July Contest

From Far North

Click. Magazines lock rifles. Clank. Weapons armed. Empty silence, almost peaceful.
And then.
The shattering of it by the thunder of a thousand bullets loosed. Endless rain. Infinite. I am the devil, and my companions, come from far north to kill. Is that what infidels think as they die? Is it true? When Uncle Bilal sent me south, rifle in my hand, did I become a terrorist?
The rain stops. Thoughts disappear. Training, instinct now, supersedes. Empty magazines fall. Another click, clank. Another silence, punctuated by foolish children fleeing failing walls, the cry of their mother. And then another rain.


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