Posted on March 31, 2012


Death. It was everywhere. The trees and once grassy fields were charred, leaving black heaps and scorched earth. Buildings were mostly reduced to rubble. Impact craters riddled the ground. Smoke rose from various mounds of destruction and blotched out the sun. Corpses, with their clothing soaked in blood, were scattered all around. One man walked through it all. His uniform was tattered and worn, covered in blood and filth. His hair was matted, and his face sticky with sweat and also covered with filth. Bags hung under his bloodshot eyes. He hadn’t slept in two days. Aches racked his body, and blisters plagued his feet. Hunger left him weak and with a dull pain in his stomach. His rifle felt heavier and heavier as he trudged on; every body he looked at had no sign of life. He shivered.

So much death, and what was it all for? He thought.

Then, suddenly, a bullet flew into his chest. All the wind was knocked out of him and he stumbled backwards. He looked down at the dark crimson flowing out of the wound. For a moment he looked up and wondered: Why? And then his body joined the countless others.

Posted in: Essays