Re: A Ship Of A Different Sort [5/5]
anonymous
October 27 2009, 03:17:06 UTC
Kenya made note of all the innocents his soldiers were killing; couldn't he at least try to tell people apart before he shot them? England scoffed. She raised an eyebrow, eyes cold and asked if he too was keeping score of how many people he killed. England bristled; "That is a practice forbidden by the General Officer Commanding and the troops have been issued a stern warning." Kenya told England that he and his 'stern warning' could go to hell. And that was when she declared war.
It hurt to admit that it had, perhaps, been a bit hasty; they had few modern weapons and operated in guerilla units, though a machete felt solid and true in her hand--for the time being. That weight was the only thing she could trust in, sometimes, when the soldiers killed people who were just as much a part of her but with different sympathies. Kenya swallowed harshly, ignored the sting as her people slowly divided against themselves by England's doing as much as her own. Something, somewhere, had gone wrong; women, children burned. She didn't want that. She just wanted England out out OUT and had a hard time believing the soldiers when they professed this was the only way. Finally she dropped the machete and left, unsure of which way was up or down. She walked back to the coast, avoiding the railroad, the line of sea the only thing that comforted her anymore. The phantom ropes were pulling her one way and the other, like ropes can pull a ship's mast to splinter and break in two. When England finally caught up--beat her, soundly--she had nothing to say. This wasn't how things were supposed to be, and she appreciated that he had for once kept his mouth shut as well.
The labor camp is a dark spot on Kenya's memory. She cannot remember it and, usually, has no desire to. She has a scar across her belly, one she can't quite recall getting in consciousness. It has not faded, so it must be symbolic, perhaps of the divide that came between her children. Kenya keeps it hidden as best she can.
England came to her again, told her of the concessions won even though she had lost the war. He looked down his nose at her, letting the document fall to her feet. "So, what it comes down to is this: I can either waste a fortune fighting you, a fortune that will never be made up to me by my farmers who contribute little to my Empire compared to the debt you've dug me into. Or, I can hope that some of these concessions will make your lot peaceful and not cost me an arm and leg. Clearly I've chosen the latter option. Aren't you happy?"
Kenya only stared at him; do I look happy?
A moment passed before England replied: "You look like shit." And then he left, for the last time.
---- Hopefully someone will do a different nation so this anon doesn't have to...
OMFG that was just wonderful! You did an excellent job and treated Kenya well. I love the use of scars and how England isn't shown to be innocent in this (I guess you can argue that it's better to be unbiased...except Imperialism is horrible).
Kenya made note of all the innocents his soldiers were killing; couldn't he at least try to tell people apart before he shot them? England scoffed. She raised an eyebrow, eyes cold and asked if he too was keeping score of how many people he killed. England bristled; "That is a practice forbidden by the General Officer Commanding and the troops have been issued a stern warning." Kenya told England that he and his 'stern warning' could go to hell. And that was when she declared war.
It hurt to admit that it had, perhaps, been a bit hasty; they had few modern weapons and operated in guerilla units, though a machete felt solid and true in her hand--for the time being. That weight was the only thing she could trust in, sometimes, when the soldiers killed people who were just as much a part of her but with different sympathies. Kenya swallowed harshly, ignored the sting as her people slowly divided against themselves by England's doing as much as her own. Something, somewhere, had gone wrong; women, children burned. She didn't want that. She just wanted England out out OUT and had a hard time believing the soldiers when they professed this was the only way. Finally she dropped the machete and left, unsure of which way was up or down. She walked back to the coast, avoiding the railroad, the line of sea the only thing that comforted her anymore. The phantom ropes were pulling her one way and the other, like ropes can pull a ship's mast to splinter and break in two. When England finally caught up--beat her, soundly--she had nothing to say. This wasn't how things were supposed to be, and she appreciated that he had for once kept his mouth shut as well.
The labor camp is a dark spot on Kenya's memory. She cannot remember it and, usually, has no desire to. She has a scar across her belly, one she can't quite recall getting in consciousness. It has not faded, so it must be symbolic, perhaps of the divide that came between her children. Kenya keeps it hidden as best she can.
England came to her again, told her of the concessions won even though she had lost the war. He looked down his nose at her, letting the document fall to her feet. "So, what it comes down to is this: I can either waste a fortune fighting you, a fortune that will never be made up to me by my farmers who contribute little to my Empire compared to the debt you've dug me into. Or, I can hope that some of these concessions will make your lot peaceful and not cost me an arm and leg. Clearly I've chosen the latter option. Aren't you happy?"
Kenya only stared at him; do I look happy?
A moment passed before England replied: "You look like shit." And then he left, for the last time.
----
Hopefully someone will do a different nation so this anon doesn't have to...
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Bravo! ...as much as a country's pain can be applauded... now I feel bad...
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*feels educated*
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I'm very very happy you filled this.
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