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The battle took place in the sky. The bombs lit up the night with amber yellowish glows. Across the treeless plains, young soldiers from both armies fought with every weapon they could find. Hundreds of young men and women shooting at one another to claim a piece of land that had no value.
The villagers who lived in the small poor towns were fighting the invasion protecting what little they had. Men and women battled the trained soldiers, slashing with swords or grappling with knives in the mud. They displayed as much courage as the invading leaders, whose courage and sense of loyalty were as famous as their ferocity. But it was always the weak who would die first.
The invaders were winning the battle in the sky, and they were trying to survive an equally fierce battle that raged below. Standing on a small rise, a group of smoke splattered women and children strove desperately to hold off the ground forces. Although they were outnumbered, they still held their ground.
Elsewhere on God’s earth now strewn with bodies, the tired spirits of the weak swung their arms at the ground forces, but they were defeated easily as they were being bashed ruthlessly, swaying like trees in a tornado. The fighting was winding down as desperate villagers were jumping on the backs of young soldiers and biting off their ears. It was their last stand, bit it made no impact on the outcome. They were defeated and the casualties were too much for a count.
The poor villagers were destined to lose, because of the deep love of their part of the world, its sacred qualities and a wondrous gift from God. And they would die to protect it.
Ghosts swaggered through the melee on the battlefield, searching for loved ones. Then they’d burst into flames and utterly disappeared. Never realizing that how they died, is how they’d vanish into God’s resting place.
© 2011 Frank Atanacio