/lit/ - Literature

>>4179395

The sounds of rifles firing and rounds exploding were the only things Eric could hear. His mouth was open beneath his gas mask and he knew he was screaming yet still the only noise his ears perceived was the crack and bang and pow of the weapons around him.

The machine gun in Erich's hands shook violently as he fired it. Sometimes he aimed careful at a single man, other times he simply let the vibrations of the weapon randomly draw the aim for him. The other men of his unit stood in the trench on either side of him, each one wearing the same standard issued gas mask. Erich had known these men for nearly three years now and he still couldn't recognize them whenever they had these masks on.

The man next to him (Hermann, or was it Frast?) stood to lob a grenade. As soon as the explosive left the man's hand, he was struck in the chest by an enemy bullet, falling to the ground with a thud that was drowned out in the din of the battle. It crossed Erich's mind that he should check on the man, but one quick look and he knew the man was already a corpse. Another corpse in this land of corpses.

Erich's machine gun clicked loudly as it attempted to fire and found no ammunition to work with. Erich took his hand off the weapon and reached for another belt to reload the gun with. As he turned back towards his gun he was surprised to find a man standing at the trench edge, right over him. The man's uniform was the same muddy brown as Erich's, though whether it came that way or had simply earned the colour from years of service, as Erich's had, he didn't know. The man wore a gas-mask as well and held a bayonet'd rifle above his head like a spear.

Erich stared at the man. The man stared back. The man was posed to strike Erich down; Erich was helpless to prevent. And yet neither moved. The man didn't strike; Erich didn't reach for his own weapon. Erich realized he could now hear himself screaming, the sound of his voice overpowering the drone of war. The scream was muffled, even to his own ears by the plastic of the mask he wore, but still, a scream it was.

The crack of a pistol shot broke the stupor of both men and interrupted Erich's until-now continuous battle cry. The man standing above Erich took a step backwards and fell over, a hole in his gas mask dripping red from a fatal wound. Another corpse.

Erich turned and found the Oberleutnant standing behind him, his still smoking pistol aimed to fire if the man stood up again. When it became clear the man was dead, the Oberleutnant gestured towards the machine gun, then moved on down the trench.

Erich returned to his weapon and slid the fresh ammunition belt into place. He began to fire once more.

He opened his mouth and started up his screaming again.

Once more, his own ears were deaf to his cries.

Why isn't there a general art board?

We have a board for the art of literature, but not for the art of sculpture, painting, photography, drawings, etc.

Why?

Hey, /lit/, be my thesaurus for a second.

Give me other words to say instead of "softly"

Specifically in terms of talking, such as in "He softly whispered in her ear."

I then lost consciousness, my violent neurosis disguising themselves as white silhouettes advancing stealthily towards my direction, gliding through the mist, ghostly apparitions of dévaine my own, I was trying to give up their secret business and screaming all my pain in a squeaky and desperate sob, whose echo resounds in the plain, and reverberated in my head too full of painful radiation. When I regained consciousness, I was curled up on myself, arms clutching my knees against my chest, prostrate in his, salivating lips a bitter rejection of mud and grass.