shooting stars (short story) (447 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 2 on 5 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by jack aholic <theshadypeach2000.at.yahoo.com> (View user info) at 2005-05-03 02:08:33 EDT
A boy lay on his back, surveying the night sky. He felt so small underneath the glowing stars, and enjoyed the bright starlight. The grass felt soft and cool under his palms. He smiled. This was heaven. He saw bright flashes searing across the sky. It was beautiful, all those shooting stars. He watched the lines drawn against the atmosphere. He closed his eyes and made a wish, and opened them again, relishing the flaring trails that were left on the sky, like a streak of color on a divine canvas. He remembered how he used to sit at home in the grass fields like this, and just let his mind wander.
Joe chuckled, remembering that once upon a time, he thought the falling stars were angels coming to earth for a visit. He remembered how he used to sleep on the soft earth, side by side with Her. How he used to spend hours into the night dreaming with Her, talking about their future and their desires. He focused his eyes on another falling star and wished hard he could see Her again.
The sound of gunfire faded into his ears, as an explosion from a stray artillery shell rocked the earth around him. He realized that it wasn't the chirping of merry crickets that filled his ears. They were actually ringing like funeral bells because a grenade had rolled into his foxhole and exploded. As the gunshots became more definite, so did the beating drums in his head. His ears were bleeding. Where am I? He recognized the charred corpse of a comrade simmering next to him. He was on the killing fields. He shook off the shock and realized that his stars, his friendly angels that he had wished upon a moment earlier, were machine gun tracers which zoomed past. His stars didn't come from heaven; it came from the 24'' chrome barrel of a 12.7 mm machine gun. Death never looked so pretty, like little lead fireflies seeking to sear through an unwary person and take his breath away. His shooting stars tried to kill him. He stood up and limped forward. He forgot why he was walking towards the bursts of flame in the horizon, but then remembered his commander ordering him to charge, to claim victory for glory, country, or something. A young man stepped up, barely eighteen years old, and confronted him. He looked like a kid. The boy stepped up and pointed his rifle at Joe, trembling from the adrenaline. Joe just smiled at the boy and waved his hand. The young man tensed for the second and shouldered his rifle, as if to fire, but then loosened his shoulders. He lowered his weapon. The kid seemed nice.
At that moment Joe remembered who he was—a member of his country's military. He was under obligation to serve his nation. Joe then recognized that the boy was wearing a different uniform—and was therefore condemned to death. A voice surged through his head like an electric current. Kill the enemy and take the objective. Before he could stop himself, Joe raised his rifle and unloaded into the boy. Bullet after bullet tore through the body, striking his target through the heart and skull. His eyes became the iron sights, and his vision became constrained to the metal slits on the top of his gun. The rifle became an extension of his body making the killing seem so instinctual and natural, so easy, just like a reflex. He watched a stream of stars fly low over the grass and through the target. His angels took the kid's life away, just as they took Joe's breath a moment earlier with the beautiful scene. He continued the push forward, gaining ground and other assorted numbers that would make his commanders proud, like the objectives he gained and the number of enemies he had shot. He became GI Joe, his country's ultimate fighting soldier, a toy pawn that a twelve your old boy would play war with. He would anything his country required him to do. A shooting star soared overhead, towards the horizon. Joe mistook it for another bullet and shrugged it off. Anyhow, he forgot what he was wishing for.
Suddenly his chest exploded in flame. He found himself on the ground again, watching the shooting stars tearing through the air. He moved his hands across his chest and found a gaping, sizzling hole where his flesh should be. It smelled like burnt pork. His hands caught something cold and solid around his neck. He looked down and spotted a locket, shaped in a heart. He slowly pried it open and saw a picture. He couldn't even recognize the smiles within the heart-shaped picture frame. The faces were complete strangers. He suddenly remembered, it was Her. Her. He had forgotten who She was. He sat there, with blood streaming out of his wound like red wine from a bottle, trying to remember who She was. Who he was.
User Reviews
Submitted by theshadypeach (user info) at 2005-05-03 22:39:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Haha. Thanks guys. Any help it making it less melodramatic/cheesy would be obliged though. I thought it felt forced at certain parts.
Submitted by TigerLilly (user info) at 2005-05-03 09:22:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Good stuff.
Submitted by Jeanneee (user info) at 2005-05-03 09:09:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This is really very good. Write some more.
Submitted by Spam (user info) at 2005-05-03 07:58:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I enjoyed this.
Submitted by Mr.Brightside (user info) at 2005-05-03 02:34:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
+2 for saying the word chuckle