A Hill With Trees

One of my first attempts at writing creatively. Written around early 2007.

A Hill With Trees

 

Shots rattle through the trees. Tired eyes peer between the trunks. A shape. A movement. A dead weight plunging down the spine. The ecstasy of terror. The temptation of flight. Guns rise, fingers poise. A shot. A scream. A shot. Silence. A shot. Echoes. Moving forward now, every utterance of the loose earth cursed and insulted.

                       Light. White, artificial, hateful. The world now visible; the eyes of the enemy staring back.

                       Darkness. Deep silence. The twitch of a finger. A single crack. A single thud. The splash of blood, warm and fresh on the face.

                         A vortex of sound, a hell of the senses, a crescendo of fire and an ocean of smoke. Guns fire blind. Men run, heroes die, hateful voices rally. Men. Torn apart. Screams. The rallying voices cease. A hand without an owner, an owner without a hand. The carnage slows. Shots continue but grow scarce. Echoes. Deep silence.

                         Suggestions of distant death arrive on the wind. Distant. There has been enough death here. Men wander through the trees. They do not shoot each other: these men look for life; they find precious little among the scraps.    

                        

                          Artillery searches for prey. It begins to rain, droplets of iron and splashes of fire. The trees dwindle, showers of splinters lashing out in their death throes.They topple to join the corpses in decay.

                          The earth is sculpted in the image of war. The distant artisans do not see what they create. Despite this, they are pleased. Once more they put their creation in the kiln.

                         

                             Fingers and lead are smeared over maps as static commands gargle forth. Guns are gourged with bullets. Men advance once more onto the hill. They are silent. They now know fear. The sun has risen. It reveals the sins of man to all, laughing at their horror. Trees no longer offer the embrace of imagined shelter. Men crawl as base creatures through the brutalised earth. They cannot help but dishonour the dead: with every movement they disturb a memorial to unnamed flesh.

                             Many seek a crater in the hope of safety. They are welcomed by mother earth with the slosh and ooze of crimson and gristle. Some choose to make their stand on the summit of a mound. These are the men who will kill first on this new day.

                               The fighting begins without warning. Disparate shots grow to the infernal chattering of insects rejoicing in the rot of the world. Aim and fire. The mantra of death. A man loses his face, a lump of foul iron emptying his skull. He will not be remembered.

                                This battle is more ordered than the last. Men have attempted to prepare themselves for fighting, for battle, for warfare. Many have achieved this. They know the theory, the manoeuvres, the drills, the battle-plan. But by the light of day, they cannot help but see past this. See past the textbook.

 

That boy who you just shot in the abdomen. You watched him bleed to death. You couldn't look away. You couldn't, because as you watched him gasp and scream and cry and squirm and panic and relax and even smile before the end, you realised that he wasn't a child of God. There was nothing sacred in him. There is nothing sacred in any of us. We are just flesh, blood and bone. This boy smiled and embraced the end, not because he awaited the afterlife or reincarnation or service to the Lord as an angel, but because he wanted to fall asleep.

 

Sleep and never dream, never wake, never suffer, never want again. Simply cease to be.

 

                         The carnage slows. Shots continue but grow scarce. There are no echoes. The trees are gone. The silence is not deep. Things, no longer men, squirm over the flayed earth. Their bodies are broken.The whimpers of these creatures curse the air. The deathly chorus ushers darkness in.

                          The hill remains unconquered. The artisans have failed to create the dreamed of masterpiece. They will try again with newborn light. Light yet to be branded with fresh blood.

                           Night draws a veil over the b*****d child of pride and ambition. The whimpers of the creatures have long since ceased. Deep silence.

Reviews

[Voice11]

WoW. This was a very creatively written piece.It shows exactly what war is without all the spiritual pieces. It shows the ugliness in us all, one is not better than the other when we all commit the same sin. Very well put together and flowed beautifully. Great job!