Oddities of Life

It was a muggy evening as I left work later than usual. The night before had been spent in the house watching the torrents of rain being interrupted only by periods of drizzle. The August heat not wanting to relinquish its hold on the summer was now fighting with the abundance of moisture in the air and over cast skies, resulting in a particularly muggy occasion. But with the sun starting to make its retreat the air was most tolerable, and on my part, a welcome change from the dry freezing conditions I have been forced to endure in my cubicle of a home away from home; making me do my own rendition of Mr. Rogers, only in the morning exchanging my lunch bag for a sweater as my laptop boots up. Still not able to shake the chills in my hands and thighs I start my journey, excited to get home, but looking forward to my slow drive. I typically choose to avoid the most direct route home, finding it much easier on the mind to take the back roads. Here you don't feel pressured to drive faster than the speed limit, can afford to watch the trees pass by and only occasionally pass a fellow traveler. The particular route I choose has only failed me once, leaving me stranded in a valley with all ways up and out impassable with snow and ice. That night the valley slowly filling with motorists like roaches to the trap, running to the sweet smell of an alternate way home not knowing they would never check out. Until near midnight we sat choking on exhaust fumes that slowly forced all breathable air out of the valley, while the rest of the city dug out and realized several hundred people were missing. In the summer it is a nice, quiet, tree filled route that easily causes you to forget you live in the city. It is here, in these trees, that The War rages every fall. There has been an eerie stillness of late, as if there was something waiting; an unspeakable evil nearby, in the trees, watching and waiting. Sniffing your hair as you loap by, unsuspecting, ignorant of the ways of the wood, our species having left so long ago. Then I see him, another victim of the nut wars. His lifeless body lay neatly across the center line. No crushed limbs, no mangled form, no blood. His bushy red tail flicking in the wind of a passing car. Just dead. He seemed surreal, like he merely placed the back of his right hand to his forehead and fainted. One of those overly dramatic silent picture faints. I half expect him to sneak a peak at me with his left eye as I pass. The next morning he is gone, no trace. I imagine now that he was feinting, that he smirked as I drove by. That he was merely a diversionary tactic, for the coming battle, in the war of life.

If I were God

If I were God what would I do?

1. I would slap myself for not believing I was omnipotent.
2. Praise myself for not being afraid of going to hell for it.
3. Slap all of those who have killed in my name.
4. Set the record straight on what is right, wrong and what I’m really indifferent to. (Due to the general ignorance of humans this would probably consume the rest of their time on Earth.)
5. In my spare time I would encourage Art, Science and the exploration of everything you might possibly imagine doing or place you could imagine going to. (As long as you didn’t purposely hurt someone physically or mentally. Unless they were going to hurt you or a loved one. And your level of response was likewise measured. Or through your own purposeful inaction caused someone to be mentally or physically hurt. Unless you would have been mentally or physically hurt by acting, but not if your own level of hurt received by acting was within reason. CRAP, were back to number 4.)

To Serve

He was a magnificent creature, 15 hands. Though short by today’s standards he was a prize in his. He had had the mud and blood cleaned from his mane and tail. His armor cleaned and polished, his best leathers put on.

His life up to this point had been short but great. Barely five years old he had seen more shores of distant lands than even the powers for whom he fought. It was with him that his master prayed in the calm before. And in him that his master entrusted his safe return after.

He walked up the hill on that overcast day, the drizzle forming droplets that ran down his polished plates. His lips curled around the bit as he shot puffs of steam from his nostrils. A knee gently rubbed his shoulder that flexed under the weight of his master’s steel, armor and corpse.

Though he was trained for war, he was a remarkably gentle creature. While at home on leave his caregivers found him drawn to children, even allowing them to tug on his tail and mane. His temperament and that of his master were often marveled.

The crowds of mourners that he pushed through, and the armed soldier he came to stand before, did not phase him. His years in close order battle had taught him to trust the reigns. He stood still and proud as his master’s body was taken off of him and sat upright in the corner of the oversized grave.

That morning had started off like so many before. His armor meticulously donned, his master taking the reigns. They walked to somewhere quiet and his master spoke softly to him as the sounds and gears of war stirred in the distance. When both were calm and ready, they joined the ranks and surged into being.

He tried to move, at the last second when he realized the blow was meant for him, but the reigns held. His rear legs buckled uncontrolled, he spread his front legs trying to steady. Another soldier cut his jugular and what consciousness he had kept slowly faded. As he fell a soldier gently pushed him toward the grave, to serve his master, one last time.