Helicopter Dreams

The helicopter has a steel floor - The loadmaster is grinning as he points to the battlefield below. His eyes are hidden behind dark perspex bug-eyes and he is hanging onto his Machine Gun. I notice a can has been strapped to the side, to help feed the belt of ammunition into it.

Below us shells have carved black holes into the sand. Red smeared petals spread out from them, bizarre flowers made up of cordite and sand, flesh and bone.

Tracer rounds drift lazily up from far away. The loadmaster swings his gun into his shoulder, but quickly loses interest and goes back to surveying the broken war machine below us.

The helicopter touches down. I clamber out closing my eyes as the sand from the rotor blades bites into my face.

The dead no longer look like flowers. They look like the dead. I squeeze the bullet hanging off my dog tag chain. 'Please god - not me' a silent prayer is whispered.

A kneeling soldier reaches out to me. His head is gone - I look around. But it is nowhere. Gone. I close my eyes again. Squeezing them shut. I can taste the cordite hear the distant thump of artillery.

I open my eyes. I'm at home. Empty beer bottles jostle alongside a full ashtray. I light a cigarette and pull in too much smoke. The burn in my throat hurts. I'm alive. It's over.

I stare at the PC. The word delete blurs through my tears. One click. It's gone. The words no longer exist on screen so I go to sleep. To dream. To scream. The words are back today. For now.