Short-stories, the compendium

Memento Mori

War. A state of organised and perpetual chaos. Many presume to know its nature, of dreary soldiers sitting in trenches, make-shift graves they've dug for themselves. Few know the truth of its constant nature of change and surprise. One moment the ground shakes, as if god himself threw lucifer to the ground; then the next, silent.

In this state, the only thing that keeps a man sane, and grounded is his memories. Of home. Of friends and family. That is all you can think of, as the blanket of death slowly covers you in its poisonous embrace, creeping across the battlefield. Church bells tolling in the distance. A moment of respite, then once more, brutality of reality wakes you.

The enemy you face is uniform, whether its two from the left, or right of center. A repetitive state of order, in the vast chaos of the waste. Demonized and cruel, horrible and grievous. And yet only differentiable from us, by the shade of their uniform. We are all the same, with loved ones, and family, only they are caught on the wrong end of the field. A loud bang. One falls, another takes his place, endless hordes crashing against our fortifications, weakening the hastily build craft one body at a time. A second chime.

I woke all of a sudden, surrounded by water, mud clinging to my feet as I broke the surface and filled my lungs with dust and rain. A soldier reaching out with his hand, wanting to pull me up, and with a loud metallic pang, he drops limp into my pool, and another takes his place. The water clings to me like oil. I wipe away the last film from my eyes, as I reorient myself, and a rifle showed into my hands. A third chime.

Grenades fly left and right, shrapnel piercing through fabric and flesh alike. The cries for maternal love fills the air, as soldiers embrace their own intestine, a last glimmer of love in the forsaken planes of existence. Carrion birds fly across the battlefield like valkyries, picking apart with no remorse or moral.