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Pharaoh Llandy:
Tiny ice crystals clung to the dirty stone wall of Hudson’s Bakery, each crystal a minute speck of pristine white which glistened beautifully in the moonlight. Mary studied the tiny crystals as she stood beside the street corner; watching each one grow larger as the temperature dropped helped to take her mind off how cold she was, helped her to ignore the way her breath frosted when she exhaled, how numb her toes felt inside her thin leather shoes. Not for the first time, she cursed God for sending winter so early to London this year.
A stone’s throw away from her usual corner, a dozen ships were moored at the old stone dock. Two of them were newly arrived, one carrying goods from Africa, another come to collect passengers to take back to the New World. Freedom was the name emblazoned on the hull of the transatlantic ferry, and for a brief moment, Mary toyed with the idea of trying to sneak onboard, to stowaway, to find a new life and fortune in America.
It was a fanciful dream. She knew she would be severely punished, if she was caught. Even if she wasn’t caught, she had no skills to speak of; the only thing she knew how to do was lie on her back, which was all a prostitute needed to know. But whether you were a prostitute in London or a prostitute in New York, it was still the same old song. The same men, with their grubby hands and breath reeking of stale alcohol, paying the same meagre fee for a quick roll in the sack.
Besides, George was waiting for her, back home. If she didn’t return before dawn, he’d wonder where she had gone.
A group of men approached from Freedom, and by their garb she saw they were sailors. Mary smiled and hitched up her dress, exposing one pale, slender leg. As the men passed, boisterous and jovial, two of them carrying bottles of rum or gin, she exhaled slowly, letting her barely-covered bosom rise and fall seductively. One of the men glanced at her, and she smiled with all the coyness she could muster, but he walked on, trailing after his friends. The noise of their merry-making died away, leaving only the sound of the Thames gently slapping against the side of the ships at dock.
Mary let her dress fall back down over her chilled leg. It had been a long shot at best. Sailors were good fare during their shore-leave, but only if you caught them alone. Once they were ‘out with the boys’ it was hard to separate them.
“Are you working tonight?”
The voice was deep and scratchy. It came from behind the shop, from the shadows clinging to the alley between the bakery and the cobbler’s workshop. Mary narrowed her eyes, squinting into the darkness, trying to see who spoke. Some men hid in the shadows, paranoid about being seen near a working girl. But a customer was a customer, and as long as he could pay, Mary did not judge.
“Aye, sir,” she said, leaving the ice-crystal corner, strolling towards the alley. “If you’ve coin to pay, of course.”
“Of course.” He stepped forward, into the pale moonlight, and she caught a glimpse of his face; narrow and clean-shaven, it was a face of harsh angles. That didn’t matter to Mary. After four years of working the streets, she no longer saw faces. They were all the same; indistinct featureless blurs. Even when she saw the same man twice, it was rarely his face she remembered.
“Here you go,” he said. He took out a small coin purse and counted several silvers. When he handed them over she pocketed them, glancing through her lashes at the dark suit he wore. Clearly he was no sailor, and no labourer. Why a well-to-do member of society would want to hire the services of a working girl, she did not know, but then again, she did not particularly care.
“Come along this way,” he said, stepping back into the alley. The darkness swallowed him, and Mary hesitated. As a rule she tried to keep to the main streets, which were well-lit and populous. But this man was a customer, and that he had paid her in advance proved he wasn’t likely to swindle her.
Lifting her head a little higher and fighting the unease she felt in her stomach, she followed him into the shadows. It wasn’t easy to see, in the alley, and twice she tripped over broken pieces of wood which had been casually strewn aside, but she could hear his footsteps up ahead, and she hurried along after him, trying to keep pace.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Mary Nichols,” she replied.
“Well, Mary, what would you say if I was to tell you that I’m going to make you famous?” There was humour in his scratchy voice.
“What do you mean?”
She heard him stop, and in the dimness of the alley she could just about make out that he turned to face her.
“My name’s Jack.”
There was a flash of something cold and bright, which reflected the moonlight as the ice crystals had, and Mary felt a searing pain across her neck. Ice flashed across her skin, chilling her. But then something warm began to pour down her chest. She went light-headed and sank to the ground. Her life did not flash before her eyes, because she’d had no life to speak of. Just one more painted face in a city of filth and sin. The last thought that crossed her mind before it ceased to work was that George would wonder why she hadn’t come home. Her son would grow up believing his mother had abandoned him.
When the sun rose over London, the tiny ice crystals on the wall of the bakery began to melt. And a tiny river of red ran along the ground, spilling into the dirty gutter.
–999 words
Kazzan:
Ben Kenobi:
Rallix:
Vermillion_Hawk:
Pharaoh Llandy:
The Frost Prince
Tiny ice crystals clung to the dirty stone wall of Hudson’s Bakery, each crystal a minute speck of pristine white which glistened beautifully in the moonlight. Mary studied the tiny crystals as she stood beside the street corner; watching each one grow larger as the temperature dropped helped to take her mind off how cold she was, helped her to ignore the way her breath frosted when she exhaled, how numb her toes felt inside her thin leather shoes. Not for the first time, she cursed God for sending winter so early to London this year.
A stone’s throw away from her usual corner, a dozen ships were moored at the old stone dock. Two of them were newly arrived, one carrying goods from Africa, another come to collect passengers to take back to the New World. Freedom was the name emblazoned on the hull of the transatlantic ferry, and for a brief moment, Mary toyed with the idea of trying to sneak onboard, to stowaway, to find a new life and fortune in America.
It was a fanciful dream. She knew she would be severely punished, if she was caught. Even if she wasn’t caught, she had no skills to speak of; the only thing she knew how to do was lie on her back, which was all a prostitute needed to know. But whether you were a prostitute in London or a prostitute in New York, it was still the same old song. The same men, with their grubby hands and breath reeking of stale alcohol, paying the same meagre fee for a quick roll in the sack.
Besides, George was waiting for her, back home. If she didn’t return before dawn, he’d wonder where she had gone.
A group of men approached from Freedom, and by their garb she saw they were sailors. Mary smiled and hitched up her dress, exposing one pale, slender leg. As the men passed, boisterous and jovial, two of them carrying bottles of rum or gin, she exhaled slowly, letting her barely-covered bosom rise and fall seductively. One of the men glanced at her, and she smiled with all the coyness she could muster, but he walked on, trailing after his friends. The noise of their merry-making died away, leaving only the sound of the Thames gently slapping against the side of the ships at dock.
Mary let her dress fall back down over her chilled leg. It had been a long shot at best. Sailors were good fare during their shore-leave, but only if you caught them alone. Once they were ‘out with the boys’ it was hard to separate them.
“Are you working tonight?”
The voice was deep and scratchy. It came from behind the shop, from the shadows clinging to the alley between the bakery and the cobbler’s workshop. Mary narrowed her eyes, squinting into the darkness, trying to see who spoke. Some men hid in the shadows, paranoid about being seen near a working girl. But a customer was a customer, and as long as he could pay, Mary did not judge.
“Aye, sir,” she said, leaving the ice-crystal corner, strolling towards the alley. “If you’ve coin to pay, of course.”
“Of course.” He stepped forward, into the pale moonlight, and she caught a glimpse of his face; narrow and clean-shaven, it was a face of harsh angles. That didn’t matter to Mary. After four years of working the streets, she no longer saw faces. They were all the same; indistinct featureless blurs. Even when she saw the same man twice, it was rarely his face she remembered.
“Here you go,” he said. He took out a small coin purse and counted several silvers. When he handed them over she pocketed them, glancing through her lashes at the dark suit he wore. Clearly he was no sailor, and no labourer. Why a well-to-do member of society would want to hire the services of a working girl, she did not know, but then again, she did not particularly care.
“Come along this way,” he said, stepping back into the alley. The darkness swallowed him, and Mary hesitated. As a rule she tried to keep to the main streets, which were well-lit and populous. But this man was a customer, and that he had paid her in advance proved he wasn’t likely to swindle her.
Lifting her head a little higher and fighting the unease she felt in her stomach, she followed him into the shadows. It wasn’t easy to see, in the alley, and twice she tripped over broken pieces of wood which had been casually strewn aside, but she could hear his footsteps up ahead, and she hurried along after him, trying to keep pace.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Mary Nichols,” she replied.
“Well, Mary, what would you say if I was to tell you that I’m going to make you famous?” There was humour in his scratchy voice.
“What do you mean?”
She heard him stop, and in the dimness of the alley she could just about make out that he turned to face her.
“My name’s Jack.”
There was a flash of something cold and bright, which reflected the moonlight as the ice crystals had, and Mary felt a searing pain across her neck. Ice flashed across her skin, chilling her. But then something warm began to pour down her chest. She went light-headed and sank to the ground. Her life did not flash before her eyes, because she’d had no life to speak of. Just one more painted face in a city of filth and sin. The last thought that crossed her mind before it ceased to work was that George would wonder why she hadn’t come home. Her son would grow up believing his mother had abandoned him.
When the sun rose over London, the tiny ice crystals on the wall of the bakery began to melt. And a tiny river of red ran along the ground, spilling into the dirty gutter.
–999 words
Kazzan:
Snow is late this year, but then again isn't it always here? November up north was all a mess, though I would say I prefer it to this gray, blurry mess. At least the air is fresh this time of day, being early morning and all, the traffic of the day has yet to take off. One can see an odd car here and there, but then, you always can. Some drivers just do not seem to sleep at all, driving around all night to one place or the other. I don't own a car, never have, despite having a drivers license and all. Passing that test was one of the easiest things I have ever done, despite many of my old friends borked it on their first try.
Wonder how that old gang is holding up, I have not seen them in what feels like an eternity. If I close my eyes I could still see the gang piled up in that little basement pub, hollering for another round, with tall Mike downing those shots like it was water, Jerry and Jack doing their dart finals, Collin with his wild tales of everyday bravado. Would they have stayed the same? As far as I know I was the only one that left that little town. Then again, they always said I would be the first to go, never did have any intention of staying. Things could have been different had I.
What have I become since then? Absolutely nothing. Sitting by myself on a bench on the corner of baker and oak street smoking a cigarette in the morning cold. Been alone most of the time since I got here, excepting the few people at work, but they are a sorry bunch, with not much going for them. Never got into their circle, if they even have one. Could have been out to bars and pubs o meet new people as well but instead I sleep the days away to wake up early and sit around here and gaze at passing cars and the city waking up.
The world around me feels surreal, feels like a dream. Am I dreaming? Have I been dreaming the last year? I almost wish I have. Pain from the pinch I gave myself tells me I am not. Now I even beginning to doubt my consciousness. Figures. Guess that is what happens when you spend too much time by yourself, but then I am not entirely alone either. It is getting cold outside these days, winter is fast approaching. In a week this whole place will be covered in snow. It is preferable to the bleak, gray blur that the world currently is.
A passing car shatters the silence. Wonder what would happen if I would take a step forward? The car speeds past and soon after it is gone and the silence creeps back. How cities never sleep. The watch tells me it is almost five in the morning. People should be starting to wake up, the early birds. I take a last puff of the cigarette before I snuff it under my boot. Normally I would use an ashtray, but there are none around. I do not exactly want to contribute to littering the streets but I am too lazy to get up and search for one.
Lazy, that is a very accurate description of me. If it was up to me I would stay inside and sleep and read books all day. Speaking of which, I have a real good book I am dying to finish. It is about a policeman investigating a series of murders in a rural village and uncovers a dark secret that the villagers buried long ago. Just the kind of psychological thriller and crime solving story that gives me the kicks. Almost did an all-nighter and got about half-way through.
Maybe I should become a writer, seems easy enough, and I have enough ideas to go around. Trouble is, I have tried it in the past. Ideas are all fine and dandy, but getting them down on paper? Now that is the tricky part. What I wouldn't give for the ability to be able to write decently and being determined enough to get all that on paper. My laziness strikes again and ruins that.
Someones approaching. Relatively short, light brown hair in a ponytail, that jacket. It is her alright. Was beginning to wonder whether she would show up at all. Been meeting each other here once a week ever since me and her met a while back. I guess I have grown quite fond of our meetings. Jen is her name, short and sweet. I greet her like always, making sure to stress the 'milady'. Oh dear, her smile, isn't that just the sweetest thing I have ever seen?
Something is up, I can see it in her eyes. Just past that smile there is pain. She is talking away about something irrelevant, I will humor her for a while. Seems she stopped and boy is she looking insecure. Time to confront her about it, anyone could see through that thin veil she is putting up. Nothing huh? There is definitely something, but better not to press. Wish I could help, but I guess it is her private business. I will just tell her to hold on and it will probably get better in time. Oh, her mood seems to have gone sour, guess that is it for today.
What is it with those words? Said with such finality. I have a bad feeling about it, should I go back? Maybe I can still catch up to her? Maybe she is going through one of her phases? Uh, miss her already, and she only just left. I will have to tell her how I feel when she comes back next week.
She never came.
Wonder how that old gang is holding up, I have not seen them in what feels like an eternity. If I close my eyes I could still see the gang piled up in that little basement pub, hollering for another round, with tall Mike downing those shots like it was water, Jerry and Jack doing their dart finals, Collin with his wild tales of everyday bravado. Would they have stayed the same? As far as I know I was the only one that left that little town. Then again, they always said I would be the first to go, never did have any intention of staying. Things could have been different had I.
What have I become since then? Absolutely nothing. Sitting by myself on a bench on the corner of baker and oak street smoking a cigarette in the morning cold. Been alone most of the time since I got here, excepting the few people at work, but they are a sorry bunch, with not much going for them. Never got into their circle, if they even have one. Could have been out to bars and pubs o meet new people as well but instead I sleep the days away to wake up early and sit around here and gaze at passing cars and the city waking up.
The world around me feels surreal, feels like a dream. Am I dreaming? Have I been dreaming the last year? I almost wish I have. Pain from the pinch I gave myself tells me I am not. Now I even beginning to doubt my consciousness. Figures. Guess that is what happens when you spend too much time by yourself, but then I am not entirely alone either. It is getting cold outside these days, winter is fast approaching. In a week this whole place will be covered in snow. It is preferable to the bleak, gray blur that the world currently is.
A passing car shatters the silence. Wonder what would happen if I would take a step forward? The car speeds past and soon after it is gone and the silence creeps back. How cities never sleep. The watch tells me it is almost five in the morning. People should be starting to wake up, the early birds. I take a last puff of the cigarette before I snuff it under my boot. Normally I would use an ashtray, but there are none around. I do not exactly want to contribute to littering the streets but I am too lazy to get up and search for one.
Lazy, that is a very accurate description of me. If it was up to me I would stay inside and sleep and read books all day. Speaking of which, I have a real good book I am dying to finish. It is about a policeman investigating a series of murders in a rural village and uncovers a dark secret that the villagers buried long ago. Just the kind of psychological thriller and crime solving story that gives me the kicks. Almost did an all-nighter and got about half-way through.
Maybe I should become a writer, seems easy enough, and I have enough ideas to go around. Trouble is, I have tried it in the past. Ideas are all fine and dandy, but getting them down on paper? Now that is the tricky part. What I wouldn't give for the ability to be able to write decently and being determined enough to get all that on paper. My laziness strikes again and ruins that.
Someones approaching. Relatively short, light brown hair in a ponytail, that jacket. It is her alright. Was beginning to wonder whether she would show up at all. Been meeting each other here once a week ever since me and her met a while back. I guess I have grown quite fond of our meetings. Jen is her name, short and sweet. I greet her like always, making sure to stress the 'milady'. Oh dear, her smile, isn't that just the sweetest thing I have ever seen?
Something is up, I can see it in her eyes. Just past that smile there is pain. She is talking away about something irrelevant, I will humor her for a while. Seems she stopped and boy is she looking insecure. Time to confront her about it, anyone could see through that thin veil she is putting up. Nothing huh? There is definitely something, but better not to press. Wish I could help, but I guess it is her private business. I will just tell her to hold on and it will probably get better in time. Oh, her mood seems to have gone sour, guess that is it for today.
What is it with those words? Said with such finality. I have a bad feeling about it, should I go back? Maybe I can still catch up to her? Maybe she is going through one of her phases? Uh, miss her already, and she only just left. I will have to tell her how I feel when she comes back next week.
She never came.
Ben Kenobi:
What exactly are we able to sacrifice for a moment of happiness? Do we have the right to be selfish and buy happiness for something that is not ours? Are we ready to face the consequences afterwards? And isn’t the dignity something we should never sacrifice if we still have to retain our self-respect? While some philosopher, prophet or preacher would be more than happy to answer these questions, they were of little importance to Juliette, young and fair haired lady with lovely smile. Well, calling her a lady could be too much in some eyes, given her occupation and all, but I am sure you will forgive me for doing so. She was an optimist; always looking at the bright side of life, even when she was trying to explain to Monsieur Laffont, her landlord, why she doesn’t have the money to pay this week’s rent. You would probably guess she spent it all on the alcohol, but the truth is that Juliette was – after all – just a woman. And she really did take pride in the silk scarf she bought.
“Times are hard, that’s all, sir.”
“I can understand that, Juliette. I am not going to throw you on the streets; you will just pay me next week, no problem in that. However, I must insist on you paying double the sum. There has to be some compensation, some fine. You understand this Juliette, don’t you? We cannot let these things become dailiness. Don’t you agree?“ responded Mr.Laffont and looked at another man in the room.
“I suppose so,” answered Juliette.
“Splendid. You are good woman, Juliette. But I will also have to ask you for that medallion you have on your neck. Otherwise you could run away and I would be in a pretty pickle, you know. I will return it once everything is settled. Would you please give it to me?” said Mr.Laffont with rather sinister voice.
“I won’t, sir. I have it after my mother. But I will pay in time, don’t worry sir, I will.”
“I am afraid you don’t have much choice in this, dear Juliette.” She was afraid, unable to move a muscle and just watched as Mr.Laffont went around her and undone the chain on her neck.
“Thief,” she whispered silently.
“WHAT?!” shouted Mr.Laffont. “You dare to call me thief?! You? Of all the people?”
He picked his walking cane from the coat stand and in a second Juliette found herself on the ground with intense pain coming from her jaw. She did not mind blood in her mouth that much, what really frightened her was lack of anything solid in one particular place where – as she remembered – a tooth was not even a second ago. Mr.Laffont however was not thrilled or bothered by her sudden interest in her oral cavity and continued to do what he had learned so well with dogs. Juliette was not a person with vast military knowledge but she knew there would be little gain in counteroffensive so she curled up and accepted every stroke without resistance. She did scream occasionally, but not in defiance; only as a response to the pain coming from more and more spots on her body. The look of her silk scarf, only a few moments ago shining with angelic white color, was now rather pathetic due to all the dust and blood it soaked. It took her a few more seconds to realize that nor her scarf nor bruises on her back - now clearly visible through holes in her dress – are going to stop landlord’s anger. She picked all the strength and pride she had and raised a hand against a falling cane; and with loud cracking sound the strokes finally ended. She looked at the end of the wooden stick and when she did so, she screamed, for the cane was still intact. Juliette turned her eyes on her hand and found her thumb in a position that could be described as anything but natural. When she started to beg him to stop, her eyes finally filled with tears.
“Gerard, I think this is enough,” said the gentleman watching the whole show when Mr.Laffont slammed Juliette again.
“This floozy has called me a thief! Me, Pierre, me! “
“I know, but I am sure she has not meant it this way.”
“I am sorry Pierre, but I simply cannot stand ingratitude.”
“Yes, but I still think it would be appropriate to be little more merciful towards the lady.”
Gentleman then helped Juliette stand up and supported her until she left the house. She took the spoiled scarf, cleaned her face and sat on the pavement. And while she was thinking of ropes and lakes and bridges, the snow started to fall. She looked at the corner of the wall and saw few posters advertising some crazy musical show she would probably never even be able to afford going to, but mere fantasy of it together with cold feel of snowflakes on her bare shoulders was enough to remind her that although her life might had been even uglier than that steel tower engineers were erecting for Exposition Universelle, it was the life worth fighting for. And that her dignity was laughably small price to pay for another day or month of her life. She smiled, forgot the pain and once again entered Mr.Laffont’s house.
“I thought I told you I don’t want to see you ever again! You have exactly two days to pack your things and leave,” said Mr.Laffont when she saw her enter.
“I…am sorry. I apologize for what I have said,” whispered Juliette.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Their sins and lawless acts I will remember no more,” quoted Mr.Laffont the Bible in response and Juliette was grateful for his forgiveness and was looking forward to all the days that will follow this rather unlucky one. Days that will give her the chance to love and feel and breathe and hate and, most importantly, live.
“Times are hard, that’s all, sir.”
“I can understand that, Juliette. I am not going to throw you on the streets; you will just pay me next week, no problem in that. However, I must insist on you paying double the sum. There has to be some compensation, some fine. You understand this Juliette, don’t you? We cannot let these things become dailiness. Don’t you agree?“ responded Mr.Laffont and looked at another man in the room.
“I suppose so,” answered Juliette.
“Splendid. You are good woman, Juliette. But I will also have to ask you for that medallion you have on your neck. Otherwise you could run away and I would be in a pretty pickle, you know. I will return it once everything is settled. Would you please give it to me?” said Mr.Laffont with rather sinister voice.
“I won’t, sir. I have it after my mother. But I will pay in time, don’t worry sir, I will.”
“I am afraid you don’t have much choice in this, dear Juliette.” She was afraid, unable to move a muscle and just watched as Mr.Laffont went around her and undone the chain on her neck.
“Thief,” she whispered silently.
“WHAT?!” shouted Mr.Laffont. “You dare to call me thief?! You? Of all the people?”
He picked his walking cane from the coat stand and in a second Juliette found herself on the ground with intense pain coming from her jaw. She did not mind blood in her mouth that much, what really frightened her was lack of anything solid in one particular place where – as she remembered – a tooth was not even a second ago. Mr.Laffont however was not thrilled or bothered by her sudden interest in her oral cavity and continued to do what he had learned so well with dogs. Juliette was not a person with vast military knowledge but she knew there would be little gain in counteroffensive so she curled up and accepted every stroke without resistance. She did scream occasionally, but not in defiance; only as a response to the pain coming from more and more spots on her body. The look of her silk scarf, only a few moments ago shining with angelic white color, was now rather pathetic due to all the dust and blood it soaked. It took her a few more seconds to realize that nor her scarf nor bruises on her back - now clearly visible through holes in her dress – are going to stop landlord’s anger. She picked all the strength and pride she had and raised a hand against a falling cane; and with loud cracking sound the strokes finally ended. She looked at the end of the wooden stick and when she did so, she screamed, for the cane was still intact. Juliette turned her eyes on her hand and found her thumb in a position that could be described as anything but natural. When she started to beg him to stop, her eyes finally filled with tears.
“Gerard, I think this is enough,” said the gentleman watching the whole show when Mr.Laffont slammed Juliette again.
“This floozy has called me a thief! Me, Pierre, me! “
“I know, but I am sure she has not meant it this way.”
“I am sorry Pierre, but I simply cannot stand ingratitude.”
“Yes, but I still think it would be appropriate to be little more merciful towards the lady.”
Gentleman then helped Juliette stand up and supported her until she left the house. She took the spoiled scarf, cleaned her face and sat on the pavement. And while she was thinking of ropes and lakes and bridges, the snow started to fall. She looked at the corner of the wall and saw few posters advertising some crazy musical show she would probably never even be able to afford going to, but mere fantasy of it together with cold feel of snowflakes on her bare shoulders was enough to remind her that although her life might had been even uglier than that steel tower engineers were erecting for Exposition Universelle, it was the life worth fighting for. And that her dignity was laughably small price to pay for another day or month of her life. She smiled, forgot the pain and once again entered Mr.Laffont’s house.
“I thought I told you I don’t want to see you ever again! You have exactly two days to pack your things and leave,” said Mr.Laffont when she saw her enter.
“I…am sorry. I apologize for what I have said,” whispered Juliette.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Their sins and lawless acts I will remember no more,” quoted Mr.Laffont the Bible in response and Juliette was grateful for his forgiveness and was looking forward to all the days that will follow this rather unlucky one. Days that will give her the chance to love and feel and breathe and hate and, most importantly, live.
Rallix:
My battalion is going south-east, because we are told the Fascists are advancing from that way. Our orders are to hold the line, and prevent them from encircling the capital.
I lie in wait. Our company hunkers down, the negative temperature biting our skin with the wind, as we lay prone in the snow blanketed woods. I'm not exactly certain where we are; that's not my business, but I remember that we are somewhere between Moscow and Ryazan. The Germans are pushing Northeast from Tula, trying to surround us here, at the gates of Moscow.
The platoon scout suddenly rushes into our wooded enclosure. He talks hurriedly, almost hushed as he explains what he saw to the officers and sergeants. He sees panzer. But not just any panzers apparently. These are the famed 2nd Panzergruppe. Guderian's men. This doesn't surprise our officers too much, a look of something resembling resignation appearing on their faces.
Our radio operator buzzes to battalion, but AT support cannot be sent. They're already engaged to the south-west. The fight has already begun. A few minutes later, we can hear the buzzing engines of a plane nearing. We know better than to hope they are Soviet.
All of the hundred men in our company are suddenly like little mice trying to find a hole to escape to, the purr and whirr of a proverbial cat sliding through the sky over our position. Nobody can hope for a good turn of events if the Germans know where we are first. The plane leaves the way it came, and some level of momentary calm settles over us.
Another few minutes pass, and finally our look-outs locate the enemy. An infantry platoon are seen to be advancing with only a few Panzer from the west. Smiles are widening on our mugs as we get into position. We have enough AT rifles to handle a couple light-tanks. The way they are advancing out in the open, it seems they are going to fall straight into our hands. The officers agree to open fire when they are 500 arshin away.
Everyone moves carefully so as to not present an outline to the Germans. "We face panzergrenadier, today, Josip," my comrade Yegor says to me, grinning half-toothlessly. Everyone takes his position, clad in white like children pretending to be ghosts. I prop up my Nagant on an old stump, moss darkened and and icy.
We wait for just a minute more before the Germans reach the killing zone. The fire order is given loudly, and the thunderings of 7.62 ring in my ears. The Germans fall as wheat to a scythe. Our AT riflemen are placing the fire of their bellowing, powerful weapons onto the armour, who seem to have halted in their tracks, as their infantry support dies away. The AT fire seems largely ineffective just yet, and only now are we noticing that the panzergrenadiers never fired a shot at us.
Suddenly that changes, as accurate fire chatters from behind the enemy tanks. Dirt is kicked up by their bullets, and the Captain takes a look through his binoculars, staring for a brief moment. "Dermo!"
"Those were not Germans, they were prisoners," he says.
I then realize that I was killing my countrymen, who were being used as a screen.
The officers' minds trace logical lines as shots are traded by the Russians and Germans. "The enemy in the open field cannot hope to advance, so why be there? They certainly can't suppress us."
I take a short peek to the south, and instantly regret it. I rush to the Captain, and I tell him what I see.
"We've been flanked."
A dozen tanks are rushing straight toward us, no more than 700 Arshin away. The captain is immediately requesting support of any kind from battalion HQ.
It takes less than three minutes before their panzer are on us. They crush the pine under their treaded wheels, and we are cut down by the dozen as they advance from both sides. We throw AT grenades, and Yegor charges forward from cover, surviving just long enough to put a grenade in a track.
I am presented with two options. First, leave my cover and get shot. Second, stay in my cover, and get shot a bit later. German infantrymen are suppressing us, as well as the MGs on the tanks. I keep my head close to the ground to avoid losing it as long as possible, my breath nudging pine-needles.
I take a peek, and the enemy is hardly 50 meters from my position. I look ten meters to my right, and my sergeant in blown to hell by a HE shell. I pray to my god, and I lift myself up. A Mauser shot enters my abdomen, and a grenadier eyes me, standing there, bayonet fixed. He walks forward, our entire line decimated.
With failing strength, I throw my nagant like a javelin, missing him by a foot, the bayonet landing in the frozen dirt, rifle hanging in the air. My legs crumble beneath me. He steps towards me, unaffixing his bayonet, and dropping on one knee. He thrusts it into my heart, and cradles me as everything fades to black.
I lie in wait. Our company hunkers down, the negative temperature biting our skin with the wind, as we lay prone in the snow blanketed woods. I'm not exactly certain where we are; that's not my business, but I remember that we are somewhere between Moscow and Ryazan. The Germans are pushing Northeast from Tula, trying to surround us here, at the gates of Moscow.
The platoon scout suddenly rushes into our wooded enclosure. He talks hurriedly, almost hushed as he explains what he saw to the officers and sergeants. He sees panzer. But not just any panzers apparently. These are the famed 2nd Panzergruppe. Guderian's men. This doesn't surprise our officers too much, a look of something resembling resignation appearing on their faces.
Our radio operator buzzes to battalion, but AT support cannot be sent. They're already engaged to the south-west. The fight has already begun. A few minutes later, we can hear the buzzing engines of a plane nearing. We know better than to hope they are Soviet.
All of the hundred men in our company are suddenly like little mice trying to find a hole to escape to, the purr and whirr of a proverbial cat sliding through the sky over our position. Nobody can hope for a good turn of events if the Germans know where we are first. The plane leaves the way it came, and some level of momentary calm settles over us.
Another few minutes pass, and finally our look-outs locate the enemy. An infantry platoon are seen to be advancing with only a few Panzer from the west. Smiles are widening on our mugs as we get into position. We have enough AT rifles to handle a couple light-tanks. The way they are advancing out in the open, it seems they are going to fall straight into our hands. The officers agree to open fire when they are 500 arshin away.
Everyone moves carefully so as to not present an outline to the Germans. "We face panzergrenadier, today, Josip," my comrade Yegor says to me, grinning half-toothlessly. Everyone takes his position, clad in white like children pretending to be ghosts. I prop up my Nagant on an old stump, moss darkened and and icy.
We wait for just a minute more before the Germans reach the killing zone. The fire order is given loudly, and the thunderings of 7.62 ring in my ears. The Germans fall as wheat to a scythe. Our AT riflemen are placing the fire of their bellowing, powerful weapons onto the armour, who seem to have halted in their tracks, as their infantry support dies away. The AT fire seems largely ineffective just yet, and only now are we noticing that the panzergrenadiers never fired a shot at us.
Suddenly that changes, as accurate fire chatters from behind the enemy tanks. Dirt is kicked up by their bullets, and the Captain takes a look through his binoculars, staring for a brief moment. "Dermo!"
"Those were not Germans, they were prisoners," he says.
I then realize that I was killing my countrymen, who were being used as a screen.
The officers' minds trace logical lines as shots are traded by the Russians and Germans. "The enemy in the open field cannot hope to advance, so why be there? They certainly can't suppress us."
I take a short peek to the south, and instantly regret it. I rush to the Captain, and I tell him what I see.
"We've been flanked."
A dozen tanks are rushing straight toward us, no more than 700 Arshin away. The captain is immediately requesting support of any kind from battalion HQ.
It takes less than three minutes before their panzer are on us. They crush the pine under their treaded wheels, and we are cut down by the dozen as they advance from both sides. We throw AT grenades, and Yegor charges forward from cover, surviving just long enough to put a grenade in a track.
I am presented with two options. First, leave my cover and get shot. Second, stay in my cover, and get shot a bit later. German infantrymen are suppressing us, as well as the MGs on the tanks. I keep my head close to the ground to avoid losing it as long as possible, my breath nudging pine-needles.
I take a peek, and the enemy is hardly 50 meters from my position. I look ten meters to my right, and my sergeant in blown to hell by a HE shell. I pray to my god, and I lift myself up. A Mauser shot enters my abdomen, and a grenadier eyes me, standing there, bayonet fixed. He walks forward, our entire line decimated.
With failing strength, I throw my nagant like a javelin, missing him by a foot, the bayonet landing in the frozen dirt, rifle hanging in the air. My legs crumble beneath me. He steps towards me, unaffixing his bayonet, and dropping on one knee. He thrusts it into my heart, and cradles me as everything fades to black.
Vermillion_Hawk:
It was the end of November, but the street was still bathed in a radiant heat. The morning was coming to a close, and the streets were slowly waking up from their delayed sleep. It was Friday, but this was not the reason for the excitement which buzzed in the air in the plaza. Police were already cordoning off streets in preparation for the parade. Families and their children already started to line up in the plaza along the road the procession was to take. People in the apartments overlooking the streets set up chairs and portable tables, enjoying the afternoon’s entertainment from the comfort of their home. One person was even setting up an expensive colour camera to record. The media had already arrived, beginning to set up their bulky equipment, all of them eager to get a good shot of the guests of honor. At this thought, the man chuckled to himself, appreciative of the irony. He would have the best shot of all. The large Texan standing beside him mistook his gesture for actual mirth.
“It is pretty exciting, isn’t it?” said the Texan, a big grin on his face.
The man chuckled to himself.
“A day to remember.”
The Texan’s smile died when he saw that the lopsided grin on the man’s face never touched his eyes. A small chill lanced through him, despite the already increasing heat. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Not knowing what to say, the Texan told the man to be careful and made his way through the growing crowds, hoping to forget his encounter with the strange man in the company of more cheerful people.
The man’s thought swam on this day. The crowd parted around his motionless, statuesque form, nobody wanting to be near someone. Mothers admonished children who got too close, telling them to leave the crazy man alone. Another smile touched his lips, but he barely even acknowledged it in his mind. Suddenly he broke from his reverie, hearing the increased sounds of anticipation from the crowd. He looked at his wristwatch. 12:17, swiftly approaching the appointed time. The man resolved himself to movement. He pushed his way through the jostling crowds, drawing many cries of frustration and anger from the people he shoved aside as he made his way across the plaza to the building which dominated the street. The only thought running through his head now was that it was going to be a day to remember.
He ascended the stairs in the Book Depository, heading towards the sixth floor. The migrant workers who were going about their menial chores maintaining the building were oblivious to his presence, oblivious to anything but the tedium which they were occupied in. Not like they would have stopped him anyways. He was an employee. He opened the door to the sixth floor. Everything was as it had been in the hours of preparation prior to this moment. He glanced at his watch once again. 12:23. The appointed time fast approached. He made his way to the stacked boxes surrounding the window which commanded a clear view of the streets below, of all the insignificant people enjoying their insignificant lives, and of the road, empty now, which in just a few minutes would be occupied by the motorcade of the guest of honor. He took one last glance over the quiet cityscape beyond the plaza. A flag hung in what had now become a dead heat, limply showcasing its red, white and blue. The man then snapped himself out of his reverie and went to work. He removed the rifle which he had purchased months ago form its hiding place among the boxes. He disassembled it, going over the motions of inspection which he had practiced for this specific moment. Once he found everything to his satisfaction, he reassembled it and loaded it. As the minutes turned into seconds, even the dust motes circling the building seemed to freeze.
At last he spotted it. The black car coming down the road, flanked by its escorts. The man in the car was dressed in a black suit, his wife in pink. They waved to the cheering crowds, oblivious to the fate which would soon befall them. The car approached the street corner which the building squatted on. He took aim. It would be a day to remember alright. A day to remember.
“It is pretty exciting, isn’t it?” said the Texan, a big grin on his face.
The man chuckled to himself.
“A day to remember.”
The Texan’s smile died when he saw that the lopsided grin on the man’s face never touched his eyes. A small chill lanced through him, despite the already increasing heat. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Not knowing what to say, the Texan told the man to be careful and made his way through the growing crowds, hoping to forget his encounter with the strange man in the company of more cheerful people.
The man’s thought swam on this day. The crowd parted around his motionless, statuesque form, nobody wanting to be near someone. Mothers admonished children who got too close, telling them to leave the crazy man alone. Another smile touched his lips, but he barely even acknowledged it in his mind. Suddenly he broke from his reverie, hearing the increased sounds of anticipation from the crowd. He looked at his wristwatch. 12:17, swiftly approaching the appointed time. The man resolved himself to movement. He pushed his way through the jostling crowds, drawing many cries of frustration and anger from the people he shoved aside as he made his way across the plaza to the building which dominated the street. The only thought running through his head now was that it was going to be a day to remember.
He ascended the stairs in the Book Depository, heading towards the sixth floor. The migrant workers who were going about their menial chores maintaining the building were oblivious to his presence, oblivious to anything but the tedium which they were occupied in. Not like they would have stopped him anyways. He was an employee. He opened the door to the sixth floor. Everything was as it had been in the hours of preparation prior to this moment. He glanced at his watch once again. 12:23. The appointed time fast approached. He made his way to the stacked boxes surrounding the window which commanded a clear view of the streets below, of all the insignificant people enjoying their insignificant lives, and of the road, empty now, which in just a few minutes would be occupied by the motorcade of the guest of honor. He took one last glance over the quiet cityscape beyond the plaza. A flag hung in what had now become a dead heat, limply showcasing its red, white and blue. The man then snapped himself out of his reverie and went to work. He removed the rifle which he had purchased months ago form its hiding place among the boxes. He disassembled it, going over the motions of inspection which he had practiced for this specific moment. Once he found everything to his satisfaction, he reassembled it and loaded it. As the minutes turned into seconds, even the dust motes circling the building seemed to freeze.
At last he spotted it. The black car coming down the road, flanked by its escorts. The man in the car was dressed in a black suit, his wife in pink. They waved to the cheering crowds, oblivious to the fate which would soon befall them. The car approached the street corner which the building squatted on. He took aim. It would be a day to remember alright. A day to remember.
I thought your description of the violence was really effective, definitely evokes sympathy for Juliette. Technically it could be tidied up a little (a couple of the tenses got confused, I think) but it was a pretty powerful piece otherwise.
