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Jan. 30th, 2005 08:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
threeplusfireAlan made a fantastic stew tonight, with some chipotle and ancho peppers. It was a perfect warm respite from the grim rainy cold of today. Yay leftovers.
Writing group was interesting this afternoon. It was a struggle to drag myself out into the nasty weather. We did an exercise where we drew papers with a specific word referencing an emotion or feeling. Then we wrote for a bit, trying to display this feeling without using the word in question.
Darkness mercifully concealed the field, and the glimmer of fires between tents gave it the appearance of an earth bound swath of stars. In darkness, only the sound of wings and the breeze brought the stench of bodies and carrion birds.
Sheltered by the canvas drapings, Charles paced back and forth. His spurs rattled at every step and he still wore his uniform from the afternoon. Traces of soot, dust and blood dimmed its finery. Around his thigh, a crude bandage collected a bit of blood but he paid no heed to the discomfort. The pain in his leg was of no consequence to the one in his head. Out on the field hundreds of men lay dead or dying, and only one remained unaccounted for at sunset.
Charles winced, and sat on the corner of a table covered in maps and markers. Each piece stood for scores of lives, dozens of men dedicated to the service of King and Country. His heart contracted painfully at the collision of duty and misery. Rubbing a weary hand over his face, Charles wondered how long it might last.
Out in the night, the frail voices of lament rose. The women's singing blended into the groans and cries of the wounded. Charles prayed through his grief that the missing man might yet be found amongst the living. Agony was still preferable to the absence of all feeling. Sometimes Charles wondered if that ache made their stolen moments of peace that much sweeter.
He left his tent to walk amongst his mean. Each shattered limb or bleeding cut became his own, and he paused with every man to offer what comfort or encouragement that might hold back the feeling of loss.
Writing group was interesting this afternoon. It was a struggle to drag myself out into the nasty weather. We did an exercise where we drew papers with a specific word referencing an emotion or feeling. Then we wrote for a bit, trying to display this feeling without using the word in question.
Darkness mercifully concealed the field, and the glimmer of fires between tents gave it the appearance of an earth bound swath of stars. In darkness, only the sound of wings and the breeze brought the stench of bodies and carrion birds.
Sheltered by the canvas drapings, Charles paced back and forth. His spurs rattled at every step and he still wore his uniform from the afternoon. Traces of soot, dust and blood dimmed its finery. Around his thigh, a crude bandage collected a bit of blood but he paid no heed to the discomfort. The pain in his leg was of no consequence to the one in his head. Out on the field hundreds of men lay dead or dying, and only one remained unaccounted for at sunset.
Charles winced, and sat on the corner of a table covered in maps and markers. Each piece stood for scores of lives, dozens of men dedicated to the service of King and Country. His heart contracted painfully at the collision of duty and misery. Rubbing a weary hand over his face, Charles wondered how long it might last.
Out in the night, the frail voices of lament rose. The women's singing blended into the groans and cries of the wounded. Charles prayed through his grief that the missing man might yet be found amongst the living. Agony was still preferable to the absence of all feeling. Sometimes Charles wondered if that ache made their stolen moments of peace that much sweeter.
He left his tent to walk amongst his mean. Each shattered limb or bleeding cut became his own, and he paused with every man to offer what comfort or encouragement that might hold back the feeling of loss.