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Hoofs of Light

Mud. Wet, cold mud everywhere around.
I shift the gun on my shoulder and adjust my helmet. The mud gets
on the helmet too, as I wait and watch the night. The darkness is so
deep, there are no signs of movement. Only the flashes of light from
lost bullets break the view into fields of randomly squirming barbed
wire and splashing mud.
I’m in the trench, I’m guarding something. I don’t know what
exactly I’m guarding, I don’t know how long I should guard it, I’m
not even sure what that war is for. But I’m absolutely certain that the
dark is not safe outside the trench. I’m waiting for something and
listening to the bullets. Somehow, I’m not afraid for my own life; I
just resent the insecurity of it. And then I hear the planes over my
head and explosions start lighting the barbed wire again, the trench
gets hit and blows up splashing more mud in my face. I jump out,
knowing I can’t stay there anymore. I run into the night and then it
gets completely black.
The sound of planes seems to open a gate. It’s a gate in the sky, a
gate in time. It’s a gate in the space of the past. Yet every time I hear
the planes I know something wrong hovers above, something dark is
about to happen, something old and dooming like a voice from
another dimension, from another time. It’s an unexplained feeling, the
engine sound of the planes, opening the gate in the sky. Maybe it’s a
memory from the nights of war. Which war? I don’t know. I’m
outside, playing with my friends. We’re just playing war - it’s summer
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