Purveyors Of Death
The shot rips through his midsection. He holds the wound and when he takes his hands off, the blood is dark. Dark means death. The bullet is lodged in a major organ. The world becomes a haze. He’s only nineteen years old. Not even old enough to have a beer.
Artillery fire rips through the air. He can hear voices. Screams of, “MEDIC!” “MEDIC!” “WHERE THE FUCK IS THE MEDIC?”
Blood begins to fill in his lungs. And it’s now coming out of his mouth and sliding down his cheek, mixing with the dirt and the sweat, and the pus. He coughs. Breathing is getting harder. He stares up at the black sky, and thinks about home. A small town in the middle of nowhere.
He’s driving his old man’s Ford with Jenny who is nestled tightly on his chest. His arm is wrapped around hers. He’s 17. The war doesn't feel real to him. They’re going camping in the hills for the weekend. He’s going to lose his virginity and sleep underneath the stars.
“MEDIC! MEDIC! CHRIST WE NEED A MEDIC! STAY WITH US, CHUCK. STAY WITH US”
There’s no glory in war, he thinks. It isn’t a movie. It isn’t about bravery or cowardice or being a man. It’s about choices. Which, in the jungle, there aren’t many. There are orders and there are court martials. They knew this hill was a death trap. They’d said so many times. But no one listened. They told them to keep pushing ahead. The enemy was going to be stomped out.
Days without food. Days without resupply. Jungle rot all over their skin. Dry heaving, because there wasn’t anything in their stomach to throw up. The weight of the rucksacks on starved boys trudging up hills to their death.
75 lbs. 800 bullets. 2 canteens. 5-hand grenades. A 38 caliber pistol. A M-16 machine gun. An M-79 grenade launcher. Toiletries. Fatigues. And a blanket.
And now he was going to die on this hill. Die on this hill because Generals looking at maps and drinking warm whiskey, thought of a plan. Red-faced politicians screamed “Glory Hallelujah” as they thought about commendations for a brilliant kill count ratio.
But death couldn’t be seen on a map. Death couldn’t be seen within the glasses of warm brown liquor. Death couldn’t be seen in conversations of tactics, and firepower. Death couldn’t be seen in safe zones far from battle. Death could only be seen around advancing or retreating soldiers.
The screams fade into eternity, and he’s swept into the black.
Death can not be seen by the dead.
The Wendigo’s Prey
The forest is so quiet but my heart is hammering. I can see my breath as clear as the snow, I pant gasping for air. I need to catch my breath. I quickly turn a corner and slam my back against a tree. Some snow falls from its branches above me. How long have I been running for? It feels like hours. I can't even think straight with this insatiable hunger. God, what do I do? I don’t even know where it came from. Or for that matter, what it is. All I can do is replay the scene in my head again and again.
Watching it from afar. It ripped him up barbarically desecrating chunks out of a corpse that now resembled nothing of a man but a bloody pile. Blood like wine dripped from its face, staining it, as it devoured an arm. I needed to run but I couldn’t move. I stood eyes unwavering. The stench might have made me question my sobriety if I wasn’t already so high on adrenaline. It shred off some other cadaver, ready to stuff it into its face, then stopped. It stopped, not moving at all. Suddenly it snapped its head my way. It had no eyes but it looked straight at me. That’s when I began to run. I ran and ran, feet stumbling through the heavy snow. I never looked back but the picture was still fresh in my mind, a tall humanoid figure hunched over. It’s skin, rotten and thin, if any at all. Its long slender arms hung by its feet carrying massive claws that would rip me to bits in seconds. Its back, mostly covered in decaying fur, did nothing to hide its tremendous rib cage filled with ice. But the image I would never forget; its head was but a deer skull., its antlers like branches, rigid and pale, a skull full of cracks and holes. Empty.
Now I’m in the middle of the forest, lost and starving. I’d eat just about anything right now. I pause, wait, where did it go? There’s no way I lost it. Another pause. My eyes widen as I realize, the stench is still there. In fact it’s stronger than ever. As if I’m in it, but that can’t be possible. Itd surely have wolfed me down by now if it were near. I slowly take a small step and look around carefully. I falter as something catches my eye. It’s tracks. In the snow. It’s here. I quickly start to jog away still with much caution. As I speed up, my leg gets caught on a branch and I’m thrown to the ground. I land hard on some ice, that'll surely leave a mark. There’s no time. It's here. I’m quick to my feet but… in the ice. It’s there. In the reflection. Its skull looking back at me. Empty.
7-Cups imaginary example of my life as a listener.
So they are calling you names,
pushing you down,
telling you, you will be the worst,
causing self-doubt.
How does this make you feel?
Do you think there is something else contributing to those feelings?
Is this stress because you are afraid of failing?
So self doubt?
Thank you.
Business As Usual
I want what you have
You have what I want
It's a formula for trouble brewing
Calligraphic summons, graphic font
I like what you do
You do what I like
It's a formula for rage imbuing
And usurpation when I strike
Don't look for me a'coming
You won't see me but feel the brunt
You'll wonder what I'm doing
You are the feckless I hunt
The world is full of hunters who see
In a blinded world of clueless prey
The fittest will survive the chewing
The eaters live another day
