Progressive Writing Exercise #12: Rewriting Is Writing


A testament to will power and decent military behavior, you remain inert and steady inspite of the aftermath you stare at. Ash darkens the air and you do your best not to inhale. Its fruitless. Your lungs are becoming clogged with what has burned. Children coming home after a long summer of swimming and learning, couples reuniting after long periods of work-related trips across country, and bored elderly who only wish to interact with others: all are gone, quiet, and filling your lungs wish smot.

Fires burn blood hot still, as rescue workers clear the rubble away. Toppled stone and metallic pillars, punctured and deformed rail-cars, possible remnants of bodies, and shrapnel from the archaic explosive that was used litters the entire area; as far as your eyes can see. The glass shards everywhere make you think of the lives shattered by the station bombing. It reeks of enemy cowardice and malice.

Bergiere, usually tranquil and mesmerizingly unaffected by war, stands as if he is about to launch Zion missles.

If you were facing Bergiere, you would know what rage personified truly meant. You have only glimpsed his arching brow and twitching lips, and you know that you don’t need to ask Bergiere what is on his mind. You feel the rage boiling within him as he looks upon the wreckage.

Bodies of the elderly who were taking trips that reminded them of their long history and life littered the maglev station platform. There are the mangled remains of lovers who had not seen one another in long periods. And there is the unmistaken singed toys that the youth lost themselves to as they waited to go back home for the season. You know how hard it is for you to remain calm, but worry for Bergiere. Looking at him reminds you of fury locked away in a tiny room never knowing the taste of freedom.

Bergiere balds his fist and trembles. You feel you should warn your C.O. because without a shadow of doubt, you know that they are the target for Bergiere’s rage. After all, Bergiere had warn the C.O. that he and Mazon uncovered a plot by the Coalition to destroy the station. If that warning had been valued, there could be no victims. There would be no loss of life.

The smell of anesthetic and ammonia arouses me from thought and dreams. My eyelids flutter trying to open so I can get my bearings. They remain closed, and I already know I am in some sort of hospital.

The cleansing smell of white and death overwhelms me. I try to situp and feel the leather of body restraints holding me in place. I hate being trapped.

My eyes refuse to open, unable to fight the medicine I was given. I can’t remember what happened but now I know for sure it was nothing good. I hear busied voices of medical officials talking about my stats. They have their numbers and I have the real results of what ever they did to me.

Opening my eyes I realize I am in a lab, rather than medical facility. I see several lab technicians with their charts discussing what is on them. On the walls all my health data is displayed utilizing ancient plasma displays. Random readings that mean nothing to me except for the fact it is my health data. I look around and find who appears to be my caring phyaician. She is next to my cot and has long brown hair. An orange-brown, similar to mine, but much darker.

She only looks up towards the military guys who watch from behind a safety glass that is three inches thick and bulletproof. I notice one of them knodding, and my eyelids get heavy immediately. Dang! Guess I was NOT supposed to wake up yet.

They can experiment all they like. I will not become a mindless and heartless killing drone. To take a life is wrong, and I will not do so easily. Nor will I ever enjoy it. It is not who I am, or who I will ever be.

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