Sunday March 26th, 2017

The exercise:

Write about: the raid.

Spent the morning with the boys while Kat got some counselling work done. Enjoyed some family time in the afternoon (painting and making a popsicle stick house).

Not a bad day off. Could have used more warmth and sunshine, but hopefully we'll get that tomorrow.


"We attack at sunset."

"Is that wise, sir? It has been a long day already for the men."

"It is wise. And it will be a long day for the men. But it will be an even longer one for our enemy."

"That's assuming the men aren't too exhausted to lift their weapons. Or aim them properly..."

"We will have surprise on our side. It will more than make up for any shortcomings on the part of my soldiers."

"I see that you won't be swayed in this matter. You've clearly made up your mind, sir."

"That is correct."

"Then I shall begin doling out the Red Bull, sir."


morganna said...

The cheese on the counter
The creeping, tiny paws
Closer, closer, closer
The mice will eat well tonight.

Greg said...

@Morganna: I really like the second line in the poem today, it's such an apt description! Great poem overall too, but that line stood out for me.

@Marc: Were you painting the popsicle stick house? Or were they separate activities?
I think we've met this military leader before from the negligent way he treats his troops and the common-sense approach of his aide... I rather like the Red Bull solution the problem of exhaustion and weariness. Perhaps it's even addictive enough to prevent desertion! Well, I'm sure there will be victory. For one side.

The raid
London, UK: 2003/03/17, 10:45. The man in the suit enters Bermondsey Tube station walking briskly but not unusually fast (for London). The suit is grey, slightly shiny, probably off-the shelf; the shoes are black, polished to a high shine. He strides through the wide ticket hall and passes through the ticket barriers with a blue flash of an Oyster card without dropping his pace. Another thirty feet and he's at the bank of four escalators, moving smoothly to one of the two going down. He passes to the left, the side for walking, even though there is no-one stood on the right; this marks him out as native. On the escalator to his left, an ascending one, there are two people separated by eight or nine steps. As the second man is borne inexorably towards him he reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a gun. The man to his left turns, his face uncurious, unaware of what is happening, and the retort of the gunshot is deafening. His face disappears in a fountain of red fluid and minced flesh; white bone fragments with tatters of red flesh clinging to them scatter over the escalator.

Singapore: 2003/03/18, 21:33. Two children stand in a small park arguing over whose turn it is to be goalkeeper between a pair of jumpers. A third child, slightly older, is frowning over a smartphone. The streetlights near the park flicker, unusual here, for a moment and then steady. There's a faint crack, perhaps a bubble in synovial fluid popping? Then the smallest child falls over. The other, startled, kneels, and when they find the bullet-hole in the side of her head they start screaming.

Singapore, 2003/03/18, 21:35. The woman at the office window turns away and addresses the sixteen people gathered around the conference table. She is slightly taller than is typical for Singapore but not by enough to attract attention. Her skin is the colour of good coffee with a splash of milk and her eyes are the green of bitterest envy.
"Dr. Oftenschloss is dead," she says, interpreting the message of the assassinated child correctly. "The raids on his offices in Canada and New Zealand will begin in forty-minutes time. They will be synchronised, and the raiders will appear to think that he is an abortionist."
The people around the table are silent, still. Their eyes don't leave her. They are waiting for something more.

Canada, 2003/03/18, 10:20. The low, grey building has a sign outside: "Oftenschloss clinic". A few people are crossing the parking lot; the weather is still cold and there is a hint of snow in the air. Running feet cause heads to turn, and people stumble to a halt as four balaclava'd, flak-jacketed people race from an unmarked van to the doors of the clinic. Guns are unslung, a gas grenade is thrown and window-glass breaks.

The raid has begun.

Marc said...

Morganna - I'm with Greg on this one, your second line is really excellent.

Greg - I suggested painting it, but Max was happy just using markers to color it :)

Oooh, addictive enough to prevent desertion... that's a great plan! Better than the military leader's, at any rate.

That was fascinating to read. Horrific, in the second installment in particular, but utterly fascinating. You've captured my imagination with this one, and I would be happy to see it continued in some fashion.