Well, this isn't what I would've expected to be my first work on here. Unfortunately right now I don't have anything that I can post this very moment, at least nothing too specific.
This here is actually a one shot I wrote a few months ago for myself, it was mainly a practice exercise focusing on detailing a character's emotions and surroundings. I even got it from a writing prompt and everything. That's part of the reason why there isn't too much detail on anything outside of just what the character himself experiences.
Regardless, I hope it's something people can at least enjoy. Give a word out if you like it...or if you don't that's fine too.
In that moment, there was only one word he could use to describe the shivers that consumed his body.
Terror.
He heard them all around him. Screams that erupted from his fellow soldiers, bullets shattering air at high speeds before finally meeting their mark, ground, trees, and bodies.
So many bodies were now caking the ground he stood on. Some fell face forward, their cold, still opened eyes and similarly opened mouths boring into him, as if cursing him for standing over him.
Facing away from the ones facing forward was futile, because those that fell on their face were worse. All he could distinguish from them was their uniform. The familiar green hue, those same wrinkles that formed and raised up in the uniforms just like his, and the same red hexagon with a glaring hawk plastered in the center. A symbol he’d once been willing to fight for but now cursed with all his being.
He didn’t know if he was looking at someone he knew or at someone that just fought for the same army, and that thought kept his mind racing. He stood there, even with the bullets flying past him and the sulfur that filled the air, weighing heavy on his lungs as he tried to keep some semblance of breathing going to not share a spot with his fallen comrades.
“Kallens. Sharpen up!”
His eyes flew open; his lungs took in air faster than they’d done in minutes. He turned towards the source of the voice, only to see his superior officer, sergeant Marshall, running past him. There were more of his comrades behind him and they were all making their way towards their trench.
They moved deftly, jumping and crossing over bodies, not missing a beat. Anyone would look at them and think they were brave soldiers, capable of mustering the courage to fight in such a situation. He saw them as desperate people trying to find cover, people who weren’t so much running in spite of their dead comrades, but who were completely ignoring said dead comrades in order to save their own skin.
And he was no different. Without second thought Kallens willed his body in motion and broke into a sprint. He fought against the sickening feeling in his stomach, the way in which his legs weighed him down, threatening to give in from the strange mixture of sulfur and blood that filled his nostrils. He fought through it all, desperately, hungry for comfort, for a place that would rescue him from the living hell.
He ignored the screams, ignored the pleas, ignored the sounds of bodies flying around him, even the sound of his friend Marco calling for help from who knows where. Was he next to him? Was he below him? He didn’t care. It was background noise, and no sooner did he hear the background noise before he stopped hearing it altogether.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, days even, he reached that familiar hole. He let his body slide on the dirt, allowing him to fall in. His feet slid down to the trench, but as they landed they were unable to find their balance. His body met with the other side of the hole, his helmet bounced off, pushing him back and hitting his forehead. He would’ve fallen had it not been for another soldier catching him, finally allowing his body to center itself.
“You okay, Kallens?”
He turned towards the source of the voice. Cortney, another soldier he’d met after getting drafted. The two of them would often spend nights playing with Marco, and they even helped each other during trainings. Cortney was always the more physically adept of the three, with a toned physique and broad shoulders that matched his square, bulky frame.
Despite that, he’d always been kind, a source of relieve for Kallens. Unfortunately that relief was cut short. A red spot marked Cortney’s green uniform right below his ribs, mixing in with the dirt and grime that formed on the field. His forehead was also bleeding from the right, with a trail of blood that flowed down a bruised right eye and below his mouth, like a river flowing down a canal.
Kallens’ breath became heavy. He wanted to muster words, but the nerves were locking his throat and only garbled noises would come out.
Struggling through, he was finally able to mutter. “Are…are you okay?”
Cortney, contrary to what the moment would dictate, smiled. “Oh this? It’s just a scratch. I fell on my face like an idiot and hit my head against a rock; doesn’t seem like I have a concussion though.”
“But, what about…”
“Oh this?” He glanced at the red spot on his uniform, upon closer look he could see that a hole was made through the fabric, thought it was hard to spot with the blood. “A bullet graced me, I’m really lucky the guy’s aiming was off and it just passed through my side. Still hurts like hell though.”
“Torning, Kallens! shut your damn mouths, can’t you see we’re in the middle of a battle!” Sargent Marshall screamed from Kallens’ right. His chestnut brown eyes glared at the two of them and his wrinkles contorted into a face symbolic of his rage. Like Cortney, his uniform also had red markings, except there were many more and they seemed to be external, probably from other soldiers rather than his own.
“Sir what do we do?”
“We’re getting killed out there, should we wave our flag?”
The other soldiers all surrounded him, their faces matching Kallens’ inner and outer desperation. They all wanted answers, they all wanted a way out of their situation.
“Are you all fucking cowards or what!?” It was as if an explosion went out inside of Marshall. His voice was hoarse yet firm and loud enough to shut everyone down and the sight of his body almost bouncing off the ground from the sheer rage that coursed through him made everyone step back.
He couldn’t blame him. Things weren’t meant to escalate like this. They were originally supposed to act as a distraction, come in from the front while their support troops angled for a pincer attack from behind. Yet, said pincer attack had taken longer that they anticipated, and they weren’t ready for such a drawn out battle.
“What about our reinforcements? Are they coming?”
“Our allies broke through,” the Marshall’s face didn’t reflect his soldiers elation however; instead he looked as grim as ever. “But they’re still fighting through the forces at the back; they say it might be another twenty minutes at best before they can come get us here.”
“What?” Cortney spoke once more, lifting himself up from the trench wall and carefully walking towards the Sargent. “But if they take that long then our enemies might bring their own reinforcements in.”
“Which is why…they’re considering pulling back.”
“Then we should pull back as well!”
Soldiers began arguing amongst themselves, some were already gathering their things to start climbing the trench and running. Others were speaking about how unheroic it would be for them to run away now, while others just stayed quiet, resigned to let whatever fate befell them make their choice for them.
“Are you idiots? How can we pull back as things are right now? The enemy isn’t letting up their attack on us. There’s no way we’ll be able to leave without losing more men in the process.”
“So then…what do we do?” Kallens ragged voice finally came through the crowd, albeit small and hallow. “Are you saying we have to keep fighting?”
“Yes.”
A chorus of confusion, disbelief and anger spread out.
“If the team at the back has to pull back then our job will be to keep fighting here, by keeping the enemy focused on us we’ll be able to buy more time for them.”
Kallens didn’t reply to that, he drowned out the sound of soldiers protesting, clamoring for a chance to run. He saw some of his comrades slumping on the ground, faces devoid of any hope, while others gave up and climbed out of the trenches, running either away from or towards the enemy. It didn’t matter; they got shot all the same.
He felt that same feeling grasping at his heart. Despair coursed through it, spreading through his body. He heard Marshall talking; he could even swear he heard Cortney screaming at him. Maybe they were even fighting? He didn’t care, he didn’t process it.
Instead his mind wandered, wandered to the warm bed he’d left behind at home, wandered to his mom’s home cooked meals, to his little brother and him camping out in the backyard all night.
Why was he there? Why was he fighting? Did he feel heroic? Did he feel like he was doing something worthwhile with his life?
His rifle slipped from his grasp, hitting the dirt and falling at his feet.
He’d rather die running back home than die fighting someone else’s war for another minute.
Suddenly, at least for everyone else, Kallens rushed forward to the wall opposite him, the wall that faced towards their base. His fingers dug through the dirt, making it fall down on his shoes. He clawed his way up, using his legs to push himself upwards against the wall.
He felt someone tugging at his uniform, trying to pull him and drag him back to that communal grave. He didn’t budge. With what strength he had left he sent his leg flying back, knocking whoever was hindering him and using them as the push he needed to get out of the trench.
He wanted comfort, he wanted reprieve. But the trench wasn’t it. It was just a hole leading to his death.
Ignoring the screams of his comrades, his legs broke into a sprint once more. His eyes were fixed towards the distant road, towards freedom.
He ran and ran, pushing himself further and further with strength he didn’t even know he had. Hope began to feel his heart once more, thoughts of going back home, of being able to return to his normal life once more, of finally experiencing the comfort of a safe space.
And then, just as he’d finally mustered the courage to keep living, his legs gave out. Why? He was running just fine.
Then, a stinging feeling washed over him. The hope he’d mustered up suddenly started leaking, spilling out of his heart.
His hand slid forward. What was it? What was keeping him from moving?
Red.
Why was there red? His uniform was supposed to be green. Why?
Why was his vision going blank?
Why couldn’t he hear his family’s voices anymore?
Why did he have to die?
This here is actually a one shot I wrote a few months ago for myself, it was mainly a practice exercise focusing on detailing a character's emotions and surroundings. I even got it from a writing prompt and everything. That's part of the reason why there isn't too much detail on anything outside of just what the character himself experiences.
Regardless, I hope it's something people can at least enjoy. Give a word out if you like it...or if you don't that's fine too.
Detailed description of war and blood, minor description of gore
***
In that moment, there was only one word he could use to describe the shivers that consumed his body.
Terror.
He heard them all around him. Screams that erupted from his fellow soldiers, bullets shattering air at high speeds before finally meeting their mark, ground, trees, and bodies.
So many bodies were now caking the ground he stood on. Some fell face forward, their cold, still opened eyes and similarly opened mouths boring into him, as if cursing him for standing over him.
Facing away from the ones facing forward was futile, because those that fell on their face were worse. All he could distinguish from them was their uniform. The familiar green hue, those same wrinkles that formed and raised up in the uniforms just like his, and the same red hexagon with a glaring hawk plastered in the center. A symbol he’d once been willing to fight for but now cursed with all his being.
He didn’t know if he was looking at someone he knew or at someone that just fought for the same army, and that thought kept his mind racing. He stood there, even with the bullets flying past him and the sulfur that filled the air, weighing heavy on his lungs as he tried to keep some semblance of breathing going to not share a spot with his fallen comrades.
“Kallens. Sharpen up!”
His eyes flew open; his lungs took in air faster than they’d done in minutes. He turned towards the source of the voice, only to see his superior officer, sergeant Marshall, running past him. There were more of his comrades behind him and they were all making their way towards their trench.
They moved deftly, jumping and crossing over bodies, not missing a beat. Anyone would look at them and think they were brave soldiers, capable of mustering the courage to fight in such a situation. He saw them as desperate people trying to find cover, people who weren’t so much running in spite of their dead comrades, but who were completely ignoring said dead comrades in order to save their own skin.
And he was no different. Without second thought Kallens willed his body in motion and broke into a sprint. He fought against the sickening feeling in his stomach, the way in which his legs weighed him down, threatening to give in from the strange mixture of sulfur and blood that filled his nostrils. He fought through it all, desperately, hungry for comfort, for a place that would rescue him from the living hell.
He ignored the screams, ignored the pleas, ignored the sounds of bodies flying around him, even the sound of his friend Marco calling for help from who knows where. Was he next to him? Was he below him? He didn’t care. It was background noise, and no sooner did he hear the background noise before he stopped hearing it altogether.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, days even, he reached that familiar hole. He let his body slide on the dirt, allowing him to fall in. His feet slid down to the trench, but as they landed they were unable to find their balance. His body met with the other side of the hole, his helmet bounced off, pushing him back and hitting his forehead. He would’ve fallen had it not been for another soldier catching him, finally allowing his body to center itself.
“You okay, Kallens?”
He turned towards the source of the voice. Cortney, another soldier he’d met after getting drafted. The two of them would often spend nights playing with Marco, and they even helped each other during trainings. Cortney was always the more physically adept of the three, with a toned physique and broad shoulders that matched his square, bulky frame.
Despite that, he’d always been kind, a source of relieve for Kallens. Unfortunately that relief was cut short. A red spot marked Cortney’s green uniform right below his ribs, mixing in with the dirt and grime that formed on the field. His forehead was also bleeding from the right, with a trail of blood that flowed down a bruised right eye and below his mouth, like a river flowing down a canal.
Kallens’ breath became heavy. He wanted to muster words, but the nerves were locking his throat and only garbled noises would come out.
Struggling through, he was finally able to mutter. “Are…are you okay?”
Cortney, contrary to what the moment would dictate, smiled. “Oh this? It’s just a scratch. I fell on my face like an idiot and hit my head against a rock; doesn’t seem like I have a concussion though.”
“But, what about…”
“Oh this?” He glanced at the red spot on his uniform, upon closer look he could see that a hole was made through the fabric, thought it was hard to spot with the blood. “A bullet graced me, I’m really lucky the guy’s aiming was off and it just passed through my side. Still hurts like hell though.”
“Torning, Kallens! shut your damn mouths, can’t you see we’re in the middle of a battle!” Sargent Marshall screamed from Kallens’ right. His chestnut brown eyes glared at the two of them and his wrinkles contorted into a face symbolic of his rage. Like Cortney, his uniform also had red markings, except there were many more and they seemed to be external, probably from other soldiers rather than his own.
“Sir what do we do?”
“We’re getting killed out there, should we wave our flag?”
The other soldiers all surrounded him, their faces matching Kallens’ inner and outer desperation. They all wanted answers, they all wanted a way out of their situation.
“Are you all fucking cowards or what!?” It was as if an explosion went out inside of Marshall. His voice was hoarse yet firm and loud enough to shut everyone down and the sight of his body almost bouncing off the ground from the sheer rage that coursed through him made everyone step back.
He couldn’t blame him. Things weren’t meant to escalate like this. They were originally supposed to act as a distraction, come in from the front while their support troops angled for a pincer attack from behind. Yet, said pincer attack had taken longer that they anticipated, and they weren’t ready for such a drawn out battle.
“What about our reinforcements? Are they coming?”
“Our allies broke through,” the Marshall’s face didn’t reflect his soldiers elation however; instead he looked as grim as ever. “But they’re still fighting through the forces at the back; they say it might be another twenty minutes at best before they can come get us here.”
“What?” Cortney spoke once more, lifting himself up from the trench wall and carefully walking towards the Sargent. “But if they take that long then our enemies might bring their own reinforcements in.”
“Which is why…they’re considering pulling back.”
“Then we should pull back as well!”
Soldiers began arguing amongst themselves, some were already gathering their things to start climbing the trench and running. Others were speaking about how unheroic it would be for them to run away now, while others just stayed quiet, resigned to let whatever fate befell them make their choice for them.
“Are you idiots? How can we pull back as things are right now? The enemy isn’t letting up their attack on us. There’s no way we’ll be able to leave without losing more men in the process.”
“So then…what do we do?” Kallens ragged voice finally came through the crowd, albeit small and hallow. “Are you saying we have to keep fighting?”
“Yes.”
A chorus of confusion, disbelief and anger spread out.
“If the team at the back has to pull back then our job will be to keep fighting here, by keeping the enemy focused on us we’ll be able to buy more time for them.”
Kallens didn’t reply to that, he drowned out the sound of soldiers protesting, clamoring for a chance to run. He saw some of his comrades slumping on the ground, faces devoid of any hope, while others gave up and climbed out of the trenches, running either away from or towards the enemy. It didn’t matter; they got shot all the same.
He felt that same feeling grasping at his heart. Despair coursed through it, spreading through his body. He heard Marshall talking; he could even swear he heard Cortney screaming at him. Maybe they were even fighting? He didn’t care, he didn’t process it.
Instead his mind wandered, wandered to the warm bed he’d left behind at home, wandered to his mom’s home cooked meals, to his little brother and him camping out in the backyard all night.
Why was he there? Why was he fighting? Did he feel heroic? Did he feel like he was doing something worthwhile with his life?
His rifle slipped from his grasp, hitting the dirt and falling at his feet.
He’d rather die running back home than die fighting someone else’s war for another minute.
Suddenly, at least for everyone else, Kallens rushed forward to the wall opposite him, the wall that faced towards their base. His fingers dug through the dirt, making it fall down on his shoes. He clawed his way up, using his legs to push himself upwards against the wall.
He felt someone tugging at his uniform, trying to pull him and drag him back to that communal grave. He didn’t budge. With what strength he had left he sent his leg flying back, knocking whoever was hindering him and using them as the push he needed to get out of the trench.
He wanted comfort, he wanted reprieve. But the trench wasn’t it. It was just a hole leading to his death.
Ignoring the screams of his comrades, his legs broke into a sprint once more. His eyes were fixed towards the distant road, towards freedom.
He ran and ran, pushing himself further and further with strength he didn’t even know he had. Hope began to feel his heart once more, thoughts of going back home, of being able to return to his normal life once more, of finally experiencing the comfort of a safe space.
And then, just as he’d finally mustered the courage to keep living, his legs gave out. Why? He was running just fine.
Then, a stinging feeling washed over him. The hope he’d mustered up suddenly started leaking, spilling out of his heart.
His hand slid forward. What was it? What was keeping him from moving?
Red.
Why was there red? His uniform was supposed to be green. Why?
Why was his vision going blank?
Why couldn’t he hear his family’s voices anymore?
Why did he have to die?
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