A Blockade

He awoke with a cold sweat and a hot face. He'd been rattled by dreams of fireworks in the midnight sky. He took it upon himself to firmly grasp this vision, so as to squeeze its contents onto a thin sheet of paper. He rested himself at his desk and began. His pen burned furiously across the pages, soaking through them with sweaty passion and heavy breathing. He gorged his supply of lead, as limited as it was, with the intent of leaving a stock that seldom remain.

Yes, the view was awe-inspiring, a fiery heaven clashing against the blue cheek of the sky. One would think the world were blushing down upon them. The screams of battle were crystal clear, but such crystals shattered sharply as the crack of arms interrupted their shrill voices. Framing the base of the horizon were blood-drenched trenches, seemingly seeping the toxic waste onto the heavens above. What a sin it was, to bathe that innocent face of God with the succor of mankind! What tears it drew from the chorus of angels overlooking the fray! Oh, but their tears be blessed, as nothing on Earth could have washed the stains out of this battlefield - no but the sorrow of the divine may suffice. Suffice to say, there was no victor to be had that day, as the hand of God came down in a fit of fury, only to leave behind a tacit reminder upon the planet - that no man would walk from such a slaughter.

There, in the center of the field, lay a crumpled sheet of paper - a curse heaved upon humanity. It is what he feared most - the blood-curdling terror that leaves him gagging for air, and halts the very sweat that begs to trickle down his neck. The man, stricken with pause in his hand, could write no more. The emotion overtook him, and his strength reared and faltered like a spooked steed. From such extensions of the human will, his mind bruised and badly beaten, this man buckled forward and fainted, leaving behind an untended tale.