Fiction: All the Good Soldiers
Jan. 13th, 2007 10:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jhameiaTitle: All The Good Soldiers (tentative - any ideas?)
Genre: Displaced historical, fantasy, character study.
Theme: War, loss, gender.
Comments: Okay, here's the first confession: This is a piece to be workshopped in my Writing Fiction class next week. It's due Tuesday, and it will be subject to revision for the final portfolio bit.
I've been having trouble coming up with GOOD short fiction, to be honest. Most of my ideas are extremely epic and require pages unto pages of written stuff, and that doesn't make it very good. I've been reading way too much non-fiction to get a hold of fiction these days, and while I have great ideas at times, they don't work so well on paper / in text.
You may catch glimpses of the Iliad and Cave of the Golden Rose here.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
castusalbuscor and nova_one might recognize certain Twelfth Night-esque ideas in here, too. In fact, those were the things I was thinking of while doing the initial drafts. It's been a frustrating process. Normally it all comes out in one smooth draft, and then I fuck off and come back much later to re-word stuff. I don't have that time in this class, which puts a lot of pressure on me to get it done right the first time, but in effect, leaves me with good bits and pieces and I futilely put them together.
So, finishing this TONIGHT was actually a fluke: I had been napping and while I was slowly waking up, I was thinking of the exact words to use in the text, and I remember thinking, "that doesn't sound half bad" and of course, by the time I woke up, I only remembered half of it. But the main idea - to begin at the ending - remained, and I thought it was a good way of putting it all together.
It was sundown that the general had named the battle a victorious one, a final one that conquered the territory after a bloody, yet blessedly short, campaign. Amidst the cheering, there were the bodies to lay to rest, and the general was moving among the groups of men helping clear the bodies of both their own and the enemy’s, searching for his companion. Pierocles had been by his side one moment, then disappeared the next. It was the boy’s way – he often ran to where he felt he was needed the most.
The general did not begrudge his young companion that ideal, but there were times he had wished the boy merely stayed close. They had promised never to lose sight of each other, a promise regularly broken in the heat of battle, but always renewed. But otherwise, Pierocles had always been by the general’s side, bringing much cheer to the older man.
One body in particular received attention, with obvious grief and shock in the eyes of his soldiers. A captain he knew well caught sight of him, and turned to him with wide eyes and a finger pointed at the dead body. With a dread in his stomach, the general ran to the fallen soldier’s side, and fell to his knees in grief, cradling the beloved head on his lap.
The face of Pierocles that the general had grown so used to in the few months they had spent together was pale, frozen in the perfect expression of the first words that he had said to the general.
Pierocles had been brought to face the general for stabbing one of his comrades. The offence had hurt no one, the captain told his superior, indeed, Pierocles had a disciplinary record of harmlessly wounding his fellow soldiers. The captain knew that Pierocles was only defending himself, but his reactions caused tensions between the soldiers, most of whom were edgy already. Army rape was not uncommon, and while the captain admired Pierocles’ pluck, the boy had taken it too far by wounding one of the more respected men of his troop.
The general had wondered how Pierocles could even get into the army with that skinny frame and small stature. Pierocles stared at his feet as his superior gave him a critical once-over.
“Look at me.”
Pierocles lifted his face, and as he did, the general glimpsed the process of schooling an expression from nervous discomfort to serene blankness.
“You’re a good actor,” he told Pierocles, who smiled a little in return. “But apparently also a troublemaker.”
The boy’s face dropped meekly. “Sorry, sir,” he said, in a voice too young to be in the army. Barely a man, the jaw line was smooth, and stayed that way throughout the time Pierocles stood by the general’s side.
“How old are you, boy?”
“Too old to stay home, too young to die.”
“You also have a mouth too clever by half.”
That mouth twitched mischievously. “Sorry, sir.”
The same mouth was now too white by half, ever so slightly parted as if in mid-sentence, and the general imagined a regret on those lips as they faded. Pierocles had given freely kisses upon the hand of the general, although he was loathe to exchange them with the other men. The general had said, “we kiss you because you’re such a girl,” meaning it with sincere affection. “It’s no shame to be pretty.”
“Thanks,” Periocles had said while hiding his face in his bowl.
“Come now, you must have a lot of practice with the girls at home.”
The answer was a red blush on Pierocles’ cheeks and ears as he blurted, “I do not!”
The general had laughed then, but he felt sympathy for the girl who must have been waiting for Pierocles, back in his home village, perhaps tending to the farm she was to have become a part of.
A glance down Pierocles’ abdomen reminded the general of how very small he had been, and weak, too. The boy had been so aware of his weakness, he had wrapped a bandage around his torso for added protection in case he should ever receive a blow to the chest. The general had told him it was useless, and a sword made no discrimination between armour with extra padding and armour without, and what mattered was how well the armour was worn.
But Pierocles wore his armour with pride and a neatness that had been rare in others of his troop. In fact, Periocles showed a discipline in keeping things clean and tidy, often distressed if something was out of place. After every battle, he polished his weapons and mended his armour with a fastidiousness that was peculiar, even for a soldier.
“I told you it wouldn’t work,” the general whispered to the dead ears, grief swelling at the sight of the red on the bandage. “I’d warned you so long ago.” And would the warning have mattered? he wondered. All that were left of dead soldiers were dead bodies, and the general recalled too clearly one pathos-filled conversation with Pierocles that made the latter’s distaste for war quite clear.
“Where does it take us?” Pierocles had asked. “At the end of the day, there are still dead soldiers.”
“Closer to honour, lad. Closer to glory.”
“Those are tired clichés that no one can really see or touch. How much closer are we today? How much glory did we collect today? It’s not really like grain. And the land here isn’t worth all that much. All the good soldiers and all the good men, all dead, for dirt?”
“Why are you here, Pierocles?” the general had asked, tired of the angry passion the boy had begun to display.
Pierocles had given the general a half-glare. “My whole family died because of this war. I’ve nowhere else to go.”
And so to the army Pierocles had come, and so in the army Pierocles died. Whoever had killed him had stripped the body of its armour – not that it had done the unfortunate soldier any good – and Periocles lay naked under the red of the setting sun.
“General,” the captain whispered. “General, look.”
The general moved his gaze down the length of Pierocles’ small body, and he startled back, dropping the pale head onto the ground. The mound between the thin legs was unmistakable.
He whipped out a knife and cut the bandages away from the lean torso. All degrees of surprise prickled on his skin and he felt his jaw drop at the sight of the small female body on the ground wearing Pierocles’ face. The gash in the lung was not uncommon of dead bodies, but the squashed breast it lay under was, at least on the battlefield.
The general was quiet for a long while, clenching and unclenching his jaw. He wracked his head for clues that he must have missed – like how irritable Pierocles became once in a while, and how he preferred to relieve himself in privacy. Perhaps how Pierocles grew upset when the men talked about women, and the few occasions the general had caught Pierocles looking at him with a gaze close to hero-worship. But none of these were traits that men wouldn’t ever have, so why would they have been important to note?
In the distance, shouts went up on funeral preparations and the men around Pierocles shuffled their feet, waiting anxiously for the general’s next order. Finally, the general bent down, cradling the body in his arms once again. “You were too young to die. Too young. Why were you here? What was your name?”
The lips remained mute; the eyes stared out of their corners apologetically. The general didn’t need to know what Pierocles had been looking at before death came – he knew himself where he must have been standing as his companion was struck down. “I’m sorry I ever let you leave my side. I wish I had known.”
She was very small, he thought, and very pretty. She would have made a good wife to a deserving man, but she was dead. It was an unnatural way for a woman to die, but then, many things about Pierocles had been unnatural, in a way. He cut a lock of her hair and tucked it away carefully.
“Prepare the body for the funeral.”
“General-”
“We will give due honours to all the soldiers who have served us on this day. There will be no exceptions. Prepare Pierocles’ body for the funeral.”
Genre: Displaced historical, fantasy, character study.
Theme: War, loss, gender.
Comments: Okay, here's the first confession: This is a piece to be workshopped in my Writing Fiction class next week. It's due Tuesday, and it will be subject to revision for the final portfolio bit.
I've been having trouble coming up with GOOD short fiction, to be honest. Most of my ideas are extremely epic and require pages unto pages of written stuff, and that doesn't make it very good. I've been reading way too much non-fiction to get a hold of fiction these days, and while I have great ideas at times, they don't work so well on paper / in text.
You may catch glimpses of the Iliad and Cave of the Golden Rose here.
castusalbuscor and nova_one might recognize certain Twelfth Night-esque ideas in here, too. In fact, those were the things I was thinking of while doing the initial drafts. It's been a frustrating process. Normally it all comes out in one smooth draft, and then I fuck off and come back much later to re-word stuff. I don't have that time in this class, which puts a lot of pressure on me to get it done right the first time, but in effect, leaves me with good bits and pieces and I futilely put them together. So, finishing this TONIGHT was actually a fluke: I had been napping and while I was slowly waking up, I was thinking of the exact words to use in the text, and I remember thinking, "that doesn't sound half bad" and of course, by the time I woke up, I only remembered half of it. But the main idea - to begin at the ending - remained, and I thought it was a good way of putting it all together.
It was sundown that the general had named the battle a victorious one, a final one that conquered the territory after a bloody, yet blessedly short, campaign. Amidst the cheering, there were the bodies to lay to rest, and the general was moving among the groups of men helping clear the bodies of both their own and the enemy’s, searching for his companion. Pierocles had been by his side one moment, then disappeared the next. It was the boy’s way – he often ran to where he felt he was needed the most.
The general did not begrudge his young companion that ideal, but there were times he had wished the boy merely stayed close. They had promised never to lose sight of each other, a promise regularly broken in the heat of battle, but always renewed. But otherwise, Pierocles had always been by the general’s side, bringing much cheer to the older man.
One body in particular received attention, with obvious grief and shock in the eyes of his soldiers. A captain he knew well caught sight of him, and turned to him with wide eyes and a finger pointed at the dead body. With a dread in his stomach, the general ran to the fallen soldier’s side, and fell to his knees in grief, cradling the beloved head on his lap.
The face of Pierocles that the general had grown so used to in the few months they had spent together was pale, frozen in the perfect expression of the first words that he had said to the general.
Pierocles had been brought to face the general for stabbing one of his comrades. The offence had hurt no one, the captain told his superior, indeed, Pierocles had a disciplinary record of harmlessly wounding his fellow soldiers. The captain knew that Pierocles was only defending himself, but his reactions caused tensions between the soldiers, most of whom were edgy already. Army rape was not uncommon, and while the captain admired Pierocles’ pluck, the boy had taken it too far by wounding one of the more respected men of his troop.
The general had wondered how Pierocles could even get into the army with that skinny frame and small stature. Pierocles stared at his feet as his superior gave him a critical once-over.
“Look at me.”
Pierocles lifted his face, and as he did, the general glimpsed the process of schooling an expression from nervous discomfort to serene blankness.
“You’re a good actor,” he told Pierocles, who smiled a little in return. “But apparently also a troublemaker.”
The boy’s face dropped meekly. “Sorry, sir,” he said, in a voice too young to be in the army. Barely a man, the jaw line was smooth, and stayed that way throughout the time Pierocles stood by the general’s side.
“How old are you, boy?”
“Too old to stay home, too young to die.”
“You also have a mouth too clever by half.”
That mouth twitched mischievously. “Sorry, sir.”
The same mouth was now too white by half, ever so slightly parted as if in mid-sentence, and the general imagined a regret on those lips as they faded. Pierocles had given freely kisses upon the hand of the general, although he was loathe to exchange them with the other men. The general had said, “we kiss you because you’re such a girl,” meaning it with sincere affection. “It’s no shame to be pretty.”
“Thanks,” Periocles had said while hiding his face in his bowl.
“Come now, you must have a lot of practice with the girls at home.”
The answer was a red blush on Pierocles’ cheeks and ears as he blurted, “I do not!”
The general had laughed then, but he felt sympathy for the girl who must have been waiting for Pierocles, back in his home village, perhaps tending to the farm she was to have become a part of.
A glance down Pierocles’ abdomen reminded the general of how very small he had been, and weak, too. The boy had been so aware of his weakness, he had wrapped a bandage around his torso for added protection in case he should ever receive a blow to the chest. The general had told him it was useless, and a sword made no discrimination between armour with extra padding and armour without, and what mattered was how well the armour was worn.
But Pierocles wore his armour with pride and a neatness that had been rare in others of his troop. In fact, Periocles showed a discipline in keeping things clean and tidy, often distressed if something was out of place. After every battle, he polished his weapons and mended his armour with a fastidiousness that was peculiar, even for a soldier.
“I told you it wouldn’t work,” the general whispered to the dead ears, grief swelling at the sight of the red on the bandage. “I’d warned you so long ago.” And would the warning have mattered? he wondered. All that were left of dead soldiers were dead bodies, and the general recalled too clearly one pathos-filled conversation with Pierocles that made the latter’s distaste for war quite clear.
“Where does it take us?” Pierocles had asked. “At the end of the day, there are still dead soldiers.”
“Closer to honour, lad. Closer to glory.”
“Those are tired clichés that no one can really see or touch. How much closer are we today? How much glory did we collect today? It’s not really like grain. And the land here isn’t worth all that much. All the good soldiers and all the good men, all dead, for dirt?”
“Why are you here, Pierocles?” the general had asked, tired of the angry passion the boy had begun to display.
Pierocles had given the general a half-glare. “My whole family died because of this war. I’ve nowhere else to go.”
And so to the army Pierocles had come, and so in the army Pierocles died. Whoever had killed him had stripped the body of its armour – not that it had done the unfortunate soldier any good – and Periocles lay naked under the red of the setting sun.
“General,” the captain whispered. “General, look.”
The general moved his gaze down the length of Pierocles’ small body, and he startled back, dropping the pale head onto the ground. The mound between the thin legs was unmistakable.
He whipped out a knife and cut the bandages away from the lean torso. All degrees of surprise prickled on his skin and he felt his jaw drop at the sight of the small female body on the ground wearing Pierocles’ face. The gash in the lung was not uncommon of dead bodies, but the squashed breast it lay under was, at least on the battlefield.
The general was quiet for a long while, clenching and unclenching his jaw. He wracked his head for clues that he must have missed – like how irritable Pierocles became once in a while, and how he preferred to relieve himself in privacy. Perhaps how Pierocles grew upset when the men talked about women, and the few occasions the general had caught Pierocles looking at him with a gaze close to hero-worship. But none of these were traits that men wouldn’t ever have, so why would they have been important to note?
In the distance, shouts went up on funeral preparations and the men around Pierocles shuffled their feet, waiting anxiously for the general’s next order. Finally, the general bent down, cradling the body in his arms once again. “You were too young to die. Too young. Why were you here? What was your name?”
The lips remained mute; the eyes stared out of their corners apologetically. The general didn’t need to know what Pierocles had been looking at before death came – he knew himself where he must have been standing as his companion was struck down. “I’m sorry I ever let you leave my side. I wish I had known.”
She was very small, he thought, and very pretty. She would have made a good wife to a deserving man, but she was dead. It was an unnatural way for a woman to die, but then, many things about Pierocles had been unnatural, in a way. He cut a lock of her hair and tucked it away carefully.
“Prepare the body for the funeral.”
“General-”
“We will give due honours to all the soldiers who have served us on this day. There will be no exceptions. Prepare Pierocles’ body for the funeral.”