This following is an article from the Dark Wraith Classics, content first published at one or more properties of Dark Wraith Publishing during the period 2004 to 2007. It is reprinted here at The Sirens Chronicles by special permission. Website publishers interested in reprinting articles in the Dark Wraith Classics series may contact Dark Wraith Publishing for a list of available articles and the terms and conditions of republication of them.
“Fire and Seeds” was first published at The Dark Wraith Forums on May 23, 2005, and was subsequently republished by Newtopia Magazine. Written at a time when the American-Iraqi War had already ground down several thousand U.S. troops with little evidence of what would later become far wider disaffection with the conflict and its consequences, the article offered slice-of-life vignettes from the perspective of a college teacher observing what appeared at the time to be nascent intellectual turbulence and the emergence of sharpening differences in the perspectives of younger Americans. The evidence of change, then only anecdotal, has since become more obvious. To that extent, then, while “Fire and Seeds” might not have been prescient in its outlook, it certainly hinted broadly at trends now somewhat clearer.

This is a college town: a private college, a state university, something marginally better than a diploma mill, and a community college are all located within about a five-mile radius.The town is divided into the visible, reputable, upper-middle class and the less visible, but far larger class that is considerably below a level of economic comfort.The better people for the most part work in middle or upper management at one of the several huge, multi-national services companies in town. Everyone else gets by. The layoffs at the big factories on the outskirts of town have left a quiet wasteland of older people trying to find work and younger people trying to find a future.The bright kids from the right side of the tracks go to the state university or leave town entirely. The rest of the kids find work where they can, and quite a few stop by the community college on their way to adulthood. They join the ranks of older people taking classes because the old-timers, like their younger counterparts, believe that the key to a job—a real job with permanence and benefits and meaning—lies in education. Many of them, young and old alike, vow to go on to the state university to complete four-year degrees. Most will not.
The people who attend the community college are, for the most part, trying to lay patches on a shambles of education they have already received. Young and old together find the task terribly difficult. Studying productively hours at a time is just not in their nature and not in their backgrounds. Attending classes every day isn’t either. Showing up for exams is not an absolute necessity. Cheating is not a matter of ethical proscription; it’s just a matter of not getting caught. The community college sells them all a bill of goods, and some rise to the challenge, but others simply cannot. At best, though, from this place will come some graduates who will go on to the state university or to a technical school and eventually get a job that pays something like a living wage.
Between the old and new wings of the main building where classes are conducted is a big smoking area. There, the people gather; and there, the conversations among the students paint a broad canvas of the lives these people have and the lives to which they aspire.
So much of what the young men talk about is war. Many are already in the Guard, or they are about to enlist, or they’re back from a tour of duty. They talk about other things; but a great swath of what animates their conversations has to do with war. With their culturally acceptable crew cuts and they’re almost uniform-like clothing, they go on and on about war.
Three young men are talking out there, and the one young man, who’s just enlisted, says, “Fuck, yeah. I’d fucking shoot ‘em. They shit on themselves! Did you hear about that?—they shit on themselves when you lock ‘em up!” The other two are snickering and nodding their heads in agreement.
Another young man—every bit the square-jaw, flat-top, muscles-on-top-of-muscles Marine—sucks hard on the butt of his cigarette while he grumbles about the female soldiers in his company having sex with their superiors, then refusing to do any work, and no one will punish them. He gets off that subject and starts talking about how the Marines don’t do bad things and screw up all the time like the Army people do: Marines are disciplined, trained warriors; and Army people are nothing but a bunch of worthless junk that never thought they’d actually have to do anything for their weekend-warrior paychecks and college grant money. His eyes brighten when he’s asked about weaponry. “You guys didn’t have the ‘Saw’ back then, did you?” he grins. A little prompting gets him to describe it: sort of a cross between an M-16 and an M-60. “It’s sweet,” he concludes.
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