Dying.

Albert Vogel -- 1944

Dying.
Albert. H. R. Vogel--1944

 

And then there was fire.

Fire bled from him; fell from his eyes, slid from his mouth.

It dripped from his very pores.

 

The force of the blast threw him easily and drove him into the ground.  He felt as though his bones had suddenly become shards of glass for is seemed as though everything had been jolted from its place within him and the razor edges were driven into his skin.  He tried to shout, but nothing came out, only closed his eyes and plunged into blackness.  Six minutes until irreparable damage.

 

6…

He was falling, the pull of gravity centered just below his shoulder blades, a slight pull dragging him ever deeper into the bottomless abyss that had opened up beneath him.  There seemed to be a sudden heaviness that had placed itself upon his chest; a slight tightness that spread itself across his front originating in the cracks of his deformed sternum.  It slowly seeped its fingers into his lungs and took a firm hold upon his airways and started to choke him as he slipped below the impenetrable black around him.

 

5…

The burning sensation upon his left side slowly grew more intense the deeper he sank, but then in an instant was abruptly cut away.  Something pounded upon his being, upon his head and chest.  Each blow transformed itself into a rhythmic cadence of percussion that slowly faded away into a harsh ringing within his eardrums.  It was twisted and malformed.  Each beat created a new wave of warmth that bore itself into him and penetrated deep under his flesh leaving his senses dulled and numbed, coddled into oblivion by this enchanting and disgusting tempo.

 

4…

Red.  Red forced itself into his vision like some great lumbering beast, dragging its great self over him, to overpower and overbear the inky blackness.  Red.  It pulsated through his body, caressing and enveloping him like the silky satin sheets of some godforsaken lady of the night.  He was rendered helpless, heat cascaded over him and he had not the will to fight it.

 

3…

He was floating, the heaviness upon his chest was gloriously lifted leaving him with nothing more that a newfound feeling of complete emptiness.  A cold and desolate loneliness delicately crawled up his arms, palms of his hands going clammy as the feeling of utter desertion d an iron grip upon his lonely heart.  He felt the corners of his mouth tug downwards as the red seeped once more into nothingness, devoid of sound, devoid of sight and touch.

 

2…

A blazing flash seared into his skull.  It felt as though his eyes had been plucked from their sockets, the pain pounded around his vision.  The tightness around his heart grew more unbearable as his body went rigid.  So this was it.  This was to be his end.  To lay to rest, tossed away to rot on this cliff he had so fruitlessly helped to defend.  This was to be his end, and what a suiting end: to be killed by a war that he helped start.  There was fear, this was final.  This was his eternity…

 

 

 

 

 

But then he felt it.

A sudden rush came into his body; as though a hand had plunged down into the blackness, through the red and into the white, took hold of him and pulled him back. 

 

1…

 

“Oh God, Albie… please don’t die… not after all this…  Albie, open your eyes…”

 

Reviews

[Aurora Lynn]

A very good chapter! I love the imagry that your writing brings. It truely is beautiful. I especially love the lines 'This was to be his end, and what a suiting end: to be killed by a war that he helped start. There was fear, this was final. This was his eternity…'

I am sorry to say, however, that I cannot accept this for my contest, only because it is a chapter and not a story or a poem. You must understand that the rule must apply to everyone. But if you were to delete this submission and enter anothe rpiece, I would definately consider it.

Thank you for writing.

[R.J. Seoul]

To begin, this piece is beautiful. I love the lines "Something pounded upon his being, upon his head and chest. Each blow transformed itself into a rhythmic cadence of percussion that slowly faded away into a harsh ringing within his eardrums. It was twisted and malformed." The rhythm of these lines matched with the compounding ideas mixed within the paragraph (going from speaking of something pounding on his being to speaking of percussion) results in something beautiful.

I love how you incorporated the senses, think it would be cool if taste was somehow brought into this (though it is not necessary) and am very excited to read the next chapter dealing with Mr. Albert Vogel.