CE 2 - based from "The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien

Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of O'Brien's short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.


Lieutenant Jimmy Cross was not accustomed to the warm greetings he received when he returned to the States, nor had he anticipated the sudden kiss of a woman he did not know. Her lips were soft, round, and yet forceful in welcoming him back from the war. He noticed the scent of gardenia, but did not dwell on its sweetness. She broke away from him, confused that he did not wish to continue. His attention was elsewhere. His pack was heavy as it tugged down upon his shoulder, and his back bent left in his attempt to keep the luggage from falling. The things he carried were much too fragile to be dropped. If they touched the floor at just the right angle, a crucial piece of his life and himself as a man could be destroyed forever. He looked left, then right – caution always directing his actions. He chose left and moved in that direction, head set forward for a mission that had not quite made itself clear yet.

He moved through the streets like a ghost, noticed by all, oblivious to his surroundings. He carried his pack through the throngs of busy people leading busy lives that had been uninterrupted by war. Within his pack was stuffed a canteen half-full of water, the remnants of his first aide kit, a tiny bottle of unused hot sauce, a pair of rusted tweezers, his father’s old pocket knife, and Lavender’s name badge –stolen right before the burial – which served as a bookmark for the found copy of Frankenstein now jabbing into his left shoulder blade. Providing insulation for these mismatched items of seeming unimportance were a fleece blanket covered with spattered red stains, his green poncho which he had used to keep his copy of Frankenstein safe, and three yellowed and wrinkled undershirts that smelled of mud, dead fish, and iron.

The pockets bulged with nothings, nothings that were somethings to Lieutenant Cross. A piece of long grass from one of the fields they took cover in during a small, but intense battle; a lock of hair from the body of a dead girl who had accidentally run out of her home while a fire fight was going on (she reminded him of his deceased sister); the bullet that had lodged itself in Lavender’s chest right before his team had burned Then Khe; a sketch he had drawn of a dog running rampant, apparently untouched, in Than Khe immediately after the fire; a small Hohner pocket harmonica Rat Kiley had chucked into the mud after Lieutenant Cross had played “a little too much” that night; Norman Bowker’s thumb trinket that he had cut from that dead boy’s hand – he had died a month after that. And last of all, Lieutenant Cross’s largest outside pocket was stuffed with a rope that measured about four and a half yards long.