Some Short Stories

[Alexander the Pretty Good]

I'm taking a creative writing class at school - should be an easy A. If no one minds I'll post some of the short stories I've written for criticism in the hopes that I can improve. I have two more (one unfinished as of now) as well.

The first one (sorry, no titles as of yet):
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She gasped for air, sinking again beneath the waves. Her soaked clothes clung to her, weighing her down. It felt alarmingly like something was pulling at her, drawing her deeper. Now she was completely submerged, the great roaring ocean turning to a muffled, dark, world of distorted echoes and dying light.

She looked down. The green-grey murk stretched on endlessly. Even more frightening, there was a large something clamped firmly to her leg, just below the knee. It jerked down, trying to bring its prey into the abyss. Panic filled her mind, and she began to blindly flail her legs to get the creature off. It only tightened its hold and pulled harder.

This is the danger of panic. Her instructors had taught her that much. Think rationally. But there was never any point in training where she was face to face with death. In this her training failed her. Animal instincts took over, fight or flight.

And then her boot connected with the creature. The animal – some kind of squid, she thought – let go, startled. She kicked again, and luck or fate or some higher power guided the foot right into her attacker. It jetted away from her, shaken and scared that its prey had fought back. The battle took all of two eternal seconds.

But she was not out of danger. Her soaked fatigues became the new predator, threatening to do what the squid could not. Adrenaline coursing through her, she frantically tried to swim to the surface, but to little avail. She was going to drown.

“Think, Carmen, think. There’s something I’m supposed to do. What is it? I don’t have a flotation device… wait.”

Abandoning her adrenaline and her own strength, she reached for a pocket on her thigh. Her hands struggled to grasp a thin cord, her salvation. She felt her lungs begin to burn as she ran out of air.

Republic-issue mechanics’ coveralls had several safety features designed for emergencies. Most of them were added only after an emergency had occurred. Ensign Carmen Beattis was fortunate that someone on another planet lies in a watery grave, that a committee somewhere in the tangled bureaucracy had decided to amend the regulations to avoid another lawsuit. Occasionally, the government did the right thing, if only out of self-preservation.

“Gotcha.”

She yanked the cord, the force of the action impeded by the water but strong enough to trigger the emergency mechanism. It in turn catalyzed a chemical reaction in four pouches around her waist, which expanded violently, explosively. The jolt startled her and she began to rise, slowly at first, but then faster and faster, rocketing upward to the surface.

She breached the watery ceiling, sucking down gulps of air. The life-sustaining gas filled her lungs. She had been underwater for a half of a minute, but it felt like years. Her eyes teared up from the pungent brine, and she blinked to clear them. Now panting but not in danger of drowning, she surveyed her surroundings. The water was warm, but a stiff wind and stinging rain cooled her and washed the saltwater off of her skin. The greenish haze of the planet blanketed everything except a dark grey shape in the distance. She shivered.

“That’s got to be the Rodger Young. If it looks that small, it must be miles away. I’ll never make it. And no help will be here for weeks.” Beattis swore softly as she bobbed up and down in the angry sea. Her chances of survival were low. She had emergency rations for a day, two at most. The Young wouldn’t know she was here, and they had their own problems anyway. A Republic maintenance frigate had over a thousand people on board, and Carmen Beattis was just one of many. Statistically, water-landings made with Cardinal-class space vessels had suffered an average of 54% casualties. And almost all of the survivors were those who remained on board. Beattis was looking at long odds, at the very least.

A lone gull on the wing cried out, defying the wind and rain. The violent call, almost a shriek, echoed across the empty sea, and as if on cue the ocean calmed. The wind died, and the falling wall of water turned to a light shower. Beattis watched the gull wheel about for a few minutes, until it disappeared into the greenish sky.

All Republic Navy recruits had to pass a one-week survival course, including both land and sea exercises. There was little time to teach specifics, and who would recall them anyway? If you remember anything from this course, the instructors taught, remember to never panic, never give up. Panic will kill you, but giving up will kill you just as fast. Hold on to the last breath. It is your duty.

“I still have to try.”

She felt for her pockets between the flotation buoys. The flare gun she extricated was cold and dripping wet. A wordless prayer left Beattis’ lips as she depressed the trigger. A dull explosion was the only report from the device, and the projectile was away. The small, bright light climbed slowly, deliberately into the hazy sky, a new, small and temporary sun. With it flew her one hope.

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Is it possible to indent the first line in every sentance like in Word? I don't like having to put breaks like that, but it's the only way to make it legible, in my mind.

Any feedback? I'd be grateful for some good criticism.

[Lord Winter]

First off good story,
God knows i am not a expert on writing (far from it)but I'll try to give you some feedback.
The only thing i could say is the ending seemed a little rushed. There's not a whole lot of detail between Beattis coming out of the water. No wait she had a flare gun? Do they all carry flare guns incase of something like this? seems kind of parinoid.
Those are the reactions going through my head when i read the end.

Hope that helps a little.
DoH

[AntiochusIII]

Hey! I'm taking 'em too!

...but my Creative Writing class is rather...chaotic. Let's just say I wrote more essays than stories, and they are often of sarcastic nature by my horribly Juvenalian pen (I write like that in bad mood, or depression, or just frantic exhaustion at all the homeworks -- it, of course, pleases those masochistic teachers), or basic topics like "Idols," "Movie Review," etc., which aren't really of an interest beyond grades and the analysis of my mastery of composition.

As for the story, it is an excellent work. Be careful, though, as some paragraphs don't transfer well. For example, between She felt her lungs begin to burn as she ran out of air and Republic-issue mechanics’ coveralls had several safety features designed for emergencies the reader might be confused at first at what happened to the character and why it suddenly transferred into an explanatory mode; the narrative occasionally becomes unclear of what it tries to tell. But of course, I couldn't do better myself. And, strangely, I think the short stories I tried to write for the classes sucks horribly, while this one of yours is excellent; those pieces of mine seem, somehow, forced and limited, like they want to be more but they couldn't. You'd do well not to fall in my trap and let it all go out, as this story still require some extra narrative before the end.

[Ludens]

Very good! Is this simply a practice story or is there more to come?

I agree with AntiochusIII's comment. Put it like this: when your main character is drowning your readers are not interested in the intergalactical republic. You can explain about this later. I thought the internal dialogue interrupted the flow as well. Otherwise, the description was very good. Please continue, .

BTW, there are indentation tags, but I seldom bother because it is such a pain to insert them. The tags are [Indent], [2SP] or [3SP] at the start of a sentence and closing with [/ Indent] [/ 2SP] and [/ 3SP] (but without the spaces) at the end.

[matteus the inbred]

This is very good, I like good descriptive writing and the 'odd' touches you bring in about training, fatigues and flotation devices to what seems to be a story about someone messing about in the water kept me reading it until it became clear. I imagine that dropping into the sea after a crash would feel a little rushed and frantic...I think there are times to rush a scene along and times to keep the pace slow and measured. I agree with Antiochus III about the sudden shift to a rather explanatory nature in some bits, but firstly Tom Clancy gets away with this all the time and secondly, let's wait until I post a short story before I get to knock yours...!
Keep writing stuff and posting it. I'm writing a short excerpt about a French rascal and layabout who gets 'persuaded' to join the First Crusade and probably ends up being a serious dirty tricks man...this has inspired me and I shall post some of Jules' nefarious adventures soon, I think.

[Alexander the Pretty Good]

Thanks guys!

I'd like to try to pass off the jarring shifts as style, but I'm not creative enough for that.

As for the ending, I was running out of time when I wrote the first draft, and the next class we had to add more content without adding to the end, as a challenge. I haven't bothered to change it from then. Maybe at the end I'll collect them and revise them or something.

The next one, from a week ago:
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Blue steel glinted in the harsh desert sunlight. Leftenant Josiah Garfield fingered the stock of the weapon carefully, tightening his grip. Sweat trickled into his left eye. He blinked. The six-chambered implement of death seemed to nose the air, sniffing for prey. The objects of its attention, a hobbled old clerk and a young boy cowered against the stagecoach.

“We don’t want any trouble, sir,” the old man managed.

“That’s the attitude I like to hear.” He fell silent, as if expecting something. A carrion bird on a nearby cactus raised its head lazily, observing the commotion with small interest. Insects buzzed in the distance, and time seemed to stretch unevenly.

“Well? Get on with it! You should know the drill!”

The Weber gestured towards the clerk, who gulped and began to climb into the stagecoach. The boy glared from under his long black hair. He couldn’t be older than sixteen. About when I went out into the world, thought the outlaw.

“Better move real slow like, or somebody’s gonna get hurt. And it ain’t gonna be me,” growled Garfield. He looked down at his boots, then languidly kicked a small stone. It skidded for a few feet and stopped.

What happened in the next half-second would have been a blur to anyone watching. The boy reached for a gun on his belt, drawing it remarkably quickly and aiming for the bandit’s heart. But a half-second was too long. In the corner of his eye, Garfield saw the threat. The Weber fired, the loud blast putting several buzzards to flight.

The gun the boy had flew into the air. He cried out, startled by the sudden stinging in his hand. He massaged his right hand in his left, and a small tear trickled down his cheek. Garfield laughed, short and gruff.

“Thought you could pull a fast one on me, boy? Well, you can’t. I’m too fast. Next one is going to get you instead. Now hurry it up!”

Garfield swore silently. He must be getting old – he had aimed for the kid’s head. Oh well. One less drop of blood on my hands. Not that it made much difference.

Shortly – though it seemed ages to the outlaw – the clerk worked the heavy chest out of the stagecoach and onto the dry ground. Somewhere, some desert denizen made a noise like the snapping of a stick. Maybe it was a bird; Garfield jumped – then hoped his captives didn’t see it.

Exhaling deliberately, he motioned towards his prize.

“Open it up! I haven’t got all day.”

The clerk reached into his coat, and once again the Weber moved suddenly, pointing at the old man, who took his hand out into plain view.

“Just getting the keys.”

Garfield grunted, and the old man went for the keys again. He pulled them out slowly then started to unlock the weathered chest. One of the horses whinnied, breaking their silence since the encounter first began. It pawed the ground, as if it wanted to finish the journey to Libertad that was so rudely interrupted.

The lock on the chest clicked, the thick iron bolt falling into the sand. The old man lifted the lid gingerly and stepped back.

“Took you long enough. Now get back on the stagecoach and get lost!”

The two innocents scrambled back onboard the ship of the desert. With a crack of the whip, the horses accelerated. As the stagecoach rode off, the boy looked back. All he saw in the bright sunlight was one bad man walk slowly towards the chest.

Garfield knelt in front of his prize, like a priest before God’s altar. The gold would keep him fed, armed, and riding for another few weeks. But that was not Josiah’s main concern.

The violin was beautiful. It must have taken an expert craftsman many months to make such an instrument. Josiah would know. His father had taught him an appreciation of the finer things, including music. In this, he was a rarity among the robber Barons of el Rio Lobo.

Carefully Josiah lifted the instrument out of the chest, like a mother picking up a delicate infant. And Lady Luck smiled on him further! With the violin was the bow required to play it!

The bandit smiled and lifted the violin up to his chin. His long, yellow mustache brushed against the smooth, dark wood. And he began to play.

Three sharp raps on the wooden cell door broke the melody. “You hungry, amigo?”

Josiah was not hungry. He wasn’t sure he was anything anymore. His eyes opened slightly, and he muttered a vague curse, at the cell, the jailor, the world, himself. Absent-mindedly, the jailor – Dominic? – answered, “Si, si...” Perhaps he overhead Josiah, or perhaps he was just finishing a conversation with himself.

The door opened up, and the portly body of the jailor blocked the entrance. Whistling softly, he placed a bowl of cold yellow rice onto the floor. Turning to the captive, he grinned, the same smile Josiah had seen for a long time.

“Enjoy!”

With that, the door closed. Three years ago, the opening of the door would have inspired a rush of adrenaline-fed thoughts of escape. Now the prisoner only picked at the rust on a link of iron chain that bound him loosely to the wall.

And then, from a different corner in the little prison in squalid San Pedro, the music began again. The bittersweet melody started slowly, softly, and then rose, filling the cell. A small tear welled up in the bandit’s eye. He blinked, and thought of home.

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I didn't like how the indents looked, so I went for spaces. If anyone wants a copy without the spaces, PM me and I can email it to you or something.

Please, more comments!

[Ludens]

Very good! Almost like an old-fashioned Western in its slowness. But I am not sure whether the first part was a memory or an hallucination. Otherwise, very well done: both the descriptive part and the emotional part are excellent.

[Alexander the Pretty Good]

Funny, my creative writing teacher commented on the same thing.

Honestly, I can't say for sure if it is one or another. I guess I started thinking it was a memory, but why couldn't it be a hallucination, a dream of freedom deprivation?

The next one is a bit long. I'm not as happy about it as the second one, but my teacher liked it, so here it is.
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“You lousy bunch of monkeys! Fall in, you sad leftovers from boy scouts! I hate maggots like you, and I’ll be damned if I put up with your shenanigans! Move, you babies! You make me sick!”

Jack lunged out of the smelly train car and into the freezing January air. The change from the hot, stuffy shipping car to the knife-like cold startled the sixteen-year-old. He paused to get a full breath.

“What are you waiting for, a written invitation? You not used to taking orders, your highness!? Do you need a blankie, boy? Do you miss your momma?” The man screaming at him continued. “I can’t stand your kind! Well listen up! Your stay here is not going to be a box of chocolates! Get used to it and fall in line!”

Terrified, Jack scrambled into the huddled mass of his peers. A few glanced at him in pity, while others just seemed glad they weren’t him. Looking down the line of railroad tracks, Jack saw the same scene he had taken part in replay over and over again. This confused him. This wasn’t war! Where was the glory, the noble cavalry charge, the band of brotherhood? Jack didn’t see any of these things, but his thoughts were interrupted by the sight – and sound – of the large and angry man who had greeted them on their arrival.
“That is not how we fall in! Form two lines, tallest in the back, on the double!”

The two dozen young men fought and fell over each other for a place in line. Jack was jostled to the front – he was far from the tallest or biggest. He stumbled onto the rock-hard ground, frozen almost to tundra.

“You again! You too stupid for instructions? Well? Answer me!”

Jack mumbled a negative, which infuriated the big man even more.

“I can’t hear you! You got lungs, use ‘em!”

Angered, Jack shouted with all his might. It did no good.

“Didn’t your parents teach you respect, boy? You will address me as ‘sir’! You will begin every sentence with ‘sir’ and end every sentence with ‘sir’! I am your worst nightmare, and you will show me the respect and deference due to such a miracle of nature! Do you understand me?!”

The ragged affirmative lacked the parameters set forth moments before. The shouting man reached apoplexy. A blood vessel bulged and throbbed near his temple. He seemed more monster than man.

“I will break you, you ignorant, unhygienic, pitiful excuses for miserable human beings! We will do this as many times as it takes!”

And they did. It took five more tries before the man was satisfied. Jack bit back tears, although others in the group couldn’t hold them back. They drew the angry and profane attentions of the man they later learned to address as “Instructor.”

The three weeks passed in a painful blur of yelling drill instructors, grueling exercise, more drills, more yelling. Draftees were not allowed to wash out, though some explored the only escape they had. One was found hanging in a shower stall. An older boy, almost twenty, made a run for it. One of the instructors got him; he wasn’t seen again. Louis “Lucky Eddie” Constantine, out of Jack’s training squad, escaped. What they did to him when they caught him served as a gruesome reminder, and thoughts of desertion left the draftees quickly. Suicides only increased.

Throughout all this, Jack did what the majority did – he kept to himself and kept his head down. More than once he cried himself to sleep. He was not alone.

And then it all changed. They were marched out – in precise, parade ground order – to another train. They were issued a day’s rations and packed in like sardines. The darkness of the train cars was warm. Gossip flowed. They were going home. Maybe they were heading for special operations. No, they were going for special operations in the Bellau woods. Wrong, they were heading to the front. No one knew, and Jack tried to drown out the whispered rumors. The rackety clacking of the car over miles of track mesmerized him, and he became dead to the world.

He awoke to explosions – first far off, and then closer, shaking him awake. The train slowed, the clacking decreasing in tempo and finally disappearing. They remained in darkness, gritting their teeth and ducking as much as they could with each blast. This continued for an eternity of two hours.

Somewhere in the car a fight broke out as tension mounted. The scuffle was interrupted by the blinding grey light that streamed into the car as the doors opened. A short sergeant in grey-green fatigues greeted them. The pitiful recruits stared at him through eyes squinting into the pale February sun. The man stared at them for a second, as if expecting something. Then he bellowed, “Get off the train, already! Get out now!” As if to punctuate the command, another shell exploded, sounding disturbingly close.

They scrambled out of the car, and formed into rigid, well-drilled lines.

“What the hell are you doing, idiots! Take cover!”

This command was greeted by confused and nervous stares. In exasperation the sergeant grabbed one of them and threw him into the dirt.

“Get down, you apes!” He continued to assist the slow-moving, while others, Jack included, hit the frozen turf on their own power.

The shelling continued for a few minutes, and then seemed to move on. The following silence was more deafening than the preceding artillery.

Jack took this opportunity to survey his surroundings. The woods they had stopped in were pockmarked with shell holes and shattered trees. One of the cars further down the tracks had been split in half by a shell – it hadn’t exploded, to the dismay of a few ruined survivors. One of the new troopers had been caught near a tree that had been hit directly by an incoming shell. His screams chilled Jack to the bone. Shouts from farther into the woods took Jack’s eyes off the carnage.

“You men get over here!”

They obeyed, slowly at first. Vicious kicks from the sergeant moved them faster. Naturally, sub-consciously, they formed a vague column as they rushed through the woods. For a second, Jack looked back. The now-damaged train was mostly hidden from view by the thick trees.
As the path of the soldiers diverged from the railroad tracks, whispered rumors flew through the column. The Army had been pushed back. Or they were advancing. A corporal claimed they were going to capture a Calridan general. One of the more persistent ones said that the sergeants were lost and they were all going to die in an ambush.

Jack’s thoughts lay on his family. Would he ever see them again? His mother had wept openly, shamelessly when he received his draft notice. His father did nothing but stare into nothingness. Little Bobby didn’t know what was happening, except that “Jack’s gonna be a soljer! Why can’t I be a soljer, Momma?” This only made Jack’s mother cry harder.

They stopped abruptly at the edge of a clearing. Jack strained to see what was happening. In the very center of the clearing was a concrete command post, heavily pock-marked. The few soldiers who manned it looked tired, grim, and old. As the column trudged towards the bunker, an grizzled officer gestured towards a stack of rifles.

“Get a gun,” he said simply. “They’ll be here any minute. If there aren’t enough, look around. There are plenty who have guns they don’t need any more.”

Jack tried to get a rifle from the stack but was too slow. Resignedly he began to pick his way around the clearing. His stomach churned as he witnessed man’s destructive genius first-hand. He stumbled at the edge of crater – and froze.

He was staring into the eyes of a man. Jack stammered out an apology for the disturbance. There was no response. Jack realized the man was dead – and cold, too. He had left the ranks of the living a while ago. Slowly, Jack looked around for the man’s weapon. His search was interrupted by a crack from the woods. Behind him, a man screamed a short profanity, followed by the startled revelation of “I’m hit!” Another crack rang out.

“They’re coming!”

“Stay down, boys. Take cover.”

Jack still had no weapon. He felt naked in the shallow crater. Trying not to move a muscle, he reached for the Chesterfield bolt-action rifle that the previous occupant of the shell hole had left behind. More shots rang out. Several answering shots sounded.

For the first time, Jack raised his head over the crusted edge of the hole. All he saw in front of him was a few craters, and fifty yards off the forest began.
The scattered fire grew, and Jack ducked down, flattening himself against the cold earth. More shots. More cries from wounded and dying men. Jack could hear the officer yelling, but couldn’t make out the words. Over the din of battle, a chilling low moan could be just made out. It grew, first slowly, and then became a deafening low-pitched wail.

Jack had heard rumors of the wolf call. The Calridans used it during a charge. They were coming.

Firing from the clearing slowed and several recruits began to panic. Jack felt the fear well up in him, and he tried to dig in deeper.

He could hear a stampede and the wail reached a crescendo. Jack was astonished to see one of the enemy fly right over his refuge! And then another, both heading deeper into the clearing. They thought he was dead! Jack’s knuckles whitened on the worn barrel of the rifle.

The third Calridan he saw did not jump over the hole cleanly. His boot caught on the dead man’s arm and the enemy stumbled. Jack didn’t move. The Calridan turned, staring at Jack. Neither moved as time froze.

The Calridan raised his gun and Jack lunged. He was surprised by the ease in which the gun pierced the other man’s flesh – it must have had a bayonet on it. The other man just stared and his gun lowered. Jack slowly removed the weapon from the Calridan’s chest. The man slowly fell over, his eyes wide and blank. Red blossomed down the front of his trench coat. Jack had killed.
Training to kill was one thing. As a child, Jack had played war with his friends, like a normal kid. They had slaughtered each other thousands of times, but no one had died. The instructors at boot camp tried to instill a thirst for violence in the recruits, but often it didn’t take root – recruits were too concerned with surviving to consider the moral implications of ending another man’s life.

But Jack had killed.

His stomach turned over on itself. The overcast sky spun above him and he threw up, his vomit steaming in the frosty air. Jack seemed to have left the battlefield. He was alone, in a distant world. Dimly, he started replaying his fight in his head. The thrust, the enemy falling, over and over again.

He had killed.

And then it hit him, like one of the bullets that had stopped many cold that morning. That man had tried to kill him, too. He had acted in self-defense. All of those Calridans were trying to kill him, too. He remembered something his father told him before he left for boot camp. “Come back – alive.”

Jack’s mind snapped back into the violent present. Shouts, screams, cursing and bullets filled the air. Jack could smell the acrid gunpowder around him, and he raised his head out of the crater. The enemy was trying to overrun the clearing, and the fighting had come to bitter hand-to-hand work.
Jack picked out a target, fired. Another target – this one about to bayonet the sergeant that had led them here. He fired. His hands worked the bolt on the rifle effortlessly, and another round slammed into the chamber, ready to distribute more death. Jack took another shot, the recoil knocking back his shoulder as he already picked out another foe. The spent brass cartridge jumped out of the rifle as Jack reloaded. His instincts took over, and he was only a product of his training, unthinking.

And it was over. A few Calridans made it out of the forest, but most died in the trenches and craters, locked in mortal struggle with their victorious enemies. Jack’s compatriots looked around, dazed but relieved, proud. They had made it.

Jack breathed in, very deeply. He was exhausted, and he let his weapon slide out of his weary fingers. He bit down to try to quell his shaking. The sergeant, bleeding from a cut on his face, stood beside him.

“We held them. Good work, son. You made it.”

Jack didn’t respond. In that somber February winter, he watched his breath rise on the air, and he knew he had won.

[Vladimir]

Sweeeet .