No Soldier Story

These ghost soldiers live underground with the vast oversupply of castoff lanterns. If one were to take broadsword to one of these orange-bearded mammoth men of rough hew, he would laugh at the passing metal, make light of entrails. For years I have been here without a clear map. That hopes should dim as days go on above is natural I suppose, what do I know? I am dressed like one of them. The thick walls quake but stay soundproof. I fear my fists vestigial. These soldiers’ own panic is taking up rugs finding filigrees of the former world beneath, e.g., a locket with their mongrel’s mush. They will freeze, then feign noncom; smacking barrels of burgundy with pistol butts. I react comme squirrel: fleeing their reach to the chamber out of the impact area. One loved me until I asked if he worried about what must be happening without us. Well, his lips did narrow, hand abandoned my knee, blah, blah big mouth were his departing words. I will not say with shame that I came from nothing. Someone paved my first breakthrough at least, one time calling it love. And I will stand by that as it applies to my primary makeup.