azwraith,
The Note Under the Snow
Greetings to whoever finds this piece of parchment.
I am an imperial soldier, belonging to the empire of Nihon.
Written here, are my experiences during our campaign in Shandong.
My friend, the life of a soldier is not an easy one. We marched through the snowy places of Korea and unto Weihai, where I expected that the last battle of this war would be. Our enemy is formidable for its very foundation comes from a very ancient empire, more ancient than Nihon. But I still could not believe that we were winning this war. Our enemy is ancient and it has begun to show its age during our very first battle.
But still we marched through snow and ice. Our spirits are waning a little bit but still we pressed on. Our horses beaten and freezing but we cannot leave them. We lighten the burden of our horses by burning our supplies, in order for the enemy not to make use of them. We keep our senses sharp for our enemies might stage an ambush, after all, we are deep inside the enemy’s borders.
Dried fish that won’t cook and freshly plucked vegetables became our half-boiled meals. We warmed ourselves using a bonfire but the flames are low and the wood we used is moist and hard to burn. The water we get is from the snow melting inside our boots. Our rifles are our walking sticks, and the gunshots and musket fire, our lullabies.
Our beds are the clothes we wear, our blankets are our coats and our pillows are our knapsacks. The snow beneath our backs when we lie down melts and warms us a little bit.
I joined the imperial army, so I could bring honor to my family and country, like every boy in our town that dreamt of bathing in glory.
My comrades and I came to this place to offer our lives for Nihon. We charge with the thought that every bayonet assault becomes a gamble with death. I expect nothing but to either die for my country or return home with glory.
My close comrades were killed in our last encounter with our enemies last week, as of now I have no one to talk to but myself and new recruits.
I am writing this letter before we initiate our final blow to the enemy.
I am not worried though, for I do not intend to return alive anyway. We were told to expect and anticipate death. To retreat is to bring shame and dishonor to the empire.
Glory to my country and emperor and honor to my comrades and family.
Let our sacrifices be a foundation for prosperity and peace.
Please let it be so.
Literary: The Note Under the Snow x Remembering
The Note Under the Snow
Greetings to whoever finds this piece of parchment.
I am an imperial soldier, belonging to the empire of Nihon.
Written here, are my experiences during our campaign in Shandong.
My friend, the life of a soldier is not an easy one. We marched through the snowy places of Korea and unto Weihai, where I expected that the last battle of this war would be. Our enemy is formidable for its very foundation comes from a very ancient empire, more ancient than Nihon. But I still could not believe that we were winning this war. Our enemy is ancient and it has begun to show its age during our very first battle.
But still we marched through snow and ice. Our spirits are waning a little bit but still we pressed on. Our horses beaten and freezing but we cannot leave them. We lighten the burden of our horses by burning our supplies, in order for the enemy not to make use of them. We keep our senses sharp for our enemies might stage an ambush, after all, we are deep inside the enemy’s borders.
Dried fish that won’t cook and freshly plucked vegetables became our half-boiled meals. We warmed ourselves using a bonfire but the flames are low and the wood we used is moist and hard to burn. The water we get is from the snow melting inside our boots. Our rifles are our walking sticks, and the gunshots and musket fire, our lullabies.
Our beds are the clothes we wear, our blankets are our coats and our pillows are our knapsacks. The snow beneath our backs when we lie down melts and warms us a little bit.
I joined the imperial army, so I could bring honor to my family and country, like every boy in our town that dreamt of bathing in glory.
My comrades and I came to this place to offer our lives for Nihon. We charge with the thought that every bayonet assault becomes a gamble with death. I expect nothing but to either die for my country or return home with glory.
My close comrades were killed in our last encounter with our enemies last week, as of now I have no one to talk to but myself and new recruits.
I am writing this letter before we initiate our final blow to the enemy.
I am not worried though, for I do not intend to return alive anyway. We were told to expect and anticipate death. To retreat is to bring shame and dishonor to the empire.
Glory to my country and emperor and honor to my comrades and family.
Let our sacrifices be a foundation for prosperity and peace.
Please let it be so.
Remembering
The field stretched onwards for miles on end.
It was like any other field: green covered it like how moss covers rocks. It housed life, living in scuttling communities beneath the naked eye. It had a river running across from the mountains up north to the seas to the west, overflowing with aquatic life. Up ahead, birds flew in migration, either choosing to roost in the field, or to live in some other far-off place. Nature’s music could have been heard a mile off, telling the outside world what life inside was like.
There was no river. There was no music. There was no life.
A lone, mounted figure can be seen approaching from the distance.
The figure directs its horse towards the now barren field, save for a single tree, planted on what used to be the riverbank.
The tree, unlike the surrounding field, was alive.
Up in its boughs, the leaves were the most vibrant green, like little emeralds carried by rough, thick arms. The branches themselves, knotted at their base, stretched towards the sky, like fingers willing to grasp the air above it. The trunk, due to the shape of the branches, was shaped like an outstretched arm, chopped off from the owner’s body and planted by the riverside. This image, however, is ruined by the roots: thick, gnarly, and twisting all the way down to the earth. Here, what few animals left made the tree their home.
Nestled in the roots was a single, gray slab.
It was unmarked, save for an engraving of the sun peeking behind a mountain range.
As the horse neared the tree, the figure dismounted, before approaching the tree all by herself.
“Hi, dad,” she whispered, kneeling before the gravestone, tears starting to stream down her face, “Long time no see.”
Galing!
ReplyDelete