Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Muscles burn, bones grind, and voice roars with exertion.

I swing my weapon; stab, rend, and swing again, the bodies of my enemies scattered in a morbid and growing pile. I look to and fro, the length of plastic and metal trembling in my hands; there is no end to them, I see, and yet I growl and keep fighting.

I look to the area already cleared, moan to see reinforcements there already, presence growing by the moment. Across the street another warrior chuckles, sympathetic.

"You ever get the feeling we're fighting a futile battle?" I ask.

"Every damn day," she laughs.

You may talk of glory, but I tell you: shoveling snow is hell.

1 comment:

William said...

I love it!

Reminds me of when people would walk by me, with my shovel, out for an hour and a half because we happened to have the corner plot in, which means, actually 4x the sidewalk to shovel, and anyone who walked by would ask if I could come do their yard next, because I didn't have enough to do, obviously. Having a shovel in your hands at the time is like asking a marine not to shoot the people shooting at him.