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consciouschoice · 20 days

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here's the link for proper formatting of the story below (it's in google docs)

Night has spread to blanket the land, the clouds above holding back any light for which the stars or moon could provide. And yet the writer can’t sleep, no matter how tranquil the night might be. They could write of their day, of Recon, of a passing coyote. The writer always had plenty to put to words, but their crimson lamp’s cell could only last so long. And so, they chose to keep the night’s recap short, figuring it’d be best to save the light for later in the night.

Another person!

They didn’t really leave time to ask for a name, so I’ll just call ‘em Recon. They were gruff sounding. Probably another Recon specialist. Couldn’t tell what battalion they were from, but they definitely acted the part. That lot are never much for conversation. To be fair, it just makes things easier. I shouldn’t complain. Anywho, they were headed out west. Their company is probably doing another sweep along the trenches. Getting into some sorta trouble. Hope they pass by on the way back. They looked pretty cute.

And while the writer might have wished for another few moments to write, their lantern’s ruby glow was already beginning to dim. They tucked away their journal into a side pouch before snatching up the dying lantern by its handle and snuffing its light. After a few moments of adjusting to their new surroundings of shadow they scale down to the ground below in relative silence, aside from the occasional creak of a branch under their weight.

The ground below welcomed the soles of their worn boots, and before long they snuck into the embrace of a nearby bush. This bush had been the writer’s home for a good many weeks, and it certainly showed. The shrub had been mostly hollowed out and fitted with a dark olive tarp about the remaining twigs, to provide some shelter from the elements. The writer settled their chainmail adorned helm at the bedside of a small mat, the painted eyes at the front of its dome staring back through the dense shadow of the night.

Just as their back hit the mat below, the straps of their thin steel chestplate had already been stripped and tossed off to accompany the helm. Next came the secure pouches which held most of their daily tools, casually slipped away in a few swift motions and the accompanying clicks of even fewer latches. Off came the sheath and its accompanying shortsword with one last clack, the least cumbersome of the steps towards a good night’s rest. The last part of their nightly ritual was already underway as they worked away at the dense coat of their fatigues, revealing fresh bandages below. Despite getting ready for bed, they didn’t bother unstrapping their boots, knowing they’d prefer to at least have the knife within at the ready in case of some emergency.

With little more than a muffled grunt the writer curled up atop their stiff mat and worked to get some shuteye. Rest was often ill advised for such a poorly equipped Peacekeeper. But even still, they certainly had earned it on account of their previous nights of fire watch and surveillance. Yet, even in knowing that rest had been well earned, they remained awake behind closed eyelids.

In spite of what could possibly be another restless night, the writer held out some hope. Eventually exhaustion would turn them over to their dreams, and so there wasn’t any need to fight their brain on this. It will eventually give in on its own… surely. And besides, they’d never had much trouble with sleeping before their service. The recent lack of sleep was likely nothing more than some spare anxiety. Anxiety in what? They didn’t care to ponder over it. There’s plenty to be anxious over, rooted out here alone.

#writing #narative #creative writing #fiction #alt history #military #short story

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consciouschoice · 21 days

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Below strides a corpsman of some distant company, a crude lightning bolt etched into the dome of their wide brimmed helmet. What gives away their nationality is the whistle they sing to signal an approach. A cheery three notes that alternate from high to low. The corpsman lacks any armor aside from the helm fitted atop their head; surely someone out for recon just making sure they don't get shot.

Eventually, the writer sits up from the branch they'd previously nestled against, giving one lengthy squeak of a whistle which seems to put the person below at ease. Recon settles their helmet right against their chest as they look up to their fellow enlistee. The agent appears nervous for a moment as they shift from foot to foot before speaking out in a hushed wheeze, “Clear skies?” They wince at the words, before rubbing at their neck as if to apologize.

The writer simply nods, giving two knocks to their chest plate before leaving a balled fist at their breast. Recon gives a choked laugh before taking in a forceful breath, “Must be nice.” Their speech remains short, but it was still nice to hear another voice… regardless of how pretty it sounded. After a lengthy enough silence the writer picks up their journal and taps a pencil to it which earns a sigh, “Sure, write ‘bout my passage.” Was all Recon spoke before settling their helmet back atop their head and heading out west.

Recon wheezed out one final goodbye without so much as looking back, “See ya ‘round. Try not to shoot me.” And with that they disappeared off into the underbrush ahead without so much as a snag on their fitted coveralls.

#narative #short story #fiction #military #alt history #creative writing

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