Coward Ice Price

He was a pretender among pretenders - but did not know it. He thought only he felt they way he did. Sitting alone in his WWI machine gun nest was to be crucified under the sun. Every fiber of his being screamed to run away, to be free. This wasn't his war. He'd just been scooped up in it. He wanted to be with friends and girls feeling good but they told him this was his duty, that to want to live is irresponsible. It's the dead who rule the world.

This hell went on day after day, hoping against hope he'd never have to fire his gun. He saw the barrel glinting in the light. "What an ugly piece of machinery that rules my life." At times he'd convince himself he'd get out of the war unscathed in this quiet outpost of the desert. Other times he'd go to pieces. Only thing he knew for sure was that he could let no one know of this private inner war.

Shame tormented his sleep. He saw others laughing and carrying on. Obviously they had none of his self-doubts. He did see a few others with a lack of certainty in their eyes. They were a brotherhood who dare not speak. Slowly, the defect he so desperately tried to keep down bubbled to the surface, reaching full realization in his mind: "I cannot kill." He prayed to God to free him of this nightmare, but to no avail.

Musicians are frivolous, fighters are valuable. That's what he was told when they dragged him away. People who'd never known dreams were the mercenary messengers of this fate. These ice-hearted souls felt useful as they delivered their victims to the army enlistment camp. Those deliverers were machinery just like the glaring gun that lorded over him in silent insanity. It seemed to him in his daydreams that those who thrived in this war were cowards of peace, running from life to find salvation in death, that to die gloriously would somehow make up for a lifetime of failure.

The "Vacant Ones" had no issue when pulling guard duty. All time was the same to them. Their minds did not run a million miles a minute driven by creative impulses that had no possible release. He could foresee a time when wars ended forever that a creative explosion would occur. It would be a time of colors and celebration and tables would be turned with the men of war being on the outside, no longer able to hijack lives, stewing in the corner with things they must let go of or die. That was a definition of duty they feared more than death.

But this was not that time.

The Dream Killers were the worst, always talking about honor and betrayal. Turning men into instruments of war was their sick twisted dream. Like religious fanatics they hunted for souls like his to pounce upon if they dare not embrace the hells of war. This was their season in the sun. As they had felt betrayed by life they reveled in betraying others. As they had failed to honor love they demanded honor for self-betrayal. They claimed being a killer was the only way to live.

When the raiders came charging on their gleaming horseback run he saw the flesh of man and animal in all its wondrous life and could not put death into it. Turning to run away he was shot in the back. The outpost was overrun and men died because they depended on a musician to be a killer instead of a man. But this tragedy did not dissuade them, a lesson unlearned and doubled down upon.

A hundred years nigh the arc of insanity continues ever higher. Soldiers who can't fight are killed. Soldiers who do fight kill themselves. Children shoot children under heavy expectation. Nobody is a killer, only fools try; the time has passed. The world has become too cold a place. Every last thing that is named to be saved by killing will be destroyed. There's only one thing in this God forsaken shithole that is real and that is family. I want mine.

D.E.A.D.

I cannot escape the abyss. I kept looking for a way to be productive outside of my emotions. Now all I have is chores, chores, and more chores. Sterile, obsolete, isolated. I just want to cry. I walk in a perpetual minefield. Every step can blow me to bits. But I must find a place where I can rest. Can't stop moving. Hell upon hell. My sins are untold. But the price remains the same. No one to touch. No one to hold me. A ghost.