He looks at his rusted old helmet with the ragged threads and the engraved number that’s etched across it: Pvt. Number 04960204. As he sighs out the remaining days of his life the shit goes with it, and the cigarette smoke. He lifts his hand to his forehead and rubs his temple – his fallen temple. The scars of forlorn will always be etched into his mind, just like the mere number of himself within the ranks. He presses hard against his knee and forces his tired back up, while whispering to himself the sweet sincerity of his battered strength. Watched by a thousand eyes in the dead man’s marsh; a thousand vacant eyes eclipsed by the void of themselves. Yet, he bears down on himself and stands tall, with gun in hand, and a soldier’s grimace. He takes one last, long, drag on his cigarette and flicks it to the floor, then sighs deeply. Taking his Luger and running his forefinger along the barrel, he quietly thinks of the lost souls for the worthless cause of distant battles. Then, slowly breathing, he places the barrel by his head and slowly plays with it upon his stricken grief. He squeezes the trigger and drops to his knees; time stops. The angels stare and wait for him to hit the floor like the last raindrop of the storm, whilst supple smoke rises with the air, and moves as a stagnant block through the breeze. It slowly disperses, and leaves a dead silence within the four walls of the bunker. He lays motionless on the floor. The last ray of light shines through the cracked window, and along the floor of the stone room; it illuminates like the crimson sky of tomorrow’s dawn, and radiates the sallow eyes of the fallen soldier. He was lost within his own war. 08/05/07 - L. A. Matthews
Hey great work ! You certainly know how to cheer us up on the tuesday following a bankholiday weekend ! This is so well written I actually felt the emotion of it, perhaps you could make this a regular feature on a monday just to add to the atmosphere of that gloomy first working day of the week.
Darn boy. I don know where Forlorn is but that is one of the miteiest piece of literetoor I ever red. Now I may not know a lot about books but I know a thin or 2 abat biznis so if yo ever need a manager now wel yo just holler n the Boss will see yo rite with a mighty 12.5%. An yoo cant git a better dill this side a dixie. PS judgin by the cone tent of yo story - n yo clothes - I would say that yo is workin for the Frinch Resistens. Boss is very good at workin thins out(internit person in charge, pliz insert 1 o those yellow faces that winks here)
That was beautiful, sad, but beautiful. You create a wonderful mental image and your style of writing is so elaborate!
LA you've have written exceptionally good work before, but this example of your art really demonstrates that you have a professional style that will appeal to many readers. If William Hill accept my bet I would like to wager that one day you will be a highly regarded writer, as well as a person, and I hope that I will hang around long enough to collect my winnings. Looking forward to the next masterpiece.
is no problem you should come my place one day I say very sad things like about how my pet dog she die and you write it down and then we laugh and make lot of money as writers
