Keep the Faith
From the Wreckage We Rise
Rubble. That's all that covers the miles of desert land and dust. Destruction. Every square inch contains some wreckage; every patch of dirt is encrusted in grime. The survivors stand around, staring at the wreckage, staring at what has occurred. Disbelief is etched across their features, anger, frustration. Wreckage. Incredulous, they walk the ground, kicking at the scraps that litter the ground. Glass crunches under their wandering feet, glittering in the evening sun. Debris.
It seems to be the end of the world, the carnage left over by the squabbling, writhing bodies of thousands of shattered souls. The glass mocks them, shining in all its dirty splendor on that dust ground. Swirls of rising filth wrap around their legs, sticking to their tattered, splattered clothing. Blood. Stains saturate the ground with their sticky residue, becoming absorbed into the dirt. The dirt swirls red and brown, an adhesive of grime and filth. Ruins.
Broken arches, cracked marble, fragmented stone. Deadwood trees litter the ground; branches sprawled out on that dirt. Deadwood that curls and shakes and moves in the breeze. Deadwood that struggles against the rising tide, against the swirling clouds. And bodies litter the ground, limbs outstretched and pale, faces hidden behind broken gas masks. The gas masks couldn't keep out the poison, couldn't keep out the clashing swords battling before them. The army had gone out to war; the army had fought valiantly to the end.
What had become of them now? Carcasses of war blimps constitute part of the wreckage, deflated and useless. Crosses, once standing so proud have now fallen, a remainder of the missing faith. Shrapnel from the countless explosions cover every inch of ground. Those mushroom clouds of gas had spread so high into the air, casting such a ghastly glow over the battlefield, shielding them from any light. Discarded rifles, cartridges absent, chambers hollow, are present as well. Shells from the fired bullets are imbedded into the ground as they trot on them.
Detachable magazines with ammunition still spring-loaded into them along with drums
forcibly removed from their original home are nestled alongside the discarded firearms. It's simple chaos; the aftermath of a war. The cities have been destroyed, brought to the ground from the waves of explosions. The homes have been splintered and cracked until they came tumbling down as well, bricks and mortar raising hell. Have their coffins become constructed, soldiers? Have their permanent holes in the dirt been dug?
Wolves are appearing now, ghost figures in the dim light. Their eyes shine bright green in the growing dark, white teeth exposed and glinting. Saliva drips from their muzzles, mingling with the blood and dirt. They inspect the wreckage, searching for remains they can feast on. They leap upon the bodies that lie motionless and cold, tearing their sharp fangs into the delicate skin. Without mercy, they rip through the array of muscle, veins and flesh, crunching through the bones as if they were twigs. In moments, the bodies of the slain enemies have been devoured and all that remains are the putrid remains of what had already begun to decompose and their blood that still litters the ground.
They disappear, leaving as quickly as they arrived, flesh dangling from their bloody snouts. The survivors can only stare on in confusion, appalled by what they have just witnessed. They stare, wondering if what they have seem is a just a dream or horrid reality. They look down to the abandoned corpses and unconscious bodies that had been ignored by the ravenous animals. They question themselves, wondering what had been so utterly special about these that had caused them to be spared.
The answer comes to them as they watch. Those bodies lying, supposedly dead, on the ground, open their eyes. Shining eyes, glinting bright. Their pale hands grasp at the deadwood, fingers wrapping around the sturdy branches. They rise to the feet, hearts beginning to beat in the fragile cave of their chest. They begin to regain color as blood pumps through their thin veins, capillaries inflating with the newfound crimson. Lips that had once been chalk-white now glow rose against the curves of their carved stone faces. Flowers that had been trampled, destroyed by the onslaught of the armies, rise.
Alive now. Everything is coming alive, free of the oppressing presence of what had killed them. The newspapers bearing news flutter in the breeze, stopping before them. The words emblazoned in bold black ink fortify them, the gray scale picture standing out from the words. "The Battle is Won," the title informs, boldly stating the finality of the war, the certainty of triumph. Their bright, bloodied gazes lift from the fragments settled in front of them, looking at each other.
The dust billows away from their splattered navy-blue uniform, disintegrating from the hats that lay askew over their tousled hair. The stains sink to the ground, nurturing the plants that are rising, bright colors swaying in the gentle breeze. The destruction seems so insignificant now, the memory of a day in the past, the memory of a battle. The scent of the flowers wafts into their nostrils, replacing the putrid stench of the rumors, of the lost faith.
They look at one another, survivors of an apocalyptic war, the soldiers rising from destruction. The wind tumbles the crushed caps from their sweaty heads, falling to their feet, military décor shining bright in the dim light that still surrounds the desolate land. But the barren region that had screamed of death mere minutes before flourishes now, flowers growing from between the rifles, the shrapnel, the deadwood. The crosses that had been fragmented seem to come whole again as the soldiers turn to face the horizon, watching the fading sun.
From the wreckage we rise.
It seems to be the end of the world, the carnage left over by the squabbling, writhing bodies of thousands of shattered souls. The glass mocks them, shining in all its dirty splendor on that dust ground. Swirls of rising filth wrap around their legs, sticking to their tattered, splattered clothing. Blood. Stains saturate the ground with their sticky residue, becoming absorbed into the dirt. The dirt swirls red and brown, an adhesive of grime and filth. Ruins.
Broken arches, cracked marble, fragmented stone. Deadwood trees litter the ground; branches sprawled out on that dirt. Deadwood that curls and shakes and moves in the breeze. Deadwood that struggles against the rising tide, against the swirling clouds. And bodies litter the ground, limbs outstretched and pale, faces hidden behind broken gas masks. The gas masks couldn't keep out the poison, couldn't keep out the clashing swords battling before them. The army had gone out to war; the army had fought valiantly to the end.
What had become of them now? Carcasses of war blimps constitute part of the wreckage, deflated and useless. Crosses, once standing so proud have now fallen, a remainder of the missing faith. Shrapnel from the countless explosions cover every inch of ground. Those mushroom clouds of gas had spread so high into the air, casting such a ghastly glow over the battlefield, shielding them from any light. Discarded rifles, cartridges absent, chambers hollow, are present as well. Shells from the fired bullets are imbedded into the ground as they trot on them.
Detachable magazines with ammunition still spring-loaded into them along with drums
forcibly removed from their original home are nestled alongside the discarded firearms. It's simple chaos; the aftermath of a war. The cities have been destroyed, brought to the ground from the waves of explosions. The homes have been splintered and cracked until they came tumbling down as well, bricks and mortar raising hell. Have their coffins become constructed, soldiers? Have their permanent holes in the dirt been dug?
Wolves are appearing now, ghost figures in the dim light. Their eyes shine bright green in the growing dark, white teeth exposed and glinting. Saliva drips from their muzzles, mingling with the blood and dirt. They inspect the wreckage, searching for remains they can feast on. They leap upon the bodies that lie motionless and cold, tearing their sharp fangs into the delicate skin. Without mercy, they rip through the array of muscle, veins and flesh, crunching through the bones as if they were twigs. In moments, the bodies of the slain enemies have been devoured and all that remains are the putrid remains of what had already begun to decompose and their blood that still litters the ground.
They disappear, leaving as quickly as they arrived, flesh dangling from their bloody snouts. The survivors can only stare on in confusion, appalled by what they have just witnessed. They stare, wondering if what they have seem is a just a dream or horrid reality. They look down to the abandoned corpses and unconscious bodies that had been ignored by the ravenous animals. They question themselves, wondering what had been so utterly special about these that had caused them to be spared.
The answer comes to them as they watch. Those bodies lying, supposedly dead, on the ground, open their eyes. Shining eyes, glinting bright. Their pale hands grasp at the deadwood, fingers wrapping around the sturdy branches. They rise to the feet, hearts beginning to beat in the fragile cave of their chest. They begin to regain color as blood pumps through their thin veins, capillaries inflating with the newfound crimson. Lips that had once been chalk-white now glow rose against the curves of their carved stone faces. Flowers that had been trampled, destroyed by the onslaught of the armies, rise.
Alive now. Everything is coming alive, free of the oppressing presence of what had killed them. The newspapers bearing news flutter in the breeze, stopping before them. The words emblazoned in bold black ink fortify them, the gray scale picture standing out from the words. "The Battle is Won," the title informs, boldly stating the finality of the war, the certainty of triumph. Their bright, bloodied gazes lift from the fragments settled in front of them, looking at each other.
The dust billows away from their splattered navy-blue uniform, disintegrating from the hats that lay askew over their tousled hair. The stains sink to the ground, nurturing the plants that are rising, bright colors swaying in the gentle breeze. The destruction seems so insignificant now, the memory of a day in the past, the memory of a battle. The scent of the flowers wafts into their nostrils, replacing the putrid stench of the rumors, of the lost faith.
They look at one another, survivors of an apocalyptic war, the soldiers rising from destruction. The wind tumbles the crushed caps from their sweaty heads, falling to their feet, military décor shining bright in the dim light that still surrounds the desolate land. But the barren region that had screamed of death mere minutes before flourishes now, flowers growing from between the rifles, the shrapnel, the deadwood. The crosses that had been fragmented seem to come whole again as the soldiers turn to face the horizon, watching the fading sun.
From the wreckage we rise.