Drainpipe (vinski) wrote in the_muses_lair,

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A story for school.

Had the idea about a week ago. Should have written it at the time, I feel it didn't turn out as well. I would love feedback, as much as possible. I need to add stuff to it. But I do not want to explore the character's day. That would detract. Please, any suggestions any of you can give me would be greatly appreciated.

The empty magazine slides out of the grip, leaving a faint wisp of smoke in it’s wake. My write arm, holding the long, now dull with blood katana lashes out through the throat of my enemy. I hold him there for a moment, the sword keeping him standing. Blood runs down his chest. Withdrawing the sword I look around – the sky, dark with the smoke of war, my platoon of soldiers all dead, their bodies mixed with those of our enemies. These people, enemies of our world. Why are they here? They invaded us, does this make them our enemy? What is it they want? Why so violent? I reach into my supply belt and take out another magazine loaded with incendiary ammunition. I slide it into the Jackal in my left hand, readying it with my teeth. More enemy soldiers run at me, as each one draws closer, I fire a single shot at their chest. I usually don’t see them die, my attention goes to my next target. Again, the bullet rips through their chest cavity, exploding about 4 cm in. There are more of them now, never ending streams of soldiers. I know, in my subconscious that I cannot win this battle alone. That I will die. I slide my sword through the neck of an enemy that happed too close. Another bullet fires out of my Jackal, ripping the head clean off a soldier. I find myself no longer part of this war, this… attack on our freedom. I find myself remembering the time before the invasion. Back when things were simple, and the world, indeed, the worlds, as we had now colonized more than just earth. But the worlds were simple, there was no war, there was no poverty, people where happy. My sword and gun rip through approaching soldiers. I again pop the magazine out of the grip, and reload the Jackal. I realize then, that I’m down to my last clip. This cannot be good. Again, the reality and severity of my situation hit me. Words from a song, from a world long forgotten pop into my head. I find myself humming them, “I just want to run around, fly kites, wrestle jump and play. Swim through waves that crash to shore. The memories in me, cocooned in misery.” Again, as my sword rips through someone who I’ve never met, and now never will meet, I think of the life I once lead. Now gone, never to return. My Jackal fires it’s last few rounds into the enemy. Then, they stop advancing. The silence becomes full, and I can hear the blood drop off my sword blade. Then I realize, as the warm steel slides into my back and the world becomes a flash of hot white pain. It’s over, I guess I was the last one in this area. My life flashes befo.. my life? This.. but this is not my life. Is it?

No, it is not. I open my eyes, seeing the familiar white ceiling. The same strange dream, the same strange planet. The same overwhelming sense of destiny, fear and curiosity. I wonder to myself, as I look out the window at the familiar green and gold garden, why do I keep having this dream? What does it mean? Well, I know what it means, I’ve seen a dream interpreter. But I am not convinced. They say it is something to do with the subconscious, but I know that it is something else. Something big. The sense of destiny does not accompany a normal dream. But me? I’m just a simple journalist, working for a small music magazine, for next to no money. I get up in bed, and realize I slept through my alarm.
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