The Art

Rain mixed with ash fell into the mans eyes as he looked onto the burning city. His face was contorted into a horrendous face of agony and fear as bombs dropped about him. he stood stock still and explosions blasted buildings in the distance. His friends were away, screaming at him to run, to run for his life. But they were of no concern to him.  He had two kids. A wife. he was happy. he saw the house they were in tumble as a bomb hit it, no doubtingly killing them. His horrified scratching at the rubble yielded no results. He wondered how it could take their innocent lives, but he already knew the answer; the bomb does not pick its targets, it only snatches random handfuls like a greedy child, whether they were useful or not. Before his eyes stood the city he had know as a city, burning as it was destroyed by an unknown force. Suddenly he realized his friends, his allies, screaming at him to preserve himself. He turned to look at them, but it was too late. A bomb had grasped at has handful. His friends could only scream and run.

Far away a man sat on a cumphy chair, looking onto his map of the burning city of hundreds, now deducted to ashes. Hundreds of memories, ambitions, and dreams now gone.

"And that, my friends, is the Art of War." He said to a clapping crowd.