plazma
Bluelighter
The Beauty of War.
The leaves of the vine rustle ever so slightly as the young man brushes past them, boots crunching softly over the leaf mould. His olive green blending in with the beautiful green of the jungle. Soft waxy leaves reflecting the sprinkles of sunlight falling through the canopy above. Shattering and scattering them across the undergrowth. He exhales softly, softly. Drawing in a deep breath and preparing to take the next step, the tension flowing like electricity through this deadly landscape. A slight movement, a breath of air and he moves his head ever so slowly through 60 degrees. His eyes swivelling in their sockets like ball bearings. He can hear the men hunting for him. They know he’s hunting them. The twittering of a bird far off, muted but beautiful is cut off abruptly. The silence returns to the forest. It seems wrong that a war should be fought in paradise. The blue steel barrel of his carbine moves slowly as he inches lower into the vegetation. He can sense their fear as they can surely sense his. He wills his heart to stop, the thump deafening in his own ears. The fern fronds brush gracefully past his face, tickling his cheeks. He watches every detail of the beautiful landscape, the majestic trees rising far above him, moss on their deep brown trunks. The shimmer of sun, striking the dark forest floor. He fights to live another second in all this glory.
He stiffens almost imperceptibly as a twig cracks near him. Concealing the blue metal of his rifle under his sleeve. The slight buffeting crunch as another footfall crushes the leaf litter on the rainforest floor. His barely controlled panic gels on his skin as a layer of shiny sweat. He blinks, and a drop of sweat falls from his eyelash onto a leaf. Reflecting the sun for an instant before dropping away onto the ground. His blue eyes wide, he looks startled, frozen in time. He lies still for what seems a small eternity. Then a decisive movement as he slowly lifts his green helmeted head up from the leaves. His head rises above the small fern, resisting the urge to panic or run. The green frond shades his eyes, and a tiny green bug shuffles along the stem. Distracting his eyes for a brief second. There are no more footfalls. After a long time, he rises to his feet again. The dirt and few leaves clinging to his uniform making him appear even more a part of the forest.
His eyebrows furrowed with concentration he returns to his task, silently, deliberately, with infinite caution he treads through the entangled plants and vines of the jungle. Step after agonising step. Small death of anticipation every time. Wishing he were safe, praying that he will be safe. A fallen log bars his path of progress. It’s rotting bulk obscured by vines, step like orange fungi and green moss. A slight movement in the corner of his eye and he swiftly turns. The green and yellow snake eyes him, it’s tongue flicking the air. Before slithering, almost silently off the log and into the ferns. A glaring imperfection halts him in his path, and for a second he gazes at the almost perfect footprint crushed into one of the fungi. His eyes narrow again, and he ducks slowly behind the log, peering out over the top. No sign of anything. Just a crushed leaf of fungus. The back of his throat is dry, but he daren’t drink for fear of noise, any noise. There is no path through this eternal green wilderness, just a million small tracks to nowhere.
As he slowly places his feet on the ground on the other side of the log, he deliberately and cautiously inches the rifle to his shoulder. Sighting on any possible target. But nothing is to be found. Another chatter of monkeys from high above his head and a muted twitter of birds almost reassures him. The green expanse seems to crowd in upon him now, looming over and around and behind him. Somewhere up ahead a small stream gurgles, splashing over rocks and chuckling to itself. He is unsure of his whereabouts. Separated from any ally, any hope of rescue. His bootlace catches briefly in another palm frond, tearing its natural perfection out of skew. Leaving it swinging in the moist warm air. His breath hisses slowly in and out of his mouth. The dirty face and scarred blue eyes drinking in the scene around him. As he slowly places one foot after the other. Eyes scanning back and forth across the leaves and dirt in front of him. The black boots are encrusted with dirt, dried mud, with leaves stuck to the sole. As he takes step, after agonisingly slow step. He can’t see how any war could involve this, his young mind unsure of how this contradiction works. The beauty and the hatred and dirt of war.
Up ahead, just in front of him, the small brook gurgles its muted splashing into the mossy rocks and roots of the streambed. The fronds of the ferns dipping low over the dark, clear water. Small ripples in the otherwise apparent stillness of a pond as the insects skim over the surface. A leaf, floating over the surface and a sparkle of light reflected back at the sky. He steps forward again. Exhaling with relieved tension. His head and upper body still turning from side to side. The sleek sulky metal of the rifle barrel challenging the undergrowth. Nothing showing alien through the green as he steps forward again, and again. The leaves crunching delicately under his boots and his trousers rustling softly. After a small forever he stands at the bank of the stream, gazing for a second into its cool flickering reflection of him. The undergrowth rustles secretly to itself as a breath of air trickles through the stillness of the forest. As he bends down, the whiplash of a rifle echoes through the forest. His eyes widening in sudden shock as the bullet punches through his back and chest. Spattering the green fronds in front of him with red, like a Christmas tree as he topples forward slowly into the small stream. The splash and thud as he strikes the bed of the shallow watercourse, his bright red blood flowing from the torn, ragged hole in his chest into the stream, being whirled away by the currents. His head twisted by the impact so that as his eyes glaze over a brief flicker of sunlight reflects off them before the body spasms then relaxes and his head sinks into the gurgling stained water.
-------------The End--------------
again... as with all my work... hope you enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed writing it...
-plaz out-
------------------
[ C E N S O R E D ]
The leaves of the vine rustle ever so slightly as the young man brushes past them, boots crunching softly over the leaf mould. His olive green blending in with the beautiful green of the jungle. Soft waxy leaves reflecting the sprinkles of sunlight falling through the canopy above. Shattering and scattering them across the undergrowth. He exhales softly, softly. Drawing in a deep breath and preparing to take the next step, the tension flowing like electricity through this deadly landscape. A slight movement, a breath of air and he moves his head ever so slowly through 60 degrees. His eyes swivelling in their sockets like ball bearings. He can hear the men hunting for him. They know he’s hunting them. The twittering of a bird far off, muted but beautiful is cut off abruptly. The silence returns to the forest. It seems wrong that a war should be fought in paradise. The blue steel barrel of his carbine moves slowly as he inches lower into the vegetation. He can sense their fear as they can surely sense his. He wills his heart to stop, the thump deafening in his own ears. The fern fronds brush gracefully past his face, tickling his cheeks. He watches every detail of the beautiful landscape, the majestic trees rising far above him, moss on their deep brown trunks. The shimmer of sun, striking the dark forest floor. He fights to live another second in all this glory.
He stiffens almost imperceptibly as a twig cracks near him. Concealing the blue metal of his rifle under his sleeve. The slight buffeting crunch as another footfall crushes the leaf litter on the rainforest floor. His barely controlled panic gels on his skin as a layer of shiny sweat. He blinks, and a drop of sweat falls from his eyelash onto a leaf. Reflecting the sun for an instant before dropping away onto the ground. His blue eyes wide, he looks startled, frozen in time. He lies still for what seems a small eternity. Then a decisive movement as he slowly lifts his green helmeted head up from the leaves. His head rises above the small fern, resisting the urge to panic or run. The green frond shades his eyes, and a tiny green bug shuffles along the stem. Distracting his eyes for a brief second. There are no more footfalls. After a long time, he rises to his feet again. The dirt and few leaves clinging to his uniform making him appear even more a part of the forest.
His eyebrows furrowed with concentration he returns to his task, silently, deliberately, with infinite caution he treads through the entangled plants and vines of the jungle. Step after agonising step. Small death of anticipation every time. Wishing he were safe, praying that he will be safe. A fallen log bars his path of progress. It’s rotting bulk obscured by vines, step like orange fungi and green moss. A slight movement in the corner of his eye and he swiftly turns. The green and yellow snake eyes him, it’s tongue flicking the air. Before slithering, almost silently off the log and into the ferns. A glaring imperfection halts him in his path, and for a second he gazes at the almost perfect footprint crushed into one of the fungi. His eyes narrow again, and he ducks slowly behind the log, peering out over the top. No sign of anything. Just a crushed leaf of fungus. The back of his throat is dry, but he daren’t drink for fear of noise, any noise. There is no path through this eternal green wilderness, just a million small tracks to nowhere.
As he slowly places his feet on the ground on the other side of the log, he deliberately and cautiously inches the rifle to his shoulder. Sighting on any possible target. But nothing is to be found. Another chatter of monkeys from high above his head and a muted twitter of birds almost reassures him. The green expanse seems to crowd in upon him now, looming over and around and behind him. Somewhere up ahead a small stream gurgles, splashing over rocks and chuckling to itself. He is unsure of his whereabouts. Separated from any ally, any hope of rescue. His bootlace catches briefly in another palm frond, tearing its natural perfection out of skew. Leaving it swinging in the moist warm air. His breath hisses slowly in and out of his mouth. The dirty face and scarred blue eyes drinking in the scene around him. As he slowly places one foot after the other. Eyes scanning back and forth across the leaves and dirt in front of him. The black boots are encrusted with dirt, dried mud, with leaves stuck to the sole. As he takes step, after agonisingly slow step. He can’t see how any war could involve this, his young mind unsure of how this contradiction works. The beauty and the hatred and dirt of war.
Up ahead, just in front of him, the small brook gurgles its muted splashing into the mossy rocks and roots of the streambed. The fronds of the ferns dipping low over the dark, clear water. Small ripples in the otherwise apparent stillness of a pond as the insects skim over the surface. A leaf, floating over the surface and a sparkle of light reflected back at the sky. He steps forward again. Exhaling with relieved tension. His head and upper body still turning from side to side. The sleek sulky metal of the rifle barrel challenging the undergrowth. Nothing showing alien through the green as he steps forward again, and again. The leaves crunching delicately under his boots and his trousers rustling softly. After a small forever he stands at the bank of the stream, gazing for a second into its cool flickering reflection of him. The undergrowth rustles secretly to itself as a breath of air trickles through the stillness of the forest. As he bends down, the whiplash of a rifle echoes through the forest. His eyes widening in sudden shock as the bullet punches through his back and chest. Spattering the green fronds in front of him with red, like a Christmas tree as he topples forward slowly into the small stream. The splash and thud as he strikes the bed of the shallow watercourse, his bright red blood flowing from the torn, ragged hole in his chest into the stream, being whirled away by the currents. His head twisted by the impact so that as his eyes glaze over a brief flicker of sunlight reflects off them before the body spasms then relaxes and his head sinks into the gurgling stained water.
-------------The End--------------
again... as with all my work... hope you enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed writing it...
-plaz out-
------------------
[ C E N S O R E D ]
