This one is an exercise I recently did for my creative writing class. It's out of my usual canon in that it's both slightly graphic and wildly inappropriate, so read at your own discretion.
The old man sat down heavily, wiping his hands on the tops of his tweed pants before producing and lighting a cigarette. He sighed before beginning to speak, sending out a long flume of gray smoke.
“It was hell on earth. I saw my best buddies get blown to pieces, and the ones that made it out ended up on enough pills to run their own goddamn pharmaceutical companies. I was one of the lucky ones, if you can call it that. Never was injured. But I tell you, the worst day of my entire life happened in the fall of ’68. I was posted with another man from my regiment, one of the best friends I ever had. All of a sudden I hear this sound, this gunshot, and my heart’s racing a mile a minute because I hadn’t seen anyone around us for what seemed like miles. Once I stop looking for who fired the shot I turn back to my buddy to ask him if he’s seen anything. Well, he’s sure as hell not seen a goddamn thing because he’s been shot clean through the eye. Nothing but a smoking socket left, and his body’s gone limp except for his legs, still twitching like a cockroach on its back. Before I can even begin to process what in the hell has just happened, another shot hits the tree behind me not feet from my own head. I’m so goddamn scared I piss my pants, and I’m running through the jungle with pants soaked in my own piss and my buddy’s blood for so long I start getting delirious from exhaustion. The worst day of my goddamn life.”
He stamps out his cigarette into the last bit of milk in a yellow plastic cup sitting on the nearest table before refocusing on his grandchild, who had begun chewing on the sides of her playpen. He leaned back in his seat and contemplated the ceiling.