Winter 2013 Short Story Contest!

[Nazi Flower Power]

I may write something up for this, I want to write more and I have a historical fiction idea.

Be quick about it if you are going to. You only have 3 days.

[Jamessonia]

I may write something up for this, I want to write more and I have a historical fiction idea.

Be quick about it if you are going to. You only have 3 days.

I'll see about it.

[Tiltjuice]

Bad timing this year. I'll wait till next year.

[Pope Joan]

Harken, my children.

Learn the wise lore of the Tlingit indians of British Columbia and the northwest US.

"Long ago a fearsome vampire lord threatened the whole world. he attacked all living creatures and left them as dry empty husks.

"The people feared they were doomed, but a mighty Hero strode forth and offered to combat the demon lord.

"He took his bow and long knife, and medicine belt, but little else.

"The demon lord vampire laughed at the challenge but the Hero deftly assailed him with many accurate arrows. While the vampire was cursing and trying to retreat, the hero leapt upon him and began stabbing and slashing with his knife, which had dismembered many stags and elk.

"But lo! The vampire lord was an eternal spirit and could not be slain! He assailed the Hero with painful slashes and gashes of his poisoned fingernails.

"The Hero dodged the fierce teeth and retreated to heal himself with his medicines.

"The vampire lord taunted him with the futility of his attack, but the Hero repeated his former assault, arrows, knife, only this time he kept hacking and slicing until he had reduced the vampire to hundreds of tiny fragmennts.

"The furious vampire, now many little vampires, continued to counterattack, but although they were able to inflict pain, the little vampires could no longer kill.

"So the Hero kept slashing and hacking until the vampires were as small and harmless as could be, no longer a threat, although still annoying."

and thus the mosquitos were created."

[The New World Oceania]

I may write something up for this, I want to write more and I have a historical fiction idea.

Be quick about it if you are going to. You only have 3 days.

"3 days."

Harken, my children.

Learn the wise lore of the Tlingit indians of British Columbia and the northwest US.

"Long ago a fearsome vampire lord threatened the whole world. he attacked all living creatures and left them as dry empty husks.

"The people feared they were doomed, but a mighty Hero strode forth and offered to combat the demon lord.

"He took his bow and long knife, and medicine belt, but little else.

"The demon lord vampire laughed at the challenge but the Hero deftly assailed him with many accurate arrows. While the vampire was cursing and trying to retreat, the hero leapt upon him and began stabbing and slashing with his knife, which had dismembered many stags and elk.

"But lo! The vampire lord was an eternal spirit and could not be slain! He assailed the Hero with painful slashes and gashes of his poisoned fingernails.

"The Hero dodged the fierce teeth and retreated to heal himself with his medicines.

"The vampire lord taunted him with the futility of his attack, but the Hero repeated his former assault, arrows, knife, only this time he kept hacking and slicing until he had reduced the vampire to hundreds of tiny fragmennts.

"The furious vampire, now many little vampires, continued to counterattack, but although they were able to inflict pain, the little vampires could no longer kill.

"So the Hero kept slashing and hacking until the vampires were as small and harmless as could be, no longer a threat, although still annoying."
and thus the mosquitos were created.

I'm calling plagiarism. Pretty sure you took that from Ulysses.

[Unitaristic Regions]

Ugh, I'll really try, people, but I'm not sure if it will work. But I do know I'll write like a muthafucka!

[Jamessonia]

Here's my submission. I wrote it all yesterday, just edited it today. It's still a diamond in the rough, very rough maybe, but if it's judged not totally horrible, I'll continue on it after the contest.

Hello. My name is Karl Schmetterberg. I don’t know why I am writing this, twenty years later, all I know is that I was drawn to this pen by some force that I cannot describe. Allow me to explain.
If you, the reader, have not met me, hello. I am Karl Schmetterberg, butcher, cow-boy, and infantryman of the 8th Schutztruppe. Not anymore, of course. I left years ago, right after the war. As I write, it is the year 1938. I’m glad to have fought in the war, but that doesn’t mean I would do it again. No, no. No sane man would do that again. But that doesn’t mean I regret it.

But my opinion is of no consequence. I bring pen to paper, due to this powerful and weird force, not for my personal enjoyment, but so that my story will never be lost. I may be vain, or just after personal glory. Either way, my story will be told. The story of Germany in East Africa, the story of the Battle of Tanga. I recall one very vivid image, and image that will doubtlessly haunt me till the end of my days. It isn’t one of battle, or any heroics. Just me, Karl Schmetterberg, leaning against a tree.

It was a very hot day, late 1914. Surely you already know of the Battle of Tanga, I can’t imagine any reader who would forget it. But forget me. Here is what I can recall, from my mind to the page.

I opened my eyes. Surveying the space around me, I deemed the noise that had awoken me but a trifle. I was in the camp of the 8th Schutztruppe, my company. It was in the desert, the closest established dwellings in the port of Tanga on the horizon. Tents were erected everywhere, and most of my comrades were very likely sleeping. That’s how we spent a lot of time in those days. The only permanent building was the railroad station, say, thirty meters from my resting spot, followed by the tracks only a few yards away from camp.
I stood up, only then realizing how heavy and dry my tongue was. My first reaction was to reach down to my belt for my canteen, but upon inspection it was as dry as the desert itself. I slowly rose, stretching and looking around for the water station. I found it in a corner, away from the majority of the tents. My legs heavy and tired, it was a laborious task to get to the water, but it was well rewarded. There was an African there, shielding himself in the hot sun with his hat as he sat in an old wicker chair. Seeing me approach, he sprang up, saluting. Noticing my water canteen, he took a jug of water and filled it. I quickly took a gulp, nodded to him, and with rather more energy returned to camp.

I stood in the middle of the field of tents, surveying my surroundings. I have always been in love with Africa. The majesty of the secrets, the endless lands inhabited only by the curious native tribes, the fact of white man’s enclave in deepest Africa, this unnerved me and comforted me at the same time.
While this happened, I suddenly felt the urge to go hunting. It was a primal need, a need to find fresh food to survive. Completely irrational, of course, but that’s no reason to doubt an urge.
I didn’t want to go hunting alone, but that was never a problem. Out of hundreds of men in the 8th Schutztruppe alone, of course one would want to go hunting. Perhaps I should ask Thomas, he always likes shooting things. I trudged through the sandy ground to his tent, the same one that I myself slept in. Thomas and I had been friendly ever since we met in training, just after we signed up for the outfit. I lifted the front flap, to find fair Thomas lying on his back, apparently asleep. I brushed aside his mosquito-net (a quite unnecessary precaution; it was too dry for any insects) and shook him lightly. He woke from a light sleep, and the heat hit him like it did all of us right after we awoke from a nice dream of a colder clime. Groggily, he berated me,
“Goddamnit, Karl! What are you waking me up for, is it drill already?”
“No, no, nothing of the sort. I was just wondering if you would fancy a bit of hunting. It would be nice to have real fresh meat over the fire, wouldn’t it?”
He blinked and began to rise. I smiled and grabbed my rifle (which was lying in the corner, propped up against the tent), slinging it over my shoulder before offering Thomas his. He accepted it and followed me out the flap, which closed behind us with a swish of hot desert air.

We both blinked as the hot sun wavered in the sky, shedding its light into our eyes. We made a turn to the left and began walking, it being known that wild boar and other animals tended to reside closer to a small watering-hole in that direction.
I would have laughed if I hadn’t known that there was in fact a source of water, as no one could tell by the surrounding terrain. It was all dust, sand and dirt for miles, and naturally the grime seeped into our very pores, generally giving all of us a dirty and dusty appearance, even if we had just been allowed to wash.

The walking was slow, and our progress hindered by the rocks hidden by the desert itself. Walking, I caught sight of a flurry activity out of the corner of my eye.
I turned swiftly, nearly knocking into Thomas. His face betrayed his indignation, but he soon noticed the same thing I had. It was a wild boar, trotting along a rocky ridge that, unbeknownst to me at the time, would come to play a large role in my story.
I looked over to Thomas, and whispered,
“Be very quiet, and approach slowly. Fire on three.”
He nodded and we began to walk towards the pig. When we were sufficiently nearby, I gingerly took my rifle from my shoulder, aiming it at the animal that stalked the sand thirty meters away. I lifted my finger, signaling to get ready. I whispered once again to my friend,
“One, two… three.”
We both fired upon the boar. I aimed for its head, but the bullet whizzed by harmlessly as the beast moved. I was cursing the natural adversary as Thomas’ shot flew straight into the neck. Seeing this, I clapped him on the back, causing him to stumble over a stone. I laughed mercilessly, and even he smiled slightly, showing off his dazzlingly white teeth.

Approaching the kill, I marveled at my comrades’ accuracy.
“A very fair shot, my friend. We shall have clean meat tonight!”
We both grinned at the prospect.

But before we had time to gloat further, I looked over the side of the rocky cliff to the sight below. I instantly drew breath as I saw the fantastic view of the city of Tanga. The port town really wasn’t much, compared to Dar-es-Salaam, but the view did have a certain majestic feeling. One could see the German flag flying high above the government building, and my chest filled with pride at the image of two strong Germans, thousands of miles away, dominating the land and its resources. The harbor was a particularly fine thing to view, as the ships coming and going were a marvelous testament to the global environment of the land.
But one such vessel caught my eye. It didn’t look like any other I had ever viewed; it looked more like a warship. Its three funnels belched a stream of black smoke, and it almost looked to have guns…
“Thomas, do you see that ship? What do you fancy it is?”
“I couldn’t tell you. Do you think the colonel would like to hear of it? It might earn us something, anyway. Here, help me carry this pig back to camp.” Thomas shrugged as he picked up the carcass.

I had no chance to assist my fellow soldier before a kind of horn blasted in the distance, once, twice, three times. I instantly recognized it as the assembly horn, and Thomas sighed as he interpreted it.
“Damn, I guess we have to go. Quick, let’s bring this back.”
We both gripped the large boar and moved back towards the shanty-town of tents and the imposing railroad station looming over it. We grew very weary of the hard labor, and the prospect of drilling when we returned did nothing to quicken our step. When we finally got close enough to our camp to pick out individual figures, we saw that the company was certainly not in any drilling position, far from it. They were sort of massing around the center, and there was a flurry of activity all around. My companion and I looked at each other quickly, both wearing the same mask of confusion. With a grunt we both lifted the boar onto our shoulders and broke into a far faster jog.

Not only did this strange turn of events give me the sense that something was amiss. While still a good fifty meters from the outside of the encampment, we heard a deep, full blast coming from our direct left. Looking over, I saw the curious vessel in the harbor blasting into the city. Dear God, deliver us. Looking to Thomas, we both instantly turned from confused to panicked. We broke into fast runs as further shells fired behind us. Boom. Boom. Boom.

We finally managed to get close enough to the rest of 8. Schutztruppe to make out faces, their bodies surrounding the center ‘square’ of the camp. Our much-loved leader, Colonel Heminger, stood in the center, and it looks like he had been speaking. The familiar soldiers of our company looked at us in fear, and the sight of the fresh boar didn’t bring any of the usual jubilation. Instead they looked at us, with panic, pity… and disgust?
I scurried into the crowd, not wishing to draw more attention to myself than necessary. Yes, I was feeling slightly embarrassed to be caught like this. I found another friend of mine few feet away. I whispered to him,

“What’s going on? We heard gunshots and the horn…”
To which he responded, “The colonel was just telling us that the British seem to be shelling the town. Apparently, they landed advance parties early this morning and are beginning a direct assault now!”
I nodded and began to listen to Colonel Heminger as he began, once again, to speak. Really, British soldiers invading Tanga? We must stop them, whatever the cost. Oh God, I’m going into battle! I never thought it would happen-
“We will defend the south of the city against attack. The ridge that our two friends undoubtedly noticed while on their little expedition…”
I blushed deep red as the people around me stared. Thomas also had a similar reaction, and I could tell because he stood not far from me.
“… as I was saying, this ridge is of tactical importance as a defense against a British advance south, towards Dar-es-Salaam. We will deploy immediately, so we must pack up the camp and move out within the hour. Godspeed everyone, and God save the Fatherland.”
A resounding cheer went up before the troops began to dissipate, back towards their own tents to gather their things.


I dropped my bag on the ground with a thud. The noise was hidden by the din of hundreds of men setting up their tents and living spaces. I stopped for a moment to stare out of the ridge, the same spot where the boar was killed not two hours ago… I even saw specks of blood from the kill. Over the cliff stood Tanga, a town which had once seemed strong and majestic, like a Teutonic hero. Now it seemed more like the damsel in distress, with the British warship striking her with every cannon shot.
Colonel Heminger had told us that the ship was the HMS Fox. This meant almost nothing to me, except what we all knew it from army dispatches. It was one of the fiercest British ships prowling the East African shore, sinking and destroying all German ships in its path. My gazing over the desert was interrupted by a familiar voice,
“Karl, would you get over here? This fire isn’t going to start itself!”
I turned to see Thomas seated a dozen meters away. A pit was at his feet, and it was full of dry old wood. In his hand he gripped a match, trying fruitlessly to light it. As I walked over to him, past the rushing soldiers attempting to build a new encampment to resist the enemy, he struggled further with the fire.
“This damn heat, that must be what’s wrong!” He said, seconds before he finally managed to spark a fire.
“Oh ho! That’s more like it! Say Karl, drag over that pig, won’t you? I’m sure he’d like to be cooked where he was killed.” The jubilant young man said with a grin as he lowered his face towards the building fire, lighting the cigarette that dangled loosely from his lips.
I looked behind me to see the hog lying a few feet away. Grinning myself, I grabbed it by the foot and dragged it slowly over to the fire.
Thomas rubbed his hands together, and both of our mouths watered. Then, his smile flipped into a frown as he remembered,
“Damn, we haven’t built a spit!”

“Gather around, men! I have news to share with you!”
I looked in front of me to see Colonel Heminger calling for us to flock to him. Thomas stood up in front of me and whispered,
“I never noticed how his mustache flops when he talks.”
Stifling a laugh, I allowed the crowd of soldiers to push me until I stood just feet from our commander. His fine white uniform was drenched with sand and sweat as he spoke in a hoarse voice,
“Gentlemen, you have made fine progress. The camp looks ready, not only for habitation but also defense. This will probably be needed, as I have just received news that the enemy has taken the city. They will probably advance south now, not to invade but to probe our defenses. Within a couple of hours, we will have the foe tiptoeing around here, in our land. We have a certain element of surprise on our side, because they don’t know that we’re positioned so close to the city. Men, be on your guard. You are dismissed.”

The crowd shrank until I began to leave. Just as I was about to sit down in front of the fire to help build the spit, I heard the colonel speak,
“Karl, Wilhelm, Friedrich! Help set up the Maxim! It’s over there, and it needs to be focused towards the city. Put it right near the edge of the cliff!”
I turned and looked at my fellow chosen laborers. We shuffled to the gun lying a few yards away and began to lift it to its destination. I carried the muzzle, and its menacing look provided me with comfort. If I’m almost afraid of my own gun, imagine what it’ll do to them!
We laid the gun down on the ridge and set up the tripod, finally lifting the former onto the latter. After it snapped into place, I looked at it with a sense of accomplishment. I must do my best.


I sat in my tent, looking through a newspaper, Der Tanga Tagliche-Zeitung. It was full of meaningless stuff, petty robberies and civilian efforts towards the war, but it was nice to pass the time.
“This is a real civilian effort, what we’re doing.”
“Sure, except we aren’t civilians.” Thomas, who was cleaning his rifle on the blanket adjacent to mine, replied.
“I suppose not. I don’t feel like a soldier though.”
“How do you know what a soldier feels like if you’ve never felt it?”
“You know what, Thomas? Sometimes you’re too clever for your own good.”
I looked up from my reading in time to see him smirk widely, followed by a snort of amusement from myself.

“Enemy sighted, enemy sighted!”
I threw down my newspaper and reached for my rifle as Thomas stopped cleaning his. We both stood (stooped, really) and exited via the cloth cover.

The rush of men to find their weapons, ammunitions, positions, and orders hit me as hard as the searing sun. I won’t be glum if I never have to do this again.
Colonel Heminger was taking his usual leadership role as he waved his arms in the air, yelling into the air,
“Move towards the ridge! You can seem them, marching in lines. Once they get close, open fire! Don’t dare shoot yet, and try not to make much noise!”
The company quieted down, mostly, and gravitated towards the cliff. I was right behind Thomas as he settled into prone position between two men I didn’t know well. I followed suit, lying on my friends’ right.

The British lines were, in fact, marching, though they looked more like ants from this distance. A mob of soldiers, moving towards us, leaning to the right.
Looking around, I saw the men of the 8th Schutztruppe stretched out in a long line of men readied on my left and right. I guessed that at this rate they would probably crash into our right flank, but also deduced that we would open fire on them long before that. Raising my head and looking to the right, I saw the Maxim gun, manned by a group of four. They tensely awaited the enemy, fingering the trigger and the belt of ammunition protruding like a tail from the object of destruction.

A deathly quiet fell upon the desert. Almost no sound was made, save a few mutters and coughs from humans and howls from the wild dingoes. The enemy, on the other hand, grew steadily louder as they got nearer and nearer, like a swarm of buzzing bees readying to sting. Where a mass stood just moments before, faces could just barely be made out. A man with a pair of field glasses to my left suddenly said in a loud, but hushed voice,
“They aren’t British! They look like Arabs!”
Mumbling broke out like malaria throughout the small, thin front. Thomas leaned closer and whispered into my left ear,
“Too scared to face us, eh? Sent out their colonial dogs to do it for them.”
I nodded, gulping at the same time. They don’t want this any more than I do, perhaps less. God, if I didn’t have to…

The unintelligible noises emanating from the foreign army slowly turned into words, in English and another language I couldn’t begin to understand. Thomas said, half to himself and half to me,
“Must be speaking Indian.”
I was too tense to respond. Soon we must fire, I knew that. The force didn’t seem to have noticed us, and surprise was our advantage.
“Don’t fire until you see the badges on their coats.” Colonel Heminger dictated slowly, not even having to raise his voice, since no one was speaking. I turned to see him crouched on his knees several yards away, his thick walrus-esque mustache drooping over the field glasses he saw through. The soldiers all along the ground between my commanding officer and myself looked just as I did, worried expressions sprouting like dandelions on a sunny spring day.
My finger pulsed along with my heartbeat as it stroked the trigger of my rifle, caressing it, flirting with the power it wielded. I could pick out an individual enemy, his uniform shining brightly in the sun, not as bright as the badges on his coat though.

My finger twitched violently. A single shot rang out, reaching its target in the side of the man’s ribcage. The enemy column seized up before starting to yell in confusion and haste, the panic rippling outward from the fallen army man. Individual men nearby the formation began to turn towards us, not seeing us before the colonel cried out,
“Fire! Fire, fire at them for God’s sake!”
Not a second later, shots pierced the air as bullets flew forth towards the Indians. The arrhythmic pops and cracks sizzled like bacon in a skillet as men all up and down the ridge pulled their triggers. I was broken out of my daze by Thomas, who muttered through gritted teeth,
“You’ll probably get a damn medal for that first shot, Karl!”
He fired his first shot, sending the noise barreling through my left ear. He pulled back the bolt with some effort before looking for his next target.
How could I forget? I felt like smacking myself, but instead I pulled back my own bolt, after loading a new cartridge from a box a few feet away. This is a battle. Be alert.
I fired randomly into the column, which was having some trouble getting into proper defensive position. I thought we were defending... Whatever they're position, they certainly weren’t helped by the Maxim.
The ratta-tat-tat of the machine-gun fire added to the symphony of guns as its operators trained the powerful weapon directly into the crowd of men. I had to look on in awe as the bullets ripped through two, three, four, five men before they even realized where it was coming from. I pulled back my bolt once more, and reloaded.

The enemy had turned to face us now, and was forming a front opposite ours. They returned fire, which mostly bounced harmlessly off the bottom of the ridge or went high into the sky. I fired once more, hitting an Indian who was just about to fire one off at our line. The enemy was taking heavy casualties, mostly from the machine-gun but small arms fire was also taking its toll.

A shot ricocheted right in front of me as I was reloading. It bounced over me, and I scrambled for it in the dirt behind me. I felt a strange urge, and threw the heavy bit of lead hard at an enemy close by. He cursed, and looked up. I trained my rifle on him, and our eyes locked.
He looked at me with a pleading look, and his rifle was down by his side. I can’t shoot him, not in cold blood. That would be murder.
I fired away from him, further back in the mass. Looking at him again, he ducked down without a second thought. I quickly reloaded.
“They’re going to charge. Men, prepare yourselves! They’ll be coming from behind too. This half, swivel around and march there. I want the Maxim gun lifted and carried to face our rear. Let’s go!”

The colonel looked directly at me and yelled, “Go! That Maxim is the most important thing now!”

I took the cue and ran over to it, bullets flying by. Many men were standing and scrambling to new positions, and I helped another carry the Maxim across the ridge, where the cliff sloped down into the ground. The enemies were not far off, obviously readying for a fixed-bayonet charge while ducking down as the fire from our side picked up. I found the men carry the tripod and fixed the gun, patting it awkwardly before joining the new line forming at the weakest spot, where the charge would come.

Our foes were obscured from view by the ridge, as we crouched just behind the spot where the cliff and the ground fused together. I could hear the enemies readying for the attack, growling and yelling as they began to run around the ridge. I grew tense again, waiting though this was something we’d never trained for. I propped my rifle on my knee to get a better shot…

The first men ran past my eyes, and I instinctively fired. It was lucky I was on the front line, or else I might have shot my own man in the back! I instantly hit the ground, watching my chosen man fall. While preparing myself for the next shot, I was reassured to hear my hard work hadn’t gone to waste. Ratta-tat-tat.
The first wave was beginning their final charge, turning to face us and heading straight. Man after man was ripped to shreds by the machine-gun fire, falling like rag dolls into the sand well before me. Their badges and buttons gleamed in the sunlight, blinding me as their bodies fell to create such a powerful visual effect.
The waves, beginning from a hundred meters away, began to get heavier, and more men got through. An unsuspecting and incredulous infantryman managed to get ten meters away before being gunned down. But for every soldier that managed to take a shot, three or four died. It was pure slaughter, and the desert ran red.

“Goddamnit! The gun is heating up!”
I turned my head to the right to see the Maxim team flinching away from the gun. I’m not surprised it’s overheating, so am I. Another member of the team yelled, obviously exasperated,
“Where is a damn African when you need one?”
“I sent him to go get water a while ago, who knows where he is?”
My canteen! I dropped my rifle and reached down to my belt for my canteen. It was only about half full, but I got up on one knee to pass it to the nearest Maxim team member.
“Here’s some, for what it’s worth.”
The man smiled and replied, “Thank you, comrade. This’ll keep it going for a couple more minutes.”
He poured a bit of water over the gun, checking its temperature. The mechanic unloading of lead restarted.

I lowered myself again, happy to be out of the immediate danger of getting a bullet to the head. Cautiously raising my head to peer over the barrier, at the charging men before me, I was shocked. In the few seconds the Maxim was out of commission, scores of enemy men had sprinted to within twenty meters. They yelled and roared, attacking with their bayonets pointed like spears. Behind them lagged a well-dressed officer, wielding a regimental sword which contrasted greatly with his bright red uniform. With a yelp, I picked my rifle back up and continued firing.
They’re going to reach the line.
Seconds after I thought that, I hit the floor. A combatant had leapt over our hastily prepared sandbag fortifications and was brandishing his bayonet. His ankles stared me in the face as I was frozen in fear. He seemed quite confused, as if he hadn’t actually expected to get this far, but without a second thought I pushed his legs as hard as I could with the length of my rifle. He fell down on top of one of my allies with an unintelligible grunt, both completely surprised. Now that he and I were on the same elevation, I aimed my rifle at his torso and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Oh Christ. It was empty. I scrambled for ammunition, and with trembling fingers I shoved it into the barrel.
Before I was even done, I heard a shot from under the scrambling foreigner. Blood spurted into the air, landing on me, the other men surrounding me, and the desert sand. The men all around looked towards the origin and so did I. The man under the now dead foe pushed the corpse off of himself quick as he could. He was covered in blood, and his expression alone made my stomach do several unwanted somersaults.

Mainly just to remove my eyes from that gruesome sight, I propped myself up on two knees and focused my attention on the battlefield in front of me. Every square inch of desert within ten meters was littered with human carcasses, rotting fast in the African sun. The flow of men was becoming a trickle, and a cry was heard from the men who had remained at the top of the ridge.
“They’re retreating!”
“Back to the city? Fire on them, don’t let them return alive! Get the Maxim back in place!”
Immediately I went over to the gun and sprinted back to the top of the ridge with it, without any assistance. Blood was pumping through my veins unlike any other time of my life. I had never felt so alive. Setting it up on the tripod, I searched among the masses of Schutztruppe men for Thomas.
“Thomas? Where are you?”
I asked several people where he’d gone, but no one could answer. He must have been assigned a new task. He can’t have died, it just isn’t possible. Pushing that idea out of my head, I began to fire upon the retreating enemy, who were running in a quite disorganized fashion back to the town. The Maxim reopened fire upon them, but their thin numbers and lack of rigid lines limited its use, and most of its ammunition fell harmlessly upon the hot ground many yards away.

At about two hundred meters, it became impossible to fire upon them anymore. One by one the men of the 8th Schutztruppe realized this and laid down their arms in victory. I wiped the sweat from my brow, and just lay there for a moment. It became very quite again, just as it had been before the battle had started.
Colonel Heminger broke the silence, declaring in a tired, gravelly voice,

“That’s it men. We’ve held our position! We did it! We won! Long Live the Fatherland!”

A wave of pride splashed over the weary men as they replied,

“Long Live the Fatherland!”


The field hospital was just a glorified tent.

It was an hour after the battle had finished, and the victorious warriors basked in their accomplishment. Allies, comrades, and friends who had just moments ago been fighting for their very lives were now lounging about, playing cards and laughing at jokes. I had asked a particularly good natured group whereto find the field hospital, and they had pointed me to a large tent, which I, of course, entered promptly.

The sick and wounded lay on low cots, as many as twenty or thirty altogether on the sandy floor. Nurses and doctors scrambled to find bandages and drugs as I surveyed the area nervously.
“Thomas!” I yelled as I saw him lying on a bed on the far side of the room.
He sat up, turned, and grinned his usual grin as I spoke,
“What happened to you?”
“It’s nothing, really. While I was up on the ridge, defending our rear during the charge, one of those damn dogs managed to shoot my hand.” He held up his hand, which was tightly bandaged. “It might be infected, so they asked me to stay here. I’ll be up again in a jiffy.”

An infection was nothing to belittle, especially then and there. My face must have shown this, as Thomas sighed and sat there awkwardly. I pulled up a chair and began to tell him how good that boar had tasted, to his mock anger.
“Karl, we won, right?” He asked seriously and suddenly.
“Of course Thomas, we slaughtered them!”
“And we are to remain here?”
“Well… the colonel has mentioned that we may be needed to assault the city within the next few days.”
Thomas looked down. “I suppose I won’t be there.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll be safe back here, and I’ll tell you all about it when we return.”
We both smiled, his more sincere than mine…

[The New World Oceania]

*Flips hair*
Really aspiring for the "Eh You Tried" Award.

November 3rd

They stare, one could say, but this is inaccurate.

They watch, They gaze. They take within Themselves the image before Them, although only within the range of what They can see, filling the rest with speculation through Their minds.

Between Them, the floor rises of nothingness, made of stone and layered in velvet. Impenetrably stand two doors between the idyllic, bounding inward of Them the encounter, whom waits beneath the ceiling which is constant across from behind the first door to past the second. It is all which remains similar in any place, save the door. As They look across, yet, there stands a second symmetry; the other half completed across this hall is only waiting for the other but it seems so repulsive.

She, laced in branches from Monet's winter and extending not thread but void from her head, kneels at the door, her eye at what is indubitably twenty-eight centimeters above the floor. One hand presses against the wall with her fourth finger crossed over the third and second, and another arm, slightly paler than the first, hangs down just above her knee. The hall stretches what should seem an eternal length but she strains her eye to see what is so near despite that it is concealed, and there is a moment when there seems a given time that a glimpse of white appears where it existed not before. It surrounds a pupil, but it is there, then no more.

He, draped in leaves which fell just prior to November 3rd, crouches, knee nearing ground, at the door. His eye is irrefutably twenty-eight centimeters above the floor. One hand futilely tries to grasp the door's surface, but the other reaches, mounting the air as it grazes the door in its efforts to meet the ceiling. The hall lists on further than the stars, yet he strains his eye to see what is so near despite that it is concealed, and there is a moment when there seems a given time that a glimpse of white appears where it existed not before. It surrounds a pupil – it is there, then no more.

She cannot bear the weight of that side, whose velvet presses together and He; He could never step further across that other because the floor pricks at his feet and dyes them a deeper red than ever the ground should be. The air strangles all beyond the point that is not their's, and They as one could not pass that point, not because They could not bear the sheer drop of themselves but because They could not bear that same drop of Themselves.

[Respubliko de Libereco]

Seven entries so far, eh?
At least I'm now a lot less likely to come in last than I was four entries ago. Hooray for statistics!

[Nazi Flower Power]

Seven entries so far, eh?
At least I'm now a lot less likely to come in last than I was four entries ago. Hooray for statistics!

The lack of confidence in this thread is really something. I hope you people are just being too hard on yourselves and I won't have to read a bunch of schlock.

1 more day before entries are closed. If anyone else wants to enter, you better get crackin'!

[Vampirum]

Crap. I would have signed up, but the chances of me getting something decent written up before the deadline is slim.

[Jamessonia]

Seven entries so far, eh?
At least I'm now a lot less likely to come in last than I was four entries ago. Hooray for statistics!

The lack of confidence in this thread is really something. I hope you people are just being too hard on yourselves and I won't have to read a bunch of schlock.

1 more day before entries are closed. If anyone else wants to enter, you better get crackin'!

Probably. It's the mark of an insecure writer, I guess

[The 93rd Coalition]

Crap. I would have signed up, but the chances of me getting something decent written up before the deadline is slim.

Same here as well. Pity there wasn't a longer deadline .

[The New World Oceania]

Seven entries so far, eh?
At least I'm now a lot less likely to come in last than I was four entries ago. Hooray for statistics!

The lack of confidence in this thread is really something. I hope you people are just being too hard on yourselves and I won't have to read a bunch of schlock.

1 more day before entries are closed. If anyone else wants to enter, you better get crackin'!

It would be a bit arrogant to say "Pfft, you're all screwed. I've won. It's twenty words, but I've won."

And next contest I'm submitting a twenty word piece. There's an obligation, now.

[Vampirum]

Is there anyway to extend the deadline to Friday?

[Nazi Flower Power]

The lack of confidence in this thread is really something. I hope you people are just being too hard on yourselves and I won't have to read a bunch of schlock.

1 more day before entries are closed. If anyone else wants to enter, you better get crackin'!

Probably. It's the mark of an insecure writer, I guess

Yeah, it is easy to question yourself. I sometimes do that too.

[Nazi Flower Power]

Is there anyway to extend the deadline to Friday?

It's up to Jenrak, but I am against it because it has already been extended multiple times.

If enough people are interested, we can always have another contest.

[Jamessonia]

Is there anyway to extend the deadline to Friday?

It's up to Jenrak, but I am against it because it has already been extended multiple times.

If enough people are interested, we can always have another contest.

I assume there will be a spring contest?

[The New World Oceania]

It's up to Jenrak, but I am against it because it has already been extended multiple times.

If enough people are interested, we can always have another contest.

I assume there will be a spring contest?

I've only recalled summer and winter. Have we had spring and fall contests, typically?

[Vampirum]

Is there anyway to extend the deadline to Friday?

It's up to Jenrak, but I am against it because it has already been extended multiple times.

If enough people are interested, we can always have another contest.

Well I could always sign up next time. Or I could try to write something up before tomorrow. Sadly, I won't be able to show off by doing the maximum 6000 words.

[Jamessonia]

I assume there will be a spring contest?

I've only recalled summer and winter. Have we had spring and fall contests, typically?

Either way, I look forward to participating in one where I have more than three days to work.

[Nazi Flower Power]

I assume there will be a spring contest?

I've only recalled summer and winter. Have we had spring and fall contests, typically?

There have been spring or fall ones sometimes. The spacing between contests is kind of erratic.

[Respubliko de Libereco]

Probably. It's the mark of an insecure writer, I guess

Yeah, it is easy to question yourself. I sometimes do that too.

I'd be much more confident if this was a poetry contest, but I have pretty much no experience whatsoever with short stories, so I think it's reasonable to expect to do poorly.

[Nazi Flower Power]

Yeah, it is easy to question yourself. I sometimes do that too.

I'd be much more confident if this was a poetry contest, but I have pretty much no experience whatsoever with short stories, so I think it's reasonable to expect to do poorly.

You might be better at poetry, but I would think some of the skill would transfer to short stories, since both are putting words together in a relatively short format.

[Respubliko de Libereco]

I'd be much more confident if this was a poetry contest, but I have pretty much no experience whatsoever with short stories, so I think it's reasonable to expect to do poorly.

You might be better at poetry, but I would think some of the skill would transfer to short stories, since both are putting words together in a relatively short format.

That's about where the similarity ends, though.
I do often write narrative poetry, which is a bit closer to a short story, but I tend to use plots from mythology rather than come up with my own, since I'm not great at writing a decent story. Even the story I wrote for this contest was originally conceived as a retelling of St. George and the Dragon, though its final form isn't really related to the legend at all.