Just something I came up with. It's a bit out-there, so bear with me. It's just a thought, and probably what I would do, put in our storyteller's situation.
Say you were crouched in a filthy rag-pit, with streams of hot lead flying above, sending the dirt above your head flying out in front of you. What would you do?
Most would probably piss themselves.
Not I, however.
I choose instead to get comfortable, take my journal out of my backpack, and start writing.
What kind of idiot am I?
I honestly don't know.
I could be called a moron, a dumbass, a lame-brain, a fidiot...well, I suppose there are a lot more, but would any of them be accurate?
I honestly don't like killing people. Though people tell me I'm very good at it. I was drafted into this war right out of college. I had big dreams of becoming an author. Now I'm huddled with a piece of machinery, an American M16, to be precise, that can send 1,000 pieces of death per minute at approximately 2,500 feet per second.
Getting back on track, I suppose I should start by telling you why I'm even in this position.
Our little team was deployed in hopes of quelling a public act of militant rebellion. A life-size sculpture of President Bush was shot by several rebels in front of a crowd of twenty thousand.
The rebels grabbed the sculpture, ran to an abandoned warehouse in the Sranka Docks to be filmed and broadcasted by a satellite all over the world. When asked, the President declined comment as to whether or not he minded his likeness being shot by angry Iraqis.
I wonder why.
The guys on my team were me, Jakob Hendriks, Henry Young, and Maria Pulanks.
Jakob was our designated sniper.
He likes his rifle, that Jakob.
He was relentlessly polishing it on our way here. I've no idea why anyone would polish their weapon before battle, but Jakob takes pride in maintaining his hardware.
He's had his Dragunov SVD for fifteen years, as long as he's been in the service. Fifteen freakin' years.
My first M16 ceased function in a week.
Well, anyway, he's a gun nut, and the Corps. is his life. He has no education, no nothing, so I guess as long as he's alive, he'll be with the army, in one way or another.
I wonder where he is now?
Henry was an assaultist, like me. We're trained to go in, take out the hard targets, secure any materials necessary, and get the hell out. The only difference is he liked heavier machinery. He took pride in his faster fire rate and higher caliber that emitted from his M249 SAW. I saw him take a bullet in the jelly-basket as soon as we were deployed.
God rest his soul.
Lastly, Maria is our designated medic. Oh, and you're about to say, "How typical of those Army gun nuts, to make the only woman on the team a medic." Well, what if you knew that this same woman concocted a formula to be an alternative to mace spray that caused the victim's eyes to burn out of his skull, rendering him completely blind? Or how about the fact that she carries a customized Heckler and Koch MP5 that can fire heavier bullets with a uranium tip to penetrate even the most sturdy of Kevlar? Yes, Maria is just about as good at ending lives than saving them. Don't get me wrong, she's a great healer, but, well...she's just a bit ornery.
She was deployed with Jakob. We split up as soon as we got pinned.
I hope she's okay.
And then there's me. You've already heard about me.
The gunfire's stopped now. Maybe they think I'm already dead.
I suppose this would be a good time to end this little diary entry.
Hopefully I'll live to make another one.
Short story by Lucas
Read 815 times
Written on 2006-05-10 at 00:54
Tags War Destruction Calm
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A Cynical Deathbringer
Let me begin by asking you a question.Say you were crouched in a filthy rag-pit, with streams of hot lead flying above, sending the dirt above your head flying out in front of you. What would you do?
Most would probably piss themselves.
Not I, however.
I choose instead to get comfortable, take my journal out of my backpack, and start writing.
What kind of idiot am I?
I honestly don't know.
I could be called a moron, a dumbass, a lame-brain, a fidiot...well, I suppose there are a lot more, but would any of them be accurate?
I honestly don't like killing people. Though people tell me I'm very good at it. I was drafted into this war right out of college. I had big dreams of becoming an author. Now I'm huddled with a piece of machinery, an American M16, to be precise, that can send 1,000 pieces of death per minute at approximately 2,500 feet per second.
Getting back on track, I suppose I should start by telling you why I'm even in this position.
Our little team was deployed in hopes of quelling a public act of militant rebellion. A life-size sculpture of President Bush was shot by several rebels in front of a crowd of twenty thousand.
The rebels grabbed the sculpture, ran to an abandoned warehouse in the Sranka Docks to be filmed and broadcasted by a satellite all over the world. When asked, the President declined comment as to whether or not he minded his likeness being shot by angry Iraqis.
I wonder why.
The guys on my team were me, Jakob Hendriks, Henry Young, and Maria Pulanks.
Jakob was our designated sniper.
He likes his rifle, that Jakob.
He was relentlessly polishing it on our way here. I've no idea why anyone would polish their weapon before battle, but Jakob takes pride in maintaining his hardware.
He's had his Dragunov SVD for fifteen years, as long as he's been in the service. Fifteen freakin' years.
My first M16 ceased function in a week.
Well, anyway, he's a gun nut, and the Corps. is his life. He has no education, no nothing, so I guess as long as he's alive, he'll be with the army, in one way or another.
I wonder where he is now?
Henry was an assaultist, like me. We're trained to go in, take out the hard targets, secure any materials necessary, and get the hell out. The only difference is he liked heavier machinery. He took pride in his faster fire rate and higher caliber that emitted from his M249 SAW. I saw him take a bullet in the jelly-basket as soon as we were deployed.
God rest his soul.
Lastly, Maria is our designated medic. Oh, and you're about to say, "How typical of those Army gun nuts, to make the only woman on the team a medic." Well, what if you knew that this same woman concocted a formula to be an alternative to mace spray that caused the victim's eyes to burn out of his skull, rendering him completely blind? Or how about the fact that she carries a customized Heckler and Koch MP5 that can fire heavier bullets with a uranium tip to penetrate even the most sturdy of Kevlar? Yes, Maria is just about as good at ending lives than saving them. Don't get me wrong, she's a great healer, but, well...she's just a bit ornery.
She was deployed with Jakob. We split up as soon as we got pinned.
I hope she's okay.
And then there's me. You've already heard about me.
The gunfire's stopped now. Maybe they think I'm already dead.
I suppose this would be a good time to end this little diary entry.
Hopefully I'll live to make another one.
Short story by Lucas
Read 815 times
Written on 2006-05-10 at 00:54
Tags War Destruction Calm
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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