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Rated: ASR · Short Story · Military · #2204601
A child's vision of war, in a different reality.
Reflected against two fragile pupils, the sights of humanity’s gravest tendencies are drawn over a battlefield. Visions cast that no eight-year-old, nor any child should bear witness to. A city engulfed in the heat of war, an invasion fought fiercely on land and overhead in the blistering skies.

Operatives swarm in at all angles, piercing through a defensive position. Artillery fire bellows, shaking the smouldered earth beneath them. Machine gun nests rattle unmercifully, only stopping when the bandolier had run dry, for merely a matter of seconds. All the while mortar strikes rained, transforming the war-zone into a lottery, with the odds favouring that an unfortunate soul would wind up in close proximity to a falling shell sooner or later.

Tanks barge through roads and crush any obstruction that lay before them. The sound of twisted metal churning, as the tank's tracks contort the chassis of pedestrian vehicles. Meanwhile, planes dogfighting amongst the clouds, explosions erupting causing sharp metal debris to hail to the ground at meteoric velocity.

The death toll escalates every passing second, bodies torn asunder through the sheer brutality of modernised combat. For this child, however, these are pleasing to the eye. After all, it is they who are pulling the triggers that unfolds such a nightmare. To them, nothing is more satisfying than feeling a shotgun recoil in the palms of their hands. With each ping from a grenade tossed, a contented smile graces a face already stunned with shock and awe at these grotesque images.

This scenery had not relented since coming home from school and has waged into the early hours. Barely a minute sparred for food and drink. Only when the child is tired will this hell ends. When they place the controller on their bedside table, until tomorrow.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2204601-The-Game-of-War