The Battle


I walk through the war-torn battlefield. It was a slaughter. These soldiers didn't know any better, though. They were raised to be soldiers, to be killed. To be mutilated by the vultures who took sport in the occasion, stripped of their once divine form without a care.

Entrails everywhere. There is a pile where the enemy had tried to stack the husks--corpses was too good a word for these remnants--no doubt to make room for the next wave. One after another, systematically, the soldiers were cut down until there was nothing left.

And even then, the enemy took joy in coddling the hearts of their prey, greedily holding them to their breast, uttering words of thanks to the gods who enabled this victory. Disregarding the dead at their feet, they had swooned. They still do.

I looked up from my living room floor.

"Did you get everything you wanted for Christmas?" my mom asked me.

I surveyed the wreckage and replied,