(Images by Christopher J Ananias)

It wasn’t a big deal or was it? Keifer stared at the baby for a long time. Archie was sleeping, right? He put the slobbery dog toy, next to Archie’s little red ear, SQUEAK-SQUEAK-SQUEAK. Archie didn’t move—not even an eyelash.

Better than his stupid fucking crying, thought Keifer. “Good boy.” Like Archie was the dog. Who always ran, like a chocolate streak, for the bedroom when Keifer trounced down the hall in his shiny paratrooper boots. It was rough being a dad when you’re seventeen.

It was hot, but after he jacked-off—all sweaty. Keifer preheated the oven to 425 degrees for a Tombstone Pizza. He sat on the couch, eating a thick slice with hot cheese and red sauce dripping on his olive green PTSD T-shirt, watching WAR movies.

The explosions, helicopters flattening the elephant grass, M-60 machine gunfire, were so loud, people walking by the dirty white bungalow, with big yellow dandelions sticking up, ducked for a second, thinking an active shooter was on the loose.

If the baby had been crying, Keifer couldn’t hear it, anyway.

CJA

(Ed note–CJA is also a great photographer and we would like to refresh the readerships’ memory with a few of our favorites by him–Leila and Dale)

and

and

and