Battlefield

  A gun pops, a man falls, bullet to his chest, down into the high grass. Guns pop, more men fall. Wounds, bloody bandages, moans. A dusty, red battlefield lies before them. 

  A young boy stands alone, mortified, still, around the fallen old men; many of which were less than five years older than him, but war had made them older by decades. His shaggy brown hair hides his chocolate eyes. Small scars line his arms and legs like paper cuts on a child's hand. If they weren't all around him, he'd smirk and show them off as battle wounds, but they were nothing compared to the wounds those around him suffered. Here he stands, still and living above the new dead ground.

  The wind blows back his hair, showing his small nose and fair skin. His face is just like his father's, who was somewhere dead on this Tennessean battlefield, brutally stripped of life and happiness in one bullet. The wind brings the whinnies of too proud Union horses and the laughs of too proud Union officers. The boy removes his brother's looking glass from his top coat pocket carefully, the glass now cracked but still usable. The army soon crests the hill and sees the lone boy standing among the dead.

  He had to run and hide and warn his mother and sister and tell them the news. He had to tell them that Father was dead, that he saw him dead and bloody, that they needed to run and hide because the too proud Union army was coming and they couldn't be stopped by a little town called Franklin, that they whole damn Confederate army couldn't even stop them, that they needed to run and hide because that was all they could do now. They needed to know. One last glance and he is running fast with the wind. 

  A gun pops. 

  A body falls into the high grass. 

  The too proud army advances over the dead, a drum cadence sounding and the bugle playing happily. The soldiers did not take notice of the crunching of bones underneath them or the blood on their boots. Their guns popped, people fell, they were fighting for their own cause. They advance because the world was their battlefield. 

Author's Note

Two in one day, oh boy! "Lucky" y'all. I was just going through my journal and found this and I liked it, so I typed it up, made a few changes and here it is. Sorry for any errors or weird stuff, it's 2 AM. Thanks for reading and hopefully reviewing.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

You made war feel cold and simple as Soldiers going forward without thoughts and guilt. This is what war is. The Sherman march of 1865. They killed and destroyed everything in their path. Nothing good comes from war. You wrote a powerful poem. You made your point with the directness and the visions of men killing for the sake of victory for men far away. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote

[K.]

Thank you. I always try and make my scenes seem as realistic as they can, so the reader can really get into the story and maybe have it affect the way they think about some things. And interestingly enough, that march is actually what inspired this piece: "Total War", they called it. Thank you again, Coyote.

[Coyote Poetry]

The story had the feel of the Sherman march through the South.

[K.]

I'm glad you could see that! That means I'm sharing my thoughts well, I guess!

[Coyote Poetry]

You did. You described one of the worst things done on the soil of the USA with skill.

[K.]

Well, thank you very much.

[Cody Williams]

A very tragic poem! It's all too true!

-CW

[K.]

Yes, it is. I'm glad it felt realistic, I didn't know if my writing worked well enough this time. Thank you for reading!

[Craig2591]

A very sad story. And, sadly, all too realistic.

[K.]

Thank you for reading, Craig. Glad, but also sad, that my writing invoked those feelings and made it feel so realistic.