View Full Version : .Org Contest Submissions thread.
This is the thread wherein all submission will be posted. To have your entry reposted here please PM it to me and it will be done. The contest will run until the 18th so take your time!
Good luck to everyone who enters!
New Beginnings
by Craterus
The rent is long overdue, my girlfriend's gone and my job is nothing more than a distant memory. And yet here I am sprawled across the bathroom floor wallowing in the tragically beautiful aftermath of the only answer to all of my problems: heroin.
The cold, hard, duck egg blue tiles feel strangely comfortable. A shiver travels the length of my spine and forces me to sit up. My fingers, numbed and still grasping the toilet seat, are unwilling to co-operate with the rest of my body,. The stench of vomit invades my nostrils; do I dare to open my eyes? I do, but afterwards I wish I hadn't. The light penetrates my eyes; it will take a while to adjust. I can see the blurry outline of the sink; the damp, soiled woodchip clings to the walls like a limpet clinging to a rock. My hair is stuck to my face, an unwelcome souvenir of the hours I have just spent lying face down in a pool of my own sick.
What time is it? It's dark outside. It's funny, when you're on the brown, time isn't really important. Time is measured by when your next hit comes around. Specifics aren't important; everything is impulsive. I used to have a clock in here but I sold everything that I didn't need. Who needs minutes when you have hours?
That was back when I first started out with smack, just after my mother died. She had cancer; it's her fault I'm in this situation. The doctors prescribed heroin to make those final weeks and months a bit easier for her; it made the weeks and months after even easier for me. Injecting didn't come easy at first – take if from an expert – you've got to work at it. Dropping out of college helped turn my small time hobby into a full-time addiction. Before that, I still had a future.
I remember the day I skipped my A level Biology examination. Paper two. I could have done it, I could have gone to university but other things were more important. Looking back, this was the beginning of the end. I remember watching my friends collect their results. That's when it hit home: the envy, the bitterness, the resentment towards my dead mother – I haven't visited her grave for a year now, maybe even longer. I don't think I'll ever go back.
There's a knock at the door. I can hear the lock turning. My eyes are nearly working again but my legs are still too weak to stand. I try to focus. Work, damn it! But the dim light from the bathroom isn't enough to illuminate the dark figure at the doorway. There's a voice, but I can't quite make out the words. She's quiet. Slurred. Broken by short pauses. It must be hours since my last hit.
The voice comes again; it's a woman. It's definitely a woman. She steps closer. Lightly. Delicately. Suddenly, I recognise the face, the deep brown eyes and the perfectly curved lips.. My Angie? Now the face is blank and a new one is beginning to form. My euphoria disappears as quickly as it had come and I look back into the bathroom. I want to be back in there, slumped over the bowl, with not a care in the world.
Looking back, my mother stares at me. This can't be real. One thing has changed . Her eyes lack that pride, that love that shined when when she was alive. I wonder what she would make of my life as it stands. It's not what she pictured for me. But, then again, it's not what I pictured either.
I remember how I used to be: the ambitious little kid who wanted to be a doctor, or a policeman, someone that would make a difference. What difference do I make now? I'm just another junkie. It may be too late to go to university and study medicine but it's never too late to start helping people. What if I could just quit? What if I could just start again? What's stopping me? I'm gonna make something of myself. Something she – my mother – would be proud of.
First things first, I'll get a job, pick myself up. Then, when I'm earning, I'll pay the rent. That should make the landlord happy for a change. With the foundations right, I can start to concentrate on the finer points. Some hobbies, a girlfriend, some friends (decent ones this time). I'll have it all.
But my visions of grandeur will have to stop now; I haven't shot up in a while and withdrawal symptoms are starting to kick in. I can feel the sick turning inside me, looking for the way up, the disgusting, sharp taste tingles at the back of my throat.
Sweating, I rush back into the bathroom, the vomit burning up through my clenched teeth. Chills, hot flushes, everything happens at once. Powerless to stop it, I hang my head over the toilet bowl and wait for it to stop. My heart beats faster; my lungs demand air, air I can't seem to gulp down.
I haven't forgotten what I said about quitting. Starting again. Back to my master plan. Talking, even thinking about it makes me happy, keeps me positive. I will again be the well mannered young man I used to be. I will be polite to people in the street. I will reacquaint myself with the world. I will watch the football every weekend (maybe I could even start playing again). I can't wait. But there's just one more thing I need to do before I can quit....
One more hit. Just the one. Then I'm done; I'm done for good. One final sickly sweet score. Your last hit has to be special, you know what I mean, don't you? I didn't appreciate the last one enough. Since I'm never going to do this again, I want to go out with a smile.
Always winter
by Moros
It is winter. It is Always winter. Cold. Bare. I hate the winter. I am the winter. I’ll always be the winter.
I’m 43 years old. My hairline is regressing towards the back of my neck. And seems to be reappearing out of my nose. And the only place except for my nose where lack of hair doesn’t seem to be the problem, is my back. Back in the days, I never was pretty, but I wasn’t that repulsive either. At least I didn’t had to wear a bag over my head, like my only friend from high school. And when I mean had to wear, I really mean had to wear. The PHS forced him to!*
Anyway back to me. Like I told you I’m a miserable looking fellow. And if that isn’t bad enough I’m a bloody virgin. Well, okay I went to a prostitute once, but that doesn’t really count, I guess. Does it? With girls that I didn’t have to pay an hour, the only thing I ever got was kissing a drunk girl while being drunk myself. I barely remember it. The only memory I have about it, if I have to be honest, is a picture of her puking in my mouth right after. You know, I hate photographs. When you graduate, or something like that, the camera usually won’t work. But when you get puked on or something they always work. The picture is sharp and everything. Wait…here it is. Ugly, you say? Well no…I wouldn’t call her ug… Now please. Have you ever seen a picture of someone puking that was flattering? Did you? That’s what I thought. Wait don’t leave. I’ll buy you another one. No, no, I’ll pay. You know, you’re much cheaper than my psychologist, so it doesn’t matter. No, there are people I don’t have to pay to talk with. Remember my friend who had to wear the…oh never mind.
Anyway like I was saying, I felt miserable. And so I was thinking of the perfect way to commit suicide. I thought about buying a gun and shooting myself. But if my love life seems sad, you haven’t heard about my financial status yet. I rent a small apartment, which hasn’t been paid for for ages. I can’t afford a car, and I could barely buy that crappy bicycle without having to loan. Sigh. And well, though I has just enough money to buy the cheapest gun they had, I couldn’t afford the bullets. But then I thought, if you have the Golden Gate Bridge this near…
So I went to buy me a rope, a strong one. I took my bike and started riding…sigh. I started riding. However halfway my tire went flat. So I took a look, and apparently a big nail had pierced it. Even committing suicide, even committing bloody suicide… Even when I wanted to commit suicide, life had to show that it sucked and that it still had me in its power. But I wasn’t going to stop. Hell no! I finally had the balls and the guts to do it. No suicide isn’t a sign of being a coward! Why live, if it isn’t worth to? A coward is someone who doesn’t try to and err… just waits for death to get him! What’s the use in waiting, if you’re still suffering!? Okay, okay. I’ll calm down. I’ll calm down. Want another one? No? Oh, come on! I buy.
So I started walking…
I’m freezing, freezing. The world is freezing. Freezing me. Slowly getting buried under the snow.
It took me bloody 7 hours to get there. But boy was it worth it! Finally the bridge. My rescue, my stairway to… Yeah that is indeed a great son! Though I think it’s a bit overrated though. But a good song nonetheless. So I walked up to the bridge. My feet hurt like hell, and I never have been that thirsty. No one ever was that thirsty. But I’ve always been thirsty, yet the only thing I got to drink was...sigh. Yeah the girl puked in my mouth. Can we forget about that already!? Sigh. Then I realized I forgot the rope, which I was going to use to tie my legs up, in the bike’s basket. Damn, was I Angry! I kicked a stone that hard. Yeah, it was indeed broken. I can still hear that crack. But I made up my mind. I was going to jump, you bet I was going to jump!
After having to crawl the last few meters, I finally reached the middle of the bridge. I looked down. I stood up and was ready to jump. When suddenly a women yelled ‘stop, don’t jump!’. I took a quick look behind me. It was a female cop, who had seen my crawling and bleeding. I awsered: ‘whatcha gonna do, shoot me?’. ‘No…’, she said, caring.
A bird was whistling inside me.
Could it be? I looked at my watch. 9:43 PM, 14th of January. I closed my eyes. It said 9:43, the 21st of March.
I looked back again. And now I noticed her green caring truthful eyes, her red lips and her peach like skin.
I looked at my watch: 9:43, 21st of March.
So we started talking. And…of course I did not jump. It’s the bloody 15th! If I had jumped, I wouldn’t be here right now, would I? Anyway, we started talking. She even laughed a few times. Of course she had called for an ambulance first. But we kept talking and then well… the ambulance arrived. I didn’t want to leave her though. So I asked her for her number, hoping…hoping. Sigh. Yes, she answered me. No, she didn’t say no! She actually gave it! Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either. But she did. Then she said: ‘and what about a kiss?’ Yes, she did!
It’s spring. The flowers, the birds…my bird especially. The sun, her kiss. This is spring!
-‘So what ya doing here, in a pub like this, if you found true love?’
-‘Sigh, she was married.'
But I’m the winter. I’ll always be the winter.
Anonymous.
by Anonymous
24 years of miserable life, 60 odd to go. Sometimes I wonder why I bother going on living. You may wonder why my life miserable, don’t worry, I do as well. I sit here, in my mother’s basement, nice and dark, the warm comforting glow of the computer screen is around me, while the young kids run around outside pointlessly. I guess I was that naïve once. Then I grew up. Coasted through High School, with average marks. Graduated and everything. Studying I.T. at university now, nothing special, I know how to handle a computer. I had me a girlfriend, but I don’t know what happened. She was perfect for me. We were totally in love through our last year of high school, we we’re each others first lovers. But I guess I screwed it up. I doubted myself. I didn’t think I was worthy of her. So I managed to screw up the best part of my life.
Do you ever just sit and listen to a single song for hours on end? It might not always be the same one, but sometimes you come across a song that just hits you. It could be funny, could be depressing. As I sit here, I think this is the 304th time I press play on youtube to listen to Jesus sing about thrush. I saw the original skit on tv years ago, but it still makes me happier than what I am. Or what I should be. I listen to Jesus and look at stuff on the internet. I generally keep a few things always open. News.com so I can pretend I care about what happens in the rest of the world. Digg is open as well, sometimes cool stuff gets posted there. Youtube of course, and no, I don’t use myspace or facebook or anything like that. I’m not some emo.
So I’m sitting here and a digg gets put up to this youtube video. Adventures of Octocat or something. Really shoddily made, but it has thousands of comments from different users. All saying a few different things. I somehow get this sense of brotherhood from it. Like they all know each other, but they don’t. I often get feelings like this, and having nothing better to do, I start looking into it, clicking along with Jesus’ singing. Hours and hours of searching gets me no advancement on my quest, but I do somehow find myself on the mailing list of a lot of porn sites. I get up, cracking my back and I go upstairs for dinner.
Roast…Oh the joy. I force myself to eat it and hurry back downstairs, eager for the passing distraction. After another hour or two I get a break through. Anonymous. Starting a new investigation with that as my main topic, I am actually excited. Excitement is rare in my world, it’s a nice break from soul-crushing boredom and regret.
Success! I find the main site of this “Anonymous”, 4chan.org. Luckily, I’m over 18 so I’m sure I’m not breaking any laws to access the place, even though it has only one or two rules itself. It seems to be an imageboard, lots of different topics. I am filled with apprehension, so I click one at random, it takes me to the Random board. How ironic.
I scroll down, to the first post and I stop. My jaw opens. My vision of a utopia is crushed. The people here are fighting themselves! New users get abused constantly, in a never ending flood of profanity. I hope that it is an isolated case, and I look further down. Once again I stop, and my jaw opens wider. A child is being raped in the picture…these people are enjoying it. Its terrible, but…but…I cant look away.
Time passes
The last few weeks have been a haze. I’ve dropped out of uni, I’m holding down a crap job at the local game store…this new site, and /b/ has captivated me. I have no life outside it. The thrush song? Gone. Replaced by Rick Astley. He’s such a classic singer. Although I don’t agree with everything on /b/, I’ve finally found a place where I can relate to people. I got in one little fight and my mother got scared. She said I had to move in with my auntie and uncle in Bel-Air, so my time with /b/ has come to an end. Too bad, spring is over, and just like the many animals outside, I have been reborn.
I am now Anonymous. We do not forgive, we do not forget. We are legion.
Terminator Chronicles
By Agent Miles
The city ruins stretched for miles, like the dried bones of a dead civilization. Skynet’s psychological warfare message blared endlessly from hovering HK’s, “Humanity’s fate is termination. Surrender now!”
Millions had given up hope, but the resistance fighters knew what John Connor had taught them, “There is no fate, but what we make for ourselves.”
Explosions rock the night as the resistance fighters shower a Terminator site with laser fire. An alarm sounds and massive bunker doors open as the site’s robotic garrison reacts to the attack with mechanical precision. The resistance fighters take some losses and fall back as the irresistible tide of machines marches after them.
John Connor surveys the battle through his binoculars. It reminds him of all the times his worthless father had beaten him, before the man ran off. However, today he wasn’t going to be beaten.
A soldier whose nametag reads “Reese” whispers, “The machines took the bait, just like you said they would.”
Connor signals his team as they move quickly and silently through the bunker’s open doors. One team member disarms the base alarm system as the rest keep moving. They enter the interior of the bunker. Two men establish security while Reese sets the explosive charges.
John scans the interior of the bunker. This is the central nervous system of Skynet. One last battle and the machines are defeated forever. Then he sees something that he doesn’t like. A portal on the floor below seems to contain pure energy. On a gangway above the portal stands a T-101 infiltrator. This Terminator is receiving its final mission download. John looks at a screen where he sees streams of data being fed into the Terminator. Then his eyes fix on one command line, “Proceed through the time portal to 1984 L. A. and terminate all Sarah Connors.”
Reese runs up to John and whispers, “Come on! The charges are set.”
John pauses. Thinking quickly, he adds it up in his mind as he speaks, “Skynet is sending him through a time portal to kill my mother in 1984, before I’m even born. It will undo everything I’ve accomplished. I’ve got to stop that thing.”
A backup alarm sounds as doors open and a reserve force of various Terminators are activated. The security team open fire, but are outnumbered. Reese grabs John and throws him back as he yells, “You’re too important John, get out of here!” Then Reese jumps down onto the gangway behind the T-101.
Just then, the explosives go off, ripping into Skynet. Reese raises his pulse laser rifle and points it at the back of the T-101. Suddenly, a secondary explosion goes off as the gangway buckles. Reese and the cyborg tumble into the time portal together.
In a flash, history is rewritten and the new events engulf John. All that once was is erased, but a different past has still led humanity to the same end. John realizes that he has sent his father to his death. However, he has no time for remorse as he and his men are trapped and about to be overrun. They fight their way into the command center’s security vault. John slams a reinforced door closed just as the Terminators close in. The men reload their weapons and attempt to block the door as the Terminators slowly bash it in.
One of the commandos checks a computer terminal and calls to John, “We haven’t destroyed Skynet. This is simply a backup for the main system. Skynet decoyed us here the way we decoyed the Terminators away from the site.” The soldier sits down as he says, “This still has access to everything though. I’m going to do a hack.”
John sits down next to the man as he furiously types away. John looks into another monitor as the scene outside comes into view. A group of Terminators were still working on the door. They aren’t using weapons, so as not to cause any more damage. Then, something more ominous comes into view. A T-101 is standing next to an unknown Terminator by the time portal.
“Can you find out what’s going on?” John asks.
The soldier replies, “I’m in! Skynet is downloading a mission to a Terminator; model Tango-one-zero-zero-zero.” Pointing to the monitor, he looks at John and says, “This machine is supposed to proceed back in time to that address…and terminate you.”
John remembers that he was living with his foster parents at that address. Thinking fast, he asks, “Can you stop it?”
“No, I can’t interrupt the mission loader while it’s running.”
John curses and then asks, “Can you hack that ‘101 next to him?”
“Sure, but…”
Connor slaps the man on the back and says, “Great, load the T-101 with the same mission data, only order it to go back in time and protect me.”
Soon, all was ready. The two Terminators jump into the time portal. Time is changed yet again, but the nightmare continues. Three billion people had still been slaughtered by Skynet. John still has to deal with this situation.
A few more keystrokes and all the Terminators at the base were inert. John stood up and said, “Okay, let’s get out of here.”
As the men move to the door, the commando at the terminal yells, “Wait! Skynet has activated an experimental Terminator, model Tango-X ray. I can’t hack into her. I don’t think that we can stop her either. She’s supposed to travel back in time, kill you and start Judgment Day.”
John looks through the monitor at the T-X. She will soon be in the control room. He states the obvious, “Then we’re finished.”
The commando’s face lights up as he says, “No wait. This may work.”
John watches as the man types away, “What may work?”
On the monitor, the T-X enters the control room. A T-101 is activated by the resistance fighter. The two cyborgs struggle and then fall into the time portal. Nothing happens to the present time frame and John has no memory of what the T-X changed in the past. He asks, “So what just happened?”
The commando at the terminal smiles and explains, “I knew that there is a theoretical correlation between time and numerical systems. Just as there are real numbers and imaginary numbers, like the square root of a negative number, there is both real and imaginary time. I simply changed the polarity on the time displacement device.”
With a blank stare on his face, John asks, “So what just happened?”
The commando frowns and says, “The Terminators entered imaginary time. All the events they created don’t exist in real time and didn’t change anything.”
John thought for a moment and says, “That makes no sense to me, but I like it. Come on, we’re going to create some events that will change everything.”
Several days later John and the commando stand by the time displacement device as John says, “So, you know how to build a time machine for me and my mother to use?”
The soldier winks and points to his head as he quips, “It’s in the bank.”
John smiles and adds, “Arch, even without that microcomputer implant in your head, you’re the smartest man I know. Good luck.”
Arch shakes his hand and says, “Don’t worry JC. I’ll do what I can to fix this mess.”
Arch enters the time displacement device and John turns to Cameron and says, “Tell Derek Reese I want to see him.”
Cameron and Derek return. Reese is stunned as he sees the time displacement device. Finally he sees John and demands, “What happened to my brother? Where did Kyle go?”
John frowns and replies, “I can’t tell you what happened to your brother yet, but I can show you where he went. Cameron.” Cameron nods and enters the time portal.
Reese asks, “What is this place?”
John looks him in the eyes and replies, “Men built Skynet and it destroyed three billion lives. Skynet built this thing, and it is going to save those lives…with your help, all of them will be reborn. Come with me to the briefing room.”
After the men leave, a secret door opens and the Cromartie Terminator enters the time portal. Somewhere in Kansas, he stands on a hill overlooking a high school as he reviews his mission command line, “Terminate John Reese.”
Green Grass on the Eastern Front
By scottishranger
Dieter was dead. I envy him, but my friend was. I used to wonder what it was like, I mean, to die. Now though, I only welcome such an embrace. At least hell would be warm. The snow keeps falling, piling up like the corpses of my comrades as time marches on. Maybe I should have said a prayer for Dieter? Maybe before the winter came we would have even buried him. Respect for the deceased had died to, the day the snow began to fall. We had found much better uses for the dead. We stripped the corpse, for this was no longer Dieter, only another body; just another body, and we threw him onto the top of our trench. Ivan and ubermenshk; commissar and feldwebel all lie up there, all concept of racial supremacy wiped out by death. Those bodies were our only semblance of protection for me, against the fierce wind that howled across this accursed Ukrainian steppe.
It is cold, so cold. I cannot remember the last time I had ever felt the warmth of the sun. I have been here for eternity, there is no Germany, no summer, and certainly no women, those are just cruel tricks of the mind and the stuff of legends. The only thing that exists is the cold, that bitter, forlorn cold that penetrates each and every bone in your body, sniffing out and extinguishing any hope you might have of getting out of here alive. We had no kerosene; we burned the last of the stuff two weeks ago. No supplies have come through since. I am forced to piss on my cracked and blistered hands, just to gain a moments heat. The wounds on my hands and feet are such that it tortures me to stand, let alone hold a mauser rifle. God, I cannot feel my fingers.
I climbed out of my tiny trench, my enclave against the winter. Running across the frozen tundra, I was exposed to everything the winter could launch against me. The wind tore in to me, invading every single crevice, every ripple in my jacket, crippling me far better than any Bolshevik bullet could achieve. Panting, I almost tripped into our forward outpost, though this must have been some kind of cruel joke because this was more of a shithole than a fort. Nothing but a hole in the ground. This little dugout was home to three other men, one just a boy. Franz I think his name was, yes, it was Franz. The child moaned softly, “Mutti, mutti ,” he sobbed. No one moved to help. “Look alive comrades, Ivan will be joining us for breakfast,” I whisper, ignoring the boy.
Dawn was upon us now, though it hardly brought any hope to us. I peered over our human windbreak, my bones crackling with the stress of so much movement. Over the top, I saw the endless field that lay ahead of me, that eternal plain of ice. This was the world of the dead, and the soon to be dead. Corpses littered my vision, nowhere could I escape death. Shell holes covered the world, like some perverse god’s painting of a field of flowers, the dried blood seeming like roses. My father had once said such a thing, that the world is god’s painting, but I always thought he meant it romantically. Maybe he did? Even so, should I ever get out of this hellhole, I promised, I would never grow roses. Never.
I strained my eyes against the white ground, my bloodshot eyes unable to see fully against the blinding light of the snow. The canvass of earth, god’s playing field, erupted. A solid line appeared on the horizon, arisen from the snow. “OOOOOUUUURRRRAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!" The Soviets war cry pierces the morning, and the beast lunges forward. “Get me a phone!” I shout. The older of the men, an engineer, hands me it, almost dropping it with fright. I grabbed it and began cranking the handle to generate a charge. “Give my artillery!” I scream into the mouthpiece. The connection is horrible, and I begin to doubt that I am even being heard. “Where are you?” asks the impossibly calm operator. I give my coordinates and identity. Once again I am greeted by only static.
The boy screams for his mother behind me.
“Mutti! Mutti! MUTTI!”
The two other men struggle desperately with the machine gun, attempting to shove a cartridge into the gun with shaking, freezing hands. The Communist are still coming, and there are more of them, it seems a never ending tide.
“God, there are thousands of them! We have to retreat! We have to run before they get here!” cries one of the men.
“OOOOOUUUURRRRAAAAAHHHHH!” The yell is getting louder.
The machine gun crew opens fire, far too out of range to hit anything specific. Even so, the gun does kills hundreds, firing indiscriminately into the mass of soldiers. Still, the Soviets keep coming. For each one killed, a thousand step into their place.
“Where is my artillery?” I shout into the phone.
Static…
“OOOOUUUURRRRAAAAAHHHHHH!”
“mmmm-MUTTTI!”
A shot rings out, right next to me, and I am splattered with warm blood. Franz was dead, half his head blown away from the pistol he had fired at himself. His mother apparently could not scare away the monsters like the gremlins under the bed.
The black tide of Soviets was upon us, the machine gun lashing out, but to no avail. The heat of the gun was melting the snow around it. Surely we had killed hundreds by now? Still, they came on, filling the horizon.
“OOOOUUUUURRRRAAAAHHHHH!”
The sheer thunder of the charge was deafening. I did even hear the shriek of the artillery shells until there were explosions all around us, dealing death and destruction without remorse. The Soviets recoiled, and then broke backwards, the Bolsheviks temporarily stopped.
By the melted gun barrel of the machine gun, I can see a single blade of grass, surrounded by dirt. “Perhaps we will live through this after all?” I think to myself. Maybe…
A Bloody run Home
By Baby Boomer
A buzzing noise filled his ear, and a hand quickly slapped him across the head. A soldier in khaki, and his Enfield rifle slung over his back, walked in front of him. A swishing noise behind him told him that someone was coming from behind. The group of soldiers who had rescued the Captain and Jack were fighting to get through a thick swamp of water, infested with mosquitoes. The man in front of the Captain literally punched himself in the head, and was left to rub the spot where he’d punched. The sound of rifles came from behind him. The Captain held a Webley hand gun in both hands and was scanning around him, and the whole group seem to startle when a bang sounded from behind them.
“Grenades.” Muttered someone as the water floated around them, and large weeds gripped them. The swamp was surrounded by a forest, and was covered by a heavy fog. Dead bodies occupied some lonely spots, as the Captain found when he stumbled and found himself lieing to a decayed body. He quickly scrambled up out of the hole and joined the group. They all saw light flash out of the shadows ahead, and the leader looked at it hopefully and pulled out a hand gun. Another grabbed his arm,
“Don’t, they might hear you” He said, and the man regretfully lowered the gun into its holster. More bangs and gunshots erupted from behind, and as the Captain looked back he saw people gradually filling into the swamp.
“Over there, there coming!” He said, the group looked back as a bang sounded and light temporarily flashed behind them, then he looked over. Other groups of British soldiers were opposite them, on either side, and trailing them.
“Over there, you British?” asked the leader, an answer came back and he nodded, they were. A bank rose ahead of them, made of thick weeds. As the leader climbed, it gave the Captain opportunity to look behind them. Hundreds of British soldiers were walking through the weeds, while on the banks next to them hundreds more were fighting to get up the bank. He watched the troops in the swamp make there way, and then it happened. A single figure came out from the woods, raised its gun and fire a shot, and the Captain watched as a soldier dropped dead. More came, and more until they lined the forest. And they fired,
“Bloody hell!” cursed the Captain,
“GO! GO! GO! IT’S A BLOODY MASSACRE!” roared someone, and yells started to erupt from the group. The Captain turned and jumped up onto the hill, his eyes following the progress of the soldier in front. He could hear crying and yell behind him, screams as men were bayoneted. A man swore behind him, and a bullet chipped the soil where he his hand had been moments before. The man in front staggered and then screamed as a bullet punctured his lungs, and the Captain skidded sideways to avoid the stream of blood. A hand pushed him up and he was climbing over the dead body. A crack and then a flame went into the air, shot from a gun. He watched it but had to jump to not be bowled over by a falling body. A man was bawling on the ground near by, and another one cracked his nails as he scratched the road, dieing. The whole group was flung down as a grenade blew up nearby and they ran on as a man cried over the loss of his leg, which lay in a pool of blood some metres away. A man next to him, the one who had helped him, groaned as a bullet hit his leg, and the next soldier jumped over him. The Captain grabbed the mans arm and pulled him to his knees,
“Help me!” He asked rudely to the next soldier, the other man pulled up his arm and the three staggered up to the top of the hill. A bullet made his hat and heart flutter, and he dropped the wounded man (Who screamed in pain) as a flame seemed to erupt in his thigh. They were over the hill.
The Captain gasped as he saw lines of Belgian ships docked up against the beach. Already many ships were chugging away to the British coast. He felt shells crackling like pork fat under him, and other soldiers were rushing past while looking behind them. There was screaming and bangs coming from behind, and the Captain looked behind. The water was red and hundreds of bodies floated around. He stared determinedly at the beach and the three of them ran, or hopped, their way to a boat. There were flames everyway, soldiers running past them as bullets gradually took them. A grenade clunked nearby and a soldier went to kick it, they all ducked as it blew up, and the Captain looked away as he saw only half of the men there, his insides hanging out. They raced to a boat, a Belgian man stood there, fear in his eyes.
“Which one man?” Asked the Captain, the Belgian looked at him, and steered him towards a boat which was basically full. The Captain could feel him shaking, and then he screamed as a bullet thudded into his shoulder, which had dislodged. The Captain spared him a glance, as the man lay in the water, as they hopped onto the boat. A doar shut and then;
“Full steam away!” roared a voice from the front, and the whole lot of them fell backwards as the boat suddenly pounded away from the shore. The Captain wiped his head, and felt his shaking hand.
“We made it.” He said weakly to his cupped hands, tears in his eyes.
“Thank you.” Muttered a voice, the Captain looked, it was the wounded soldier,
“You saved my life back there.” He continued, the Captain muttered something about ‘duty’. A twinge sounded from the steel post next to him and he looked at it curiously. More etched themselves across the steel railings. Him and the wounded man were the ones on the very edge, including two others, and the water was rapidly swelling behind the boat. On the shore the ones not lucky to get onto a boat were slowly raising there hands in surrender as hundreds of ferry’s carried the rest to Britain. The Captain watched a car stop near the shore, and what was behind it. A cannon. It unraveled while a machine gun was deployed and the Germans prepared to fire. Flame and smoke engulfed the cannon and they heard it disappear and then come back to earth with a cry like a banshee. The water next to them exploded as if a giant hand had come from beneath the waves. There was a rattling as if sweets against a cup. The water skipped like pebbles were being thrown at it, the Captain threw himself to the floor as the dead body of a soldier fell over the boat and into the waves. The Captain looked over to the ferry next to them, the shielded his eyes as it exploded in a burst of oil and flames, the flames seemed to be scratching the sky. The boat was slowly engulfed by the sea, and it rapidly disappeared as a single burnt body floated by. There was more sounds of incoming shells, and another landed just behind the boat, spraying them with water. The man behind the Captain fell and as he choked on blood grasped the side uselessly before letting out a final choking breath of blood and froth.
The shore was disappearing, and then the whole fleet of ferry’s seemed to burst their foghorns as it split the skies. The crew and soldiers cheered until heir throats were hoarse tears gushed from their eyes. They’d made it from hell, they’d made it through Mons. The Captain watched as the British coastline approached, he watched as the last few weeks dreams of a bed, a meal and to be healthy came at them, and he could imagine the feeling.
Home.
He sprang from the bed and fell to the floor in a tangle of sheets and pillows, clutching his face as tears fell from it. I made it, I made it, I made it He kept thinking over and over again. He found the strong base of the bed and pulled himself onto it, with his sheets, and fell asleep again. He never noticed the presence of hi father in the doorway, watching he whole thing and thinking how he destroyed such a life. Then bowed his head and walked from the room, closing the door gently behind him. He had, the day he had sent his son to the local Army station, already killed his son.
Rebirthed
By Ironsword
I stood with my back to the cold wall, my breath danced away into the night with every exhale, it was time. I edged soundlessly closer to the door and crouched down. The key hole appeared as a small shaft of light, it grew larger as I pressed my eye to it. Inside I could see the two men; the first sprawled in a chair nonchalantly smoking a cigarette, whilst the other leant against the kitchen table, vigorously explaining something to his compatriot. They were talking in some guttural Eastern European accent, its inflections lost to me. Hungarian perhaps, but I always liked that, it made it easier when it came to the trigger moment. I recalled their dossier from memory; I’d burnt the original two hours after reading it. They were both nasty pieces of work, that was certain; they were the chief suspects for at least three murders, all brutal and unsolved, nobody would miss them. It helped to know that they deserved it, although, morality was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I knew where I was headed and it wasn’t heaven. I shook the thoughts from my mind and instead let my hunger grumble its dissatisfaction; it had been ten hours since I’d eaten but, it wouldn’t be much longer now.
The man in the chair laughed at something and closed his eyes with mirth, he placed his gun down to wipe his eyes; It was the cue I’d been waiting for. With a swift kick the door splintered into the room and the two regarded me with a shocked amazement. I raised the silenced Beretta and dispatched the smoker. He didn’t utter a word; he just slid slowly off his chair. I turned to the second; my prime target.
‘Merv sent me. He wanted you to know.’ I said.
‘Wait…’ He replied in heavily accented English. It was too late for this punk and I squeezed the trigger. His last act was to glance furtively towards the staircase before slumping forward. My long years of experience suddenly began to scream that something was wrong. I flicked my eyes over and saw the barrel of a gun between the banisters. I heard the bolt slide of the AK-47 and dived to my left.
The world slowed, caught in time as automatic fire sprayed into the room. The bullets zipped by and I felt a rush of air as one passed my face; that was close, but the clip would soon be dry and then it would be my turn. I hit the ground hard on my shoulder and started sliding across the room; the pain I felt was dulled by the adrenalin pulsing through my veins. In the midst of the chaos I couldn’t help but think of what had gone awry, I had spent six weeks planning this hit; he was only ever accompanied by one bodyguard; how could I have got it so wrong?
Then I felt it; a thump in my torso. My flak vest absorbed the momentum, robbing the bullet of most of its power but, I still heard a sickening crack as it broke my rib. My body shook as I took another shot in the chest, the ceramic plate strained with the velocity of the impact, but it repelled the bullet. I raised my pistol in retribution, wincing from the pain in my side. The last of his bullets caught me in the neck, it felt like a scratch but, it didn’t matter now; this guy was going to pay. I fired three rounds towards the stairs; I saw them hit him in the temple. Idiot, who brings a rifle to a suburb in Kensington, now I’ve got maybe five minutes at the most before the police arrive. With a tumble the man collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, his gun clattered noisily away. I lowered the Beretta painfully; it was over.
I went to pull myself up, but to my horror I realised that it was beyond the power of my limbs. I felt so weak with the exertion and my hands were turning bone white. The room started to dim and I felt a lot of blood soaking into my balaclava. It was eerily quiet, my laboured breathing and the thumping of my heart sounded like thunder rolling across a valley. I tried to let out a small gasp but, it just came out as a gargle. The neck wound was bad, very bad, my jugular I thought. I glanced slowly at the bodies, we would all share the same fate, it was a small comfort but, at least I’d accomplished the mission.
It’s strange though, at the moment when I realised I was going to die there was neither a moment of clarity nor visions of my family. Instead the room became darker still and then all was black, a swirling maelstrom of consciousness. I thought then of the money Merv had shoved under my nose. I’d argued him up a couple of grand, it seemed pointless now, the arguing. A strange euphoria washed over me and random thoughts came and fluttered through my mind, each escaping before I could react to them. Why am I still holding the Beretta? From the dark recesses of my psyche I heard a siren briefly, but then it faded back into the inky morass. My senses were becoming useless; it started to feel as though I was floating, the weightlessness was a strange new sensation. In the darkness I tried again for movement from my arms and legs, but they felt small and useless; unable to support any weight. I heard the siren again, but it now sounded tinny and much more like a machine, its monotonous beeping ebbed and flowed like the tide. My mind was becoming so fragmented that I struggled to process any kind of coherent thought, the only recurring event was that my mouth felt full of liquid and I couldn’t understand why.
It came to me then, the light, the beautiful, brilliant white light. It was mesmerising and it held me hostage, squeezing me inexorably towards it. Brighter than the sun, yet as white as the moon, it was the most amazing sight of my life. Bathed within it I felt small and protected, its rays reached around me like tendrils of muscle and squeezed my shoulders together. As the disc of light grew wider ahead of me the embrace tightened and I gravitated ever closer to the source.
With a final spasm I was through, the pressure release was intense and I gasped, air streaming into my lungs. With a triumphant realisation my arms and legs were finally free and I bicycled them testing my returning strength but, they still felt weakened and untested. I screamed in confusion, shaking off the pain and feeling strangely elated. It seemed to issue out much too high pitched and louder than I imagined. My eyes hurt from the light, but it was such a relief.
My thoughts were obscure and I couldn’t remember much about how I came here. Merv; the name resounded through me until it faded into nothing. I screamed again at the unknown, at the light, at everything. My hunger returned, though I knew nothing of when I felt it last. A slow voice, deep and soothing pealed across my ears. I instinctively became quiet, as words that again seemed so alien to me echoed in the room. The whiteness was blinding.
‘Mrs Smith, it’s a boy.’
The Rundjörn
By Aenarion
The knarr sailed steadily over the cold waters of the North. Winter was nearing to an end, but the deadly frost persisted and was present upon the North Sea and the shores around. The sailors from the village of Sagordyr sat patiently, huddled together to fight off the cold, hoping to arrive safely at the chief merchant city of Forderyr, which used to bring supplies and other resourceful provisions to its port. Recently, Sagordyr, was ravaged by wild fires and most of the stock had been destroyed.
With winter still mysteriously raging on, the inhabitants could not wait for spring to come. As hunger spread across the village, the trade-men, as they had done every year, were now obliged to set sail in bad weather. Upon, Rundjörn , their only available ship, they embarked on their journey, crossing the 40-mile distance between their own shores and the port of Forderyr.
On previous voyages, the Rundjörn was always accompanied by strange and mythical creatures, swimming and diving along the vessel’s port, starboard and bow. As it approached the other shores, the creatures gradually vanished, often following behind the boat’s stern, but always swam off as the ship landed on the beaches.
But on this voyage, for three days, no creature swam alongside the Rundjörn and the sailors sat alone and in silence – wondering whether they will ever get safely across the sea. And at the start of the fourth day from their departure, dark clouds loomed above and the wind rose from the corners of the earth.
The men of the Rundjörn spent all day trying to keep the vessel stable and preventing it from smashing against the icebergs. But late in the afternoon, a gust of wind dragged the boat straight into a rock of ice, shattering it in half and throwing the sailors into the freezing water. Soon afterwards, what remained of the ship sank to the bottom of the sea or was trapped under the ice that was now quickly forming on the surface. The sailors, battling the deadly cold, managed to get out of the water and stay adrift upon a thin sheet of ice.
“We’re all dead! We’ll never find the lands of Forderyr! That was our last and only ship. We have failed our own people!”, said one of them.
“Hold your wits and let us worry about ourselves first!”, replied the captain.
Night came, the cold increased and the men huddled together as close as possible. Each and everyone of them was now thinking how long it would be till they leave earth forever, with no chance of beholding a vision of the great warriors of old, sitting beside the gods in the greatness of Valhalla.
The Night closed in. Then something strange happened. The wind ceased and the clouds slowly rolled away to the East. A field of stars appeared in the heavens above. Amidst them, a light seemed to grow, faintly at first, but quickly became a wide circle of bright green radiance.
It appeared to be moving across first. But soon the sailors noticed it was falling upon them. Within a few moments, the large ray of light crashed just in front of them, breaking the ice apart as it kept on descending into the depths of the sea. For a moment the sailors, blinded by the light and too amazed to move, saw a tall column of radiance descending from the stars and illuminating the sea around them.
Then, soon afterwards, the water started being drawn towards the column of light, slowly at first but quickly gaining strength. The terrified sailors leapt back, stride after stride upon the remaining sheet of ice, trying to escape the pull into the sea. As weariness crept upon them and were about to let go, the water stood still and the column of light vanished. There was silence and the sea was still illuminated from beneath.
Suddenly, out of the deepest depths, a strange yet familiar object appeared before the sailors’ eyes – for in front of them they beheld the Rundjörn rising above the surface of the sea. It seemed far greater then it had been and was in a better state, almost new. The men were amazed but frightened at the same time – not the least when beneath the ship, they saw a host of magnificent creatures, large and small , most of which the sailors had seen on their previous voyages, as they lifted the vessel up.
Just before the men had time to react, the creatures vanished. The light disappeared and the silence returned. And the ship remained still upon the surface of the water. Although frightened of what might happen next, the sailors soon managed to get on board the Rundjörn. To their surprise, they found the vessel dry and provisions were laid inside for the rest of their journey towards Sagordyr.
None of them knew what and why such a thing had happened, and even though they managed to get all the needed supplies to their own village, of this event they never talked to anyone – and of the strange creatures, they never saw any trace of them, upon their voyages, ever again.
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