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It was great, but...
Hmm... average at best.
You could've done better than that.
Don't waste my time with this junk!
This is a short story of sorts that I wrote a few years ago, mainly for dealing with the death of 'my' dog, which I had grew up and lived with for about 13 years. Feel free to comment.
- Diary of Jules Mewlain, elderly resident of Sydney, Australia. Father of Marcus Mewlain, soldier of the fifth legion. Critical evidence in a suicide case of March, 2008.
"I woke up, first thing I noticed was the date. March 18th, 2008.
On normal days I take a quick shower and have breakfast, but somehow I knew this day was different. I was feeling rather queasy today, and I was positive it didn't have anything to do with last night's meal, as sober as it had been.
I was right. Three hours later, as I turned on the replacement television, which was worth less than five hundred dollars, plus the fact that it had a bad connection. The screen was snowy and the sound wasn't available. Nonetheless I managed to notice that the regular news reader had been replaced by a military officer, demanding the attention of the civilians.
'It has been three days since we've launched our last attack. Hereby I declare that China has reopened the borders with India, and we are able to gain a secondary base there. Brave men are needed to volunteer to fight on the front lines. I admit there is a overwhelming chance we will fail, but then we have failed with the thought of having served our country!' - according to the subtitles.
The voice trailed away, being overtaken in the sound of the australian anthem, which was performed rather squeaky and nauseously in comparison with the strong speech of the military officer. I felt my stomach going banter as a madman even more: it felt like it wanted to jump up through my throat, outward. My dear son, who has always had high standards, now volunteered for the front line position.
With nothing but dread weighing heavier and heavier on my heart, I gave him a tearful farewell, inwardly knowing that I wouldn't see him again so long as I lived. I waved him goodbye, knowing that he wouldn't return to me once he was done out there, reclaiming Russia for humanity. I realised I wasn't human thinking like that. I felt weird, almost as if something had been broken inside of me and repaired itself, although not very accurate, as if it was something like acne partially being removed.
I stared in the mirror for a time, did not bother to stop looking at my broken and resigned appearance, knowing that I would die if I didn't stop staring, and die even if I did. So I stared at myself. For the following week I only sporadically tore my attention away from the mirror to fetch some thin-rationed food. I would be able to hold this out for five months if I had to, but it wasn't necessary to buy a stock that large.
As I would find out a few months later on the poorly functioning television, my son had not faltered in the prospect of becoming a national hero, beating back the invaders. He was so happy, I knew once I saw his face gleaming with joy over his victories. Of course it was wrong for me to get my hopes to see him up again; three days later I received a personal message from the Colonel himself, condoling me with the loss of my son. My boy, a hero for three days, had died in an ambush as he was being escorted back to the harbour."
- The writing seems to end here, and the father of the fallen soldier was found two days later than the date he stopped with his diary, hanging from the ceiling with a robe around his neck, the body beginning to decay and rot. A broken clay pot was found in the corner of the room, and a chair was lying near it. Over the walls were scribbles with the contents of the state of mind of a madman.
Last edited by Kuranzyan; July 17, 2009 at 01:47 PM.