A Soldier’s End

Once, their blood ran hot. It ran and ran and ran and no one could stop it. They died doing things they wished they never had to do. They were forced by point of gun to achieve whatever ridiculous thing that was asked. Take that hill, defend this bridge, shoot that way. Suppress, suppress, suppress, and always aim center mass.

What I hear is few people actually aim in combat.



The untrustworthy and emotionally inexperienced, proof that we are all the same and one of us is just as capable as the next if given time and consideration, or disposable if not.

It’s this right? The grand equalizer, the white stain of useless ground made sacred by men unwilling or unable to earn peace.

Sadly, yep.

The Boy

Arrows fill the sky blocking out the sun. Hundreds of gaberdine armored bodies splash into the murky-water below. Wounded, they drown slowly.

The survivors crush back against a closed drawbridge away from the infantry wielded lances piercing through a closed gate.

Until a boy releases the lever, dying a hero.