Timothy Dwight

Dawn spreads her fingers of pink light over the silent fields, as a gentle breeze tickles the blades of grass. A low rumbling begins—more a churning in the pit of the stomach than an aural sensation. On the horizon, lion warriors flare their nostrils, anticipating the scent of blood. Taut muscles, corded and bursting after a summer of training, strain against red girdings. Impatience and blood lust rise like steam from the shoulder blades of the red hordes, making the new light shimmer above them as above a bonfire.

A roar is heard, shattering the silence like thunder overhead, and the warriors surge across the fields towards certain, unequivocal victory. The deluge has begun. A storm is coming. Our storm. The jihad will sweep across the fields as the Greeks through Troy. The violence in our hearts is our fire on the fields. The sleeper has awakened. Ashé.

(Compiled by the Fremen.)

Back to Intramurals...