First Speech
[The Major couldn't help his smile. Even after his sight had completely failed him, he could still feel the licks of the fire on his face as he burnt to death. It had been a good war, a very good war, and he hardly had any regrets.
And then the heat of the flames evaporated, and he could feel his body again. He could open his eyes again, and found himself looking up at the bare, bright white ceiling of the bedroom in. Was this death? A simple bedroom, shared with a woman he had never met and-
He had to confirm that. Huh. Yes. Well this was amusing. Slowly, attempting not to wake the woman beside him, the Major rose from the bed, exploring the room and, further, the house, as best he could.
It wasn't hard to recognize the time period he was in. He had, after all, lived through the fifties, when he and his comrades had been forced into hiding as they awaited the day they could march again against their enemies. It also wasn't long when he noticed the noise coming from the phone.
He just smiled for a moment, going over to the cupboards of the kitchen and, after digging around, preparing a kettle of coffee to heat on the oven before moving towards the phone.]
[The voice coming over the phone is smothered in a thick German accent, although it isn't unpleasant. The man sounds cheery as he speaks, and there's the occasional soft twang of the phone cord as the man wraps it around his finger.]
If there is a Hell, I should suppose this is always what I had expected it should look like. No time, or place, so highlighted the idea of pointless mediocrity and a failed mirage of perfection as 50s era America.
I wonder, what sins might my fellow damned have possibly committed that they should be so punished as to be left here?
And then the heat of the flames evaporated, and he could feel his body again. He could open his eyes again, and found himself looking up at the bare, bright white ceiling of the bedroom in. Was this death? A simple bedroom, shared with a woman he had never met and-
He had to confirm that. Huh. Yes. Well this was amusing. Slowly, attempting not to wake the woman beside him, the Major rose from the bed, exploring the room and, further, the house, as best he could.
It wasn't hard to recognize the time period he was in. He had, after all, lived through the fifties, when he and his comrades had been forced into hiding as they awaited the day they could march again against their enemies. It also wasn't long when he noticed the noise coming from the phone.
He just smiled for a moment, going over to the cupboards of the kitchen and, after digging around, preparing a kettle of coffee to heat on the oven before moving towards the phone.]
[The voice coming over the phone is smothered in a thick German accent, although it isn't unpleasant. The man sounds cheery as he speaks, and there's the occasional soft twang of the phone cord as the man wraps it around his finger.]
If there is a Hell, I should suppose this is always what I had expected it should look like. No time, or place, so highlighted the idea of pointless mediocrity and a failed mirage of perfection as 50s era America.
I wonder, what sins might my fellow damned have possibly committed that they should be so punished as to be left here?