The Soldier by Mark McConville

Flash Fiction, Mark McConville, Punk Noir Magazine

While I see you, I’m looking for redemption, salvation. My inner strength has been compromised, but you are in my sight, my light. I stand on the borderline, the edge, looking down at the sea. You’re sacrificing your ambitions, helping me find my way. Yesterday, we loved the world, we carried on, refusing to give up. On this edge, I feel breathless. Captivated by nature, but struggling to bring down the forces of evil. Armored hearts, we need armored hearts. You say that to me every time I break.

I break down, an engine failure. I am an engine failure. To you, I seem normal, to them I am a catalyst for their fists. Soon I will fade into the blackness of my own doom, artfully pulling at the frayed seams of my life. Hazards play a game too, they’re controlling my mind. I crave to settle this mind. A shell occupying dreadful, sunken faces, not a youthful picture of good health.

It’s a shame that we’re losing drive and ambition. I wanted to write painless poetry. Write the slogans across the walls of suburbia. Not peaceful notes, but ones to rally a revolution for alienated freaks. With, caffeine running through my veins, with lit torches in my hand. Ordinary, I know I’m ordinary, but you, you’re extraordinary. A diamond in the rough, a body full of energy, a flamboyant character.

You wipe the sweat from my brow. I close my and hear the voices yet again. The raucousness of their tone alarms me. They seem wisdom fueled, high on something I wish to consume. I open my eyes to the river. The scent of perfume from your neck highlights your beauty even more. You’re alive, controlled, and unpretentious. You’re the prefect bumper sticker, an inspiration to me and all of humanity.

The droplets of rain could wash away the filth in my head. It couldn’t, though, there’s no holes in my cranium, just yet. Glowing cell phone light inside your pocket, someone is trying to contact you. A person, who could love you wholeheartedly. A natural lover, a mainstay, a soldier of the night. Spreading bullets he would not, spreading his devotion he would. And you are here, when you could be there. Why?

I left a room, powdered in dust. I left a dying sanctuary, to come along here, where the air is fresher, where the flowers seem alive. You ran here, I know it. Your chest puffs. Your energy has been compromised. Little things, like that, alarm me. I want you to be at your peak. Peak condition, for the soldier.

Mark McConville