I see hundreds of men fleeing for their sacred lives, far, far away from the Polish. I stand in the center of the crowd, blockading that little space I stand, mesmerized by that one, Poland. He seems to be an entirely different person. His face is only the surface of the true feelings inside. His prided shoulder-long blonde hair bobs with the wind and accompanies the sparks of light seeping through the gray clouds, appearing of gold silk. His eyes are both a blue, firing flame and an ice cold, hallow cave. His uniform, which would appear normal to the passerby, are overpowering, majestic as he emitted confidence. Though he isn’t smiling, his stoic expression is overwhelming to my simplicity.
I can only inhale short-filled breaths. I haven’t seen Poland for the longest time, but now that I do, I gaze upon a country given by God.
I should not be thinking this. I am losing terribly as anyone can tell. Perhaps it’s the winning sensation that Poland is so wonderfully beautiful.
It reminds me of the first time we had met. That time we had promised to be together forever, to protect and support one another in time of peril. Look what God has done to us now.
Now it is time for my judgment, so I shall make my final move.
“Polska,” The foreign word rolls off my tongue like water.
His eyes shift and stare squarely at me. “Litwa,”
My hand trembles. It’s been years since I’ve talked one-on-one with Poland; ever since our separation we’ve been tense. What has changed? He does not call me by my nickname: Liet, his voice is one of a soldier’s, and his seriousness has polluted his brain. My mind is in chaos, screaming to the world, “This is not Poland!”
“Why Vilnius?” I ask, though I very well know the answer.
“It’s mine,” he simply replies. “It’s no fair Russia gave you what he stole from me. Aren’t you loved?”
I cringe in fear of that name. “I’m not. Stop it Poland. Please,”
“And give up this wonderful piece of land? No way! Plus, he won’t be happy.”
I shiver as cold rushes through my veins every time he utters a word.
He notices something and mocks, “It’s not like I dislike you. I mean you were great to me long ago. But now…”
He chuckles and then turns his back on me to walk away. His men had finished the job, while my men are cowering in fright of what is to happen next. My vision is now red in anger. Why had he laughed and walked away in the middle of his sentence?
I grasp my gun and set it in position to shoot, only to be blind to Poland’s stealth. By the time I almost pull the trigger, a gun is pointed at the top of my forehead. I gawk as he grabs and throws my gun off to the side. His smirk looks down on me.
I hear the wails of my people and the cheers of his.
My terrified brain cannot comprehend this abrupt movement.
His eyes say a million things.
He says only one.
“Lietuva, you’re done,”
Polska: "Poland" in Polish, Litwa: "Lithuania" in Polish, Lietuva: "Lithuania" in Lithuanian for people who don't get it.
Re: Microfill
anonymous
October 25 2010, 13:27:12 UTC
LietPol is one of my OTPs and I loved this fill. And not only because Poland is for once NOT a shopping loving transvestite with a brain of a thirteen year old schoolgirl.
I see hundreds of men fleeing for their sacred lives, far, far away from the Polish. I stand in the center of the crowd, blockading that little space I stand, mesmerized by that one, Poland. He seems to be an entirely different person. His face is only the surface of the true feelings inside. His prided shoulder-long blonde hair bobs with the wind and accompanies the sparks of light seeping through the gray clouds, appearing of gold silk. His eyes are both a blue, firing flame and an ice cold, hallow cave. His uniform, which would appear normal to the passerby, are overpowering, majestic as he emitted confidence. Though he isn’t smiling, his stoic expression is overwhelming to my simplicity.
I can only inhale short-filled breaths. I haven’t seen Poland for the longest time, but now that I do, I gaze upon a country given by God.
I should not be thinking this. I am losing terribly as anyone can tell. Perhaps it’s the winning sensation that Poland is so wonderfully beautiful.
It reminds me of the first time we had met. That time we had promised to be together forever, to protect and support one another in time of peril. Look what God has done to us now.
Now it is time for my judgment, so I shall make my final move.
“Polska,” The foreign word rolls off my tongue like water.
His eyes shift and stare squarely at me. “Litwa,”
My hand trembles. It’s been years since I’ve talked one-on-one with Poland; ever since our separation we’ve been tense. What has changed? He does not call me by my nickname: Liet, his voice is one of a soldier’s, and his seriousness has polluted his brain. My mind is in chaos, screaming to the world, “This is not Poland!”
“Why Vilnius?” I ask, though I very well know the answer.
“It’s mine,” he simply replies. “It’s no fair Russia gave you what he stole from me. Aren’t you loved?”
I cringe in fear of that name. “I’m not. Stop it Poland. Please,”
“And give up this wonderful piece of land? No way! Plus, he won’t be happy.”
I shiver as cold rushes through my veins every time he utters a word.
He notices something and mocks, “It’s not like I dislike you. I mean you were great to me long ago. But now…”
He chuckles and then turns his back on me to walk away. His men had finished the job, while my men are cowering in fright of what is to happen next. My vision is now red in anger. Why had he laughed and walked away in the middle of his sentence?
I grasp my gun and set it in position to shoot, only to be blind to Poland’s stealth. By the time I almost pull the trigger, a gun is pointed at the top of my forehead. I gawk as he grabs and throws my gun off to the side. His smirk looks down on me.
I hear the wails of my people and the cheers of his.
My terrified brain cannot comprehend this abrupt movement.
His eyes say a million things.
He says only one.
“Lietuva, you’re done,”
Polska: "Poland" in Polish, Litwa: "Lithuania" in Polish, Lietuva: "Lithuania" in Lithuanian for people who don't get it.
Be right back. Jumping off a cliff.
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