could you ask?"
"You know what I mean."
"I don't mind," said Junior, "not like you, Da."
"What's he got to talk about?" said Grandpa peevishly. "They got their asses kicked."
Dante flushed with anger and shame yet remained silent. There was no refuting the popular consensus. Junior, pained for his father, lowered his gaze.
"So?" Grandpa demanded.
"There ain't much to tell. The flyboys an' artillery did mosta the work. Just about all we did was take pris'ners. They were pretty shook up. They were kissin' our feet an' beggin'. What a sorry excuse for an army. Nothin' really went on up close where we were. We didn' lose one guy."
"Great," said Dante.
"I wish they woulda let us chase down the Republican Guard."
"That was a stupit mistake," said Grandpa.
"They couldn't," said Dante. "It woulda been against the U.N. rule."
My third novel, fourth book, Killing, is the story of a Vietnam vet, whose father is a WWII, and son is off fighting in Desert Storm. Here is the entire Chapter 6, 1700+ words, about a ten-minute read, less by the average standard, which I just looked up and which is 250 words per. The book is available at Amazon. link below. The Kindle version is only a buck.
"They’re just as gutless as you. Mark my words, this camel jockey'll be back causin' trouble."
Although Dante also feared it'd been a mistake not to perform a thorough mop up, he was glad it hadn't been undertaken. Junior might still be in the desert, fighting, perhaps killed. He was ashamed of himself, realizing he wanted the sons of other fathers to take up the mantle.
"The hardest thing for me was the noise'a the bombs," said Junior. "That was scarier than anything they threw at us. I got use' to it, though. They got their brains beat out. There were bodies everywhere, hands stickin' up through the sand. They lost a lotta men. I bet there's thousands of ‘em buried in collapsed bunkers. They...."
He ceased speaking as the women returned. The cake was distributed. Dante gazed repeatedly at the clock, each tick a pinprick. Time dragged, despite the joyousness of the occasion. Conversation paused periodically as attention was focused on the game. Grandpa ridiculed the modern ballplayer, citing the names DiMaggio, Rizzuto, Furillo, Snyder.
"Whats'a matta, Danny?" said Mrs. Gentile to her son, noting his despondency.
He waved off her concern. "Nothin', Ma. I'm jus' beat. I been on edge for mont’s. Now that the pressure's off I might sleep for a week."
He coiled with dread at the thought that Jo Jo might mention the dream, of which his father and son knew nothing, which was as he preferred.
"Where's Ma?" said Junior suddenly. "She shoulda been home a long time ago."
"She's been workin' late every night," said Jo Jo.
"Relax," said Dante. "Sometimes the cab comp'ny's all tied up an' she hasta wait a long time to get one. I want 'er to use the vouchers. I don't want 'er on the subway this late."
It seemed he'd convinced everyone but his mother. Her glance suggested she sensed all. He was filled with shame and excused himself. No one but his mother had noted his distress.
Now that his son was safe, he no longer had an excuse to avoid confronting his wife. The prospect, however, had his knees buckling. He was afraid of what he might do to her, afraid of the effect it would have on his children. He would not, however, stand back and wait until the affair had run its course. He could never be like his mother in this regard. It'd been eating at him at lot more than he'd realized, than he'd been willing to admit to himself. In his mind, it would be unmanly, dishonorable to allow the affair to continue.
Deanna was in Junior's arms, weeping, as he reentered the living room. The sight brought a lump to his throat. He signaled his daughter to fetch the champagne.
"I called your office," said Junior. "There was no answer."
"We work out of the computer room at night," she said, wiping away tears. "It's on another floor. Then there was an accident in the tunnel. Traffic was all backed up. It was a nightmare."
Dante stole a peek at his mother, who had smirked at the comments. She knew lies when she heard them. His father had used every one in the book even long after she'd ceased to care.
Jo Jo backed through the kitchen door holding a tray upon which a bottle of champagne stood surrounded by elegant glasses.
"Dom Perignon?" said Junior, eyes alive with excitement.
"Only the best for those who serve."
"An' win," Grandpa added.
"Salute!" said Grandma, endeavoring to chase the tension her husband had aroused.
"Cent'anni," the others, except Grandpa, responded in unison.
The glasses came together at the center, then were drawn back and lifted to lips.
"God bless America," said Grandma.
My thanks to the kind folks who bought books today on Bay Parkway.
Vic's 4th Novel: http://tinyurl.com/bszwlxh
Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic's Website: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic's Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic's Horror Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3
Vic's Rom-Com Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/kny5llp
Vic’s Short Story on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/k95k3nx
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