logo version 4.0
Small Cruel Party
Lines reaching to infinity, shoulders away from defeat, young men and women, silently watching, expressionless. At every space in the line, every point where men and women turn away from themselves to face the night, a little hollow has been dug. Dug into the snow, this little hole, and in the hole a tin can, and in the tin can a lump of coal, and under this coal a memory of kerosene, and over this coal a dancing red flame.

The men and women are standing in the earth, in their own little holes, carved out of the snow. Fingertips white with midwinter cold, dry grey skin pulled tight around their eyes, trails of frozen tears run cracking down faces. The wind favors them, and only whispers tonight. It covers the chatter of their teeth, the creaking of their boots, but does not mask the sounds of the trees keeping counsel, or the crunch of the snow from another's approach.

An old, moth eaten wool blanket has been thrown over a glittering diamond. Brilliant light rains down on the field, where men and women are staring ahead, expressionless. They have positioned themselves in the shadows cast by this tattered blanket, and have left nothing but the light for their enemy. Across a mile of fallow earth, under the brilliance of Heaven's light, without a sound, young men and women wait. Night favors them, keeping their watch over the earth.

Fingers are curled around thin metal, poised above detonators, tense with anticipation. Eyes are squinting into the night, at the point where the snow covered ground meets the dark forms beyond, eyes scan for motion. Together in lines, approved by nature, young men and women, for the glory of Nation.