Thread: 21/7/2011 - LM - Historical Fiction

LITERARY MANEUVERS
The July/August Challenge


A reminder of the prizes awarded to the winner of the LM.
Their entry will appear in the WF Newsletter, which is a good chance to get your work widely circulated.
Now we are also offering a Friends of WF (FoWF) subscription free for a month to the first place winner!

So, do your best.

Another round of LM begins! Our prompt for this installment is:


Historical Fiction

The parameters are:

In no more than 650 words write a story based on a real time/event/person within our history.

If it is imperative that the judges know what historical event/person inspired your story (and it's not blatantly obvious within the story) feel free to leave a footnote with the name of the battle/ball/reality TV show/etc and perhaps a wikipedia link.

This is a creative competition so if you wish to do as Quentin Tarnatino, and assasinate Hitler (in other words change history), then go for it.


The judges for this round are as follows: Moderan, Hawke, Eluixa, and Spider8..
(Like a Fox will post the scores, so judges, kindly give your scores to her once you are finished.)


Now a recap of the rules:
The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted.

You can no longer edit your entry after posting. There will be a 10-minute grace period, if you want to go in there and edit a typo or something, but really, you should approach this as if you were submitting your work to be published and paid for. When you submit, that should be your final work, the work you are happy with.

And of course, there can only be one entry per member.


As always, there are two ways to post your entry:

You can opt to have your entry posted in the LM Workshop Threadwhich is a special thread just for LM entries in the Writer's Workshop. You would put your story here if you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or whatnot). Take note: If you have elected to put your entry in the Workshop thread you must copy the link into this thread or else it will not be counted.

If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you could place your entry right here in the LM Challenge thread.

Everyone is welcome to participate. Judges are welcome to participate, too, but their entries will not receive a score.


This competition will close on "Friday the 5th of August".
To avoid confusion I will close the thread at 11:59pm (Friday Night) LOS ANGELES, USA time.

This will make it 4:59pm on Saturday the 6th for me in Melbourne Australia
It'll be 2:59pm on Saturday the 6th for Fuhrer in the Phillipines (I think? Manila?).
For anyone in Baghdad it'll be 9:59am on Saturday morning.
If you're in the UK (London Time) it'll be 7:59am Saturday morning.
If you're in New York it'll be 2:55am Saturday morning.

I hope if I haven't covered your area, you guys can figure out when it'll be for you.
The world clock kind of does my head in.


No comments, please - Only competition entries (or links to) to be posted in this thread.

Peaceful Priorities
(649 Words)

The young soldier that rushed into my office had the excitement of a sailor given a six-week leave in Thailand with hazard pay.

“Major General, sir!”

“What do you want, Brighton,” I asked the young man.

The Lieutenant Early seemed to constantly forget I had told him; no, that’s not right; I had ordered him to call me by my name about a thousand times.

“They’ve done it, sir! I didn’t think they could and I know that most everyone else felt the same way but they did it. Can you believe it. I mean this could change everything. Our problem is over.”

“What foolishness are you going on about? And catch your breath. You sound like that idiot we caught sneaking out of the nurse’s barracks last week. We must’ve chased him halfway to town. I never thought I’d see the day when my jeep was outrun by…”

“The Project! Manhattan! The Manhatten Project,” the boy almost screamed, as if I wasn’t two feet from him.

“Oh, is that what you’re going on about? I got the call two hours ago”

“Uhh, but sir. This is great news, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so, but I try not to get wrapped up in what those scientists are doing. Every week they come up with some new-fangled thing and then the next week they are throwing it away for something else.”

“Oh, no sir! This is completely different. This will really change things. I know it.”

“Is that right? Well, I’ll tell you what. Once they get their first prototype finished, you bring it over here and we’ll test it out. If it’s as impressive as you think it is, then I’ll let you do mess duty for a week.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t sir me, you horny goat! I saw the way you were looking at that new cook. A fine woman if I’ve ever seen one. I might do some mess duty myself, in fact!”

I laughed but the boy must have been as smitten as a school girl. He went doe eyed the second I mentioned her.

“Well, sir, I better get over to the Manhattan Project’s office there and order a prototype.”

“Sit down and stop your blathering. They won’t be ready for a few weeks anyway. I think we can manage on old fashioned toast for a while.”

“I suppose so sir. But I hear that the atom-splitting toasters are going to make toast so hot on the outside that butter melts before you even spread it. And the heat is supposed to not have time to get inside the bread. They said it will be the crunchiest, softest toast ever made. I can’t wait for a sandwich. I am going to put…”

“Shut the heck up, will ya?! I’ve got something that’s actually important to do today.”

“Sorry, sir. What’s that sir?”

The boy never was going to cut the “sir” crap.

“We’ve got that dang meeting with the Japs, Germans and Brits. We’re supposed to ‘cooperate’ with them on these peacekeeping missions in Africa. It’s a waste of time if you ask me. Why can’t we just divide up the countries and do our own thing.”

“I don’t know, sir. The Germans do let us use their tanks, sir.”

“I suppose they do. It’s a good thing we’re not at war with them. Who knows what we’d have to come up with to fight ‘em. Oh, well. Send a message to all the generals. Make sure they brush up on foreigner news. The last meeting we had, nobody said a word for two hours. Well, ‘cept when Sergeant Bobby checked out the equipment on that Jap General’s broad!”

I had to grin at the thought of that short man beating the hell out of a 250lb soldier.

“Now that was a fight.” Brighton finally said, between laughs.

He finally didn’t use ‘sir’. Maybe he was going to catch on.

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1451469

This should lead you to: "Dreaming On the Danube River"

The Curse of Tutankhamen
575 words

“I always said no good would come off this.”

The student nodded deferentially, keeping their head low, not meeting the eyes of the speaker.

“Sack and pillage the temples, yes. Wise. And see! Now payment has been called- but no!- you have not been here to meet your debtor. Slowly His anger has built, what was to be expected? Now He strikes and it is your son who pays! Ra will not be shunned, He will not be scorned!”

The student, Menes, looked up sharply at this, before quickly bowing his head again. He wore the typical fashion, his hair shaved off for practicality. It was often necessary to spend hours in the temple courtyard, preparing the rituals for devotion under the heat of Ra’s watchful, unblinking eye. A simple cotton sheet was modestly folded about his waist, as his only piece of clothing.

“What.” The High Priest glowered, before rubbing the pouchy blue-black skin of his deep-set, wrinkled eyes.

Menes held his silence and bowed head but he was confused, and the ramblings of the old man before him didn’t seem to make any sense. He’d been sent to inform the High Priest of Ra that the pharaoh was dead; this was an action of man, not of Ra. And Tutankhamen, the presence of the God’s themselves, had been a devout servant.

“Come on, boy. You may speak your mind.”

“I misunderstand you. If Nefertiti is to be believed this was an act of man, the Pharaoh dead from a blow to the back of the head-”
“-Nti Hati!”

The only sound that lingered was the Old Man’s heavy breathing. He carefully mopped a sheen of moisture from his face, using the tail of his leopard skin cloak. He picked up his sceptre as if to strike Menes before leaning close.

Menes could feel his dank breath on his face, his heart shuddered in his chest, ready to wither and die. He should have known better than to talk openly to the High Priest.

Gruelling punishments flashed to mind. He broke out in a cold sweat and trembled. The pain induced by the cat of nine tails was legendary.

“Libe. Fool.If we are to speak of such things we must be precautions. Check outside the corridor. Most should be sleeping.”

The room was a rectangle of bare sandstone, the Priest was sat at a desk at the far side. The long corridor outside was barren, now that they could continue, knowing that the corridor was absent of eavesdroppers, Menes, felt a rising anticipation for what the High Priest was going to explain of the court intrigue.

“Come now. We must speak in hushed tones. The death of our king is the fault of Akhenaten, his father.”

Menes’ face crumpled, expressing his utter confusion with this concept. Akhenaten is dead, he thought. “Nefertiti, announced that it is Ay who killed him. And that would be logical. Ay, would have access to the pharaoh, and as there is no heir, stands the chance to become pharaoh himself.”

“I admit that the pharaoh’s advisor may have been the vessel for the attack, but his motive was greed, boy. And don’t forget the source of emotion: the Gods!” The priest left this sentence to linger in the air, as if this discussion was no more than one of his lectures. “Akhenaten focussed his life upon destroying the worship of all other Gods but Aten. This is Ra’s reprisal.”

“But Tutankhamen, restored the old Gods.”

“It is only now that there power has been restored that they have been able to punish. Akhenaten is no longer with us, thank the merciful Ra, so his legacy, the boy king, has been claimed as His dead. And anyone, who would be foolish enough to disturb His dead.” The priest shudders. “Well, I would expect they would fall to a curse, most foul. The curse of Tutankhamen”

At the Gates of Hell

633 Words

Naret didn’t even like the smell of cigarettes, yet she pulled the harsh smoke into her lungs and held it there, willing it to relax her tense nerves and worried mind. Aviv greedily grabbed the butt from her when she was done, sucking it down to the filter in two powerful drags. Somewhere, a barley audible portable radio, which had been blaring American pop songs all afternoon, was suddenly switched off.

The two of them stood with the other soldiers at one of the entrances to the camp. All was quiet apart from the living, breathing sounds of the people who stayed in the sprawling, labyrinthine settlement.

She had wanted to be a history teacher, helping others navigate the tomes of shared human experience and finding its hidden treasures, lessons and meaning, but life had other plans. The conflict had begun almost as soon as she had completed her military training and now, standing there, watching the sun go down, she felt wholly unprepared and utterly out of place amongst the hard men and women that surrounded her with their guns and their hatred.

They had been posted outside the refugee camp since the previous day, controlling the entrance and exit of all who entered. While the others in her unit seemed to silently revel in the power they had over the wretched inhabitants, it made her stomach turn.

Two children had been playing nearby the entrance of the camp when they first arrived. Concerned for their safety, Naret had slowly approached, smiling and beckoning them to play closer to home. Their angry mother had erupted from a nearby hut, her face mostly covered, but her eyes burning with a fury born from maternal protectiveness. She swooped between Naret and the children, speaking rapidly in a language that Naret didn’t understand. The woman’s eyes went suddenly wide with fright and she fell silent. Naret had looked behind her to see Aviv pointing a rifle directly at the woman. The woman retreated, ushering the children away behind her. Aviv had simply lowered his weapon, shrugged nonchalantly and walked away.

It was true that she had felt the aching loss as deeply as any at the atrocities committed against her own people, but when the tank’s rolled in and the first of the shells started falling on the camps, she had, on some level, known that she was about to be part of something very terrible and horrifically wrong. Something that would be recorded forever in the history books that she hoped one day to teach from.

Aviv lit another cigarette as the low rumble of approaching army Jeeps broke the silence. Naret watched with her binoculars, through the dying light, and identified the vehicles as their own. As they neared the camp, Naret realised that while the vehicles were indeed theirs, the men inside them were not.

Naret watched as her fellow soldiers lead the militiamen into the camp. All of them were armed and all of them were bloodthirsty with their need for vengeance. She watched as at least two hundred men streamed into the narrow passages between the huts, and she thought of the women and the children housed inside the ramshackle shelters. She watched as the soldiers fired flares into the darkening night sky to light the way for yet more armed men bent on revenge. She watched until she could watch no more, until she turned her head away and tightly shut her eyes, as though she had been staring at the sun and not into the moonlit slum.

She could not, however, shut her ears. And so, all through the night, she listened. To the sounds of desperate weeping, to anguished screaming, to the sounds of careless bullets tearing through the night, and to the sounds of history repeating.

The Next Step.


We had taken a moment to look up and watch the fingers of dawn caressing the snowy mountain top.


“Pon my soul Jack, even God is putting on a show today.” My employer's voice was roughened by cigar smoke, lack of sleep and much hectoring.


I had followed the stove-pipe hat for hours as it had marked his progress through crowds of taller men who had laboured long before sunrise, attending the mighty metal beast and primping the area to make it fit for a queen.


At noon Mr Stevenson turned up, “Isambard old bunion how goes the circus?”
“Blood and sand George! Blood and sand! The weasel curs have penny pinched me into a corner,” growled my employer.


Mr Stevenson pushed his flat cap to the back of his head. “Aye tis always the same. Let us make the biggest boldest statement of wealth we can, only do it for next to nowt.”


“And no Queen.” You could hear the disappointment in my employers voice. On a day like this you would expect her to leave London and travel to this historic place in Wales.


“That's a bugger. Who will push your magic button?” Asked George.
“Lord Byron.”
“That's a bugger who will push anyone's button.”


The military band arrived and set up beside the staging area. They had a quick warm up, then played the national anthem as the first of the coaches arrived.


The flamboyant Lord Byron together with his entourage appeared like a carnival flooding onto the scene.


Five hundred yards down wind the unwashed public and news-hounds cheered, having paid their tuppence's they had been corralled safely away from anything important.


“Ah Brunel my old savant,” said his Lordship, “what do I do eh?”
“My Lord, take both hands and push down on this big red button that is a top this plinth.”


“And what am I launching?”
Brunel handed Lord Byron a card on which the details had been expensively calligraphied.


“I name this space locomotive Rocket III, may God bless and keep all those who travel in her.”


When Lord Byron pushed the button a small steel ball bearing was released from the base of the plinth, it rolled down a long thin tube for half a mile until it shot out of the end and hit Brunel's under-footman who waved a flag. Near the top of the mountain Brunel's butler put down his telescope and picked up a lantern. He used it to light the fuse and then he ran away.


From the staging area we could see a sudden flare of light against the mountainside, the first stage began to thrust the locomotive down the rails. Down it sped ever faster, then across the small valley and up the next mountain.


Rocket III ran out of rail and travelled on into the air at an amazing velocity. As the first stage fell away the mighty locomotive's tail end burst into a flame so bright I thought a new sun had been born. We could see it going ever higher.


Then came a boom like a mighty cannon and a feeling like the air punched us.


Lord Byron's stared up in open wonder. “Hells teeth Brunel what was that thing?”
“That is the first man going to the moon.”
“Is this some kind of jest?”


“No my Lord, I have sent my footman and six hussars to claim the moon for the glory of the British Empire.”
“I must write a poem of this, what is the name of this footman?”
“William Slapmangle.”


The day ended with a riotous party that I did not attend for I was busy packing. I could hardly wait until we returned to London where I could once again walk the foggy streets.

If Only – 648 words


Private Henry Tanday died in 1977 aged 86. His last wish was to be reunited, some sixty years late, with his comrades at the British Cemetery at Marcoing France. Tanday fought in the first battle of Ypres, was wounded in the leg at the Somme and sent back to England to recuperate. Returning to fight, he was wounded again at Passchendale. Then in a one month period in 1918 Private Henry Tanday became the highest decorated Private in the British Army during the Great War. He was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for determined bravery at Vauix Vraucourt on August 28th, the Military Medal for heroism at Havrincourt on September 12th and the Victoria Cross for conspicuous bravery at Marcoing on September 28th. Tanday was also mention in dispatches five times and would be discharged eight years later with the rank of Sergeant.

It took over thirty minutes for the wreaths to be laid by the representatives of various groups, the French and British Governments along with the British Army. The many who had attended the service in silent reverence, their heads bowed in acknowledgement to Private Tanday’s self sacrifice, were now quietly filing away. The few old comrades that Tanday had left behind, proudly displaying their medals, shuffled slowly along offering assistance to each other that was instantly refused. Regular Army marched as they always do, in perfect formation, and finally the local inhabitants of Marcoing, still chattering about Tanday's exploits. Within this mass of people quietly dispersing, two old men found themselves silently shuffling away together.

“Harold Pass,” said the first, tipping his hat and removing a leather glove before extending his hand.
He was a well built underneath the camel hair overcoat he wore. Bald with a rather thin grey moustache on his rounded smiling ruddy face.
“Gilbert Harris,” the other replied, shaking Harold’s hand warmly.
He was smaller, leaner and slightly bent. His face was thin and sunken. A few silver hairs defiantly remained attached to his head and they flicked around in the breeze.

“Did you know him?” Harold asked, striking up a conversation.
“Oh yes. Served with Henry for quite a few years.” Gilbert replied, as a warm thoughtful smile began creeping across his face.

“You?” Gilbert enquired.
“Not really, knew of him. Met him a couple of times, that was about it.” Harold replied, shaking his head and waving a solitary hand.

“Good bloke Henry. First class soldier. Never let you down.” Gilbert spoke proudly as Harold nodded in agreement.
“Funnily enough he didn’t really like this place, some of the memories.” Gilbert said, opening his hands and scanning around the countryside.

“What about the VC?” Harold asked, drawing his body upright, a look of disbelief written across his face.
Gilbert let out a little sigh and shrugged his shoulders before informing Harold.

“Not really, but it did happen here. He wrote a letter to me six months ago, the anniversary of my late wife. Beautiful card, beautiful condolence. Just like Henry.” Gilbert replied, as he continued to peer around at both the countryside and the sky. He paused for a second and took a deep breath before adding.
“He convinced himself that he had shot a wounded man, and well, I guess the guilt played on his mind.”

“The Bosch he thought was wounded really wasn’t!” Gilbert suddenly announced after a few minutes silence.
Harold stopped and turned to face Gilbert. He made a move as though he was just about to say something when Gilbert beat him to it.

“I was with the burial detail that day. Won’t forget that bloke, one headshot, no wound. Can even remember his damn name!”
“Good god.” Harold quietly announced as his eyes widened.

“A Lance-Corporal Adolf Hitler.” Gilbert nonchalantly added.
“Never heard of him!” Harold replied.

They were Red and White (and Ninety-Six)

http://www.writingforums.com/writers-workshop/123096-21-7-2011-lm-historical-fiction-workshop-thread.html#post1454121


This is a link to a photograph of the memorial, at Anfield, Liverpool.
http://fc05.deviantart.net/fs13/f/2007/069/b/6/Hillsborough_memorial_monument_by_lottewp.jpg

The Truth About Thunder Thighs

(571 words)

It’s really not fair how I’ve been remembered.
The heavy, lumbering oaf with the too-long neck and a frame that couldn’t even be supported by such short, stubby legs. The original pear-shaped body. There couldn’t possibly be much of a brain in my tiny head, right? All presence and no thought...
It really is time to set the record straight because, let’s face it; your historical data truly consists of a bunch of rocks and an overactive imagination that has gotten quite out of control in the last century.
I have seen Jurassic Park (though I didn’t have the stomach to view the sequel) and I found my portrayal ridiculous. First of all, I was much more serious than depicted. Something about the way you’ve chosen to reconstruct me says “clumsy and mindless.” In fact, I’ve seen more than a few film scenes where my kind just take a spill and roll off a cliff to our deaths. Truth is, you’ve never looked me in the eye. If you had, you would have sensed a keen mind that could rapidly discern changes in my environment- affording me the ability to be proactive rather than maddeningly reactive like my carnivorous neighbors.
You’ve no idea how we tired of having our evening forage trampled by some out of control lummox who couldn’t see the forest for the blood. Always picking on some poor unfortunate that was an eighth of his size. Yet those are the guys who are remembered as cunning and formidable.
And he never feasted on me. You’d have to be blind and deaf to end up as his meal. Every step punctuated by a loud “fear me” roar. Nevermind that with my neck span, I could see him coming a mile away.
Perhaps it was the steady diet of blood and bones that made him so shallow, but trust me, “Rex” as you call him was the village idiot.
Finally, I was never as morbidly obese as you’ve imagined all these millennia. Again, just an assumption based on this one or that one’s unearthed discoveries. It’s been upsetting enough to be portrayed in grade school textbooks as “Brontosaurus: Thunder Lizard.” Why not just say “Thunder Thighs?” The unflattering illustrations only add insult to injury.
The reality is, we were much more evolved than most of the creatures in the neighborhood. Our vegetarian diet was a choice. It kept our minds sharp and our shapes relatively trim. Meals were wonderfully planned social gatherings enjoyed with full appreciation for the spectacular variety of greens available. True, some of us were a bit overweight, but there’s an over- indulger in every foodie crowd.

I was practical. I was a planner. I guarded my home and my loved ones with thoughtful care. I enjoyed every moment with my friends, relishing the meals and the conversation. I was a thinker.
But that’s not what gets you the starring role in the summer blockbuster is it?
You know, no one ever truly dies. We just temporarily lose form. Our essence remains and eventually we assimilate into a new form and have another merry go at what, for lack of a better descriptor, is called LIFE.
Reader beware.
If I have any say, I shall arrive at my next life ravenous with appetite and brimming with menace.
I will be a film director and George Lucas will be my subject.

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1454516

Beneath the Angry Eyes of an Ugly God

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1455039

The Man in the Mirror

The future crept into my dreams last night, the pungent smell of death choking me awake.

It was times like that, lying with my eyes forced open by the cold fingers of fear, that I regretted this, regretted all of it. Sleep had become as distant as home, and since the day this had started the overpowering strength of guilt had me in a headlock. And yet, here I was, and there was a reason for it. I was saving the world from itself.

~

I lie among fine silk sheets, my head resting against a pillow filled with the softest hair, and I wish that I didn’t have to get up today. My face is itching profusely, and my heart aches, just as it has done the last twenty years. I can feel my age getting the better of me, and for moments I wonder what it would have been like to grow up without a motive. There is a firm knock on the chamber door, but nobody enters. It is a reminder; get up, get ready, you have a country to run.

You have people to kill.

~

Most nights I am haunted by a single nightmare; the memory of the first man I murdered all those years ago. He lay blind, groaning quietly, muttering random German in hysterics and damning his country’s foolishness. He didn’t even hear me. I sliced his jugular with such proficiency and ease that surprise was forgotten upon his final breath. Adi they called him. He was a painter.

~

I make my way to the bathroom and get ready; a slick of grease to comb my hair to the side, a touch on the moustache, and for a while I stare at myself in the full body mirror. It is hard to remember what I looked like before this. I quickly shuffle into the closet.

Today is different. Today I address a number of associates who will ask me my opinion on a final solution. I can feel my heart wrenching.

I get changed into uniform, pinning my 24-karat gold party badge to its sleeve and proceeding to do the same with a trio of important medals, all of which seem stained with false victory. I feel like crying.

There is another knock, and this time Eve enters, her beautiful caramel hair tightly formed into a bun. I smile, and it feels genuine.

“Your associates are here Fuhrer,” she explains. My stomach drops. Five men in uniform wait for me outside.

They know me as Adolf Hitler, the Fuhrer of Germany. It is February 18^th 1942.

But there is a lot they do not know about me. For one, I am no Anti-Semitist.

I am no Austrian.

I am from the future; here to save the world.

But first, I must destroy it.

~

Today, my associates will ask me what I think about Himmler’s answer to the Jewish question and I will answer firmly, telling then ‘we shall regain our health only by eliminating the Jews’. It will be the hardest thing I ever do, condemning the death of millions. It will tear me apart and leave me guilt ridden, and in three years’ time when the moment announces itself, I will be more than willing to ruin myself with cyanide.

Rather me than the rest of humanity.

In my world, far into a future lacking the history dominated by Nazi’s and Jewish graves, there is a lack of moral responsibility, the absence of a guideline; resulting in something far greater than mass murder or extermination. It is inspired by a horrific fiction, twisted into a dreaded reality; conjured by all and ending in nothing.

I look deep into the eyes of a murderer every morning, and alongside the remorse and the guilt, I see the truth.

I am a hero.

“Heil Hitler.”

~

Battle of Waterloo

Two men, Wellington and Napoleon, stood at either side of a small, wooden table, with two chairs tucked underneath and a game board on top. They were both intently staring at each other, eying up their opponent. They had never seen each other at such a close distance.
“Hmm, I expected you to be shorter,” said Wellington, reaching out to shake his opponent’s hand.
“Bloody English newspapers!” bellowed Napoleon, spitting onto the ground. “Always calling me short, fat, and even,” he paused to laugh and placed a hand on Wellington’s shoulder, “A tyrant!”
Wellington reciprocated the laugh in the spirit of politeness. “So, Mr Napoleon, let us shake hands and begin our little battle, shall we?”
“Ah, you Englishmen and your foolishness! No, we shall kiss as is polite.”
Wellington took a few steps backwards and raised his hands to shield his face. “Don’t get me wrong, Mr Napoleon, I have no problem with, ahem, men of that variety, I merely do not wish to take part.”
“Do not be silly, it is merely a kiss on each cheek, as is custom in my culture!” said Napoleon, forcibly grabbing Wellington by the hair and dragging him closer.
Wellington squirmed to no avail, as Napoleon planted a kiss on each cheek, leaving behind a strong scent of garlic.

“So,” said Napoleon, not noticing Wellington’s red eyes. “We both have our armies with us, yes?”
“Naturally,” said Wellington, wiping his eyes and trying to rub the smell of garlic off his cheeks. He gestured behind him, where ten men were forming a semi-circle around the table. “And yours?”
“What do you mean? Mine are not behind me?” asked Napoleon. He turned round to find that he was, indeed, alone. “Where could they have gone?” he muttered.
Wellington spotted a hand grasping out of the mud. “I think they may have sunk,” he said. He turned to his army of ten standing behind him. “Men, help Napoleon’s army out of the mud!”
Slowly but surely, Napoleon’s men were found and dragged up, gasping for air and caked in earth.

“Twits!” said Napoleon, once all of his men were back above ground. “I told you it would be muddy and to wear large boots!” He walked up to each of them in turn, smacking them round the backs of their heads. He returned to the table and faced Wellington. “Now that the fools are above ground again, let us begin our battle for Europe, eh?” He took his seat at the table.
Wellington took his seat also, frowning as he did so. “No cushions? Did you not say that you’d be providing the cushions? I mean, I provided the chairs, table, and board...”
Napoleon spat at the ground again. “Idiots! I got the best cushions possible, expensive, soft, covered in flower patterns, but do they get delivered in time? No!”
Wellington sighed, but then noticed a figure running towards them from a distance. “Is that them?” he asked, pointing.
Napoleon turned his head to see. “Ah, yes!” he said. “Speed up you vermin!” he shouted.
The figure arrived at the table, panting for breath as he handed a cushion to each. “I ran all the way from–”
“Irrelevant! You are late, I will pay you no delivery fee!” said Napoleon. “Leave, we are busy!”
The delivery man skulked off.
“Your turn first, Napoleon,” said Wellington.

“Hmm, yes...” said Napoleon, rolling the dice. “Five!” he moved his piece five squares across the game’s winding path. “Pick up a card... one of your soldiers has called you fat, discipline them.” Napoleon shot blindly behind him, killing one of his men. “Your turn,” he said.
“Six... gain another turn.”
“Rigged!” shouted Napoleon.
“Three... card... shoot down all of opponent’s army.” Wellington took aim and shot down Napoleon’s nine remaining men. “Marvellous match, was darn close that,” he said, extending a hand.
“Bloody English!”

HEBONY
638 Words



Hebony,


Death, for one such as I, is but a mere formality.

A return to the eternal truth.

In these last moments I find myself reflecting not upon my conquests but upon my loves.
I never truly loved any of my siblings. My responses to them were strategic, political manoeuvres, dealt with forethought and logic, not compassion or sentiment.

Jules was like a father to me. He showed me life, and how to conduct myself within it. He taught me that life is beauty and agony, bliss and bitterness. That there is joy and wonder should you search for them, but pain and sorrow need no seeker. He may have loved me I suppose; I never thought to ask.

It’s calm here. Soft. I see meaning in trivial things, a feather on the water, a spider in her web.

I loved Mark. And Mark loved all. He taught me to catch myself in a beautiful day and commit it to memory for darker times. He was divine; more than worthy of this final gesture.

I love my children. It is a fierce and engulfing bond. I have every confidence in their ability to rise to the challenges life will inevitably throw at them. It pains me to leave them, but the shame my staying would pin to their name is barely worth thinking about.

It’s louder here than I pictured. Have you ever noticed that when you imagine an event in your future you never hear any background noise? There is only the visual. I may have considered what the sky would look like, but I never pondered how the sun would feel warming my skin for the last time.

Hebony, it is my love for you that will resonate through this life and well into the next. I have questioned every choice I have ever made, but I never questioned loving you. It was like breathing. A small part of me wishes you were here now, taking this leap with me, but I like the idea of having a reason to look back. To see you dance through your journey brightening the rooms you enter.

I do hope this letter finds you. Most likely it will never reach you and its last touch of skin will be to fall from my fingers. But perhaps these words will float from my mind out into the ether and bounce off the moon to return and bring you some comfort one far off day. How romantic I have become in my oldest age!

I shall soon abandon my mortal form that has lived so robustly this time around. Protecting my essence, triumphing in my battles, loving my lovers and above all providing passage for my heirs own sacred vessels. It has been a true ally. My favourite thing about it now is that it was touched by you.

Ah to be Isis again! Whole and uncomplicated in the Garden of the Gods, watching over those I have walked among. The mother of motherhood, living not in but through.

I have not seen my last setting sun, nor tasted my last sweet fruit. I will look through perfect regal eyes, at the divinity that is in and of everything.

I would have accepted a well dealt strike from a worthy foe. It seems fitting though, that my downfall shall be by my own hand. Well ha! By an asp; the smallest of my enemies. But no, you are not my opponent dear serpentile one. I shall gladly yield to your venom. I wonder, shall I fall into a dreamy sleep? Shall your poison burn its trail through my flesh?


And now I welcome,
the one experience
I cannot recall with breath.

Come closer asp,
and strike my breast
my umpteenth timely death.


Yours,


Cleopatra VII Philopator
Pharoah of Egypt
Ptolemaic Dynasty

Forest Dossier Delivery
649 words : By B.D.Branch

#9