Friday, June 24, 2011

9.1 No.3 Battalion

Sodgers

The weather up here on the plateau is unfettered by subtlety. The earth is a reddish yellow concoction of 9 parts dust and 1 part sand that the wind has no problem whipping it up into stinging flurries.
Home at last, the specimen formerly known as No.3 feels the shape of his body squared and stretched into a vision of pride, standing, as he is, to attention in the fore-rank of the morning parade.
Soon they will be commanded to turn and the morning’s regimen of: back and forth back and forth leftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftright all at double pace; will begin, frenetic and thought-banishing, their bodies and minds will be caught up in the rush to get this done so that we can all get out there and do some killing.




5 comments:

Everyday Goddess said...

wow, you have captured something very eerie and made me feel the inhumanity of it.

Pisces Iscariot said...

Goddess: ahh but No.3 has found his niche at last :]

Confessions of a Temporal Lobe said...

Man, these words o yorn stir up things inside me.

Verification word: crumen. Heh.

Harlequin said...

amazing... ends justify the means rationality at its scariest

Pisces Iscariot said...

Lobe: A stirrer I am :)

Harlequin: No.3 is fit for purpose ;)