NationStates Jolt Archive

Following the (relative) success of the 'Do you write' thread, I have decided to pen a competition for all of those who wish to submit their work. It can be anything as long as it is written.

I will accept:

Poetry

Segments of large novels

Short stories

Spin offs from currently existing series - however they must be fairly orginal in content

Screen plays

Scripts

Diary entries

Anything else, you can ask me.

Everyone has two weeks to submit a piece of work - that means the compo will end as of 1200 (mid-day) GMT 6th May 2005. Once the deadline has been met, I will open a poll for the entries and we can vote for a winner.

Get writing.

the work has to be specially written for this competition, or can we use stuff we've already written? just to clarify

Oh, is there a limit to what we can submit, I mean as in a story and a poem, or what?

(Over the screaming, sounds of burning and baby crying comes a calm, very typical soft American voice over, speaking like a fairy tale reader would)

Once upon a time there was a home. Everything about this home was perfect. The perfect garden was guarded by the perfect picket fence which lead the way towards the perfect front door.

The people in the house were very happy.
Then one day, it burned.

It burned and it burned like the perfect home would. It burned just like someone else had said “This may happen but it won’t happen to me” It burned like it belong to anyone. It burned like a house.

Though what replies so quaint after the flames and brimstone, is all possessions so glorious remained; The perfect garden lay pressed under the perfectly built mountain of splinters left by the perfect picket fence, which thereon spread itself shamelessly upon the smoking dirt leading towards the perfectly singed remained of the perfect front door, standing proudly and alone, towering above the midst of blackened everything below.

Indeed to the contrary of the families defiance and perfect vision- humble well wishers who looked on could effortlessly surmise it was that which was doubtless before that now spied itself no longer. That each and every certainty could be found whirling away in a mess of dust and life as though the breath of some beloved god had caressed the family. Cleansing, releasing and renewing; assured that this was the time and this was the place. Or perhaps it was not a god to blame, instead a most superlative unknown or ultimately and most confidently the unannounced absence of any holy being at all. A home with no guidance, with no compass to which it may find north.

Ultimately, accompanied by the unbinding arms of time, those who had dwell, spoke and walked within the home would manage, finding a hushed comfort in their continual being; though they, just as the garden, had withered, exhausted of any higher purpose, losing all faith in following the sun between its night and noon.

With final closure and the tying of a thousand frayed laces, the three inhaled for one final time and blinked out a world that their tired eyes would never view again. They had found themselves, and found themselves utterly lost, Unattended- without the composure or composition of any sense of character. Spreading their minds and bodies to such extent it seemed they had split like the shards of a million broken glasses, yearning for creation, whilst secretly desiring to crumble into obscurity, to shatter and hide about the mess of sorrow and contempt. Hence an afterlife before death began, and their reincarnations were clear: One transpired like a hard grain of corn might in the heat of anger, exploding into some fluffy ball of nothing. Another blossomed as the prisoner will, who after years of waiting is found numb- nor teary, nor reverent- revealed to her their date of execution. And the smallest of all, who had not yet spoke, who had not walked, who had not yet dwelled a life within the home, found himself as a soft glass of milk being boiled to the point he bubbled, expanded, then absorbed through his pain all the hate, anger and malevolence of those whom had forgotten him so completely, boiled to where a fine film grew upon his very self, and was told this is his strength, this his hope, this is his luck and mind, told this is what he will use to hold, as he was weighted with all the world.

Thus, the home remains; still there- somewhere- buried deep under the ashes of blame, silence and guilt. Slowly, day by day, choking beneath the nothingness of a house, owned by somebody, anybody and nobody.

[The man ((baby)) is sitting on the chair, milk begins to drip from the above on to him, as the words “Nobody” is spoken his spotlight drops. As it relights, he is gone.]

THE END

Thought improbable, impossible from most points of view. There was this dislocation from any regular feeling. “Tran…sensual.” Slow and fast. We all have the capability to be there, then feel guilty later. When you let someone in your door that swings open, only to find you were meant to lock it with the keys the mother gave you. And though the keys just shine for show, I was far too inquisitive for to lock.

By then, by the time it hurt and by the time I thought to speak, my mind already begun to confirm the world was calling to let him be, to hush, concede- so I lay there looking up. Above I found no billowy clouds to distort into the shapes I adored. I begun thinking of those- spirit boards- the ones people say connect with dead. I’m thinking how, no matter what the excuse or how horrific the answer derived; the right hand so willingly met by the left still directing the dial towards the letters. Knowing that the words they spell only relate to their wants and such unconfrontable fears. I breathed, allowed to readjust my hand that was twisted backwards, my snapped fingers turning a gentle shade of blue. I reflected upon day of inexperience; dosing on a trampoline pouring a can of lemonade onto the concrete below. I watched how the bubbles fizzed, then subsided, yet nothing was ever quite absorbed. I was thinking that. Swallowing the seeping red warmth off lip. I pondered of how sad the reverent people were. Believing their church, affirmed with guilt, an all knowing guilt, could continue holding faith that they’re personal admirations could be found within the very house that condemns them. I was thinking that, looking up.

I found bit of chocolate in my teeth that I got out with my tongue. Chocolate makes you feel loved.

I suppose it’s rather toneless. As I consider it I really just lay there, examining a series of stains on the ceiling left by candle smoke. Now I have thought about it, I didn’t move an inch. And now I thought about thinking about it, this was so wrong, my arms, my neck, my thighs, far too early for such distastes in my mouth. He took me without mine! Stinging; panting upon my shoulders. Beaten with all the weights of hell by his exhalation alone. He took me without mine in my bed, in my body. And despite my efforts I cannot get his touch off my hands, this taste from my mouth, the voice in my ears and my eyes, closed, I cannot get this damn smell from my bed.

This is just about where I lay right now. Stopped, waiting for the clouds of smoke to subside so I might have faith in people again. Looking up, thinking, waiting for him to be done.

To my light-

Beloved scents of burning candles,
Lit far more than pages to aimlessly scribe.
With ease it were unknowingly foreshadowing,
Forbearing an enlightenment of some eventual sensationalized memory.
Embodying far more than truth or glorified fantasy.

Found in masses of dim; this miniscule flicker burning itself with hopeless defiance,
Seen as if it shone but to lead all spirits to heavens.

Such thing- Piercing, overwhelming all shades of gray and black,
Though led me not towards answers,
It, burning aloof, sent me enduring to questions,
Provoking (just quietly) litters of many curious felines alike.

Slyly he questioned the wicker he burned upon,
The very wax that trickled down ones side,
Querying the very path he so clearly guided,
And boldly, furrowing at idea some greater candle would shine before or again.
We now bore, stained and cremated doubts, modesty and senseless proposal.

Arrived in light, despite shallowing under my breathe,
Such being- his translucent glow remained.
For as much as it were and as least as I am,
Faiths were not question.

Were I some sad match,
With all energy struck upon box on box,
I- Solemnly, could not swallow any drop of darkness.
I- Black with the singe of but my own carelessness,
Was only to be lit if burning light leant in to meet.

How this match burns now.
How I cannot question this flame.

Hear me! - unpossessive flame, myself but a moth; defunct of sanity or will,
Entranced and embraced, am strengthless but to sway with you,
Rocking calmly in the hotter noon’s caressing breeze.

And in this state, I might but question more,
Innocently ignorant of what lay beneath.
That minor keys of song or dance do not weigh down the heart,
Yet triumphantly fuel it’s defiance to persist in travels.
That the earth, nor flat, nor round, is but ours this day.

Finally in morn, as sun lifts I might stretch my hand to hold,
I shall gladly sting under your melt-
Moulding playfully and sinfully about my fingers.
Ensnaring and defeating empty lingering doubts.
Unparalleled by bejeweled eyes and mouth.
Sanctuary, transcending, transensual.

I decree- This be all things, this be timeless.
Mine eyes blind to thy feet before me.
I am as such that caressing breeze, whistling through branches of towering bodies,
My joy, in but divine major, singing to the world- my unabashed pride.
Now, this can not contain.

Guided, saved.
For the first time, I am no virgin to reverence.

Coming to the conclusion that it must be around seven-thirty in the morning precisely, the young girl had assumed that to greet her as it did, the sun would have to hit the window at such an angle to be refracted along the hallway, against the mirror and then reflected with an utmost degree of perfection to manage sliding itself through the key hole to triumphantly project a tiny image of a lock onto the grainy wall she lay against. There was no real reason for this decision, it just seemed convenient, and furthermore seven-thirty seemed a very appropriate time for a young lady as herself to wake. Each morning her hazel eyes would watch glowing silhouette venture the tiny space between her breast and her legs as she sat up like an infant against her splintery bed head, which doubled as a mattress.

Disappointingly this morning seemed not the least bit more interesting than the last. It seemed habitual now to be still, silent and patient whilst viewing the locks passing as if it were a rare eclipse. This would take place until eight thirty when it passed her scab riddled knee and began to fade amongst the scratches in the wood, disappearing in full at a finger nail that she’d torn out against door frame on the sixth day. The miniscule light did as it always would; moving slowly, lifting up a fraction above her pelvis as if to avoid the rusty nail which had scratched her thigh so many times when he’d escorted her to the bed. Yet at seven-forty-five, (judging by the blaring buzz of his clock radio) the girls illuminated friend was interrupted by a tiny bustling life. Scuttling along the red stained wall was a tiny ant. It danced about the cracks and the knots in the wood, scanning the musky, stagnant air before timidly gliding across the bed sheet of sweat and vomit towards her feet. It seemed to not notice her appearance at all; it seemed to not notice her wounds, her shattered face and her invaded innocence, so it climbed upon her feet. The touch was surely not uninvited, almost playful as it skipped along the fine hairs on her paling skin. Dropping her head downwards, her eyes glimmered for a moment, the dry blood and dirt upon her face cracked above the involuntary grin as it crawled in the little space below her knee and ventured passed the place of femininity- passed, and passed, and passed as no one had done for as long as she cared to remember. It climbed beneath the shameful creases in her belly she’d been so repeatedly given judgment for. The silent spec of life tickled upon her chest with its short breaths and marched on as it had traveled the path of her skin a thousand times before until it reached her right shoulder, blazing with a leather like rash from hours of shuffling against the sandpaper like insides of the door. It stopped for a moment and seemed to pinch her shoulder as if asking to be lifted onto the wall. The thrill of being depended on gave her the strength to lift her blue fingers to her shoulders and nudge it onto the wall and the ant departed from her body. A cool tear descended lovingly down her right cheek and into her hand, she squeezed it tightly, it was hers and not even he could take it. The light which had previously kept her mind so alert had vanished into obscurity and the ant, seeming to spy the shimmering brass made its way past the dents made by her broken fist on the tenth night, and escaped out the locked key hole, “How beautifully ironic” she thought.

She made a face her mind imagined would resemble a smile, then exhausted of energy dropped her swollen lips. In a final bid for dignity she tapped her fingers on her tongue and wiped away the filth he’d left around her mouth then laid her head back onto broken coat hanger rack which stabbed itself into her neck each night. She breathed, and she thought. She decided she was tired again. And now she decided she had learnt enough. She considered that when the people all dressed in black were tearing up for the girl who “had passed to early, who had not learnt of life” she’d be watching over shaking her head in defiant disagreement. She had learnt all. She learnt that one can find peace in a passing light, she learnt that no did not necessarily mean no, despite the consequences of the question and she learnt that the little wooden closet in her father's attic was far more intricate then she first believed. Inhaling one final mouthful of dust and heat, she fell asleep…

“In here” a late voice spoke, the doors crackling away from their hinges. A body, empty and covered in hundreds of ants, fell before him, each more dependant than the next. It seemed her day had been far more interesting then she once thought. Her fractured image sent fluttering towards the mirror, rolling throughout the hall reflected with utmost perfection to the window, intermingling with the light, out into the skies to greet the sun, she had arrived.

The End

I don't mind, pick which ever one you like best. I like the wording of the first one but you won't have time to read the full screen play. The second monologue is very dark. The poem, well I dunno it's an old relationship so i refuse to read it myself again lol. And this, well markers are looking at it so who knows...usually people don't read my stuff cause it's long so *shrugs* I can only try to show some other side then pictures of myself...

She's wicked nasty
do you love
rhinoplasty
on this dove?

Are you going to judge them all together, or judge each style seperatly?

I don't think it would be fair to judge a haiku against a chapter from a novel, to use an extreme example.

I'll submit a new short story either way though.

There is something about being surrounded by the tinny percussion of five ipods that makes my life significantly less worth living.
The algorithm for the filling of seats is universal: the corners, the odd seats, the windows, the rest. There is a shifty awkwardness if the critical mass isn’t quite right, a hovering between group and individual sensibilities. Nobody wants to be the only one standing, but neither do they want to insert themselves in between the punky child and the too-old grad student. Nobody wants to be the first to pair up into the intimacy of a window seat, when everyone else is unattached.
I like the crowded busses, the packed ones, when people nab seats, shove a bit, and sway together, rubbing, with simulated boredom outward grimaces and inner contentment. At least, I’m inwardly content at these times. When it rains, we are encased in a steamy shell of warmth, our soaked coats touching each other’s moist hands with faintly intimate gentleness. These are the days I miss my stop, because of the steam, and must walk home in the rain.
“The cartilage? Your first one’s pretty bad, always”
There is a man with the most delicate mouth scrunching into himself as if marshalling is inner resources, his music, his book, then unscrunching and peeking up across the isle at me with blue eyes. His tie and shirt are nice, but old, but nice, and I wonder if they’re vintage or just old and well kept. He is young, they must be vintage; but he has a beard, he’s not the type and his shoes are scuffed. They are just old, and he is just cute.
“Hey!! What’s up? New term eh? Yeah!”
That woman in the black suit is wearing Christmas tree socks. I wonder if the girl in the fedora is interesting or mysterious in any way, or if that fedora the sole stroke of originality in her dull life.
“It’s a different kind of pain. Like a pinch.”
I want to talk to that girl with the double-chin I always see reading the books from my English class. I would say, 120? Casually. Then we’d talk. But there’s something about her mouth that prevents me from saying anything, always.
“We’ll catch up, I have to move…shit...bye, waaiit, are you in Klink for compsci?
There is finesse to getting out of a bus. You need the timing down perfect to make a decent exit. Frame By Frame: look up, quickly put away the book, zip the back pack, slide up, smile apologetically, gracefully swing backpack up and dive forward in one quick movement, no more than one excuse me, shuffle toward the door, and bound outside, quickly. There is an escape, but I often don’t want to leave when I am settled in a bus. I want to be the last one, in the back, to curl up, preside.
“the navel is more of a dull pressure - watch how you sleep. They can totally shift”
The man next to me has huge gorgeous shoulders, and a nice wool coat which smells good. I would place my head on it and say, if you get half my airspace, I get half your shoulder.
“Nooo” shouts as he’s pushed along “we got the new lab, are you still in that shithole?” then a laugh, then looks up examining new surroundings, segregated from his mechanical conversation that is now muffled out by n+1 layers of bodies, looks uncomfortable for a second, then turns up the volume of his terrible music.
“HAha, if you get it done professionally, the studs are better, believe me”
The U-pass is the hallowed engine of the system-- it commandeers respect from all. My pass is my life, in short. Don’t take it away from me. U-passes, coffee, politeness, sorry, telephones, not being fat- these things are important.
“It’s different for guys, obviously, but it still had to go through a lot of…a lot of…” There is one bus driver who reminds me of those commercials for finding careers you are passionate about: you know the “What are YOU doing after work?” ones. His voice rolls across the PA as he waxes eloquent: stations, sites, connections, fares, passes, rubbed-out pictures, the weather, the system, and move to the back of the bus, folks, get friendly with your neighbor! Some people smile furtively, others ignore him; usually I laugh and nod and make people nod back, or look out the window and enjoy the sound of his voice all by myself. I love this man, this is a brave man. I want him to have a radio show, on CBC; god, I want it so much.
“I did it myself...it was halfway through, and I heard this crunch, and then blood. Don’t…”
List 1: Discman, 6, minidisk 1, mp3 player, 2, radio, 1, ipod, 4, a tape deck, only once.
List 2: physics, 2, anatomy, 1, Woolf, 1, Fast-Food Nation, 1, Dude, Where’s My Country, 1, The Da Vinci Code, 2, Criticism, Major Statements, 1, Calculus, 2, The Economist, 1. The Globe and Mail, 1, spread around.
List 3: Cofee, 7, Bottled Water (a scandal), 3, Coke, 2, weird bubble tea thing, one of those.
And today’s infamous Ugg boot count: 8. Bad day.
“The thickness of the needle does matter, and make sure it’s hot”
I wonder if that kid in that commercial that is always in the same place on every bus is a boy or a girl? Not that I mind, but androgynous children may not be good marketing. Distress line; I’m not there yet, but two more months of this and you never know. Do I need a pregnancy test, free and confidential, do I want to train as a hospitality industry worker? Do I want to go into commerce at SFU, do I want to lie on the grass and laugh at Corpus Christi College like those kids? Do I want to be flattered because of the complexion dove gave me, do I want to stare at the rivulets pouring from that umbrella onto the floor, and along to the stairs for one more second of this, my only life?
“You’ve got to show me your nipples sometime”
There’s something terribly bad happening by month 5 of commuting. Something routine is happening. Would you mind turning the volume down? is routine. Endlessly rehashing threadbare subjects with Patty, which we never really had in common in the fist place, is routine. The efficient accomplishment of the next mindless bio 140 paragraph by McDonald Street is routine. The herd-like marching off the bus is getting on my nerves, and the fact that I spend more time doing this than doing any one other thing all day makes me want to quit. I quit.

Background: I just wrote this one night to get feelings off my chest.

I wanted it to have some symbolism, some complexity, but at the same time I didn't want it to sound like stupid EMO poetry you hear all the time on boards such as these. I also didn't want to make it too cryptic. Sometimes I find that poets here try to make poems too complex so that they don't sound so predictable and hammy, but only making them cheesy in the long run.

I don't know how to make music, but I found that this was most adaptable as song lyrics. If I can get the song out of my head and onto sheet music or synths, I would.

What's it about? Frustration. Frustration at not being able to take action. Not being able to think enough steps ahead, weather it's to avoid disaster or grab opportunity. Therefore, I stay in a more static state, not going anywhere. I also noted that in these attempts to go forward or back, or try to not get burned, how I interact with others. I've noticed that I give the responses people either expect of me or the ones that people want. For example, in my frustrations about what to do with myself, others note that something's wrong with me. I tell them everything's ok, i'm fine, honest, all the while lying to them.

But enough background. Enjoy. BTW, i've copyrighted it.



Strange Night

I, have not the clues to see it all
But some how I should have seen the coming fall
Give me no more chances, no point if I can’t understand
I will see or stay blind, both ways I’ll die a stupid man

Heaven knows I can’t see past present tense
My ignorance measured is so immense
Cannot tell if I’m trapped or if I’m free
Either way it’s been one strange night for me

Oh I, can see why you have that frown
What was I thinking, did I look like I could wear a crown
Mighty men are not better, they just know best on how to try
The quiet can be worthy, being humble doesn’t mean you’re shy

In love I am brave, though my body makes me the fool
It always betrays me, the telltale signs that scream uncool
Put in a false smile, and put all of my friends at ease
Erode my soul with the lying, my answers are the ones that please

Give and go, for friendship or for romance
Not guaranteed just because I’m a sycophant
Networking because it’s what my future needs
Now I know the hurtful cause my heart to bleed

Heaven knows I can’t see past present tense
My ignorance measured is so immense
Cannot tell if I’m trapped or if I’m free
Either way it’s been one strange night for me

Given, gotten, did so thrice
Never happy, isn’t that nice?
Put on a face it’s time for a show
I play with my life, how could I know?
Drifting, swaying, all that praying
Does it mean that I’ll be staying?
Buried down with demon friends
And I can’t see how I can make it end!

Oh I, not sure how to see past the clouds
To see a completed dream, I’d have to tear all my shrouds
But I’ll miss past today, I want to move but I must stay
Can’t see what will happen, so how can I win the fray?

Never know how I can see what’s wrong
Find my truth, find my way without a song
But I’m too dumb to find out just what my trouble needs
But so are they, all abuse for no solid leads

Heaven knows I can’t see past present tense
My ignorance measured is so immense
Cannot tell if I’m trapped or if I’m free
Either way it’s been one strange night for me

Background: Pure freakin' love song, undiluted, so to warn you it's way too damn cheesy. I just couldn't change it, even though the pure sappiness of it all made me sick. I hope you all like it.

For me it's not being in love with a specific someone, it's wanting to be in love, but not being sure how to tell if it is love or not. So I have myself thinking... "I really really want it... but... dammit i'm not sure!"



Kind of I Want To

Give me a moment, not sure I believe you
I guess, don’t know, I kind of… I want to!
It seems that I have no choice in the matter
I want you, I

I don’t know if she’s so perfect, a stranger
I can’t, I try, but I can’t rearrange her
Fire’s in my mind, want to know, want to make sure
It’s got me, oh.

A plague coloured black through my head it seeps
Churning my thought, concentration it eats
Saying the cure’s with you when we meet
A simple feat, no.

Give me a moment, not sure I believe you
I guess, don’t know, I kind of… I want to!
It seems that I have no choice in the matter
I want you, I

Can you be in love with a girl with no name?
Or do you question my yearning, or ask if I’m sane?
Or push me and say go back to where you came?
I do not know, oh.

In love with the idea, don’t know who she is
What is she made of, or maybe she’s his?
How can I tell if I’m allowed this?
Let me know, oh.

Give me a moment, not sure I believe you
I guess, don’t know, I kind of… I want to!
It seems that I have no choice in the matter
I want you, I

I want something or someone and I don’t know who it will be
But I’m in love with the idea, and a picture’s all I need
Whether she’ll appear or not I’ll just have to wait and see
I want to
I want to
Betray Common sense!
And all the advice that says its just best
That I don’t love, I don’t feel
I don’t care, I can heal
Though I scar my heart is still complete
The longing you just can’t defeat!

I have yet to meet you, that day I look forwards
I’ll change my goals so that I move towards
The day I see you, my beauty, my reward
For something, oh…

Give me a moment, not sure I believe you
I guess, don’t know, I kind of… I want to!
It seems that I have no choice in the matter
I want you, I

Give me a moment, not sure I believe you
I guess, don’t know, I kind of… I want to!
It seems that I have no choice in the matter
I want you, I

My own entry

PART ONE – STALINGRAD
Can you hear it? Can you? That awful impending hum, buzzing through the air like an electric current, bristling with power and energy? I can hear it. I have always heard it. Or at least it seems like always. For nearly two years now, that sound has been my constant companion. With it comes death, the soldier’s ever-present friend. But you can always hear the humming, even through the screams of the dying and the bitter, resentful silence of the dead. Can you hear it? No. Of course you can’t. You’re not here with me as I write this. You’re sitting there, reading my story, desperately trying to decipher the indistinct scribbles of my blunt pencil as it vainly trys to keep up with my thoughts. You might hear the hum if you are a German. But why would a German be reading this, the work of a Slav? If you’re not German, then God help you. Alas that’s not likely to happen. God sides with the Germans now. As they cleanse the world of us ungodly Slavs.

Maybe we shouldn’t have killed all the priests. Well I say we. Stalin and Lenin signed the death warrants with their poisoned pens. Party officials pulled the triggers or brought down the whips. But we all killed them in the end. Our complicity killed them. Our silence killed them. They were Enemies of the People, we thought. Why complain at their execution? Good riddance to bad rubbish, we muttered as Pravda triumphantly announced their execution. Perhaps we were too stupid to see the truth behind the propaganda. Or just too afraid to embrace that truth, so choosing to ignore it instead. We never complained. Not until that dreadful, complicit silence came for us too. Came for our friends, our families. And still no one hollered for us. No priests prayed for us because we had killed all of them. Just God’s merry laughter as he pushed us further into the hangman’s noose, waiting only for Hitler to pull the floor from beneath our feet.

Sorry. You don’t want to hear a dead man’s ramblings. You want to read an adventure, don’t you? An adventure of daring. Danger and sacrifice. Well, I don’t have one of those. My tale is one of death. And how five men tired to out run it. And failed.

Do you hear it now? It’s closer. The sickle is sweeping and we, stalks in the breeze, wait haplessly for it to swoop. Stuka’s do a lot of swooping. It’s what they do. I remember the first time I heard the hum of a Stuka. On the banks of the River Volga, two years ago….

You could see Stalingrad from miles away. Or rather, see the baseless plumes of smoke billowing into the air, writhing black serpents coiling around the sunlight and the blue sky. I remember the horrible fear rising up inside my throat as we got closer and closer to the battle, a burgeoning, blossoming fear that could easily take the form of either vomit or complete and abject cowardice. But I couldn’t vomit. Not enough food inside me for that. The Red Army had millions to feed on the few scraps they had salvaged from the German pillage last year, I thought. I didn’t mind the hunger. I thought that love for the Motherland would keep me full and the few morsels that she could spare me would be like feasts because they were the morsels of the Motherland after all. But love of the Motherland couldn’t stop the flower of fear from blooming, its blossoms sickly green and rotten yellow. If sulphur had a colour, it would be that rotten yellow that fear put into our bellies that day. Of course love for the Motherland couldn’t keep me protected from the truth, no matter how much I might ignore it.

As we approach the looming wreckage of what was once a city, we passed several lorries coming the other way. We all peered into these retreating lorries, wondering why people were being allowed to leave the battleground. Stalin had said the city must be held to the last drop of blood. The Commissars and the NKVD officers hammered that message home.
“Death before retreat!”, they screamed into our ears back at the arms depot. “Cowards will die by the wroth of the Motherland! Remember comrades, not one step back. Or we’ll put a bullet through your fucking brains!”
So we were all surprised to see trucks retreating. A quiet, hopeful voice in me thought that maybe Stalingrad had been lost. Maybe we wouldn’t have to fight in that man made hell. But then our surprise turned to sour sickness when we saw the cargoes of these mysterious lorries. Piles of bodies, stacked on top of each other like lumber piles. Th lucky ones among us assumed that they were corpses off to be burned and so simply returned to their silent vomiting. But the sergeant sitting next to me and I didn’t turn round. We saw that everyone of those bodies was alive. Moaning softly they were, so softly you could barely hear it over the thrum of the truck engines or the distant bursts of sporadic shell fire. The sergeant and I shared a meaningful glance as we turned our faces back to the innards of the transport truck. Not a word, his gaze seemed to say. Not a word and maybe, just maybe, we won’t vomit.

I took a long gasp of clean air – well air anyway. Clean wasn’t really the word for the air air around Stalingrad. We were now about half a mile away from the Volga landing stage and dust from the constant bombardments cluttered the air. It even drowned out the sunlight, leaving me with a dusky dawn light that gave no sustenance to the eyes or heat to the soul. The air was like everything else in that city: bleak, barren, desolate and dead.

We could all see the monstrosity now looming before us. Not even my worst nightmares could match that sight on the far back of the Volga. No nightmares since had matched it since. I have difficulty finding the words to describe it to you but yet I must describe this first vision as so much of my story depends upon it. Try to picture a city that has had all of the humanity stripped from it, gouged out with great flaming fists of shells and bombs. See the tower blocks, their once white faces having been ripped out and replaced with formless rubble. See the plazas, the grass scorched black with great holes blown in the dirt. See the Volga full of shining shrapnel, rotten rocks and the occasionally floating corpse. See the streets strewn with all manner of debris, from rocks to washing machines to sinks to slowly decaying corpses. Observe the once great oil tanks, now in constant flame, huge bouts of black smoke pouring off them as steam pours off a tub of hot water. See the shattered skeletons of trees, effortlessly tossed onto the ground with their once bright foliage smouldering in the half-light. But the sights were only half of the terror. The shells from both the Germans and us screeched as they scurried through the air, hastily making their way to blow some other helpless soul into molecular matter. That screech goes on day and night, I soon learnt. And with that screech can the ear drum smashing explosions that tore through rock, air, flesh and bone as easily as I could break a pencil. With that mad melody of noise came the earth shaking thumps that the shells caused, the ones that threw us off our feet and wobbled our truck off the road as it drove ever closer to the battle. Then there was always the hum of the stuka. And when you heard the hum, you would soon hear wheeling whining of a stuka diving down on you. Then the bomb would come and if you were unlucky the hum would continue. If you were lucky, then the bomb would take you away from this world. I never was very lucky. I can think of a million other things to tell you about that first sight of the city – the rancid smells, the intense heat of burning buildings bitterly contrasted to the biting Russian cold and the repetitive but soul-destroying screaming of the dying. But the words do not come to my mind and so my pencil must leave you to fill in the gaps with your imagination. I must warn you though – no imagination is sick enough to conjure that hellish vision from its black depths. Even in my memory, the true horror has dimmed just a little. Dimmed enough to let me sleep.

We all knew it before we even hit the landing bay. The shining city of the USSR, the only one to bear the name of the beloved Volgst, was dead. I said nothing. Someone else wasn’t so wise. “That place is dead! You can’t expect us to go over there! We have no arms, no training, nothing!”
The sergeant grabbed his arm and implored him to be quiet but it was too late. The damage had been done and there was no force on earth other than Stalin himself who could repair it. The NKVD captain had heard it and was now advancing, the rapidity in his step suggesting eagerness. The captain’s name was Nikolai Vassivech and I shall never forget it. Vassivech’s first words in front of me echo down the halls of my mind like gun shots, shattering my peace and my calm.
“SCUM” he screamed at the luckless man, his thick Georgian accent full of malice and disgust. “SPREADING DISSENT ANONG THE RANKS IS A BETRAYAL OF THE MOTHERLAND! BETRAYAL IS DEATH!”
So the man quickly learnt that betrayal meant death when the bullet slammed into his skull. Unfortunately for him it wasn’t a long lesson. Vassivech wasn’t breaking any rules, I remember insisting to myself. He has done is a service. Killed an Enemy of the People, a fascist conspirator. I repeated that over and over as we progressed down to the landing bay, trying to rid my ears of the dull thump the traitor’s body made as it was thrown off the truck by two of his former comrades. Vassivech casually wiped the specks of blood and brain from his brown overcoat with a sweep of his hand, tossing it aside as if it meant nothing. He sat down in silence, only pausing to grin at one man who was being heartily sick over the side of the lorry. Despite what I told myself, I know that was the moment I began to wake from my slumber. Make to feel resentment and hatred boil. But as of yet, I was still quite composed. I did learn a lesson from that first episode to the landing bay of the Volga. In the Soviet Union, all men were equal said our politicians. Obviously the NKVD were the exception that proved the rule.

The trip down to the landing bay had not taken long but in my memory, it seems to have taken an age. It’s so packed with thoughts, experiences and feeling that I barely know how to organise them on paper. But I must. I must leave some record of my passage on this earth. Many men did not have such a great opportunity as I have now. They have been swatted off the face of history by this war and I have decided I shall not be one of them.

The Volga was dismally grey on that September afternoon, matching the layers of grim soot and unwholesome clouds. It was choppy but that was mainly from the shells crashing into constantly and the floundering of those who had fallen in. We were not far back in the queue to towards the landing stage and so the trip that awaited us was constantly in sight. The NKVD officers and the commissars shunted us into line as we quietly proceeded down on to the wooden planks that would lead to the boat. The boat in question was a civilian ferry, captured before the Germans had sunk most of the civilian boats. Its hull was patched and rusty and all the comfortable trappings had long been torn out, leaving only signs of their existence like the odd bit of fluff caught on a piece of spring wire or a meagre piece of carpet wrapped around the boatman’s head wound. There was little talking as we all climbed on board this ferry. I think most were praying for a safe passage. I know I was. Once we common soldiers had been filed into the main hold of the craft, the NKVD officers stood on the specially constructed ledge that surrounded the sides of our holding pen. At the bow of the boat, close to where I was sitting, an NKVD major had a megaphone in his hands and was waiting for the boatman to cast off. Vassivech was standing close by on the major’s left. Sitting next to me on the left was the sergeant with whom I had shared that meaningful glance with. We sat there in complete and utter silence for what seemed like an age, only pausing from our thoughts to observe the sub machine guns that the NVKD officers held proudly aloft, as if they were taunting our impotence to act against their brutality. Finally a whistle blew and the long procession of boats began to trawl across the massive bulk of the Volga.

Two things happened then, I remember. Firstly, all our anti air batteries began to fire all at once over our heads. THUMTHUMTHUMTHUM they went, turning the sky into a hazy mix of black flack clouds. I remember wondering why. How could I have been so naïve as to wonder that> My question would be answered shortly but in the mean time, the major decided to provide us troops with some entertainment. He began to read, in dreary tones, Stalin’s Order 227.
“The people of our country, who treat the Red Army with love and respect, are now starting to be disappointed with it, lose faith in the Red Army, and many of them curse the Army for its fleeing to the east and leaving the population under German yoke…”
The hum began. It was barely audible over the squawking of the Major but the sergeant beside me heard it. He turned his face towards the sky and muttered something in the recesses of his throat. The NKVD officer nearest shot him a look and he fell silent.
“We can no longer tolerate commanders, commissars, and political officers, whose units leave their defences at will. We can no longer tolerate the fact that the commanders, commissars and political officers allow several cowards to run the show at the battlefield, that the panic-mongers carry away other soldiers in their retreat and open the way to the enemy. Panic-mongers and cowards are to be exterminated at the site”
The humming was loud now, loud enough for us to hear it over the back drop of AA guns and detonating flack. The major quivered slightly but carried on. One man towards the back of the boat screamed and leaped for the side of the boat, his fingers scrambling on the ledge in an attempt to haul in his thin body up. The NKVD officer nearest shot him with a short burst of machine gun fire. Not a flicker of emotion or a word emerged from the officer, just a cold stare at the rest of us who had all turned round to observe the execution. Only the sergeant did not turn, still with his face upturned towards the sky. The major had continued his rant through this incident without even pausing.
“To fulfil this order means to defend our country, to save our Motherland, to destroy and overcome the hated enemy…”
Then they came, swooping down with a ever louder whine that popped the ear drums and sent fear shivering down your entire body. The bombs came raining down, as if from thin air , and the sergeant beside me had presence of mind enough to yell,
“DUCK!”
Such was his tone, gruff and authoritarian, we all throw ourselves on the floor at that very instant even the NKVD officers. Only the major still stood, his sermon not yet finished. A bomb smacked the water to the left of us with a wallop, spraying frothy white water everywhere over the boat. It sent my cap to the floor in a pool of water. Another bomb bashed into the river right of us and then one came down just in front of us. Water was everywhere and there were terrified yells all over the boat, even from Vassivech. I yelped too and the sergeant gave me a staunch stare. Just as he did this there cam an almighty explosion, the first explosion I had heard up close. The boat just next to us in the procession was up in flame. Men and bits of men had been strewn across the river, mingled with savaged steel and crippled timbers. Some shouted at us to stop, to help them but we did not. The boat man just kept us going onward in a straight line, his eyes glazed over as if he could not hear the soul wrenching screams that begged him to stop. The major up front raised his voice but I could no longer hear it. By ears were filled with froth from the churning waters beneath and my mind was too busy bellowing at my body in panic. But it soon did not matter. The Merchermitts came next, strafing with our fragile vessels with machine guns. Most of our company were still lying on the floor of the boat and so the rattling of the machine guns did not harm us. But the major, standing at the very tip of the bow like an absurdly dressed figure head, was cut down. His chest, arms and legs exploded into gory clouds of blood as the bullets tore through him, rendering him a lifeless piece of meat. He toppled backwards and hit the Volga with a dull splash. His only earthly remains were a streak of blood and the piece of paper on which the Order was written. Then Vassivech grabbed the order and looking on us cowering troops, he began to recite. Perhaps it was my imagination or the sheer delirium of battle, but I remember seeing a smug grin on that man’s face as he continued to tell us all how we would be shot in the name of the Motherland if we even thought of taking one step backwards.
“What we have here is that the German troops have good discipline, although they do not have an uplifted mission of protection of the Motherland, and only have one goal – to conquer a strange land. Our troops, having defence of defiled Motherland as their mission, do not have this discipline and thus suffer defeat.”
The opposite bank was now so, so close but still the enemy bombers and fighters swooped down on us, riddling our ferry with lead and water. We could see the grim expressions of the commissars waiting for us on the other side, waiting with their weapons in hand to shoot anyone who wanted to try and swim to freedom. They too were being strafed but none of them ran: they knew all too well the penalty for running in Stalingrad and so they stood there, on the pathetic wooden jetty, and took the machine gun fire. Even commissars are capable of bravery. We docked at the jetty with a clank and the NVKD officer nearest pushed down the ramp to let us cattle off. Most of us could not move fast enough but they forced us into single file. We were still being strafed and now we were standing up. The fighter planes tore through the men around me, smashing them like a fist smashes a wet piece of paper. They all fell at my feet, clutching at the air as they diluted the water with their thick rose red fluids. I looked from side to side, standing stock still in the boat. My mind, my civilised Russian mind was gob smacked at the madness around me. When I imagined fighting for the Motherland, I imagined tank chases across the vast distances of the Steppe or fist to fist fighting with the hated Fritz. I did not imagine a slaughter where you were lucky if the next second wasn’t your last. My mind just broke, shattered into a thousand segments of glass that ripped through my senses, leaving me dying in my own self pitying vacuum. The I was pushed. Hard. The sergeant rammed me forward and I was catapulted up the ramp to the starring NKVD guardsman who leered viciously at me and mouthed some words I couldn’t quite make out. I shook my head in incomprehension but he was already thrusting me out of the boat onto the peer. I looked back once, only once. I saw the boiling mess of the Volga, bombs and bullets burying themselves deep within its murky surface. The brown water was now white foam, spraying in all directions. On the surface of the churning mass were flaming wrecks that once were ferries and charred bodies that once were men. I looked back at our own boat and saw our pilot, still standing tranquilly by his position staring glassy eyed forwards. He was dead, a piece of shrapnel lodged through his chest.

So we were at Stalingrad. We were on the far bank of the Volga. I was wet, scared witless, covered in blood and hungry. My mind was shaken to its very core. But still we all had to push onwards. The shepherds wouldn’t let their lambs rest. Oh no. They pushed us, harried us along the disintegrating jetties until a munitions commissar forced a rifle into our hands.
“How do we use it?” The soldier in front of me asked. The commissar grinned.
“You’ll leanr. Or you’ll be dead. Now move forward!”
I could still barely hear and I don’t remember much at that point. The adrenaline was pumping round my body and fear was pounding the inside of my skull into a fine sand. I remember taking my rifle, my Mosin Nagnat and closing my fingers around its cold metal surface.