Muchmore Posted March 12, 2012 Share Posted March 12, 2012 (edited) Written By: Mike Kern When I was a child, I often stood in a field of poppies behind my house. My mother would pretend to not see me there and call out to me, over and over. Standing there, I felt invisible, with the grass to my knees and the Balmorran sun reflecting off the lakes. In that field of red and green nothing could hurt me. Nothing could take me away. Even my mother was not immune to it. I stare now at the dull red petals of a poppy plant. Even in the darkness I make out the color when star shells explode. They are the color of blood and cover this wasteland from which there is no return. I lay in the land of the dead where the living should not go. No Man’s Land they call it. We were not men when we crossed into it. We were beasts, driven mad by fear and blood rage. Now humanity returns and we are no longer welcome here. The gas creeps along the ground toward us like an ocean’s wave, cresting shell holes and billowing over bodies and debris. In the darkness it is a gray mist. In the light of the star shells it is a pale yellow, like the color of dying flesh. It reaches for us with foul smelling tendrils, curling under and around our limbs, seeking purchase on exposed skin. It leaps for our noses and throats, wanting to be let in. Once inside it will destroy us, bloat our faces and bring blood from our lungs to our lips. It is a silent death. This reaper culls in silence and so we must be silent as well. We hush our own voices in hope that it does not seek us out. The dying are the only ones who break that silence. To hear nothing means life and I hastily pull my gas mask into place with the hope that none of my friends shall call out. Full story here: http://www.republictrooper.com/2012/03/12/thirty-six-hours-no-mans-land/ Edited March 12, 2012 by Muchmore Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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