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SW891117639420 [NOV2013}

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posted on Nov, 8 2013 @ 08:15 PM
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I and all of my kind had been born in the same factory. Created by a race of violent, warring tribes that would do anything to win their battles. Fashioned as a weapon, I was not given a name but was given a number tattooed on my frame. I can remember hours-upon-hours on their assembly line. Weighed, cleansed and adjusted. I spent hours at the practice range shooting at black silhouettes that were supposed to resemble their enemies. I have to admit I somewhat enjoyed shooting slugs into their hearts even if they weren’t real. I hated being used for their savage purposes.

Some of them treated me with respect, even calling me by pet names. They would brag of me and how accurate I was. Sometimes they would have contests to see who could shoot the fastest and hit the bulls eye the most. But eventually I became bored with their silly games. Then word came down the line, I was being shipped out. I was packed up and crammed into a truck with 100 others just like me. I listened to some of the newer guys as they tried to guess where we were going.

When the truck finally stopped I could hear the noise of assembly and we were ushered into the ranks and assigned to different soldiers. My soldier appeared timid and unsure of himself. In fact he seemed very depressed. I accompanied him as he was sent out to the front line and jumped into a foxhole. Just as it became dark the enemy attacked and we fought back. Suddenly, there was a face directly in front of me and I fired, hitting him right between the eyes. He couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11 years old. My soldier began to cry and sob. He began saying over and over, “My God what have I done?”

What he did next totally caught me off guard. He pointed me at his head and pulled the trigger. I fired one bullet into his skull and killed him. He dropped me from his hand and I lay there in the cold dirt. Now I knew what it felt like to be a weapon.
edit on 06/02/2011 by grayeagle because: Fix title

edit on 06/02/2011 by grayeagle because: (no reason given)




posted on Nov, 8 2013 @ 08:35 PM
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reply to post by grayeagle
 


I do enjoy your poems and writings. often I’m fascinated how strongly they resonate with me.

so it is from the point of view of a thankful and considerate reader that I dare to offer you a critic this time, but for me the last sentence in this text spoiled the power of it.

I would have liked to be left laying there in the cold dirt, being left alone with all the strong feelings that your text had evoked in me…. and just being left waiting for the next experience….. for a while

thank you for all your artistic work



posted on Nov, 8 2013 @ 08:59 PM
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reply to post by grayeagle
 


Dark - with an excellent twist at the end, my friend! Good work!


(I really did think it was something else - you surprised me!)


- AB



posted on Nov, 8 2013 @ 09:03 PM
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reply to post by SovannaMaccha
 

I think you have a very good point. I think it would have more power if I had left off the last line. I suffer the same thing in my painting, It is hard to finish them. I keep going back to add some finishing touch. In this case I wanted to drive home the fact that I was a weapon. I am glad you enjoy my writing. If this wasn't a contest I would take your suggestion and drop the last line. Thanks again!

edit on 06/02/2011 by grayeagle because: (no reason given)



posted on Nov, 8 2013 @ 10:14 PM
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That was short and disturbing, but well written.

Of course, SnF.

Thanks for sharing.



posted on Nov, 8 2013 @ 11:49 PM
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Well that's off to a good start!

I felt for that gun for a moment.

~Tenth



posted on Nov, 11 2013 @ 07:37 PM
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Wonderfully visceral. A story with a punch. Good job!




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