So often is the virgin sheet of paper more real than what one has to say, and so often one regrets having marred it. ~Harold Acton, Memoirs of an Aesthete, 1948
Guys, I don’t have a brain right now. Partly due to seven hours spent on stupid science posters this weekend, partly because I’m working on the history musical because Mr. Director sir lost two pages of it :S and partly because I’m using the rest of my brain power to try to figure out a pre- plot hole for my camp nano novel. Trust me it is brain eating material. Anyhow I don’t have the necessary brain waves to come up with a better topic so I’m posting a short story I wrote last year. Enjoy, and please tell me what you think.
The air’s substantial weight pressed in on his skin; twisting its scummy fingers in an encasement around his throat and locking itself like shambles on the limbs. An eerie silence floated on the mist, leaving all drenched in suspicion and dire blood thirst. Adrenaline, anger, anticipation, and awe pumped their way through his vascular system as he trampled the blood drenched ground which led back to home base; their hazardous safety net.
Hurricanes of incomprehensible thoughts sucked everything into the torture chamber of his mind; throwing them like sacks of potatoes onto unstable spiked beds and chaining them there with a steady flow of solitary tears of water splashing between their eyes. All thought, emotion, and common sense were trapped behind a boulder of explosives, leaving the embarrassingly exposed primal intuition lying with the master key to his body’s control center at hand.
His heart played a one man tennis match against the wall of his aching chest; butterflies ran a soccer game between his internal organs, but even this was incoherent to any true meaning. The metal head of his fire arm was clenched within the sticky sweat of his fingers, bobbing up and down with his awkward rhythmic gait. But he held on with the instinct to protect; fight or flight was never an option. It was win or die trying.
Every man and boy left standing were herded into this outskirt of civilization, readying themselves for the final determination battle that tomorrow would drag in by the ear. His enemies, the Thieves of Rowkwell, who’s pilfering of the precious Gem of Lathum led up to the bombing of the nation’s proud capital building, and later, the inevitable war; had managed to fly under the radar of all Lathonian soldiers. This brought the harsh, yet eminent ring of death all too near.
As his body crushed the flimsy threshold of the ramshackle base, his feet drew him to the cot of pointed steal springs, cushioned only by a thin layer of synthetic down. His brain numbed into the familiarity of the ever widening black hole, plunging his spirit into the lasting effects nothing; a complete blank. There was no restfulness or comfort in this; just a time passing technique he had perfected back when he had learned forgetting everything that made you humane was essential for there to be any hope of survival. Those who could not take this lesson to heart, no longer walked this planet.
He shot into action as the deafening tone of bullets and cannons pierced through the flat line of his consciousness. Embracing his rifle to his side, he propped his finger against the cool trigger; firing round upon round at anything that dared to step into his path as he raced toward the frontlines. Men baring Rowkwell’s signature grey and gold were blasted back as miniature missiles bombarded their torsos, leaving them to descend to a terrorizing pain-filled death in seclusion, as their collogues crawled over their mangled corpses.
Without eliciting any emotion from him, death ambushed soldiers on both sides; some coming directly from his own hands. Cries of pain engulfed the area with a steady soundtrack of horror but the skirmish raged on. Sweat seeped deeply into his clothes, doubling the already boiling temperatures, as the sickly sweet aroma of blood and burned flesh penetrated his nostrils like a thousand tiny needles being prodded into his fingertips, repeatedly.
Then, as if a meteor had struck the land with no warning, all action ceased. Men on the other side had either retreated or were now all trying to knock down heaven’s gates. The barbell of air shot down on his head as if someone had just let loose the blade of a guillotine. The collective force pinned his feet to the ground, leaving no possible way for him to return to his deceptive oasis of sharpened metal wire and feathers.
A movement, subtle at first, caught his eye, as his head whipped back in the enemy’s direction; granting him access to his lower limbs. His body took control, flinging the pistol upward. Upon glancing toward the twitch of motion, his eyes glazed over, seeing the recognition flush over the perpetrator. It was a man of the same age; hair slicked back with desperate sweat; body weak with loss of blood.
The steal doors of his defense system slid open just enough for the delicate memories to crawl out and ensnare with the blockade that his mind had welded together; leaving him with no choice but to watch them dance across the stage of his past. He was a boy again. His younger self joking with a youthful version of the pathetic creature his body was now facing.
A crystal blue lake rose in the distance, as he and his buddy sprinted down the sand packed shore. Balls were tossed carelessly between groups; in fields, beaches, and lawns. Bicycle wheals rolled on for miles. Unnoticed movies played in the background of teenage conversations. Contests that questioned manliness were pursued in all seriousness. Girls were the object of turmoil; parent the root of all things unfair. Punches were thrown and insults were hurled as they sought out illegal goods and under-aged rebellion. All moments and pictures that flashed before his eyes had one important piece in common; he and the man on the enemy’s side.
Back in real time the soldier stumbled; losing balance for only one moment as a foreign ache pulsed through his heart and stomach. He gasped, slightly confused as he tried to recover the mental barriers that had been so carefully and protectively laid. But it was far too late for that; he had seen, and he had felt. His body fought for control, moving his forefinger near the frighteningly ready trigger. His muscles tensed, questioning his sanity. What was he doing? There was no hesitation in the game of war. Where was his instinctual command to fire, to kill at all costs? Why the hell wasn’t he taking advantage of such weak prey? Everything in his past training had taught him that there were no second chances for those who defended the terrorists. Where were all the thoughtless actions that had been branded in his mind for so long?
The eyes of the man looked on knowingly, and almost seemed to pity the internal battle waging on before him. He rolled to the side, presenting the bullet wound that still oozed molten blood. At the sight of this, the soldier needed know other advice on action. He stumbled, shakily forward to the side of his childhood friend and tossed his gun far in the distance; falling to his knees as his unsure fingers tore off his own shirt and wrapped it around the bodice of the man. When it was in place enough to slow the gory flow, he hoisted the man into his arm and directed himself back to home base. Screw the government, friends come first.
That’s all for now guys. So until next time Keep on dreaming &*)