This whole thing started with a character I stumbled upon in a role play. Needless to say the role play was unsuccessful in catching anyone's attention, but this one character caught mine. It took place in 1969 -Woodstock. This particular young man had been drafted to serve in the Vietnam War. Needless to say, like many others, he was deeply affected by it. And, soon after he returned home, he took off for Woodstock. Yadda yadda. That's not important. The character is.
So bear with me if it's crappy or seems like it's going nowhere in particular. Remember, it's not finished.
Rating: Whatever. If you can read it and understand it, then it's for you.
Criticism: Sure, whatever. Gimme' some constructive s**t -make sure you know what you're talking about though.
Or I'll kick your a**.
So bear with me if it's crappy or seems like it's going nowhere in particular. Remember, it's not finished.
Rating: Whatever. If you can read it and understand it, then it's for you.
Criticism: Sure, whatever. Gimme' some constructive s**t -make sure you know what you're talking about though.
Or I'll kick your a**.
”Blow the commie VC away--you idiot!” Some forgotten, hard-a** sergeant screamed. “Lock and load, ready on the right, ready on the left, ready on the firing line!”
It was a dark, starless night and the sky wept endlessly, its thick tears plummeting to the Earth below and flooding it in its grief. A young male, no younger than sixteen and no older than seventeen, lay belly-down in the midst of a thick shrubbery. The steel pot helmet that he wore was too large and slumped lazily to the side; even the uniform he wore didn’t seem to fit. It wasn’t meant for someone his size, after all. It was supposed to be for men, not young boys who hadn’t even had the pleasure of touching a woman or seeing a skin flick. The boy gurgled, letting his head fall forward slightly, only to jerk it back up as he was met with a slick mud. He was exhausted: physically and mentally and emotionally. The gun in his grasp was slick and heavy.
The others that had perched themselves nearby were silent as the grave. They were all nervous and frightened and anxious for what was to come. Yards ahead, the shouts of the enemy sounded in their strange tongues and their weapons boomed through the sounds of the rain and thunder. This was what Death sounded like. But what would it look like? Most would see Him as a cloaked figure with a scythe. The boy and the others saw Him as a man with a gun, or a child with a basket, or a sobbing old woman sitting alongside the road. Death was everything and everyone. Not even a brother-in-arms was safe from His deadly touch.
There was a loud bang, this one closer than the other, and the hard-a** sergeant fell. His body crumpled there on the hilltop and then toppled down to rest at the bottom. The man’s blood was carried through the rainwater that oozed along the Earth and, in turn, kissed the soggy boots of each soldier. Panic swept through the line but order was kept and the fire was returned. Brash words and curses were shouted, though most were drowned by the sound of gunfire and the sound of Death.
The young boy screamed into the mud and muck below, his weary eyes clenched tight, and his face scrunched with the anger and the fear that ran so rampant. Looking up, he wiggled and crawled his way further to the top –slipping numerous times. There was no running away. There was no shouting for mama or for Gawd above. There was gunfire and the rain and the endless curses and groans of those around.
“Hagan! Hagan lie low! Lie low you son of a bi---“
Billie Hagan awoke with a loud gasp and sat upright from his place on the floor. Sweat poured down the contours of his face and traced down the skin of his chest. His breath came in loud, rapid gasps and grunts –which his chest only accented with each heavy and labored rise and fall. Bright brown eyes scanned the surroundings, as if he had forgotten where he was. As things slowly fell into place, as the field slowly dissipated, he released a long breath. The others were asleep. Then again, it was far too early. The sun hadn’t even begun its steep climb into the sky above. Though the sleep felt as if it had lasted hours, it had only lasted half of one. The young male moistened his bottom lip with a dried tongue and ran a chill hand through sweat-matted locks of brown.
This was why he had the sleeping pills. But this was also why he never took them. If he took them, sure they would help him sleep, but they would also take him back to the front lines and leave him there. That was something he just could not take. Billie hunched forward and let his sweat drenched forehead fall into his cold palms. A quaking breath left his parched lips and he tipped his head slightly to peek out beyond the tips of his fingers. Through the darkness, he could hear the steady stream of breathing from the others. A part of him hated them for being able to sleep as soundly as they did and for being as naïve as they were; but, for the most part, he found comfort and joy with them. Once upon a time, they had all been ghosts to one another. Scattered across the country, it was Fate that brought them all together. Well, in all reality it was the legend of Woodstock that brought them all together, but it was Fate that they managed to find one another.
Being as quiet as he possibly could, little Billie Hagan moved to his feet and made a careful exit from the bus. The desert air, which was dry during the day, now held the essence of moisture and sent an army of goose pimples marching up and down his skin. In response to this, Billie shivered and drew his arms across his bared chest. Being so late, there was only one thing he could really do. He moved back into the bus but soon returned back to the open, an old flannel shirt in one hand and a small tin container in the other. The tin container was pinned between his thighs and he quickly wiggled into the flannel. He didn’t bother to button it. Not right yet anyway. Holding the container in one hand, the male carefully scaled the body of the bus until he landed on the roof. He sat Indian-style near the back end and placed the container in his lap. The lid was opened and a familiar smell wafted to his senses. A wary, unsure grin tugged at the corners of his mouth and he dutifully began to roll himself a tidy little joint –oh, how far he had fallen. Now, just him, the moon, and a joint, Billie smoked far into the day.
By noon, the male was stretched out along the roof. One arm was folded behind his head, creating a makeshift pillow, while the other coiled over the exposed skin of his face to shield it from the sun. The tin container sat beside him faithfully, though now completely void of contents –except for a few seeds and stems here and there. He had not gone back to sleep yet, though he had slipped off into a mindless daze. Nothing but his high existed and that was just fine.
It was some time later that he finally came to his senses. Sitting upright slightly and using his elbows as support, Billie cocked his head to the side and silently listened as the others moved around the inside of the bus. He wondered how long they had been awake, though he knew it couldn’t have been too long. After a night like last night, it was only obvious that the peculiar group would sleep in to their hearts’ content. Sitting upright completely, the male released a loud groan. His body was stiff and his skin ached from the searing sun above –he would be lucky if he didn’t get a burn. With an inaudible mumble, Billie took the tin container and slowly climbed down from the roof. He walked alongside the bus, a slight limp in his walk (which was a normal thing) and then finally clambered on inside the dull green van.
It was Maxine who caught his eye first. The flirtatious little red head was partially bent over the cluttered counter, a bruised apple in one hand and a partially smoked doobie in the other. Her hips swayed in time with a nonsensical tune that only she knew. When it came time for her to take another bite, Maxine took a small hit and then let the smoke billow from her mouth as she chewed the apple mush. It would have been quite a sight for any stranger, but for Billie Hagan it was the norm. . . .
It was a dark, starless night and the sky wept endlessly, its thick tears plummeting to the Earth below and flooding it in its grief. A young male, no younger than sixteen and no older than seventeen, lay belly-down in the midst of a thick shrubbery. The steel pot helmet that he wore was too large and slumped lazily to the side; even the uniform he wore didn’t seem to fit. It wasn’t meant for someone his size, after all. It was supposed to be for men, not young boys who hadn’t even had the pleasure of touching a woman or seeing a skin flick. The boy gurgled, letting his head fall forward slightly, only to jerk it back up as he was met with a slick mud. He was exhausted: physically and mentally and emotionally. The gun in his grasp was slick and heavy.
The others that had perched themselves nearby were silent as the grave. They were all nervous and frightened and anxious for what was to come. Yards ahead, the shouts of the enemy sounded in their strange tongues and their weapons boomed through the sounds of the rain and thunder. This was what Death sounded like. But what would it look like? Most would see Him as a cloaked figure with a scythe. The boy and the others saw Him as a man with a gun, or a child with a basket, or a sobbing old woman sitting alongside the road. Death was everything and everyone. Not even a brother-in-arms was safe from His deadly touch.
There was a loud bang, this one closer than the other, and the hard-a** sergeant fell. His body crumpled there on the hilltop and then toppled down to rest at the bottom. The man’s blood was carried through the rainwater that oozed along the Earth and, in turn, kissed the soggy boots of each soldier. Panic swept through the line but order was kept and the fire was returned. Brash words and curses were shouted, though most were drowned by the sound of gunfire and the sound of Death.
The young boy screamed into the mud and muck below, his weary eyes clenched tight, and his face scrunched with the anger and the fear that ran so rampant. Looking up, he wiggled and crawled his way further to the top –slipping numerous times. There was no running away. There was no shouting for mama or for Gawd above. There was gunfire and the rain and the endless curses and groans of those around.
“Hagan! Hagan lie low! Lie low you son of a bi---“
Billie Hagan awoke with a loud gasp and sat upright from his place on the floor. Sweat poured down the contours of his face and traced down the skin of his chest. His breath came in loud, rapid gasps and grunts –which his chest only accented with each heavy and labored rise and fall. Bright brown eyes scanned the surroundings, as if he had forgotten where he was. As things slowly fell into place, as the field slowly dissipated, he released a long breath. The others were asleep. Then again, it was far too early. The sun hadn’t even begun its steep climb into the sky above. Though the sleep felt as if it had lasted hours, it had only lasted half of one. The young male moistened his bottom lip with a dried tongue and ran a chill hand through sweat-matted locks of brown.
This was why he had the sleeping pills. But this was also why he never took them. If he took them, sure they would help him sleep, but they would also take him back to the front lines and leave him there. That was something he just could not take. Billie hunched forward and let his sweat drenched forehead fall into his cold palms. A quaking breath left his parched lips and he tipped his head slightly to peek out beyond the tips of his fingers. Through the darkness, he could hear the steady stream of breathing from the others. A part of him hated them for being able to sleep as soundly as they did and for being as naïve as they were; but, for the most part, he found comfort and joy with them. Once upon a time, they had all been ghosts to one another. Scattered across the country, it was Fate that brought them all together. Well, in all reality it was the legend of Woodstock that brought them all together, but it was Fate that they managed to find one another.
Being as quiet as he possibly could, little Billie Hagan moved to his feet and made a careful exit from the bus. The desert air, which was dry during the day, now held the essence of moisture and sent an army of goose pimples marching up and down his skin. In response to this, Billie shivered and drew his arms across his bared chest. Being so late, there was only one thing he could really do. He moved back into the bus but soon returned back to the open, an old flannel shirt in one hand and a small tin container in the other. The tin container was pinned between his thighs and he quickly wiggled into the flannel. He didn’t bother to button it. Not right yet anyway. Holding the container in one hand, the male carefully scaled the body of the bus until he landed on the roof. He sat Indian-style near the back end and placed the container in his lap. The lid was opened and a familiar smell wafted to his senses. A wary, unsure grin tugged at the corners of his mouth and he dutifully began to roll himself a tidy little joint –oh, how far he had fallen. Now, just him, the moon, and a joint, Billie smoked far into the day.
By noon, the male was stretched out along the roof. One arm was folded behind his head, creating a makeshift pillow, while the other coiled over the exposed skin of his face to shield it from the sun. The tin container sat beside him faithfully, though now completely void of contents –except for a few seeds and stems here and there. He had not gone back to sleep yet, though he had slipped off into a mindless daze. Nothing but his high existed and that was just fine.
It was some time later that he finally came to his senses. Sitting upright slightly and using his elbows as support, Billie cocked his head to the side and silently listened as the others moved around the inside of the bus. He wondered how long they had been awake, though he knew it couldn’t have been too long. After a night like last night, it was only obvious that the peculiar group would sleep in to their hearts’ content. Sitting upright completely, the male released a loud groan. His body was stiff and his skin ached from the searing sun above –he would be lucky if he didn’t get a burn. With an inaudible mumble, Billie took the tin container and slowly climbed down from the roof. He walked alongside the bus, a slight limp in his walk (which was a normal thing) and then finally clambered on inside the dull green van.
It was Maxine who caught his eye first. The flirtatious little red head was partially bent over the cluttered counter, a bruised apple in one hand and a partially smoked doobie in the other. Her hips swayed in time with a nonsensical tune that only she knew. When it came time for her to take another bite, Maxine took a small hit and then let the smoke billow from her mouth as she chewed the apple mush. It would have been quite a sight for any stranger, but for Billie Hagan it was the norm. . . .
To be continued.
Obviously.
