Ten, Twenty Men

                Nothing but the yellow light bulb hanging in the middle illuminating the dark, the wide, dark green-colored tent was quiet

                and soundless.

                The soil's smell dispersed about inside, some grains of it that had formed like smoke began falling, disappearing again onto the ground, settled and all. The noise that filled up the place not long ago was just now fading, like a static of distant voices ringing about in the ear. Ten, twenty men were either in front or sat on chairs, uneasy, knees stiff, and although they don't look really rested themselves, the boots that wrapped up their feet now remained rested on the soil ground, all in varied positions and tilts – some hard-planted on the ground, some just the edge, heel or bridge of their feet, and some with toes pressing hard against earth, their rears almost to the edge of their seats. The bare top of the tent's inside was only but a light shadow of yellow beam variance, half below in brightness compared to that of the bottom where the people were, and where the light of the yellow bulb most hung.

                The mood as it is was heavy, and the weight could be felt, for varied reasons; one could never be sure if it was the stares, the postures, or the different expressions that their faces so stressfully showed. But it was there. One will know.

                And the men themselves knew. Why.

                The chief had just made a decision, and it was what tore the mutualism that they all once, always had. He had done better things in the past, they thought, best even. But although this seems to be the best they can do for the present cadaver of a state,

                it was not the kind of best that sits well with the word 'right'.

                Massive drops of the white sky's tears were already falling when they all went out. Their heavy descent was what greeted the men's heads and backs as they walked back toward their own tents, visibly stomping, almost grumbling. Mostly disdained. It was already late in the evening, but the skies were still as bright as ever – gloomy, but still ever so bright and pure, like intrinsically smoothed jasmine petals. It still shone like it was day – which it always has and will – and the whole army that the ten, twenty men are a part of was now deep asleep. Walking on the way through the other camp tents, loud snores distinctly fade in and fade out in the ear.

                A soldier from the 12th, which one of the ten, twenty men was part of, had barely woken, as he entered the tent, trying to stay silent, but to no avail. This tentmate of his already snoring trucks before he even entered the tent was definitely not far from talking.

                "Hey mate, up this late?" the tentmate inquired, as the reflection of the sky was upon his face, whose eyes were only half opened.

                "Yeah. Fucking up this late." the one of the ten, twenty men replied, as he tried to prepare immediately for bed, while his tentmate was still rubbing his eyes.

                Words will soon be nonsense as the skies screamed in welcome.

                The rains had stopped.

                And these screams were roars.

                A desolate cry of a thousand souls,

                a grinding of gears in the form of the voice of gods,

                and a mix of echoing, variegated sounds and growls of trapped beasts wanting to bulge out of their realm of detainment.