"Worry not; my people are merciful."
Sweat covers the young man's forehead in a fine sheen, a damp second skin owing more to the omnipresent desert heat than the fear which roots him to the spot.
"You should never have come. Our cause is just; how can you help but fall before our righteous advance?"
A painful feeling builds in his throat, and he shudders violently for a moment before realizing it is his own nervous reflex, a gulp of terror gone unnoticed. He swallows uncomfortably, making sure to sit as still as possible. His feet are cramping in his one-size-too-small boots, and a tell-tale warmth spreading along the back of his neck and arms warns of a bad sunburn come the morning sun. And yet, the boy feels none of this; his attention is focused solely on the malformed lump of discomfort which has been growing slowly deep in his gut, squirming tendrils of dread which keep him rooted to the spot.
Well, that and the gun.
Blinking a fiery bead of sweat from his eye, the young man's trained eye absorbs itself in the minutiae of his mortality. The weapon's barrel is machine-rifled, as are all modern firearms; but he notices that this particular length has been hand-replaced, for it sports a rather serious gain twist which could only have come from a human machining error. Wondering idly whether the requisite gain in rate of spin from chamber to muzzle will make any difference to his pain receptors, he shifts his weight and does his best to look stoic for the cameras. There's no chance of the misshapen barrel working in his favor; at this distance, the speaker would have to be blind and drunk as a goat to even chance missing such a shot.
Still, hope springs eternal.
"...of your regime of terror. Tremble in fear."
The presentation is coming to a close. It must be after midnight back home; his wandering thoughts cross the barriers of time and space, coasting down the Mediterranean and out across the dark Atlantic, finally coming to rest outside a second-story window in the middle of a desolate two-lane street in Quincy, Illinois. His parents sleep fitfully; his father in particular tosses and turns, back pain a constant reminder of youthful indiscretions that often become exaggerated epics of derring-do when the old man's had a few too many glasses of red. The good-china stories, his mother calls them, for they only seem to reach their true potential in the best of company. Coworkers, school principals and ministers have all graced this venerable dishwear; the young man imagines it will see action once again the night his family receives the news. Can you imagine, waking to hear your flesh-and-blood died half a world away, while you lay dreaming?
The discordant ratchet of a well-oiled rifle bolt heralds the death of hope. The speech is over; the players have spoken. All that remains is for the band to play them off, a catchy showtune or dramatic finish signaling the audience that the end is near. Today, the closing theme is a short burst from an automatic rifle. The ghost of a smile creeps across the young man's lips as the attendant ties the blindfold, contemplating how willfully mistaken is modern theatre.
How many dramatic changes are heralded by grand trumpets in life? How many by gunfire?
Hmm. That came out a bit more overweeningly dramatic than intended. I thought I was pretty weak when it came to narrative, especially concerning realistic dialogue, so I thought I'd try this writing exercise. Essentially, you glance at a random picture and then write about it. Judging from how little I employ actual conversation, I imagine I've got quite a ways to go. Oh well.
Here's the picture, by the way. Hit random in Google Images, don't know where it's from.
Night.
Sweat covers the young man's forehead in a fine sheen, a damp second skin owing more to the omnipresent desert heat than the fear which roots him to the spot.
"You should never have come. Our cause is just; how can you help but fall before our righteous advance?"
A painful feeling builds in his throat, and he shudders violently for a moment before realizing it is his own nervous reflex, a gulp of terror gone unnoticed. He swallows uncomfortably, making sure to sit as still as possible. His feet are cramping in his one-size-too-small boots, and a tell-tale warmth spreading along the back of his neck and arms warns of a bad sunburn come the morning sun. And yet, the boy feels none of this; his attention is focused solely on the malformed lump of discomfort which has been growing slowly deep in his gut, squirming tendrils of dread which keep him rooted to the spot.
Well, that and the gun.
Blinking a fiery bead of sweat from his eye, the young man's trained eye absorbs itself in the minutiae of his mortality. The weapon's barrel is machine-rifled, as are all modern firearms; but he notices that this particular length has been hand-replaced, for it sports a rather serious gain twist which could only have come from a human machining error. Wondering idly whether the requisite gain in rate of spin from chamber to muzzle will make any difference to his pain receptors, he shifts his weight and does his best to look stoic for the cameras. There's no chance of the misshapen barrel working in his favor; at this distance, the speaker would have to be blind and drunk as a goat to even chance missing such a shot.
Still, hope springs eternal.
"...of your regime of terror. Tremble in fear."
The presentation is coming to a close. It must be after midnight back home; his wandering thoughts cross the barriers of time and space, coasting down the Mediterranean and out across the dark Atlantic, finally coming to rest outside a second-story window in the middle of a desolate two-lane street in Quincy, Illinois. His parents sleep fitfully; his father in particular tosses and turns, back pain a constant reminder of youthful indiscretions that often become exaggerated epics of derring-do when the old man's had a few too many glasses of red. The good-china stories, his mother calls them, for they only seem to reach their true potential in the best of company. Coworkers, school principals and ministers have all graced this venerable dishwear; the young man imagines it will see action once again the night his family receives the news. Can you imagine, waking to hear your flesh-and-blood died half a world away, while you lay dreaming?
The discordant ratchet of a well-oiled rifle bolt heralds the death of hope. The speech is over; the players have spoken. All that remains is for the band to play them off, a catchy showtune or dramatic finish signaling the audience that the end is near. Today, the closing theme is a short burst from an automatic rifle. The ghost of a smile creeps across the young man's lips as the attendant ties the blindfold, contemplating how willfully mistaken is modern theatre.
How many dramatic changes are heralded by grand trumpets in life? How many by gunfire?
Hmm. That came out a bit more overweeningly dramatic than intended. I thought I was pretty weak when it came to narrative, especially concerning realistic dialogue, so I thought I'd try this writing exercise. Essentially, you glance at a random picture and then write about it. Judging from how little I employ actual conversation, I imagine I've got quite a ways to go. Oh well.
Here's the picture, by the way. Hit random in Google Images, don't know where it's from.
Night.
11:46 PM |
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