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Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

The following is a piece of writing submitted by Frank on February 24, 2010
"We should all pity soldiers and pray for them"

The Worst Job

No, I am not a soldier, technically I am...
But who am I kidding, I have the worst job on earth.
And who can I blame, I signed up for this.
I don't get to sound the trumpet and inspire men for battle, I don't beat the drum at the front, I don't carry off the wounded and whisper words of comfort to them, and I don't even get to fight. But I do kill people.
They gave the job to me and three other losers like me, were the execution squad. No, I don't get the thrill of the battle, I don't get the glory either.
I don't even get a rush.
All I see is the bad stuff, helpless mens last pleading glance as I administer the final bullet. Nothing. They their mouths have stopped, their eyelids have rolled, and the tounge sticks out. But the eyes remain open, the eyes still glare at you, the ghosts don't need to haunt me, that one final stare a dead man gives is enough. I, in all my innocence, didn't want this, but the army did and now I'm in for good.
You see, the camp dosen't always have time or space for prisoners so after each battle me and three other men check for survivors...
And bang...
The end of the whole mess.

"Come on John, were done," he yelled from across the field. It was 1:05 AM. The field was quiet, the long ago screams of the dying were silenced. And now what was left was a figment of the atrocities of what men could do to each other. Blood, he saw alot of blood before.
"Come on John," Thomas yelled again, "Were done!"
"No were not," John replied silently as he cocked the pistol and held it against a wounded mans forehead, "Were never done."
The man looked up at him and did not plead, he did not beg, he did not cry.
He smiled.
It then occurred to John that this was not all about who did terrible things, or whoose side you were on, it was destiny.
After all, he thought feeling light headed, I could be laying there where that man is.
He's still smilling.
Smilling because he's finally going to be at the end of the whole mess.
I'm still wadding waist high.
"John are you comming?" Thomas yelled.
"I said I headed for the end."
"John, just get over here and talk to me,"
"Take care of this man here, let him take my place."
"Stop it." Thomas pleaded, he had seen John get depressed, even crazy, but never like this.
"Thats the point, friend, I'm putting a stop to it," he took the gun barrel away from the wounded soldiers head and placed it inside his own mouth.
The end of the whole mess.

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