Franson And The Happy War
A bullet whirred past my ears into Franson's chest. Running red of viscous rivers that had once been Franson's infected the snow on the ground, like it did for the others. The land was a spiteful chunk of ice, lulling many of our men to sleep in sporadic pink puddles.
I lay down next to Franson, avoiding the fast and dirty job above me, and I didn't cry or laugh or panic. I stared at Franson's body. I'd known him for months and worked with him cleaning the head at the barracks and maintaining a good composure in the platoon and I just stared at him. His face was pale. His eyes were frigid. The grit of war dangled on his cheeks, patches of grime I wanted to wipe off, but couldn't.
And then a rainbow shot out of his mouth, flashing carousel neons into the snowy sky. The rainbow was hot; the clouds separated and the golden sun came out. Then the bullets stopped; the onslaught of the skirmish ended for a moment. Confused - we all were - I scrambled up and gaped at the pinkish fields behind me. I peered at the myriad rainbows sprout like candy canes as tall as infinity.
I fell down next to Franson when the ceasefire ceased, as a bullet lanced my stomach. Laying upright, I watched a rainbow stream out of my mouth and into the bright and glorious overhead.
Someone was happy that we were losing - and it showed.