This heavy, heavy weight

      It was quiet, the only sound being the distant crash and thunder of another bloody war. Smoke filled a sky hinting at a clear blue under the black and white raising up from the broken forms of broken machinery, as if to swallow the sky.


The remains of small fires lay spattered across what was a large metropolis once filled with people, happy and sad, young and old. Now all that filled the streets were the strays left behind, soldiers who had become lost or were seperated from their fellows, the wounded that were over looked in the chaos that had enveloped the and encompassed the once orderly city.


Bodies lie forgotten in the streets, behind cars or walls, within a house. Blood covered most areas, as if some one had attempted to liberally paint them. A groan from an alley went unheard, as did the sound of a man struggling to his feet, and slowly, staggering from the mouth of the dark space between two broken buildings.


Slightly slouched, leaning to his right, against the wall, the man wore an urban uniform of a soldier. Dried blood streaked down the right side of his face from his dark brown hair, his grey uniform was ragged, parts of it slashed, cut or torn, a blackened patch spoke of a  brief fight with a fire.

He rose his dirty, scarred hand to his temple and winced, a bruise forming just above it. Luck had saved him when a mortar round had struck nearby. The blast had knocked him off his feet, a piece of concrete had some how made contact with his head.

He had been at the mouth of the ally at the time, as were the three bloodied bodies he was now standing near. They were what had been left of his squad. The Company had moved right into the area early on when the battle was still young and was nearly shredded to pieces and had to break up into it's platoons. His platoon had made it the furthest at the time, with two others were right behind them when the artillery had come crashing down the first time.

After that it was hard to tell what had happened. Instinct had taken over, adrenalline had been all that his body was running on. Now he stood, dazed and alone and with no way of knowing if his company, let alone his platoon, was still alive.


Stiff and sore, he forced himself to stand fully before knealing and taking the tags from the only friends, the only family, he had ever really known. He remained knealt over their bodies for several seconds before he grabbed a near-by rifle. It wasn't his, but it would do. His rifle was still in the ally way, snapped in half.


Using the rifle now in his possesion, he strained his sore thighs to stand. It felt like he had sprinted fifty miles and his muscles were telling him how stupid he was for it.

Looking just up the street, he eyed the broken city's inner sectors. This was a fight for possesion. From the distant sounds, the battle was still on, but on a much smaller scale, broken down into small pockets of battle. That would be where his Company should be.


His grip tightened on the rifle in his hands, his beat up face wrinkled from years of war and years of living with bitter memories, he stepped forward.