My Art
People talk about wasteing time...particually with video games. Video games...But what of other activities? Charlie plays the piano, an art which noone critisizes as a waste of time, kitten paints, others write, some create art through programeing and what not. My art is a video game. This is how I express myself. In my own unique style, my own form. As my Halo guy levels his shotgun at the face of a leaping infectious form, waiting for the precise moment, measing time in microseconds to pull the trigger and send his skull hurtleing backwards to fall in pieces to the already gory ground.
The banshee blasts bolts of green death towards me as I hold my ground in the back of the warthog jeep, the 50cal. machine gun rattles my frame and causes the entire vechical to shudder with the vibration. The banshee unleashes a cannon shot, missing, but causeing the warthog to flip over from the back blast. I leap clear, pulling free my jackhammer rocket launcher as I land in the hard packed snow of the battlefield. The banshee swoops in low for the kill, fireing its duel plasma guns once again, necessitateing that I move left and right to present a moveing target. A few stray bolts hit my limbs, causeing my shield to flicker hot yellow before cooling. I wait until the banshee is on an inevitable approach to me, then launch one rocket. It flys fast and true, expolodeing on the nose, raining debris all around me.
The tank is slow but oh so satisfying. The tiny methane breathing grunts try to waddle away as fast as their short stubby legs will alow across the wide bridge. One makes a reckless dive and screaming in this high pitches voice to his death. The others are crushed one by one under my tanks treeds. All that remains is blue smears plastered behind me.
I sit high in the rocky hills, the little people...my coworkers move between the forts on the plain below. I smile as I zoom in on their tiny forms in the distance. I fire three times and three bodies fall lifeless to the ground, their shields not able to cope with direct head shots. Behind me people curse my lineage.
Such is my art, the way I express my being. Precise violence taken to others...
I miss my X-box.
The banshee blasts bolts of green death towards me as I hold my ground in the back of the warthog jeep, the 50cal. machine gun rattles my frame and causes the entire vechical to shudder with the vibration. The banshee unleashes a cannon shot, missing, but causeing the warthog to flip over from the back blast. I leap clear, pulling free my jackhammer rocket launcher as I land in the hard packed snow of the battlefield. The banshee swoops in low for the kill, fireing its duel plasma guns once again, necessitateing that I move left and right to present a moveing target. A few stray bolts hit my limbs, causeing my shield to flicker hot yellow before cooling. I wait until the banshee is on an inevitable approach to me, then launch one rocket. It flys fast and true, expolodeing on the nose, raining debris all around me.
The tank is slow but oh so satisfying. The tiny methane breathing grunts try to waddle away as fast as their short stubby legs will alow across the wide bridge. One makes a reckless dive and screaming in this high pitches voice to his death. The others are crushed one by one under my tanks treeds. All that remains is blue smears plastered behind me.
I sit high in the rocky hills, the little people...my coworkers move between the forts on the plain below. I smile as I zoom in on their tiny forms in the distance. I fire three times and three bodies fall lifeless to the ground, their shields not able to cope with direct head shots. Behind me people curse my lineage.
Such is my art, the way I express my being. Precise violence taken to others...
I miss my X-box.