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The line stood firm, the moment tense,
As marching stopped to form defense.
A hill to claim, our land once more,
We dead men stood, and called for war.
And suddenly, through clouds of rain,
A flash of arrows, all aflame!
We raised our shields, So sung the bards,
As one by one, fell our vanguards.
Our crossbow-men fell in the mud,
Their bows distorted, swollen wood.
Another rain of fire flew down,
And struck our armies to the ground.
Our horsemen charged on up the hill,
As English dogs took aim to kill.
We watched the horde, our God forsake,
As demons came, our souls to take.
Our king, the last of France's best,
Revealed his crown and sent the rest.
We all began, the rain fell hard,
And all of us made peace with God.
The battle was quick, and victory scarce,
As English hounds attacked like bears.
And as my body fell like meat,
I head the vangaurds call retreat...
And as I die, I watch men flee,
Among the dead who lost Crécy.
Trial of the ArchangelThe drum beats were slow and steady, as I felt my heart match pace with them. My wings fluttered impatiently as I looked up, a large crowd of angels, both light and dark watching me. On one side sat the menacing, evil beings of darkness. They leaned down, screeching abuse and hissing. One threw something small and sharp, but it was quickly evaporated by the shield surrounding my turf. I looked to the other side, as the angels of light looked down nervously at me. They glanced at each other, all armed with prayers for me as I waited for the trial to begin. Finally, a silence was called for, and at the main head of the arena sat Gabriel, with Micah at his side. He glanced down at me as I swallowed my fear away.
'You are here on trial for promotion.' he said, his words stabbing me sharper than any blade could. I sent him one assuring nod, and he let a grin taste his lips.
'Then let the trial begin...' He said, leaning back to watch me succeed.
I turned quickly, and the door behind me open
Mitch's DreamThe sun was hot and beating down heavily on all of us. We were sweating under our camo gear, but not one of us dropped our guard. It had been our fifth month in Afghanistan, only two more missions from a trip home. I took a long swig from my canteen before I poured a little onto my gloved hand and pressed the warm liquid against my neck. It was disgusting, but it was hydration non the less. Silence had taken over our team, apart form the common military calling. All personal chat had been cut to a minimum, and we all preferred it that way. The dusty ground we were sat on was orange, and we looked ahead at the road before us, as it screamed death to the infidels. Around the road, hiding in plain sight were children. They knew what we were doing, and had come to see the morning's highlight fireworks of gore. We had pleased them once already, and down somewhere on the road, a small grave had been set up in honour of the sniffer dog we used to carry along with us. The only frien
ViolinI remember the day
you told me violins
were strung with cat gut
and that is why
you hated music
(who says that to a child?)
I followed you
all that summer.
I watched you
grow away from mother -
your whiskey held better conversations
and all she did was cry.
We'd sit cross-legged on the porch
and count the horseflies
settling on our lunch.
You would drown tadpoles
in a bucket
surprised they could not swim
and I would dream
of cherry popsicles.
And when night would gather
on the sidewalk
I'd hold my breath
until a star appeared.
Don't bother making wishes
you'd tell me -
stars are dead weight in heaven
and God has cloth ears.
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