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Found 8 results

  1. Alice Winn In Memoriam My rating: 5 out of 5 stars Enthralling. Poignant. The horrors of war and a tender love story. You might think there are already too many stories about young Englishmen from privileged backgrounds who find themselves amidst the unspeakable events of World War 1. I half thought so too when I finally started this book after having it for several months. The opening chapters are a volley of names, characters, and their interactions at a 'public' school which can be tricky to navigate. Maybe I wasn't paying enough attention, but it took me several chapters to feel connected to the story. Then? Then I was ensnared. When does camaraderie between young men tip over into something else? How to navigate all the pitfalls, make hidden feelings clear to yourself if no-one else, and connect with the object of your affections when you're hardly ever alone? Using the coded language of literature is one way Henry Gaunt and Sidney Ellwood can try to express what they feel for each other - at school and at war. They are products of a system designed to produce a new generation of imperialists. The war changes them and the world around them profoundly. Hardly surprising really. The particular horrors of that conflict are not shied away from and some of the descriptions gave me pause for reflection. Such a grinding, pointless slaughter with mistakes being replayed over and over again. Through this hell runs the golden thread of love. Sometimes cut short; sometimes not. Always giving a reason to survive, to reconnect, to endure. The all-consuming nature of this wonderful novel is enhanced by Christian Coulson's narration. His light-toned voice suits this story of young men finding themselves in love and war. One to be reread many times.
  2. It is necessary to see death. It is necessary to see death, stark naked, lurid and wild, Death as it pisses in the dark alleyways drunk and ecstatic on the jumps of drugs that are hard to name and harder to pronounce, it is still necessary to see death face to face. In a breach of society sanctioned lucidity hardwired in our brain, It is still very necessary to see death, To see the violent vandalism of civilization, Of ashes and nuclear death of atoms and atom bombs, Billions of flashlights burning up the sky, Smell of rotten carcass evaporating in sterile perfume of laboratory engineered poisons, Gases and liquids and solid whites of the eyes of the dead and the suffering of millions upon millions of innocence of ruthless greed of narcissist wankers. It is necessary to see death as it is, for the spring of flowers is nearly over and now we make war. 02/09/2013 ©asamvav111
  3. The Things They Carried is a wonderful book. It is a book about the Vietnam war, especially about a group of American soldiers. I've read a few books about the war, and I've always been fascinated about the treatment of those returning. No ticker tape parades for them. Bad things happened in that police action, I know. This book was written by Tim O'Brien. He himself is written into the story because he was there, yet it is fiction. And I cannot be positive, but I'm sure much of it is true, though it is fiction. It's an intense book of short stories which are masterfully melded together. Tom O'Brien is a talented writer. This book was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. His style is clear and the language used is simple. Yet, it is emotional, you cannot, not continue, it is just that powerful. It is about men. Soldiers. The ugliness of war and their reaction to it was hard to read. So much so, there were times i had to put the book aside for a day. There are stories, for example, about Tim climbing a tree to pick up the parts of his friend, Curt Lemon that he could retrieve, and dropping them to the ground. Curt had been laughing one minute and then stepped on a mine. Rat Kiley's reaction after Curt's death, when they came across a lone baby water buffalo is difficult to read and imagine. I put the book down for a day at that point. But i think if you're a man you should read this. If you want to understand what men are capable of in good and bad times, you should read this. I think if you want to see beautiful writing you should read this. There is one interesting chapter called Good Form: It's time to be blunt. I'm forty-three years old, true, and I'm a writer now, and a long time ago I walked through Quang Ngai Province as a foot soldier. Almost everything else is invented. But it's not a game. It's a form. Right here, now, as I invent myself, I'm thinking of all I want to tell you about why this book is written as it is. For instance, I want to tell you this: twenty years ago I watched a man die on a trail near the village of My Khe. I did not kill him. But I was present, you see, and my presence was guilt enough. I remember his face, which was not a pretty face, because his jaw was in this throat, and I remember feeling the burden of responsibility and grief. I blamed myself. And rightly so, because I was present. But listen. Even that story is made up. I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth. Here is the happening-truth. I was once a soldier. There were many bodies, real bodies with real faces, but I was young then and I was afraid to look. And now, twenty years later, I'm left with faceless responsibility and faceless grief. Here is story-truth. He was a slim, dead, almost dainty young man of about twenty. He lay in the center of a red clay trail near the village of My Khe. His jaw was in his throat. His one eye was shut, the other eye was a star-shaped hole. I killed him What stories can do, I guess is make things present. I can look at things i never looked at. I can attach faces to grief and love and pity and God. I can be brave. I can make myself feel again. "Daddy, tell the truth." Kathleen can say, "did you ever kill anybody?" And I can say, honestly, "Of course not." Or I can say, honestly, "Yes." I wrote the above chapter out because to me it is very telling, and i understand it. It is back and forth, yin and yang, it is much like war and Vietnam itself. The Things They Carried is a beautiful book. It is a book about human grace, horror, humanity, love, guilt and sorrow. I dare you to read it.
  4. Today, January 27th 2020, marks the 75th Anniversary of the Liberation of Auschwitz; 1.1 million died there - Jewish, gay, Roma, and others. https://dynaimage.cdn.cnn.com/cnn/q_auto,w_634,c_fill,g_auto,h_357,ar_16:9/http%3A%2F%2Fcdn.cnn.com%2Fcnnnext%2Fdam%2Fassets%2F190614214813-auschwitz-exhibition-6-shoes.jpg
  5. This is a snippet of a new story based in wartime London that I plan to post in the spring. It's different from anything that I've tried before, so it would be interesting to get some feedback. “I heard when they dug out Mrs Jones; she had no head,” said Sammy. “Really?” I pulled a face but soon joined him laughing at the poor woman’s misfortune. It was how we coped at the time; we meant no harm. Mrs Jones was a nice lady; she was the green grocer’s wife and she knew my mum. Their house had been hit the day before, killing her and her husband while they were in bed. It took several hours to dig them out of the rubble, and apparently, according to Sammy, she had been decapitated. I don’t know why we laughed, because it wasn’t funny, but I think that it helped us cope with the horrors that we were witnessing every day. There was no room for sadness or compassion. Thousands were dying all around us; people that we knew. Neighbours, relatives, friends, old people, our mates from school, young children and even babies. The bombing was indiscriminate, and when someone we knew was killed, it was a case of rather them than us. We grew up very quickly that year and in more ways than one. We were walking to his house. It was Sunday; my only day off from work, and I had skipped church to meet Sammy at the market. “Where are you going later,” he said and when he turned his head, I caught that sparkle in his eye as it briefly met with mine. It was accompanied by a faint, but telling grin that warned me of his intentions and started a familiar butterflies in my stomach. He lived about a mile from me, but the Germans, had recently cut the journey in half by bombing the milkman’s house at the end of his road. We lost our delivery, but gained a useful, if precarious short cut across a mound of rubble, timber, and broken glass that was once his home. Most of his furniture of any worth had gone, either removed by his family or looters, but the rubble was still littered with personal items that were either too damaged to be of any use or that nobody wanted. The two story house had been reduced to one, and we threaded our way through the remains of what looked like his upstairs bedroom. Underneath, was the living room, where they had found his body, and to one side was the staircase. It was the only part of the house still standing and attached to a small broken section of wall. It looked funny, a staircase going to nowhere, but the stairs often survived along with the chimneys. Please comment.
  6. Just something I started writing on my tablet after listening to "Radioactive" by Imagine Dragons. The inspiration from that song went four ways and this seemed to get the most out of it. I know where I want it to go, but I don't know how to proceed exactly. I'm not very good at sci-fi, but this seemed like a good start, so let me know what you think of my small snippet! Bear in mind that this was written on a tablet and therefore is probably missing more punctuation than is acceptable to me, lol. But I would love to hear your thoughts, no matter what they are. I really have been wanted to write a story with a main concept is "us vs. them" so here's attempt 1! Prologue The year was 2126 CE when a nuclear explosion sent half of the planet known as Earth into galactic orbit. A gaping hole was left in the middle of one of the oceans that went so deep, the planet’s core was exposed, leaving it to quickly cool in the noxious, poisonous air that had become the atmosphere. The dust that the explosion kicked up blocked out the already dying sun and the blast alone killed off two-thirds of the native population of native humanoids, the humans. The radiation was killing even more every day. At first we didn’t want to interfere. Something about the Fates and the plans they had for the pitiful, primitive species who, unimaginatively, called themselves humans. But our High Council eventually voted to save their miserable lives. After all, they were our creation. Our DNA had created the species that had destroyed the beautiful planet we had given them to inhabit. Greed and envy and an obsession with an almighty, all-seeing being dubbed ‘God’ had led to the extinction of millions of unique plants and animals that we had painstakingly engineered for them to enjoy. They had invaded Earth like an infestation. Everything was gone in the blink of an eye. But since they were, in a way, our children, we were ultimately deemed responsible. We spirited away the remained billion or so humans left and took them to our own planet where we hoped they would thrive and live with their creators peacefully. We had never been so wrong. Those first years were tumultuous. We all knew they would be. Our culture was so vastly different from the one they had settled into. We, who prided ourselves on knowledge and the advancement of our race and the preservation of our planet, were so alien to them, who prided themselves on personal advancement and the accumulation of vast quantities of money. Money was not a foreign concept to us, but the need for it that the humans displayed certainly was. We had very little need for it. Everything we needed was provided for by the High Council; clothes, food, shelter, electricity. Anything else we wanted we had to work for and earn money in order to purchase. We offered them the same opportunity to earn our currency by working alongside us, and tough some took part and enjoyed life with us, most did not. The majority wanted more money, but without taking the effort to earn it. For the first time since the Splintering, crime in our cities became a serious problem. It was hard for them to adjust. They couldn’t understand why we, who looked so much like them, could be so radically different. Evolution hadn’t changed much in us, physically. Anatomically, us and the humans were essentially the same. Mentally, we were far superior. When human scientists had first started hypothesizing where evolution would take them, they envisioned bulging eyes and massive heads to accommodate a growing cranial cavity in conjunction with increased brain function. For us, instead of our brains growing larger, they became compacted and denser and were able to use the existing space our skulls had provided more efficiently. Our brain function was so advanced that we had great telepathic and telekinetic abilities, thought use of the former in everyday life was strictly prohibited. And by some small miracle of fate, we were blessed – or perhaps cursed – with a greatly increased lifespan and a tremendously slow aging process. From the time we were born to the time we reached about the age of thirty, we aged rapidly, normally per se. From then on, our aging process was dramatically slow. On average, we lived to be about fifteen hundred years old. We should have known that our ‘immortality’ would spur the greed in them. After all, the secret to our long lives was in our blood. It wasn’t long before they had turned against us and were killing us for our blood to prolong their own comparatively short lives. I had just finished my formal education and sealed my marriage with my life partner when the researchers that had been observing Earth returned with the remaining humans. My husband and I were of the many with hope who welcomed our new brethren with open arms. Most of them looked at Eyrael and me with disgust, homosexuality another thing they were loath to accept. Our own people had long ago come to accept those who preferred the same sex as a form of population control. Homosexual couples were more than accepted, they were welcomed. In fact, homosexual couples were one of the only ways heterosexual couples could bypass the Only Child Law which was passed to prevent our planet from being overrun in the same manner Earth had been. By receiving the blessing of a homosexual couple, a heterosexual couple could have another child on behalf of the couple who could not have their own child naturally. Whether the homosexual couple wanted to be a part of the resulting child’s life was another matter, a personal matter between the two couples. The humans couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of harmony. The thought still is upsetting. Within fifty years, our capital city was facing crime rates that far exceeded anything that had occurred during the Splintering. Our people were being cruelly murdered in the streets and the humans took advantage of the chaos and managed to break into the Building of the High Council and murder everyone before declaring themselves the new masters of our planet and essentially enslaving those of us left. They celebrated their takeover by resetting our calendar to what they called After Liberation. We bitterly called it After Infestation. Most of the scientists, including my husband, were the first to be carted off to prison camps to be harvested for their blood. The humans were giving those of that remained a warning: disobey and suffer the same fate. They hadn’t learned anything from their past wars. I haven’t seen my Eyrael since the humans raided his lab. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. I doubt I will ever know the truth. Now we are all but an endangered species, held captives by those we created and set loose on the world. Our own world. 22 AL was when I was taken to the largest blood farm in the capital and thrown into this cell. They tell me that the only reason I’m still alive is to suit their needs for our blood, but I know I’m more valuable than that. As a historian, I have the ability, the training, and the memory to record what has happened. I’m also one of the only historians they kept alive after the purge of 15 AL when they killed all of the theorists and scholars and historians so they would be sure we didn’t revolt and so their own bloody part in the fall of our civilization could only be remembered as a tale of liberty instead of what it truly was: a massacre. As such, I am also one of the last of my race that was learned in our own history, before the creation of the humans, before the Splintering, before the Unification. They won’t admit it, but they need me. Alive. I only wish I wasn’t. All I can do is hope the end will come soon. But with more than thirteen hundred years left of an average life left, it is only a passing dream that I will find eternal peace in death anytime soon. ~~~~~ first entry, Jyn, Historian, 28 AL, English Let me know what you think!
  7. Whoops, I completely forgot that I'd promised myself to post on Mondays. My bad. As far as I know no one took up the first prompt. But that's okay. Maybe someone will later on, some day. So I'll continue forth. So here we go. Something simple and just considering yesterday was Remembrance Day. Prompt du jour #2 – Creative Tag: list of words Cross, war zone, lighter, torn picture, flashlight Leave a comment if you try this out ~CHEERS~ Andrew
  8. By 1943 the war is going very bad for Germany. With a shortage of U-boat captains due to heavy losses a young 21 year-old Lieutenant-Commander Lukas Stein is promoted to Captain and given command of his own boat. With a young crew that does not trust him and a prototype vessel being pressed into service, still not fully tested, Lukas will have to grow up quickly. Follow him and his crew as they try to navigate the torturous waters of the Atlantic, their orders, to hunt down and sink American merchant ships bringing aid to Great Britain. Tempers will flare, relationships will develop, and the crew will need to get along. Deep down Lukas knows the war may be lost but for now he will need to keep morale up and testosterone levels down as he tries to keep 29 crew safe and happy, in a highly charged and confined space. Coming Soon!
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