Post by severin on Jan 11, 2007 20:08:30 GMT -6
To say I don't want to be here is beyond an understatement....and why does everyone insist on staring? Bad enough I feel everything and get jumbles of thoughts. I'm surprised I'm not insane. Besides, I can't help it I'm short.
The major very kindly instructed me to find a bunk, a locker, take a short bit to settle in and then report to his office. Straightforward enough, although I'm not that anxious to fly, trust me. I passed flight by less than the seat of my pants. So I fortunately pick a lower unoccupied bunk waaaaaay in the back, stow my limited civilian clothing, sheet music, recordings and books in the locker, and very tenderly ease the hand-made subson under the bunk. Lucky there was enough room; hell, lucky command let me keep it at all although I would have fought tooth and nail.
I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to collect my own scattered thoughts before officially reporting for duty. I idly fingered the checkered trim on the left sleeve that extended well past my hand. Brown. Ugh. Could never wear it. Not well, anyway.
More distasteful to me was what lay on my pillow, poking out from under a flight jacket as equally oversized as my uniform tunic - one heinous, Colonial-issue gunbelt and blaster.
Obviously, this is the part about the whole war thing I don't like - killing. I don't like killing, never have killed that I'm aware of and certainly am not overjoyed that I'm getting the opportunity to start now. Perhaps that's why I separate myself from everyone - I so sense the delight in lives ended, even if mechanical, and a thrill of the chase and the fight. Whatever happened to make love, not war - or is that from a bygone age or a memory from a childhood storybook?
I sigh to myself, and get up. I shrug on the flight jacket, and briefly check myself in the turboflush to make sure I'm decent enough to present to command (damn flyaway hair). I pickup the gunbelt, but it stays in my hand. Sorry folks, I mean no disrespect, but that's a weight I can't bear just yet.
The major very kindly instructed me to find a bunk, a locker, take a short bit to settle in and then report to his office. Straightforward enough, although I'm not that anxious to fly, trust me. I passed flight by less than the seat of my pants. So I fortunately pick a lower unoccupied bunk waaaaaay in the back, stow my limited civilian clothing, sheet music, recordings and books in the locker, and very tenderly ease the hand-made subson under the bunk. Lucky there was enough room; hell, lucky command let me keep it at all although I would have fought tooth and nail.
I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to collect my own scattered thoughts before officially reporting for duty. I idly fingered the checkered trim on the left sleeve that extended well past my hand. Brown. Ugh. Could never wear it. Not well, anyway.
More distasteful to me was what lay on my pillow, poking out from under a flight jacket as equally oversized as my uniform tunic - one heinous, Colonial-issue gunbelt and blaster.
Obviously, this is the part about the whole war thing I don't like - killing. I don't like killing, never have killed that I'm aware of and certainly am not overjoyed that I'm getting the opportunity to start now. Perhaps that's why I separate myself from everyone - I so sense the delight in lives ended, even if mechanical, and a thrill of the chase and the fight. Whatever happened to make love, not war - or is that from a bygone age or a memory from a childhood storybook?
I sigh to myself, and get up. I shrug on the flight jacket, and briefly check myself in the turboflush to make sure I'm decent enough to present to command (damn flyaway hair). I pickup the gunbelt, but it stays in my hand. Sorry folks, I mean no disrespect, but that's a weight I can't bear just yet.