Post by Azrael Selas on Aug 17, 2010 15:39:26 GMT -5
Ratatatatata! Boom! Ratata Boom! Boom! Screams in all directions. Mounds of earth exploded as grenades, mortar shells, all kinds of explosive device went off. This sent pounds upon pounds of grass, dirt, leaves, debris of all kinds, flying into the air creating an earthen rainstorm, sans the rain.
The whizzing, zipping, of small (yet very fatal) projectiles was a constant. One flew past his head by a mere inch. It embedded itself into the ground with an audible thwump.
The trench reeked. It all reeked. The whole place stank. Of death. Because it was there. It was reaping. Slicing its way through men, from either side. Not literally, of course. There was no skeleton in a dirty robe, with a blood-soaked scythe. Instead there were uniformed men. Soldiers. And guns.
Damn guns. Damn the person who made them. Damn the person whoever came up with the idea of making the things. So many people have died because of them. And he knew many more will in the future. But for now. The trench reeked.
Men shouting orders. Men screaming in agony, bleeding bullet wounds. Limbs missing. Shredded by debris or land mines, or well tossed grenades.
He knew one of the men had died because of his own gun. It backfired. Literally. The gun seemed to just explode, and part of it lodged into his cranium, killing him instantly.
Gunny. Gunny was there. He was next to him. Shooting. Shooting. Shooting. He was a good shot. He rarely missed.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. The bullets were drowned out by a buzzing. Persistent. Loud. It grew louder. Louder. Louder still. Finally it was all he heard. The battlefield, the no-man's-land, began to change. To twist, bend, distort. As it seemed to melt in on itself. And disappear. Gunny disappeared. His gun disappeared.
Then black. Darkness. A cold sweat. He was in his bed. In his New York brownstone. And the alarm was buzzing.
He slapped it, quieted it up, then slid out of bed. The sheets slid off his naked body, inch after inch exposed, until he stood in his naked glory beside his bed. Not that it mattered, there was no one else there.
"Ugh..." He rubbed his face, then walked to the bathroom. Time to start the day.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
He left the double gallery house, and joined the masses. He was part of the inner machinations of New Orleans. A cog in the machine. People flowed down the street like a river. People. Men. Women. A few children heading to school. A stray dog or two. Even a stray cat.
He was headed to the nearest cafe. Oh, caffeine. It should be a sin. But he is so glad it's not. He saw it. The bright neon lights that seemed to shout HOT DONUTS, HOT COFFEE, OPEN felt even brighter now than they normally were.
"Thank You." He said this, a joke as he had pointed up to the sky as he said this, heading up to the doors, pushing them open, and heading inside. A cheerful jingle of the bell over the door alerted the waitresses of his presence.
"Hello Ozzy, the usual?" The young waitress nodded in his direction.
"Oh, yes please." The usual just happened to be, a warm doughnut, a fresh cup of coffee, and the morning paper. All of which were placed on the table in front of him, as he handed the girl the exact pay for the items, plus a $20 tip.
The whizzing, zipping, of small (yet very fatal) projectiles was a constant. One flew past his head by a mere inch. It embedded itself into the ground with an audible thwump.
The trench reeked. It all reeked. The whole place stank. Of death. Because it was there. It was reaping. Slicing its way through men, from either side. Not literally, of course. There was no skeleton in a dirty robe, with a blood-soaked scythe. Instead there were uniformed men. Soldiers. And guns.
Damn guns. Damn the person who made them. Damn the person whoever came up with the idea of making the things. So many people have died because of them. And he knew many more will in the future. But for now. The trench reeked.
Men shouting orders. Men screaming in agony, bleeding bullet wounds. Limbs missing. Shredded by debris or land mines, or well tossed grenades.
He knew one of the men had died because of his own gun. It backfired. Literally. The gun seemed to just explode, and part of it lodged into his cranium, killing him instantly.
Gunny. Gunny was there. He was next to him. Shooting. Shooting. Shooting. He was a good shot. He rarely missed.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. The bullets were drowned out by a buzzing. Persistent. Loud. It grew louder. Louder. Louder still. Finally it was all he heard. The battlefield, the no-man's-land, began to change. To twist, bend, distort. As it seemed to melt in on itself. And disappear. Gunny disappeared. His gun disappeared.
Then black. Darkness. A cold sweat. He was in his bed. In his New York brownstone. And the alarm was buzzing.
He slapped it, quieted it up, then slid out of bed. The sheets slid off his naked body, inch after inch exposed, until he stood in his naked glory beside his bed. Not that it mattered, there was no one else there.
"Ugh..." He rubbed his face, then walked to the bathroom. Time to start the day.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
He left the double gallery house, and joined the masses. He was part of the inner machinations of New Orleans. A cog in the machine. People flowed down the street like a river. People. Men. Women. A few children heading to school. A stray dog or two. Even a stray cat.
He was headed to the nearest cafe. Oh, caffeine. It should be a sin. But he is so glad it's not. He saw it. The bright neon lights that seemed to shout HOT DONUTS, HOT COFFEE, OPEN felt even brighter now than they normally were.
"Thank You." He said this, a joke as he had pointed up to the sky as he said this, heading up to the doors, pushing them open, and heading inside. A cheerful jingle of the bell over the door alerted the waitresses of his presence.
"Hello Ozzy, the usual?" The young waitress nodded in his direction.
"Oh, yes please." The usual just happened to be, a warm doughnut, a fresh cup of coffee, and the morning paper. All of which were placed on the table in front of him, as he handed the girl the exact pay for the items, plus a $20 tip.
