Burdens by Peter Trinidad

Author:Peter Trinidad [Trinidad, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cosmic Pizza Buffet Publishing
Published: 2013-05-19T11:00:00+00:00

Tomato Based

There was no mountain meadow for miles around, and no sight of an enemy. Viday managed to find a suitable campsite for the night, an old mining shack she knew. The shabby leanto rested on the wall of a mountain and had not seen inhabitants for years. The boards reeked of mold and seeping holes opened in the roof. Dust and sand coated most of the interior, especially the floor which was all sand.

Burroughs created a draw for campfire smoke by punching a hole in the ceiling. They cooked a few of the canned provisions and drank the last of the soda drinks. Shaw handed the drinks out, and when Viday and Burroughs took them they were ice cold.

“We’re roughing it from this point, as far as I’m concerned.”

After an hour the ventilation proved too poor. The air grew hot and stifling inside the shack from the small blaze. Rather than douse the flame, they buried the live coals into the floor. Yet, even with the heat gone, the leanto was till oppressively stuffy and claustrophobic.

Burroughs stepped outside for some cold air. Rather than share company with Shaw, Viday followed.

The pointed peaks of the mountains cut edges into the sky, closing up the sides. The night sky in the mountain was smaller in size, but no less deep and empty. Orion’s Belt figured prominently, three bright stars binding the middle of an hourglass constellation. A strong northern wind gusted over the valleys, shaking the pines and stirring the air.

“Tell me about your father. He was a high ranking war hero?”

Burroughs shook his elongated head. “No. He never ranked past Sargent. He turned down every promotion handed to him or managed to lose it again. His career in the military made him very famous as the unkillable man. Invincible Vick.”

“What was he like?”

“Tired.”

“Tired? Tired of what?”

“Everything. I think. He spent the last years of his life trying to make sense of his tour of duty on the western continent, make sense of all the horrors he had seen.” Burroughs stared off pondering. “It was the reason he didn’t kill me outright, according to the memoirs he kept from me.”

“So he trained you to be a soldier and sent you out,” Viday sat down in some gravel.

Burroughs kept standing. “He died when I was seven.”

The sad weight of the aberration’s word somehow stifled Viday’s speech. They both sat in stark silence as the breeze whipped by

“No amount of gunfire, explosions, or bloodletting can change the course of history. The world changes by thinking differently, when generations buried alive in the bodies of those who died before them crawl out into the hell their parents handed down and cry for a change, for the world to be different somehow.”

Burroughs continued. “ War is not the answer. It never was. War is a steaming pile of dung, foul, smelly, and no use to anybody except for fertilizer. Without anything to plant in the fertilizer, it’s just shit. War is shit, and it’s a soldier’s job to spread it around.

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