Sentir

I wipe the layer of dirt, blood, and sweat from my eyes as I jam another clip into the M16 cradled between my biceps. Even as the excess sediment is cast away, a red film envelops everything in my sight. Charlie ambushed my unit 4 miles South of our target, but when I gaze through the scarlet haze into Charlie's eyes, all I sense is fear. All I see as my rifle sings its deadly song is fodder to satisfy my thirst. All I know as my left hand reaches for the bowie in the sheath on my right forearm is the joy that follows with a fallen foe. My body is a cult offering sacrifices to please the unquenchable god that is my appetite. I faintly hear Animal Mother scream my name but he sounds miles away. Momentarily I contemplate how he got so separated from the unit. That flicker of conciousness is cast aside and my standard issue Colt .45 finds itself clutched in my right hand. The red turns crimson, a dark blood-like taint that blankets my vision. Charlie screams and falls at my command. Fire bites into my side and chest as if Cerberus himself has acknowledged me a worthy adversary and accepted my challenge. The damp mud dampens my fall, it cushions my head as the crimson film drains away. I twist my lips into a small smile and gaze at the clear blue sky, prepared to make the treacherous climb to the great above.

Machine Gun Blogging

Bullet #1
The board is white. A vocabulary book occupies the lower left hand corner. The metal frame juts out along the bottom, holding the vocabulary book, 4 erasers, and 2 Expo markers.

Bullet #2
Wrapped in tin armor, armed with 2 markers, and wearing a wreath resembling that of Caesar's, the white board looms ahead. Its presence dominates the wall, an aegis against those who would seek to mar and vandalize the wall with instruments of communication.

Bullet #3
Its futile attempt to hide. An imperfect camouflage against a sea of white. Marker marks turned mere shadows haunt the otherwise ivory visage, revealing it for the wall it is not.

Bullet #4
A dream this board is not. A movie script written by a writer who sells out to his production company and agrees to change the heartwrenching and pivotal ending in order to make his movie more "Hollywood", this board is not. A post dot-com bubble world where the only new bubble is that of emo and post-punk modern rock bands this board is not. A fleeting glimpse of the feathery few remains of a phoenix as it combusts and attemps to reanimate what it once was, this board is not. The sensation that jolts through your body, poking and prodding ever nerve as you dip your toe into the ice cold waters of the Gulf of Mexico while vacationing in Destin with your friends, but all your friends are nowhere to be found as you bathe in the sensational ecstasy of that one moment, this board is not. The bruise above your right eye you collected while moshing with your team in an elevator, this board is not. The last few scenes of the end of a yet another season of yet another teenage soap meant to massacre brain cells of teenage kids in a clever attempt to ruin the chance of any functionable society in the future, you watch as Jeff Buckley sings in his ominously sad yet angelic voice, "Hallelujah", and you sit and weep for fear of never experiencing another event so beautiful, this board is not. An encapsulation, a destination, a blank canvas of ideas, the birthplace of all that could right what is wrong and straighten what is crooked, an eternal portal of knowledge, education, entertainment, and communication, the future, this board is.