Only Speaking for the Dead

Morgue

“No.”
He’d said the word of denial so much in the past two days, it had lost meaning. Yet he’d forgotten what other words sounded like. He’d didn’t want to speak again as to speak was to imply that everything was right with the world, that something as normal as conversation could occur.
“Please, this is important to our inquiry.”
His hands shook on the metal table. It was ice cold, his fingers numbing as he clenched down. He nodded and the sheet was removed. He didn’t want to look and yet his eyes were not his to control anymore. He looked over her, so small and vulnerable where she was laid.
Words did not want to come to him again. Breathing seemed too wrong to do now where she couldn’t.
He nodded again.
“Sir, for the tape please.”
“Yes,” he heard someone say (it had to be him didn’t it?) “that’s my daughter…she’s dead.”

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The Song of the Stork- review

Synopsis: Fifteen year-old Yael is on the run. The Jewish girl seeks shelter from the Germans on the farm of the village outcast. Aleksei is mute and solitary, but as the brutal winter advances, he reluctantly takes her in and a delicate relationship develops.

As her feelings towards Aleksei change, the war intrudes and Yael is forced to join a Jewish partisan group fighting in the woods.

Torn apart and fighting for her life, The Song of the Stork is Yael’s story of love, hope and survival. It is the story of one woman finding a voice as the voices around her are extinguished.

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Review: This book is an amazingly beautiful especially in displaying the bleakness of humanity. A lot of this book is spent talking about what is left of humanity when hope is gone and how evil anyone can become and this book never lets you forget how horrible the world is. It also creates incredicbly real, reable characters that truly drives the story. It isn’t a book of happy endings and romance, it is a book of harsh realities and this is what makes it so good.

I would recommend this book to anyone who can read and please tell me your own thoughts on the Song of the Stork.

Helpless (400 words or less)

He was dying, drowning in his own blood. The little princess floated over him, watching the brown skin turn sickly yellow.

No.

She was young, always would be young and stubborn. He couldn’t die because she demanded it. She tried to scream at him. To get up, to run. Even if anyone could hear the ghost, her screams would have been drowned out on the battle field. An armoured foot crushed him further into the ground. She screamed once more, now in furious and send out her hand, her fingers spalde. The man flew into the air, her webs cutting through his armour and flesh like butter. She didn’t wait to see his fall, once again at His side. she screamed again, what else could she do. Only her destructive webs could touch the living. Still she hammered down on his chest, her tiny fists disappearing into his chest. She didn’t stop even when the battle ceased and his body was dragged away. Only when her hands fist solidly against him, did she stop and wail a final time.

Not Today

Shylock clutched his chest, jagged heaving breathes pulling at the metal shard that was needling its way into his flesh. He pulled at it, but only hissed when he cut own hands on the sharp metal. He looked up, eyes burning with hot tears as he stumbled backwards away from the Leader, who continued to walk forward sleekly, barely batting an eye at what he had done to the boy. Shylock groaned, a gurgling noise, rather than words as the shard caused more pain than he thought possible, in places he never imagined would see the light of day, let alone the end of wielded metal. His left leg bolted backwards and he hissed trying to kept them both still, under the pressure of keeping his body up. If fell he would surely die. He looked down at the stab wound helpless, the blood seeping into his orange prison jumpsuit. his hands helpless waved around, wanting to put pressure on the wound while simultaneously not wanting to cause himself anymore pain. he was going to die. he wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

“Kneel.”

the single word made him stiffened. no. he couldn’t fall now, not when the leader was expecting it. if he died on his feet, in pain and torture by the Leader he’d still die happy. He tried to keep his eyes staring without fear into the Leader’s clear unseeing ones but with a lazy flick of his hand, the Leader sent another plate of the prison grating at Shylock, the piece knocking his head backwards. his skin unbearable hot as it was rub raw and split open. When it shuddered and clanked to the concrete floor and he once again found himself stumbled like a drunkard to keep himself on his feet.  the Leader held his wielding hand in front of him, twisting more of his element like butter, rolling a newly forming shard in the air in front of him. Shylock clenched his teeth and his body, but the ice cold pain that cut through his leg still caught him off guard. he screamed, choking on his sorrow as his voice broke like he was a child again. the grey floor was splattered in small drops of red around his feet. he bend forward, staring, unfocused at his own blood. he could feel the earth calling to him, wanting him to join it, sink into his own element away from all this metal.

“Kneel and I’ll end this.”

He screamed, but in rage at the mock kindness and reached down, making the pull the earth and its heavenly song and pulled it towards him. The ground now had rivers of his blood as it cracked sending the them cascading like waterfalls. The smallest flecks of dirt grasped at the cracks as they struggled to pull themselves up. The Leader must have now realised what he was doing, must be readying whatever he wished to send at Shylock next, but he kept his gazed on the bloodied floor and slowly climbing earth and roots. His legs trembled beneath him, burning, pleading for rest. But he would not stoop for the Leader; for Fenrir, for the resistance he would not kneel. The concrete cracked and scraped as it was pushed aside by thick green tentacles of forest matter that had been buried deep below to make way for the prison. They rose tall, towering over the Leader, diving upon him, swatting his shards away with feeble clunks against their might. They hissed and fluttered around each other only barely following their target around as they could only be slightly nudged by Shylock in his weakness. But the Leader had already turned tail, something he could have laughed at but instead he sloped down to knees before slowly collapsing sideways, the snake like branches falling dead and scattered back into the pieces of dust they were to be blown away on a light breeze.

Inspired by Daily Post prompt: Resist.