God’s sky was a show. Crackling orange hues and dull tin thuds.
Echoes rippling slow like salt water.
Hollow faces carved with lightning.
An unwelcome aluminium smell of half-dry blood.
They sat around a final fire with rounded shoulders and transparent skin, sharing stories of the start.
Shards would interrupt them, whistling past, tearing the air like paper.
A ghost in a uniform slumped in the corner.
Cut strings, evacuated, wet and red.
“Brothers, we will end this.”
“Brothers, tonight we stand straight.”
They looked out across the dust and saw the enemy staring back at them.
“Over the top, brothers.”