/lit/ - Literature

Dreaming dreams of rocket launchers.

Dreaming dreams of asymmetrical sniper ambushes with thermal optics, freezing their movements, frying the brain.

Dreaming dreams of small drones swarming over entire units under cover, destroying their million-dollar war machines.

Dreaming dreams of fully automatic ARs with 100 round 7.62x51 snail-mags unloading into and downing government helicopters.

Dreaming dreams of brave fighters silently weaving through mountain passages deep in the night on F-150s, motorbikes, and hiking boots.

I still remember that warm, Summer night in DC in vivid detail. The city on fire, the armored vehicles, the guardsmen shoulder-to-shoulder with rifles.

Every day I remember the bodies, more often than the shootings. Fires and graffiti everywhere, the black man dead on the asphalt, he was fat and bald.

The helicopters, the raging crowds. I walked across the river on foot, all the way from the ghetto to the white house, snuck past the security guards at the railyard.

I remember the first Sunday of the lockdowns, police in masks patrolling outside the locked down churches, my neighbors blaring Gospel music from the apartment windows.

So many things that I don't think people would even believe if I wrote them down, so many surreal stories of death and violence. The soft peppering of gunfire makes me feel warm inside.