This is one of my earlier works. It definitley borders on the macabre, but it was an important step down the path I've been building as a writer.
Fallen Skies
The acrid smell of burning fuel and smoke jolted him awake. He blinked few times, fighting back the darkness that had overwhelmed him once before. He attempted to hoist himself up, but a shockwave of pain erupted through his abdomen. He hesitantly glared down and groaned in agony as the shard of broken glass dug itself further into his stomach. Mumbling a few words of encouragement, he slowly gripped the fragment with his hand, held his breath, and yanked. He let out a squeal and slammed his clenched fist against the side of the cockpit.
Even under his heavy breathing, he could hear the whistle of the bombshells and bullets echo through the alleys and streets. He forced himself to lean back on the pilot’s seat, and squinted up at the clouds above. There were none. At least, none that he could see. All that remained of his squadron was a black smog that tainted the atmosphere like an epidemic. They must’ve all either retreated or been left to rot in the godforsaken Japanese rubble like him.
He tilted his head to the left, focusing on the flag fluttering effortlessly through the flames. He wondered what it meant, what the design was meant to inspire. It was so plain. Nothing but a red dot on a white tarp. Yet he’d seen men sacrifice humanity and life without second thought. It was unlike anything he’d seen under his own flag, proudly waving stars and stripes in the most intricate design imaginable. He recalled the flag that had been sewed onto his uniform, but it had been burnt to ash, along with the rest of his sleeve.
The scorched remains of his clothes led to a horrific realization. He madly dug through his pockets, and desperately scanned the cockpit. He let out a sigh of relief as he picked up a photograph from under his foot. The pilot held it up to his face and stared intensely at the wooden barn. Although it was black and white, he could still vividly remember its deep brown gloss of paint, along with the fields of bright green that encompassed it. He drifted off for a few moments, thinking of the exact location of every loose floorboard inside. Then, with a deep breath, he stuffed the picture into his pocket and began to punch out the remains of glass that were still attached to the frame. With a groan, he dragged himself out of what was left of his plane, rolling off the nose and slamming into the ground. Within a few seconds, he had feebly forced himself up using a detached wing for balance.
He had no set goal in mind, the amalgamated concoction of fear, confusion, and determination simply told him to walk. After a few steps, still leaning on the dismembered wing, he tripped over himself and stumbled onto the concrete. He lifted his torso and put all his support on his elbow. He could sense his breathing slowing down, his head going numb, and his thoughts growing cloudy. His eyes slowly rolled back up, gazing forward. A few inches in front of him was a bright red Japanese fan, completely spread open. He extended his hand and reached for it. His middle and index finger just barely pressed down on its hinge. He dragged it closer, and glared at it, his jaw beginning to drop from exhaustion, physical and mental alike. Although most of the fan had been charred, and it was written in another dialect, the final scene was easily translated. A man and woman were sharing a kiss.
He let out a feeble chuckle and rolled onto his back. He clutched the fan in his hand, and pulled it into his chest. He began to laugh as darkness overwhelmed him for the last time.
Two excessively decorated men stood over what was left of a fallen pilot. Their faces were clean-shaven and their hair well-groomed with gel. One aimed his eyes indifferently at the clipboard in his hands. He was rather pudgy and constantly made an effort to keep his head elevated 45 degrees. He periodically glanced down at the body to jot down details. The other was leaner and younger, but his face bore several scars. He knelt down beside the body, stoically scanning the wounds. He fidgeted his shoulders around, and placed his fingers around the pilot's open eyes. They seemed to be staring back at him, motionless but pitiful. They were still begging for mercy, even though it was already hours, maybe even days, too late for that. The man averted his eyes, and closed the pilot's. His corpse had left a trail of crimson blood behind it that led back to his plane. All that remained inside the cockpit was what had once been the pilot's right arm.
"What's the tag say?" asked the pudgy man.
"I don't need it. I knew the guy, we were-"
"What's the name?"
"Jack, sir, Jack Polar, " he said.
"Family?"
"I don't think so, not anymore at least. His daughter-"
"Cause of death?"
The younger man held his breath and clenched his fist. He could hear the pudgy man tapping his foot against the concrete.
"Dismemberment, blood loss, severe head trauma, Japanese fighter pilots, the pursuit of democracy, egocentric leaders, maybe even the idiotic commands of superiors." he said, staring down the older man, "You can take your pick, honestly."
The pudgy man seemed satisfied with the first answer. He'd stopped listening after that and eagerly wrote it down on his clipboard.
"Let's get going," he said, " There are more bodies to attend to."
