# The Horror of War (Flash Fiction)



## MrTickle (Dec 12, 2017)

Here is a little flash fiction piece I wrote. Thank you for clicking and reading! 

It’s not that I am in a straight jacket in this place of eternal institution of the physical and the mental that bothers me. It’s the fact that the Lab Coats look at me sideways, like all the war boys sent here. A Lab Coat tells me, “The horror of war affects many; you poor boys should feel no shame.” It’s when I try to explain that it’s not the dead, it’s not the drilling of bullets, it’s not the wet or the cold, it’s the - he isn’t listening. He’s writing something down on a clipboard, paying as much attention to me as an abandoned chemistry tube. That’s all I am: a chemical in a cloudy test tube they think they know the solution to. Lab Coat is probably writing his order for dinner rather than listening to me. 

When I was in the trenches firing into the mist at those yellow tracers churning the ground all around us, I stopped and looked to the men next to me firing back at the yellow beams. And not for one second did I catch horror in their eyes, like they wanted to look away. It was only when we lumbered back to our bunk beds, opened our neatly sealed envelopes with that familiar hand writing that our eyes would look to the floor. On the page was a life that had turned into fiction.

But to tell the truth, the fright that will always be burnt into my brain was the sight of a white thatched cottage that suddenly appeared in the middle of no man’s land after the smog held a crescendo of violent, bombastic contortions. It was like the hands of a ghost craftsman finishing his work before letting the sun hold a spotlight over what we were really fighting. It stood alone, no cottages around, no enemy fire. No enemy. Bullet holes had chipped away most of the white brick. However, the windows were completely unharmed. Some of our soldiers took their helmets off like they were paying respects to the house, as if it were alive, as if it contained their own family. I could not look at it without being transported back home. It was identical to where I and Emily lived in Cornwall. I had looked after her while she battled Influenza, but I was made to go to France while she fought a war. The letters from her had stopped coming three months in. That was as good as a bullet for me.

I always hold the idea that the horror of war is not the same for everyone. For some it’s the eternal hammering of shells, or trench foot that gnaws away until you can no longer stand at your post. But for me, the horror of war was what I was going to see when I turned the door knob to my home.

I try to tell Lab Coat that one straight jacket does not fit all, that one medicine does not cure all, “Every soldier will need a different remedy,” I say to Lab Coat. But he’s too busy sighing as he writes on his clipboard. He then tares the sheet off. Folds it with the slick efficiency of an origami master, and places it in his breast pocket that is already bulging with all the other prescriptions he’s wrote today. Next, he pulls out the syringe.


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## escorial (Dec 12, 2017)

great work dude


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## Roac (Dec 12, 2017)

Really nice story. Great imagery.

I like it. Well done!


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## ned (Dec 14, 2017)

hello - an interesting and emotional story, that kept a consistent voice and mood throughout.

Perhaps, a little over-wordy here and there. Such as the opening, which comes across as a bit rambling and indefinite.

and other places like- But for me, the horror of war was what I was going to see when I turned the door knob to my home.
But for me, the horror of war was what I was going to find when I finally got home.

Lab-coats? - Who are they? Scientists, therapists, doctors? - the main character's bad attitude toward those trying to help
is maybe part of the condition, but comes across as ungrateful.

He then tares the sheet off. Folds it with the slick efficiency of an origami master, and places it in his breast pocket that is already bulging with all the other prescriptions he’s wrote today. Next, he pulls out the syringe.

Tearing off the sheet, he folds it neatly and places it in his breast pocket with all the other prescriptions he has written today. - pare it down...

thanks for sharing.......Ned


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## MrTickle (Dec 14, 2017)

Thank you so much for the feedback guys. Here is the slightly revised draft. Ned, I tried put your advice into the piece here, do you think this is better and more understandable as an opening?

It’s not that I am in a straight jacket in this place of eternal institution that bothers me. It’s the fact that the psychologist leisurely strolls in to my room, making sure he is a few feet away in case I accidently crease his spotless lab coat, not even bothering to ask how I am as he scans his clipboard to see if I am patient number forty-three or forty-four. Lab Coat never looks up from his clipboard. It’s as if all we soldiers look the same. Lab Coat then says in a tone turned monotone by the boredom of repetition, “The events you witnessed overseas affect all you boys the same way. You just need the remedy,” and taps the bulge in his breast pocket. I try to explain that it wasn’t the sight or smell of rotting corpses, the hammering of bullets, or the wet or the cold, it was the - he isn’t listening. He’s writing on his clipboard, paying as much attention to me as a chemical in a test tube that he thinks he knows the solution to. 

When I was in the trenches firing into the mist at those yellow tracers churning the ground all around us, I stopped and looked to the men next to me firing back at the yellow beams. And not for one second did I catch horror in their eyes, like they wanted to look away. It was only when we lumbered back to our bunk beds, opened our neatly sealed envelopes with that familiar hand writing that our eyes would look to the floor. On the page was a life that had turned into fiction.

But to tell the truth, the fright that will forever be burnt into my brain was the sight of a white thatched cottage that suddenly appeared in the middle of no man’s land after the smog held a crescendo of violent, bombastic contortions. It was like the hands of a ghost craftsman finishing his work before letting the sun hold a spotlight over what we were really fighting. It stood alone, no cottages around, no enemy fire. No enemy. Bullet holes had chipped away most of the white brick. However, the windows were completely untouched. Some of our soldiers took their helmets off like they were paying respects to the house, as if it were alive, as if it contained their own family. I could not look at it without being transported back home. It was identical to where I and Emily lived in Cornwall. I had looked after her while she battled Influenza, but I was made to go to France while she fought a war. The letters from her had stopped coming three months in. That was as good as a bullet for me.

I always hold the idea that the horror of war is not the same for everyone. For some it’s the eternal hammering of shells, or trench foot that gnaws away until you can no longer stand at your post. But for me, the horror of war was what I was going to see when I arrived home to my cottage in Cornwall.

I try to tell Lab Coat that one straight jacket does not fit all, that one medicine does not cure all, “Every soldier will need a different remedy,” I say to Lab Coat. He sighs and continues to finish the prescription he’s writing. Then he tears the sheet off. Folds it neatly, and places it in his waist pocket that is plump with identical prescriptions. Next, he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out the syringe.


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## ned (Dec 15, 2017)

hello - thank you for your considered reply -

for me, the opening line starts on a false premise - however you word it. ok, he's suffering from 'shell-shock' but why is he in a straitjacket? why doesn't that bother him more then the supposedly inattentive doctors? why is he confined 'eternally'? - too many questionable concepts are jammed together here.

then we have the fixation with lab-coats - which are simply white coats, as worn by doctors, and further analogies of laboratories compounds this error.
why drum up this conflict with the staff? what does it serve? an opportunity for dialogue and further insight is spurned.

the horror of war? - there is none, only the horror of a wife dying of flu, which would be true whether he was on the front line or selling ice-creams.

the scene of the house on the battlefield is dramatic and engaging - but no broken windows beggars belief - again, what does it serve?

three strands, without a hint of resolution - for me, indicates a faulty plot - get that right, and I'm sure the words will follow.

cheers........Ned


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## MrTickle (Dec 15, 2017)

ned said:


> hello - thank you for your considered reply -
> 
> for me, the opening line starts on a false premise - however you word it. ok, he's suffering from 'shell-shock' but why is he in a straitjacket? why doesn't that bother him more then the supposedly inattentive doctors? why is he confined 'eternally'? - too many questionable concepts are jammed together here.
> 
> ...



I appreciate your comments, the story is mainly to do with the fact that psychology was mostly not as well regarded or as in depth back in the 1940s, and its purely to showcase a psychologist who believes he can fix soldiers traumas with one simple 'cure'. Also, the white 'lab coat' is a lab coat they wore and sometimes still wear, that is not an error.
 Some stuff in the story like the cottage is an abstraction which is left to interpretation - not because I think its clever to do that kind of thing, but more because I like abstractions. 

Thanks again!


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## bdcharles (Dec 15, 2017)

Hi - I prefer your first version. It's slick and effective, suggesting  immediately some more terrible horror than the ever-present threat of  death of war that makes me morbidly compelled to read on, whereas in the  new version I stumbled over that "leisurely strolls" and all that stuff  about creasing the lab coat - it just didn't have the same style and  seemed like it was trying too hard for voice. In the first version the  voice is, to me, already there, and there's not too much I can fault  about it other than it ends. 

I would like to address 1 or 2 of Ned's points:




ned said:


> hello - an interesting and emotional story, that kept a consistent voice and mood throughout.
> 
> Perhaps, a little over-wordy here and there. Such as the opening, which comes across as a bit rambling and indefinite.



I think in some of the other spots this may hold true (the bit about prescriptions in the pocket for eg) but here, te repeated motif of "It's not the ..." lends itself to a bit of excess words. Remove this and you may end up with an anaemic opener. Continue it too much of course and it may then get to be rather verby, sure.



ned said:


> and other places like- But for me, the horror of war was what I was going to see when I turned the door knob to my home.
> But for me, the horror of war was what I was going to find when I finally got home.




For me, the suggestion is a little too vanilla, too image-bereft. The bit about turning the knob introduces a horror-film like tension - the hand reaching for the door, taking hold, turning it. It's just that it will take a lot to convince me that "finally got" is preferable. Maybe just strike out "door" and/or name the place where home is, eg:

"But for me, the horror of war was what I was going to see when I turned the knob to our Cotswolds home."

Then you can draw upon the named place to invoke more stuff - Cotswolds being a very nice-nice and homey sort of place from whch the narrator-I is now separate. Of course the place you invoke will set the mood so choose wisely 




ned said:


> Lab-coats? - Who are they? Scientists, therapists, doctors? - the main character's bad attitude toward those trying to help
> is maybe part of the condition, but comes across as ungrateful.




I think the use of "lab coat" is well done. To me, there is no doubt that they are therapists, doctors assisting with PTSD for example. If you explain who they are you risk losing the very strong voice. Sure, the I is ungrateful. He's traumatised. He probably is ungrateful that he didn't take a bullet to the head


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## MrTickle (Dec 15, 2017)

bdcharles said:


> Hi - I prefer your first version. It's slick and effective, suggesting  immediately some more terrible horror than the ever-present threat of  death of war that makes me morbidly compelled to read on, whereas in the  new version I stumbled over that "leisurely strolls" and all that stuff  about creasing the lab coat - it just didn't have the same style and  seemed like it was trying too hard for voice. In the first version the  voice is, to me, already there, and there's not too much I can fault  about it other than it ends.
> 
> I would like to address 1 or 2 of Ned's points:
> 
> ...



Wow! thanks bdcharles. I really appreciate the feedback and well constructed comments. I took Neds on board and applied them to the second edition, but for me, it didn't feel that I liked it as much as the first one. Something felt missing from it, and I think you described it perfectly. I may revert back the first edition now. I definitely feel like I'm forcing it now, and trying to explain too much. Its a piece of flash fiction that is simply abstract, surreal, and sad. And that is represented by the MCs mental state.


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## ned (Dec 15, 2017)

hello - thank you for taking the trouble to answer my points - a reference to the 1940s would certainly help the reader.
trenches and no-mans-land seem to suggest the first world war - but I thought that can't be right, they put deserters 
and shirkers up against the wall.

perhaps, for the battlefield scene, mention a location that chimes with WW2.

Ned


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