The damp foxhole eight-year-old Peter was crouched in had been punched into the dirt road by a solitary shell, possibly misfired from a gun of monstrous proportions. It was a grey early spring morning. The snow had turned into a cold rain, but Peter was not perturbed by the icy water seeping into his tattered shoes or the face numbing blasts of wind. He kept his eyes fixed on the edge of the forest sporadically pulling the trigger of an imaginary machine gun to cut down wave after wave of snarling Russians as they emerged from between the trees. “Na na na na na,” the boy chattered to simulate the sound of machine gun fire. “Reload!” He shouted before pulling the invisible bolt back to resume firing. “Na na na na!” “How’s the defense of our village going soldier?” Peter looked over his shoulder and saw two soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders. Each of them clenched a burning cigarette between their lips. Their gray uniforms were baggy, and they kept having to lift up the
This is a collection of anecdotes from the fringes of reality, a tapestry stitched together from our dreams as well as our nightmares, from the fears that haunt the collective imagination. These are the symptoms of the sickness known as the human condition.