Young Writers Society

(Read spoiler first)



2002

They say that the flashbacks won’t last.

My lungs feel caked with mud as I struggle to breathe. I cough violently, spraying bits of blood across the dying grass. When I fall to my knees, I can feel a distinct ache in my thigh. For the life of me, I can’t remember what I did to it.

But I don’t believe them.

“Get up!” The order is drowned out by the sounds of chaos and war. It takes me a moment to realize that the man is speaking to me. As I push up from the ground, the world begins to spin. Why is everything so goddamn blurry?

If it’s not dreams, it’s flashbacks.

An arm wraps firmly around my waist and pulls me onto my feet. My legs feel like they’re melting into hot mush. I lean into the man for support. I don’t have a clue who he is, but I’m grateful that he’s here.

And if it’s not flashbacks, it’s dreams.

The ground shakes slightly beneath my boots and I can hear a round of innocent shouts from behind us. I’m used to the sound of screams, it’s almost easy to ignore them now. A house in the distance is glowing a soft orange against a dark midnight sky. The flames are dancing and twirling like ballerinas. It’s really quite beautiful.

“Would you like cream in your coffee, dear?”

The man sets me down next to the side of a shack. “Stay here,” he says, and then he’s gone. My eyes travel to my left pant leg, to the source of the sharp ache. It’s covered in a foul mixture of mud and blood and I realize that I couldn’t leave, even if I tried.

“Andrew.”

I rip open the fabric and examine the wound. It’s a deep slash covered in pus and God-knows-what. The sight of it churns my stomach. Lucky for me, it has stopped bleeding. I tilt my head and rest it against the wall behind me. My eyes flutter closed as I struggle to filter out the pain.

“Andrew, are you listening to me?”
Sometimes it baffles me that reality still exists. It feels odd to go about my daily business, almost as though I’m bound by shackles. I do try, I do, but it hasn’t been getting any easier.
“Sure, Cathy, I would love some,” I say absently, running my fingers lightly over the white scar that runs along my knuckles.

“Are you scared?” His face is an inch from mine and I can smell the pungent aroma of alcohol and tobacco on his breath.
“No, Sir.” I stand up straighter and tighten my jaw.

Cathy wraps her hand around my shoulder and rubs it soothingly. “Are you feeling okay?” She sets a coffee cup in front of me. When did she make coffee? I bring my lips to the cup and take a long drink of the bitter liquid.
“Okay. Yeah,” I manage to mumble as I set my cup back down.

He grins, displaying his yellowing teeth. “That’s what I like to hear.”



2003

Shots pierce the air from every direction. “Get down!” someone yells, and I am quick to oblige. My body hits the ground hard.

I cover my ears with my hands, but the noise doesn’t cease. It never does.

My finger rests lightly on the trigger of my gun and I wait. The waiting period is long and painful, but I don’t move a muscle.

My fingers shake against my temples, ever so slightly. The tremors reach my palms and, eventually, my wrists. I shove my hands into the pockets of my pants in an attempt to cover them up.

My boots dig into mud as I run through the streets, turning down alleyways and paths I don’t recognize. I’ve been running for a while now, the burning in my legs confirms that, but I don’t dare stop.

Cathy wraps her arms around me, rubbing soothing circles on my shoulder. She’s whispering something, but I can’t hear.

I turn a corner and feel my legs kick out from under me. Less than half a second before I hit the ground, I throw my hands out in front of me and land on my elbows. Ouch. I twist my head over my shoulder, wondering what I had tripped over. When my eyes fall upon a dead boy, I shudder. He couldn’t be more than ten years of age.

I push Cathy away and make my way towards the bedroom. I can’t be around her right now; I need to be alone.
The room isn’t dark enough, so I pull the curtains shut and lock the door. I curl into a ball underneath the bed sheets and squeeze my eyes shut. My head feels like a beating drum, and I press my fingers to my temples lightly.

Crawling on scraped hands and weak knees, I make my way towards the boy. He’s lying on his back; eyes wide open. His expression makes him look terrified, and I find myself wondering what had happened to him. Dried blood cakes the left side of his head and he’s missing a hand. I fall back on my knees and press my hands together near my heart, praying for the boy.

My body jolts and begins to shake uncontrollably. I struggle to control it, but it’s useless. I can vaguely hear Cathy knocking on the door over the sound of my grinding teeth.


2004

“I can’t take this anymore, Andrew. I can’t take you shutting me out any longer.” Something about her words snaps back my reality. The words spill from my mouth before I realize what I’m saying.
“Are you leaving me?”
“Yes.”
“Alright then.”

“Don’t leave me, John. Stay awake, you’re going to make it.” I continue to plead with the bloodied soldier lying beside me as we make out way through the streets. I mostly mutter the same thing over and over, but I find that it helps me to stay calm. The truck we’re riding in hits a bump and I lose my balance, tumbling over top of injured men.

Cathy’s gone now. I don’t remember her leaving, but all her things have been taken. Except the purple sweater I bought her a few years back for Christmas, it’s still hanging in the closet. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it.

A loud chorus of shots rings through the musty air.

My hands clutch to my ears, begging the noise to leave. I know it won’t, but still, I plead with myself. A realization hits me with the force of an explosion. During the war, the only one way to silence a gun was with another gun. With one hand still clutching to my ear, I reach into my bedside drawer blindly and wrap my fingers around the cold metal of my handgun.

The shots continue from every direction and I stay low, lying next to John, so close that I can smell the distinctness of death on his breathe. “Andrew?” he says hoarsely.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“What’s going on?”
I don’t know how to answer the question, because who really fucking knows anyways. But it’s John. He deserves an answer. I open my mouth to speak, but the sound is drowned out by a nearby explosion.

I find myself running my fingers over the trigger. Flirting with death, I suppose. It would be a quick out, an easy out. It would put silence to the images in my head that have been haunting me for years.

The room I’m lying in is dimly lit and dusty. There’s a woman standing beside my bed, pouring water into a dirty glass. “Where am I?” I ask, struggling to sit up. Every muscle in my body groans as I do so.
“The hospital, or at least, that’s what they call it.” Her voice is muffled, as if she’s talking through a pillow. Curiously, I bring my hand to my ear and come across dried blood. It’s not as much of a shock as it should be.


I press the gun to my heart. Then, ever so shakily, I raise it to the side of my head. Either way would work. I toy with the idea for a short moment, moving the gun back and forth between my chest and my temple. Temple will do the job just fine.

The enemy is in sight; the only thing that’s left to do is shoot. I aim my gun, close one eye, and rest my finger lightly on the trigger. I’ve never killed a man before, but there’s a voice in my head that’s lingering.

Do it.

I steady my shaking fingers and squeeze. Bang.

Bang.

This is very good. I liked how you went in and out of 'flashbacks' and the way you wrote this. It is kind of choppy with the flow in some places, but that's it.
And I know you're sure about the plot, but I would recommend some more back-story with Cathy and the protagonist's relationship.

Hey there Confetti!

I like the idea of this. It's a well known fact that people who have been to war usually come back a different person. It can stay with them their whole lives, lingering in their thoughts, and I think this story expressed this well.

The style was nice. I liked the flickering back and forth between the flashbacks and reality. I do feel like there's a lot of information missing though. Like Mistie, I want to know more about Cathy. I'd like to know how long she's been with Andrew, since before or after the war, and also how old they are. Once we know how long they've been together, the scene where she leaves will become more significant. We'll feel for her more. If she was with him before the war then she must want the old Andrew back and the reader will be able to see, even though she's not the protagonist, how frustrating it must be for her. Their ages isn't so much of a big deal, but it'll help to set the scene a little. Are they almost near marrying? Married?

it’s still hanging in he closet.

I think 'he' should be 'the'

so I pull the window curtains shut and

'window' breaks the flow of the sentence. I'd suggest getting rid of it.

***

So this wasn't bad at all. The style was nice, and once I got used to it, it made the story I think. With more information on Cathy and her relationship with Andrew, this piece will really shine.

I hope this helps!

xDudettex

A review is coming.

Coming to review as requested! (I started to review this, then was so tired I fell asleep and lost it, so here's my second attempt!)

I think the main thing here is that we don't get to see a lot of Andrew's life outside the flashbacks, nor his relationship with Cathy. We can begin to build a relationship with the character of his past self, but we don't really feel much for the current one... it's like although the protagonist is one person his two very different personalities almost split him into two.

This isn't necessarily a problem however, but you need to ensure that you make them the reader attatched to the both of them. It's sort of like when you're doing a novel with two PoV's... make us love BOTH characters!

That's my only criticsm really, except from the fact that the ending was fairly predictable. There's not much you can do about that though, not without recreating the wholle of the story. Unless perhaps he gets so absorbed with this past life he goes out thinking he is fighting and gets killed by a train/car or something? That's just a suggestion though!

Grammar and spelling is fine, and I've taken a look at the proper structure and think you've formatted it well
Keep up the good work!
Icy

Okay,

to begin with, well done. This is really tough subject matter, laden with clichés and grey areas. I think you were successful in avoiding these for the most part.

So to the big things -- I think you are mature enough as a writer for me to ask you questions about the piece and you can be honest with yourself when you answer.

Why use time stamps?

Consider all the wars in the last 100 years; Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, Falklands, East Timor, WW1, WW2, Japan, Nanking, Korea, Cold War European occupation.

Now other than the times stamps we don't get any indication as to the setting, no talk of the internet or modern anomalies. So why don't you leave this open? Use Ellipses and let the reader decide what era it is set in. Because Post-Traumatic Stress is not a recent thing, it was perhaps more poetic in the earlier half of the century because it bore down veterans, stiff upper lip, solidiers don't cry and all of that. It was much more relevant because nowadays veterans have a cache of services, they have forced remedial seminars and so on.

Why three parts?

Now this is a serious one. And I wouldn't dare answer it myself because I don't want to influence you, it's your story and you have your reasons for designing it this way. But I would say the final segment of this is easily the most powerful, if I read it alone, and a few of the events were shadowed I would enjoy this just as much. Food for thought.

Would an open Hitchcock ending be more powerful yet?

So you've done something I haven't seen from you. You have pressed a theme more than a story. You have given the theme, the characters and the story equal weighting. It's always been one way or the other with your work but you got it pretty much spot on here. So the story is always going to resonate, that is to say, the theme is strong enough to keep me thinking about the story long after I have finished. But, that been said, I would ask you why you decisively kill your prot at the end? I think one of the most useful tools we as writers have at our disposable is the enigma of before and after. If you stop when he is holding the gun (hell, why not stop mid sentence, like Easton Ellis. To highlight how life never really begins or ends?) the story will be stronger, the reader will try to decipher clues, did he do it? was he liberated of the guilt and fear? did he give life one more shot? The reader starts to ask these questions and this let's them pander over the work longer enough for the theme to really sink bone deep. So I would suggest reconsidering where this story ends, where does it really end. And perhaps ask where it begins, which scenes are important, which are not so.

As for the format, I think it is a little choppy. I think sometimes you use it well, when you segue from present day dialogue to flashback dialogue as his comrad is dying, I thought that was brilliant. However at the beggining it got a little tough to get through, easy fix though, you need to combine a couple of flashbacks and a couple of the other lines. I know you have this rigid, one line present day, three lines flashback, thing going on, but don't place these constraints on your work, just write the damn thing and if patterns emerge so be it.

As for the writing itself, lovely as always. No glaring errors, no stunning imagery yet but it is getting stronger, so I commend you.

JP

I think that this was written so beautifully, and it touched my heart. Despite of what the other people have said I think it’s perfect the way it is. The relationship between Cathy and the main character does seem to need more work though. I think we should be able to see into the relationship a little more, but other then that, I wouldn't change a thing. Nice work =)