Well, now we know I've seen too much of the Iraq war. Here is a really short story, not for the faint of heart.

Berk Onur
(English) Firm Honor
By Chris Halverson


“We’re badasses aren’t we Onur?”
Onur didn’t even break into a smile, just tapped the paint brush, slobbered and encrusted with white paint, against the bench, “Yeah Berk, we are. We really are.”
“What should we paint next?” Berk asked, touching his backwards green cap lightly, a white print from his hands, layered with chalk-like paint, remained upon the green.
“Hmmm,” Onur sighed and looked around him. The two children had painted rather furiously, white was splashed and slathered everywhere, on the house of Efet, his mother, upon Berk’s neon orange sandals, upon the sidewalk, upon the bench, upon his sandals, upon his pants, all over the place. Still, he thought what he had to show for it was worth it.
“Looks kind of funny, doesn’t it?” Berk was smiling now, swishing his stiff brush in the bucket of paint, his hand limp and his pointing finger and thumb barely grasping the paintbrush.
Onur slouched down further, running his left hand through his conservatively cut black hair. “We could paint it again.”
Berk looked at it. He leaned back and thought a bit. The vat of paint, the can as wide as his torso, sat there, yellow, red, and blue hidden with runlets of white paint. The paint was drying. He leaned down, and put the lid atop the can, popping it back down.
“Let’s let it dry,” Berk said.
“Look at it though,” he said, leaning forward, dropping the white brush, its stiff bristles stubbed themselves upon the ground, jittered to the right, and the whole brush fell.
“Do you think what we did was right, Onur?”
“It is art. Right?”
Berk thought about it for a moment, “Yes, it is art.”
Onur felt sly, and so he asked, “Why is it art?”
“Because,” Berk scurried under the table and picked up Onur’s brush, “Because… I don’t know. What makes art?”
“I asked you.”
“It is pretty. Something for others to look at?” he was unsure.
Onur nodded slowly, “and?”
“And… to think about.”
“Go on,” Onur prodded, tapping his sandals, soles splashed white with paint, excited, the side of his left leg rubbing against the side of Berk’s right.
“Art then. Art is the idea of… No, let me start again,” he was looking intently at it, and Onur’s leg was shaking like a shell shocked soldier, “Art is an object that makes a statement of how people feel, it captures the mood of a country, of a nation, of a spot in… in history.”
“Keep going,” he said, his mouth breaking into a broad grin as he looked at it, “It isn’t just influenced by people, it influences people.”
“Yes,” Berk said, “it takes what people feel out of them, and shows it to them in plain view. It riles them to deeds…” he faltered, looking away from it.
“It is taking out the heart of the people, and showing it to them. They view it, and see what influences them, what makes them move, what makes them breathe. And then, once they have seen that, they act!”
Berk was breathing fast, “They are fed the idea, by us, and in response,” his little boy smile grew big and distant eyes focused on it, “in response they act.”
“Yes, the idea and the deed.”
“Art prompts them to look into their hearts. There they see the message, they see their truth, finally something physical, are confronted by it, and therefore act.”
They put down their brushes, stretched their legs, and stood up.
“Art is action Berk. Art such as ours is a thing to be sung in the streets. White paint, white paint.”
“They will,” he was slow to say it, “They will drag things such as this through the streets. They will hoist it up and show the whole world our hearts.”
“Yes. The whole world. Our art shall be before the whole world.”
“And…”
“And it shall quake.”
The two kids smiled, stepping closer to it.
“Maybe it needs a bit of a touch up,” he trotted over to the can and brought it back.
“No, put it back.”
Berk began to return the can, then Onur turned around and said, “Wait, maybe it does need a little touch up.”
He opened the American’s mouth, and dumped the white paint into it, and touched up the last of the camouflage with white.