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Till looked at the group of men gathered in the kitchen for breakfast. They were in this house in the middle of nowhere for just a bit more than a week and the cracks were already showing. The making of their previous album and the subsequent tour were a trial that nearly led to the band breaking up. After it was done, they each went their way to vent their anger and cool down.
It took time, but they were happy to see each other, eager to do another album, to work with their passion music. However, the unsolved issues were already surfacing.
Richard's failed attempt at breakfast wasn't helping. Not that Till was going to say anything about that to his best friend, who was just explaining something to their drummer.
'That's it,' Paul growled suddenly, getting everybody's attention as he threw the fork away. The tool landed on Flake's plate with a clatter. 'You're not even touching the pots to prepare any other meal that I am supposed to eat,' he said, glaring at Ric
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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