They Watch

It was hot. That they knew. They didn’t know much, just, how to see really. And by the look on the faces of Their friends, it was hot. They were gripped firmly, in a sweaty anxious hand, as They hung by their friend’s side, listening.

“What’s the status?”

“The 42nd are in position and the 1013th are waiting to begin dropping shells on the oncoming infantry. We’re low on rounds, but they’re confident they can make a solid enough impact to at least make the attack less of a bloodbath.”

“We don’t want to spare those Kremlins anything, after what they’ve done to our country.” Up They go again, They thought, seeing across the dryness, to watch the bad ones. They must make sure they don’t do anything, They mused.

“I meant for our side sir.” The Lieutenant turned to the Sergeant, away from his binoculars.

“What about Camp Little Rock?”

“Haven’t you heard? They were wiped out last night. That’s probably the reinforcements we saw coming into the Kremlin’s camp last night. Scouts report another three thousand have joined the enemy rear guard. It’s only a matter of time.” If They had teeth, They would bear them. They had many family in Little Rock. Now they’re probably broken or worse stolen, being used to see by the bad ones.

“Before they run, fixed bayonets. At least we have a few hundred yards between us, prolong the inevitable,” said the Lt., grimly.

“Rally the men, I want everyone to know their job. We may be out numbered, but we can’t lose this footing. We’ll bottleneck them before they get into the valley.” The sergeant turned to go, but the Lt. grabbed his arm, “And dammit get those civvies off the mountains, they’re supposed to be running west with the rest of them.”

“With all do respect sir, we can use all the help we can get,” and the sergeant was gone. Shouts of honor and courage echoed through the trenches, war cries for family and friends, and blood of the enemy cascaded down the mountainsides like an avalanche, rushing down and sweeping across the dusty brown savanna plain that used to be green Alabama. The binoculars could see the tangible electricity in the air, as if a coiled spring ready to pounce could generate a lightning storm. They are proud of their wit and metaphor. Perhaps that could help Their friends stop the bad ones. Suddenly, almost as if They willed it so, a lightning bolt struck the ground a hundred yards off, and they could see clouds coming in. A heat storm, They heard one friend say. It might make a difference. Drops of rain begin to fall lightly, drops that had run away for years. Hello they cry to their long lost cousins, the seers. Hello They cry back. Make the bad ones sodden! And so they do, because quickly They are brought back to the bridge of their friend’s nose and They see, the rain is hardest on the bad ones. They shout praise. Perhaps Their friends will win now. They look away for an instant, but are brought quickly back to watch the bad ones. What are they doing? Moving, moving side ways and they are many. Then forwards, they’re moving forwards, they are coming!

“Artillery! Drop shells on those Kremlin fools!” shouts the Lt. Yes, they cry, rain more on them! Back to the bridge again and they see. They see across the dampening waste. Explosions of dry and wet land scatter the bad ones, and like a rapidly healing wound, the holes are sealed with more bodies. Running and shouting, black metal shining like the blood of death. Oh how They hate them. They have watched them for years, for They are old, but still see. It will be over soon, They’re not afraid to die. They watch the bad ones come closer and closer. Our friends are not strong enough, They realize. There are too many. They are doomed, They understand, horrified. They can do nothing but watch. Watch as they get closer, burning, running, hating. Then, a shaking blast roars through the valley. Like a thousand elephants, stamping and roaring.

“What in God’s name is that,” mutters the Lt. Let them see, They will tell you. What is that dust cloud, They ask themselves.

“I don’t believe it.” I. Interesting concept, They muse.

“Sergeant are you seeing what I’m seeing?” I. It is a way to refer to Themselves. They’ve heard it many times before, but never thought about the word.

“Sir all I see is a big dust cloud. Sounds like truck horns though.” I. A way to refer to one’s self.

“Sergeant, I’m looking at longhorns on grills and semi trailers armored to the gills. Are those tank treads? Each one has a fifty cal. mounted on top, some are out the sides. Good God, is that a smoothbore? Is that from the 102nd armor division we saw get destroyed?” I. A way to refer to ourselves.

“Lieutenant! Your boys weren’t using their armor anymore, so we decided to go to shop and help you all out. The kremlins are getting close, we’ll lay down some fire for ya!” I. Yes, I am one. I am individual. A bearded man with a slight beer belly leans out the top of his trucks cabin, wearing a ripped red flannel shirt, his gigantic arms barely being contained.

“What’s your name sir?”

“Jack! Jack Darrow! This sir is the refurbished 102nd! Mind if I play Sweet Home Alabama to kill Red?” No, play it Jack. I like that song

“Know what. Sounds appropriate. Cover the left flank and bottle Red before he gets to the valley. I don’t have to tell you what it means to our country.”

“Yes sir!”

“Carry on Mr. Darrow. God speed.”

“All right boys! Turn it up!” Then, a cacauphony of horns blast a tangible wind of red, white, and blue towards the oncoming enemy, while tarps are torn off of loudspeakers to shout a rallying song echoing across the open savannah. Emboldened the soldiers arm themselves, bearing courageous teeth and watching Red break the last hundred yards before they’re upon them. Up the binoculars go. Yes, Kremlin. I know who I am now. And I’m watching you. In an instant, I shatter, as a bullet rips through my right eye, and all goes dark.

Names

The names sit abandoned. Dusty and alone, but together with their cousins. Simply names. Allen lies on top of Germaine, who’s on top of Alexis, who’s on top of Jason. Collected and prone, and praying for light. Forgotten, lost. Never to return. Though they all have a chance, they’re generally common names. They all look at Kylander. Shutup guys, he says, looking away angrily. Their mirth lasts momentarily as they remind themselves that their purpose is spent, yet they remain. Never to be used again. They hear voices, words, shouts, and tears, but no one shares it with them. The oldest name, sitting on the bottom, tells them their hopes are fruitless. Donald tells them all, no one will come, trust him, he’s been there for years. He lost hope many years ago, after he had prayed so many years before. Fruitless, pointless. Eventually he’ll crumble to dust, but until then, he wallows in his own misery. Days, weeks, months, decades.

Suddenly, light blindingly cascades from the top of the drawer. A hand comes down and grips them. Can it be? Could they possibly need one of us? Allen is tossed aside, Alexis is pushed away. What are they searching for? Finally the hand rests on Donald. It can’t be, they all gasp. He’s lifted out into the light, and out of shock he loses conciousness.

“Donald, welcome to the team. You can place this name placard on your desk, no need to waste money and make a new one. I knew I had it in here somewhere.”

“Thank you Mr. Gibbs.”

I'm stressed

I'm pretty zonked right now, I've got a huge workload and I'm kinda having trouble keeping up. I realized that, frankly, I can't do school full time and work full time all at once, it's simply impossible. Sure I'll lose money in dropping classes, but things are really hard to get through right now. I have fifteen credits I'm taking, and three of them are online, which are really extremely hard. I simply feel burned out.

But I'm fasting for change. I want improvement and progression, so I am opening avenues to keep myself from sheer exhaustion, and allow creativity to take hold when I need it. My book is in terrible disrepair, and I need to get a lot of my future plans in place. I'm working on a collaborative process with my friends to create an entertainment production company, and we're off to make a difference. Now I feel I'm doing something worthwhile. Sometime I chose to be and do. I feel like being a monkey at the typewriter is too old. A paper degree means almost nothing anymore, so why do I need it? We'll start our own business and learn life lessons doing what we want. Doing what we can in fields we care about. I want an education on my terms.