EXERCISE Scene Challenge - Final Moments

Discussion in 'REFINING WRITING' started by SlamifiedBuddafied, Dec 11, 2014.

  1. The scene is a battlefield, whatever field where warfare is waged which pops into your mind. Spanning from the ancient years of Babylon to the futuristic planes of intergalactic warfare between Mars and Sirius and the myriad of wars between. You may see through either the first or third person of your final moments. Be it an act of courage or an act of futility, that will be up to your brain to conceive.

    I'll have something myself in due time.
     
  2. "Ah...man. I guess...Heh, I guess I screwed up huh?" Runali Lev, captain of the StarDusk pirates rested on the floor of the Coral Pearl, their ship, with her head propped on the swordswoman's lap. Her hands rested in the puddle of blood that was slowly forming.

    "No. You did nothing wrong. We escaped the navy because of you. You've done more than you think- you've impacted this world way more than you think. You'll be fine Captain, just hold on." Despite the situation, Alicia stayed calm as she held one of Runali's hands. She couldn't panic though, she had no choice but to stay calm. The only one who had a good sense of medical training was Nolan, and he was panicking already. If she were to start, who knew what condition the cook would be in.

    Runali looked around at the small crew she had. Nolan was diligently working to try and stop the blood from two bullet wounds that hit their Captain. Alicia was giving him support... Ray and Luro weren't too far away, checking the to make sure no one had followed them- at least that's what she assumed. "Remember-... Remember when we faced death? Davy told us not to die....again. Do you think...three years is too soon?"

    "You're not going to die Captain. You'll be fine, you have to stay strong!"

    "It's alright Alicia...I know you're being brave for Nolan." Her head turned when Luro and Ray walked over.

    "How is she?" By the tearful look Nolan gave them, they knew that she only had so long before that light gave away in her eyes.

    "You're the best captain we've had."

    This made Runali laugh a little, which made her cough. "I'm the only captain you've had... You guys are a hell of a crew though. Sorry for such a sad goodbye."

    "Goodbyes? You're going to shake this off Captain. We'll share drinks and Ray will play your favorite songs, eh?"

    Again, Runali laughed, ignoring the pain it brought. "Ah, it's no big deal guys. Just keep the StarDusk name alive, cool? No need for more sad goodbyes. As long as I'm not forgotten, I won't die...or however that saying went." She went silent for a moment and then smiled. "For a dying person, I'm sure talking a lot."

    Nolan frowned a little. "Please Captain, don't say that. We can fix this."

    Runali slowly brought her hand up in a salute and nodded to them again. If she was going to die, at least she made it this far. At least her name could go down in history as one of the great pirates.

    "It was never about conquering anything...it was always...the freedom."


    ...Went differently than I planned. But, eh it's fiiiine, here's mine.
     
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  3. The desert is a cold place at night. Perhaps it was the stark contrast to the heat of the day, or perhaps a lack of obstacles allowed cold winds to chill any it found. Whichever it was, it didn't stop him from shivering. He wished he could build a fire, but he wouldn't know how. Even if he did, he was too afraid to wander out. Soldiers had fighting in the streets for the past few days. He wasn't a soldier, he just lived here. The militia he never asked for had been in an engagement he had nothing to do with; fighting foreign soldiers whose agenda he knew nothing about. It was just fighting for him and he was caught in the middle. Curled up in a tin shack on a cold night while both sides prowled the streets, looking for each other. Both sides would most likely shoot him on sight for fear that he was working with their enemy. Any authority he could go to would place the protection of their homeland on a higher priority than finding out whether he was innocent enough to live. The child coughed in her sleep.
    He had carried this girl when he had seen her on the street, curled up and holding her stomach. She looked no older than 7. She had been screaming. That scream a child makes when it is hurt. That almost primal crying and bawling a child will use to beg any and all adults to comfort it, in what is currently the most painful thing it has ever experienced in its life. We all remember it. We all made it at one point in our lives. He remembers one time, when he fell from a tin roof and broke his ankle. He screamed and cried, his face scrunched up and holding his foot, simply repeating, "Ummah... Ummah.." as he cried for his mother. She had made the same sounds through bloody coughs. She had cried true tears of pain. Not dramatic and romantic sniffles. She had scrunched her lips and screamed for mama. For a morbid second, he thought about how close it sounded to a tantrum. When children cry it is almost always real.

    When he saw her, curled around a wound in her stomach that had been made by a stray bullet from a careless soldier, he couldn't bring himself to leave her. He wanted to run, his whole mind screamed at him to run away from the shooting. Away from the lead slugs that ripped by like angry hornets. But the instinct to help a child couldn't be fought. Of course, it wasn't a heroic rescue. He had stuck his hand out from cover, grabbed her foot and dragged her into cover with him. She let herself, but he thinks he might have hurt her. But what else could he have done? It didn't matter. When he carried her here, she cried all the way and by the time he set her down, her screaming had become a rasping cough until she passed out. He thought she was dead. She probably is. He wondered who her parents were. It made him think of his parents.

    He was almost 28 years old. A full grown man, but here, when the entire city; the only city he had ever known; turned into a buzzing hive of hatred and fear with the threat of death and pain at every corner... he wanted his parents. He wanted to be a little boy and he wanted to hug his mother and cry. He wanted her to hold him and tell him it was okay, that there was nothing to be afraid about. He wanted his father to pick him up and protect him, like he did when he hurt his ankle all those years ago. He felt ashamed, a full grown man wanting the comfort of mother and father, but he couldn't help it. All the fear he had felt in the past few days, all the things a few days had shown him were too much. He had seen a man lose his legs today. Yesterday, an old woman had been shot not too far from where he stood... he could still hear her moaning and crying when he ran away. Before that, he saw what the human body looked like on the inside.

    He wanted mama. He wanted papa. He wanted someone to comfort him. He curled up and he cried, he was so scared. He didn't want to die, he was afraid. This wasn't fair, he hadn't done anything. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to, it hurt too much. He heard the sounds of automatic fire somewhere far away and the fear forced him to cry a little more quietly. If the militia found him, the same one sworn to protect his homeland and its people, they would shoot him for fear that he would tell the Americans where they were. If the Americans found him, they would shoot him because he might tell the militia. He had seen it happen. At first soldiers say they'd never do it, but they did. People don't think when they're holding guns and think their lives might be on the line. They just shoot. He didn't want to get shot. Not like the little girl. He didn't want to die like she did. He wanted to go home. He wanted to drink a cool drink and pretend nothing was wrong with the world. He wanted to sleep in his bed and wake up and go to work.

    The child coughed. He gasped and looked up at her. She coughed again and when she was done she coughed some more. Little specks of blood flew from her mouth with each hack. He tried to gather some strength. He tried asking her how she felt. She started to cry again. And it was loud. She bawled and screamed and then she did it again. She called for mom. She begged for mom, blustered about how it hurt and she was scared through her lips. From those same lips flowed blood and drool. She started coughing again and it looked like she couldn't breath. This scared her even more and she cried harder. He tried to do something, anything. He whispered words that would comfort her, words that he knew held no meaning. He tried to clean her lips with his clothes. She had stopped crying and was simply coughing and wheezing. Her eyes darted from him to the ceiling and back. She was dying and she knew it. She tried to cry but couldn't. Her face wrinkled up, but nothing came out. He didn't know what else to do. So he held her. And her coughing died down a little.

    He held her and tried to stroke her back. He didn't know what good it would do, but he didn't know what else to do but hold the dying child who reeked of blood, dirt, and sweat. Then again, so did he, except for the blood. She was just wheezing now, her breaths were these dry little rasps. He cried again. For her and himself and everyone he had ever known. They were probably all dead. He missed them. Even if they weren't, he probably wouldn't see them again. He was so scared. He was so, so scared. The child's breathing was nearly silent now. He had to stop sobbing to hear her. He listened and it fell silent. No breathing. No coughing. No crying.

    Her final moments had been filled with fear and confusion, but most of all they had been filled with pain. Pain from the bullet in her body and pain from the separation of her and her mother whom she loved so much. Who knows where she was. Did she know her daughter was dead? Was she dead? He put the child down. Her brown eyes were still half-way open. Eyes that would never grow old and look back on a full life. Eyes that would never again go to school and learn for a bright future. Eyes that were dead.

    Oh god, he didn't want to die. He didn't want to die. He was scared. He was so scared.



    "Whenever you drop bombs, you're going to hit civilians."
    -Barry Goldwater


    * "Ummah" is Arabic for mother (or mom).
     
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  4. (Here's a rather short one)

    Finally, at the day of reckoning... We face it's will. The will that refuses to let us continue. The will that refuses... to allow us our right, our self-control... Today is the day we put behind our differences, the day we end all wars, and yet, it is the day we deny our god... We stand before it as it gazes at us from beneath it's bandaged eyes. I ready the knights and soldiers of my country along with that of the others, for upon this twilight, we stand. Stand billions strong against a common foe. They who birthed us, they who led us. They who said naught but four a word, blackened tears soaking their face.

    "My sir... I apologize."

    They knelt, and we charged. Charged, faster than we've ever charged at each other over oh so many ages, and then I saw him.. A cloaked man who stood behind our god. The man seen throughout all of time. "The Merchant of Life and Death"... "The Creator". I stopped running, stood hesitant as my soldiers and the soldiers of other men passed me.

    He lay his hand on the back of our god, removing his hood with his other hand.
    "Fear not... And have no need to fear for them. For they shall be reborn..."

    All he had to do was blink. The world went dark, and when I could see once more, they who charged had vanished, and I was alone. He blinked once more and I was suddenly toward him. I stood frozen in fear, not even able to soil myself, as he lay his dark skinned hand on my chest.

    "No need to worry, my dear Vaughn... You, like all the others, Shall be..." He paused as if to think. "reborn."

    Those were the last words I heard before my consciousness was thrown into an state of seemingly perpetual euphoria...

    . . . . . . . . .

    The last words I heard..

    . . . . . .

    Before I-
     
  5. The Keyblade War - Battle and Tragedy Scene

    KSSH! A sound of clashing metal rang out into the air as a golden armored warrior blocked the strike of an offender's key shaped blade with his own. Ear piercing sounds of clanging and scraping metal flooded the desolate battlefield, and the burnt smell of sparks filled the air all around. The golden armored warrior was a keyblade master of Light, and his name was Raylun. His offender was an ink black armored, keyblade wielder of darkness with a name he did not care to know. Raylun used his free hand to cartwheel dodge and barely escape the deadly flames of a blazing fire ball that erupted from the end of the black armored warriors keyblade. Raylun's feet slid across the dirt, but he regained his balance and became aware of the throbbing pain that he felt in his hand. His hands were beginning to feel numb from holding the keyblade for so long and blocking hits. Luckily his face was protected underneath his helmet from the heat that could've scorched his face if he had not been wearing it.

    "Embrace the darkness within your heart." Demanded the Black armorded warrior who raised his hand upward to cause a large bolt of lightning to fall down upon the earth. An ear bursting explosion of thunder was heard when the lightning met the ground, and Raylun had back flipped just in time to avoid a painful death. Raylun ignored the fools words and wouldn't waste a single word of his own towards him. He readied himself for the offender's next attack and was careful to watch the other fights between many other warriors that were happening at the same time. Just then, the black armored warrior sprung high in the air and appeared to split into three different warriors.

    Raylun knew it was just a trick, but he had to be sure to hit the right target or else he could risk taking a fatal blow. The three landed to the ground and surrounded Raylun - charging for him from all sides. He knew what would do the trick as he quickly lifted his own silver keyblade and several balloon shaped orbs of energy flashed up above him. The orbs of the Balloonra spell scattered all around and would target the real dark warrior like heat seeking missiles while exploding upon contact. Raylun's idea worked and the dark warrior was thrown down to the ground from the explosion.

    "LOOK OUT!" A silver armored, female warrior screamed as another dark warrior with bronze armor leapt toward Raylun who had his attention on the black armored foe. Raylun was tackled by the bronze warrior which caused them both to fall in the dirt. The silver armored female, Iselle, sprinted toward the two on the ground and thrusted her golden keyblade up in the air to cause the bronze warrior and Raylun to float in the air with zero gravity. Before she could make another move, she was forced to front flip forward several times to evade several bolts of lightning that rained down from the sky by the black armored warrior's Thundara spell.

    Just as Raylun and the bronze warrior regained their balance from Iselle's Gravira spell, Iselle immediately blasted a large swirl of frosty air from the tip of her keyblade toward the bronze warrior. The frost blast struck the bronze warrior and caused him to fly back several yards and then freeze into a statue of ice in a backward falling position. The black armored warrior attempted to strike Iselle while she couldn't react, but his try was easily stopped by the impact of Raylun's keyblade. As soon as the two blades made impact the black armored warrior faded into nothing and Raylun realized it was another clone illusion. The dark warrior must've made another one while everything was happening so fast.



    "ISELLE!" Raylun shouted to warn her, but it was too late when the black armored keyblade wielder swept up and held the silver armored female's body up into the air with a hold of her neck. At the same time, the dark warrior pointed his blade at Raylun and the tip of it charged with energy. The soldier of light dropped his keyblade to signify defeat and he knelt down, so that the warrior of darkness might let her live. Iselle's body stuggled and flailed in the air as the dark warrior's hold kept her off the ground. The black armored keyblade wielder smiled evilly under his helmet and began his spell to destroy the keyblade weilder of light who gave up. Without a second more to spare, Raylun jumped up as he kicked his keyblade into the air and it transformed into a glider and swiftly rammed into the dark warrior!

    Iselle fell free to the ground and the dark warrior was sent soaring against the end of the keyblade glider as it flew across the battlefield with Raylun atop it. The warrior of darkness held tightly to the end of the glider and in an instance flipped up onto it to force Raylun off with a blow to his helmet by the butt end of the dark warrior's keylade handle. Raylun fell hard on the battle ground and his glider was sent crashing a few yards away - reverting back to a silver keyblade. The dark warrior ran full speed toward the warrior of light who was now weapon less. Raylun attempted to dodge roll away to safety, but he was stopped in his tracks by lighting that struck down from all around like a cage. The dark warrior had used thundara to keep Raylun off guard and to prepare for his final attack.

    Raylun dropped on his ass and was now at the feet of the black armored warrior who stood over him. The black armored warrior slashed Raylun's golden helmet off revealing his face. His hair was a short dark green and his navy blue eyes looked up in defeat. He recalled his silver keyblade to his hand in a flash of light, but he wouldn't have time to use it. His time was up, but at least he would die with his blade in hand. Just as Iselle found them and Raylun's eyes looked in her direction, the dark warrior swiped his dark keyblade in front of Raylun's face to cause a line of fire to scorch him like a flamethrower. Iselle threw her keyblade at the dark warrior with all her might as tears flooded her eyes. Her thrown keyblade caused a fatal blow to the dark warrior's helmet and left a dent as her keyblade returned to her like a boomerang. The dark warrior fell to the ground completely motionless after the hit. All Iselle could hear was the agonizing cries and spine shivering screams coming from Raylun who was burning in flames.

    She helped put out the fire that engulfed him with several spells and tried to heal him with Curaga, but the damage was done. Half of his face was mostly burned badly and he lay dying in his Iselle's arms. Iselle took off her silver helmet revealing a beautiful woman with chocolate brown curls and boysenberry red eyes. There was an intense pain in her gut from sorrow and her face leaked with tears. "Raylun, you'll live through this. You've GOT TO." She said kissing his face. She could feel her heart ripping apart in that very moment.

    Raylun's navy blue eyes were now a hazy greyish blue. He looked at Iselle weakly and responded with all the strength he had left, "Shine your light bright." It's all that he could say with a loving look, before the life left his eyes and his head fell between her arms.

     
    #5 True Self, Dec 23, 2014
    Last edited: Aug 19, 2015
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  6. If you read this whole thing you get cookies >.>​



    The battle had been lost a very long time ago.

    People from Before knew this well. It was those born After that were left wondering; abandoned, isolated in their ignorance until fate caught up with them, too.

    Fate always caught up.

    The girl's willowy frame held no curves. Any resource her body could spare had been transformed into muscle. She was a lean, mean, running machine, hair hanging in snaggles and snares like no one had ever taught her how to pick up a brush and indulge in a little vanity, and boots looted from a corpse carried her across stretches of pavement that exceeded the imagination.

    'Survivor' implied she had ever lived.

    Every other step her feet scuffed on the mainstreet, parched and cracked and begging for rain. Just like everything else.

    She cast a harrowed glance over to the monstrous structures that flanked her. A man once told her that they'd been a sight to see Before; the girl thought them unimpressive now. Some were slumped on dangerous angles, and their shadows were more dismal than the ones weighing under her eyes. Empty window panes seemed to watch the girl as she passed by.

    Her foot nicked an empty can and sent it skittering across the road.

    Something joined its tinny echo. A softer, warmer sound. A sound the girl very rarely heard. Carefully placing her steps so as not to disturb any more aluminum, she followed the empty can's path to where it had rolled in front of a rusted-out car. There was a person in a red jacket propped up there. His expression was gaunt and tortured; he hardly responded to her sudden approach. The girl blinked down at him.

    "Hello."

    Half-lidded eyes regarded her. The girl decided they were a pretty shade of blue-- perhaps more so had suffering not dulled them. She took a seat on the curb and placed her hands in her lap. "I thought you were a dead body. You should have said something sooner."

    The sallow man's mouth twitched.

    "I think I'll be one soon," his voice was like sandpaper. "Unless you have any water?"

    He seemed to sink further into his own ruin when the girl shook her head.

    "It hasn't rained in weeks," she said, "and all the stores are picked clean. I even double checked them."

    The dying man made a quiet noise in his throat. It could've been sympathy.

    "You should get going, then," he suggested. "Otherwise you'll look like me in a few days."

    The girl hummed to herself. "No. I think I'll wait."

    A blonde eyebrow arched at her. "Oh?"

    "I like your jacket," the girl elaborated with wide, innocent eyes. "But it's not polite to take a dying person's things. You need to be dead first."

    That time the man actually smiled. His lips were cracked and in several places began to bleed.

    "Okay, you vulture," his voice wavered, likely from exhaustion or amusement. "At least someone's still worried about their manners in the apocalypse."

    The girl smiled back and tilted her head slightly. She wrapped her hands around her knees, chin resting atop them.

    "I've always wondered...is it scary?"

    "Dying?"

    "Yes."

    The blonde man sighed long and softly, and for a moment the girl wondered if he'd passed on without answering her question. He stared through her to some distant place in the universe. "It's okay, I guess. At least the pain will stop."

    It took sixty seconds for the man to speak again. Perhaps it drained him.

    "Do you think there's an after, little vulture?"

    The girl's brow furrowed slightly. "Aren't we living in the After?"

    "Not that After," he clarified. "An after after the After. Get it?"

    "I think you might be delirious now, sir."

    He exhaled a sharp, catching breath, though the girl didn't see what there was to laugh about.

    "Maybe we were all delirious. The state of the world now...it's no product of sanity."

    The girl hummed. "Maybe."

    Once more, the man smiled at her, and she thought for a moment that he was probably an attractive person when he wasn't dying.

    "I'm sorry," his voice could no longer maintain a volume louder than a whisper, "that you never had a chance."

    Again, with a sweet upturn of her lips the girl shook her head. "Don't apologize. Sleep."

    The stranger nodded very shallowly, head leaning back against a rusted car door, pillowed by lethargy and death. His pretty blue eyes closed. The girl sat there, watching the rise and fall of his chest grow fainter until there was no heartbeat left in the city but hers. It hadn't been the first time she'd watched a person die, and she doubted it would be the last. That was okay. There was something mesmerizing about it; she wondered at what moment he simply ceased to exist and where his memories fled to.

    Probably the dark.

    The girl left before sundown in the red jacket and paused at the city's edge to pull something from her traveling pack.

    She opened a canteen and tilted water down her throat.​
     
    #6 Killjoy, Dec 23, 2014
    Last edited: Dec 24, 2014
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  7. We raced until our muscles burned and fatigue stretched our very frames to the breaking point. Then we ran some more. Ganymede's shores were beautiful this time of year, a pale red reflection of the great Jupiter shone from the sky, massive in depth and size, stretching from horizon to horizon as the behemoth it was. Our feet trudged heavily in the fine shores of blackened sand, our escape seemed certain. Still we heard the great battle all around us, as in the sea we watched as a cruiser fell from the sky and crashed into the murky red depths; thousands of souls cried out in silence from her hull, we knew, it was of no consequence to us. I felt a sharp pain call out and run up my leg. They were on the ridge behind, they'd followed us, soldiers running from a failed battle. I was unsure at this point whether we were being shot as traitors or as enemies. I didn't have time to find out.

    A second pain, as great as the first slipped through my chest as a beam of light. The world around me seemed surreal with it's red skies deep green lands and it's crimson shores contrasted against a fine black. Thinking of home I fell forward, I felt the hands of my friend grasp and capture me in my fall, fruitlessly yet I appreciated the comfort. I immediately wondered why I thought that, in spite of my chest shuttering and body aching I felt the wish to smile again. I wanted to look up, at least get a look at my friend again. I strained harder than anything I'd ever been put through just to roll my eyes to the side, each movement was that of a shriek and each explosion in the distance was a faint reminder of some arbitrary failure I then cared nothing for. Only in the sky did I find what I wished to see, yet I could only look past.

    The silhouette disappeared from view, the muffled burst of a gun in tune. I thought I could hear water rushing through a creek and I thought of the riverbed a few blocks down from my home. Another muffled shot in tune, I felt as if I were being observed, studied somehow, yet I couldn't shake the feeling of a great deja-vu; had I done this before or dreamt of something like this? Was I in a waking dream? For what I could see then truly must have been that of the surreal nature I'd found myself guised in. Something was approaching from the sky, it was an awesome sight as it broke the atmosphere and came charging down. I felt I was hearing a train and for a moment I felt I was waking as a child as the trains passed by in the late hours of the night. I would wish oh so that it were such.

    "Oh Ganymede, what are you?" My lips formed the words.

    Home.
     
  8. (from my character's POV)

    Warmth trickled down my arm. The pain following seconds later, but I hardly felt it. My eyes were glued to that of the figure below me, to the figure of a young girl. All too familiar green eyes stared up into my blue ones as the one person who wasn't supposed to be here reached towards my arm with a shaky hand. She slowly broke away from my gaze to stare at the arm she reached for, now bloodied by a new wound creating a deep slice in my upper arm. "J-Jason, I-"

    "What in God's name are you doing here, Rose?" My voice was calm, too calm. I could hear the battle still raging on behind me, the battle cries of the enemy Medaphinians echoed by that of my comrade Logophilians. Metal clanged against metal, and the sound of many a men's dying breath filled the air with a heavy weight. This was no place for a young woman, no place for the woman I loved.

    Her eyes broke from my gaze as she looked to the wound on the arm she was reaching for, eyes scared and brimmed with tears. "I-" She froze, eyes going wide as she looked slowly back at me, blood dying her beautiful, pure white skin crimson. Pain. I was in pain. My chest. A metallic taste filled my mouth before the blood passed over my lips, warming my chin and neck. I watched helplessly as her expression filled with terror. Her mouth widened into a scream, a scream that never reached my ears as my world went black.
     
    #8 LAkira, Dec 27, 2014
    Last edited: Dec 27, 2014
  9. I stared down at one of the many corpses littering the field of battle. Unlike many of the others, this one still breathed, and it sent flashes of its lost life out from its mind in agony, as though seeking a final someone to listen to its story, just as the other breathing corpses did. A few cried for help, but I ignored those, for they might still be saved.

    Even now, despite soldiers picking the corpses of comrade and enemy alike, there were white-clad, blood-spattered ones who walked between and sent the lessers, in grey, to pull the barely-living to white tents.

    My attention rested on these white intruders only a moment before I squatted down beside the chosen one I attended. It was a farmer. Its shoulders were still narrow with youth, and it snarled at the ground as it gripped tightly at the blood-muddied turf. It gasped through clenched teeth as its fingernails drew ragged lines.

    An image assaulted my mind, and nearly sent me onto my rear. The face of another, a smaller and different one. I could make out every detail, as though the one had memorized the other.

    The small one had pale red hair that it compared to a "peach" fruit, which to the corpse's mind was a delicious and juicy, soft-fleshed sweet food the corpse's family grew. The small one had eyes that the corpse saw "blueberries" in, the same it enjoyed as pie, and the little one's skin, dark and flecked, was like a "cake", sweet and soft.

    The dead thing's feelings toward the tiny one's image was the same as a parent felt for its young, but also a a mate felt for its other. I shook my head and stared down at the raggedly-panting corpse. Its eyes did not see anymore. I couldn't see its wounds, but I knew it was already claimed. No matter what the white ones did, this one was death's, and though it still struggled to hold on, it was slowly pulled to the void regardless.

    Corpses never went willingly.

    A sudden image invaded my mind, brought on by the corpse, whose mind somehow remained strong. This image was filled with faceless soldiers, who it called its enemies. Its hate for these soldiers as they swarmed the image of the small one from before was enough to make me dizzy.

    Another assault sent me reeling. The corpse dug its hands into the mud and pushed against the ground. Its body lifted, and for a moment, its eyes caught mine. Several in white ran over, but as their time moved more slowly than mine, I knew they would not arrive. Even as they raised their feet, I saw my corpse's insides slide out of its belly, and a reopened wound gushed fresh blood.

    My corpse screamed. Its voice was hoarse as it screamed the name of the small one. Its head snapped back, and it began to cough, blood erupting from its mouth. My corpse's death was coming faster. I licked my lips. The light was fading now that what belonged inside leaked rapidly out, and as the light faded from its eyes, I took my chance, and I pushed my tongue into the corpse's mouth. My tongue slid down its throat, and I could feel it weakly trying to reject me. My tongue went in and in, piercing and cutting.

    I touched my creature's heart, and it barely beat anymore. The ones in white were coming. I wrapped my tongue around the heart and slowly pulled. It caught and caught as I pulled at it, eager to feast, to steal its knowledge and will and magic for my Master. I pulled my lips from the suffocating corpse, which vomited weakly as I yanked its heart out its throat. The corpse collapsed, and I sank my teeth into the tough muscle I had stolen from it.

    My flesh suddenly parted, and my pack arched. Cold ice jerked itself around inside of me, and then I heard a voice. "Damn thing. It's a necromancer's get." The voice, I knew it. My vision faded, and the wind cut through me as I felt my form tear apart around what must have been a blade.​
     
  10. Fear pierced Jock's heart as he turned to face the enemy that now chased them. The whole company would soon learn that a battle waged against Sirius wasn't as easily escaped. They were down to their last twenty men, and Jock knew that this would be the last time he would ever see his brother Jace. He gazed at the fine features of the strong Mars warrior; bold, strong, brave. Jace was always the best warrior, the best brother. Jock knew that their mother had loved him, but he wondered how much; Jace had always been her favourite. They were running to the city, but shock ripped through his heart and caught itself in Jock's throat; there the city lay ablaze. There were no cries, not a sound but the large crackle of the fire as it tore it's way through the city.

    [​IMG]
    Jock turned and gazed at the face of a war torn Jace, blood smeared across his face mixed with dirt and ash. Ash; Jock gazed up as bits of ash fell like snow onto their beings. Jace fell to his knees upon gazing at the city of their forefathers. Their families; Jace's baby girl...dead. All dead. This had been nothing but a trap. Jock placed a hand onto Jace's shoulder, but instead of a quiet moment they received a loud crack. Jace fell forward onto his chest, the bullet tearing it's path through his heart to the ground. "Jace...Jace!" he screamed, his own voice blending in with the voices of those who he'd fought so bravely with just hours ago. Maybe even minutes, but now he was helpless to stop their slaughter as he knelt over the body of his dying baby brother. A sudden eerie silence spread across the wood; there knelt Jock Brimstone, the last remaining member of the company left alive to suffer. The Mars warriors passed him without a second glance, until one whispered,​
    "Now see what you have done."​
    He looked over to the burning city, to the bodies of his friends, his kin, the men and women that he'd fought with...to Jace's now cold body, and realized that he had in fact betrayed them after his love for the Mars warrior Maliee had in fact been a trick. His love brought on such hatred, and so on the deaths of his planet's inhabitants. Yanking the blade out from his waist, he let out a war cry and slammed it into his midsection; no more would die because of his mistake.​
     
  11. Jack had never meant to die. He was a simple kid, hardly 17. He grew up on a farm, with his mom, dad, and his little sister. Life was good back then, when all he had to worry about was passing his math at the local school, or how he'd manage to get his homework done in addition to all the work his father had for him. But all that changed when the war hit. America was under attack, blindsided by a foe it never saw coming. The world was in an uproar and, in a moment of blind courage, Jack stepped forward. His mind filled with self-righteousness, he wrote his parents a note that they would not find until it was too late, explaining how he had made the tough decision to enlist.

    His reckless courage pushed him, and others like him, through boot camp. Despite the yelling, screaming, cursing, sweating, aching agony that was basic training, he bonded with the boys around him, and they pulled through until the very end, when they earned the right to become soldiers. His parents, having cooled off by now, wept tears of pride to see their son, a shining figure of the American people, off to go take it to the Nazi menace.

    However, not all is fair in love and war. Boot camp, despite all its efforts, could never replicate what happens out there. Upon Jack's arrival, he was hit with the reality that is war. The trenches that marred the earth stretched on for what seemed like eternity, and the groans of men dying filled the air. There always seemed to me smoke and dust floating around, and the eyes of the men around him were mostly lifeless. He clung to the boys he had arrived with, telling themselves that they were the turning point. That they were the shining knights to put the final nail in the coffin.

    Half of those that Jack called friends didn't make it through the first night. As bombs screamed into the night air and burst into glorious flame, the chatter of machine gun fire mowing down anything and everything that moved, it was hell incarnate on earth. As as the sun finally rose above the horizon, Jack joined the men that had already been here: laying there, shell-shocked, lifeless. He had no tears to weep for his comrades, his body couldn't process. How could they, who were righteous in their task, die so easily, without so much as a mark on history?

    It was only a couple more weeks before Jack found himself lying in a puddle of his own blood, having been blown apart by a bomb that he hadn't heard shriek above him until it was too late. He looked around lazily, blood draining quickly as he finally saw what looked to be his legs, a good 30 feet away. His breaths grew shallow, but yet a peace came over him, despite the fact that he knew no one was going to save him. Nothing had gone how he had planned. This was not the victory he had imagined. This was not the triumph he had dreamed. Yet his death satisfied him, his mind determined not to let even this poison his optimism. He smiled softly as he passed on, his final thoughts were how happy he was to give the greatest sacrifice to the land that he loved; to the land of his family....


    (I'll have to re-read this when I awaken, hopefully it turns out as good as I hope it does! Definitely think it could be fleshed out a lot more, but that's too much work :p)