2010's Best Writer/ROUND 1/Gingy

by Gingy in vincible.

A.N.: Sorry if it's too long, or too sad, or whatever. I'm intrigued by war. So I had to write a story about it. Haha. I wrote this at, say, eleven at night.

Snoop

He dipped his head back into the trench. His helmet, streaked with sweat and blood, was on his head, cocked in an awkward position. He wanted to adjust it but his hands were shaking.

Bodies collapsed around him like dominoes. Like the game he used to play with his little sister. He would be the one domino that refused to topple over. He pulled his shirt collar over his mouth and nose, to block out the gasses.

She had her elbows linked with her best friend. A smile was eased on her face. She had just gotten out of school, and it was a Friday. She was ready to hit the soda parlor.

And yet . . .

The soda parlor. It held so many memories. She and her older brother, sipping soda, humming along to the classy music. And the laughter. No one could forget the laughter, roaring in the empty hollow of the soda parlor on the corner. The sleek tile floors.

Her brother, underage and at war.

She walked on, knowing the way to the soda parlor.

“Jerry!”

His voice was muffled by the fabric of his uniform, dusted with dirt and stained with sweat. He watched his best friend collapse, good old Jerry, never had a care in the world. He’d looked strange, at the camp, with the gun cold in his hands, but he looked even stranger dead, eyes staring at nothingness, skin pale in the burning, humid weather.

He dropped to his knees.

The gas still hadn’t reached him. He wished it had. He wished that he could just die. The only reason he wasn’t dead was because he had someone worth fighting for. His little sister.

He couldn’t die, even if he wanted to.

She stood at the parlor, polished shoes scuttling over the floor, fingers drumming on the counter. She knew what she was going to order. She got the same thing, every time, since her brother left. She got what he used to get.

She missed him.

She really did.

She had to keep smiling. For him.

There was a smattering of people left in this hellhole with him, including: one, a man named Harry who reminded him of his father in every way; two, Harry’s friend who smoked and shot bullets instead of talking, and; three, a boy who could be even younger than him, with wide green eyes and a mouth that talked a blue streak. They called him Snoop back at camp, but there were only a few people left to call him that.

Snoop looked around blindly, vibrant eyes stark with horror at the death around him. He did, too, but his eyes kept stumbling upon Jerry, lying atop a heap of other corpses.

Then.

He thought it was the sun, but it was something much worse. And in about ten seconds, it would go boom.

It was aimed right at Snoop.

Sipping her soda through the curly red straw, she laughed at every joke and smiled the way through. Just keep smiling. There’s no war going on at all. Just keep smiling.

The music seemed faraway and dreamy, the words her friends were speaking soupy and surreal. She wanted to curl up and die, or something to that effect. She wanted to go away from it all.

Then she’d have her brother.

His eyes met Snoop’s. Snoop couldn’t see it past the thick masses of dust, sunlight, and gasses. Not to mention the mountain ranges of dead bodies, souls that had crashed away with the bullets, the shells and the gas.

In that one split second, the world rewound itself in his eyes. The soda parlor. Baseball field. High school. Farm work. Dance lessons. Lying about his age. Training sessions.

With both shaky palms, he pushed Snoop out of the way, watching as his emerald eyes became wider and brighter. The helmet made a soft thunk as it fell to the ground. So did the shell as it hit him square in the chest. Thunk. The faraway sound of an explosion.

The world around him was hazy. He thought of Jerry, he thought of Snoop, of his family, and of his wonderful little sister.

He whispered her name, releasing it into the death-scented air, as his world came to a jagged end.

Two years later, she stood in his room. It still had its posters up, his clothes were still in his closet and collecting dust, his bed still half-made. Three years ago, her brother sat on his bed, reading a comic book and offering her some candy of the sorts. Two years ago, she sat in this room, sat on his bed, reading his old comics that she knew by heart by then. She missed him, there was no doubt about that. She missed him when he left for war, and missed him when he left for heaven.

She brushed some hair out of her eyes.

There was the hollow sound of the doorbell.

She crashed down the stairs, her skirt flowing like water. Gliding her way down the hallway to the façade of the house, she opened the door as the doorbell chimed again.

At the door was a man dusty and dishelmed, but sweet. He had a crooked smile on his face, and he had a familiar sort of friendship to him.

He had green eyes, brighter than the first grass of the spring. They were open wide and bold. They had endured a lot, but they were still full of life anyways.

“Hullo,” he said crookedly. “My name is Snoop.”