One Hundred Words of Horror
As I promised yesterday, I know deliver you two stories of a hundred words, more or less. They're not all that great. The first one attempts to be gothic in tone while describing horror that is not supernatural in origin. The second is how our digital self lives on through social networking. It was inspired by the wake I attended, as the dead fellow has a Facebook profile.
Artillery
It is slightly below freezing, but the pre-dawn sky is full of fire, flaring up from the ridge as our guns pour shells like water into the German positions.
The guns stop. Not suddenly, but as the rain ends - losing intensity, as a solid roar dissolves into its component calibres. Five inches, eighteen pounds, that rail gun at Hussey, twenty miles back.
I look out over No Man's Land, a scoured morass of skeletal fingers, once trees; and broken bits of men. It seems so mundane now, now that it is quiet. The artillery is shifting to new targets.
Again the iron throats of the guns scream their message of death.
Ghost in the Machine
I first met you a week after you died, and you told me everything about yourself. I learned that you loved beach parties and that your favorite band was the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I was there, behind the camera, when you and your friends, drinks in hand, celebrated your weekly random drunkathon. You had such beautiful blonde hair, oversaturated by a flash from arm's length.
I laughed at your sense of humour, that you had photo tagged the bong, just in case an employer didn't recognize it. I'll post on you wall about how much Imisssyouuuuu :(.
You lived on through your Facebook profile.
Artillery
It is slightly below freezing, but the pre-dawn sky is full of fire, flaring up from the ridge as our guns pour shells like water into the German positions.
The guns stop. Not suddenly, but as the rain ends - losing intensity, as a solid roar dissolves into its component calibres. Five inches, eighteen pounds, that rail gun at Hussey, twenty miles back.
I look out over No Man's Land, a scoured morass of skeletal fingers, once trees; and broken bits of men. It seems so mundane now, now that it is quiet. The artillery is shifting to new targets.
Again the iron throats of the guns scream their message of death.
Ghost in the Machine
I first met you a week after you died, and you told me everything about yourself. I learned that you loved beach parties and that your favorite band was the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I was there, behind the camera, when you and your friends, drinks in hand, celebrated your weekly random drunkathon. You had such beautiful blonde hair, oversaturated by a flash from arm's length.
I laughed at your sense of humour, that you had photo tagged the bong, just in case an employer didn't recognize it. I'll post on you wall about how much Imisssyouuuuu :(.
You lived on through your Facebook profile.