Just Another Vicious Circle
by Dianna Hardy
Smashwords Edition
Published by
Bitten Fruit Books
(From The Pen Of A Child)
Just Another Vicious Circle
©July, 1994, Dianna Hardy (written at age 15)
Published by Bitten Fruit Books, via Smashwords, September, 2011. First Edition.
All rights reserved.
In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination, or they are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This eBook is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. This work may be freely shared, but credit must be given to the author of this work (Dianna Hardy) at all times. This work may not be modified or used for commercial purposes. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.bittenfruitbooks.com
From The Pen Of A Child, is a short range of stories written by Dianna Hardy between the ages of ten and fifteen. The author has made the decision to publish them and offer them for free, to encourage and support children and young adults who want to write.
Cover images:
© Stefan Andronache | Dreamstime.com
© Redbaron | Dreamstime.com
© Daniel Wiedemann | Dreamstime.com
Cover design by Dianna Hardy
Bitten Fruit Books
Surrey, UK
http://www.bittenfruitbooks.com
Author's Note
A note to all reading this: firstly, thank you for doing so. Secondly, my aim in offering this work for free, is to encourage all young writers to follow their passion. We're now living in an age where digital and self-publishing is possible. Before the internet, writing as a career was seen as a "waste of time" or a "flowery dream" that would never get you anywhere. Let's be realistic – the chances of earning lots of money from writing are slim. BUT, writers don't write to become millionaires – they write because they can't not write, and because they love it. Nowadays, it is possible to write part-time, publish via the internet, and even make enough money so that you can call what you're doing "earning a living" – it is possible. As a writer, there's never been a better time to follow your passion. So if you want to do it – do it.
I thought about rewriting these stories and publishing them as "better" pieces of work. Then I pondered on the meaning of "better". Better for whom? Better for my adult self, maybe, but for my childhood self, these stories rocked, and I didn't want to take that away from the teenager inside me who wrote these. I wanted to be a published writer when I was that young, and now, that child inside me can say she was. These childhood stories are not outstanding literature – they're certainly not bad considering they came from the pen of a child – but the point of this exercise is for [young] readers to see what can be possible from an early age, especially nowadays when we can publish our work so easily. If I were a teenager writing fiction now, I would be publishing as much as I could for practise as well as fun, and ecstatic about the fact that I could follow my dream, right now.
About this story: I wrote this when I was fifteen. At the time, I was learning about war poets at school and was touched by the emotion of some of those poems; namely those by Rupert Brooke and Owen Wilson. I was also intrigued by the different perspectives of the writers – some writing about how war was all doom and gloom, and others choosing to see the glory in it.
At the time I wrote this (1994), there was talk of the world ending (or similar), when Big Ben struck midnight at the turn of the new millennium – no, I didn't believe it would happen, but the energy in the air in the years leading up to that time, was sort of like being at a live concert – intoxicating, invigorating, electric and exciting.... So, I decided to set this apocalyptic war story at around that time. Warning: it's not a "happy" story – it's speculative fiction exploring the "what ifs" and "whys" of war, from a fifteen year old girl's perspective.
Things to ponder on: the relationship between Ric and Colin; the relationship between Ric and Jean; how would a single person be able to make a difference if they lived in the same kind of war-torn world?
If at any time you want to ask me questions or leave comments about any of my stories, feel free to do so. Enjoy the read!
Website: www.YoungAdult.DiannaHardy.com
Email: youngadult@diannahardy.com
Just Another Vicious Circle
(30th October, 1999)
He stood tall, the gun-straps cutting through his shoulders, the piece of metal, heavy against his chest. He lifted his .357 and aimed it at the Bosnian soldier that straddled his friend. He pushed down the trigger. The Bosnian was lifted high into the air and hurled against the side of a war truck. Intestines flowed out of the hole in his stomach and slopped onto the muddy ground, but Ric had become used to death; had grown accustomed to war. It didn't bother him – it was just another person.
Ric ran over to his friend and knelt down beside him. Grabbing his shoulders, he shook him. "Colin? Colin – can you hear me?" Ric put his head down on Colin's stomach and held a hand under his friend's nose. He could feel faint breaths of air evaporating on his fingertips and Colin's stomach was rising slowly – very slowly. He was barely alive.
"Colin," whispered Ric, desperately, "please don't leave me; don't die on me now. Talk to me, Colin. Talk to me."
His eyelids fluttered and Colin became momentarily conscious of all around him. "Ric?"
"I'm here. I won't leave you."
"I'm not going to make it, Ric."
"Don't talk like that."
"It's true. You must leave me; leave me before they find you."
"I'm not leaving!" shouted Ric, tears streaming down his face. He vaguely wondered how long it had been since he'd last cried over anything. "I'm not leaving you alone in this Godforsaken place."
"Show me anywhere on this planet that hasn't been torn apart by the war." His breath shuddered and he let out a long, hard cough, choking up blood. "It's better this way."
"You're not going to die!"
"Look after Jean for me; help her through this. I love you, Ric. Goodbye."
Colin died.
Colin – dead.
Ric stood up, not caring whether he'd be seen or not. In these past few years the world had changed dramatically, and so had the people who lived in it. The Third World War had broken out, people had stopped caring, no one showed their emotions, people daren't speak freely of anything. No one but Colin.
("I love you, Ric.")
Colin had been a source of strength for everyone who'd known him. Unafraid of anyone or anything, or so it seemed.
"Goodbye, Colin," said Ric, for the last time.
("I love you, Ric. Goodbye.")
~*~
(10th November, 1999)
Jean sobbed into Ric's arms.
Dead. Her only brother was dead and the world kept on turning.
Colin.
His name brought a fresh rush of tears into her eyes.
"No one cares, Ric. No one cares except us."
There had been no funeral. Hundreds of people were dying every day – cemeteries were full. So the dead were left where they'd died – bundled into pits if possible, in a bid to contain the spread of disease – and forgotten.
"It's not fair," cried Jean. "He didn't deserve to die."
"I know, I know." But even as the words escaped his lips, Ric wondered if anyone deserved to live in the masochistic world that this had become.
"What's happened to us? Why does everyone seem to have to kill to compromise? It isn't right."
"No one seems to know the meaning of wrong and right anymore; I'm beginning to doubt whether I do. I used to think the world was bad enough – I didn't think it could get any worse. It's as if we've fallen into our own trap and can't free ourselves from ourselves no matter how hard we try or what we do. We just keep going round and round in circles, unknowingly tiring ourselves out."
Jean suddenly pushed herself away from Ric. Her face twisted into a mask of anger. "That's it, isn't it? Everything's just one vicious circle. We live and we die, yet there's no beginning or end. A circle has no beginning or end – maybe we ourselves choose where to begin and end, but we can't choose our course of direction. There are no pathways or forks in a circle; there's only one way we can go. We all end at different places depending on where we begin, but we all travel the same way – there's only one direction we can go in."
"Jean, you're not making any sense. Try to calm down," said Ric, in a bid to reason with the hysterical woman in front of him.
"Don't you see?!" screamed Jean, the bitterness clearly audible in her voice. "Everyone lives the same life, but in a different way and at a different time. You are living the same life as me whether you're aware of it or not. The difference is that you choose your own beginning and your own end. The same things will happen to us in this life, but at different points. We will feel the same emotions and experience the same things, so in a sense, we're all the same even though we are all individual.
"And it's not just us – everything is a circle: life and death, our blood circulation, history repeating itself, revolving planets, even mankind. We can't escape ourselves – we're too intelligent for that.
"Colin!" screamed Jean, suddenly. "He was only half way through his circle – someone else chose his end for him; why?!" She fell whimpering to her knees and cried uncontrollable tears. "Why?" she asked.
Ric had no answer and doubted that he'd ever find one.
~*~
She awoke to the welcoming smell of bacon and eggs. Groaning as her stomach rumbled, she rolled out of bed and clumsily put on the oversized bathrobe which had been her dad's, before she made her way downstairs.
"You didn't have to cook us anything," she said. "I didn't expect you to."
"Ah, you're up. Good morning, Jean," chirped Ric. "Don't worry about it - I love cooking."
"Well, it smells gorgeous."
"Thank you. Here you go." He put down Jean's breakfast in front of her. "Tuck in before it gets cold. I've got a few things to pack for tomorrow, so I'll be upstairs doing that after I've had a shower if you need anything."
"Thanks!" she called out after him as he galloped up the stairs. "Oh, wait … you've forgotten...."
Jean picked up a piece of folded paper that had been left on the table. "Ric? Ric?!" she shouted; but all she got in reply was the consistent drumming of water from the shower hose.
She put down the piece of paper and returned to her breakfast, then picked it up again. Ric wouldn't have anything to hide from her, besides, it was her house. She unfolded it and read the handwriting within:
Colin, my friend,
The only true friend I've ever had,
Your death was rather sudden -
Both Jean and I are very sad.
You know we won't forget you,
Your spirit hasn't died.
Although I've been aching to
I have not yet cried.
Something stops the tears
From rolling down my face -
Maybe the hope that I'll see you again
In another time and place.
But, for now, I'll let you go -
I'll let your spirit fly.
I will meet you again, someday,
'Til then, good friend, goodbye.
"Jean?" Ric's voice interrupted her thoughts. "I thought I heard you call me."
He was standing at the bottom of the stairs with only a towel wrapped around his waist, hair still dripping wet.
Jean thrust out her left arm with the poem clutched tightly in her hand. "I did."
Ric took it. "God, I'm sorry. I never meant for you to see that."
"No, it's okay. In fact, I'm glad I did. We shouldn't keep our feelings bottled up."
There was a moment of silence as both people searched for something to say.
"I didn't know you wrote poetry," said Jean, breaking the silence.
"I don't," he laughed, "I'm hardly good at it, as I'm sure you can tell. It's just something I do from time to time. More like a hobby than anything else. It helps me to feel some sense of peace when everything's so...."
More silence.
"You really loved him, didn't you?" queried Jean.
"We had lots of good times together. He was the best friend I've ever had. He was totally open – he never hid feelings or thoughts – it was so refreshing. He knew what to say – the right things at the right time and all that. Yes, I really did love him."
"He was honest," smiled Jean. "If I was boring him or a dress didn't suit me, he'd tell me. He wouldn't babble either, just got straight to the point, but he wasn't tactless." Jean turned to face Ric. Tears were visible in her eyes, but she was able to control them this time. "I miss him, Ric. And I didn't even get to say goodbye."
There was a momentary awkwardness between them, but Ric quickly dispersed this by leaving the room. "I'd better go and put something on."
He hesitated before walking out. "You should get out of the house. Maybe we could do something together later on – take your mind of things?"
"Who said my mind was on anything?"
"No one, but I need to get my own mind off things."
Jean's eyes softened. "Yes, let's go out, but somewhere safe. I think sixteen is too young an age to die. And I want to live to see seventeen."
Sixteen. She shouldn't know so much pain at such an early age, thought Ric, but then remembered that he himself was barely eighteen.
~*~
Jean and Ric sat under the protective shade of the apple tree in Jean's back garden.
"Jean, thank you. I can't remember the last time I had a picnic as good as that. Never realised how much I missed home-cooked food."
"I'm just sorry we couldn't eat it outside in the fields."
"Too risky. All it takes is an undercover enemy bomber flying above us; we wouldn't last two seconds."
"I know. Ric, I just want all this to be over. It's been going on for too long."
"How long has the war been going on for?"
Jean stared at Ric. Her eyes seemed to mist over as her heart swelled with pity – pity for all the ignorance of mankind. "You know, I can't remember. Worse than that, Ric, I can't even remember why it started."
"Something to do with the European political party wanting permission to test some kind of new machine, I think. The rest of the world denied that permission, but they went ahead with it anyway. Then, suddenly, everyone was fighting one another. I don't even think anyone knows who's side they're on anymore. They just fight for the sake of fighting."
There was a moment of silence as Jean wondered whether she should ask her next question.
"Why did you join the war, Ric? You didn't have to; they don't force you to do these things anymore."
Ric's face was expressionless as he spoke. "It was a vow. Do you remember that time when you climbed into Colin's tree house and saw the two of us smearing each others' blood over our wrists? You must only have been about four."
"You were making a vow?"
He nodded. "A vow to always be best friends and never to leave each other in times of trouble."
Ric's mind raced back twelve years and in front of him, he could now see the image that took place between two six year old boys, as clearly as if it had taken place yesterday....
"Come on, Colin. It won't hurt."
"I don't want to. It will hurt and I don't like blood."
"You have to. You're my best friend and all best friends do this."
"Do not!"
"Don't you want to be my best friend?"
"We're already best friends."
"But this makes it special, and if you don't like blood, you don't have to look."
Colin stared at Ric with his big, watery eyes, still hesitant.
"This will make your blood my blood and my blood your blood; we'll be like brothers."
Colin smiled at the thought of having a brother. Better than a boring little sister who didn't like climbing trees. "Okay, but they have to be little cuts." He held out his wrist toward Ric.
Ric pressed down on it with the bread knife until dark red seeped through the broken skin on his friend's wrist, then did the same to his own.
"Now rub," ordered Ric.
Colin pulled a face and turned his head away, but did as he was instructed.
"Now we're together."
"What do you mean?"
But his question was never answered because a little blonde head appeared at the tree house door. "Urrgh!" it cried.
"Jean! Get out!" shouted Colin with new found aggression.
"Urrgh, there's blood on you. I'll get Mummy to get a plaster."
"No!" both boys cried in unison.
The little girl smiled. "Don't you want Mummy to know you cut yourself?"
The boys stared at Colin's sister, willing her to go away.
Rolling her eyes up, she took the hint. "All right, I won't tell," she promised, making her way down the ladder. At the bottom, she looked up and shouted, "Boys are so immature!" then walked away.
Ric and Colin looked at each other in confusion. "What does 'immature' mean?" asked one.
"I don't know," replied the other....
"Ric, you were both so young."
"That doesn't matter; the vow meant the world to both of us. We were together from that day on, and we're still together now," he whispered.
Jean studied Ric as silent tears rolled down his cheeks. If he was aware of her gaze, he didn't turn away and he didn't hide his tears. She continued to stare at his profile – strong jaw, strong legs, strong shoulders. But his eyes, still shedding their tears, held the love he felt for Colin, and something else: knowledge. He knew too much for a teenager, and her heart went out to him.
~*~
He stood at the door in his uniform carrying his giant rucksack.
"Do you have to go?"
"They only gave me a few days leave and only because I bribed them. To them, Colin was just another soldier."
"Can't you resign or something?"
"I could, but I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"A bit of both. I have to, Jean. Not for me, but for Colin. He was a good man. He was convinced that he was fighting for the good of the world. His reasons may have been wrong – who knows – but he had the bravest heart that any soldier could have. He had no appreciation for the war (....I don't like blood....), yet he was aware that everyday brought him closer to death (....it'll hurt....). He didn't deserve to die."
"Neither do you. Colin wouldn't want you dead."
Ric said nothing, but lowered his head and kissed Jean's lips. Just a kiss, but so much more than a kiss. In that moment, Ric forgot the war. All the pain and agony was vanquished from his mind, replaced by a feeling that seemed to have disappeared from the human race since the war had begun. Yet here it was as strong as ever.
As he raised his head, and looked into those blue eyes, he longed to say the words that his heart urged. But his brain forced away the urge, knowing that the words would only bring pain in the future.
"Take care, Jean," he said instead; then walked away.
Jean watched the man walk away and resisted the impulsive urge to sprint after him. Although no words were said, she saw it in his eyes and knew he must've seen the same in hers. She couldn't say the words then, they would've brought too much pain, but she said them now as she watched the figure of the young soldier fade into the distance....
"I love you, Ric."
~*~
(30th November, 1999)
"Ric! Ric! Give me more bullets – I need more bullets!"
"What? I can't hear you!"
"Bullets!"
Ric battled over the noise of guns, bombs and crying, but still failed to make out the words of the soldier. As he crouched in the trench, he wondered who the man beside him was; they all looked the same with their tattered uniforms and muddy faces. It seemed the only way to tell them apart was from their wounds.
From the left came the sound of a faint cry – another soldier dead. They were dropping like flies. Suddenly, the image of Colin jumped into his mind, and with it came Jean.
"Jean." The sound of her name alone gave him strength. "Oi!" he shouted to the man beside him, "Cover me!"
Impulsively, Ric leaped up and ran towards base which was situated underground. Down one hole, then another, left twice, right, then down another hole.
He ran to the chest beside his bunk and took out a pen and paper. He had no time to think, but he didn't need to. The words seemed to flow from the nib, almost as if the pen had a life of its own.
Within a few minutes, he'd finished and looked down to read his work. It'll have to do, he thought. Time meant everything.
He made his way down the darkened corridor and reached an adjoining base. "Brian!"
"What are you doing here? You should be out fighting."
"Brian, listen. You owe me a favour, right?"
"Ric, now's not the time. If they catch you here...."
"No! Now is the time. Time's all I've got. Take this." He handed the man a piece of paper. "I want you to deliver it for me. The address is on there. Get it to that address before New Year."
"Oh, man, you don't know what you're asking me to do!"
"Please! I'm begging you. My sanity is in that letter."
"All right," whispered Brian, "I'll go now."
"God bless you," said Ric as he left.
Back in the trench, Ric found the soldier that had been there dead. He looked around him. The situation hadn't improved; then laughed bitterly to himself. Would it ever?
Hearing a noise behind him, he turned and stared at the face of death as a metallic nozzle aimed at his chest.
~*~
(31st December, 1999)
Back in Tunbridge, Jean removed the turkey from the oven. Ric would be home in a little while, then they could laze by the fire until midnight and celebrate the turn of the century together; the new millennium.
Together; at last.
She set the turkey down and lay on the couch, a wistful smile on her face as she read the poem Ric had sent her:
In this cold, cruel world
It's taken me a while
To realise your kindness
And banish my denial.
'Though it's taken some time
For me to understand
Just what I feel for you
And where I should stand,
I hope you will listen
To what I have to say -
It's taken me some courage
To write to you this way.
Give me a chance
To unburden my pain;
The way I feel for you
Is hard to explain.
Your presence gives me hope
And strength to face my fears -
Knowing that you're with me
Stops my lonely flow of tears.
I don't know what you feel for me -
I don't know if I should.
Would you ever care for me?
Do you think you ever could?
The way that I am acting
Is typical of my youth
And, although I'm scared to tell you,
It's time you knew the truth.
I kept it hidden well, but
I no longer can deny,
I think that I'm in love with you;
I wait for your reply.
I love you, Jean. I'll be home for New Year.
He hadn't signed it, but, of course, she knew who it was from.
Watching the seconds tick by, she made herself comfortable and waited for his return.
~*~
(30th November, 1999)
The pain in his chest was too much; he felt as if he were on fire. Closing his eyes, he willed the pain to disappear, to go away. It got worse.
Slowly, his mind began to slip away, taking him from reality and into oblivion. He thought of Jean as he let out his last shuddering breath. Something inside him seemed to suck his mind inwards, dragging his soul and thoughts into the doorway of time and finally, he began to understand what Jean had meant about life being one big circle.
~*~
Around Ric, Jean and Colin, the war continues. The hate, the disgrace, all even more noticeable now than ever. From a distance, the world looks like a delicate bubble, portraying swirling patterns of blue, green, white … and red.
For those who did not know Ric and Colin, nothing changes. The people who did know Ric and Colin soon forgot about them, after all, they were just two more insignificant people.
Jean never found out about Ric's death, and she's still there, hoping, praying....
The fighting persists and the people bleed. The world, on its axis, continues to revolve in that vicious circle that never ends.
Other titles in the From The Pen Of A Child range:
Gift (paranormal thriller)
Lucinda (contemporary, second world war fiction)
About The Author:
Dianna
Hardy is a UK-based, independent author of Paranormal Romance (for
adults), Urban Fantasy, Gothic Poetry (A
Silver Kiss - Vampire Poetry) and the
Occult. As well as The
Witching Pen Novellas, she is working on The
Last Angel and the Project Veil series, which will
bring together demons, vampires and angels in an Earth-shattering
way.
The Elementals Series, due out in 2012, is
her first step, as an adult writer, into the world of Young Adult
fiction.
She began to write at the age of ten, and has had
several poems published in small press magazines over the years. Her
background is in alternative medicines, Pagan and Shamanic philosophy
and practice, as well as the Creative Arts, having studied Theatre
and Acting at Drama School. She pens Mind, Body, Spirit / Occult
non-fiction books in her fields of practice.
An advocate for
the freedom of self-expression and personal choice, Dianna is an avid
fan of self-publishing ("such a vital tool for all levels of
communication"), and provides free poetry and short story
downloads through The Creative Commons License, in support and
encouragement of budding writers following their passion.
Dianna
lives in the UK with her partner and their daughter, where she
devotes her time to parenting, publishing and writing.
Website: www.YoungAdult.DiannaHardy.com
Email: youngadult@diannahardy.com