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Protracted Plight
Blood. Thunder. Shouting.
I blink rapidly, trying to clear the spots and crust from my eyes. The trench extends beyond sight to either side of me, labyrinthine, an inverse bulwark mortared with mud and blood and bones, the mute message of the land and the fallen a concrete one: ‘here and no further’.
A man a year or two my junior, barely draft-age, comes trudging down the line, speaking to each clump of soldiers in turn, cupping his hands to be heard over mortar-fire. He reaches me, states simply in a voice that brooked no deviation, “we rush after the next bombardment”, and continues on without pause, his dull eyes a paired twin to the empty stares of his trench-mates.
I struggle to rise, exhausted, pain lancing down my left leg. The wound had healed poorly. With a hiss I stand, leaning heavily on the right, and peer carefully between the mud inclines and razor-wire. Even in the thundercloud-covered evening the indistinct shapes of the less-fortunate marked the scene ahead, a grim beckons to the inevitable. The chaos pauses briefly as a synchronic THOOM reverberates from the trenches behind me, followed by a shrieking above and then ahead of me. I slide back down the hill slightly, taking cover, shielding body and eyes.
BOOM!
I catch brief flashes and feel the ground heave beneath me: it’s time to move. Just as I prepare to fling myself over our defenses and into no-man’s-land, the pain in my leg redoubles and I collapse in the mud, gritting my teeth to resist the urge to scream. As I feel one of my molars crack I roll over, spitting blood–
–and tumbled face-first into the dirt next to the park-bench I had been dozing on, coughing and hacking uncontrollably. A red-faced minute or two of lung-clearing spasms later, I fought my breath to stillness and struggled to rise to my hands and knees. Wrinkled arms and hands scraped and bruised from the fall slowly and carefully labored to drag this aged frame into a position resembling sitting, leaning heavily to the right to take pressure off the left.
Damn sciatic nerve again, doctors never could repair the damage.
With a practiced heave and careful twist, I found myself once again seated, this time on a gentle grass incline, next to the bench, which faced a curiously familiar rising and dipping park hillside. Trees canopied the area, dimming a sunny afternoon that exposed to these old eyes the time-worn shadows of conflicts past. Gentle inclines belied trenches and hill-sized slight depressions mortar-fire. The evidence was still written everywhere, at least for those few who remained to see it, in a faded script that was gradually being swallowed by the land and time. The scars of the land in some ways yet remained, as mine remained, as I remained here.
I clearly hadn’t been of service to anyone for years, and so I found myself left with time to haunt familiar places such as these. A few people noticed my tumble, but none offered assistance, which led to spending the better part of an hour stretching and moving my left leg to soften the nerves and joints, increasing its capacity for stress as I struggled to climb to be seated on the bench. Aching with success, I took another glance across the park, noticing a couple boys firing off cap-guns at each other, and their carefree attitudes. It leaves one to wonder if, should us human scars of the past slip out of sight the world might start to heal, having been forgotten by both nature and new life alike.
Thoughts turned from fading to the shadows to catching sight of them, propagating stealthily from the shimmering wisps of dreams at the edges of heavy-lidded eyes. The ambient park noises are lost to the steady rhythm of a familiar heartbeat, eventually followed by thunder. Lids become stony, and bared eyes once again to…
Blood. Thunder. Shouting.
I blink rapidly, trying to clear the spots and crust from my eyes. The trench extends beyond sight to either side of me, labyrinthine, an inverse bulwark mortared with mud and blood and bones, the mute message of the land and the fallen a concrete one: ‘here and no further’.
A man a year or two my junior, barely draft-age, comes trudging down the line, speaking to each clump of soldiers in turn, cupping his hands to be heard over mortar-fire. He reaches me, states simply in a voice that brooked no deviation, “we rush after the next bombardment”, and continues on without pause, his dull eyes a paired twin to the empty stares of his trench-mates.
I struggle to rise, exhausted, pain lancing down my left leg. The wound had healed poorly. With a hiss I stand, leaning heavily on the right, and peer carefully between the mud inclines and razor-wire. Even in the thundercloud-covered evening the indistinct shapes of the less-fortunate marked the scene ahead, a grim beckons to the inevitable. The chaos pauses briefly as a synchronic THOOM reverberates from the trenches behind me, followed by a shrieking above and then ahead of me. I slide back down the hill slightly, taking cover, shielding body and eyes.
BOOM!
I catch brief flashes and feel the ground heave beneath me: it’s time to move. Just as I prepare to fling myself over our defenses and into no-man’s-land, the pain in my leg redoubles and I collapse in the mud, gritting my teeth to resist the urge to scream. As I feel one of my molars crack I roll over, spitting blood–
–and tumbled face-first into the dirt next to the park-bench I had been dozing on, coughing and hacking uncontrollably. A red-faced minute or two of lung-clearing spasms later, I fought my breath to stillness and struggled to rise to my hands and knees. Wrinkled arms and hands scraped and bruised from the fall slowly and carefully labored to drag this aged frame into a position resembling sitting, leaning heavily to the right to take pressure off the left.
Damn sciatic nerve again, doctors never could repair the damage.
With a practiced heave and careful twist, I found myself once again seated, this time on a gentle grass incline, next to the bench, which faced a curiously familiar rising and dipping park hillside. Trees canopied the area, dimming a sunny afternoon that exposed to these old eyes the time-worn shadows of conflicts past. Gentle inclines belied trenches and hill-sized slight depressions mortar-fire. The evidence was still written everywhere, at least for those few who remained to see it, in a faded script that was gradually being swallowed by the land and time. The scars of the land in some ways yet remained, as mine remained, as I remained here.
I clearly hadn’t been of service to anyone for years, and so I found myself left with time to haunt familiar places such as these. A few people noticed my tumble, but none offered assistance, which led to spending the better part of an hour stretching and moving my left leg to soften the nerves and joints, increasing its capacity for stress as I struggled to climb to be seated on the bench. Aching with success, I took another glance across the park, noticing a couple boys firing off cap-guns at each other, and their carefree attitudes. It leaves one to wonder if, should us human scars of the past slip out of sight the world might start to heal, having been forgotten by both nature and new life alike.
Thoughts turned from fading to the shadows to catching sight of them, propagating stealthily from the shimmering wisps of dreams at the edges of heavy-lidded eyes. The ambient park noises are lost to the steady rhythm of a familiar heartbeat, eventually followed by thunder. Lids become stony, and bared eyes once again to…
Blood. Thunder. Shouting.
The description here is nice. I feel like this is a clever use of language, though I don't think I'm qualified enough to be able to pinpoint where and why.
It's an interesting delve into this man's perspective on the war he fought in, and some higher themes, like the one brought up when he notices the kids in the park. Gives me something to think about.
It doesn't enthrall me, though. It's good, and I was somewhat engaged, but I guess I'm not particularly inclined to long descriptive paragraphs of narration. I'm thinking it's a matter of taste. Besides that, I think this one was solid.
It's an interesting delve into this man's perspective on the war he fought in, and some higher themes, like the one brought up when he notices the kids in the park. Gives me something to think about.
It doesn't enthrall me, though. It's good, and I was somewhat engaged, but I guess I'm not particularly inclined to long descriptive paragraphs of narration. I'm thinking it's a matter of taste. Besides that, I think this one was solid.
I really enjoyed this, particularly the prose. It flows like a babbling brook, and never felt overdone, even though in some places it ought to have. Lines like:
really worked for me (though I can see them having an opposite effect on others). As far as I'm concerned, though, it was great. A story is more than prose though, and what we got I also liked. The war descriptions felt real to me (excepting a few minor bits), and the idea of an aged soldier sitting at his old battlefield endlessly phasing in and out of flashbacks was poignant for me.
There's really nothing I feel personally needs changing. It's paced very well too. Nicely done. ^.^
Thoughts turned from fading to the shadows to catching sight of them, propagating stealthily from the shimmering wisps of dreams at the edges of heavy-lidded eyes.
really worked for me (though I can see them having an opposite effect on others). As far as I'm concerned, though, it was great. A story is more than prose though, and what we got I also liked. The war descriptions felt real to me (excepting a few minor bits), and the idea of an aged soldier sitting at his old battlefield endlessly phasing in and out of flashbacks was poignant for me.
There's really nothing I feel personally needs changing. It's paced very well too. Nicely done. ^.^
First of all, I am amused that this story is basically the inverse of "Fertile Fields."
I think that this story is pretty good, though not spectacular. I have no major complaints about it, but I didn't find it particularly gripping either. I do think that you did a good job with the prose.
My one minor complaint is that you really could have been more subtle. We can all see the parallels between the land and the narrator's leg. You don't need to point that sort of thing out to us. On the other hand, it probably is more realistic for him to include that sort of thing in his thoughts, so it's not a huge deal.
I think that this story is pretty good, though not spectacular. I have no major complaints about it, but I didn't find it particularly gripping either. I do think that you did a good job with the prose.
My one minor complaint is that you really could have been more subtle. We can all see the parallels between the land and the narrator's leg. You don't need to point that sort of thing out to us. On the other hand, it probably is more realistic for him to include that sort of thing in his thoughts, so it's not a huge deal.
Writer, I think you did an excellent job of obeying both the letter and the spirit of the prompt - time being sufficient to heal the land, but not nearly enough to heal his leg, or his mind.
This is one of the best stories I've read this round for creating a very definite sense of immersion, from painting the gritty hellscape of trench warfare to the contrasting peaceful park scene. In both scenes I have a clear idea of what is going on around the narrator, and the prose highlights details that really help to flesh things out. I particularly liked the dull stare of the shambling young officer and the gentle green curves of the landscape in the present day - those sections really stood out to me as positive examples of good writing.
Very well done indeed, Writer. I hope to see this in the finals.
This is one of the best stories I've read this round for creating a very definite sense of immersion, from painting the gritty hellscape of trench warfare to the contrasting peaceful park scene. In both scenes I have a clear idea of what is going on around the narrator, and the prose highlights details that really help to flesh things out. I particularly liked the dull stare of the shambling young officer and the gentle green curves of the landscape in the present day - those sections really stood out to me as positive examples of good writing.
Very well done indeed, Writer. I hope to see this in the finals.
The circular nature of this story works very well, with the roar of the past echoing and influencing the present, Both across the landscape, and within the central character's mind.
There were two bits that struck me as needing some minor retooling. The first is at the end of the second paragraph, "his dull eyes a paired twin to the empty stares of his trench-mates." The phrase "a paired twin" seems a twist too clunky here; it could easily be replaced with "his dull eyes mirroring the empty stares of his trench-mates," achieving the same effect in a smoother manner. Secondly, a comma splice would have been useful in the sentence, "Gentle inclines belied trenches and hill-sized slight depressions mortar-fire." I had to re-read the end of that sentence a couple of times before I knew what was being said there. Having it as "Gentle inclines belied trenches, and hill-sized slight depressions mortar-fire," would make it much clearer (and I would also suggest dropping the word "slight" there, as well).
Minor grammatical points aside, I found this to be an extremely solid meditation on the proximity between war and peace, as told from the perspective of a man who can no longer march along when the band plays Waltzing Matilda.
Thank you, author, for writing this.
There were two bits that struck me as needing some minor retooling. The first is at the end of the second paragraph, "his dull eyes a paired twin to the empty stares of his trench-mates." The phrase "a paired twin" seems a twist too clunky here; it could easily be replaced with "his dull eyes mirroring the empty stares of his trench-mates," achieving the same effect in a smoother manner. Secondly, a comma splice would have been useful in the sentence, "Gentle inclines belied trenches and hill-sized slight depressions mortar-fire." I had to re-read the end of that sentence a couple of times before I knew what was being said there. Having it as "Gentle inclines belied trenches, and hill-sized slight depressions mortar-fire," would make it much clearer (and I would also suggest dropping the word "slight" there, as well).
Minor grammatical points aside, I found this to be an extremely solid meditation on the proximity between war and peace, as told from the perspective of a man who can no longer march along when the band plays Waltzing Matilda.
Thank you, author, for writing this.
Another story with some very poetic language in it, though some sentences were so long the grammar became confused, needing more commas to properly break things up into clauses. Overall, the "flashback to war" trope is done decently here, though the physical setting and happenings don't really weave together with the philosophical musings. It would be nice to see them reinforce each other.
I feel this story would be much better as a third-person fic. The "I"-ness makes the second-half seem telly even though it doesn't need to be.
I have a hard time believing an old man could be struggling to stand up for a half-hour in a public place and nopony tries to assist him, since this is Western.
I have a hard time believing an old man could be struggling to stand up for a half-hour in a public place and nopony tries to assist him, since this is Western.
Not a review, just two thoughts:
This prose is awfully ornamental for the thoughts of a narrator amid the "blood, thunder, shouting" of combat.
How come the combat memories are in present tense and the modern action is in past tense? It seems like it would be more natural to do it the other way around.
The trench extends beyond sight to either side of me, labyrinthine, an inverse bulwark mortared with mud and blood and bones, the mute message of the land and the fallen a concrete one: ‘here and no further’.
This prose is awfully ornamental for the thoughts of a narrator amid the "blood, thunder, shouting" of combat.
How come the combat memories are in present tense and the modern action is in past tense? It seems like it would be more natural to do it the other way around.