/me tips his hat. Good-bye old friend, you will be greatly missed.
A Proud Member of the TeamFortress2 WebRing




  Feel Creative? -- This section is now closed and stands as a epitome of what the general reader of the TF Community can produce on a whim.

S

Creative Archives
  Stories 01-08-00
  Music & Poetry 1-8-00
  Stories 11-07-99
  Poetry 10-30-99
  RR 10-30-99
  Stories 10-30-99
  Poetry 10-21-99
  Stories 10-21-99
  RR 10-23-99
  Stories 10-13-99
  RR 10-12-99
  Poetry 10-12-99
  Stories 10-12-99
  RR 10-11-99
  Stories 10-11-99
  Poetry 10-11-99
  Stories 10-10-99



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   Creative Writing 101

TF2 Version of Saving Private Ryan

by: [SOJ] Badfish, 10-10-99

‘Here they come! Here they come!’ Gun locks clicked.

Across the smoke-infested fields came a brown swarm of running men who were giving shrill yells in the headset. They come on, stooping and swinging their M16-A2s at all angles. A Flag titled forward, sped near the front.

As he caught sight of them, the new recruit was momentarily startled by a though that perhaps his gun was not loaded. He stood trying to rally his faltering intellect so that he might recollect the moment when he had loaded, but he could not.

The commander sent it a urgent message to the squad defending the battlefield. ‘You’ve got to hold ‘em back!’ he shouted, savagely; ‘you’ve got to hold ‘em back! This is our last command point!’

In his agitation the squad officer began to stammer to the commander. ‘A-all r-right, Commander, all right, by god ! We-we’ll d-d-do - do our best commander!’ The officer took a quick look at the new recruit and got back into position. The recruit, turning swiftly to make sure that the rear was unmolested, saw the squad officer’s face in a fear that he had not ever seen before.

The SOJ member at the recruit’s elbow was mumbling, as if to him-self: ‘Oh, we’re in for it now! Oh, we’re in for it now!, this is the last command point!’

The officer of the squad was looking at our formation, nothing but medium infantry’s, low on ammo, and no engineers. His talk was endless repetition. ‘Reserve your fire, boys - don’t shoot till they get up close - don’t be damned fools -‘

Perspiration streamed down the recruit’s face, some of it caused by the elder SOJ members in the same trench as him, for he new that this was time to show his skills. He frequently, with a nervous movement, wiped his eyes and hands with his arm. His left-eyed, blinking like mad, tried to stay focus in his sniper-rifles lens, regarding the sweat.

He got one glance at the foe-swarming field in front of him, and instantly ceased to debate the question of his piece being loaded. Before he wa