The Foot of the Trenches

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short tale about a soldier who brings himself up through tough and distressing times by doing something very,very peculiar!Something rather unimaginable and out of this world.

Submitted: May 07, 2014

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Submitted: May 07, 2014



There once was a soldier in the First World War,sitting amongst putrid filth and disease,who loved to pleasure himself by sticking his cold, muddy finger in the wound of his shriveled, hacked right foot caused by the ghastly state of the trenches. Every night, whilst the other soldiers slept with weary, teary eyes and rested upon their uncomfortable mares, this soldier; I think his name was Edward, howled and moaned with itchy pleasure as he prodded his slippery flesh wound.

However, one night, Edward gradually parted his eyelids to reveal his twinkling 'baby blues', as his mother always used to call them, but they were gunky and wrecked with conjunctivitis infection.Hearing a strange dialect and feeling the pulsating footsteps of men coming towards his pathetic, skinny body, he pushed his torso upwards to check what was disturbing him. He gazed left.... nothing! he gazed right.... nothing! He looked behind his resting head, and was petrified to see a group of enemies standing before him. Clunk! 

"Oh, da ist ein DÜNNE MANN! Schneiden Sei ihn auf!"

Poor Eddy awakened on a wooden post, all tied up and gagged. A burly, bearded man stomped towards him weilding a gigantic Bowie knife. As the long, dull blade was lifted sky- high, Eddie suddenly remebered his wife, Julia, a full- lipped and fair skinned lady with luscious flowing brown curly hair and fine curves. What a beautiful woman he'd had the pleasure to marry. He remembered his children, playing and laughing, which was grabbing his heart with huge hairy hands and teasing out his tears. He wished there was time for one last... you know. The icy cold, bloody and rusty blade swooped wideways like a 'special' dove and sliced his neck from ear to ear. His carotid artery had been obliterated. He could feel his soul, life and being dribbling from his lippy neck smile. His sparkling 'baby blues' sewed shut, and he slumped down on the tick-ridden and famished grass below him.It was that quick. He was dead. His foot, now almost no more, glsitened in the moonlight. 

However, on a freezing and starry night, legend has it that you can still hear the sordid moans of pleasure from Edward in Babington Woods. He can't rub himself, so could you caress his headstone? Please? That's all he wants!

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