Beyond - Legends Soledad - New Post June 27

I'm supposed to be working on a science project, but I had that itchy I-Have-To-Write-Something-Right-Now-And-It-Doesn't-Matter-What feeling in my fingers, so this is what resulted. It's extremely odd, and I'm not sure why I'm posting it, but enjoy.

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It was in a clearing that she'd first seen the bodies. Around a lazy bend in the path, and then she'd nearly stumbled over the first of them. There was always that moment, when the sheer volume of dead flesh rose up before you, that your brain went numb in a quick shock. As if the mind needed a few seconds to itself, not distracted by idle thoughts, or any thoughts at all, a brief moment of complete insensitivity, in which to turn off its higher function. To flip that magic switch that kept the natural feeling of horror at bay.

She could still feel it. It was like a thin sheet had been stretched tight over her mind. The nausea, the revulsion, and the paralysis pushed up against it and she could feel their rounded edges intruding, but the sheet held them back. It blocked them from view.

She picked up her knee, high enough to step over the broken face of a faceless young man, and picked her way to the center of the field. There were a few other people in the field, preparing to perform the same job as her, but they didn't speak. When the switched was turned to the 'off' setting, you had to be very careful not to inadvertently flip it back on with conversation, interaction, or thought. To talk to another human being reminded you that the soft mounds draped over one another on the grass were human too, and had once been able to speak, think, breath, feel warmth flooding through their body and ideas crackling over their synapses. Now they were merely cold.

She kept her head down, her eyes tracing the path of the bare dirt. Her eyes could not, must not, connect with other eyes. Not the sparking, glimmering eyes of the others walking across the field, and particularly not the chilled, glassy stare of the casualties, who lay with open lids as if stunned by the revelation of some ultimate truth. But no, they were merely unable to shut their eyes, dead as they were.

She reached the center of the field and turned around in slow circle, her eyes squinting through the gentle morning mist that the cold sun was rapidly burning away like so many delicate beads of silk. She used to love the smell of the morning, the chilling freshness, like all the stains of the previous day had been captured inside the small droplets of morning dew, only to be eternally incinerated by the rays of sunlight, leaving behind a clean earth. Now she could only think of the smell. She awoken to the smell for too many days, and it had been imprinted upon her mind. She wondered indistinctly if she would ever forget it.

It was vaguely sweet, and if you were far enough away and fortunate enough not to be able to identify even a hint of the scent, it might remind you of day-old flowers, placed by a lover in the center of a table as a gesture of affection, as a spontaneous gift, constantly rearranged and toyed with by his companion, unable to restrain a satisfied smile at the reminder of her lover's amorous feelings. If you were lucky, you might catch a suggestion of the scent, early in the morning, and then continue with your day, and forget about the odor.

She was not so lucky. As soon as she could smell it, the scent that turned from sweet to rotting to sickening the closer you came, there was always an instant, before her brain shut off, in which she wanted to vomit. By now it was a tired reflex, her body's final lingering protest against its lot in life, against that which it was forced to endure, and it lasted only a second. But that second, day in and day out, was enough to create a permanent feeling of rawness, the taste of syrupy acid, in the back of her throat. She had tried drinking plenty of water, tried throat soothers, tried stim-tea, but nothing helped. In the end, she

 

Well done LM.

 

Well done, LadyM! Scary, sobering, but gr8!
Shelly

 

[face_shocked] [face_shocked]
All I can say is wow.
So horrifying and sad...
Great job, LM!!!

 

Another one... I don't know why you do it to yourself. Once again you prove your power of the written word. Your gift of imagery is one that anyone could be envious of; you have a gift to bring yourreader into the scene with such ease. I'm very curious to see what you do with this one.

 

That was good. Not a nomal topic to write about, but it was well written. Great imagry, great articulation. That was really excelent writing.

*May I put a plug in for my own thread?*

Hey folks. If anyone here is interested, I am writing an Episode 7 "Choose your own Adventure" scriptment, where you can choose what happens in the story! We're already into the story, but it's not to late to come! Theres till 2 more Episodes to go before we have the movies that will never come...7, 8, and 9! So if this interests you, come join the fun!

Thanks...and you are a great writer!

 

interesting...different...but very well written...and interesting...great job!

 

**blinks**

I second all the other RC's comments- nice postie! Very interesting.

 

Rachel: Thank you.

shelly: Thanks for reading!

EJM: *hugs EJM* Thanks so much! I'm really glad you liked it.

JWY: What would I do without you? Your comments always mean so much to me, so thank you again. Much appreciated.

Rush: Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it despite the strangeness.

LtJS: Thank you! I'm very happy that you found it interesting.

SOL: Thanks so much!

 

Most interesting. I enjoyed it a lot.

~Rogue

 

Freakish LM but i like it.

Jez

 

Intriguing....

Interesting....

Intricated....

etc.

Looks good.

 

rouge11: Thanks!

Jez: It was a little strange, wasn't it? I'm glad you read it anyway. Thanks!

ROP: Thank you!

 

You're right, LM, that was a little odd, but that didn't make it any less interesting to read.

The description was beautiful. As I'm sure I've told you before, you have a talent for focusing in on the tiny details, making each scene vivid and real. I had to read the story three times over before I could escape back to reality, and even then I can still picture the dead bodies and the fire consuming each one...

I'm going to go global here and say that this story could be applied to the horror of any war, at any time. The whole part where you mentioned how education was no longer at the top of any priority lists is highly representative of what happens in any violent struggle. Sadly, the root of most conflict--ignorance--is often dismissed as unimportant, perpetuating the cycle of misunderstandings and irrational biases.

Great job! This is a truly unique story, and definitely one I can read again and again.

 

*blinks* Wow. That was incredible. The...no. There really are no words. It was incredible. That imagery is simply amazing. It really did give me nightmares when I read it. It was very real, and just exactly what you'd expect from that situation. An excellent work.

 

That was amazing. The imagery, the details, sent shivers up my spine. I like it a lot, primarily because it's eerie and made me think. Great job!

 

Xaara: Thank you so much. Your comments mean a great deal to me, so I'm thrilled that you enjoyed this post. The first sentance just came to me, about a field full of bodies after a battle, and I wondered who would be looking at such a scene. It's odd what our mind will conjure if we let it. Thanks again.

Utuu: Thanks! I'm very happy you enjoyed it.

Liana: Muchas gracias, I really appreciate your comments.

 

So, I've decided to turn this into a series of vignettes about faceless people involved in the war. I'm experimenting with writing style a little in this one, and I'm not sure how much I like it, but see what you think.

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The young Lieutenant Colonel (he had been promoted just the other day, much to his surprise and confusion, as he hadn?t been with the military very long at all) sat at the rickety desk, standard-issue in all military quarters, absorbed in a piece of flimiplast that had the look of having been folded and unfolded many times in the past few days. He was tired from the training and classes and planning and drills that never seemed to end, and he couldn?t bring himself to wipe the droplet of water, escaped from his damp hair, off of the desk?s surface. So it remained atop the cheap, scuffed wood, a clear, round puff of water, magnifying and darkening the brown swirls underneath.

He held the letter out in front of him with his long, bony fingers. Artist?s fingers, his mother had been prone to exclaim with delight. One day he would be an artist, she had always told him, a painter or sculptor or perhaps a musician, and she would come see his shows and exhibitions and tell everyone See that boy? That?s my son! She had been a musician, a lounge singer, the darling of their city, adored and envied, her name on posters in bright letters, that famous red-lipped smile curving just under her stormy green eyes.

He had memories, impressions really, of his father combing his hair and putting his nice shirt on and then taking him and his brother to see their mother. Sneaking into the back of the club, slipping into the haze, and feeling her sultry, thick voice melt over them, husky from too many years of smoking and drinking, making the words sound molten, alive and hot. But then his father had died, heart problems, and she didn?t sing so much anymore. She didn?t curl her silky red hair into those big fat curls everyone had liked so much, she just let it hang, but it was still beautiful. His mother would always be beautiful, everyone said so.

He had applied to the art schools, sent them his drawings, the quick charcoal sketches he was always making with the hesitance of a schoolboy when he thought no one was watching, and a few of his paintings that he didn?t think were very good but he thought it best to send along anyway. The day that his acceptance letter had come his mother had made a big chocolate cake with the little green coils of icing around the side that he would stick his finger in and then suck off when she wasn?t looking, even though his brother would tell on him and then she would scold him with half a smile on her face, those red lips.

She put candles on the cake, short little candles with most of the wax scratched off and broken in places because she had dug them out from the bottom of the drawer since they didn?t have the money to spend on things like that anymore, since his father had died, heart problems you know. And then she sang a song, one of their favorites, and in between verses because his mother liked to sing the chorus herself with no one interrupting, he and his brother would sneak chocolate-smeared grins at each other across the table because she was singing and she was happy can you see? can you hear it? the whole city should hear it!

But then the school had been burned down after a New Republic pilot had crashed into it, flying his X-wing after drinking too much. The pilot had died and the school had been closed down. He hadn?t even gotten to step inside it. So then he had signed up for the military, because he didn't know what else to do.

She hadn?t said anything, not after that first day when she had yelled and screamed and said no you can?t I won?t let you and he had told her that he was and there?s not anything you can do about it because there isn?t money for anything else. She hadn?t said anything after that but every time she looked at him with those green e

 

As if it weren't sad snough, you had to add that last sentence. It wasn't even a good reason to die, just a pointless little thing. But, that's war, I guess. You really have a talent for getting the reader into the character's skin, you know that? I really felt a great deal of sympathy for Lt. Col. Anders. It's an excellent idea, this is, and I think the NJO is suffering for a lack of it. The only characters you see are the ones that are completely woven into the fate of the GFFA. It has the potential to surpass even SoG, and you know how much I like that.

If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, perhaps the next one could deal with the War from the POV of a low level Yuzhaan Vong? A worker, or a low level intendant? Not a Shamed One; they get a lot of screen time, but Lt. Col. Anders' Vong counterpart.

Excellent work.

 

Utuu: Thanks. I really appreciate your comments. I really like the tone of these two pieces; they're very different than SoG. Whereas that's more of a comedy/drama epic, these two are much more contained and stark and evocative, I thnk anyway. That is an excellent suggestion, but argh, I really have issues writing from Vong POV. I just can't get inside their head. But I'll think about it. Thanks again.

 

Ahhhh! That was so sad, LadyM! But it was very well written. I think it's a wonderful idea to write the untold stories of the ordinary people caught up in the conflict. It makes it seem so much more realistic, to me at any rate.

Gosh, I haven't talked to u in ages! I promise I'll pop over to SofG again soon! In the meantime, if you have time, I'd love it if you would read my fanfic, VOICES. I'd really value your opinion. It should be somewhere near the top of this board (I hope)

Shelly

 

shelly: Thank you! I'm so happy you're enjoying the concept. It has been a long time since I've talked to you. It's good to see you. I promise I will check out your new fic as soon as I have a moment. Congrats on starting it!

 

Oh, awesome! I was hoping you'd continue this!

Both of them, but especially this one, really show the horror of what the war must be like for the regular people that we rarely get to see in the books.
It's so SAD though... *sniff*

 

Another masterful piece of work there LM.

I like this idea your going with. Very interesting indeed.
I hope to see more soon.

Truely,
The Luna

 

I think what made me like this one was the style of your syntax. Your sentences hung at the end like an afterthought, and it was a refreshing style to see on the boards. Your tone carried a sense of companionship with Anders (hmm, this name sound sort of familiar, just kidding)and the reader felt sympathy for him. And his death tradegic, but very poignant.