The Artist

First off, I would like to say this particular story is dedicated to Kevin Millington because he has not only been an inspiration to me, but also a great friend and at times, a mentor.
Thank you Kevin.

Everything was beautifully horrific.

The majestic Colors flowed and came together to create a chaotic unity.

Fiery and explosive yellows and oranges here, gooey and dripping reds and browns there. It truly was marvelous: Fit for a king, but suitable for no human being whatsoever.

I took a moment to sit back and admire the work of art that had practically created itself right before my astonished eyes.

Da Vinci would be dumbstruck, and I'm sure Picasso would have a thing or two to say. This was the type of picture one would have to see firsthand at a museum in order to really appreciate its elegance, never mind silly things like cameras. They wouldn't be able to capture the supreme emotion one experiences from a sight such as this.

Beautifully horrific.

That's what it was. No other words in my vast wardrobe of diction could describe what it was I looked upon. Besides these two excerpts of the English language, I was speechless.

Someone needed to see this.

I would have leapt into action right then and there but found myself paralyzed with a mixture of fear, awe, delight, and disgust.

So I sat there and looked on, trying to discern the meaning and reason for this masterpiece. What exactly inspired this thing?

Was it anger?

Jealousy?

Hate?

Could it be hope?

Happiness?

Joy?

What encouraged the creation of it?

As I gazed on my mind became transfixed with this new found inquiry.

How did it come this far?

How did it reach this point of seemingly detestable glory?

As I dwelled more and more upon the annoying question I reached somewhat of a revelation.

Beautifully horrific.

It was disgusting. Iwas revolted. How can man allow such an abomination to the world exist?

Violent emotions came over me. I wanted to destroy it, to wipe it off the face of the earth, to send it to the pits of hell where it belonged!

How can man look upon this with admiration, or even indifference? I wanted to reach out and be rid of it.

But I could not.

I slumped back against the cold, blood-spattered cement wall as the gruesome battle of Saigon continued before my sore eyes.

I am but one poor man, and war is kept alive by many rich and important men from all over the world. The never see this. They never take the time or the opportunity to look upon the carnage which I unwillingly see and take part in every day of my life.

They sit at home, reaping the hell-approved benefits war so faithfully brings to them like a well-trained dog.

That's what war is: a multitude of well-trained dogs clawing, tearing, biting, ripping eachother apart in order to defend their master's territory. They call it modern, organized warfare.

I call it sickening.