I promised the next written shit I’d post would not be a fanfiction of my own story. Therefore, have officers in wigs and fancy pants who don't flee from their duty.
Written for the contest that will end all contests
. Ha ha ha it’s not funny. Somewhere along the line, this nice writing challenge
crept in: I thought it would be funny, it turned out too easy and not a challenge at all.
(Addendum that will win me oh so many friends: dear English-speaking people, you’re a bunch of pussies. So you think shit ending in –ly is bad? Do you know what the equivalent ending for that is in Italian? –mente. That’s right. I.e., slowly
. LENTAMENTE. JESUS CHRIST ON ROLLER SKATES WHY THE FUCK DID WE EVEN DROP LATIN.)
Playing it safe and going for the Seven Years’ War once more; post-Kunersdorf, that is, this joyride
. Also clickable here
if German doesn’t sit well with you; but the Welt article has two pictures of Ewald Christian von Kleist, so it’s relevant.
Oh, yeah. E.C. v. K. existed. He wrote poetry like this
and I would lie if I said the pity card for his death is enough to make me prefer him to Heinrich von Kleist. Anyway. During the battle, Kleist suffered severe wounds to both his hands, left arm and right leg: the cossacks who found him in this state did the obvious thing, that is, rob him and dump him to agonise in a bog. During the night, a detachment of hussars found him there, gave him a blanket and some money. Both things were plundered at once when the cossacks dropped by there the morning after. At last, a Russian officer had him picked up for good, the wounds treated (with something alcoholic, de.wiki says but, much to my chagrin, cites no sources) and Kleist brought to Frankfurt-on-Oder, where he died on August 24th and was buried with all honours by the Russian garrison.
Enter obligatory Menzel: friedrich.uni-trier.de/fr/kugl…
Agathe is a lie. Her real name should be Lenore
, but: a) that would be the second all too easy thing about this story; b) I like Der Freischütz
Personal feels, aka this part is uninteresting and don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I hated writing this thing. I hated myself while I was writing it. No clue why.
A more general why
is, likewise, out of my reach. I’m no military. None of these people is my people, as in, I’m not Prussian nor Russian, for all I know/care. But I am silly enough that, in another time and with a different package between my legs and inculcated in my mind, I would have been happy to meet a glorious, brainless, blissful, nonsensical death on the battlefield. Just for the hell of it. Of course, reality adds cossacks and bogs, the party may get more or less crashed and rage ensue: fucking lying bastards, the show sucked, give me back my ticket money! And my bowels.
That will be all. Ite in pace.
And if you spot an adverb in –ly, please tell me so I can take that dipshit to the street, shoot it in the face, pee on the corpse and leave it at the mercy of stray dogs and kids with camera phones.