A Short Story : A Story?

We all heard the disquieting crunch, off in the far distance. For a few seconds, we remained still, sinking deeper into the mud, anticipating another sound to calm our nerves. Instead, a fraudulent silence followed. General Loft's reaction was delayed; his hand shot up immediately as he remembered his position. Hurriedly, he waved us down. For a second he starred hard into the dense green jungle, trying to pierce through it with his eyes. Ours were focused on his right hand, awaiting further instructions. His eyes widened, with fear and urgency he turned to face us. His mouth opened, but all we could hear was a neat and tidy screech, travelling through the sharp leaves. Blood exploded out of Loft's neck as the bullet made impact. His fall to

No shot rang through the trees. No pain pierced his flesh. He was whole. Slowly, he began to lower his arms. The gun lay on the ground by Mr Laing’s side, his eyes wide with shock.

Nine-thirty a.m. became forever branded in Simone's mind because while the knock commanded most of her attention, she still managed to shift her eyes from the African mahogany entry door to the chrome-plated clock hanging on the dining room wall. Vividly, she recalled how that knock made her jump as the sound vibrated through her chest, reminding her of the remarkable blast heard coming from a huge cannon during a reenactment of the Battle of Gettysburg. It brought with it the force of thunder, crackling through the silence of an otherwise uneventful morning.

The year was 1815 on a cold night. We had arrived at the bay of the New Orleans port. Straight ahead was a marshy land, the darkness overtaking it. Our boats hit land and we jumped on the mushy dirt. We pushed up through the darkness; then as we moved up a little more, an explosion of light came from ahead. A man dropped, and let out a loud yell. Then a light that could match the sun’s came from atop a large mound of dirt. A cracking sound flew by my head. I turned the man over and realized he had stopped breathing, and his bleeding halted. he had been shot. As we pushed toward the breastworks, men would peek up and take a shot, most hitting with extraordinary accuracy. For every shot they took, we lost one of our own.

All at once, there was the loud, ear-splitting crack of a gunshot. Pain ripped through Emmanuel's right shoulder. He screamed. His hand reached towards the fresh, bleeding wound. He felt a warm sticky substance: blood.

Jasmine was a new introverted girl who recently moved to Greenville. She’s still trying to get used to the new town. Tomorrow is her first day at the University of Greenville. She arrived at school on schedule and but as she was hustling to her first class, she dropped her roster along with her application papers. A guy, who wore all black, pitch black silk shirt and black trousers helped her pick up the papers. “Hey, aren’t you Jasmine?” the guy uttered. Jasmine replied “Uh...yes” as she gaped openly and observed his thick black hair, flawless skin, great height and that sharp jaw. Moreover, she had to admit he was an attractive man. “I’m Aaron, from Alisha’s wedding, remember?” the guy said as his fingers ran through his short hair, which shifted back into place once his hand gone past. Jasmine recalled that day, his shiny pitch black hair, which glistened on that wedding night. She thought he was the men of any girl’s dream. This was a guy should could love for eternity. “Oh, yeah”, Jasmine answered as she snapped out of her thoughts. Aaron asked “If you need any help, I can show you around”. Notwithstanding, Jasmine said “You're going to be late for class, it’s alright” and quickly left.

Of course she would make him do this, she would make him go to an amusement park for the second time since they had gotten together even though he was deathly afraid of any form of mechanical ride. She dragged him to that park with her on one of the sunniest days in June, at least in her opinion.

I wake up to the sound of pounding steps running down the hallway. I get up, opening the door as I rub my eyes. "What's going on?" I mumble yawning from exhaustion. "Eliza!" A small voice calls out to me from downstairs. Suddenly I'm being pulled by the small boy through the hall.

The dawning of sunlight hit the half's face faster than desired, nor anticipated. Jazz threw her pillow at her little brother's face. Instinctively, the halfa shot up and stood up in a defensive stance. Realizing it was not a ghost, he relaxed.

He places the rag back in my mouth and the fire starts again. This time, I don’t scream. I bite down, groaning. It only lasts a few seconds before it stops and the cooling wet rag is pressing into my wound. It's very welcomed compared to the vodka. I spit the rag out. “You done yet?”

Bruce woke with a start, feeling a warm comforting embrace he hadn’t felt in a couple hours. His groggy mind caused the images around him to be blurred, so he forcefully rubbed his eyes in an attempt to help clear his vision.

‘Oh, well, I don’t know...’ Then she reached inside the bag and popped a toffee in her mouth. After all, a sugary treat during wartime was a rare occurrence indeed.

The stream was calm, fresh morning dew on the ground, the smell of sweat flowers in the air, and the smell of the flour on the other side of the river. My friend, Jason, and I, Marisa were walking to my Uncle Lidtke’s mill across the bridge. We would walk there every Saturday to watch the workers and my uncle would make us a great meal with bread that was made from the flour from the mill.

Turning over in bed, I blinked sleepily at the clock next to me. It read 2:37 am. I stumbled out of bed and made my way towards my bedroom door. The sound of squeaking hinges could be heard as I slowly pulled open the door. My footsteps were drowned out by the sound of a voice coming from down the hall. A faint light was coming from the small gap beneath my brother’s door. Being the curious nine year old little girl I was, I turned and started walking towards my brother’s room. I felt both nervous and confused due to the fact that it was so early in the morning. The voice grew louder with every hearting racing step I took. My throat grew tighter as I reached for the silver doorknob. The door squeaked as I pushed it open, just enough to poke my head in and see who he was talking to. I saw my brother sitting there, alone, talking to noone but himself. I could see his phone on the dresser next to the bed. I began to question many things in my head.

“Yoongi, please, unlock the door.” The blond heard a voice, possibly Jin’s, call from outside, but there were too many thoughts swirling around his head to pay much attention. Yoongi sat against the tiled bathroom wall with his legs pulled up to his chest and his forehead resting on his knees, attempting to steady his breathing and slow the pounding in his chest. How he got this way, he wasn’t sure; he’d been examining himself in the mirror and then oh god. At some point he’d stumbled to and locked the door before backing himself against the far wall.