#war prose

It was the jubilee skies filling with the orgasm of war. It was the hollow metal jackets draped over the cold bodies of bullets. The one that tore his enemies head apart in a whirlwind of blood, brain matter and fractured pieces of skull. A member of his platoon took an eye; he kept in a dirty cracked mason jar full of yellow river water. “You can't deny a man his entitlement to the spoils of a war he's fighting,” the solider said with a cracked smile as he scooped the singular eyeball out a pile of bloodied dirt. He’d wanted to take both but he couldn’t find the other one amongst the crimson guts and the slain enemies comrade were sure to be on their way. The dull drone of approaching helicopters reverberated through a dense and sweaty forest. They moved on.