by Chris Mansel
I was writing a play, about a man who went blind
in the middle of a war. He crossed the lines over and
over till he was shot through the back.
He slept until the bullet dislodged itself and he awoke
and he could see again. He climbed a mountain and there
he saw a single dove fly into a stone and not come out.
He stood there until a bullet dropped from his hands and
rolled down the mountain and into a stream. The next day
the dove brought the bullet back to him. The dove dropped
the bullet into his hand and started to bleed. The man closed
his eyes and flew away.
He flew over the soldiers dying on the battlefield, he flew over
the wounded, and the peaceful skies. As he dipped his wing feathers
dropped from his mouth, and a quiet fell over the land. His eyes rolled
into his head and the peace he felt was disturbed when he landed amidst
a battle. His body was insulted by the machinery of war and there was
hardly anything left.
The next morning a solid red dove came to pick at his remains.
Chris Mansel (email@example.com)