Okay, I'll begin I feel this is one of the best stories I've written other than CR of course. I'm hoping I could get it published in a booik of short stories and I'm not completly happy with name. I want you to be critical on it. Because I really love this story and would love if I could get it in a book of short stories. Thanks for anyone who reads this.
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Rain crashed down against the window, followed by muffled rumblings and bright incandescent flashes. The old General scratched out his memoirs of times long forgotten. He was tired. So very tired.
Even though the war had been lost, he still proudly wore the uniform of his rank, a bright-buttoned blue jacket with plain brown trousers. The buttons were done only half way up, as if he’d once considered removing his uniform from his person. Then had given up the dishonourable disrobing in sadness.
His loyalty’s still stood with the country, though the war was over. To take it off him would destroy him. So he sat, fatigued in his chair, candle guttering, making little to no light. His brow creased in concentration.
He was hiding in a small two-floored building on the moors. The room he waited in was full of what was left of his treasures. Time was short, and he was so very, very weary. Day by day he knew his comrades were hunted down and executed.
Although he hadn't left the hovel since he'd surrendered and fled, the unspoken bond - the bond that was so much like family - that he shared with all of them was enough to tell him that that too were being killed. This was why he’d chosen to know them not by action or merit, but by their names. He had given them respect and in return they gave him utmost respect.
Another flash briefly illuminated the room, showing a rough unslept-in in bed, very hard looking, a mangy sheepskin partly covered the creaky wooden floorboards. Furthest away stood a large wardrobe, with one door open expectantly, as if waiting for something to be put in. Close to the bed was a wide chest of drawers on top was the General’s sword of his rank, a straight sabre with a blue tassel dangling from the pommel, short and deadly, cracked and chipped from an era of war.
Bending his head back down, he added more to the paper. His movements were quick, and every now and then he dipped the quill into the inkwell, sometimes letting the nib touch his tongue as he thought. He pushed his short unkempt brown hair, slightly greying, away from his dark green eyes. Emotions were overcoming his façade of strength.
Lifting the quill he stared at the parchment sighing with all out hopelessness. Holding his buckets of tears that threatened to fall at any moment.
While he wrote he remembered the surrender.
The decision had been made by the higher ups. Men, who wore ties, dressed in white shirts and had the military experience of a donkey. They’d only written the treaty to protect their position in power. Many would ask, why did his loyalty’s still stand with the country? His only reasons were he fought for the people not politicians.
When he had found out about surrender, for once in life he’d considered disobeying an order. Another look at his regiment, for opinions, showed the same story to the order. The men were all just sick and tired of it. Their eyes blood shot and shoulders slumped. It was then he surrendered not because of order, it was respect of his men. If only the General had known the enemy wanted more than conquest, they wanted death of everyone still loyal to the Government. That meant elimination of the whole army.
The time was shifting down the mental hourglass. He was just so close to completing his memoirs.
Through the rumbling of thunder he heard the loud banging of the front door, followed by low commanding shout, “Open up the door! The war is ended. Your fight is lost.” Ignoring the man, he continued to write.
“This is your last warning. Open up now!” When the General made no reply, an ear-splitting snap and crash told him the door had been breached.
Somehow he welcomed death now. The war was over. He’d done his duty and fought valiantly until surrender. To rejoin his brothers in arms appealed to him greatly. These thoughts he was having, were only interrupted by the pounding of boots rushing upstairs.
“Now we scour the building fully.”
“What if we don’t find him?” The second man replied fearfully.
Smiling to himself as he wrote more, he listened to their meandering conversation.
The other answered vehemently, “We search the house thoroughly!”
“How many rooms does this house contain?”
Not answering the colder one continued to search.
Even though death was near, he could still find joy in their hopeless search while in its grips
It wasn’t bothering him that his book would be burnt or ripped apart. Nothing would stop him finishing.
“Wait! Why haven’t we checked this door?” He spoke with an edge to already cold voice.
Brightly smiling the General could see the unsure guy squirming –not physically- he could see him mentally.
“It seemed like a cupboard… So I didn’t bother… che---ahhh! What you do that for?”
A short scuffle was heard with some impatient grunts then the cold spoke his voice threatening, “You ruddy fool! Search the room now!”
With another crack the door burst open. Ignoring them the General continued writing.
“Turn around now!”
Continuing his writing the General heard the stupid one, “Rejecting us will make it worse on you…”
Shrugging he put down the quill and shuffled around, “You’re mistaken. Give an old man time to finish his memories.”
Both looking around boredly the colder one replied, “You’re crimes are as follows: loyalty to x-Government; fleeing field of battle and avoiding capture. The punishment execution to be handled by Major Sorenson and Corporal Daniels.”
The General eyed both levelly, “You need to send two men to kill me? How on earth did you win the war?”
Growling livid the colder one muttered something, his long ponytail swishing over his full black uniform dangerously, “No—You know where the Ceremonial Sword and Shield are!”
Smirking sarcastically the General replied, “Even if I knew.” He stood up and walked towards them both, “I wouldn’t tell you.”
All a sudden Sorenson drew his sword, while Corporal Daniels readied his, “Cut the crap old man!”
Grinning the old General muttered, “My lips are sealed.” Then with deliberate ease, sat down, turning away from them both.
No, living person wouldn’t have been afraid of Sorenson then the expression so dark and deadly. There was complete silence for so long, shattered only when the General snuffed out the candle. This was followed by a resounding scream, “That’s it!”
Smiling gleefully the General closed his book lightly. Next minute he felt a sharp piercing sensation, then pain, pain and freedom, he smiled as life left him, the sword jutting out his chest.
Wasting no time Sorenson and Daniels vainly tore apart the room, emptying the drawers, gutting the cupboard and throwing everything on the floor.
Once they came to the desk, they shifted everything off, including the book, all this done with no light, except bright flashes of lightning.
Essentially it was a hopeless search with next to no light. They both muttered in irritation about it being too dark and walked out.
As the room was once again lit, showing a huge mess: drawers hanging half out; one of the doors of the wardrobe torn off; objects littering the floor and the bed messed up. Still the old General sat smiling now forever. The paperwork and ink well spilled under him. Close to him was the journal, open at the last few pages. There were words inscribed.
The Death of Justice is here…
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