Loner

[Sniperwhere]

There's some background to this. It was, in fact, my english class's midterm assignment. Since I had guidelines to follow, not to mention a deadline to work with, I didn't think it would be all that great. So you can kinda imagine my surprise when the instructor chose mine as her favorite.

 

So here were the guidelines. We had to have it more than 400 words(no problems there.), it had to contain 3 cited facts(little tricky) and had to be revolved around one of a few images the instructor selected for us(ouch)

 

The image I chose was that of what appeared to be an old man walking through a snowy field holding a cane with a bird on his arm. She said we could write about anything so long as it incorporated the image some how.... so I did.

 

Hope you enjoy.

 

 

 

 

He simply walked alone. He didn’t know where he went or why he walked, he just did. He carried all he had: a hat, a cane, and a weathered jacket just barely keeping him warm. His bird perched on his arm was his only companion.

 

It was cold out. Snow lay on the ground, and the trees were dry and leafless, dead from the frost. He looked at them as he passed, thinking about how fitting a path he’s chosen, recalling his past and it’s relation to the dead tree’s and lifeless plains that surrounded him. His thoughts went back to the war; to the battleground in which he lost all he loved. It was snowing then too, but back then, it was red, not white, and the sound and smell of death surrounded him. Bodies in the snow, both friend and foe lie lifeless in the cold ice. He continued on his lonely path, thankful for the quiet this place offered, and slowly, but willingly, slipping back into the past. He recalled that sad day, the day he lost everything. His squad mates were his friends; his family. They were all he had.

 

It was 15 years ago for him when he was not but 25 years old. Life in the military was hard, but he had nowhere to go. His friends were always with him, and he had no family back home. They were out in Russia, in the snowy arctic tundra in the far north. The orders were given in the morning, and they were to carry it out the following day. They were to assist local Russian Militia in tracking down a group that fled north after a failed assassination attempt against a Spetsnaz VIP. They met up with the militia the following morning. It was 90 miles away and there was too much snow to drive, so they had to hike it. He walked for hours it seemed. The sun was in the west and there was still plenty of ground to be covered. He didn’t mind it, though. The sights were amazing. The land was filled for miles on end with the purest white snow he’d ever seen. The trees were dead and gnarled from months of snow that never melted, but even then, they seemed so beautiful. Branches twisted and stretched out, as if reaching for the other trees around them. Birds as white as the snow around them perched on the branches, singing without a care in the world. He’d never seen anything like it before in his life.

 

Then it happened. A crack like thunder ripped the peaceful air. A soldier ahead of him dropped to the ground, and he knew exactly what had happened. It was gunfire. At that instant, another soldier screamed to find cover, but before the man could react, another shot rang through the air, hitting him in the leg. Everything happened so fast after that. Men in white camo came storming out of the bush covered hills. Bullets were flying in all directions. The man couldn’t do anything, the bullet was stuck in the bone and he couldn’t move his leg. He lay there in the snow bleeding out. He reached for his sidearm, the standard issue M9 9mm Beretta Pistol, and started firing at the white suited targets pouring out of the hills. Another shot rang towards him and struck the gun, sending fragmented metal into his arms and disabling the weapon. There was nothing he could do.

 

He sat there in the red snow, watching as one after another dropped. Next to the man now lay the body of his best friend. He ran over to help him, but ended up with a back full of shrapnel from a grenade blast. This went on for an hour, and the whole time, he could do nothing but stare into the lifeless eyes of his friend. He grew faint from blood loss, and passed out before the battle was over. When he came to, he was in a MASH, a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, with bandages up both arms and on his right leg. He couldn’t remember what happened at first but as his memory slowly returned, he wished he didn’t remember. The bloody snow, the gunfire, the body of his friend lying next to him, it all came back to him. At first, he was too shocked to do much, but as it wore off, he started to cry. He had lost everything once again.

 

His wounds had never really healed, and he was confined to using a cane. He could no longer stay in the military due to his injuries, but since he had nowhere left to go, he just started wandering. He picked a direction, and walked. And now he finds himself there, in the middle of a snow filled field with dead trees, thinking about the past that lead him to where he is. The thoughts of his lost friends sadden him again, but at the same time, he’s a bit thankful for the whole thing. He may have nothing but the clothes on his back, but he gained something much better than a materialistic object. Peace and quiet, and like the birds he saw that day so long ago, not a care in the world.

[gormonk]

himmmmmm, made me think

[Fifoo]

Your story is a very touching one... I love the end with the concept of peace and serenity that surrounds it, the detachment that a man can have on the vision of his own world and to disregard any materialism, is it the beginning of wisdom? It is both sad and noble. Kudos given. :thumbsup:

 

However, just a little criticism on the structure of it if you don't mind. If I understand well the story, there is a technical incompatibility in its evolution between the fourth and fifth stanza, unless the subject that I lead by example is not the same character in the story and in this case it would be good to be a little more specific in the narrative technique to avoid doubt.

 

 

Then it happened. A crack like thunder ripped the peaceful air. A soldier ahead of him dropped to the ground, and he knew exactly what had happened. It was gunfire. At that instant, another soldier screamed to find cover, but before the man could react, another shot rang through the air, hitting him in the leg. Everything happened so fast after that. Men in white camo came storming out of the bush covered hills. Bullets were flying in all directions. The man couldn’t do anything, the bullet was stuck in the bone and he couldn’t move his leg. He lay there in the snow bleeding out. He reached for his sidearm, the standard issue M9 9mm Beretta Pistol, and started firing at the white suited targets pouring out of the hills. Another shot rang towards him and struck the gun, sending fragmented metal into his arms and disabling the weapon. There was nothing he could do.

 

He sat there in the red snow, watching as one after another dropped. Next to the man now lay the body of his best friend. He ran over to help him, but ended up with a back full of shrapnel from a grenade blast. This went on for an hour, and the whole time, he could do nothing but stare into the lifeless eyes of his friend. He grew faint from blood loss, and passed out before the battle was over. When he came to, he was in a MASH, a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, with bandages up both arms and on his right leg. He couldn’t remember what happened at first but as his memory slowly returned, he wished he didn’t remember. The bloody snow, the gunfire, the body of his friend lying next to him, it all came back to him. At first, he was too shocked to do much, but as it wore off, he started to cry. He had lost everything once again.

If that is the same person in the highlided quotes, it would be better to write in the fifth stanza: "He tried desperately to crawl towards him to help," or, perhaps: "Jumping over obstacles with his one good leg, he tried to help him," or better for showing the character's determination: "Jumping over obstacles despite his injured leg, he tried to help him, but in vain, he ended up with..." and so on. You see, there are several possible narrative techniques and styles, especially when you're not limited by the number of words.The hardest part is finding the style that goes perfectly with the spirit in which you want to tell your story or set the hero's psychology: dramatic, lyric, etc...

 

Keep up the good work! :smile:

Edited June 6, 2010 by Fifoo

[Sniperwhere]

Ah so you noticed that.

 

My issue has always been when I'm rushed to complete something, my structure can break. I've noticed that and it really bothers me myself when I read it so I've been meaning to go back and fix that. But other than that, I'm glad you like it. :)

[Maharg67]

Very excellent! :thumbsup:

 

While the story could use some polishing, writing short stories is very difficult and editing is a necessary pain, I generally applaud your work. :woot:

 

I really mean it about the difficulty of writing short stories. I have been writing many years and writing a short story, the shorter the more difficult, has often been for me more difficult than writing a dozen novel chapters. :sweat:

Edited June 7, 2010 by Maharg67