I WRITE THE SONGS
As part of our ongoing feature, we asked several songwriters and bands to discuss how they write songs and the creative process in general. This installment is about the band Jasper and their collaborative songwriting effort.

We write as a collective. There is no dominant songwriter, for better or for worse. There are some of us in the band that would like to be the dominant creative force, but the collective won't allow it. It has been that way since the beginning and we've kept it that way for sanity's sake. We never wanted the band to reflect the artistry or conscience of just one person in the group. It was easy to involve everyone in the beginning because no one was really motivated to be THE MAN at the start - we were a cover band and writing original material was not something anyone considered or wanted to attempt. But you can only go so far as a cover band and eventually we started to put our toe in the water. And then someone pushed us in and we had to sink or swim. Can we fit any more cliched metaphors into this paragraph?

The model we set up and still follow is that every song is written by the band, regardless of the actual individual content. We will all eventually have our say about the song, so we all take part in the songwriting, so we should all benefit from the publishing. It was a business decision more than a creative decision, but it makes sense. We also play all the instruments on the songs ourselves, with mixed results. We could go out and hire horn players or find someone better to play strings, but then it wouldn't be us playing. We don't look down on people who include other musicians on their songs, but it isn't for us.

The basics of our songwriting cycle are pretty simple. Someone has an idea and we hash it out over many days or weeks and at the end there is a song. Seriously. Typically, we have the music before the lyrics, but not always. One of us might have a couplet or phrase that is stuck in our head and we'll build around the words. We have written songs in minutes and we have pieces of music we are still trying to sort out years after its inception. Every band is probably like this, we think, so we don't consider ourselves unique.

Where does the music come from? Everywhere. We steal from everyone and everything. Most of our early songs were attempts to sound like someone, or we re-wrote a song we liked, poorly, with different lyrics. Over time, we've stopped stealing so much, or we have become better at hiding who we are stealing from. Our influences have broadened, but at the same time, we still sound the same, just different. We haven't decided to make the country album, or tinge every third song with some ska or punk elements. We just try to be us and do what the song needs to sound good.

The rhythm is the centerpiece of our songs, from a construction standpoint. Then we concoct some riffs and scales and voila, music. We try to vary the tempo, because 120 beats per minute can become repetitive. Our fast songs are not that fast, our slow songs not that slow, but we try. Once we play the music the same way twice, it is an official song. We don't do instrumentals, so we need words to the music. Plus one of our best instruments is our singer, so it would be ludicrous to leave her out.

Writing lyrics is easy if you don't care what they mean or want to say something. If you want to just string words together to fit a beat, anyone can do that. We try not to write powerful, provocative lyrics because that skill is beyond us. The lyrics we write skew more towards the simple and straightforward - what we ate for breakfast, our favorite color, reading books in a dim light outside. Write about what you know, the experts tell you, and we obey. There are a few songs that we wrote that had a meaning and are very personal and that's okay. We have a rule that no one laughs at lyrics. You can't be afraid to bring a musical idea or lyric to your band if you think someone is going to laugh at it. It's all business and constructive criticism - we don't want to refuse any good idea. That's why bands break out into side projects. We barely have the energy to keep one band alive, let alone keep multiples alive just so we can play Willie Nelson covers. We play Willie Nelson covers in our band and everyone is happy.

People rarely ask us what a song is about, because it's pretty evident or they don't care, which is fair. We know we aren't great songwriters and we don't believe that tell us otherwise. When people do ask us about a song's meaning, we tell them. We don't want to spoil anyone's memory or deflate a mood people may have about a song, but we don't want to lie. A song is not about the meaning of life, it's about not knowing what to eat for lunch. A song is not about finding true love, it's about finding your missing socks. We try to tell people nicely that their imagery of our music is wrong, but we cannot tell a lie.

That's the sum of our parts. Music, words, a little production sheen and presto, a song is born. Then we get to charge people money to listen to the song or see us play the song live and in person. It's a pretty neat scam, if you can keep it up.

I can never forget that phone call. It came on a Tuesday afternoon in May. I Sitting in my cubicle, busy writing an email to a client, the phone rang three times before I picked up the receiver. I remember that I felt annoyed at the disruption and only answered the call because the phone's display showed it to be an outside call.

"Hello?"

"I am at the hospital. Grace is hurt. Come now."

My wife sounded frantic, panicked. She hung up the call after her words burst through the earpiece. I sat in my cubicle for a second, stunned, unsure of what I had just heard. I looked back at the computer monitor, the draft of my important email staring back at me, until a few moments ago, the most important thing in the world to me.

I leaped up from my cubicle and immediately went and told my boss that I had a family emergency. He nodded and let me leave for the hospital, a suspicious look on his fat face. I headed out of the building, quickly made it to my car and peeled out of the parking lot on my way to the hospital, anxious and full of dread.

With such an incomplete report from my wife, I had no expectations of what to expect. I had to concentrate on not getting into an accident and making things worse, but the twenty minute drive to the hospital ate at me. I started to sweat at stoplights and cursed under my breath as I weaved in and out of the slower drivers. I pulled into the parking lot at the hospital and ran to the emergency room. Bursting through the entrance, I spotted Annabelle in the seating area.

Annabelle, my lovely wife of four years, was holding herself, slumped in the chair. She stared at the floor, a wide expression of shock on her face.

"It's my fault," Annabelle said as I approached her. She never lifted her gaze from the floor, but spoke slowly. "It's my fault."

Annabelle had nothing else to say, so I set out to find a doctor or nurse. After a few minutes and some cursing, I met with a doctor.

The doctor, a man used to death and tragedy, repeated his stale lines about how tragic this was and how sorry he was. My baby died before I reached the hospital. I now had the impossible task of dealing with the worst day in my life.

The doctor told me that Grace, our three-month old child, had died from a broken neck. The mother, Annabelle, had arrived with the infant and had told the medical staff that she had been carrying Grace and had tripped over a carpet or a toy or her feet and had dropped Grace. The child had fallen just a few feet, but it had been far enough.

"The child was likely dead the moment it hit the ground. From what your wife told us, she immediately took the child and came right here. But there was nothing we could do. I'm sorry."

We, Annabelle and I, spent the rest of the afternoon in the hospital's emergency room waiting area. I never saw my child again. I sat next to Annabelle, stunned. I had no tears to shed, no cries of anguish to loose. Annabelle, catatonic and inconsolable, sat next to me, holding herself, staring at the dirty brown carpet.

The rest of the day is not a blur, but rather a slow grind of bureaucracy and minutia. We talked to the medical staff and made arrangements for the release of the body after the coroner pronounced the cause of death. We met with numerous hospital officials about various topics. Annabelle repeated the same story - she tripped, the baby fell. Everyone wanted to believe the nice women, but rules had to be followed.

The police and the child welfare services briefly investigated Grace's death, but in the end no legal action was taken against Annabelle. It had been an accident and a baby had died and everyone else moved on.

We, Annabelle and I, broke down that night. The house, strewn with toys and baby paraphernalia, stood empty and quiet when we returned from the hospital late in the evening. Annabelle walked into the house and stood in the living room and pointed.

"There. I dropped her there," Annabelle said. We found a toy block, the edge of a throw rug and a low table in the immediate area. We held each other and sobbed mightily until Annabelle ran screaming to the bedroom. "I did it! It's my fault!"

I made the phone calls. I called my office and left my boss a voicemail. I called my parents, then my in-laws.

Our parents, Grace's grandparents, took the news of the loss of the their only grandchild especially hard. My parents stayed silent, mourning in private, while showing public support. During the first phone call, my Dad had to take the phone from my Mother and he could barely speak. Annabelle's parents emoted briefly and then tried to get everyone back on the positive side of life. You're young, they said. You can have another baby. This isn't the end of the world.

The funeral is a private memory. We buried Grace in a tiny little coffin in a cemetery. Many friends and family attended. Annabelle, still in shock and full of guilt, said nothing, silently accepting the condolences offered. I cried, openly and somewhat proudly. My baby girl, the second true love of my live, rested forever in a tiny little box that seemed too small to be anything real. It held my little girl and the cemetery workers seemed especially sad to bury such a young child.

A day after the funeral, Annabelle tore through the house, removing any traces of Grace. Clothes, toys, furniture, it all left the house, thrown out. I watched as Annabelle's manic fury and desperation to repent for the loss of her daughter drove Annabelle. We slept in different rooms. Annabelle could not stand the sight of me, thinking that I blamed her for the loss of our child. I did blame her, but I also accepted that it had been an accident. We spoke very few words to one another over the following days and weeks.

Annabelle refused counseling. She decided to go back to work, to get back to a previous routine. I acquiesced to her wishes, hoping that the slow spiral Annabelle had been in since Grace's death would be reversed. And yet, even though Annabelle swore she would do nothing foolish, I lived in dread to find Annabelle alone.

Our life could never be the same. I knew that and Annabelle knew it, but Annabelle wanted to start over. Go back to the way our life together had been before Grace had been born. We both knew the folly of such dreams, but again, I acquiesced. Anything to keep Annabelle stable and focused.

Friends and family lent support and aid through the time after Grace's death. Annabelle would quietly tell those that proffered unsolicited help that we would prefer to remain private with our grief. In truth, Annabelle didn't want to face all the unspoken accusations that she fantasized people making about her. Annabelle fancied herself the worst mother ever. No one could convince her differently, including me.

Privately, I knew and saw that Annabelle had only one goal - to be with Grace. Even though Annabelle heard the words from me often, she and I both knew that Annabelle held all the blame in the death of our daughter. I did convince Annabelle that I believed her story - it had been an accident. Other than that, I stayed quiet and dealt with my feelings and emotions. Annabelle and I lived in stark silence, rarely speaking at night, sleeping in different rooms, not even eating together.

A few months after Grace's death, Annabelle died in a traffic accident. She was travelling home from her job and had tried to beat a yellow light at an intersection. According to the witnesses and police, another driver tried to get a head start on the green light that he anticipated and took off into the intersection. The other driver had mistimed his start and crashed into Annabelle. The other car smashed directly into the driver's side, crunching Annabelle with the impact of the accident. Even though she had been cocooned by air bags and restrained by her seat belt, Annabelle died before the paramedics could reach her.

The police called and told me that my wife had been in accident and that the paramedics had transported her to the hospital. I made my way back to the hospital, this time sure of the outcome. It came as no surprise to me when the doctor told me that they had tried to save her, but Annabelle had passed away.

I knew different. The injuries, while serious, should not have killed her. Annabelle had no will to live. She wanted to die, to find her child and be with Grace. Annabelle would never dream of suicide, but she lost the will to live. I can imagine the joy Annabelle may have felt when the other car struck her, the joy of being able to expire and be released. Even though my words of consolation to Annabelle were sincere, she never accepted them. It could have happened to me, I would try to say, but Annabelle couldn't and wouldn't stand to listen to any excuse offered on her behalf. Annabelle felt guilty and she wanted to pay for her crime.

I did my best to absolve the other driver of responsibility. It had been an accident. Nothing malicious, just an unfortunate series of events that had relieved Annabelle of her pain and guilt. The police filed some charges against the man, but nothing too serious. The other driver's insurance company floated a settlement, which I accepted. I never retained counsel int he matter. I would not profit from Annabelle's death. I would not blame anyone for Annabelle's death.

Annabelle's parents grieved terribly at the news of their daughter's passing. Her mother wailed and shrieked over the phone when I informed them. Her father took over the call, but his words came in amidst his grief. He blubbered and sobbed, unable to communicate. I shared tears with them then, a grieving husband, his life shattered by consecutive losses. I wanted to share with my in-laws my thoughts and suspicions about their daughter, but I held back. It could serve no point and the faster all this fell behind me, the better, I thought.

Annabelle's parents and I fought over where to bury her. I insisted, and eventually convinced them, to bury Annabelle with Grace. Her parents, who lived several states away, wanted their daughter closer to home, but eventually agreed, knowing that Annabelle belonged with her daughter. The funeral devastated me - more so for seeing Grace's plot than burying Annabelle.

My wife killed my daughter and then killed herself over the guilt. That is the reality of the situation and I live every day with that knowledge.

"Put him down here."

The group carrying the wounded soldier, one man with both legs and a soldier apiece for the arms, dropped their charge on the ground and scampered back out of the demolished building. Within seconds of unloading their devastated cargo, the soldiers were out of sight, hidden by the demolished building. The sergeant, who had been a step ahead of the improvised stretcher party, stayed behind with the wounded man. The wounded soldier, screaming in pain and fear, had been deposited close to the wall of the demolished building, which provided some shade.

The wounded soldier was yelling and screaming, his body shredded by the implements of war. His helmet had been blown off and his uniform was ripped and torn in various places. The wounded soldier's face was streaked with sweat, dirt and soot. His hands were dark with blood and grime.

"Sergeant, get everyone up to the wall." The lieutenant, standing tall and looking every inch the parade ground warrior, strode toward the sergeant and the wounded soldier. The lieutenant was a recent addition to the unit, part of an seemingly endless supply of replacements churned out by a factory. Here today, dead tomorrow. How many soldiers would the lieutenant take with him? The sergeant knew all too well that the most dangerous weapon in any army is a fresh lieutenant straight from the parade ground, equipped with lessons learned from books and indifferent instructors.

The lieutenant had an intent look on his face. The lieutenant had shouldered his rifle and as he walked toward the sergeant from the other end of the demolished building, it seemed to the sergeant that the lieutenant was actually marching to some mental cadence. The lieutenants arms swung freely to the invisible beat. The uniform was too clean and the face was too soft for the sergeant. The lieutenant appeared ready to yell again when a sudden burst of fire that sounded near caused the lieutenant to wince and duck, involuntarily.

The lieutenant recovered, but was now distracted by other events. The lieutenant strode back towards the other end of the demolished building. The sergeant watched the lieutenant march away, catching sight of a distressed and frightened radio operator who had been crouching behind the lieutenant. The sergeant shook his head, experience telling him that such a man, someone foolish enough to stand tall on a battlefield, would be dead sooner than later.

The wounded soldier continued to yell out in pain. The sergeant had heard the animal bellows of many a wounded and dying man. He had learned to block the screams and cries for the most part. The battle was gaining in intensity and the sergeant had an obligation to the survivors.

"Medic! Doc! Where's the doc?" The sergeant, standing slightly erect amidst the chaos and destruction, intently scanned the demolished building and the surrounding terrain, looking for the medic, anyone, to aid and comfort the wounded soldier. The sergeant needed, wanted, to be on the front line. The sergeant, still posed between a crouch and standing tall, tipped back his helmet and wiped his brow, making his already dirty hand a shade or two darker.

"Oh, God. Oh, God." The wounded soldier shook and grimaced at the damage done to his body. He lay on the ground, leaking blood from wounds unseen, yelling and shouting to relieve his fear and pain. The wounded soldiers arms were alternately flailing about as he screamed or covering his face. The wounded soldiers leg moved very little; it appeared the lower half of his body has stopped working.

"Easy, Stabler, easy. Wait for the doc. It's going to be okay." The sergeant proffered the empty words of solace and hope, reciting the same words he had used on many other wounded soldiers. The wounded soldier on the ground ignored the sergeant's comfort, writhing as the pain and fear overtook his existence.

The sergeant knelt next to the wounded man, steadying his rifle in his left hand and placing his right hand on the arm of the wounded soldier. Outside, soldiers ran by the demolished building, crouched in the traditional pose of the poor bloody infantry, weapons cradled at the ready. Incoming fire from the distant tree line zipped through the air. Explosions crested and broke in the distance, pillars of smoke and fire dotting the bleak landscape. The battle's intensity increased with each passing second, yet the sergeant waited for the unseen medic, not wanting to abandon the wounded soldier.

"Sergeant, move it up. I need every man on that wall." The fresh lieutenant had made his way back towards the front of the demolished building and was standing tall behind the cover of the remnants of a wall. The radio operator crouched besides the platoon leader, wincing with every explosion. Dust shook from the wall as rounds or debris impacted the bricks.

"Yes, sir. Just waiting on the doc for Stabler, here." The sergeant looked back over his shoulder as the lieutenant walked around the area, trailed by the crouching radio operator. Satisfied by the answer and apparently just spotting the wounded soldier lying on the ground, the lieutenant nodded and continued to walk around the demolished building. It was obvious to the sergeant that the lieutenant didn't know what to do and was simply looking like he was in command. The sergeant shook his quickly and looked back to the wounded soldier.

Over the noise of the battle, the sound of tumbling bricks and crackling wood reverberated in the demolished building. A thin man clad in a dirty uniform with a red cross arm band ran forward and ducked into the demolished building at the far end, tripping and skidding on the debris. Scurrying past the lieutenant and crouching radio operator, the thin man finally came to a rest beside the sergeant and the wounded soldier. Huffing and panting from his exertion, the thin man, the medic, pushed back his helmet and threw a kit bag on the ground as he lay against the remains of the near wall, facing the sergeant and the wounded soldier.

"Holy hell." The medic gasped for breath, looking around at the surroundings. The building, once a farm house or barn or something similar, has been ravaged by fire and no longer was covered by a roof, or protected by four solid walls. "We're getting killed up here."

"Doc, check him out." The sergeant was relieved that the medic had finally shown up. The wounded soldier was known to the sergeant, but it was obvious the shattered body would soon give up the last beats of life. The wounded soldier swiveled his head back and forth as he lay on the ground, blood pooling in the dust.

"I don't want to die alone. I don't want to die alone. Not now." The pained pleas came out of the wounded soldier and could be heard above the din of the ongoing battle. The wounded soldier grabbed at the sergeant and the medic, seeking some solace in human contact. The medic shrugged off the attempts, but the wounded soldier's right hand found and clasped the sergeant's arm. The wounded soldier's hand quickly worked its way down and grabbed the sergeant's hand. The grasp was tight and painful, but the sergeant obliged the wounded soldier and held on just as fiercely.

"You're not alone, Stabler. I'm here, the doc's here." The sergeant glanced over his left shoulder, back at the lieutenant. The lieutenant was distracted, shouting on the radio. The crouching radio operator grasped a rifle in his left hand and tried to use his right hand to his right ear in a vain attempt to muffle the noise of the battle.

From the holes in the walls of the demolished building, the sergeant could see men running, bent over at the waist, to the stone wall that ran in front of the demolished building. The sergeant could hear the incoming and outgoing fire. Spend enough time in combat and you could develop an ear for the different sounds of the battle. The sergeant, a well-blooded veteran, knew every nuance of combat. He could feel the explosions; small ones caused by grenades, medium ones caused by mortars, the largest detonations shaking everything as the artillery belched onto the battlefield.

Aside from the din of battle, the weather made its presence felt. The day was hot as the afternoon sun baked the soldiers on all sides in its relentless heat. The air was thick with smoke and dust. It was difficult to fill ones lungs with clean air, and the burning sensation of near complete exhaustion was overcome only by adrenaline and fear. Or hatred. A cloudless sky was blocked by the smoke generated by the multitude of explosions. It was a thoroughly unpleasant day.

"Where are you hit?" the medic asked the wounded soldier. Almost delirious with pain and suffering, the wounded soldier kept shaking his head back and forth, unable or unwilling to contemplate the damage done to his body. The medic rummaged through his kit bag for supplies and started touching and feeling the wounded soldier, looking for signs of damage.

"Check his chest," the sergeant said. "He took some frags there. Maybe his back." The wounded soldier still grasped the sergeant's hand, though the grip was slowly but surely loosening. The sergeant continued to survey the situation through the holes in the wall. The sound of the battle grew louder with each passing second. Casualties had been high to that point and it looked like more men would fall dead or wounded.

"Ah, shit," the medic said. A look of disgust covered the medic's dusty face, a sad frown sprouting as the medic found the cause of the wounded soldier's suffering. The medic turned his head away from the wounded soldier and spit. "Really sliced up."

"Oh, God," the wounded soldier kept repeating, the volume rising and falling as the life flowed from his body.

More explosions, near and distant, covered the battlefield. Instinctively, the medic covered the wounded soldier, while the sergeant remained in his pose, kneeling, one hand cupping his rifle, the other holding on to the wounded soldier's hand.

"Come on, doc," the sergeant said. The sergeant needed to get to the front, to be with his men that were still alive and fighting. The wounded soldier was out of his reach, gone, if not dead. The medic was here, but the sergeant hadn't the courage to break the grip, yet.

"Okay, hold on. Listen, listen to me," the medic said, addressing the wounded soldier. "I need you to stay with me, okay? Stay with me." The medic unpacked dressings and syringes from his kit bag. The wounded soldier shook and grimaced, but the movements were slower and less violent.

A loud explosion shook the remaining structure of the demolished building. Dust and bits of debris fell from the wall. The medic covered the wounded soldier and even the sergeant ducked his head for cover. The sergeant remained kneeling beside the wounded soldier, still holding hands, though, still attentive to the battered man.

The sergeant picked his head up and looked around the demolished building. It was drawing enemy fire and provided minimal cover, but it was better than being in the open. The sergeant noticed that the lieutenant and radio operator had left the demolished building. With that realization, the sergeant's mind eased a bit and he turned his head back to watch the medic attend to the wounded soldier.

"Okay, we need to get him evac'ed, now," the medic said as he cut away the wounded soldier's uniform and started to apply dressings and bandages to the many wounds that had been exposed. "Where'd that radio get to? Order up an evac."

"Don't go, stay with me. I don't want to die alone. Not alone, please," the wounded soldier pleaded, clinging to the sergeant's hand. The sergeant tried to stand up, but the wounded soldier tried to stand up and follow him, unable and unwilling to release his only grip on life.

"Easy, man. Easy," the medic said, trying to keep the wounded man calm and prone. "You - don't stand up, come on." The medic struggled with the wounded soldier, who had rolled over on his side, clinging to the sergeant.

"Okay, okay, one second," the sergeant said. The sergeant stopped standing up, knelt back down next to the wounded soldier and considered his options. The sergeant surveyed the demolished building and noticed some men cowering in the far corner. "Hey! Hey! Call for an evac, we have a wounded man here. Call for an evac."

One of the cowering soldiers shouted back and got up and ran from the lonely cover of the demolished building. The sergeant didn't understand what had been said and didn't know if the word had been passed on successfully. The other two soldiers sat in the corner, huddled against the wall. The sergeant let them be for the moment and turned back to the wounded soldier.

"Okay, help's coming, Stabler. It's on the way."

The wounded soldier smiled, a faint and wan grin, and his teeth shone white through the dirt and grime that covered his face. The medic continued to dress the wounds.

Bullets impacted the wall on the outside and bits of dust and fragments of the building material showered on the medic and the wounded soldier. The medic tried to cover the wounded soldier, who lay meekly on the ground, his energy spent in a last attempt to maintain in touch with the sergeant.

The sergeant held on to the hand of the wounded soldier, a hand that grew limp as the seconds ticked away. The wounded soldier blinked, and his gasps of air grew softer, less audible. The wounded soldier no longer screamed or shouted, just mumbled the same phrase over and over.

"I don't want to die alone. I don't want to die alone."

The medic continued to attend to the wounds and did his best with limited means to heal the wounded soldier. The sergeant knelt next to the wounded soldier, still holding hands.

A head poked into the demolished building through one of the many hole the battle had punched in the walls.

"Shit. Found you," the helmeted head said in a surprised voice. "Hey, doc, we need you up here. Craig and Rassmussen are hit!" the helmeted head shouted. The medic turned to look at the new intruder.

"I'm busy here. Find someone else."

"We can't. Doc Murray got zapped. You're it. They are really bad, doc," the helmeted head said, imploring the medic with a new sad tale.

"Goddammit, Custis, the doc's taking care of a man here. He'll be up in a second," the sergeant said, barking his words with intent. The sergeant sensed that the situation was falling apart without his presence. He had to go, he had to leave the wounded soldier behind and rejoin the battle.

"They're dying," the helmeted head said, yelling to be heard over the gunfire. The medic and sergeant exchanged glances, first to each other then to the wounded soldier on the ground between them. The medic stared at the sergeant, silent but confirming the worst outcome. The wounded solider would be dead in a matter of minutes, if not seconds. Other men needed attention, men that might be saved. The medic, a man dedicated to saving lives, a man who would go to any lengths to patch up his comrades, looked at the sergeant.

The sergeant already the answer to the unasked question. He nodded slightly and turned back to the helmeted head poking through the hole in the wall of the demolished building.

"Get back to the front. We'll be up in a second," the sergeant said and the helmeted head disappeared from view. The medic looked down at the wounded man and the made a few last alterations on the dressings that had been applied, dressings that were dark with blood after only a few minutes.

"Stabler, I gotta go, man. I gotta get up there," the sergeant said, talking in a calm tone. The wounded soldier's grip was limp.

"I don't want to...not here...alone...die." The wounded soldier was fading from life, every word a chore, an exertion that marched the wounded solider closer to his fate.

"Doc?" the sergeant said, looking at the medic. The medic had almost finished packing up his kit bag. Without looking up, the medic answered the sergeant's question.

"He needed an evac. Shit." The medic did not look at the sergeant and slung his kit bag over a shoulder and stood up, ready to head for more carnage and suffering. The medic spat again, a spiteful spat at death, at a fate the medic had been unable to alter. "Shit."

"Not alone," the wounded soldier said. The sergeant dropped his hand and stood up, and bounding over the body was quickly out of the demolished building, followed by the medic.

The wounded soldier lay on the ground, the last drops of blood leaking from the bandages. The medic had medicated the wounded soldier to make it easier and less painful. The pain that had wracked the wounded soldier slowly faded away as the medicine took affect. Staring up at the smoky afternoon sky, the bright sunshine obscured by the flames of war, the wounded soldier listened to the last sounds he could hear.

Gunfire. Explosions. Yelling. Swearing.

No happy memories or peaceful thoughts of home and family entered his conscious as the wounded soldier drifted away. No images of a life half-lived, no epic narration of how he had died for country or peace broke the growing silence. The wounded soldier, his right arm draped across his shattered chest where the sergeant had dropped it a few moments ago, moved slightly in a last effort to keep life close. His leg twitched as the wounded soldier tried to stand, to walk, to reach someone, anyone. His great fear was to be realized, and the wounded soldier tried and failed to change the circumstances of his passing. Death didn't frighten the wounded soldier, just the solitude of meeting his end.

"Not alone...not alone."

A few seconds and all sound deserted the wounded soldier. His last gasps of air escaped into the hot afternoon and his eyes blinked slowly. It was not a dramatic moment, just a quiet passing of humanity as the world struggled around him, consuming life.

The wounded soldier died, alone.

Shoes

I may have a shoe fetish. For some reason, I am fascinated with footwear. What people will put on their feet is interesting. But I don't have an interest in feet, per se. Or even in owning shoes. That's what I tell myself and it lets me sleep and night.

I find myself staring at shoes when I first meet people. I try to be subtle, but it may be obvious to anyone who catches a downward glance. I draw no inference from what I see - I don't associate people with their shoes. I just want to see what they are wearing.

I never discuss shoes with anyone. I never start a conversation about the benefits of Rockports or whether Bass is a better brand than Clarks. I wouldn't even know how to introduce footwear into a conversation. I have a problem making "small-talk" to begin with, so trying to talk to someone I know a little or a complete stranger about anything is tortuous.

I don't work in the shoe industry.

Growing up I owned two pairs of shoes. Each pair was replaced as I grew out of them. My tastes ran to what my family could afford. Of course the shoes fit, but if I wanted a pair of green and yellow Keds, that's what I got. One pair of "gym" shoes and one pair of dress shoes, usually brown. It stayed that way until high school when I added a pair of army boots (jump boots at first, then jungle boots). I managed to make do with just three pairs of shoes/boots through college and into my first job. I was an assistant teacher in an elementary school, assigned to the gym (sorry, physical education).

Then I got a real job. Eight to five everyday with a half hour for lunch and two fifteen minute breaks. A cubicle with a desk and a chair and a phone and a computer. Work. I decided I might need another pair of dress shoes. I didn't want to be that guy, the one who wore brown shoes with black pants. Now I had four pair of shoes.

As I moved forward with my "career" I added dress shoes - I found you need a casual pair and a dressier pair for suits. I changed jobs a few times and with each new dress code, I adapted. I was shocked to see that at one time I owned ten pairs of shoes/boots. I should have regulated my shoe consumption, but I found a niche for each pair.

One pair of cordovan dress shoes. One pair of black dress shoes. One pair of brown casual shoes. One pair of black casual shoes. Another pair of brown casual shoes. A pair of boots (just ordinary hiking bots, even though I don't hike or walk very far absolutely necessary). A pair of shoes demoted to yard work - thoroughly stained and beat up, but with enough of an emotional attachment to not want to throw away. One pair of trendy athletic shoes. One pair of athletic shoes in case I do anything resembling exercise. And one last pair athletic shoes that I got as a gift.

Ten pairs.

I don't when I started to notice people's footwear, but it has been within the past few years that I noticed that I stop and stare. Sandals, flats, high heels, clogs, boots, spiked heel boots, tennis shoes, thick soled casual shoes, loafers, tasseled loafers, thick-heeled shoes. It's not a fetish - or maybe it is. Every time I notice something, the same question creeps into my head - why? Or more exactly - what possessed you to buy and wear those shoes?

I don't need professional help. I don't go home and sniff my shoes and then do lewd things. I don't ogle shoe stores after hours or browse the Internet for pictures of shoes. It's just an observation, a silent question to myself and then it's over.

Don't get me started on belts.