Jonfischer
01-28-2016, 08:57 PM
Hi everyone, I'm Jonathan. I enjoy writing mostly short stories and poetry. However I do find it difficult to write a short story from start to finish and have it be cohesive, and have it not somehow loose its message or impact somewhere along the middle. A couple weeks ago I wrote this story, which I thought was decent. So I ask of you kindly to not rip me to shreds. Feedback/constructive criticism is much appreciated.
Thank you.
Gustav Appler awoke to three loud thuds at the door. He hopped out of bed, and threw on his green Waffenrock, which appeared to be quite wrinkled from lack of upkeep. Stationing his feet in the dark, he grabbed the brightly burning fuel lantern, and hurried towards the door, stiff fingered fiddling the deadbolt locks. It was Officer Schuer.
“You are needed immediately, sir.”
Rainfall was heavy that day, which dampened the thick mud.
He too wore a Waffenrock. His however was a crisp white with a rise-and-fall-collar, and french cuffs.
A thick iron cross was tightly fastened around his collar.
“You’re needed at Buchenwald. Get there now” his voice callous.
Lying on the nightstand was a Walther P38. Grabbing it, Gustav racked the slide releasing the last few rounds onto the floor, and with his foot obscured them underneath his bed. To his left stationed on the dilapidated, cracked, wooden table infested with mites, was an unframed photo of himself and of his mother and father. His mother wore a cotton house dress, which displayed a bold print; the color unable to be observed due to technological constraints of that era.(The photograph was taken with the Kodak Brownie No. 3; particularly the August 1917 edition wherein the film tension springs were bearing on spool ends rather than center.) His lips lightly kissed both mother and father,and per usual, he slid the picture into his jodhpurs for “good luck”. He slid the infantry visor cap firmly onto his head, gripping the front and pulling down, thus making it hang slightly over his eyes, which would cast a shadow upon the remainder of his open face.
The officers ulterior motive for calling upon Gustav was probably not one of mere consideration, but one of calculated importance, chiefly due in part because a few of the other officers on site were downtrodden and riddled with a stomach bug, or so say they. The most recent set of prisoners were being set to the Gulag.
The main entrance gate to Buchenwald beared the slogan, Jedem das Seine, which translates to, “to each his own”. In the front of the gate were hundreds of emaciated men, women, children, disfigured, and mentally ill or unstable people who were appropriated and (many of whom were Ukrainian, Polish, Slavic and Romani) sent into Buchenwald under the false pretense of it being a particular antithesis to what it actually was. They stood upon mounds of dirt which coiled up dusted rock. Gustav swallowed a wad of vomit that was working its way up his intestines and into his throat.
He yelled for them to get into lines of five, 15 people each. Each gender was separated, as were those with disabilities or different ethnicities. If the prisoners did not cohere to Gustav’s orders, they would immediately face consequence. Most wore torn jackets, some green, some tan, some none at all. Others were covered in burlap sacks that were now ripping. They appeared to be mummified incarnations of something most vile; however Gustav didn’t agree with this axiom. Nonetheless he was coerced into thinking so without so much as a moments hesitation from the fellow Waffen SS. Compliance was not a question, but a demand.
Gustave’s eyes averted from his wristwatch to the prisoners. He studied each and every, sick, frail, victim, counting the five lines, making sure none were missing from the quota he was obligated to meet. Upon further inspection he noticed, too, their faces were tinged with a light celadon green color, which was due to lack of proper nourishment, so he surmised. A strange looking older man in the third row three people to the left refused to follow Gustave’s authority. His head looked like a bald eagles, safe for a few patches of disheveled gray hair. He must have weighed around 90 lbs what with his ribcage showing like it did. His neck was thin, and his collar bones were starkly visible from even a few feet away.
“go **** yourself you dirty, dirty, pig.” and with that, he spit on Gustav. Saliva splatters hit his left eye.
Gustav unholstered his P38, sticking it directly into the mans lower abdomen. Recalling the gun had no rounds, Gustav relied solely on interrogation techniques, which ultimately worked. His intentions were not to kill anyone but to follow protocol to the best of his abilities without harming the prisoners.
“you say one more word I won’t hesitate to shoot this bullet right through your lower intestine, you swine.”
The wind grew disquieting amongst the cacophony of moans that pervaded the encampment.
The prisoner stepped back in line and sunk his head between his hands, wiping away a patch of dirt underneath his eye.
“No, come with me. Now.”
He motioned to Scheur to take over.
Gustav grabbed the old man by the wrist and lugged him forward. He was delirious, screaming things that were incomprehensible. Apparently he was also enduring visual hallucinations, attempting to swat the “massive horseflies” that kept biting him on the arm. There was no such thing on the Ettersberg. The two began walking towards the Gulag which was in the center of the encampment. There was a watchtower with other officers readied with weaponry staring down the barrel of their individual snipers. Silence was loud. He walked him to the prow of the gulag away from the officers, then made a sharp left turn into a dark dank, corridor. Grabbing the old man by the neck, he shoved him into the concrete wall. The old man’s beige muddy shirt had ripped. Gustav confessed he had no intent of hurting the man, however his orderly’s expected him to react in a manner that was diametrically opposite to what he felt was just. Releasing his clenched fists from the old mans rickety neck, Gustav extended his arm in an act of camaraderie. The old man was frightened but attentive.
They talked for a while under monitored surveillance. The old man’s children, a young boy of five and a daughter of fifteen, were both shot in front of him in his home a year ago and under the weight of survivor guilt, his mind began to descend into a realm of dementia. He pulled out a picture. Gustav nodded, telling him he thought they were good looking kids. In the picture they stood tall in the shadowy husks. Gustav’s mother told him to never tell a lie, so he never thought too. The men consoled in one another’s misery within the crevice that was obscured from the fellow Waffen. Gustav hugged him around his thin neck, which reeked of mud and the swirling waft of alcohol.
The sky looked like a gray dimly light aquarelle painting. It hung so low that day it seemed to nearly touch the gravel. The old man dug his grubby short fingers into the depths of his pockets, obviously searching for something. After a few moments he receded his hands from his pockets, pulling out a transistor with 6 threads, and a big button, proceeding to give it to Gustav. His calloused hands touched Gustav’s glove, and he slipped it in his pocket. He stared intimately, but at what he wasn’t quite sure. He thanked him and insisted he must get back to work but to keep him self safe.
Flipping the transistor over his eyes glazed from thread to thread in astonishment. The first three threads were the emitter, collector, and the base. The next three were used for harboring data signals, converting infrasound to human language, and lastly, adjusting ∆ø to ∆ƒ/•. Gustav had never seen such a device. He twisted the fifth thread. All it did was playback a vibrating low frequency. He tested the next two, the first being the adjuster dial. His hands spun it all the way to 100m/z. Upon doing this he felt dizzy and quite weak, eventually collapsing in the mud on his trek back to the Gulags. The SS officers helped carry him to his lodge just outside the camp and attributed this to over exhaustion.
An injury report was filed and the head nurse was notified.
***
He awoke the next day the same way he had the last; to three loud thuds. Bleary eyed and weak kneed, he walked towards the door. It was the old man. He reached out for a handshake; his forefinger bore a red jeweled ring. The old man was wearing a black suit with a blue paisley tie and a fedora on the top of his patchy haired head. Momentarily in shock, Gustav complimented his outfit then asked what he was doing here. His mouth mimed, "just stopping by", though Gustav wasn’t entirely sure of what he said; his ears disconnecting -- a turtle withdrawn into its shell. He stepped inside the lodge, his black derby shoes clanking against the creaky wood floorboards. Gustav offered him a drink. The transistor was propped up on the nightstand playing a low buzzing signal. The old man smiled and tipped his hat in a perfunctory sort of way.
“Water, please.”
Gustav grabbed his Waffenrock and threw it over his sweater. Pausing, Gustav peered out the squared window in the door and noticed a monolithic saucer near the encampment. Hunched between two leafless trees, it was still noticeable, with a structural pod built on the top of it. Gustav turned his head. The man was smiling.
“Sir, may I have the water please?”
Again the transistor was vibrating the entire cabin. Gustav poured the water into a plastic cup, no ice. Some spilled on the floor, washing around his feet. He sat at the round wooden table with the old man and watched him slurp his water. Still hidden between the trees was the saucer. Out from the circular white pod came two frogs, each about the size of a Volvo. They began making their way towards Gustav’s cabin. The one with red dot on its back knocked on the door.
He fiddled the deadlocks. His fingers were always stiff from a bad case of carpal tunnel.
—g’day. We hear you have something of our possession. May we come in?
Gustav opened the door, clearing the living room entrance so they had room to hop in.
Without a word, the first frog threw its sticky, gooey tongue out across the room, grabbing the transistor while the other one clapped in enjoyment and took a sip of the old mans water, after which his pale arms slowly turned into a slippery hide of green skin. The old mans eyes shrunk, becoming tiny black balls. Slipping off his shoes, his hands and feet became webbed and he too began to hop, shedding his human like anatomical structure. With the transistor the three of them dialed the United Nations, informing the United States of the danger across the Atlantic.
Yes. Yes, they’re engaged in a conflict of sorts. No, it’s a man with a mustache. Furyur? Something — Look,I don’t know, pal. Just relaying the information to your headquarters. Do as you please. And with that, they all bowed and the one frog with the red dot on its back told Gustav to have a good day. The frogs also talked about what a waste of time war was. Gustav watched them hop back into their pod brazenly, which hovered above the air momentarily until bursting off into the stratosphere above Buchenwald. Confused, he poured himself some water and retreated to his bed.
Laying on the rusted metal frame Gustav’s gaze was transfixed on the wood paneling of the ceiling. The fan was spinning in a stagnant dizzy array of splinters and flat wood boards, creating movement within him, almost as if both inner ears had lost their equilibrium. Swaying hazily side to side in his bed, it appeared he was sea sick or had a case of the flu. The boat was floating back and fourth, and as the sun slowly rotated around the earth much like the way a fan tracks each corner of an empty room, Gustav replayed moments of soft flatlined whispers. When Scheur entered the room, he began explaining the situation, talking all about the erratic frogs and the transistor with the six threads and the big button that he received from the old man.
Schuer chuckled aloud to himself in the silent lodge and girded Gustav an honorary fool -- a lighthearted fibber plucking the strings of deception.
Thank you.
Gustav Appler awoke to three loud thuds at the door. He hopped out of bed, and threw on his green Waffenrock, which appeared to be quite wrinkled from lack of upkeep. Stationing his feet in the dark, he grabbed the brightly burning fuel lantern, and hurried towards the door, stiff fingered fiddling the deadbolt locks. It was Officer Schuer.
“You are needed immediately, sir.”
Rainfall was heavy that day, which dampened the thick mud.
He too wore a Waffenrock. His however was a crisp white with a rise-and-fall-collar, and french cuffs.
A thick iron cross was tightly fastened around his collar.
“You’re needed at Buchenwald. Get there now” his voice callous.
Lying on the nightstand was a Walther P38. Grabbing it, Gustav racked the slide releasing the last few rounds onto the floor, and with his foot obscured them underneath his bed. To his left stationed on the dilapidated, cracked, wooden table infested with mites, was an unframed photo of himself and of his mother and father. His mother wore a cotton house dress, which displayed a bold print; the color unable to be observed due to technological constraints of that era.(The photograph was taken with the Kodak Brownie No. 3; particularly the August 1917 edition wherein the film tension springs were bearing on spool ends rather than center.) His lips lightly kissed both mother and father,and per usual, he slid the picture into his jodhpurs for “good luck”. He slid the infantry visor cap firmly onto his head, gripping the front and pulling down, thus making it hang slightly over his eyes, which would cast a shadow upon the remainder of his open face.
The officers ulterior motive for calling upon Gustav was probably not one of mere consideration, but one of calculated importance, chiefly due in part because a few of the other officers on site were downtrodden and riddled with a stomach bug, or so say they. The most recent set of prisoners were being set to the Gulag.
The main entrance gate to Buchenwald beared the slogan, Jedem das Seine, which translates to, “to each his own”. In the front of the gate were hundreds of emaciated men, women, children, disfigured, and mentally ill or unstable people who were appropriated and (many of whom were Ukrainian, Polish, Slavic and Romani) sent into Buchenwald under the false pretense of it being a particular antithesis to what it actually was. They stood upon mounds of dirt which coiled up dusted rock. Gustav swallowed a wad of vomit that was working its way up his intestines and into his throat.
He yelled for them to get into lines of five, 15 people each. Each gender was separated, as were those with disabilities or different ethnicities. If the prisoners did not cohere to Gustav’s orders, they would immediately face consequence. Most wore torn jackets, some green, some tan, some none at all. Others were covered in burlap sacks that were now ripping. They appeared to be mummified incarnations of something most vile; however Gustav didn’t agree with this axiom. Nonetheless he was coerced into thinking so without so much as a moments hesitation from the fellow Waffen SS. Compliance was not a question, but a demand.
Gustave’s eyes averted from his wristwatch to the prisoners. He studied each and every, sick, frail, victim, counting the five lines, making sure none were missing from the quota he was obligated to meet. Upon further inspection he noticed, too, their faces were tinged with a light celadon green color, which was due to lack of proper nourishment, so he surmised. A strange looking older man in the third row three people to the left refused to follow Gustave’s authority. His head looked like a bald eagles, safe for a few patches of disheveled gray hair. He must have weighed around 90 lbs what with his ribcage showing like it did. His neck was thin, and his collar bones were starkly visible from even a few feet away.
“go **** yourself you dirty, dirty, pig.” and with that, he spit on Gustav. Saliva splatters hit his left eye.
Gustav unholstered his P38, sticking it directly into the mans lower abdomen. Recalling the gun had no rounds, Gustav relied solely on interrogation techniques, which ultimately worked. His intentions were not to kill anyone but to follow protocol to the best of his abilities without harming the prisoners.
“you say one more word I won’t hesitate to shoot this bullet right through your lower intestine, you swine.”
The wind grew disquieting amongst the cacophony of moans that pervaded the encampment.
The prisoner stepped back in line and sunk his head between his hands, wiping away a patch of dirt underneath his eye.
“No, come with me. Now.”
He motioned to Scheur to take over.
Gustav grabbed the old man by the wrist and lugged him forward. He was delirious, screaming things that were incomprehensible. Apparently he was also enduring visual hallucinations, attempting to swat the “massive horseflies” that kept biting him on the arm. There was no such thing on the Ettersberg. The two began walking towards the Gulag which was in the center of the encampment. There was a watchtower with other officers readied with weaponry staring down the barrel of their individual snipers. Silence was loud. He walked him to the prow of the gulag away from the officers, then made a sharp left turn into a dark dank, corridor. Grabbing the old man by the neck, he shoved him into the concrete wall. The old man’s beige muddy shirt had ripped. Gustav confessed he had no intent of hurting the man, however his orderly’s expected him to react in a manner that was diametrically opposite to what he felt was just. Releasing his clenched fists from the old mans rickety neck, Gustav extended his arm in an act of camaraderie. The old man was frightened but attentive.
They talked for a while under monitored surveillance. The old man’s children, a young boy of five and a daughter of fifteen, were both shot in front of him in his home a year ago and under the weight of survivor guilt, his mind began to descend into a realm of dementia. He pulled out a picture. Gustav nodded, telling him he thought they were good looking kids. In the picture they stood tall in the shadowy husks. Gustav’s mother told him to never tell a lie, so he never thought too. The men consoled in one another’s misery within the crevice that was obscured from the fellow Waffen. Gustav hugged him around his thin neck, which reeked of mud and the swirling waft of alcohol.
The sky looked like a gray dimly light aquarelle painting. It hung so low that day it seemed to nearly touch the gravel. The old man dug his grubby short fingers into the depths of his pockets, obviously searching for something. After a few moments he receded his hands from his pockets, pulling out a transistor with 6 threads, and a big button, proceeding to give it to Gustav. His calloused hands touched Gustav’s glove, and he slipped it in his pocket. He stared intimately, but at what he wasn’t quite sure. He thanked him and insisted he must get back to work but to keep him self safe.
Flipping the transistor over his eyes glazed from thread to thread in astonishment. The first three threads were the emitter, collector, and the base. The next three were used for harboring data signals, converting infrasound to human language, and lastly, adjusting ∆ø to ∆ƒ/•. Gustav had never seen such a device. He twisted the fifth thread. All it did was playback a vibrating low frequency. He tested the next two, the first being the adjuster dial. His hands spun it all the way to 100m/z. Upon doing this he felt dizzy and quite weak, eventually collapsing in the mud on his trek back to the Gulags. The SS officers helped carry him to his lodge just outside the camp and attributed this to over exhaustion.
An injury report was filed and the head nurse was notified.
***
He awoke the next day the same way he had the last; to three loud thuds. Bleary eyed and weak kneed, he walked towards the door. It was the old man. He reached out for a handshake; his forefinger bore a red jeweled ring. The old man was wearing a black suit with a blue paisley tie and a fedora on the top of his patchy haired head. Momentarily in shock, Gustav complimented his outfit then asked what he was doing here. His mouth mimed, "just stopping by", though Gustav wasn’t entirely sure of what he said; his ears disconnecting -- a turtle withdrawn into its shell. He stepped inside the lodge, his black derby shoes clanking against the creaky wood floorboards. Gustav offered him a drink. The transistor was propped up on the nightstand playing a low buzzing signal. The old man smiled and tipped his hat in a perfunctory sort of way.
“Water, please.”
Gustav grabbed his Waffenrock and threw it over his sweater. Pausing, Gustav peered out the squared window in the door and noticed a monolithic saucer near the encampment. Hunched between two leafless trees, it was still noticeable, with a structural pod built on the top of it. Gustav turned his head. The man was smiling.
“Sir, may I have the water please?”
Again the transistor was vibrating the entire cabin. Gustav poured the water into a plastic cup, no ice. Some spilled on the floor, washing around his feet. He sat at the round wooden table with the old man and watched him slurp his water. Still hidden between the trees was the saucer. Out from the circular white pod came two frogs, each about the size of a Volvo. They began making their way towards Gustav’s cabin. The one with red dot on its back knocked on the door.
He fiddled the deadlocks. His fingers were always stiff from a bad case of carpal tunnel.
—g’day. We hear you have something of our possession. May we come in?
Gustav opened the door, clearing the living room entrance so they had room to hop in.
Without a word, the first frog threw its sticky, gooey tongue out across the room, grabbing the transistor while the other one clapped in enjoyment and took a sip of the old mans water, after which his pale arms slowly turned into a slippery hide of green skin. The old mans eyes shrunk, becoming tiny black balls. Slipping off his shoes, his hands and feet became webbed and he too began to hop, shedding his human like anatomical structure. With the transistor the three of them dialed the United Nations, informing the United States of the danger across the Atlantic.
Yes. Yes, they’re engaged in a conflict of sorts. No, it’s a man with a mustache. Furyur? Something — Look,I don’t know, pal. Just relaying the information to your headquarters. Do as you please. And with that, they all bowed and the one frog with the red dot on its back told Gustav to have a good day. The frogs also talked about what a waste of time war was. Gustav watched them hop back into their pod brazenly, which hovered above the air momentarily until bursting off into the stratosphere above Buchenwald. Confused, he poured himself some water and retreated to his bed.
Laying on the rusted metal frame Gustav’s gaze was transfixed on the wood paneling of the ceiling. The fan was spinning in a stagnant dizzy array of splinters and flat wood boards, creating movement within him, almost as if both inner ears had lost their equilibrium. Swaying hazily side to side in his bed, it appeared he was sea sick or had a case of the flu. The boat was floating back and fourth, and as the sun slowly rotated around the earth much like the way a fan tracks each corner of an empty room, Gustav replayed moments of soft flatlined whispers. When Scheur entered the room, he began explaining the situation, talking all about the erratic frogs and the transistor with the six threads and the big button that he received from the old man.
Schuer chuckled aloud to himself in the silent lodge and girded Gustav an honorary fool -- a lighthearted fibber plucking the strings of deception.