Leafstorm
02-27-2008, 07:06 AM
I awoke in a battlefield trench. My comrades and I tried to retreat to the west, but a sleeping tiger blocked our way. White butterflies – no doubt sent by our enemy – fluttered above him and settled on his twitching nose and long whiskers. I scratched the stubble on my chin and prayed that the butterflies not wake the sleeping beast. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p>
I gazed down and watched droplets of sweat launch off the end of my nose and splash into a languid rivulet of blood that lapped against my bare feet. Some one had stolen my boots again. And again they had left what I needed the least: my weapon, my memories. <o:p></o:p>
From the east Lieutenant Rizzio returned covered with snow. “Blizzard,” he said. “Could be a trap.” Our cunning enemy once caused an earthquake while we slept. Ninety yards of trench slammed shut. Peterson, Lavinsky, Macleod, the Borcher twins, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:place>Graves</st1:place>, and <st1:City><st1:place>Flint</st1:place></st1:City> – all crushed in mid-dream. <o:p></o:p>
Around <st1:time Minute="0" Hour="12">noon</st1:time> a rabbit peered over the north wall and sniffed. Probably concealing explosives and sent by our enemy – un lapin saboteur. Belcher, who hunted as a boy on his family farm and never dreamed of being our top sniper, dispatched the rabbit in such a way that he dropped into the trench at Cook’s feet – dead, skinned, and cleaned. <o:p></o:p>
Gonzales, the youngest, spent most of the day gazing over the south rim – at our street, our houses, our just-washed-and-polished cars drying in the sun, our wives reading paperbacks on our front porches, our children, laughing and screaming, playing ghost-in-the-graveyard and smearing fireflies on their arms and faces. Periodically I warned Gonzales to keep his head down, lest the Angel of Nostalgia put a butterfly between his reveries.
I gazed down and watched droplets of sweat launch off the end of my nose and splash into a languid rivulet of blood that lapped against my bare feet. Some one had stolen my boots again. And again they had left what I needed the least: my weapon, my memories. <o:p></o:p>
From the east Lieutenant Rizzio returned covered with snow. “Blizzard,” he said. “Could be a trap.” Our cunning enemy once caused an earthquake while we slept. Ninety yards of trench slammed shut. Peterson, Lavinsky, Macleod, the Borcher twins, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:place>Graves</st1:place>, and <st1:City><st1:place>Flint</st1:place></st1:City> – all crushed in mid-dream. <o:p></o:p>
Around <st1:time Minute="0" Hour="12">noon</st1:time> a rabbit peered over the north wall and sniffed. Probably concealing explosives and sent by our enemy – un lapin saboteur. Belcher, who hunted as a boy on his family farm and never dreamed of being our top sniper, dispatched the rabbit in such a way that he dropped into the trench at Cook’s feet – dead, skinned, and cleaned. <o:p></o:p>
Gonzales, the youngest, spent most of the day gazing over the south rim – at our street, our houses, our just-washed-and-polished cars drying in the sun, our wives reading paperbacks on our front porches, our children, laughing and screaming, playing ghost-in-the-graveyard and smearing fireflies on their arms and faces. Periodically I warned Gonzales to keep his head down, lest the Angel of Nostalgia put a butterfly between his reveries.