Just a piece I wrote to try out an idea I had for irony. Inspired by photos of men at war. Vietnam era.


"Let's hold hands," said Byron to the man on his right.

"Alright, just don't squeeze too hard," replied Peter, lifting his hands to the sun.

Byron smiled as he lifted his own arms in the air, his masked face sweating to the pulse of his heart. In a moments time, Peter took hold of one bruised, shaking hand and lightly intertwined his fingers with Byron's. "Now, let's go to the safety zone, together."

Byron cried at the touch of anothers hand; he cried at the touch of humanity. So long he's waited for a simple man to make his life complex once again.

"Peter?" Byron said, turning his head to his externally identical self.

"Yes, Byron?" replied Peter.

"I miss the Land of Vanity, the Hell of Home. Do you think we'll ever be able to go back?" Byron asked as he continued to cry.

"No," replied Peter.

"Why not?!" Byron yelled.

"Because, the sun's sent us an angel." Peter sighed and coolly pointed to the crimson sky.

"An angel?!" cried Byron in excitement.

"Yes, Byron, an angel."

The field erupted as the Angel plummeted to the ground, leaving the men to disappear beneath the rubble.

Words by Kerra Dolarhyde
Read 870 times
Written on 2006-06-06 at 00:16

Tags Irony  War 

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