The Burned and Beautiful Earth

060611

  The earth below our very feet burns. We race across it, the last remnants of our shoes peeling away from our soles as the flaming soil licks viciously at them. As far as massacres go this one was obviously the one to beat, a pinnacle of destruction and killing and hate. If we’re ever to avenge our fallen brethren we have to live long enough to do just that. We can’t rush in half cocked. We can’t fritter away our chances at redemption. We can’t even stop to drag the charcoal bodies from the battlefield. It’s all or nothing right now, all or nothing for ever second until he’s dead at our feet and we can finally breathe again without our lungs clogging up with the smoke of murder and bitter tang of human defilation that lays thick on it.

  A friend told me that it’s only when we stop everything, stop running or fighting or moving at all that we can truly appreciate the beauty in the world that’s left. I race past what’s left of him on my way to the hill and wonder if he’s drinking it all in now, all that beauty, now that he ain’t moving but one inch. Up ahead I see a newbie writhing, in pain or desperation I can’t be sure, but Bobby pops him in the head as we pass without even thinking about it. Putting him out of his misery or saving him from the rest of it he’ll never know, only Bobby knows for sure.

  And when it comes down to it… I can only hope he does the same for me.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Part of that war story I keep coming back to every now and then, though I refuse to label it a mini-series as I continuously doubt I’ll ever revisit it. Plus I don’t even like war stories really, but there’s a certain beauty to such an awful scenario.

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~ by Joseph Blame on June 6, 2011.

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