it’s always been fact

known to every ignorant man

that time was limited

and now

now we know its true extent

seven days

is “all” we have left

but that’s more than enough.

do you know how simple it is

to let go of everything

when your hold was never

strong enough to begin with?

do you know

how painful it is

to wake up

seven days in a row

wishing you hadn’t

because all you feel

is an empty

aching

heavy numbness

and yet you feel nothing.

when you’ve fallen into a hole

with no visible light

hope

or escape

and you’ve lost track of time

friends

and yourself,

seven days becomes three months.

the minutes tick away

agonizingly slowly

and your most difficult task

is breathing.

most are sad

that we’ve only got a week

and maybe i should be, too

because there’s so much left to do

but it doesn’t really matter, does it?

live for the moment

the present is a gift

we’ve only got now

tomorrow is light years away

and all that other bullshit.

only now humanity ignores it

finds a new philosophy

because suddenly

their world is turned upside down

ending

and there’s nothing you can do...

but panic

a frenzied chaos

yet here i am

sitting in the sun

and focusing on the breeze

with a smile.

when you feel your existence

is already painful misery,

the ending isn’t as scary.

i’m not intimidated.

i’m not afraid.

i have lived fully

in my few years

i have felt too much.

experienced too much.

cried too much.

lost too much.

seen too much.

everything has always been

and always will be

too much.

so i will drink my coffee,

read my books,

write my poems,

count my seconds,

take my breaths,

fight my tears,

and lose my battles

all the same.

the same as i did yesterday

and will do

for the next 168 hours.

nothing will change

between now and then.

so don’t be hypocritical,

don’t say you’ve got regrets,

don’t say there’s so much you’ve yet to get done.

none of it is true.

if you wanted something,

you should’ve gotten it.

that’s the truth.

now you can’t, so you bask in pity

but let me remind you

you’re the fool

who let your time go to waste

and all the kids who are sad

like me

are the ones who feel their time is much too used

we never get a moment of silence

never any peace

until now

when we know it’ll all be over

the sadness will finally leave

and we can be

happy.

just seven more days.

She acquired the nickname “Lippy” honestly. Her real name was Louise Levine, but everyone knew her as Lippy. She never seemed to mind it.

There were two things about Lippy Levine that struck you upon first meeting her. The first was, she was really beautiful, so beautiful that it was difficult to look away, as you wanted to believe that such beauty must be a trick of the light, or that when she turned her head there must be some horrible disfigurement somewhere to balance her out, but no, her face was angelic in its perfection.

The second thing you noticed about Lippy was that it is difficult to admire her beauty for long, because those beautiful, plump, temptuous lips never, ever quit moving. Their constant prattle would absolutely drive you away from her... you, or anybody else. I don’t know if it is true what they say about women speaking thousands of words more than men per day, but if Lippy was part of the sample group she would have skewered the numbers all by herself. It was nothing for Lippy to ask you a question without ever supplying a pause so that you could answer. She was the damndest thing I ever saw... or heard.

I knew Lippy from school, but we weren’t friends. In fact, I think the only friend she ever had was Bethel Woodberry. Bethel was a nice girl, but she was homely. Bethel was so shy that she rarely spoke a word, giving Lippy free reign. Lippy and Bethel were a good pair. It was always assumed that Lippy would find a similar type man one day, one ugly and quiet... and maybe she did.

I was working on the Levine farm that summer, the summer of ’85. It was the hottest, dryest summer on record for Mecklenburg County. I was the only one Mr. Levine could find to work his fields, as Lippy’s “gift of gabbiness” drove everyone else off. He paid me nearly twice what other farmhands around these parts made. I liked to think it was because I did twice the work the others did, but more likely it was for putting up with Lippy.

For all of her faults, though, Lippy was a worker. She drove the tractor that summer, which sounds like an easy job, but there ain’t no easy jobs on a farm. She was jostled, hollered at, and forced to twist around to face behind her for twelve to fourteen hours a day. She had to keep that tractor fueled and maintained all by herself. If something broke, it cost us time we couldn’t afford to lose. It was also her job to keep a smooth ride over a rough field, so that the man riding on the trailer and stacking bales, that man being me, didn’t bust his ass, or break his back. It was Lippy’s job to see we didn’t lose time, and she did it well. We surely didn’t lose much of it that summer.

It got so that I almost wished we would lose some. I had never worked so hard. There were many insufferable July and August days during that summer when I prayed for a broken belt, or shaft, or clevis pin, or anything, but I never got it. That damned tractor just rolled right along with Lippy yapping atop it throughout those hundred degree days, and weeks. I stacked eighty pound bales behind her until the trailer was full, then I unstacked the trailer before re-stacking those same bales again in the shed by the barn. It was hard, hot, lonely work. It was so lonely that, truth be told, I was glad to have Lippy around.

There were also some other truths to be told. Truth be told, I worked harder that summer than ever before. Truth be told, I liked having Lippy up ahead on the tractor, twisted around to watch me work. Truth be told I went a little faster because of her, and went a little longer. At days end, I liked the respect I saw in her eyes, and the compliments she offered up to anyone who would listen about the hard worker I was. Lippy saying those things was worth more than the extra pay, truth be told.

The only other thing that might have slowed down our work that summer had long since been given up on. It seemed that rain would never come. Sixty-eight days we went without. The sixty-eight longest, hottest days of summer. My body had grown harder, and darker through the drought, but I was nearly “all in“ the day those clouds started stacking up on the western horizon, slowly blowing our way, plowing a cool wave of wind before them. Lippy saw those clouds, too. She shut down the tractor so she could climb up on the trailer beside me.

“You reckon it’s gonna rain, Huck? Lord, we need it! Last rain we had was early May. The Almanac says we will get four inches this month, but it best come quick if we are to get that much. You ever seen such a dry summer, Huck? I don’t believe I have! Daddy says he ain’t seen one so dry since 1960, but them clouds sure look like rain! They could blow north though, you reckon they’ll blow north Huck? I’ve seen it happen. Many’s the time I thought it was coming up a cloud just to see it blow north!”

The yapping would have been unbearable if it wasn’t for the way Lippy stood up front of that trailer, her chin held high toward those gathering clouds, her legs spread wide, her hands resting on those lean hips while that coming breeze blew thin tendrils of her hair across her cheek. Yep, if I’d taken note of her yapping it would have been unbearable, but her rambling had become like the steady rattle and roar of the tractor... just the necessary rumble of the workday. Like the tractor, I learned to live with Lippy’s noise because she made the work lighter, the hours more productive, and the hard, hot days seem a bit shorter.

The rain started as a prattle, hard drops that tattooed the soil like pellets, but it just as quickly stopped. A cool wind followed. Lippy turned, her eyes bright, her expression jubilant. “Rain!”

I smiled too. The rain started again, and for real this time. It came upon us in a rush.

In our dilerium our arms found one another. We squeezed each other tightly as a driving, pelting rain plastered our hair, and cooled our sun-dried skin. We danced across the trailer, being silly, “high” on the odor of wet clay, waltzing to the sounds of raindrops tinkling on the steel tractor like a tin roof, and the hiss of hot steam off its motor.

The rain settled in steady, the storm’s front blown past. Our dancing stopped, but our arms still clung tight. Happy eyes returned my gaze. Lippy said nothing as the glistening film of water rolled from her nose, and her chin.

That nothing she said was the loudest silence I had ever heard.

Blue eyes. Chiseled chin. Golden hair. Creamy skin. Six feet and five inches tall, with a voice like thunder. A vicious warrior and a graceful gentleman both perfectly embodied in one handsome, miraculous being. Strength unmatched. Beauty divine. His name was Magnar and he was mine.

We met one fine day at the river. A weary traveler seeking a bath, he stopped midway noticing that the pool was already occupied. He tried not to peek at me, but he couldn’t resist. I saw him hiding behind the tree, so I decided to give him a show. I sang louder as I gently rubbed my hands along my umber shoulders and arms, then playfully thrashed about and spun around. I hummed as I washed my face and poked my toes out of the water to wash my feet. I wet my silky black hair, rung it out, wet it again, and whipped it around. Then, I vanished beneath the blue.

I could feel his eyes staring, anxiously anticipating my resurface. He probably thought me to be an illusion of some sort, I mused to myself. After a moment or two, his curiosity got the best of him. He emerged from his hiding spot behind the willow and cautiously approached the river. He stood there speechless, then came even closer and knelt down. He sat there for a time, then reached his hand into the river.

“Whatever are you doing, sir?” My firm voice called behind him.

“I thought I saw-- a beautiful young maiden-- in the river--” He stuttered in confusion, still staring unflinchingly at the water, “She went under so abruptly, perhaps she has been eaten or drowned-- or was she, perchance, a mermaid--?”

Finally realizing he was no longer alone, the stalwart arose, spun on his heels, and drew his sword quickly, its point arriving precisely at my throat. With my lips still pursed, I lifted my chin an inch and looked up into his sharp eyes. Without moving his steady arm, he slowly turned his head toward the river and back at me with a blink.

“You... The maiden... But, how?” He retracted his sword from my neck, stabbed it into the ground, and knelt on one knee before me. The top of his helmet brushed against my silky white gown, and his gaze landed at my bare ebony feet. “I am ever so sorry. I apologize for startling you, milady.”

“You startled me not, but it is I who have startled you.” I retorted.

Surprised at my answer, he lifted his head and one eyebrow.

“Now,” I resumed, “do you actually intend to bathe here, or have you come all this way only to spy upon a damsel disrobed?”

He stood to his feet and stared at me in disbelief. He seemed to be awestruck, amused, and annoyed by me all at once.

Shaking his head with a scoff, he removed his helmet. I gulped and held my breath, struggling to maintain my impudence as he shook out his blonde tress. I sized him down as he unbuckled his sheath, dropping his breastplate, shin guards, and shoes. He smirked at me as he began to remove his garments, revealing his hefty chest and sinewy arms. Turning toward the river, he dropped the final piece, exposing his buttocks. With a final glance over the shoulder, he plunged into the water. When he arose, I was nowhere to be seen.

I ran like the wind through the forest giggling and blushing. My heart couldn’t contain the emotions that filled up in me. I entertained myself imagining what he could have been thinking, Half of me desired to go back and see him, but the other half wanted to leave him with my strong and mysterious side to ponder upon. I knew that if it was meant, we would surely meet again. Time would only tell.

Melancholy traced identical prisms and fractals into the engulfing carpet and regarded the plain ceiling. they wryly grimaced at the realization that the roof, a barricade between the more heavenly firmament and constellations, was a sturdy and cruel atlas of the journeys they could never embark on, sights playing like films at the back of their eyes.

there is a door and a window and they stretch further away whenever Melancholy tries to approach (but they are not moving and Melancholy knows this and they know this and they cannot separate their heart from their chest but they wish so badly to because at least it will go places they will not).

Melancholy propped their wobbly arms on the ground and hazily swerved their head around the barren, lifeless room where, besides the window and the door and the ceiling, there were only mirrors.

cringing, Melancholy was brutally reminded why they preferred wasting away on the passive, indifferent floor, but now they couldn't look away once their eyes honed into the mirror like a predator and its prey caught in the second before the carnivorous pursuit. Melancholy felt themselves devoured by their own reflection because they could see nothing at all. there was a reflection there, Melancholy sensed that its gaze was burying into them with contempt, but they could not see the person they thought they were.

Melancholy haltingly crawled toward the looking glass directly in front of them to just stare at the apathetic eyes with anchored bruises beneath them. that was all Melancholy could see, and even then those eyes were nebulous and nearly impossible to discern. if someone asked, Melancholy would not be able to answer why their vision was suddenly inundated with blurs, a fog that rolled into the spaces of their overcast peripheral.

they curled into themselves as they crumpled to the ground and caved to the storms snaked around their eyes.

Alex started her day as she always did. Like a ritual. She slammed the alarm in the middle of the chorus of “Fight Song”. She’d stare at her phone. She found herself on her favorite semi-popular dating app this time, called Plenty of Fish. To her, it warranted plenty of boys, but not many men. There was one profile that caught her eye. It was of a 23-year-old man named Paul Guerin, a young electrician who promised to take things slow in his bio, and that he was looking to casually date. He seemed active, based on his pictures. Alex bit her lip. She really liked this picture of him and his friends laying on the grass by a river. Good biceps. Nice teeth. She thought maybe he wouldn’t break the cardinal rule, but she doubted it. Alex swiped right on his profile, and anticipated a reply back soon in the form of something like:

“Hey what’s up,” or: “How’s the day?” Or: “What’s happening? hmu.”

Those introductions were the same to Alex by now; She plainly saw it as a way for any guy to say hi to a woman in a dating world ruled by the Internet. She planned to not ignore Paul if he had a similar lame opener.

With other dating prospects looking like a dud so far, Alex moved on to ‘like’ a Facebook post from Chelsea, a former friend turned acquaintance. She had just announced she was getting married. Her cleavage looked amazing. Alex made the point to dart her eyes to the top of her phone to see how much time had passed. With a sigh, she decided to actually get up for work.

Alex lazily took off her pajama bottoms and sauntered her way to the bathroom. With her phone still in hand, she turned up the pop-culture tune of whatever was playing on Pandora. She placed the phone on the sink counter, and opened the shower curtains. Alex ran the water for the shower, and made sure it was hot and steaming. She turned to sit on the toilet.

Ping!

Alex’s phone vibrated against the music. She carefully picked it up from her sitting position, and noticed that Paul had messaged her back. She unlocked her phone to see it.

From Paul Guerin: “Hey girl you know you want it, hmu.”

Ping!

Alex, in her vulnerable position, discovered that Paul broke the cardinal rule right away. Ugh. His member was large, and his ballsack looked smaller in contrast, though it was ugly like the rest of ’em. Blah. It pointed up in the air proudly, and stood tall against a drab white spackle wall. The size of that thing is probably how he gets some girls in the sack, she thought. Disgusted with her impulsive and lewd thinking, Alex blocked Paul immediately, and put down the phone. She finished her business, and grabbed some toilet paper to wipe away the urine and sudden excess arousal.

She stood up and inspected herself in the mirror. She pointed her butt and craned her neck from side to side, in order to inspect the goods back there. No pimples, nor rashes she could see. She turned, and lifted off her pajama shirt, looking at herself in the mirror in the process. She thought she had moderate sized breasts compared to her friend group. Not too big and cumbersome, and not too small and hidden. Enough to get dick pics on POF, she thought. Still feeling frisky from Paul’s morning surprise, she played with her boobs and pinched at her nipples for a few seconds, as if in a trance. Alex snapped out of it, and got in the shower. She made the point to turn the water cold in the process.

On the way to work, Alex kept thinking of Paul. Not sexually. At least not directly sexual in nature. She was baffled that guys like him were so lead by their impulses sometimes. So risky. So risqué, she thought. Alex imagined what it was like to have a penis like that. She would probably swing it side to side. Helicopter formation. Alex giggled at the thought. She crossed the street with a group of people and made her way toward the bus station.

Ahead of her, she couldn’t help but notice a downtrodden person staring at her from one of the benches. The man was rocking back and forth. He was almost bald, save for long strands of drooping hair, like Argus Filch from Harry Potter. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. His hands opened and closed like he was grasping for something. There was his smile too, like he was just told some impressive secret joke. Alex was walking by him, and tried averting his gaze. I’ll just pass him by, and ignore him like I do the rest of the creeps, she planned. She noticed him staring at her from the corners of her eyes, but she kept her head straight as she passed.

Snap!

The crazy man’s fingers clapped through the air with authority. Alex took only three more steps, when a woman gasped behind her and touched her shoulder.

“Are you okay?” She said to her.

The crazy man laughed before Alex could answer the woman behind her. Just as Alex turned to see why, she felt the pain. Like scissors cutting, knives slicing, pelvic bones breaking and mending. Cramps, but one thousand times worse than normal. Her insides felt like they were on fire. Alex fell to her side, and cradled her stomach. Looking down at the source, her jeans were starting to turn red. Blood? She panicked. All Alex saw of the crowd forming around her were shoes. Her chest felt like it was tearing itself apart, shred by shred, threatening to puncture her lungs and her heart as her chest wrapped itself inwards, tighter and tighter and tighter. Eventually, the stranger’s raucous laughter, and the commotion of the crowd was drowned out by Alex’s screams. She passed out staring into those bloodshot eyes.

Darkness. No more pain.

Alex had a dream. She laid in bed, preparing to receive her lover. She felt arousal in a different way. She wasn’t feeling a gliding wetness inside of herself, but instead felt solid and pointed. Compact. Her lover was Chelsea, who moved her naked body above hers. She wrapped her legs around Alex’s pelvis, but she didn’t focus below. Alex was fixated on something else. Chelsea made her breasts bounce up and down in her face, flaunting at her. She felt the primal need to suck them, and play with them, and be nurtured by them. It was an emotion she wasn’t used to having. Chelsea leaned back, and adjusted something below. Alex felt suddenly moist, warmth, and pleasure. Both moaned. Chelsea moved up and down, testing the waters. Alex could feel Chelsea’s wet walls encompass and flex around her. Chelsea moved faster now, and bounced her tits again. Everytime she slammed down against Alex’s groin, Chelsea’s breasts rippled like a puddle in rain. The sight was too hot for Alex to control her new urges. The pleasure she felt was different too. Instead of the slow build towards torrential waves, it was fast paced and focused at the tip. Chelsea moaned Alex’s name, and pushed her breasts at her face. Alex wanted to, no - needed to move her hips faster and faster to release the orgasmic pressure. She moved forward to suck Chelsea’s nipples. She needed to grab her ass, and choke her neck, and pound, pound, pound, all at once, before...before!

Alex was released from the hospital approximately three years later. His dramatic change threatened to upend all current physiological science, biological psychology, and any existing philosophy on the theory of gender. Religious sycophants labelled Alex as either the Devil, or the second coming of Jesus. Politicians on both sides of the aisle debated the political ramifications of gender in society for years to come. Such is the case after such a medical rarity. As for himself, Alex suffered a psychological breakdown in the following months after the incident. However, after much time and therapy, he accepted his situation and opted to live out the rest of his life as a man. It took him a few more years to settle into his new life, forget his old life, and form romantic relationships.

Alex started his day as he usually did. Like a ritual. Due to a case of morning wood from a recent forgotten dream, he spent his time looking at Tinder, Plenty of Fish, and OKCupid. He looked at every woman on those sites with primal hunger. Like a lion on the prowl, he thought. At this point, for Alex, it was a numbers game. Sure, he had new, mostly male friends that dated in different ways. But their way was often too slow for him, and because he was new to experiencing man’s lust, he wanted to experience it on his own. Right now, Alex wanted sex. And he wanted it yesterday.

Still in bed, Alex went back to Tinder, and swiped right until the app disallowed the practice. He checked the matches that piled up from the exercise, and saw a woman who didn’t look too fake. Alex was now all too used to spam. Looking at her photos first, Alex thought she was sexy in all the right areas, and her imperfections were passable. Her name was Nicole, a pretty name, and her profile looked like it was actually curated.

Ping!

A status popped up at the top of his phone.

A like! Holy crap! Alex thought.

Under the throes of lust, he was now convinced that Nicole truly wants him.

She must be as horny as I am right now, he mused. Alex felt himself growing thinking of what he would see and feel if he got to know her. Pillowy breasts, wet pussy. Perfectly fuckable. He thought of what it looked like underneath her yoga pants, and how Nicole’s scantily clad bra was showing just enough for him to want more. He started stroking himself outside his pants, and flexing himself against the fabric. In truth, Alex knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. But he ignored it, for his urges were too great. He had to take a risk for her. For him.

If she wants it, she could have it, he thought.

Alex pulled off his pajamas. His member was solid. Perfect. Sexy. He grabbed his phone, and took a picture.

Katie lost her tears in kindergarten when the teacher held a mirror to her splotchy face and said, "You're really ugly when you cry. Did you know that?"

She had not known it, and learning that people cared more about her appearance than her feelings came as something of a surprise. It shocked her into silence, a beautiful, terrible quiet, for more than a decade. All that time, she smiled sweetly at inquiries, only saying, "I'm fine," with a very neutral, and surely lovely, face.

She found her tears in the back yard one sultry summer night. She was fifteen and her mother was drunk again, staggering and falling as Katie tried to coax her back inside. They collapsed in a heap on the back stoop, Katie unable to bear her mother's weight anymore.

"You know, I just wanted to be happy," her mother said to the sliver of moon dangling in the sky.

Katie looked up and there they were, her tears scattered across the heavens. They fell into her eyes and watered the ground until she was sure they would drown her. "Me too, mommy," she replied.

The next morning was full of coffee and regrets, long blank stares and subdued sniffles. Katie found her tears again, but carefully guarded them. There was something precious in those little jewels, something she was not ready to share.

Half a lifetime passed before her treasure was revealed, transformed from sparkling, salty drops to prose alive with color. "Such beauty!" people marveled. "Such emotion!" they sighed. And there was Katie, tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips.

When asked, "What is your inspiration?" Katie beams and says, "I just want to be happy."

Rose surveyed the front room with one narrowed eye. Something was definitely missing, but she just couldn’t put her finger on it...

Out of habit, she reached up to her face and touched her glass eye, popping it in and out of its wrinkled socket. She ran her tongue through her mouth, touching each tooth along her denture. Nothing missing from her face.

Birds sang happily outside. For once, they flocked around the feeder in the courtyard. Their carefree melodies, along with the sunlight streaming through the window, helped put Rose’s strange feeling to rest. How could anything be wrong on a wonderful day like this?

She eased into her rocking chair, picking up the knitting from the coffee table. Grasping one end of the yarn, she let the ball itself roll down her lap onto the floor. Her arthritis was acting up, so she put her needles back, choosing a large plastic crochet hook instead. A doily pattern would be easier on her aching hands.

Halfway though her fourth spiral, Rose started to notice all the hair that had accumulated on her skirt and chair. Short, orange-y strands clumped together on her furniture. They definitely weren’t hers: she had a head of silver hair.

“This won’t do…this won’t do…” she muttered, picking away at the hairs. She stood and found a handy-dandy lint roller in the bottom of her knitting basket.

As she finished rolling away the hair, a knock sounded at the door and two people burst through.

“Mom! How are you doing?” Abigail ran over and enveloped Rose in a bear-hug. “I’m so sorry! Was it a rough night? I know you’ve missed…her.”

Flabbergasted, Rose shook her head and held her daughter’s shoulders. “What ever are you talking about dear?”

Abigail’s eyebrows shot up, and she glanced over at John, who was still standing in the doorway, holding a small bouquet and a black, heavy-looking shoebox. He shook his head at Abigail. “She forgot,” he hissed.

Rose frowned at the two. “Forgot what? Don’t treat me like a little old lady. Next thing I know you’ll want to put me in a home.”

“I—erh…forgot…forgot…” Abigail stuttered for a moment, doing the verbal equivalent of stumbling backwards with pinwheeling arms. “Uh, forgot that we’re supposed to go out for specialty ice cream today!”

Rose lit up and promptly dropped her knitting and lint roller into the basket. “Why didn’t you say so? Let’s go!”

The three pushed out the door toward John’s car. He handed Rose the flowers awkwardly while trying to pull his keys out of his pocket. When Rose turned her back, he shoved the shoebox underneath the backseat.

Rose smiled at her two kids, clutching the flowers in her arms. “I’m just so glad you guys came to visit me!” She plopped into the passenger seat. “But John, dear, for future reference, lilies, cattails, and carnations are a strange combination—they’re often used as funeral flowers.”

The little girl furrowed her brow as she walked around the unwrapped cage in the center of the room. She had asked Santa for a kitten, but had misspelled quite a few words in the letter, including Saint Nick's name.

What was before her now was an inky black beast with a few too many glowing eyes, way too many sharp teeth, and two too many tiny wings.

She frowned at the not-kitty before her. "You're not what I wanted..."

The demon scratched at itself, lazily blinking a few of its eyes at her.

"But I love you!"

It yowled as she suddenly hugged it, unable to escape the unwanted affection.

"I'll call you Scary Cat, and you'll be my best friend!"

The monster attempted to bite and claw her as she ran up the stairs with it in her arms. "That's where you sleep," she mumbled as she stuffed Scary Cat into a dollhouse.

"Thank you, Santa!" she hollered out the hallway.

The demon, crammed in a plastic kitchen next to Barbie, immediately knew that this had been a mistake. Despite this, the human girl was far more welcoming than it's previous owners.

He was always taught the difference between right and wrong. As a home-grown country boy, he knew that his life was for God, his mama, and his country, in that order. He knew that a man’s word was his might, and his might didn’t mean anything unless it stood for something. That’s why, when he gave his word to serve his country, he wasn’t afraid. He was resolute in his rectitude. He was resolute through his training, learning to serve without question and learning to trust in his brothers, those fellow men of resolve. When he was dropped into battle and suddenly life-and-death wasn’t theoretical, he was confident. When his fellow men fell and bled for what they stood for, he picked them up and carried on. When those combatants fell and suddenly didn’t seem much different from his fellow men, he persevered. When the women and children were caught in the crossfire and he felt sick seeing their wretched corpses so like the women and children back home, he closed his eyes. When he was confronted with his enemy’s humanity, he wavered. When his fellow man sought out those unarmed innocents, he cried. When that man was not punished but praised for his viciousness, he doubted. When that rot festered in the ranks of his fellow men, he feared it would overcome him too. And when one man’s faith in his resolve shattered, he prayed to God that He would forgive this transgression, committed through his innocence.