View Full Version : Incursio

April 8th, 2014, 03:39 PM
Jon Edwards
Synopsis: A young man named Jack Green's survival of the initial invasion to begin the second world war. As the Nazi's bombed and raided the Polish town of Wieluń, he survives and tries to find his father and the rest of his family.


"Alex!" a voice called. "Alex, get up quickly."

Alex Green rose from his bed lethargically, his eyes still crusted with rheum. He placed his feet on the cold concrete of his bedroom, and felt the tremble. The ground shook as if the devil himself were escaping from the depths of the Earth.
Now on his feet, he brushed back the curtains and peered out his window. His neighbours were running scared, they hands filled with all they could carry from their houses. The winter autumn sun was barely creeping over the horizon. Dust and smoke polluted the air, a thick smog of death hung over the city like a stormy raincloud.
The ground shook once more, and a boom echoed around the city like thunder, only there was no lightning, nor rain, nor wind.

His father burst through the door with a bang.

"Alex, quick," he said, "get downstairs, now." He turned and left in a hurry.

Downstairs, the occupants of the building moved like a blur. Everyone rushed to and fro, panting and stressing, collecting anything they could grab. The fridge was wide open, and plundered; some of the cupboard doors had been ripped off their hinges. Families who had lived together for years now fought, clawed, bit and snatched for any scrap of food, drink and protection. Except for one family; a woman, her young son, and her husband.
The man waved Alex over.

"Alex, over here," he called.

His mother and father carried small bags, while his brother, Tom, had his school backpack slung over his shoulders. The walls shook and creaked loudly, as though they would fall any second. Dust slowly fell from the cornices and the wooden beams that lined the roof.
Alex's father pulled him in close.

"Father, what are they doing?" Alex asked.

His father spat.

"They say men turn to animals in times of great terror," he said, shaking his head. "I've been waiting for this day for months. Come, we must leave."

His father kept them all close to him, pushing through the other residents of the building. Bitter words and screeches filled the building, as the morning sun began to rise through the smog of terror that had enveloped the town of Wieluń.

Tom cried out and Alex turned to see a man pulling him back by his backpack.

"Father!" he screamed.

Alex's father pulled Alex behind him, grabbed the man by the throat and pushed him back, pulling Tom under his arm.
The man stepped back and pulled a knife.

"Give me the bag," he said. "Now!"

"Alex, take your mother and brother, and wait for me outside."

"But father-"

"I said go. I'll be only a few minutes."

Alex grabbed Tom's arm, and pulled him towards their mother.

They emerged out the door of the building. The smoke filled air was choking, and dust scratched and filled their eyes. Screams and cries of shattered hearts echoed around, only to be drowned out by another thunderous explosion. Planes circling the air filled the few moments of silence with a light hum. Alex glanced upwards, trying to spot them, but the smog blocked the sky from sight.
Plates smashed from inside the building, followed by yells and angry shouts.
Alex's father emerged, with a bloodied nose and his shirt ripped and cut. His left arm had a slash which dripped a slow crimson.

People began to swarm the street, hundreds of them panting, sweating and running. Alex grabbed onto his father tightly, as they were surrounded by their fellow townsfolk, fleeing in a hurry. Dust kicked up in the air sent everyone blind, and the chaos grew with each smokey breath. Like a stampede of terrified antelope running from a pack of hungry lioness', as instinct and natural selection took over the muscles of the mind and body of each citizen.
People fell, and people were trampled under the mass fleeing. The shattering of bones made Alex feel ill, as he struggled to keep together with his family.

At the end of the street, the horde parted. Every man, woman and child, split, and ran in their separate directions, fleeing death, searching for any shelter to hide themselves in. The dust began to settle.

"Ingrid!" a hoarse voice called, "Tommy? Alex?"

"Father!" Alex's voice answered, and he ran towards the dusty silhouette of his father.

Thunderous roars exploded all around them, and the next thing Alex knew, he was running towards the outskirts of town. In his hands he carried a heavy leather object, and he ran for the safety of his tree.


Plumes of black smoke rose from amidst the city. The buildings were burning, every so often a mushroom cloud of grey and brown dust would rise to the heavens, only to slowly cascade back to the ground as another structure met its demise.
Alex watched from the outskirts of the city, hiding in his favourite tree, as the sun began to set behind the rising smoke. The occasional beam of sunlight would pierce the thickness of the clouds and plumes, only to be snuffed out by the darkness.

"Black smoke means the fires are still burning," Alex said to himself. "White smoke means the fires are out."

Dark clouds of ash and soot gathered over the city, shrouding it in an unnatural darkness. What little light the setting sun provided, was washed out by the smoke.
Echoes of explosions and people crying for help rang out; but all around Alex was silent. Only the wind made a noise, lightly whispering in Alex's ear, gently tousling his blonde hair, cooling the gathering sweat on his brow. It carried the smell of tar, and ash, and smoke; the stench of death and destruction.
He reached for the blade at his side, and remembered his father's words.

"Alex! Alex," his father said. "Come here. Quickly."

The ground shook as Alex ran to him. He found his father kneeling down, his blue eyes sunken and low, and the lines of dried tears stained his red cheeks. In his hands he grasped a large, military knife. Short, raspy breaths escaped his throat.

"Take this," he said. "Go to your tree, I'll meet you there. Do not talk to anyone you don't know, and stay out of sight."

Alex scratched at the trunk of the tree with the knife. With every hack at the tree, chunks of bark would fall, drifting down to the base of the tree. He inscribed:
Alex Green, 2nd of September, 1939.

By now, the sun had set, and night had taken over. The wind carried a chill, and the moon was nowhere to be seen. Alex sat restlessly in the tree, watching the glowing city as it continued to burn. The smoke had lessened, and all that was left was the smouldering rubble of the destroyed buildings, and the steeples of the church, the only building to remain relatively unscathed.
The tree moaned as Alex climbed down, and after a few seconds, he reached the grass at the bottom. A chilly, night wind blew through the tree, and Alex shivered. He began to walk towards the town, when a hand grabbed him by the scruff of the shirt, and pulled him back, his shirt strangled his throat.

"Wo gehst du hin, mein Junge?" a man said. "Where are you going, boy?"

Alex kicked and fought, trying to free himself, his shirt ripped with each pull and kick away from the man. His arms swung rapidly, but the man's grip was strong.
He grabbed at the military knife at his side, unsheathed it, and hacked clumsily at the man. A painful yelp emanated from the darkness, and Alex was laying on his back, on the grass beneath the tree. The man danced and jumped in pain, holding his right hand as blood poured down to the earth.
A loud boom echoed from the town, and the sky lit up with flashes of orange and grey, and Alex's eyes snapped directly at the man. He was dressed in military gear, coloured green and tan all over, except for the blazing symbol on his arm and chest; a bright red banner with a pure white circle emblazoned with a caliginous black assortment of lines. It reminded Alex of the holy cross, only with extra appendages on each end.

"Du kleiner Scheißer," he said, still dancing. "You little shit."

The light had faded and darkness embraced the lands once more. Alex began to shuffle back slowly, rising to his feet.
The sky flashed once more, and the man had drawn his pistol, pointing it between Alex's eyes.

"Sind Sie bereit zu sterben, Junge?" the man said. "Are you ready to die, boy?"

He cocked the pistol. Alex's eyes dripped tears like a leaky faucet, as the gunshot bellowed and echoed around the tree.

(end of chapter 2)

April 9th, 2014, 01:03 AM
I liked it. The way you described the wind and the swastika were both very well done. Were you planning on starting the story with this passage. I ask because I felt like I was just thrown in there. I guess what I'm trying to ask are you going to write anything before this passage? Like him escaping the city and being separated from his family?

April 9th, 2014, 02:14 AM
I was planning on starting with this but now looking at it, it is probably a better idea to start from his escape. Thanks for the comment :)

April 9th, 2014, 07:36 PM
I liked the scenery and the lush descriptive passages. I have just a small nitpick here for clarity:

What little light the setting sun provided, was washed out by the smoke.
Figurative language needs to make sense by sheer virtue of having clarity. So you see here there is no way the sun can wash smoke since only water can. I hoped this makes sense. It's the same way if you make a metaphor on water. The action verbs you use must be able to used with the word water.

So here you can say something such as blackened and so forth. I know your more poetic than that. I like the piece as a whole piece and not as a deconstructed english assignment.

April 10th, 2014, 03:19 AM
I never noticed that!
It's probably something I do a lot, nevertheless, thanks for the heads up. I'll update this thread soon.

April 14th, 2014, 05:34 AM
I haven't fixed the figurative language as of yet, but I have added a chapter before the original piece, and finished off that last part. Enjoy.