stairs. The soldiers were mute, grave, as if this was a matter of importance, and likewise, the commander would only button his collar, clear his throat, rub his hands against each other in a vain attempt to cleanse them of dirt. Each soldier would approach the cauldron in turn, deposit the baby in the roiling waters, turn, and retreat down the stairs. One might see a stray red arm waving about, or a cry stifled by the gurgle of water, and it could be imagined that they were getting comfortable, becoming pacified. One baby per soldier per day, that was the ration. Some wanted more, not out of blood lust, but for the momentary pleasure of standing atop the hill, feeling that all too rare night breeze, pretending just for a moment that they were home, smoking cigarettes and pipes, contemplating the mammoth chirps of the cicadas, reflecting on the faraway lanterns that could have been relatives or lovers. A mile away in the town, sequestered
 | | and imprisoned, the women would wail for their lost children, but atop that hill, the sounds could have just been the music of insects from the next valley over.
I gave up on swearing when I was a child, but that was all right, for he did all the swearing for me. He was not an editor or writer, but he was relentless. He would get up all close, his breath like rotten bananas, and yet this scent was comforting, as he would puff himself up with intensity, like birds taking flight: Fuck it, you can do better than this. This teaser doesn't sing. Why do something when you don't try to be the best? And then he would launch into the story of how he competed against this woman for his residency, and the woman looked and smiled like a cheerleader, a straight A student, except for that one time she got a B-plus, but that was because she was saving the life of a boy who got
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