Tank had a perfect body image. He was strong, armoured, well built and had a huge powerful turret. As he rolled along humans would stop and stare. He could even silence them by shooting from his turret. The human that drove him believed in reincarnation. Every time a bomb went off near by the human would mutter to himself that he would come back as a bird in a far off forest. Tank thought this was stupid, Tank liked being Tank. Tank didn’t want to be anywhere else. But one day, a bomb did hit Tank and Tank’s human. Minutes later Tank woke up a newborn human boy in sleepy town.
People called Tank a different name now, but Tank never forgot his old life. As he grew into a man, Tank decided nature was a terrible builder. Tank was small and soft to touch, even a bit of paper could pierce his armour. He had no turret, no way of silencing others, and no one stopped to stare at him in the street. He lashed out at people often, punching and kicking, but no-one praised him for it like they used to.
One day he walked into the forest, fed up with stupid soft ugly humans. A bird soared down and landed on his shoulder as he trudged through the mud. It rested there for a long time and twittering a pretty tune. The other animals watched fascinated by the pair, and suddenly Tank had an idea. His body didn’t matter anymore, he had found a new turret: his voice.
Tank is now a great poet who silences rooms with epic tales of battle.
A while ago Daniel told me to write a story about a Tank who turned into a human and missed his turret.
freyawrightbrough 