|1.||Cigarette butt (Original Short Story)||Read it Now|
|2.||Rain (English Experimental Creative Writing)||See below|
|3.||Vietnamerica (Insightful and well written...apparently??)||Read it Now|
|Rain (English Experimental Creative Writing)|
|"Goddamn rain" Grimaces Desola in his slow, melodically gravelly voice. He frowns out at it. Furrowing his pebbledashed brow and setting his profound hazel windows of eyes out to a point in the distance. The landscape visible through the rain is bleak and featureless. Only one tree protrudes from the ground as a sprained limb might. Some of its eves dipping miserably into the sodden green carpet of grass.|
He grinds his teeth against the depressive scene as a big drop of water rolls off the netting and splashes into the grass, spitting water in his face. He frowns up at the netting and shrugs. He turns back away from the rain.
Another drop of rain slaps off his helmet with a metallic ding. Desola frowns and looks up to the netting again. His helmet knocks itself against his neck, he pushes if off his head and wipes the water off his shaven scalp.
"Remind me what this net's for" he says, bored,
"Mozzies" grunts Anderson without looking up,
"What mozzies?" Desola enquires again "I don't see no mozzies" He leans foreward and cocks his head sideways and says in a sarcastic tone "Does it stop bullets?" Anderson looks up and grins,
"Nossir it does not stop bullets!" he says, chuckling,
"Nossir" repeats Desola, and, deadpan, shakes his head. A smile flickers across his face and he leans back.
There is a muffled crack, barely audiable through the maddening patter, Anderson swivels.
"Was that thunder?" a loud group of cracks breaks out, each holds a different beat,
"No" whispers Desola, sliding the catch of his rifle off 'safe'.
Both men sit crouched in the dripping netting as the carcophony slowly dies out with a few last cracks.
A figure splashes through the saturated, boggy grass. He waves his arms, "Neuez didn't make it!" he yells, the two exchange glances "Detsky and Pablo ate it on the ridge!"
Anderson quickly and methodically loads an ammunition belt into his mechine gun with a series of metallic yelps. He glares back at the rain bearing his teeth,
"I'm gonna go get some" he says quietly to himself.
The rain patters on the netting in a relentless drumming. Continually drumming as the patter of gunfire slowly dies away once more.
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