A Collection of Short Stories That I Think Of

[Hobro]

Three stories up. Not too many stairs. Too many bullets, that's for sure.

The world around me exploded. Fragments of glass tore through what remained of a tattered Kevlar vest that loosely hung around my torso as the blast shook my core. The column began to shift as it became unstable. A lung punctured for sure, it burned, mother of God it burned.  I gasped for air as my finger continued to flex on the trigger out of years of muscle memory on that three pound pull. Hot brass flew past my face as I prayed for the forty-five hydra-shock rounds to meet their intended targets. Everything seemed bleak as the distinctive sounds of five by forty-five rounds being fired echoed from the hallway before me continued. This room, if not this entire portion of the complex would soon collapse. The windows into this room were shattered from the concussion grenade that had detonated, my ragged form plainly visible from every angle now. Click went the lady. I reached for the carrier across stomach, empty, empty, empty, and then hope only to be crushed by what turned out to be a piece of concrete. It only made the burning worse. A decision had to be made, and fast, and then there it was, nestled in a blown out portion of the wall.

Three stories is a long way down.

Intensive physical training can never prepare you for the process that you must put your body through in order to convince yourself that this jump is the most advisable course of action. It's like the first time you have to pull a bullet out of yourself in the field, you just have to muster up the grit to stick the knife in your leg and start digging. I wish I had dug deeper or something, because the determination to make the jump didn't stop the volley of rounds coming towards me. As my thigh exploded in pain and the warmth of my life found its way down my leg, I knew I needed to make this convincing. After all, maybe three stories down isn't convincing enough. Throwing myself into the air and into the wall of the adjacent building, I began to tumble in the air, crashing through wooden posts, bones breaking, muscles bruising, and I finally found comfort in some piss-poor merchant's cart. Poor bastard would have a helluva time making a living now. Staying motionless was the key from here as more rounds whizzed by me, ricochets cracked around my ruined body. Roll slowly to the side. Began to slither my way across the dusty ground, pray no one comes looking immediately.

Three stories hurts all the way down. A lesser man would be dead. They didn't pay me enough to be a lesser man.

[ll kairi ll]

Yeah, i am just going to review this... >.>'' *looks around for any objections.* *hears none* ^^

Well, i really like it!!! (No buts) Your detailing is very nice and well.... detailed.
I am really curious on what's happening. A war? A fight? : 0 Made me think of those war video games my brother plays all the time minus the main character describing his hurting. ^^

Hm.... i think the only thing meanie head i can say, is that i didn't get a full clear picture. What i mean to say, is that maybe try describing the scenery? I don't know. :/ But, all in all, great job!!! ^^

~Kairi

[c0mp1337]

Yeah, i am just going to review this... >.>'' *looks around for any objections.* *hears none* ^^

Well, i really like it!!! (No buts) Your detailing is very nice and well.... detailed.
I am really curious on what's happening. A war? A fight? : 0 Made me think of those war video games my brother plays all the time minus the main character describing his hurting. ^^

Hm.... i think the only thing meanie head i can say, is that i didn't get a full clear picture. What i mean to say, is that maybe try describing the scenery? I don't know. :/ But, all in all, great job!!! ^^

~Kairi

the setting looks like some X stories long building that is almost collapsing, a fire fight broke and we saw the tale of the baddest motherfucker in badass motherfuckery trying to escape from said firefight, trying to pull himself together to jump from said building while sustaining wounds and shit.

[Hobro]

Be home before the leaves are on the ground, aye? I believe that's what that damned Kaiser said. I've sat in this man-made hell for two autumns now, and the list of things I would give to even see leaves are endless. "Bring us home an alleyman's rifle!" they cried as we packed up on those boats, everyone of us eager for the wars of years past, wars of chivalry and heroes. There are no heroes here. How can there be, any possible heroics are lost in that desolation between our barbed wire and theirs. The Maxim is a fearsome beast, and it chews alive any who dare enter its gaze as they hop the bags. No amount of patriotism or valor can protect you. There is no magical shield cast around you by watchful angels. God's gaze does not fall here. If I am not in hell already, then I may venture to say there is no damnation worse than this. All of Satan's demons can not torment a man worse than the dreaded Yellow Devil that haunts the air here. No one can ever say the simple word "gas" fast enough before some of us are turned in screeching banshees as the vapor turns your skin into a smoldering firestorm. The fluids which erupt from the remnants of a man are vile in every manner, and their skyward gaze seem to question the Almighty's benevolence as they slip into Death's comforting embrace.

I hear them call, "fix bayonets."

The flare is seen to our east.

Hate for the enemy does not propel me forward.

Nor does a love of my country.

Only the hope that I can leave this nightmarish land.

[Hobro]

That smell. You never forget the first time it hits your nostrils. You'll usually catch wind of it when you see that scorched jungle for miles and miles. Napalm's a nasty one. It burns. And it burns. And it doesn't care who you are - Chuck, civvy, or friendly. 

Those flyboys got it easy. All they have to do is kill.

They don't have to look at the mothers who just watched you blow the brains outta their boy. They don't have to see your CO kick her in the side and yell at your translator to tell her to tell you where they're hiding the ammo for the 'Cong. Pilots don't have to scream medic on some God forsaken hill, because your high-school-buddy-who-wasn't-lucky-enough-to-get-that-4F just got his legs blown off by some no-good fucking dink, that no one will ever remember the name of within the next week because you'll lose that ground as soon as you take it. They won't feel that need to feel that need to take his helmet off when shock has taken him to take that picture of his girl and tuck it along with his tags into their breast pocket and hope you at least make it home to give them to his folks. None of them will ever have to pray to a heavenly being at 0300 clutching their rifle and hoping that the piece of shit doesn't jam when Charlie comes screaming out of his tunnels. I'm sure they all receive loving letters about how they're contributing to this grand body count we've got going over here. They'll never have to look proud for the cameras as their show-boating commanders toss cards onto the maimed bodies of the boys of Vietnam in the background as you come to grips with a sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, you're not there for the right reason.

No, all they have to do is flip that switch and ruin someone's day.

Fly back to base.

Call it a day.

There's that smell again.