I am Imaginative
Gun powder like plaque, I am armed to the teeth. Inside me, the hammering sound of pistons firing up echo around in my metallic body. I am an engine of war. My cold black eyes stare ahead, never glancing down at my marching feet. My hands, strong and anxious, secure my gun in an upright position. Every step I take is calculated, and placed accordingly. I keep looking forward, and my hands start to shake with anticipation, but I still them. Do not show any weakness. I am a machine.
I glance to my sides, and see others fumbling around blindly, crying and giggling. The bad taste of their appearance is drawn out as I spit to the side. These fools cannot still their hearts or hands, and their minds are running faster than a horse. Like a natural predator, I crawl over the last bunker, and march towards that open stretch of land before I get to the Germans. My fellow “soldiers” clumsily flop over like drunken fish. I take one last spit, toss back my mane, and roar; my fellow cats follow with their meows. I am a carnivore.
The Germans - faith shaking harder than their hands - put up only minor challenges. My men behind me are weighed down by the lead they collect in their bodies, but I am not so sentimental. Bits of steel and copper fly into my body, and I let them quickly pass out the other side. The pieces of missing skin and clothes just help me to run faster. I hop into their trench minutes before the others, and the Germans try to rally against me. Their hands quit their quivering, and their guns draw towards me. I am a monster, pointlessly destroying their home, and they are to be the heroes. I am the villain.
I quickly erase the scene with only a few bullets; my arms and butt of my rifle do the rest. My knuckles are swollen and cracked, but I stay calm, and I stay focused. A pathetic horn is sounded, and the enemy starts to retreat; a frail noise behind me signals me to regroup as well. To see such petty actions puts a fire in my stomach that I cannot put out. Of the two displays of such blatant cowardice, I chose the lesser one; I chase after the Germans. I raise my head and follow their scent. I am the hunter.
Their backs grow bulls-eyes, and my rifle begins to drop them like the flies they are. Running past, my pistol flashes into my hand, and I find six right between the eye. The companies' leader begs in a foreign tongue for what I assume to be mercy, and I lower my gun to give him false hope. I allow myself a small smile, I allow myself to show a little weakness. My punishment, the man quickly pulls out a knife and rests it between by right shoulder. His lips curl back in a snarl, and he screams victoriously in that language. His eyes look around frantically for others to hear, but when his eyes meet mine again the color of his face - like his recent bravery - quickly run away. I pull the knife out, and inch closer to him. His screams alert local companies that something is afoot, but I keep on carving. I am the artist.
The Germans fall upon me like waves, but with my bear hands, I tear through them. My own blood is hidden deep under their own, and my sweat covered hair tries to stop me from seeing my handiwork, but I just move it out of the way an continue. My own men show up to stop me, but I tear through them until they sit back and watch me work. I am a god out here. I am the omnipotent.
“Billy, sweetheart, climb off of that table and return to your desk please.” Miss Johnson said gingerly. “Don't you understand Miss Johnson? I was just about to single handedly win World War II, and you ruined it!” Billy shouted. “Ohh I'm sorry Billy, I wasn't aware, I'll make sure to call and leave a voice message next time recess is over ok?” Miss Johnson said with a grin, and turned around to walk away.
“Pompous bitch” Billy whispers to himself in disgust.
“Melodramatic asshole” Miss Johnson says with a sigh.