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Writing

This shall house my most current writing post, as well as any quick updates I have to scream ‘atcha about.

(Don’t worry, I won’t actually scream. Bad for the throat, you know?)

Other posts about writing right here: CLICK!

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Rough, un-edited, and even complete with slashes for italics(Ommwriter, the program I use, doesn’t support bold/italic). Tell me what you think!

Fletcher really, really hated Mondays.

And sometimes he thought that Mondays hated him right back.

This particular Monday, however, might have been the worst of his life so far, seeing as he was being flown down to the ground in a heavily armored airship, and the first thing he was going to have to do when they landed was stay alive, and pull the trigger when needed.

Oh, and maybe take some lovely photographs if he had the time.

He wondered to himself if he was the only one aboard that was this terrified. Possibly not, but you really couldn’t tell sometimes.

The other soldiers sat next to and across from him, grim-faced, helmets in their laps, guns in their arms.

They had all done this before.

He hadn’t.

He wondered if he had made the right choice in coming, and nervously fingered his camera, pausing also to wonder how the heck he was going to be able to use it.

The soldier across from him chuckled at him.

“Good luck with /that/,” He said, shaking his head.

/Gee, thanks/, Fletcher thought, /that helps a heck of a lot/.

He stared at it for a moment and then shook his head, strapping it over his shoulder.

The other soldiers didn’t really say much, but the tension was high in the bay of the ship, that was clear.

So he sat there, staring down at his dark red armored legs, and clanked them together once or twice. He wondered again if he would came back with something to show for himself. He knew the engagement would only last long enough to get the soldiers off the ground, and then they would head back to the cruiser. He drummed his fingers on the bench, a habit of his, and then idly picked up his helmet and looked it in the face.

In about ten minutes his face would be inside it, and he would officially be a soldier.

Something he never thought he would be.

He wished the bay had windows for a moment, then decided he was glad it didn’t. Because if it did they would be able to see their impending doom.

He once again wondered if that was being pessimistic, and decided both that it very much was and that it was called for, given where he was and what he was doing.

But he had been told not to let his morale sink low, so he tried to tell himself just to stay out of trouble and he’d live to laugh about it later.

He tried. He really did.

The ship rumbled as the drives changed speed, and Fletcher knew that they would be landing in a matter of minutes. He and the other soldiers put their helmets on, visors open. He felt like someone was shaking him around in a freezer, if that could be applied.

And then the ship slowed.

He felt himself being leaned one way as it did. They began to lower.

“Prepare for engagement,” Came the very formal pilot’s voice over the intercom.

Fletcher took a deep breath and made sure everything was on, and that his gun was ready. He lifted it, but then picked up his camera instead.

He bloody well was going to have something to show for himself.

The ship slowed rapidly, then touched down.“Shift it! Move move move!” Someone in an obviously commanding role yelled. Everyone stood up, rifles and guns clacking.

Then the bay doors slid back, light pouring in.

Fletcher snapped a picture.

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