Literature
30. Under the Rain
Red and Blue.
It’s like a bloody chessboard.
Damn, I despise this.
Blooms of small, fiery flowers light up everywhere. One kills a man. Then another. Brave men are screaming from either side. Strong, infallible men. Men with families and wives who will never see them again.
God, I hate this.
In this gloomy and raining wasteland, the only color is the glowing reds and oranges of gunfire, the slick silver of our bayonets, attached to the dark barrels of our muskets. Cruel weapons that judge, by mere chance and sheer luck, who is fit to live and how must die.
The dark burgundy of spilt blood.
Sometimes it’s an accident. Regret