Prompt 54--Cry Havoc
Aug. 4th, 2007 11:04 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
dedra.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
tamingthemuseYou know, it's really strange what kind of stuff these prompts pull up out of nowhere.
Title: The Dogs Of War
Fandom/Pairing: None
Summary: I never knew what Shakespeare meant by his quote until now.
The Dogs Of War
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to hear the thunder of the bombs as they explode overhead and beside me. It reminds me of the thunder that rolls over the farm, right before the rain begins and there’s a smell in the air of wet and damp and fresh rolled into one. There’s nothing remotely like that smell over here. Here it smells like green and mold and death over all, the smell of death everywhere like a perfume that won’t fade.
Lights flash overhead as a flashbomb goes off and it reminds me of lightning, though this lightning will make you die instead of that ozone smell that comes flying at you right after. Lightning and thunder, repeating over and over in the jungle that holds no animals or insects; nothing that dares make a sound in this hellhole, including the men.
I look over to my right and see one of my buddies with his eyes frozen open, surprised by the death that took him so quickly out of hell. This is hell dressed in hanging vines and heavy, breath-stealing humidity. The air is so heavy and thick that it’s hard to pull into your lungs; it takes more energy to breathe than to march. That’s a bad thing, when you’d rather march than breathe.
I should be home. I should be home with Mary Lou, sitting on the front porch swing watching the storm brew across the field, the lightning flashing and counting the seconds until the thunder so we know how long before the rain begins to fall. I’m here though and she’s safe at home where she should be, although I wonder who she’s sitting with and counting the seconds with. Probably that idiot Scott who deferred out because of college. Big man on campus, that fucking idiot. He probably has his hand in her blouse and tongue down her throat, molesting her in the dark and wishing that she would let him turn on the light.
I always hated the dark. Now I remember why. Its so dark out here that you can’t see what’s in front of your face, whether it’s a hand, a boot, or a VC. I know that they’re everywhere around us but there’s no way to tell where. So I’m here in my own personal hell, crawling on my belly in murky water that’s contaminated with God knows what else. I’m holding my breath because the water smells so rank; I don’t want to add anything to it that might float or sink—just the idea is grossing me out.
Another flashbomb and I look up long enough to see the battalion leader on his belly far ahead of me. We’re coming up on a bend in the river or stream or whatever this damn thing is and who knows what’s around the corner. Could be an encampment of VC ready to slaughter us all; could be a group of friendlies who shoot first and ask questions later. This whole fucking thing is making everyone paranoid and tetchy, ready to fire off a shot at anyone no matter what their race or whose uniform they wear.
Gunshots echo in my ears and I can’t hear the man in front of me shouting. I’ve gone deaf from the sound and I know that this can be my death sentence but there’s nothing that I can do to stop it or change it; it just is.
Tracers dance in the air as they fly over my head. I can see blood flying and splattering the leaves hanging over my head as people die, hearts stop beating as they fall into the water and splash my face with mud and gore.
I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to be here.
About half the men that I know are dead, their bodies floating past me as I try to get around them. I’m not afraid to die, not anymore. I used to be a long time ago but that was before I found out how quiet death is and how quickly it grabs you and drags you down.
I remember something that I heard in school. Some Shakespearean quote that meant nothing then but means everything now. Cry havoc and loose the dogs of war, that’s the quote. Dogs of war. I wondered back then what exactly that was. Now I know.
Soldiers are the dogs of war. We’re the ones who go out and shit and bleed and die for our country, obeying blindly like a pet. Catching the Frisbee for our masters and thrilled when they pat us on the head.
Dogs of war. The phrase echoes through my mind as something heavy jumps on my back and pulls my head up out of the muck. There’s no pain when he slits my neck, just the warm gush of blood that starts flowing down my shirt and into the water underneath me. I’m dying like a dog in a puddle, shit and mud all around me.
Funny, it doesn’t feel like dying. It feels like I’m going home. Home and out of this hell.
Lightning crashes, thunder rolls, and I look to the empty sky for the rain to begin falling.
Title: The Dogs Of War
Fandom/Pairing: None
Summary: I never knew what Shakespeare meant by his quote until now.
The Dogs Of War
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to hear the thunder of the bombs as they explode overhead and beside me. It reminds me of the thunder that rolls over the farm, right before the rain begins and there’s a smell in the air of wet and damp and fresh rolled into one. There’s nothing remotely like that smell over here. Here it smells like green and mold and death over all, the smell of death everywhere like a perfume that won’t fade.
Lights flash overhead as a flashbomb goes off and it reminds me of lightning, though this lightning will make you die instead of that ozone smell that comes flying at you right after. Lightning and thunder, repeating over and over in the jungle that holds no animals or insects; nothing that dares make a sound in this hellhole, including the men.
I look over to my right and see one of my buddies with his eyes frozen open, surprised by the death that took him so quickly out of hell. This is hell dressed in hanging vines and heavy, breath-stealing humidity. The air is so heavy and thick that it’s hard to pull into your lungs; it takes more energy to breathe than to march. That’s a bad thing, when you’d rather march than breathe.
I should be home. I should be home with Mary Lou, sitting on the front porch swing watching the storm brew across the field, the lightning flashing and counting the seconds until the thunder so we know how long before the rain begins to fall. I’m here though and she’s safe at home where she should be, although I wonder who she’s sitting with and counting the seconds with. Probably that idiot Scott who deferred out because of college. Big man on campus, that fucking idiot. He probably has his hand in her blouse and tongue down her throat, molesting her in the dark and wishing that she would let him turn on the light.
I always hated the dark. Now I remember why. Its so dark out here that you can’t see what’s in front of your face, whether it’s a hand, a boot, or a VC. I know that they’re everywhere around us but there’s no way to tell where. So I’m here in my own personal hell, crawling on my belly in murky water that’s contaminated with God knows what else. I’m holding my breath because the water smells so rank; I don’t want to add anything to it that might float or sink—just the idea is grossing me out.
Another flashbomb and I look up long enough to see the battalion leader on his belly far ahead of me. We’re coming up on a bend in the river or stream or whatever this damn thing is and who knows what’s around the corner. Could be an encampment of VC ready to slaughter us all; could be a group of friendlies who shoot first and ask questions later. This whole fucking thing is making everyone paranoid and tetchy, ready to fire off a shot at anyone no matter what their race or whose uniform they wear.
Gunshots echo in my ears and I can’t hear the man in front of me shouting. I’ve gone deaf from the sound and I know that this can be my death sentence but there’s nothing that I can do to stop it or change it; it just is.
Tracers dance in the air as they fly over my head. I can see blood flying and splattering the leaves hanging over my head as people die, hearts stop beating as they fall into the water and splash my face with mud and gore.
I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to be here.
About half the men that I know are dead, their bodies floating past me as I try to get around them. I’m not afraid to die, not anymore. I used to be a long time ago but that was before I found out how quiet death is and how quickly it grabs you and drags you down.
I remember something that I heard in school. Some Shakespearean quote that meant nothing then but means everything now. Cry havoc and loose the dogs of war, that’s the quote. Dogs of war. I wondered back then what exactly that was. Now I know.
Soldiers are the dogs of war. We’re the ones who go out and shit and bleed and die for our country, obeying blindly like a pet. Catching the Frisbee for our masters and thrilled when they pat us on the head.
Dogs of war. The phrase echoes through my mind as something heavy jumps on my back and pulls my head up out of the muck. There’s no pain when he slits my neck, just the warm gush of blood that starts flowing down my shirt and into the water underneath me. I’m dying like a dog in a puddle, shit and mud all around me.
Funny, it doesn’t feel like dying. It feels like I’m going home. Home and out of this hell.
Lightning crashes, thunder rolls, and I look to the empty sky for the rain to begin falling.
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no subject
Date: 2007-08-05 04:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-05 04:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-05 04:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-05 04:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 10:38 am (UTC)I had a curious thought, if you turned it into third person, replaced all the I's with he and all the my's with his, would it be more powerful, or less?
*shakes head* My brain does strange things some times.
This was great as it stands. Ignore me.
As You Wish...:D
Date: 2007-08-15 11:49 am (UTC)He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to hear the thunder of the bombs as they explode overhead and beside him. It reminds him of the thunder that rolls over the farm, right before the rain begins and there’s a smell in the air of wet and damp and fresh rolled into one. There’s nothing remotely like that smell over here. Here it smells like green and mold and death over all, the smell of death everywhere like a perfume that won’t fade.
Lights flash overhead as a flashbomb goes off and it reminds him of lightning, though this lightning will make you die instead of that ozone smell that comes flying at you right after. Lightning and thunder, repeating over and over in the jungle that holds no animals or insects; nothing that dares make a sound in this hellhole, including the men.
He looks over to his right and sees one of his buddies with his eyes frozen open, surprised by the death that took him so quickly out of hell. This is hell dressed in hanging vines and heavy, breath-stealing humidity. The air is so heavy and thick that it’s hard to pull into your lungs; it takes more energy to breathe than to march. That’s a bad thing, when you’d rather march than breathe.
He should be home. He should be home with Mary Lou, sitting on the front porch swing watching the storm brew across the field, the lightning flashing and counting the seconds until the thunder so they know how long before the rain begins to fall. He’s here though and she’s safe at home where she should be, although he wonders who she’s sitting with and counting the seconds with. Probably that idiot Scott who deferred out because of college. Big man on campus, that fucking idiot. He probably has his hand in her blouse and tongue down her throat, molesting her in the dark and wishing that she would let him turn on the light.
He always hated the dark. Now he remembers why. It’s so dark out here that you can’t see what’s in front of your face, whether it’s a hand, a boot, or a VC. He knows that they’re everywhere around him but there’s no way to tell where. So he’s here in his own personal hell, crawling on his belly in murky water that’s contaminated with God knows what else. He’s holding his breath because the water smells so rank; he doesn’t want to add anything to it that might float or sink—just the idea is grossing him out.
Another flashbomb and he look up long enough to see the battalion leader on his belly far ahead of him. We’re coming up on a bend in the river or stream or whatever this damn thing is and who knows what’s around the corner. Could be an encampment of VC ready to slaughter us all; could be a group of friendlies who shoot first and ask questions later. This whole fucking thing is making everyone paranoid and tetchy, ready to fire off a shot at anyone no matter what their race or whose uniform they wear.
Gunshots echo in his ears and he can’t hear the man in front of him shouting. He’s gone deaf from the sound and he knows that this can be his death sentence but there’s nothing that he can do to stop it or change it; it just is.
Tracers dance in the air as they fly over his head. He can see blood flying and splattering the leaves hanging over his head as people die, hearts stop beating as they fall into the water and splash his face with mud and gore.
He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He doesn’t want to be here.
About half the men that he knows are dead, their bodies floating past him as he tries to get around them. He’s not afraid to die, not anymore. He used to be a long time ago but that was before he found out how quiet death is and how quickly it grabs you and drags you down.
He remembers something that he heard in school. Some Shakespearean quote that meant nothing then but means everything now. Cry havoc and loose the dogs of war, that’s the quote. Dogs of war. He wondered back then what exactly that was. Now he knows.
Pt. 2
Date: 2007-08-15 11:50 am (UTC)Dogs of war. The phrase echoes through his mind as something heavy jumps on his back and pulls his head up out of the muck. There’s no pain when he slits his neck, just the warm gush of blood that starts flowing down his shirt and into the water underneath me. He’s dying like a dog in a puddle, shit and mud all around him.
Funny, it doesn’t feel like dying. It feels like he’s going home. Home and out of this hell.
Lightning crashes, thunder rolls, and he look to the empty sky for the rain to begin falling.
I think that it works well, either way...I just thought that it seemed more powerful in the first person than the third... :D
no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 11:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 12:34 pm (UTC)It's different, isn't it? I think you're right, the first person is more powerful, because it is more immediate. So the sense elements are felt more strongly as the reader identified more easily and completely with the narrator.
But I think the third person is powerful too, because it is that bit removed, so the feeling of alienation, created by the awfulness in which he is existing, is increased. And also you don't have the paradox of a first person narrative that ends with the death of the narrator.
Thank you for indulging my curiosity. I hope you found something of interest in the exercise too?
no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 12:44 pm (UTC)Sometimes when the story flows out of me, it picks it's own tense...I frequently have little control over what I write...it sounds strange to say it out loud, but it is those times that I feel like I'm more like the vessel than the writer...
Either way, it was horrifying to write...I remember stories that my friend Jim (who was much older than me) used to tell us about Nam and being in the jungles...and that was where the story came from...a compilation of many of his stories into one...the horror, the danger, the unknown waiting around the bend of the road or the river...the stench of death that hung in the trees and the terrifying UNKNOWN of it all...not knowing if today was the day that you would die or not...
The muse picks her magic and chooses where to go and what to do...I'm only channeling her, not taming her like the comm is for...maybe that's my downfall, or my grace. Who knows?