Another day, another soldier left in the field. We cannot reclaim them and it is a physical pain that their abandonment causes me. But I cannot sacrifice the lives of many for the body of one. We do not have the manpower and supply to make this a reality.
Sometimes, I wonder how far sentients can sink in order to survive.
And its in those moments I remember.
A cave. Dark and dried by the bombardment that left radioactive dust floating upon the breeze like so many tattered leaves. A body on a wall, pinned and spread eagle; a warning. Go no further. My attention drawn to my companion as light lines the walls in front of us. Flickering flames.
A torch, it would seem.
A group of men rounding the bend, jibbering and badgering.
Weapons drawn.
Demands made.
Shots fired.
Blissful sleep.
Cannibals they were. They deemed themselves rulers of a dead world. I was just another target. They'd not noticed my companion though. She'd saved me. But these men were willing to kill off the last of the population of their once proud world in order to save themselves. I didn't matter if they eventually had to all eat one another so one could ultimately be left.
Ruler of naught but dust and ashes, crumbled hopes and toppled dreams. There is no pride in the destruction of a planet, only the aching emptiness that comes from knowing how many stories were ended before they started.
How many chapters were interrupted midsentence.
Just like the bodies laying here in the Works, rust carried by the wind settling atop them as blasterfire crisscrosses the air above them, lighting their way into the Force's embrace. That will be one day. I can feel it in my bones.
There is no other ending.
It is just a matter of which section of the novel I make it too before the Force decides I must exit; stage left.
My musings are concerning to myself.
It feels good to put it on flimsi though. Nice to just... get it out. Lay it bare.
Perhaps one day you could do the same. I imagine it would be an almost liberating sensation, just to write without hope that who you are writing to will ever read what you've put down. It's almost like talking to yourself.
We both know all about that.
-S
Sometimes, I wonder how far sentients can sink in order to survive.
And its in those moments I remember.
A cave. Dark and dried by the bombardment that left radioactive dust floating upon the breeze like so many tattered leaves. A body on a wall, pinned and spread eagle; a warning. Go no further. My attention drawn to my companion as light lines the walls in front of us. Flickering flames.
A torch, it would seem.
A group of men rounding the bend, jibbering and badgering.
Weapons drawn.
Demands made.
Shots fired.
Blissful sleep.
Cannibals they were. They deemed themselves rulers of a dead world. I was just another target. They'd not noticed my companion though. She'd saved me. But these men were willing to kill off the last of the population of their once proud world in order to save themselves. I didn't matter if they eventually had to all eat one another so one could ultimately be left.
Ruler of naught but dust and ashes, crumbled hopes and toppled dreams. There is no pride in the destruction of a planet, only the aching emptiness that comes from knowing how many stories were ended before they started.
How many chapters were interrupted midsentence.
Just like the bodies laying here in the Works, rust carried by the wind settling atop them as blasterfire crisscrosses the air above them, lighting their way into the Force's embrace. That will be one day. I can feel it in my bones.
There is no other ending.
It is just a matter of which section of the novel I make it too before the Force decides I must exit; stage left.
My musings are concerning to myself.
It feels good to put it on flimsi though. Nice to just... get it out. Lay it bare.
Perhaps one day you could do the same. I imagine it would be an almost liberating sensation, just to write without hope that who you are writing to will ever read what you've put down. It's almost like talking to yourself.
We both know all about that.
-S
