Scriptorium Winter Writing competition - Finals!

[Vaðarholmr]

Here are the submissions that made it to the finals. Please vote for your favorite one.

And bear in mind, anonymity is still required here. Authors of any works below may not declare what submission may be theirs, or in any other way ruin the anonymity of theirs or another member's submission. The thread is for discussion of the articles at hand and voting, NOTHING ELSE.

A Blade of Grass in the Killing Fields - 1

A Blade of Grass in the Killing Fields A Blade of Grass in the Killing Fields Image from film, Gladiator (2000) Source: cinetropolis.net/ As I lay here, helplessly incapacitated, I can only begin to ponder life’s quips. ‘Titus, my boy, life’s a fickle beast’, my father used to say, ‘but you must rise with the tides, or perish beneath its colossal waves.’ I seldom cared to understand the interpretative meaning of his metaphors, but now it seems as clear to me as the crystal blue water of the Balaerics'. How did it come to this? From re-writing and translating withered scrolls, from an age long past, a humble life, enjoyed at its seeming simplicity, to being forced into the misery of army life? Not born in a particularly high standing, but being of a literate status, I felt as though my skills would actually propel my family’s standing… Sadly, the reality of my existence is that of a blade of grass. Planted in place, unable to change—but grow in time—only to one day be trotted down by the hooves of the Gods’ steeds, as they guard the vastness of Elysium, for eternity to come, as eternity past. Immortal and majestic, the Gods’ have a value in existence, a standing unrivaled by the pawns of this life, who are to be used as as they wish. You can read the sly metaphorical writings of their scribes, when gazing up to the blue skies above, the heavens high up, where, from Elysium, they might gaze upon the happenings of their followers, who operate in their names. I wonder, will the undo loyalists and devout followers of the worshiped be welcomed to Elysium, to spend their eternity among prominence, or be condemned to the deeps—shunned for a failure not of their own hands? The philosophical understanding is there, but the depth of which one might attain that knowledge is in the ability of the beheld. I've rewritten countless scrolls, and documented the observations of my associates, assisting them in the organization of thoughts, the collections of events long yore, and even brought my own understanding—although not the norm—to assist in the immense compendium that has been collected for future generations, and to teach the lessons of old, so as to not repeat past indiscretions and mistakes, that have led to the collapse of a unified society, for which I must recall, as example, the fall of Alexander. How the world would be so different today, had he not been betrayed by his devious and dastardly vicious council. The world would not bellow ‘Rome’ or ‘Carthage’, but that of what would have been their Alexandrine masters—a conquering and liberating society of Macedonian-Greeks, who brought the first sifts of light to a dark, and unforgiving world, only to collapse as instantly as it had risen. Alexander was considered that equivalent of Heracles, Perseus, and Theseus. Men long gone, but one of a small company, of which Alexander had become, that we might have gazed upon as recent as the sons of his sons, that still walk among us. How such a man could come to be so great, so quick, is a lesson not soon to forget, for the Senate they must realize that heroes and societies may fall, as quickly as they rise, if not properly tended to, like a farmer to his crops. This Hannibal, a 'demon' from the brutally hot sands of the south, to rise, and lead the eastern strength of Carthage and its allies against Rome, as Alexander led Macedon and hers east, against Persia, so too Hannibal mimics this route, long known to be historically successful. And many will argue that the events of the past cannot be relied upon as viable, yet history would certainly disagree. Perhaps these are just the words of a simple man, with complex thinking. A man, born not near the status of birth as the Greek elite, or upstanding of Rome’s highborn, but a simple man, born outside the gates of Rome, to a retired soldier and his wife, this man of whom became a writer—a humbly rewarding, yet indifferently-viewed profession—for which as many scrolls as I stack in the annals and archives, I am but a collection of meat, to be used at Rome’s penultimate behest. Under a blue sky is where I see my fate lying, high above, the simple birds of prey circle, waiting for moments like this to come about, perhaps even accompanying the Carthaginians on their warpath… Coughing up a lung filled with dust, Titus finds the strength to move his right arm, propelling himself to roll upon his side, then using the same arm to reach over to his fallen commander, a Roman knight of the Equite class, in the Roman cavalry, the man laying on his side, leg crushed by his speared horse, at which he once rode proudly. “Commander, they will come for us. Once they route Carthage,” he reassured his lifeless friend. The knight—his eyes open lightly, so as to reveal his light brown eyes, but not a sift of life left in him, a spear having cleared his horse’s throat, and impaled him deep in his own chest. It was clear he was dead, and that Titus’ words fell upon deaf ears. “They will come for us, sir, I know it,” reassured a hopeful Titus, rolling back onto his back, gazing back to the sky above. This will be a war to write about—one not ever to be forgotten. What will come of my sons? My daughter? My beautiful wife back in Rome… Will they understand? The nearby voices of men could be heard conversing, a language unrecognized to many, but one Titus knew, being a well-rounded linguist. Punic… Two men on foot walked by Titus, one stepping over him. “This one’s a knight,” one of the men proclaimed, as he reached over, lifting the fallen man's right arm, revealing his golden signet, a representation of his standing, as a Roman knight of reputable status, in Roman society. A horse trotted over from behind them, stopping just short of Titus’ body. Titus’ eyes shifted over to the man, watching him seated proudly on a well-adorned horse, signifying his status in the Carthaginian ranks. The man looked over Titus, ignoring him, to the fallen knight. “This Roman’s got some fat fingers,” said one of the footmen, as he tried to pull the ring off the finger, as the deceased's endowed flesh poured over the gold ring, preventing its removal. “Sever the finger, and retrieve his signet,” said the man atop the horse. “A simple fix.” Titus then looked over to the two footmen, who only looked up at their commander, atop his horse, dumbfounded and embarrassed they were, clearly. One of the men drew a dagger from his belt, and used it to cut the finger off the Roman knight, then removing the gold ring. Titus shifted his eyes back to the horsed commander, who now noticed him, the two exchanging direct stares. The man had an eye-patch concealing his right eye, which made Titus’ mouth open slightly, in awe. Hannibal Barca… One of the footmen put his foot on Titus’ throat, forcing him to gasp for air, signifying that life still flowed through him. “This one’s still alive, General,” said the footman to the now-identified Carthaginian leader. “He is of low standing. Put him out of his misery,” replied Hannibal, coldly. Titus shifted his eyes from Hannibal to the footman, observing a nod in understanding of the order. The other footman struggled to jerk free a spear from a fallen Roman soldier, nearby, as the footman with his foot on Titus’ throat reached for one, snapping his fingers, impatiently waiting the weapon to be passed from his comrade. In the end, as useless and menial an existence as a lifelong servant to the house of a prominent senator… For none will ever know my name, or my accomplishments. Just a number, written by a chronicler, to come. The footman jerked the spear free, handing it to the one atop Titus, as the commander steered his horse away from them. Titus did not look at the footman, only garnering enough of what energy remained in him, following a long, tiring forced march from Rome, to swivel his head aside, watching the Carthaginian hero as he mounted away, observing the fields of his accomplishment, sewn with the seeds of death. A blade of grass in the killing fields… The spear came down, impaling Titus through his chest, clearing his heart and back, as it erupted out below him, hitting the cold, blood-stained earth below him, the light fading from his eyes, before the prolific writer could find his next words…

The Winter War - 2

The Winter War 1. Winter War Väinö Saari - 30th November 1939 It hurts to lay in the snow for too long, even in my layered winter coat. I have no uniform - there are not enough to go around. The cold seeps through into your flesh and chills your bones. It gnaws hungrily at your fingers and toes, and your face when you don’t cover it correctly. My hands are shaking now, but that is not from the cold. My name is Väinö Saari. There are a quarter of a million Soviets of the Red Army advancing onto the Karelian Isthmus towards me. They have been shelling us for hours. There is nothing I can do but dig deeper into my crevasse and pray the bombs do not land close. We have all started to learn the sounds - when to curl into a ball and hide, and when to get up and run as fast as possible. Some of us do not run fast enough. An hour ago a piece of shrapnel near cut Stefan Haapaniemi in half. He went to school with me in Helsinki. We enlisted together. I will write to his mama if I survive this. Lieutenant Kuismanen is with us, trying to cheer us up. “Eyes forward boys, we’ve got Ruskies on the way. You’ve shot moose before, eh? This lot are slower and dumber!” Somehow I do not think this will be so easy. We all saw the Tupolev aeroplanes streaming overhead, bombing the Mannerheim Line, bombing Helsinki. We had heard that on the wireless - Helsinki was burning. Firebombs were falling on my home while I was here and helpless to stop them! The least I could do was hold up the Red Army. The barrage comes to a sudden stop. We all know what that means, and it isn’t long before I see khaki shapes picking through the snow in the distance. The dark green stands out clearly. They haven’t seen us in our white clothes and uniforms. We blend into the ground. There’s a knot in my stomach as I look down the ironsights of my Mosin-Nagant rifle - my papa’s, the one he used during the civil war. It was Russian, the same as my target. None of us have very much ammunition. Hopefully we won’t need it. We’re to retreat back to the Line and slow the Russians down. Hopefully we’ll get back before we run out. There aren’t enough of us to stop them here. “Easy,” Kuismanen breathed. We all liked him - he was a good man as well as a good officer. “Pick your targets. No sudden movements.” Somewhere down the line there was a distant crack of rifle fire. Such a small noise, almost insignificant. The insignificance of a life ended early. “Fire, fire!” the lieutenant bellows, and we do. The man I shoot falls to the ground and doesn’t move - he wasn’t close enough for me to make out his face. For that I’m glad. Somewhere on my right a machine gun chatters. The men in front of us are swatted down, some dead. Others crawl for cover. The return fire is sporadic. They were the advance party, nothing more than scouts. In the distance, I can see the patchworks of crimson on the white ground, slashes of colour in an otherwise bleak world. We had won the first encounter, but we all knew worse was to come. No-one else had died from my platoon. I was thankful. I think it has been half an hour, and the Soviets are attacking again. They know where we are now, and there are so many men. I can barely raise my head over the bank for the constant whistle of bullets flying just above. When I look up I see their soldiers crowding towards us, filling the spaces between trees. They stretch as far as I can see in either direction. Our machine guns are wrecking an evil toll on their number. The snow ahead of us is now a red slick of frozen blood. There is almost a bank of fog rising from it as it cools. We all take shots, but they just keep coming. These Russians are mad - suicidal! We hold for another hour before the situation changes. There is an explosion of sound and the trees ahead of us are blasted down as if by God’s own hand. A wall of Soviet armour is advancing towards us! The machine guns try to do their work, but the bullets simply rattle off their hull. They are unstoppable. One of the monstrous engines halts and the turret swings around - one of our positions is evaporated in an explosion. On my left a blast blankets a tank in smoke - someone has got a grenade underneath it! A cheer rolls down the line - we can kill these bastards! Our resolve cracks as the war machine rolls back into sight unscathed. Kuismanen gives the order to retreat and we all fasten our skis. He remains behind to cover us - as we leave, a bullet strikes him in the head. We can clearly see he is dead - no one could survive such a wound. A panic flares in our hearts and we turn to flee. How fast can their tracks carry them? Will we make it away? It is then I am thrown forward on my face. I do not understand. I can’t feel anything - have I been shot? It is only when I look down that I see my blood gushing out onto the icy snow. So bright. Pelkonen is by my side, screaming at me, but his mouth makes no sound. I will write to Stefan’s mama when I get back. It is so cold. 2. Red Tide Anton Bezrukov - 6th December 1940 “Be careful not to push through into Sweden!” We had been told this war would be over in two weeks, but only half of that remains and we still fight at the border. It all seems like a bad joke. It is difficult to carry on at times. I am young, and I want to go home to my family. Poland was nothing like this - we rolled through and all who stood before us were crushed. For a time, everything was as promised: we were liberating Soviet heroes! This place is different. It exists to torture us. This country is alive in resistance to us - the snow seems to kills as many of my countrymen as the Fins! Our tank-commander doesn’t know what he is doing; he is the same age as me, from Moscow. He arrived after Poland. He has not seen combat yet. He is a good Communist, but I still worry. From my place in the turret I hear the radio scream with static before a tinny voice breaks through. The communications are bad here - usually they work poorly. Often they do not work at all. From below Lieutenant Abramovich slaps me on the leg. “We are all in this together, comrades! Feel no dread for the coming battle! We will crush these dogs under our tracks in the name of glorious Mother Russia!” We did not crush them the last four times. Abramovich is a proud man; the commissars like him and that is the important thing. He will rise quickly in this army. I can hear comrade Zubarev coughing from the cabin. The fumes from the engine build up down below but the observation slit gives me some air. It is cold enough to sting my lungs… perhaps it would be warmer with the smoke? The radio crackles again and cuts out. I hear Abramovich thump it with a curse - it rattles back to life. Me and Zubarev have grown used to the Lieutenant during our stay on the Kolla front, in spite of it all. He is a smart man. He does not throw his weight around too much. How much more can you ask for? Through my scope I can make out the infantry milling around us. The other T-26s are lined up on either side - 15 in all. A voice crackles from the radio again - Abramovich gives out an elated “Ura!” It is time. “Move out!” he shouts. My heart is hammering too, but it is not from joy. I want to open the hatch and jump out, to run until I leave this God-forsaken country. This cannot happen though - we all know this. I can go forward to the enemy, or backward to the firing line. The first, I maybe die and my family are cared for. The second, I die for sure and they are punished for my cowardice. There is nothing for it. The fear I feel is paralyzing. Abramovich seems to notice, but he doesn’t understand. I feel him reach out to me. “Ah comrade, I can hardly believe we’re finally attacking either!” My hands tighten on the firing controls and I desperately try to stop them from shaking too badly. The engine is playing up. We bounce forward jerkily while the gears crunch. I can smell smoke and hope that maybe something important has stopped working. These machines are unreliable and often break. I hope that we may be grounded for repairs, that we may not have to reach the killing fields. Zubarev swears and throttles the engine. My hopes are swept away by the bang of a misfire. We bounce forward and surge away to catch up with the rest of our armoured comrades. The noise inside the turret is unbearable - it must be even worse down below. We are off to breach the Finnish lines. The troops are quickly left behind. They are barely moving through the heavy snow while we crush our way through it. It is not long until I hear the ring of stray bullets bouncing off the turret. I flinch at each one. Abramovich is shouting at Zubarev, “Niet, niet! To the left! Get us between those barricades!” The madman wants to drive us between two enemy emplacements! It is not long before it is my turn: “Pillbox, 3 O’clock. High Explosives!” The tank grinds to a halt as I ram the shell into the breach. The turret swivels painfully slowly, bringing my target under the crosshairs. The machine gun inside has sighted us - heavy calibre rounds begin to thud into our hull. I hear Abramovich screaming with manic glee. “What are you waiting for, comrade? Get them before they get us!” I squeeze the grips. The entire tank recoils and the blast near rattles my head off. The ringing lasts for a long time. Smoke belches from the hole I have created. I winged the emplacement. There were only a handful of people inside. I see one man fall through the doorway, the red of his blood pumping out onto the soot-stained snow. I can hear his wails even over the engine. I feel sick. The men who remained inside did not survive the blast. There are pieces of them scattered all around. The infantry are still far behind us. Abramovich is again screaming at Zubarev, demanding he push us through the enemy trenches; ordering us to be the first through. “Lieutenant, please, stay with the formation!” I beg, but he is a man possessed. He threatens Zubarev with court martial should he disobey. Reluctantly the tank grinds forward. With a great thud we drop into the trench. I do not feel the cold now - I am sweating in terror. As the tracks scrabble for the grip to pull us back out, a new smell greets my nose. Smoke. The stink of burning petrol. I turn the turret about, looking for the source. The observation slot is now filling with the smoke, blinding me. It’s then that I see the flames roaring from our rear, billowing from the fuel vents. A fire bomb! “Fire!” I scream and claw open the hatch. As I pull myself out and into the air, bullets ring off the hull around me. I jump off the side and fall to the floor before I can be shot. Abramovich has half hauled himself out of the side cabin hatch when a bullet catches him in the throat. Blood sprays up the side of the tank. He falls back down the ladder. Inside, I can hear Zubarev screaming for help as his way out is blocked. All I can do is scrabble away, out of the trench and back on to our side as the fuel ignites. The tank explodes, taking my comrades with it. I would weep, but the tears freeze to my cheeks. Bullets raise puffs of snow around me as I try to crawl away. There is no use in hiding. Our green uniform shows up clearly against the ground. In the distance I can hear the infantry advancing, falling, dying. I keep crawling - it is a miracle I am alive. It is not long before my willpower snaps - I can crawl no longer. The animal within me howls in terror and seizes control. I get up to run, my legs lifting awkwardly high to try and jump through the snow. I’m going to make it! I pass the first of my comrades, who yell and swear at me - telling me to get out the way, get down, to turn and fight. I laugh madly. How does a man fight without a gun? I am free. I have made it! I laugh and trip, before clambering to my feet and continuing to run. Then the bullet clips me. I am spun around and thrown to the floor, a ragged hole in my fatigues and blood pouring from my arm. Pain flares and I scream - this is a burning agony like nothing I’ve ever felt! One of my comrades throws himself into a snowdrift next to me. As he clamps his hand over the wound my sight goes spotty and I howl. He yanks a reel of bandage from his pocket and savagely wraps it around my arm. I can only pant madly between desperately clenched teeth. “Camp is back that way, move!” he bellows, pointing. I desperately shake my head. “You’ve been shot in the arm, not a leg! Move you bastard, or I’ll shoot you myself!” I stagger to my feet and he pushes me on my way. The trip back is a long one. 3. People’s Hero Anton Bezrukov - 7th December 1939 “You, wake up.” A boot nudges me in the ribs. Coming to, I see the dirty face of one of the orderlies looking down at me. It is still dark - the only light comes from a metal drum full of burning wood in the middle of the tent. I groan. My arm is agony and the rest of my body is sore and cramped from sleeping on the icy ground. The rest of the tent is full to bursting with broken men who cry and twitch. The smell of death and piss lingers heavily in the air. The beds have gone to those who’ve lost their arms and legs. Many won’t last out the morning. The floor is littered with ‘flesh wounds’ like me. I am lucky, really. I would rather sleep in here where it is cold enough to freeze the bedpan, than outside where it is cold enough to freeze your eyeballs. Biryukov, I think he is called - nudges me again, roughly. “On your feet. Now!” My arm is awkward and gets in the way as I slowly shuffle into place. The tent flap is pulled back and a blast of Arctic air rolls in. My teeth begin to chatter. Biryukov stamps to attention and salutes as smartly as he can. “Comrade-commissar sir!” A figure steps through. I cannot see him in the darkness - just the glinting of his brass buttons in the gloom. I try to pull myself up a little straighter. I cannot salute - my arm has been jammed into my jacket to rest. I worry - will the commissar have me flogged? I have seen men forced to clear snow from a mustering ground with their hands for not standing still enough on parade. I shiver again. “Name,” the commissar says. “Private Bezrukov,” the orderly replies mechanically. “186th tank brigade.” The commissar takes a step forward - he is holding a clipboard. He scribbles a note before looking up. I keep my eyes on his boots. He pulls something out of one of his overcoats pockets and throws it to my feet. His voice is a dead monotone. “Well done sergeant. You are a hero of the People.” It is a broad rank epaulette. “You’re now fit for duty. Report to your company commander.” “Y-Yes comrade-commissar,” I stammer in reply. Why won’t the nightmare end? Shouldn’t I be sent home with this useless arm? Biryukov glares at me. “Thank you comrade-commissar,” I finish limply. Biryukov nods grudgingly. For a man of medicine he does not seem to care much for his fellow man. “Congratulations, sergeant. Get out. We’ll need the space soon.” He is a foul rat of a man. It saddens me greatly that he will never see the front. The Commissar has already moved on to the next patient - he has had his leg ripped open by shrapnel. As I leave I hear him questioning Biryukov. “Will this man survive?” “Yes, yes - a week and he’s fine.” “He is fit for duty. Congratulations comrade, you are a hero of the-”. The tent flap drops back into place and the wind carries the rest away. The cold cuts straight to my core. I stuff my bare hand into a pocket before the chill can gnaw my fingers off. It is an hour before the commander will see me. He is busy, but that does not make me like him for having me wait outside. While I pace, hoary frost stiffens my trousers. The sun slowly rises. It comes up late here and doesn’t seem to make much difference to how warm it is. I wonder why it bothers rising at all - if I were it, I’d have stayed away from this place altogether. It feels like I have been outside forever when the guard finally lets me in. It’s like a furnace inside by comparison, and I feel my skin begin to prickle all over as it gets used to the change. It’s uncomfortable and makes me desperately want to itch. I stamp to attention as best I can, but my feet are too numb to move properly. The commander looks up from his mess tin and puts down a fork. He had been eating breakfast. “Ah, sergeant…” he pushes the tin aside and picks up the slip of paper one of the guards had given him. “Bezrukov,” he finished. “At ease.” I try to relax while my uniform defrosts and drips ice water down my back. “You’re leaving Kollaa.” Hope flares in my heart. At school Comrade Vassilliez had taught us that the gods were falsehoods used to oppress the proletariat. Just now I could disagree - there was a God, and it had stepped in to settle matters. “You are being assigned command of a T-28 tank and redeployed north.” My joy is extinguished. I should have known better - this war isn’t going to let me go. “There is a supply convoy heading to the border in an hour. You will have travel papers to get that far, where you will join the 11th Motorised Rifle Brigade.” He looks me up and down disapprovingly. “Where is your weapon?” “I was not issued one, sir.” None of the tank crews were. Why would we need them? We were invincible, were we not? The commander snorted and muttered to himself, going back to his papers. I coloured slightly - it wasn’t my fault nobody had given me a gun! Without putting down his pencil or raising his eyes, he replies. “Of course. See the quartermaster. You will be issued a pistol.” He gives me a disappointed glance after scribbling something down. He slaps the note on top of my transit papers and motions irritably for me to take them. “Why are you still standing here? Your transport leaves in an hour and you need to requisition the pistol.” I grab the papers and stamp to attention in place of a salute. The Commander stops me before I can escape. “Comrade, remember - you are a Commander of the People now. Incompetence is the domain of the coward. Cowardice is not tolerated. You may leave.” Quickly I make my way out of the tent. Now I do not even notice the cold; dread crushes it out of me. There is nowhere left in my heart for it to freeze. These men expect me to command. How am I any different from Abramovich? I do not know what I am supposed to do. A single mistake is enough to have my death warrant signed - incompetence, cowardice. Two sides of one coin, they say. I never asked for this! All I can do is try to survive the best I can. I do not want to be caught unprepared by the superiority of our tanks again either. I need that pistol. Maybe it will protect me. Or maybe God will have mercy on me and our transport will break down. Hah. Who am I trying to fool? - even if He existed and came down, Comrade Stalin would have him conscripted too. Only the dead have escaped this war. There is a queue by the supply dump. A pair of lieutenants bark at the lines of frost-bitten soldiers, forcing them into order. I push through to show them my papers. One of them nods after a quick glance and they wave me past, yelling for the crowd to get out of my way. The men complain and shoot me dirty looks but do not stop me. All they see is another commander getting his own way. I feel sick, but I do not have enough time to wait with them. Underneath the tarpaulins inside there are crates stacked high with bullets, rations and guns. It does not take long for me to find one of the quartermaster’s aides, a young private who is actually sweating from rushing boxes to and fro. I smile weakly and raise my hand in greeting. “Comrade, where is the quartermaster?” The private shrugs. “I need to requisition an order. Battalion Commander’s orders.” I pull the release note from my pocket and hold it out. The aide is unimpressed - I am not of his battalion, and my commander is not his commander. He takes the paper and quickly runs his eyes over it. “You do not need captain Uspensky for that - I can help. Private Zirhov,” he adds after reading my rank. The poor beggar doesn’t realise I am no more of a commander than he is. Beaconing for me to follow he sets off down one of the isles between the stacked boxes. “What happened to your arm?” he asks bruskly. The wound stings as I think about it. “My tank was destroyed and then I was shot.” The private raises an eyebrow at me. “And yet you are here. That’s enough for most men - we should start calling you Schastlivchik, lucky devil.” I snort. I don’t feel lucky. My helper stops and claps his hands together. “Here we are. One service weapon.” There is a sinking feeling in my gut as I look into the open crate we have stopped next to. A mixture of shabby looking pistols have been thrown into it in a jumble. The private fishes one out and cocks it. “Nagant M1895, good piece that will put a man down with a single shot.” He pivots and pulls the trigger on an imaginary Fin - the hammer slams into place with a surprisingly loud clack. Zirhov lowers his voice as if letting me in on a secret. “This lot are reclaimed stock, so we know they work. Battlefield tested.” A voice in the back of my mind cackles at the thought. It’s a good piece that let its last owner die! I wonder who he was? I notice there is a ‘D’ scratched into the barrel and push the thought from my mind. Do I really want to know? I thank Zirhov regardless and leave after being issued with a holster. The weapon is already loaded - 6 rounds. Not even enough to fill a single cylinder. They really don’t expect us to survive - either that or they don’t want us to. There is not long left before the convoy leaves. I stumble through the camp, through the rows of half-buried tents and huddled men clustered around camp fires. There are five trucks waiting. The driver is leaning on the side of the one closest to me smoking a cigar. I approach him and hand over my papers. He looks over them without caring much and jerks his thumb at the back. With difficulty I clamber in. Other soldiers look at me blearily before turning their attention back to the floor. Other than us, the truck is empty. All we export here are broken men. 4. Night Terrors Anton Bezurkov - 1st January 1940 I jerk awake as I feel a hand slap me on the shin. It is Lieutenant Abramovich - how can this be? I am sat in the turret as we bounce our way towards the Finnish lines. “Ah, coward - I can hardly believe you’re shirking either!” The grip tightens on my leg. Below I can see Abramovich looking up at me with sullen disapproval. I try to kick him away but his hold is like iron.Oily, black smoke begins to pour into the turret, choking me, smothering me. I scrabble at the hatch above, but I can’t reach. Abramovich is dragging me down, down into the fumes. No… No! Not like this! There is no escape. The smoke is suffocating. The blackness closes around me like a shroud. Not like this... The flames are billowing up as a pillar, consuming my tank. Abramovich is at the hatch, his head lolling back terribly, exposing the ragged ruins of his throat. His voice is hoarse, flecks of blood leaping from his lips as spittle. I lay paralyzed in the snow. “You left us, Bezurkov! You turned your tail and ran. You are a dog! A worthless mongrel which shames your family! Traitor! Coward!” A frenzied pounding comes from within – a desperate plea. “Help! I don’t want to die! Don’t leave me here!” Zubarev. I’ve left him to burn. I would do anything to help him, but my legs won’t move. The shouts turn to screams as the flames spread. A new stench joins the reek of burning fuel. This is my fault. This is all my fault! A boot kicks me in the ribs. It is still dark - the only light comes from a metal drum full of burning wood in the middle of the tent. I groan. My arm is agony and the rest of my body is sore and cramped from sleeping on the icy ground. The rest of the tent is full to bursting with broken men who lie still, faces covered by blankets. The smell of death lingers heavily in the air. I think I am only one alive here. In front of me I see the orderly Biryukov with his rat-like face. Stood behind him in the gloom is the Commissar, nothing more than the deadly glint of a row of brass buttons. “Will this man survive?” he asks. Biryukov looks down on me with a sneer. “No, no - this man is a coward.” The commissar takes a step forward - he is holding a clipboard. He scribbles a note before looking up. I keep my eyes on his boots, avoiding his terrible, cold eyes. I try to scream but my mouth cannot open. I try to flee, but I am frozen to the floor. The Commissar reaches into his coat. “He is fit to die. Congratulations comrade - you are a disgrace to the People.” He says it coldly, as if checking off loaves of bread on a stock list. He withdraws a revolver and pulls back the hammer. There is a ‘D’ scratched into the barrel. With a sob I squeeze my eyes shut. I awaken with a gasp. There is a bell ringing to rouse the troops. It is a new day - the sun will be rising shortly. I rub my eyes and try to push the nightmare from my mind - the same nightmare I’ve had every night since Kollaa. This is a punishment, inflicted on me for what I have done. Abramovich, Zubarev, they will not let me rest while I undeservingly outlive them. I groan as my arm throbs again – it feels like someone is slowly twisting a red hot poker in the wound. I haven’t looked at it in days – the sight of it scares me. Red and inflamed, it weeps and often breaks open. It is the brand of my cowardice. The pain is horrible. I was sleeping beside the tank – its armoured hull acts as a windbreak and keeps at least some of the chill off my back. A tarpaulin draped from the track acts as a make-shift tent. I wouldn’t sleep inside even if there were enough room. Glancing about I see my new crewmen squatting around a stove light, boiling water for tea in a mess tin. Bulgakov and Vasin. They’re older than me, but to my experienced eyes they seem like children. Fools from Kiev who joined the army to fight for the People and go home heroes. Perhaps like me once? I have known them for three weeks now. They think they are headed for fame and adventure. I have tried to set them straight, tried tell them how war really is, but I cannot find the words. I start and stumble into silence. This leaves me feeling even angrier than before, and poor for conversation. Instead I brood and agonize over how I came to be here. Bulgakov and Vasin leave me be – they’re happy to keep their distance, and I’m happy not to make any effort to change that. What’s the point? We’ll all probably be dead within the week. We’ve crossed the border back into Finland, after all. Much further to the north than Kollaa – we’re moving down long and narrow logging tracks to reinforce the 163rd division at Suomassali. We snake through the forest, stretching for miles. The War is calling. We never escape it for long. I get along slightly better with the other junior sergeants of my squadron. There are five of us, all said. All of us rotated in from other tank battalions to give the 44th armored cover. All of us survivors of lost tanks and killed crews. None of us have ever commanded before, none of us know what to do. We’ve been promoted simply because we’ve been inside these machines before. We all share a dark and bitter sense of humour about this. I tell them my nickname and it sticks. Our company are the “Schastlivchik”, lucky dogs who do not know what they are doing, where they are going, or what is to happen when they arrive. Perhaps we are lucky for this ignorance? What man would want to know the hour of his end? Singing brings me back to the present. Squinting through the gloom I see others have joined Bulgakov and Vasin, squatting around their stove. Of course – Old New Year. A new year, and a fresh start for those who aren’t buried in snow in the hinterlands of this forsaken country. Grimacing, I pull myself out of the lean-to and stagger towards the gathering. The other privates eye me warily as I approach. Most of them are infantry, the poor devils. The singing dies as they stamp to attention for me. I wave them away in disgust. Damn these stripes and damn them again! But Bulgakov smiles and opens his arms wide, “Comrade sergeant, come celebrate the occasion with us!” Vasin shoots him a warning glance. Bulgakov is drunk. I do not care. I wish I were too – it would make this situation more bearable. “We’ve little enough to celebrate. Might as well while we can,” I admit. Bulgakov bellows with laughter and starts singing again. After a few moments the others join in. It is not long before I am forgotten. This suits me. It allows me to warm myself against the stove without being disturbed. The others are sharing the tough bread the army issues us all, and a ration of potato vodka that was probably brought from home. When the bottle comes to me, I take a small sip before passing it on. I slip into thoughts once again. I think of my home, and how gladly my family and I parted to fight in this pointless war. My father was too old and frail, he could not be conscripted however much he wanted - I went in his place. I was declared the pride of my household, the pride of my village. I wonder who would be proud of me now? If only they knew what they had sent me to. The soldiers chat and sing for a few minutes longer before officers begin to bellow for headcounts and rollcalls. I shepherd Bulgakov and Vasin back to the tank before one of the lieutenants catches sight of them. Five men from our company failed to awaken this morning. The ground is too hard to dig a grave. We leave them on the verges. We are all prepped to leave now, to carry on towards Suomassali. But nothing happens. We are stuck here, one hour dragging into the next. No orders come from further up the column. Nothing at all does - silence reigns. We mill around uneasily, waiting, waiting, waiting. I catch myself trying to take solace in this brief delay, but I know I am deluding myself - there is no escape from this war. From somewhere behind the tank I can hear shouting. It is the Commander and the Commissar. He wants to know why we are not moving - but what can the Commander do? The two have been arguing like an old married couple for days now. The soldiers try to look busy and stay out of the way. Gridlocked, there is nothing to do but watch the forest around us. I pace up and down beside the caterpillar tracks. There is almost something eerie about these snowy pines. These woods are darker than the daytime has any right to be - between the trees there is a perpetual twilight. The road is narrow and twisting, with steep banks on either side. But at least there is light. We could easily be ambushed, but I would still rather be here than in the darkness. I brush my suspicions away - I am trying to see a monster where there is none. Suddenly a sheet of snow falls from the branches of the tree nearest to us. I frown. What is this? The entire bank erupts into a wall of explosions. I fall down and land on my back, dazed. There is the tortured creak of twisted wood as the pines come crashing down across the road. As I scramble to me feet, my ears are ringing. The whole world has dissolved into chaos. Gunfire and screams fill the air, and the choking mixture of smoke and smashed snow are blinding. A stray bullet ricochets off the frozen ground next to me. Instinctively I draw my revolver and drop to my belly, crawling back towards the tank and my crew. Through the mist I can hear Vasin shouting for me before he is silenced by a bullet. Bulgakov is screaming now in his stead, trying to save his friend. The Finns are all around us. We are penned in like swine to the slaughter. I warned them - Vasin and Bulgakov - but what do I know? I am just a Schastlivchik. 5. Anton Bezurkov - January 1940 It is dawn again. We ran out of food two days ago. There are many of us stranded here, enough for the Finns to think twice of attacking us directly again. But there are many more ways to kill a man than to put a bullet through him. The field kitchen went up in flames first. The supply trucks and carts next. Always in the dead of night, always when we least expect it. The Commander came up with the fix - he radioed back to Russia and pleaded for an airdrop, begged for reinforcements. We got the drop, but not the men. Four days ago the rations were delivered, the engines of the Tupolev roaring above us. Watching the parachutes falling down towards us was a thing of beauty. All our hopes and desires neatly packaged up and descending from the heavens. Then the winds turned against us and extinguished even that. The supplies drifted into the forest, straight into the sniper’s den. A mad few dashed out to retrieve them. The Finns left crates where they landed, and the bodies where they fell. It has been six - no, seven days now since the first attack. It is becoming increasingly difficult to keep track of time. When I found Vasin that day he had taken a sucking wound to the chest. He died a day later. We were ordered to charge the Finnish roadblocks three times that day. Each time we were repulsed. Their sappers mined the sections of road they broke through on. We lost two tanks and many men to these. Myself and Bulgakov did not make it to the roadblock. The burning shells of my comrades' vehicles obstructed the way. Eventually the Commander gave the order to fall back, to retreat and regroup. The damnable Commissar countermanded him. I don’t know how many small attacks have hit us. I’ve lost count. It has been days since I last slept, and I tremble at the thought of food. The cart mules were slaughtered long ago. The hunger is already taking a toll. I’ve seen privates scrape the bark from the trees and eat what they can. Others trying to boil their boots and losing their toes to the cold. Last I slept the same dream returned, now with more of the victims of my failure; talking to me, blaming me. The starvation and exhaustion is more than many of us can take. The wound on my arm is now black like tar. Half is numb and dead, and the other burns like quicksilver... and still the nickname of “Schastlivchik” remains. How does anyone consider this luck? It is nothing but suffering - a suffering I would do anything to end. I do not want it to continue. The officers have been deadlocked for days. They side with either the Commissar or the Commander - advance or retreat. Back and forward, still playing at politics while we die all around them. Their roaring arguments got louder and more violent each day, matching our desperation. It did not take long for something to snap. We all felt it coming. I didn't even care which decision they came to any more, so long as they did something! I don’t think I can stay here much longer. Eventually our suspicions were proven right. The Commissar and his men moved against the Commander, naming him and his comrades cowards and subversive elements. They’re now strung up from the trees or frozen mounds in the snow. No-one will be burying them. There was many of us when the attacks first started - now there are but a handful left. The Commissar is prowling the lines and inspecting the troops. The madman wants to push on up the road. He stopped and commended us few on our bravery, pointing to me and the other wounded. “Those are brands of a true hero! The markings of courage and honor! You would do well to follow in their footsteps.” I felt nothing but contempt - I would not wish these brands on anyone. It was his fault there were so few of us left to lecture. The recruits are simply falling apart. They have a look we’ve come to recognise: their mad eyes and pinched, cornered faces. Often like beasts they break and run into the forest, never to be seen again. They either fall victim to the cold or the snipers. The others managed to catch one before he fled too far. His face was twisted and fought like a devil to escape to wherever he saw his salvation. They wrestled him to the floor and kept him there until he came to. The Commissar said he was deserter. He was younger than me. Now he has seen the end of war. I do not think I can take this any longer. I never should have signed up - but it is too late for regrets. Did I ever have much choice, really? Do I have to suffer this much for my Motherland? I do not want to. I need a release from it all. A release from all the suffering and all the pain. My family doesn’t need me. No one will miss me. From the picket line I hear distant shouts and screams. Distant enough to ignore... I would get up to investigate but my legs do not want to work. I am so very tired. I stay where I am, sprawled under the tarpaulin. That “D” carved on my gun’s barrel - It seems woefully lonely. It is as if it seeks a friend. I think of the gun's last owner. Why was there only one shot fired? Perhaps he had the same haunting dreams? Perhaps war had taken everything for the Motherland until there was nothing left to take? Perhaps the scars this war had inflicted on him left no other choice? Was he a “Schastlivchik” like me? Painfully I drag myself out into the open - there are stray slivers of shrapnel lying about. Finding one I carve an “A” into the barrel. I give a hoarse laugh and rasp a greeting to my new friend. There is one bullet left in the cylinder. It is so cold.

I Hate Humans - 3

I Hate Humans I Hate Humans I hate humans. And it’s not because they smell funny. Rather, they are dumb. They are dumb but don’t know it. That’s what makes it worse. I’m not human. Once I heard of a fellow—I believe he was called John—who ate breakfast every morning. Pathetic. It wasn’t the fact that he was eating breakfast, though. The bastard didn’t eat eggs, nor bacon. When he went to work in his cookie-cutter cubicle, he always told his office mates to eat healthy. One day he even brought a brochure. It was about the evils of the meat industry, a post-modern Upton Sinclair, I reckon. And when the war came, he ordered a 17" by 25" polyester flag on ebay. It came with free shipping. I suppose he preferred human meat. What an idiot. But holy crap, I should also talk about Mary. She once got an internship in Washington. At night, besides reading trashy sex novels on her kindle, she fired up google chrome on her $1,200 mac and blogged about freedom. That was her favorite topic, I think, although secretly she wanted to author her own erotic book. Blog titles typically read: “Press Freedom Bla Bla Bla”, “Putin Bla Bla Bla”, “Republicans Bla Bla Bla”, “Democrats Bla Bla Bla”, “The Founding Fathers Bla Bla Bla”, etc., etc. It’s quite boring, I must admit. Yet for some unknown reason, it excited her. Then she got raped by her boss. She killed herself. Eric is an atheist. He always talks about science this and science that. I’m not sure what he really means by science. Apparently, it’s something that exists in humans’ heads that makes things real. This, I actually find fascinating. A long time ago he read that dyslexia needs to be identified in children as early as possible, lest they fall behind in their education. Kids thus identified performed better after receiving special help. The other day he read another article, according to which dyslexia does not actually exist. Then there is poor David. He is in prison. Other humans call him “black”. A few years ago, he was caught inhaling the incomplete combustion of some greenish-looking plant. Then again. And again. Eventually he relieved a gas station of its money. They say he is a criminal. The prison authorities do. He has a number and his own counselor. The counselor also calls him a criminal. David also knows he is a criminal. I have yet to figure out the purpose of human prisons. I find Lisa the funniest. She believes in an entity that created her and her fellow humans. Eric and her often debate on an internet forum. They both think they know the truth and try to convince the other of the same. But it never seems to work. They are so stupid. Can you see now why I hate humans? They have incredible spiritual powers, but seem to be unable to wield them properly. Like the sorcerer who has fallen prey to his own spell, humans create only to enslave themselves. However, they don’t realize it, gazing at their spells in awe while thinking themselves intelligent. They have given rise to a world that is not their own, a world which I have difficulty understanding. This world, nevertheless, understands them perfectly. This world of theirs, by means of guile and trickery, also gave them history. They have yet to grasp this. Meanwhile, the world spirit moves on. So let me conclude: I hate humans.

[Vaðarholmr]

Voting for the finale will last one week from today.

[General Retreat]

Voted.

[Maximinus Thrax]

Voted.

[Flinn]

voted

[Strengelicher]

Voted. Great writing.