DUFFBAGS

Creative story

The pool of dried crimson, clung as the fallen warrior prized his cheek from the gritty stone floor. The biting chill of the floor contrasted with the torridity of the room. The narrow beam of light that was cast upon the ground split the two sides of the darkened room. Even though jack squinted he could not identify the faint object positioned on the opposite side.

His memory was blunted by piercing fuzz but his senses were still as sharp as the knife that he could not find. He patted his legs frantically until he felt the rib of a short empty leather sheath that once contained an item most treasured to him. His stomach plummeted as he realised his knife was gone. A distinct hand carved ivory white hilt bonded to a crude metal blade of a standard issue combat knife. The knife had a blurred but vibrant history. The hilt was carried by napoleon when conquering Europe and was believed to protect all who carried it and conquer anything it was pointed at. Superstitious nonsense was jacks only response to anyone who asked him about the odd blade. He hated telling the story and would only begrudgingly tell it if harassed. What jack was more concerned about was the misplacing of his tool. Everything in its place and tidy was a motto he lived by. Losing a part of his uniform was the same as losing a limb. Its usefulness as a combat weapon was always questionable as it failed at the easiest of tasks from cutting vines to preparing chicken. This was the blunt weapons main duty when on patrol and had never tasted blood when in jack’s possetion.

A muffled groan tremmered across the wall. He ignored it. He sat there questioning whether it was just his memory that had cracked. Jack hears the echoing of slow heavy boots scrap...

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... his friend and morbid curiosity forced his head to look at marks. The tall man had not finished. Jack watched as marks lifeless grey face was twisted and wretched from its torso by the neck bone and then wielded into the direction of the light.

Jack turned away almost vomiting onto the floor. He remembered what mark had said and forced himself to look emotionless into the direction of the event. Everything turned to him. The flag now moved to behind jack. It was evident that the routine had been practiced many times before. But one thing had changed. As jack was been kicked to the floor he noticed the hessian split in the bag revealed the tall man pulling out an object from his side. He had sheathed his sword and instead pulled out a distinct hand carved ivory white hilt bonded to a crude metal blade of a standard issue combat knife… Jack clenched in anticipation.