Okay... Time's up!
I have four entries, and I shall post them here in no particular order for reading and comments in a moment. Remember, the topic for this round is
"A Deserter".
The Rules:
1) Everybody will have 2 weeks to read and leave comments. What did you think about the piece? What did it make you think about (which is different than the first)? How did it affect you? Were you surprised? Emotional? Did something in the story distract from your enjoyment? Something stick out to you or impress you? Etc...
2) Please be polite, but feel free to be frank -- constructive criticism is okay, as is praise, of course. This is a more valuable writers' forum than almost any other out there, and real writers can learn/earn real skills here, but only if they get credible, heartfelt feedback.
3) Feel free to offer a guess as to who the writer is. This was easier back when there were fewer writers, but if you wish you can try. It's okay to identify a favorite piece, but no ranking of the 4 entries is necessary (or probably desired).
4) On May 15 (or so) I will post who wrote each piece (Surprise!) and list some of their AAR works so you can go check them out.
5) Have fun!
This can be as educational for the readers and commenters as for the writers, so go for it!
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Author #1
They kicked him before he could reach for the knife, and pulled him out. He struggled to walk down the hallway with them, tripped, and the guards paused to let him pull his trousers all the way up. Knowles cried something to him from the cell but he didn’t understand. They marched him out and a moment later he was dead.
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Private Fowlkes was captured on the sixteenth of June. Knowles was detained the next day, and the two of them were held in the prison barracks for around a week. He wasn’t sure. Friend Knowles had been reading a chapter a day from the good book, but it got lost, and neither of them had had an especially good sleep, or slept at any regular period, so the time had slipped away. He asked finally, and the guard told him. The guard also told him to engage in unholy activity when he asked for a cigarette. The guard told him this every time he asked for a cigarette. Fowlkes was unhappy with this state of affairs.
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They held meeting a few days after being captured, not knowing if it was Sunday, the two of them alone. Knowles, who was a long time Quaker and had been drafted, suggested the idea, and they sat in silence. Fowlkes finally said “They’re not going to believe me. They drafted you, why would they let me off for joining your bloody sect?” Knowles looked at him, unsuccessfully trying to hide a look of dismay, and continued to sit. “The truth is the truth, and if they shoot us, martyrs to Christ’s glory and they will know it.” Knowles sat back down. Fowlkes had not been sure whether to stand or sit when speaking the first time he had attended, while in hiding, not that it mattered now. He wasn’t a bloody fool, he had escaped to avoid being shot, not for this. Knowles thought he was sincerely convinced. The words they had uttered just now hung there, and Fowlkes shifted uncomfortably on his cot. He looked at his feet. He held out his hand and Knowles took it. He asked the guard for a cigarette and was told off. He looked at the guard, and swore under his breath. He turned to Knowles and pointed to the bucket they pissed in, and mimed tossing the liquid through the bars. Knowles said no, he’d rather not. Knowles was a coward.
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He told him this the next day. Or it possibly was later that day. Fowlkes was very angry Knowles had not used physical force to prevent the soldiers from breaking down the doors, smashing some pottery, and taking Fowlkes into custody. He also was very angry that the bomb which landed nearby had not killed Knowles instead of allowing him an extra day of freedom before being captured himself. Knowles reminded him that as Quakers, they ought not fight, and also the bit about the pottery wasn’t exactly accurate, and Christ had said to be accurate about the pots during the Sermon on the Mount. Of course he did, Knowles continued before Fowlkes responded to this, as Christ had specifically not made exceptions about truthfulness. The guard told them to shut up and to engage in unholy activity with each other if it would keep the noise down.
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They came for Fowlkes two days after he had found out the date, as he was sitting on the bucket. He had hoped it would happen at a more opportune time, but he leapt up and punched the first one and grabbed at his belt. The guard’s knife slipped onto the floor, and Fowlkes felt a boot in his stomach as he scrambled to seize the blade. He felt surprisingly less shame at lying on the floor in his semi-trousered condition than he would have guessed had he been told about how he would die, in advance. They dragged him away, and Knowles called to him, indistinctly, “I am sorry.” A few moments later, he was dead.
The next day, Knowles attacked the guard who came in for the bucket, and the guard beat him quite severely. Knowles ultimately was not executed, but he limped for ever afterwards, and when the war ended he was able to go home. He did not tell anyone why he limped, and two years after the armistice a suicide’s funeral was held in the manner of Friends.