The Glass Fields

I have been in the sand for months
The sand that holds the poison
The poison that cleanses the soul
I have been in the sand for months


Fields of glass stretch for miles; they reflect the nature of man as she plants a boot on her own sun burnt face. Hydrogen bomb: 400,000,000°C, a so called "clean bomb" as it produces mostly neutrons and uses a smaller atomic trigger therefore decreasing the amount of radioactive fallout. The United States, as of 2010, possessed roughly 12,500 weapons of like or similar nature (that being nuclear/thermonuclear). The Russian Republic had a similar stockpile before their dissolution. As of 2023 that stockpile had shrunk by twenty.

We patrol the endless fields, the wastelands under the sun. 10,465 US casualties (military): the public is deliciously numb. 46,917,836 Iranian casualties (military and civilian): America rejoices. 211 individual atrocities committed by US forces: eleven held accountable. 320 atrocities committed by Iran: seven cities annihilated by tactical thermonuclear strikes. The gloves have come off, warfare has evolved, the soldier must eat fire and sand as she would milk and honey, there is no longer room for humanity in the world. Paper has become exactly that and words are now sound. How do you measure the worth of a human? By her ability to effortlessly lift and shoulder 2.9kg (6.4lbs). The glass breaks under her footsteps and tears at the rubber shielding covering the lead soles of her boots.

You know before it happens. The world holds it's breath and sky begins to weep. Then comes the siren and your mind recoils in horror and your body screams. Oxygen spills from your lungs as it's yanked from you and you desperately try to pull your hood over your head and drop to the ground. Remember remember eleven September. "The lead in your suits will protect you from residual radiation and the electromagnetic straps will keep you on the ground." Again the world falls silent and you feel like you're floating in space. Something seizes your body and tries to violently pull you forward and suddenly it's incredibly hot. Hours later the feeling subsides and as the world falls back into perspective you realize that it's only been seconds. The order is given to move out. The desert has become glass again.

For recreation the platoon will cut glass from the fields and mount them as mirrors, using whatever they can get their ruddy hands on for frames. Some even manage to melt it down and reforge it into minor trinkets. Animals, people, vehicles, the odd building, whatever strikes the soldiers fancy and whatever is in her talent to make she does so. The art of glassblowing is on the rise in the Gulf. There is a large market for the Art of War.

The streets were paved and now are broken. Buildings stand like shucked corn and the smell of despair and fear strike at the ocean wind. Shades resembling people scamper in and out and between buildings, disappearing into the shadows at the first sign of our patrol. Only one has ever remained on the street of this shattered town. On her face she wore a mask, but within her eyes burned passionate flames. I was hated and she let me know. They shot her for sport; there's nothing else to shoot around here.

A President once said, "You can't have this kind of war. There just aren't enough bulldozers to scrape the bodies off the streets." In "this kind of war" you don't need bulldozers. The bodies are gone before their dust ever settles.

I have been in the sand for months
The sand that cleansed my soul
The soul that longs for home
I have been in the sand for too long