Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Nicho's Writing Thread [Archives on Pg 47]

this world... is but a false site that we take in stride... the only truth is in our fingers that slap the keys... lets talk our lives and our future...

Haud , non vestri mendum. Is eram coffee's mendum. Is eram tardus is oriens quod vos didn't adepto is. Coffee est a storytelling must. Incendia is quod hire nonnullus espresso mocha.
Hehe. Funny for those who can read Latin
Sorry for any mistakes I made. It's been a long time since my last Latin class.
Don't tell my Latin teacher that I pretty much forgot it though. She'd eat me alive with some mustard and pickles, maybe barbecue style. Slap me on a plate with some bread and BBQ sauce lol
But is there going to be a Guardian Angels 3????????
I really love your stories. I'm pretty good at writing myself and I know a master when I see one. You just need some vocab tweaks. You should really consider a career as an author.

Say, the depression poem somewhat fits my mood now. . . .
Well-written. A bit rough in places, but still pretty.

But is there going to be a Guardian Angels 3????????

~Guardian Angel II~

Roche slammed the shovel into the hard ice-covered ground, laying what dried grasses or flowers he could find in the wilderness which was the field onto his friend's unmarked grave. As the cold cruel wind bit into the blisters that formed on his cracked hands, the last drop of tear hit the grave. He had none left to spare. They had buried him in his gear, rifle and all. And with his watch. Roche
couldn't bear to think of that familiar golden sparkle, the rhythmic ticking, the constant movement of the exquisite minute hands. No, not ever again.

He shouldered the shovel, looking for one final minute at the withered pink flowers scattering into the four winds, drifting off forever. Like Heinrich. Lost, gone, and swept away into time's endless terrifying journey forever...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Those Soviets have asked for it. The message screamed and etched itself painfully, excruciatingly on Roche's mind. The powerful engines roared over the messages from HQ and the chatter of the crew members. The column of Panzers advanced, a terrifying stream of steel, threads, cannon and dust clouds.

Miles behind, the rest of the army followed, storm troopers in their half-track APCs, carbines in hand, ready for deployment at any moment. Operation Barbarossa was well on its way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The 5th Panzers were issued simple orders. Storm the area South of Stalingrad, destroy any remaining Soviet forces and then push on. Vergeltungswaffe*, thats what they were.
Crush all opposition. The hand of the Fuhrer, the glory of the people.

Roche burned with rage, his eyes blazed hot, bulging in their sockets. The interior of the tank was a furnace, yet the fire that ignited in his soul made it feel like the icy weather outside. The hot blood coursed fast through his veins, only one word in his mind. Revenge.

The battle was a huge success, the enemy, or rather the diminshed ranks and remnants of them had routed hopelessly, driven across the great wild steppes. Filled with the panic of the world, they ran blindly, shot from the back by the victors.

Roche pushed on, his tank column pursued the enemy like hunters chasing a fox. The spirit of battle flushed his cheeks, trying desperately to quench his never-ending thirst for revenge.

But one plucky lucky group had stayed back. The Soviet rats had hid in a shellhole...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Molotov cocktail slammed into the tank's inpenetrable armor, exploding into a brilliant display of deadly fireworks, showering the ground with shards of soot stained glass.

More of the paraffin-filled terrors rained on Roche's tank. The Panzer belched forth long searing tongues of orange flame from every hatch. Like a dead comrade's hanging pale pink tongue...

As the amunition exploded in the interior, the hull was racked by violent convulsions. Like the frantical death throes of a dying man...

Bright sparks erupted from the spout of the barrels like the fireballs of a Roman candle. Silver rivulets of molten aluminium poured from the engine like tears. Like a horrified friend in tears...

The fiery lashes whipped Roche's thick uniform mercilessly, teasing his fingers, roasting his pale skin. He felt a curious sensation, both hot and cold at the same time.

The gunner swiftly opened the small escape hatch. Fresh winter air blew in, ventilating the asphyxiated crew. The hungry flames devoured the tank in minutes. Roche was the last to get out. As he scrambled out for dear life, that was an almighty boom, a sickening crunch of metal, a flash of bright light, the feeling of being lightless. Then all was darkness...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The four spotless white walls closed in on him, four silent white figures hovered around him. Each held a gruesome surgical instrument, a syringe, a knife, no.... Stop it...

One of the figures leaned forward, extending a faceless head, like a blank cipher. The smooth marbled like face rippled, a timeless surface. A bloodied and rusty serrated blade was gripped in its hand as it glided menacingly towards him. No... Get away... NO!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sweat streamed down his face onto the sheets as Roche sat up abruptly, his back arching violently, his fingers bending back. His breathing was rapid, shallow. There was a single bare bulb on the ceiling, providing a fading orange glow. Fat flies buzzed around, their elongated shadows played across the room. He was in a field hospital.

A doctor calmly walked by to his bed. Roche extended a shaky hand, grabbing to the manâs soiled coat.

Doctor Wilhelm sat on a rickety stool next to the lice-infected bed, facing his thirteenth patient for the day. He sighed; the weariness weighed him down like a lead bar. Shell shock, horrific amputations, and gangrene- he had faced it all.

Roche looked helplessly at the bandages wrapped around his leg. The hand of despair crept from its dark dank grave, clawing at his heart. He wanted so badly to return to the Front.

'You're at a base hospital, twenty miles South-East of Stalingrad.' Wilhelm rasped his voice hoarse after a day's bloody work. Literally.

'An explanation perhaps. According to your men, you were half way out when the tank exploded. You landed on a patch of straw fortunately. They got you here pretty fast.'

'Now the extraordinary thing was, both your legs were broken. The kneecaps were shattered. We considered an amputation. I say considered because of what happened yesterday.'

Wilhelm's tone picked up, the breath coming in short bursts now. His moustache quivered with heightened excitement.

'Something happened here last night. Just when I made my last rounds, I saw a bright light right at your bed. Hovering about, a little orb. Its radiance was that of a full, setting blood-red moon. Just as I entered to make light of what was happening, this mysterious satellite exploded, into a multitude of vivid particles. Just like those scarlet and green flares you send out before an attack. Blow me, when I examined you for any trauma, your bones were back to normal. We left the casts on just in case.'

'Ha, must be the work here...must have been dreaming, I must say what I saw was absurd. Should apply for retirement soon. Still the pension they dole out these days is smaller than a Soviet's ****! If you need me, call a nurse.'

Roche sat there, Wilhelm's words struck him like Zeus' mighty thunderbolts. Wild thoughts raced to his mind, was it a sign? No...no it couldn't be. The dead are gone...beyond return. It gave him the creeps thinking about it. He grappled with the shadowy fancies that plagued his mind. Perhaps the doctor was imagining? Yes, yes...that was it, just like what the doctor said...a figment of the his imagination. Stress, ah poor chap. He laughed aloud at that thought. It seemed so ridiculous, so unbelievable to him. Hah! Red glowing balls? Miracle cures? Bah! Yes it all made sense now...Stress....Dreams...Madness...

He was still muttering as a brunette nurse walked in, distributing newspapers, food and letters. Roche sat in his bed, shaking his head like a wet German Shepherd, in vain to get the images out of his mind. He did not even look up or stir as she dropped a grimy parcel wrapped in grease paper on his bed clothes.

Long after she left...Roche reached out slowly, his motions deliberately leisure-like as though the air was a viscous liquid, reaching out to grab at a fragile link to the human world. Must be a food parcel from home he thought. Bless them.

Time seemed to slow to a screeching halt, those two whole minutes ticking by like two dreary centuries...A single bead of sweat flowed down his nose...with an almighty splash...it hit the glass of a sparkling golden watch...as a red flash passed subtly on it's surface.

A crumpled note fell to the floor, like a dried autumn leave, floating...twirling...Three ink-smudged words in a familiar hand...

'I'll be watching.'


*(Revenge Weapon in German, the term actually referred to the series of missiles the Germans used in WWII.)

For interested people....it's actually 1342 words long.

Now, it'll be another long wait before a possible sequel. And I'll write it based on your feedback and level of liking.

Anyone game for GA III?

Beautiful smilies Nichodemus, You've outdone yourself once again! It is truly a work of art! The setting was great, you chose Soviet Russia in winter time. Brilliant wordsmithing.

Thanks!

Actually DD....Hitler chose it himself >_>. How thoughtful, now I can write something on it.

Prepare for history to be changed!

Hm... Hitler made a bad choice for a battle, you made a good choice for the story, haha!

Really good. PRetty, nice description, cool story. You describe a lot- it would be best to refocus the use of adverbs slightly to make it flow better. Nut this is a minor problem. Overall, it's really good.

Wow! All I can say is wow. Exxcelent story Nich. Well, I can't wait for the third. Maybe have him get out of the hospital and back into the war and have him in some extreme battle. Would love to read that. Anyways awesome story, and if I had to rate it the chart would explode the decentigrate.

Wow! All I can say is wow. Exxcelent story Nich. Well, I can't wait for the third. Maybe have him get out of the hospital and back into the war and have him in some extreme battle. Would love to read that. Anyways awesome story, and if I had to rate it the chart would explode the decentigrate.

Nice job!

As he scrambled out for dear life, that was an almighty boom, a sickening crunch of metal, a flash of bright light, the feeling of being lightless. Then all was darkness...

Hmm...due to the increasing amount of work being shifted from the Mystery and Terror genre, the literacy works that I post will definitely not always be corresponding to the genres.

Now I will post a poem, suitable for all you depressed folks

Incidentally, I was happy when I was writing it. Don't take me as some New Age Goth though. >_>

It's sort of rough around the edges and the flow isn't always there. I may consider rewriting it. For now, just enjoy it.

Like Suicide

The piano keys haunt his dreams,
Those dreaded last words it seems.
Alone in this world,
An oyster with a single pearl.

The candle burns all the faster,
Fizzle and crackle it signals disaster.
Black wax drip like tears,
Attracting his darkest fears.

The grandfather clock swings and groans,
Tick tock it growls and moans.
The mahogany body sways,
An ancient one breaks and decays.

The cigarette smoke trails and swirls,
Grey beasts their wings unfurl.
Acrid odors tame his nose,
Courage I need to fight my foes.

Half a dozen pink devils in his hand,
Life why should it extend?
A quick rush of water,
And no longer will he falter.

Green ink smudges the paper,
Intoxicating is the scented oil vapor.
A last mention of a name,
None to see and none to blame.

Swing of a fist the frame is down,
Shattering in glass it drowns.
Those entrancing eyes staring at him
His own steel grey and grim.

His phone is vibrating incessantly,
The screen shines cheerfully.
Checking the number he covers it,
White teeth grind and grit.

The smooth cold metal,
A scarlet rose's wrinkled petals.
Nothing matters anymore,
Except the round deep gun bore.

He loads it one final time fondly,
One last look at the photo sullenly.
A path to the other side.
No more the pushing torrential tide.

Without hesitation the trigger pulls,
Laughing at all the aimless fools.
Copper bullet hungrily bites flesh,
Through vulnerable skin it dashes.

The doorknob hurriedly turns and creaks,
Too late the situation's bleak.
The door opens to silence,
A scene of death and violence.

A harsh shriek of shock,
You cannot turn back the clock.
A phone drops and shatters,
Amidst the blood it clatters.

Rain taps at the windows,
Dark running stains on the pillows.
The melted candle is extinguished,
Yet another fire has vanished.

No one will mourn the dead,
From memories the unwanted will fade.
He has crossed that line,
Into the welcoming arms of his kind.

~Nicho~