The Final

[James]

The Beginning

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Chaos swirled around Martin’s head; sounds, smells and colours melding into one terrifying nauseating feeling. All around were the sounds of battle; the sounds of shouting and screaming; the sounds of life and death. His friends were probably dying around him, cut down without a notice from the world. Perhaps they were all already dead, none left alive.

Except from him.

[James]

Entry One

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Chaos swirled around Martin’s head; sounds, smells and colours melding into one terrifying nauseating feeling. All around were the sounds of battle; the sounds of shouting and screaming; the sounds of life and death. His friends were probably dying around him, cut down without a notice from the world. Perhaps they were all already dead, none left alive.

Except from him. Surely he felt the lonely terror welling up inside him, terribly, utterly alone in this most hostile of environments; all those upon whom he’d depended, and those who had depended on him lying dead in the mud all around him. The charge had failed and now his whole unit mingled with the corpses of previous efforts.

All the fight had been chased from him. His courage, his last resort when everything else was gone, had abandoned him and now he stood alone on a war-torn battlefield. It was evident in his posture—his shoulders slumped—and the way he allowed his musket to drag on the ground as he stumbled and slipped in the stinking broth of blood and soil, he was defeated.

I tried to put myself in his place; stranded there in the line of fire—the enemy ahead, allies to the rear—wide-eyed and confused, looking about in frantic wonderment trying to assess the decisions which had brought upon this circumstance. As much as I tried, though, I couldn’t help but resent him just a little as I lay bleeding on ground not ten feet away.

“Martin!” I cried out, unbearable pain tearing through my chest with the effort. He didn’t hear me; blood trickled from his observable ear, an aftereffect of the blast that had brought our unit to its demise. I cried out again. He had to hear me, for both our sakes. He had to see I was alive, he had to take me by the shoulders and drag me back to safety, but most importantly he had to snap out of whatever stupor had gripped him so utterly before he too became part of the refuse littering this field.

It’s strange the way that, despite all the shouting, the gunfire, and cannon blasts, I swear I could hear the specific gunshots that cut Martin down. Two musket blasts, somehow more distinct than the chaotic undertones, in quick succession. Then I could hear the damp crack of musket balls hitting flesh and breaking bone. Blood leapt in a pair of geyser-like founts from the back of Martin’s uniform when the projectiles torn through his body. I watched in mute horror for seemed like minutes while my longtime friend stumbled aimlessly about, dropping his gun into the stew as he raised his hand to a wound trying to process what had happened. He staggered toward me and we made eye contact for the briefest instant before a third shot brought him to his knees and finally he collapsed forward, his body coming to rest upon my arm.

Pain shot through my whole body. My limbs being numb with shock and adrenaline, I didn’t even realize my arm had been lying there until Martin landed on it. Now I was sure it was broken, at best. I tried to roll, to pull it out from under his corpse, but it was no use. I couldn’t get leverage enough, despite the slick ground beneath, to pull it free. I tired using my right had to push Martin’s body off but I lacked the strength. He wasn’t a large man, I probably had twenty pounds on him, and at any other time I’d have lifted his body like a sack of potatoes. I was growing weaker, probably from blood-loss.

A cannon ball crashed into the ground nearby, shaking the earth beneath me and raining mud and stone upon our bodies. More cannon fire followed from the enemy lines; regimented and organized they fired off almost in rhythm. As though they played the marching tune of our army’s defeat. I heard the horns and drums and shouts of retreat from the lines behind me. We had lost; our army was fleeing the battlefield. I was to be left behind, to die in the mud, just another anonymous casualty.

I felt tears come to my eyes as I lay there, helpless and bleeding. With a gun in hand and an army at your back, even death takes a back seat to visions of pride and glory and heroism; but when those things are gone and you lay on your back on an abandoned battlefield staring into the overcast evening sky, your life slowly draining from your body, all you have then is fear.

I turned to Martin, to get a last look at my friend. He lay beside me with his chest on my broken arm, his head turned in my direction, and his unblinking stare fixed on me. His eyes were empty and dead, blood trickled from his mouth and nose, mud smeared across his forehead and cheeks. His mouth hung open in a sort of slack-jawed bewilderment, as though even now he still couldn’t wrap his mind around his fate.

“Not exactly how we planned it, eh?” I spoke out loud, able to feel fluids moving through unwarranted passageways inside my torso. Martin stared back silently. “You remember when we signed up? Remember how much we’d had to drink the night before? You could barely sign your name you were so hung over, and then I threw up on the warrant officer.” The memory almost made me smile. A pair of stupid kids signing up for a popular war, chasing glory and honor and other such ambiguous aims. “We were going to be heroes, remember? I collection of medals each to show our grandkids. We were going to take our spoils and move out West. Charlotte and I were going to get married and you . . .” I had stop and breathe, “you were going to be a perpetual bachelor, ‘a different girl every night’ you said. ‘Ladies love scars’ you said.”

I felt a lump rise in my throat and the words came louder, “But now you died! You ruined it! Why did you die? You son a bitch! Where do you get off dying?” I wiped tears away, my good hand pulling back from my face smeared with mud. “Huh? Who do you think you are leaving me here? Answer me!” I shoved his corpse hard and it rocked slightly back and forth.

“Answer me!” My voice cracked as I howled at him, at the sky, at God. I wept, my body wracked with hard convulsions of both sorrow and injury. Both armies had moved on, muffled sounds of conflict could be heard in the distance to the East. The sky grew darker and a chill breeze drifted across the field; night would be upon us soon.

I lay there, shaking upon the wet ground and cold evening wind. I hadn’t had time to think about the actual damage to my body, or to assess my injuries. So high on the battle itself, I hadn’t had time to feel until my body calmed itself and the cold came, and with it the unrelenting pain. It began in my knees and crept up my legs to my hips and slowly engulfed my whole body; not the acute pain of injury but rather the dull unstoppable ache of exhaustion. I gritted my teeth and, with considerable effort, propped myself up on my good arm so I could see myself. I didn’t clearly recall what had happened to me, so I was unsure what to expect.

My uniform below my right knee was in tatters with shreds of blue cloth listing in the wind, I couldn’t see the toe of my boot pointing in the air as I could with my other foot; nor could I, through force of will, coax it into vision. My torso, aside from the pain of what was probably broken ribs, was dotted with smaller wounds. I explored a few with my hand and found bits of metal and wood and even stone in many of them. Shrapnel; I must have been near an explosion. I felt my face, gingerly. It was swollen in many places, with a deep laceration on my forehead and another on my chin. Each wound played its role in a brilliant symphony of agony.

I allowed myself to lie back flat on the ground, taking deep rattling breaths and I stared at the sky trying not to concentrate on my life’s blood soaking into the dirt beneath me. I felt my body grow cold as the stars peeked out from behind clouds one by one, as if to greet me personally and welcome me to their Heaven; and I wanted to go.

”Benjamin, I . . . I don’t know what to think about this.” I recognized that voice, soft and musical with a hint of laughter; Charlotte. She sat on an old swing, hanging from a birch tree behind her parents’ home, drifting lightly back and forth her yellow summer dress flowing with the motion. Her face had a look of concern that didn’t suit her.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said with a half smile, sitting on the ground nearby “it’s a two year tour of duty, then I’m out. The pay is good, and soldiers have been promised property for service.” I stood up and moved over to where she was swinging, putting my hands on her knees as she drifted toward me and giving her a playful push. “Besides, they’ll probably just give me a desk job moving supplies or something; I’ll never even see a gun.”

She actually winced at the mention of firearms. I knew she hated guns; she hated the whole idea of them. I knew that in her mind she was picturing me in uniform with a musket on my shoulder and weeping inside. “What if something happens?” She asked.

“Look, Charlotte, I love you. You know that, right?” I pushed her again and she drifted away.

She nodded at the apex and came back to me.

“If I do this, with the money I make and the property, we can move out West. I’ll build us a house, just a little one for you and me and the kids . . .”

“Benjamin,” she interrupted coyly, we’re not even married yet, “such talk is down right indecent.” Her scolding was playful, but pointed.

My face flushed, I could feel it. “Yes, well . . .” I walked over to her mother’s garden close by. I found the least imperfect daisy I could find, a wild variety yellow not white, her favorite, and plucked it. With my back to her I tied the sinewy stem into a delicate loop and turned toward her holding it behind my back. She had stopped swinging, her eyes watching me curiously.

I stood for a moment just looking at her, sitting there quietly her eye alight with wonderment. She looked beautiful in this summer sun, her skin usually fair held the first pinkish hints of exposure. Long amber locks of hair flowing over her shoulders and curling under the curvature of her breast, accentuating her figure. Her quizzical smile set on delicate pink lips played at mock impatience while her bare toes clenched and unclenched in the soft grass, as though grazing.

“I know it’s not much,” I said, approaching her as one a wild animal; calm but cautious, “and I know I don’t have many prospects now;” I took her hand in mine her slender fingers were cool to the touch, “but Charlotte Miller, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” I slid the daisy-ring onto her finger.

She didn’t answer right away, she just sat and stared and the makeshift engagement on her hand as though weighing her options. I didn’t have any money, I didn’t have a job, I didn’t really even have a permanent home just moving from one acquaintances house to another doing odd jobs for a meal and a place to sleep. That’s how I’d met her in fact, and I knew she was thinking about it, and about the numerous other men who’d be able to promise her far more than I could.

Then she stood up, placed her right hand on my heart and kissed me; her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt as though unwilling to let go. After many wonderful minutes she pulled away and looked up into my eyes. There were silent tears on her face and she made no effort to hide them or wipe them away, she wanted me to see.

“You come back to me, Benjamin.”

The morning sun was hot on my face when I awoke. An angry stench hung in the air; the scent of death and blood baking in the sunlight. My body was stiff and sore, but rested. I hadn’t expected to wake up. The night before, staring into the stars, I had given up; resigned myself to my wounds and my demise.

My mouth was dry and a bitter taste lingered on my tongue. I looked toward Martin; he had a similar issue involving flies. I grimaced and closed my eyes, not wanting to look. I tried to move my arm, but it was still pinned beneath him and I still didn’t have the strength to move him. I probed my body and face with my good hand examining my wounds. Most had closed and scabbed over night; those that hadn’t clotted had enough debris lodged in them to keep the blood flow to a minimum.

I took a deep breath, dry and uncomfortable on my throat, the rattling in my lungs remained and my broken ribs made breathing a delicate task. Once against I steeled myself against the pain and propped myself up on my elbow. I glanced down at my legs. In the clear daylight I could see that my right leg was missing just below the knee. I gripped my pant leg and pulled it up in hopes of exposing the wound; I wish I hadn’t. The flesh was swollen, red and angry; flies buzzed around the ragged stump of what had been my leg. The miracle was that it didn’t seem to be bleeding as badly as one would think it would. In the position I was in I could only guess at the reason.

I lay back down. I could hear voices in the distance, scavengers come to pick through the bodies. I took another deep breath. It wasn’t uncommon, days after a battle, for folk to come out and sort through the rubble. Many soldiers carried keepsakes, or jewelry; mementos which reminded them of home. Often these items were valuable. Then there is the inherent value of guns and armaments that invariably get left behind.

I could hear the voices growing closer. The big question was a matter of the scavenger’s character. Were they the kind of person who would aid an injured man? Or were they the kind who would break your jaw in hopes of finding a gold tooth or two? I continued to weigh the question as they drew nearer to my position. I lolled my head to the right, opposite Martin’s body and saw a sight that took my breath away.

There, not three feet from my broken and bloodied body, its head tilted into the sun gathering those life-giving rays and rejoicing in having somehow not been trampled, stood a daisy. One of the wild varieties, yellow not white.

Tears came to my eyes and I coughed fitfully, trying to raise my voice. “Hel. . .” I coughed my throat was so dry. I tried again.

“Over here,” I called out, waving my good arm in the air, “Help me. I’m alive.”

[James]

Entry Two

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Soldier's Duty

Chaos swirled around Martin’s head; sounds, smells and colours melding into one terrifying nauseating feeling. All around were the sounds of battle; the sounds of shouting and screaming; the sounds of life and death. His friends were probably dying around him, cut down without a notice from the world. Perhaps they were all already dead, none left alive.

Except for him.

The ambush had come so suddenly, none of the soldiers had a chance to prepare. It was a hot and scorching day in the desert, as it always was in Iraq. Martin's squad had been tasked with patrol along a mountainous ridge. Apparently, there had been some activity in the region, and they were charged with seeing if anything was amiss.

And now they were fighting for their lives. They had walked blindly into the trap. A sniper had gotten their sergeant, and now they were being fired upon from all sides. A dust cloud began to form, enveloping him and his squad. Without a clue or thought as to what he was doing, acting with a primal instinct he didn't know he possessed, he shot in the direction that he assumed a terrorist was. The screams of his comrades still sounded around him, so some of his friends had to be alive, though they would not last long if they didn't do something, and fast.

Martin took cover behind a rock, and fired again. Bullets bounced off the rock, the shots having come from the right. Martin shot in that direction wildly. He knew he wasn't hitting anything, but he fired anyways.

It was a strange feeling that overcame Martin. A few feet to his left, he saw the face of Paul Turner, his best friend, bloodied and bullet-ridden, looking up at Martin with lifeless eyes. Martin felt nothing. He was driven by instinct, a cold, calculating instinct that did not allow tears at this moment. Every action he did was one of reflex, of survival. His body did all the work, while his mind tried to keep up. Martin let his instincts take over. There would be time to mourn his fallen friend later.

The dust was starting to clear up, and Martin was getting a better sense of where his opponents were. The shots from his right had come from high up. A masked man was perched at the edge of a cliff, lying prone, but Martin could see him now. He aimed carefully and fired his assault rifle. He saw blood spurt from the man's head, and then he fell down, breaking every bone in his body as his limp form crashed into the ground. Without feeling, he acknowledged the fact that he was dead and looked around for more enemies.

Before Martin had time to pick a new target, however, he felt a hot, piercing sensation in his right shoulder. He cried out in pain, and realized he had just been shot. He fell against the rock, and gasped. After a few moments, he fully comprehended what was happening around him. Martin was going to die. Everyone else was already dead, or dying. Like Paul...

He could hear another one of his fellow soldiers crying in pain and then, suddenly, his voice was silenced. Martin heard footsteps approach, and a muffled whisper in a language he did not understand. He was grabbed roughly by his right shoulder and turned over, screaming in agony as the terrorist did so. The terrorist had a bag with two holes punctured in it over his head, and he held a knife in one hand. Martin inhaled quickly, still wincing in pain. So, this was it, then? His life was over? He stared angrily at the knife, knowing that there was nothing that could stop it from reaching his neck. He thought of screaming for help, but who would hear him? The knife was pressed up against his throat, and soon, he would be no more. He closed his eyes and...

...awoke with a start.

Martin sat panting, sweat dripping down his forehead in his bedroom. He looked at his clock. It was 6 :02 AM. He sighed in relief. It had all been a dream.

His alarm wouldn't go off for another thirty minutes or so, but he was up already. He turned it off and got himself untangled from the mess of bedsheets he had found himself trapped in. He must have been tossing and turning the whole night. He put on some slippers and went to the bathroom.

Looking himself over in the bathroom mirror, Martin saw the scar he still possessed from his time in the war. Though many of his injuries had faded and healed over the last two years, he could still the place where he had been shot in his right shoulder. Though the bullet had been removed and his shoulder functioned properly again, the pain never went away. Sometimes the smallest gesture, such as a handshake or wave, would cause it to flare up, and he would be forced to suffer through the agony. No medication or treatment helped. It was as if the memory itself was enough to reignite the pain.

Martin sighed. His four years spent in Iraq might as well have been 20. His short, black hair was quickly turning grey, and his once clear complexion was wrinkled. Before, he had been well-muscled, his abdomen prominent, but slowly and surely he was losing the strength that once graced him, and his abdominal muscles were hidden under a small layer of fat. Bags drooped under his brown eyes, and his face was a hairy mess, a direct result of not having shaved in weeks. He would need to today, he knew. Today was his first school assembly, and he wanted to look his best.

He stripped out of his boxers and turned the shower on. Stepping in, he thought about what to expect. It was Remembrance Day, and the principal of Ben Franklin High School, Pennsylvania, had asked for a couple of different veterans to give speeches to the kids. Martin lived only a few blocks away from the school, and so he volunteered, acting as a representative of the Iraq War. There would be a veteran from Afghanistan there as well, he was told, and a senior veteran from World War II. It was unfortunate that there were fewer World War II veterans nowadays. The time had come for many of them, and soon, there would be no one who remembered that grim time in history. The wars in Afghanistan and Iraq continued, and so schools, sensing the decrease in number of older veterans, opted to go for the younger ones instead, those who had been through hell recently and returned.

Martin had been given leave to return home after the ambush, after witnessing his entire squad massacred. A shot had rang out just as the terrorist was about to cut his throat, and the man had fallen over, dead. Out of nowhere, two squads of marines had appeared and saved Martin's life. Apparently, they had been patrolling nearby and when they heard shots, they rushed to the ridge. It was by their timely rescue that he had been saved, and though he had always been grateful, he was now haunted by the faces of those close to him. Paul...the vision of his corpse lying upon the hard sand in the burning heat still invaded his thoughts even now. Paul had been a good friend to Martin.

The dream he had was a common one. He got it once or twice a month, and still he couldn't seem to handle it. His time in Iraq may have left only one physical scar, but deep down, he fought a battle with depression every day. There were other dreams, too, other mental visions of things that had passed. They were all horrible. The things he had done...no, no. He would not think of that now. Hero, they called people like him. He was no hero. No one was. A soldier was a protector of his own people, but rarely were they ever heroes.

He turned the shower off, wiping himself with the towel, and began to shave. Martin would put on a smiling face, a face of courage, for the kids. He did not want to show them the souvenirs of war. The principal had told him to just speak a little of his experiences, maybe mention a death of a fellow comrade, and tell everyone just why Remembrance Day was important. Would children understand why? He doubted it. Few people did. Other than the two minutes of silence, Remembrance Day was just another day to a normal civilian. It was the same with veterans. Remembrance Day was nothing special, because they spent every single day thinking of their time in the army, thinking of what they had witnessed. Remembrance Day acted as a symbol, nothing more.

He returned to his bedroom, feeling his shaven face with one hand as he did so. What would he say? He had nothing prepared. He could talk of the ambush, but the kids would get the wrong impression of what war was like. Movies and video games already did enough to make war seem fun and exciting. Nor would he tell it in such a way as to scare them. Martin would not tell them of the sickening smell of death that never seemed to leave, not even two years after you had experienced it; he would not explain the terrible sight of corpses, once friends, strewn about the battlefield with pools of blood forming underneath them; he would not speak of the cries of the wounded as they begged for deliverance. He would never subject anyone to even the retelling of these things. To do so would be torture, mostly for him.

Martin dressed in the ceremonial garments he had received from the army. The medals he had earned boasted of heroism and sacrifice, and were displayed proudly on his chest. He looked in the mirror, and saw a shadow of the man he used to be. Putting on a weak smile for show, Martin exited his room and went downstairs to make some breakfast. Normally, he wouldn't risk dirtying his suit and would have adorned it after eating, but today he wanted to get in character early so that he would get a feel for how he should act later on, and hopefully inspiration on what to say would come to him as well.

***

Martin sat cross legged, sweating profusely in the dark, hot auditorium. Before him were hundreds of bored faces. Some were trying hard not to fall asleep, while others were texting on their cellphones. Their pathetic attempts at being discreet were overshadowed by the fact that teachers not even five feet away didn't seem to notice it. Kids were even whispering to each other, and Martin could pick out a few words from conversations that teachers, who were much closer, seemed oblivious to.

To be fair, the speaker was boring. Corporal Bryan LaFleur of the Canadian Armed Corps had been up at the podium for ten minutes, and they had been a long ten minutes. That didn't mean, however, that they couldn't show a little respect and pretend to be listening intently. A soldier had to learn how to deal with boredom and how to always stay alert, even when things were quiet.

But, these weren't soldiers, obviously. They were kids, and kids were impatient. He didn't like it, but there was nothing he could do. Martin wondered how his own speech would fare, but decided it didn't matter. He could teach these teenagers nothing about war. He only hoped that they would never learn firsthand.

As LaFleur finished with his own talk, the World War II veteran, an engineer named Rob Parson, patted Martin on the shoulder. Martin winced in pain but quickly overcame the piercing sensation he was having. He would not let these children see him suffering.

The principal went to the podium to introduce Martin, and then he was up. Lights from all directions were pointed directly at him, and for a moment, he was blinded. He got accustomed to it, however, and cleared his throat before beginning.

“Friends, we are gathered here today to remember the brave men and women who have protected this great nation,” he began. Martin had no sheet or cue cards. He had a good memory, and he was making up most of what he said on the spot. “I, myself, fought alongside many brave souls who gave their lives in defense of freedom...”

He quickened the pace of his speech as he went along. Martin didn't feel comfortable in front of this large, uncaring crowd. He finished up his talk on a true story of when he was at boot camp, and bowed when the uninterested applause marked the end of his time at the podium. Martin cried out a little as he got up from his bow; the familiar, sharp ache had returned, and had caught him off guard. Damn it.

A few of the kids had begun giggling a little at this. Martin gave the audience a hard stare. This caused one boy to laugh even louder. The principal quickly took the stage and spoke into the microphone. “Silence, please, everyone.” Martin sat back down, and the principal gave him a reassuring nod. “Thank you, sir. That was very informative.” Martin nodded, and when the moment of silence was called, he bowed his head. Something wasn't right, however. He could still hear snickering somewhere in the audience.

***

“Corporal, sir.” Martin turned around, his hand just about to push open the main doors of the school. It was the principal.

“Yes, Mr. Walters?” he asked.

“Would you come with me? It will take but a moment of your time. I have someone who wants to see you.”

Martin nodded. “Very well,” he replied and followed the principal into his office. Inside, a small, blonde boy was sitting on a chair, staring very intently at his feet. Martin knew immediately what this was about. He stood there, still as a statue, his arms crossed and waited for Mr. Walters to speak.

“This is Tom. I believe he has something he wants to tell you, Corporal,” the principal stated, taking a step back. The blonde boy, Tom, continued to stare at his feet. Martin continued to stand still. The principal shifted nervously, and repeated, this time in a somewhat more commanding voice, “Tom.”

The boy mumbled something under his breath, and when Mr. Walters quietly ordered him to speak louder, the boy said, “I'm sorry for laughing at you.”

The veteran stood there, motionless, the words playing over and over again in his head. The principal looked at him imploringly, perspiration breaking out from his skin, begging him to forgive the child. Martin waited to formulate the answer in his head, and then spoke.

“I don't accept insincerity.”

The principal was trembling, and the boy looked up angrily at Martin. Martin simply stared back. He would not let this insignificant piece of crap play him like he played the administrators. He wanted to make sure the child knew he was serious.

He was not angry with Tom, merely disappointed. It was for the likes of this child that Paul had died, that his entire squad had died. Had it been worth it, then? They had put their lives on the line for obnoxious, uncaring people like this? Martin could forgive the child for his age, but there were many who were older and supposedly wiser who acted much the same way.

Tom backed down, suddenly very interested in his shoelaces. Martin turned to the principal, who stood there fidgeting. “Now, if there's nothing else...”

The principal gulped. “N-no, no. You m-may go, Corporal.” Martin nodded and left the building.

November this year was chilly, as it always was, and Martin walked back home at a crisp pace. Perhaps it was his time in the army, but it seemed like everyone in a position of power was too weak to use it properly. The principal seemed almost terrified of his own kids. Martin imagined it had taken every ounce of that man's courage to tell the kid to apologize to him.

Martin sighed. What had he fought for, anyway? What had Paul died for? It certainly wasn't for that boy. He had thought he had been defending his home, but had he? People were calling the Iraq War pointless. Maybe they were right. No one seemed to care about it, anyways.

He continued to walk and pondered on this when he noticed two figures up ahead. It was a mother and her child. The mother was whispering something in the child's ear and then they approached Martin. What was this all about? The child, a little girl who looked about seven, walked up to Martin and he stopped, looking down at her. She smiled shyly and her mother reassured her. “Go on,” she urged. “Say it.”

“Th-thank you very much, m-mister,” the little girl said, rocking back and forth on her two feet. The mother smiled up at Martin.

“Thank you so much, for all that you've done,” she beamed at him. Martin was surprised and shocked at first, but a smile broke through, a real, sincere smile, and he nodded.

“You're welcome.” With that, the mother took her daughter's hand again and walked off, and they both waved at him as they left.

Martin's smile did not wear off until he got home. He started up a nice fire in the fireplace and sat on his chair for awhile, deep in thought. Now, he knew why he had fought. Now, he knew why Paul had died. It was for everyone. It was to protect the precious gift of life. A soldier's duty was to be forgotten, or loved, depending on the situation. A soldier's duty was to bear witness to horrors and tragedies and carry them with him forever so that others did not have to. Soldiers were those who gave up every aspect of their lives to the people. It did not matter if they cared or not. There would always be those who did not, just as there were those who did. He protected them all, not matter what.

For that was a soldier's duty.

[James]

Entry One's Reviews

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First, let me start off by saying that this was a very good piece. That much is clear. This is the finals, however, and frankly I'm going to be nit picky. So bear with me. Let's get the grammar/spelling out of the way first. I personally think you could have done a much better job of it. I spotted quite a few mistakes and, no, it won't make or break my decision (unless I'm REALLY stuck, I guess, but I'll be taking a lot more than grammar into account), it just didn't look like you had reread you're piece. Just watch out for mistakes.

I think you could have done a better job with the whole “Don't die on me now!” bit. When I read it at first, I pictured cannonballs flying overhead and soldiers firing muskets and the like, and that didn't give me a very good image. I doubt Ben would be doing his little schpeel when he probably couldn't hear himself think. It made sense when I realized the armies had moved on, but maybe you could have mentioned that sooner?

Personally, I would not have went with a first person story here. It really confused me at first. Yes, you can write however you want after the beginning, but it felt weird that Ben was thinking of all these things happening to Martin as he lay there dying. I wouldn't know, seeing as I've never been lying in a pool of my own blood with bodies all around me, but it just didn't seem like a normal human reaction. “Ah, I'm dying, I wonder how Martin feels right now.” With a first person story, you need to pretty much convey what the narrator is thinking and feeling on every word, because each word is a thought, basically. It would be difficult for Ben to describe how Martin was feeling in a normal situation, with how nicely he was doing it, let alone in a situation where you're dying and guns are shooting everywhere. Which is why I think making this a first person story wasn't the best idea. After the transition it got better, much better, but that whole beginning part was a little unbelievable.

I did enjoy the whole daisy thing, and the ending was kind of cool, but...I dunno. I guess we really don't need to know how it ends, as I'm sure I know how, and it's a good place to cutoff. Still, though, a more complete story would've been nice. That does not, again, make or break my vote at all. This story was great, I enjoyed it, and though you may have taken the wrong turn at Albuquerque regarding which perspective the story was being told from, you did very well nonetheless.

Whatever the result, you have earned your place here at the top. Congratulations, Gladiator.

***

when the projectiles torn (tore) through his body.

I tired (tried?) using my right had to push Martin’s body off (,) but I lacked the strength.

I (A) collection of medals each to show our grandkids

‘Ladies love scars(,)’ you said.”

taking deep(,) rattling breaths(,) and I stared at the sky trying not to concentrate on my life’s blood soaking into the dirt beneath me.

drifting lightly back and forth(,) her yellow summer dress flowing with the motion.

her skin(,) usually fair(,) held the first pinkish hints of exposure.

Her quizzical smile set on delicate pink lips played at mock impatience(,) while her bare toes clenched and unclenched in the soft grass, as though grazing.

I took her hand in mine(,) her slender fingers were cool to the touch,

She didn’t answer right away, she just sat and stared and (at) the makeshift engagement (ring?) on her hand(,) as though weighing her options

In the clear daylight(,) I could see that my right leg was missing just below the knee.

All the spelling/grammar mistakes I saw are just up there, mate. As you can see, there aren’t many. Obviously, the question marks indicate words that could work with a little context, but I think might be another word.

This was actually a lovely read. Keep in mind, I was contemplating going to bed before reading this, so believe me when I say that the beginning had an awesome hook. I admit, I was a little confused at the sudden shift from third to first person, but it’s forgivable, given the beginning you received, and quality of the story.

The bit with the friend, the transition to his sleeping, his little memory replayed in a dream, his awakening, and the description of his emotions, were all superbly handled. Excellent job there. I would recommend, should you ever decide to come back to this, to add a bit more description to his emotions during the scene with his proposal. That would be icing on the cake.

One thing that sort of ticked me off, though, was the lack of setting. Vague mentions of East and West are all we hear about regarding that. I suppose it does add some aura of anticipation and wonder to the story, while allowing the reader to imagine it in whatever sort of time period/world that would include muskets, cannons, and people building little cottages for their families, etc, but it does get a little annoying at times. Was this deliberate? If so, I’ve mixed feelings about it; it kept me interested, in hopes of learning about the setting, but it also miffed me a little when the end of the story came, and for all I knew, this could be some kind of humanoid animal, living in the year 591,624 on the planet Gribsnack, that this story is about.

That said, I’m going to take a guess here and say this is set during the American Civil War? That seems to fit the details given here the best, imo.

It was an amazing entry, barring the things mentioned above. Good luck to ‘ya!

***

I really liked the story you were presenting. The whole flow of events was excellent, the characters were well designed -- everything from the nontechnical perspective was just really well done. From the italicized portion on to the latter half, when he's waking up, the writing is of a really good quality.

But for that first bit? It seemed very lackluster. A lot of 'this happened then this happened then he felt this'. Not particularly creative vocabulary and not a very unique style of writing. But as I said, it all gradually becomes a lot better for the ending and ends up being a pretty damn good story.

***

This was a very powerful story, and did –a lot– right. I caught maybe one typo in the entire thing, and the usage of words was very, very good. Not necessarily extensive in the vocabulary, but it used the right words in the right places. Emotionally, it hit all the right spots. I hate to be vague like this, but it’s a waste of time to list things here; I liked the shit out of this.

You might say it lacks a bit of soul in the way it’s written, but in a way I think that just adds to the message. Or, in a way, it makes the message.

***

The detail in the descriptions was wonderful - seeing, hearing, smelling: all the experience of a battlefield was there. It was also a risk, trying to pull this off in first person, but it really worked wonderfully. The transition from third to first person was a little abrupt, but it given what the author had to work with, it was cleverly done.

This is an intriguing story, and draws the reader in from the beginning, with plenty of action there. It was easy to come to care for Benjamin, and hope fthe very best for him to the very end.

The only problem I had with this story, was that I had absolutely NO sense of when this was set. At the beginning, the author mentions "muskets," which makes me think of an eighteenth century battlefield? Talk of going "West" - maybe nineteenth century? But then so much of the actual conversational parts seem so very modern - it was just jarring, trying to figure out the setting here.

***

It didn’t have the amazing and gripping start I wanted. “Surely” felt a little weak sauce especially after the gripping “chaos” beginning. There was also a bit of repetition. The sentence I am talking about made sense but it felt very clunky.

I liked the paragraph beginning: “All the fight …” way better! Wishing it could have started with this sentence which is a real grabber!

Kudos that you went with 1st person POV – especially for the finals and knowing how much a lot of reviewers hate that POV. Clever switch around too. “I tried to put myself in his place” was very clever.

“I cried out, unbearable pain tearing” – I felt that tearing should have been tore. Tore would have made it a little more beefy and violent. This may be intended or it may be a grammar mistake. (I also note a missing word a little later on that would have made the sentence easier to read.)

I liked the horror and emotion you portrayed when the main character watched his hope of survival (Martin) go down with two/three musket shots. That bit was very descriptive and totally hauled me in as a reader.

Excellent description of Martin’s face. The horror that invoked was perfect! The memory was also a bit of a tear-jerker. You didn’t make me cry but I did feel very sad. (There was a distracting easy-made typo in this paragraph. Probably easily caught with a careful eye.) I’m really glad you kept that emotion going too. It didn’t drop off as you moved to the next paragraph.

Awesome that you had the main character examine himself for wounds and damage. You made time feel pretty slow and painful. Excellent job. “Brilliant symphony of agony” is BRILLIANT! Loved that description. I’d be really proud of this piece – win or lose!

(I noticed a lack of commas –which were probably needed– when the italics started.) Excellent description of the girl. The flash-back moment was wonderful. I liked that you kept the dialogue/vocabulary old as well.

I’m no doctor, and I am not sure if this is correct, but if the dude is missing a limb would he not have bleed out sometime during the night? I’m questioning your realism here. (Glad you did mention that it didn’t seem to be bleeding as badly as you thought. This brought some explanation to what I just said.)

I had a real “D’aaaaaaaaaaaaaaw” moment when you put the daisy on the ending. I liked the ending and hope he did make it out alive. It was nice to see a “happy” ending. Probably the first one for the Arena too >.>

[James]

Entry Two's Reviews

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The ending really tied this story together, but the more I think about it the less I like it. There were a good amount of problems with your writing; a few instances of the old “show don’t tell,” and mostly bland descriptions in general stand out as the biggest offenders. I didn’t get the vibe that there was much going on under the surface of this piece, there were quite a lot of parts that I would’ve handled very differently (artistically, I just find a few things weak; the dream opener and the way it segued into his waking life, the kid’s laughing and the general handling of that, etc) and there’s a lot of big points I feel you just plain missed (you didn’t even try to touch on paranoia!).

It’s not bad. But you have a lot going on that I disagree with, and it ruins the whole thing for me.

***

It wasn't the most intoxicating story. It had some basic flaws: the sentences were pretty simply structured, the vocabulary wasn't huge, emotions weren't well conveyed (though, in your defense, early on they weren't supposed to be). The story lacked a lot from the start, but slowly began to improve as things went on. And then you got to the last couple of paragraphs.

Beginning with when the boy in the audience laughed at him, things -really- picked up. Everything seemed to tie together and the concept of what a soldier fights for moved to the front of the story and really was exceptionally well demonstrated. Though I would have preferred, myself, as a fan of tragedy and drama, that it ended before the girl came up and thanked him... I can appreciate that scene for what it's worth, and I think you concluded things pretty well.

***

There were a few problems with "repetitive sentences," the same phrasing occurring without variation over the course of a few paragraphs.

But the story itself was engaging, and it was easy to follow Martin's thoughts, memories and feelings throughout this important day. The portion where he has to deal with the "bratty kid?" I loved it - it was absolutely real, and his reaction was just spot-on perfect.

And though I know there was a "lesson" to be had in this story? I think the reader probably could have walked away with the author's message in mind, without the kinda mini-sermon at the very end. Overall, a wonderful read, though, and thought-provoking.

***

Better start than Entry 1. You tried to continue some of the chaos and I think it worked. I did like that you kept sentences short (using a lot of commas or short in general) for the quicker pace. That really pulls the reader along.

Going into paragraph three it felt very “this, then that, then this.” I was glad when Paul Turner joined (dead) because it broke this up a little. I think more emotion/terror from Martin before Turner joined would have made this bit a lot more enjoyable. I missed the proper description on Turner too. How was he shot? Where was he bleeding from? Was he dead or dying? Did he have blond/brown/red short hair plastered with sand and mud? Things like that would turn this from just telling us to actual story-telling and feeling. (I can understand Martin reacting the way he did – doesn’t mean you cannot take a moment to tell the reader what Turner looked like and for us to feel sorry for him.)

I was a little bit “meh” when we found out it was just a dream but liked how you continued it afterward. In particular, the moment when Martin was looking in the mirror and remembering how he was and how he is now.

Unfortunately not much has been happening. Headed to the second set of asterisks now. I did like how you kept the dark feeling going. That he is a “hero” but he really isn’t because of the things that happened and that he did. That you managed to keep that going was pretty awesome. It felt heavy as Martin went about his routine.

I would liked to have known a little more of Martin’s thoughts at this point, especially when the Principal asked for some of his time and as he watched the child apologize.

The ending was really sweet. A good finish to his anger and disappointment, and the questions about whether the Iraq War was pointless. All in all it was a good story, although I wish we knew a little more about Martin as a person.

***

he could still (see) the place where he had been shot in his right shoulder.

Though the bullet had been removed(,) and his shoulder functioned properly again, the pain never went away.

Paul(space)...the vision of his corpse lying upon the hard sand in the burning heat still invaded his thoughts(,) even now.

The things he had done(space)...no, no.

Considerably less grammatical/spelling blunders, from what I caught, than the first entry. Good job on that one.

The beginning was quite good, and got me hooked well enough, but the transition from the dream to real life was a bit shaky, and seemed like a cheap excuse to move from one scene to the next. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fine enough way to deal with a transition, I’m just saying a little more time could have been spent smoothing out the edges, to make it less confusing.

The emotions and feelings were handled well here, and the bit with the scolding of the boy was particularly nice. I always wondered what soldiers think of when they come to those Remembrance Day assemblies at school after they see all the uncaring kids, who would rather be talking to their friends about idiotic nothings than honoring someone who had been through hell and back. You did those people justice, mate.

On a final note, the ending was cliché and trite, like you rushed through it at the last moment. ‘Nuff said.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

The only problem I had with this story, was that I had absolutely NO sense of when this was set. At the beginning, the author mentions "muskets," which makes me think of an eighteenth century battlefield? Talk of going "West" - maybe nineteenth century? But then so much of the actual conversational parts seem so very modern - it was just jarring, trying to figure out the setting here.

I wanted to address this because I got this in a couple different submissions.

This was intentional. To me the background is the background; you should get a little bit of description to get an idea of what you're looking at and then focus on the foreground, the meat of the story.

I'd have told you more about the war, or the plague (in my second round submission) but what does that add to the story? Words, that's what, just words.

The story isn't about the war, nor was the other about the plague, those are background elements; the setting. Knowing more about them doesn't really add any more to the story than if I were to tell you what company Ryan worked for in "Cowboys and Indians" or what bank our character was in in "Hell is an Endless Bank Queue."

It just isn't important and only distracts the reader and, to me, interupts the flow of the story if I go off on a tangent describing the politics of the day and why the war is being fought and who's fighting and blah blah blah. . . who cares? The story is about a wounded soldier making good on a promise to the woman he loves rather than surrendering to injury. It's about the will to live and the reasons we press on through adversity. . . it has nothing to do with a war.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

You might say it lacks a bit of soul in the way it’s written, but in a way I think that just adds to the message.

Could whoever wrote this please elaborate. I feel that this is a major area where my writing tends to fall flat, but I've never been able to hammer it down to what it is exactly I'm missing. You don't have to answer here if you don't want to, but a PM would be appreciated. I'd really like to discuss this.

[o ding]

Jul 8, 2010 20:16:14 GMT -5 ASGetty ((Zovo)) said:

You might say it lacks a bit of soul in the way it’s written, but in a way I think that just adds to the message.

Could whoever wrote this please elaborate. I feel that this is a major area where my writing tends to fall flat, but I've never been able to hammer it down to what it is exactly I'm missing. You don't have to answer here if you don't want to, but a PM would be appreciated. I'd really like to discuss this.

Yo.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

Jul 8, 2010 20:18:41 GMT -5 o ding said:

Jul 8, 2010 20:16:14 GMT -5 ASGetty ((Zovo)) said:

Could whoever wrote this please elaborate. I feel that this is a major area where my writing tends to fall flat, but I've never been able to hammer it down to what it is exactly I'm missing. You don't have to answer here if you don't want to, but a PM would be appreciated. I'd really like to discuss this.

Yo.

Ok, what do you mean?

[Kaez]

It was a story. It was what it was and it didn't really try to be anything else or present much of a message. It wasn't a metaphor for something greater. It just -was-.

Drall's was trying to give a moral message. Trying to speak about some greater thing. Yours wasn't.

There are pros and cons to that style, of course. Tolkien, for example, never did analogies. But I also thought Lord of the Flies was excellent.

[Meleta/Isoldaa]

Jul 8, 2010 16:45:07 GMT -5 ASGetty ((Zovo)) said:

The only problem I had with this story, was that I had absolutely NO sense of when this was set. At the beginning, the author mentions "muskets," which makes me think of an eighteenth century battlefield? Talk of going "West" - maybe nineteenth century? But then so much of the actual conversational parts seem so very modern - it was just jarring, trying to figure out the setting here.

I wanted to address this because I got this in a couple different submissions.

This was intentional. To me the background is the background; you should get a little bit of description to get an idea of what you're looking at and then focus on the foreground, the meat of the story.

I'd have told you more about the war, or the plague (in my second round submission) but what does that add to the story? Words, that's what, just words.

The story isn't about the war, nor was the other about the plague, those are background elements; the setting. Knowing more about them doesn't really add any more to the story than if I were to tell you what company Ryan worked for in "Cowboys and Indians" or what bank our character was in in "Hell is an Endless Bank Queue."

It just isn't important and only distracts the reader and, to me, interupts the flow of the story if I go off on a tangent describing the politics of the day and why the war is being fought and who's fighting and blah blah blah. . . who cares? The story is about a wounded soldier making good on a promise to the woman he loves rather than surrendering to injury. It's about the will to live and the reasons we press on through adversity. . . it has nothing to do with a war.

Actually, this part was me, that you quoted.

No, I wasn't looking for the politics of the day, nor the nitty gritty of the why's, wherefore's or how's of this particular war - nor did I even care which side he was fighting on, in any particular historic battle. What I did want to know, was an approximate timeframe that this occurred.

As the reader, I found it far more distracting, being confused by the disparate anachronisms, than if you'd simply made the "when" clearer.

Of course I could follow the story line as you laid it out, and "get" the message. But it would have been a far more satisfying read for me, if the whole of the setting had been made clear.

[o ding]

Jul 8, 2010 20:24:05 GMT -5 Kaez said:

It was a story. It was what it was and it didn't really try to be anything else or present much of a message. It wasn't a metaphor for something greater. It just -was-.

Drall's was trying to give a moral message. Trying to speak about some greater thing. Yours wasn't.

There are pros and cons to that style, of course. Tolkien, for example, never did analogies. But I also thought Lord of the Flies was excellent.

Pretty much this. By the latter half of that, like I was explaining to Kaez a day or so ago, actually, I meant that the general lack of meaning/purpose/soul/etc. sort of served as a reflection of the meaningless/purposeless/soulless nature of war.

I really doubt that was intended (especially with some of your earlier comments about the setting and such in mind), but regardless.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

disparate anachronisms,

Don't you get all big-wordy with me!

But yeah, I see your point. I kind of tried to avoid nailing down anything specific for the reasons noted above, but also because I didn't want to get bogged down in details. I don't really know alot about the specifics of firearms in the last few centuries or various other details, and there wasn't alot of time to do research; so I sort of just glossed it over for fear of getting something wrong.

I felt like being inaccurate, in the piece, would be distracting. I struggled with that when writing about his missing leg how it "mysteriously" wasn't bleeding so much that he bled out over night. I even went so far as to describe it as miraculous.

I suppose there's a certain sloppiness to that. I just wanted it to stay focused, ya know?

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

Jul 8, 2010 20:30:04 GMT -5 o ding said:

Jul 8, 2010 20:24:05 GMT -5 Kaez said:

It was a story. It was what it was and it didn't really try to be anything else or present much of a message. It wasn't a metaphor for something greater. It just -was-.

Drall's was trying to give a moral message. Trying to speak about some greater thing. Yours wasn't.

There are pros and cons to that style, of course. Tolkien, for example, never did analogies. But I also thought Lord of the Flies was excellent.

Pretty much this. By the latter half of that, like I was explaining to Kaez a day or so ago, actually, I meant that the general lack of meaning/purpose/soul/etc. sort of served as a reflection of the meaningless/purposeless/soulless nature of war.

I really doubt that was intended (especially with some of your earlier comments about the setting and such in mind), but regardless.

I see.
Like I said, I did want to keep the war itself in the back ground, that was intentional as I didn't feel like it was the focal point of the story.

[Meleta/Isoldaa]

Jul 8, 2010 20:34:43 GMT -5 ASGetty ((Zovo)) said:

disparate anachronisms,

Don't you get all big-wordy with me!

But yeah, I see your point. I kind of tried to avoid nailing down anything specific for the reasons noted above, but also because I didn't want to get bogged down in details. I don't really know alot about the specifics of firearms in the last few centuries or various other details, and there wasn't alot of time to do research; so I sort of just glossed it over for fear of getting something wrong.

I felt like being inaccurate, in the piece, would be distracting. I struggled with that when writing about his missing leg how it "mysteriously" wasn't bleeding so much that he bled out over night. I even went so far as to describe it as miraculous.

I suppose there's a certain sloppiness to that. I just wanted it to stay focused, ya know?

Yuppers, I understand perfectly - and it didn't detract at all, in the end, from the story of the two daisies.

But this particular round, it was hard for me to review (I actually had to read both entries the first day, walk away, and then write the reviews the following day, after I managed to let a few things 'go') I spent over a decade in the military, currently know many active duty personnel as well as innumerable veterans, and have graduate work under my belt in history. So the things that "didn't quite fit" in both stories were hard for me to kinda... overlook?

Still, knowing you and Drall only had a week to work with exactly what you were given? I gave both of you kudos in the end, for writing with a setting/topic neither of you seemed familiar with, and pulling out great stories nonetheless. You're very impressive writers!

*bigthumbsup*