The Great Lie

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic
A story I wrote for history class that I got a little out of hand with the symbolism; still liked it and wrote more to it.

Submitted: January 31, 2009

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Submitted: January 31, 2009

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The trenches, they were my life my soul. You’ll always hear of the abomible conditions, the horrendous casualties. However one has to like it. You see you’re mad if you don’t, and you’re dead if you don’t. Not much for a plus side eh? You think that your going to die everyday. Waiting for that idiot commander of yours to tell you to charge just to see if the enemy up and left.
The rats, every were, like out of a horror book and your nightmares distort them. The become the size of cats, dogs, wolfs. Eating knowing your wounds your brains tell you see your companions turn to rot from the incessant noises. Drilling, yes I remember the always drilling of the mortars of the teeth of the enemy. The enemy wasn’t that man in the opposite trench. It was the shells, the water, and always, always the rats.
If your commander made you charge you were a dead man, deader then dead. I never charged, I would run forward and two feet into the charge drop as if one of those bullets hit me, like an angry hornet chewing though my flesh, robbing me of health. I would crawl back like a dog with its tail under its legs, robbed of its dignity. What dignity was their, if any? There was none, I saw men eating other men for food; the daily lunch item was rats. You were more afraid of the man with the gun besides you the ones opposite you.
You never had to worry that you would lose though. You knew at least it was a stalemate. A hopeless catastrophic humongous draw. You didn’t have to worry that your nation would lose. There would be no losing this week, or this month or even this year. A never ending tide of bodies that were our shields, the rats that were our food, the water that was our beds. No their would be no winning, or losing, how can one bring into context the abstract thought of “winning” or “losing” made by humans that did not participate in what the named. No this was the basic survival, the drive to live, or be turned into a gibbering slab of meat.
So I tell you know it will not matter, for in the end there is no meaning, and in that no meaning there will be meaning, for only the trenches make sense and all world disappears to the darkness of the clouds of war. Only then in that darkness will nonsense win, when I hunch in the darkness of the trench, looking at them the eyes that I fear more then anything.
Yes fear, its basic most ancestral meaning is that to survive to run, to live. How does one live? In front are the hornets, on your sides are the mad, below is disease and behind is the executioner. So let it contine, for I will live, I will thrive, for it is chaos that life lives on the hope of the not void, of that light that was created in your mind that dosent exist. At they end I may die, in madness, in whatever state that this dire land full of water and rats takes me. But I swear I will not go to the Void, I will find my salvation.

So here I sit again the tapping, tapping of the gun, waiting for it is dawn. Dawn is a time, but in this trench, in this world as I have said so filled with the trapings of despear. Dawn is something else intirely, a time to catch prey, on the fork of thy sly tounge. This is when your brilliant leaders, send thier fodder to the pits, they give the orders to those serpents that you so call men. It is then merely a wait to see when, for you know that men will die. But you never wish it for you. Morality is a croping for those who are rich, we that are poor do not know it, we know only the heartbeat of the gunfire.
Yes the serpent has dicided, a new wind, a new shift. What can change the mind of such a cold blooded reptilean? None, there is no mutinee on this ship, so set is our course to die. And then we hear... The crie as his cold eyes lay apon us, telling us to face the zipping zapping of the hornets, to live though the morters of instant hevean.
We crawl we run, the barbed wire tearing at our legs, for the pants have been torn to many times. Like crazied man we scream, knowing that this is the fools errand the ending cry so that we may hear each others vocies. I do not care. I tell you now, I will not give my last cry on this broken plane of death and tearing metal. I will be alive, to dance on the serpents grave. To post my name above all elses because I have lived and they have died. I do not care to use my fellow man as shield, I do not care to hid in his sodden grave, for I know each and everyone of them would do the same, but I am better you see. They still cling to the hope of morality.
That in thier richer lives had served them well
But as the hornets fly, no man will be taken pity on.
I am Jask and you will hear my name,
for I will not, cannot die!


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