(i wrote this for English at the end of last term.
there's bits i like, bits i don't like. it was veerrry last minute, like literally half a week before it was due because so much was going on academically at that time. it was sposed to be a modernised version of Macbeth. mine was set in a concentration camp. on the most part, its embarrassingly over-descriptive. like 'hi, i like creative writiiing guyz, its a hobbie of mine, i've never read a book in my life but im going to use the word 'however' as many times as i can in a single paragraph.' or maybe not like that at all.. you decide.
i hate the way i made it end so abruptly because i got lazy and idea-less.
AND i know it's looong but that's to be expected of me nowadays, i think ? i know i'm a waffle. but i like waffles. they're great with syrup.)
'Incineration of the Human Conscience: Macbeth modernised.'
Overhead, three vultures circle. Their keen eyes search the sea of emaciated bodies for their next meal. They don’t notice that we exist down here, or that we continue to live; to survive, from sunrise to sunset, though all the while showing no real signs of life. We are the dead - herded like animals, void of all rights and dignity that would allow us any opportunity of communication or exterior emotion. Just as birds flock elsewhere in the colder months, in search of nourishment and shelter; an escape, we travel together in an exhausted mass in desperate hope of a slight improvement of where we are now – Mauthausen concentration camp.
One of the scavengers released a rasping screech - in doing so breaking the aching silence for a fragment of a second. As vultures, they are the scum of the sky. Here as Jews, albeit humans, we are the scum of the Earth.
Our heads remain obediently bowed, our shoulders collectively slumped. We shuffle uniformly, in single file, day after day after repetitive, melancholic day. We are always being watched; always seen through the scrutinising eyes of the authorities, but not once are we ever heard.
The cold is so stifling that all the brain can concentrate on is the slow, steady trudging of the skeletal excuses for legs in front. Not a single foot is stepped out of line on either side. There is no forgiveness for error here, you learn quickly.
To the side of the front of the food line a comparatively less-gaunt figure can be seen. Although more or less physically alone in his stance, the man’s self-conscious dependence upon and admiration of his superiors is demonstrated quite plainly, although non-verbally. He can be seen with arms crossed, mimicking the other three guards in child-like search of approval or recognition as they intrude upon his shadow, apathetic dispositions in tow. Sporting a red cap, he is stuck in an awkward limbo between camp prisoner and camp authority. He wears the same uniform as the rest of us, but is not one of us. His similarly bald head is covered instead with a few scraps of red fabric that have been roughly sewn together into the shape of a cap.
A red cap is more or less royalty. It signifies a little extra food, a thicker blanket and indifference from the guards. Indifference is a blessing, as in this case, camouflage is synonymous with a longer life expectancy. Within the first few months of the camp’s existence, the more fit of the male workers were given a red cap and a sense of duty. They had been given the role of guard’s assistant – they tell the authorities of any thefts or traitorous activity that takes place behind closed doors.
The red target that was central in my sights this morning belonged to 70-odd-year-old Duncan, and I wanted in.
My envious thought processes were broken as I found myself on the receiving end of a tired nudge in the ribs from what is now my brother’s painfully skeletal elbow. I would have groaned had the cold not blocked out all of my physical senses weeks ago.
In my direction he hissed, ‘Michael, you’re staring at Duncan again…you know that cap’s got your name written all over it.’
I knew he was right in one respect. Partially, I wanted the cap and the extra food, without doubt, but was not about to forcefully remove the position from anyone. If anything, this camp has shown me that out of all of the combinations of emotions on Earth, that without compassion and companionship, no person or difficult circumstance can be conquered or indeed even endured.
I studied the inside of my eyelids for a minute before further diverting my attention to the growing and gaping hole in the front of my faded cotton shirt. I pulled at a loose thread until the worn opening had almost doubled in size. Being agonizingly close to succeeding in wholly distracting myself momentarily, I irritatingly found myself only to be tugged from my thoughts for a second time.
In an impatient and whispered tone I heard the words,
‘Come on, he’s not even good at what he does. I know you’re tired of barely scraping through survival on this slop, we all are. Think of the extra food you could be getting with that cap. He’s a liar, Mike, he’s a danger to all of us. We can get rid of him easily.’
I shook my head, though in partial defeat, with my eyes once more focussed steadfastly straight ahead. I noticed that the line for food was growing progressively shorter, as was my struggling resistance.
As the sun reached the horizon we retired to our icy wooden bunks for another uncomfortable night of unrest. We were retiring once more, but as brothers; as people with names, rather than numbers. For the entirety of the evening no crack in the wall, splinter in the bed or fleeting draught of wind went unnoticed. My eyes didn’t shut for a second all night. Instead, they incessantly flicked around the room, for the constant and choking fear that my thinking would become verbal as I continuously deliberated and tore my morals apart over Ben’s words and the possibility of Duncan’s position soon becoming solely and rightfully mine.
While lining up for the morning soup ration, Duncan’s cap appeared to be redder than ever; the fabric darkened to a deep crimson of blood. His usual stone-faced expression of authority had transformed instead to a taunting and smug smirk. As I approached him in the line, an overpowering smell of human death arose from nearby brick towers in the form of stiflingly thick black smoke. The dawn seemed to be entirely without noise other than knives being sharpened against each other at the food stand, while a quiet, more distant chugging noise could be heard from two steam trains in the distance. It was a recognized realisation that both trains were headed directly to Auschwitz death camp.
It seemed that even the vultures understood the fight against fate of the red –donned figure on that morning. The ravenous birds circled a few times but never once swooped down, as they had every day previously.
Upon reaching the soup-laden guard I veered a sharp left, directly into the sights of the other who stood at that stage unoccupied, arms crossed, on casual but sharp surveillance. I tipped him off in hushed and hurried tones about Duncan’s ‘theft’ of food. While in full awareness that it was in actual fact his colleague’s wrongdoing, I could see the sentry’s ears prick up within seconds. He nodded, while his eyes visibly widened with surprise; darting around in both confusion and perhaps betrayal.
Upon returning silently into the line once more, I felt another friendlier shove to the ribs, although in this instance no words were exchanged. A slight nod signalled my brother’s approval, fully aware that the deed was indeed done.
There was rewarding for acts like that of my own, regardless of red cap or not. I knew that Duncan’s position would so soon be mine, and fairly so.
The following morning was as anticipatory as the previous, if not more. At daybreak, I was handed a small pouch along with my soup bowl. Its contents were expectantly no more than a small scrap of now-faded red fabric that had a short brim at one end.
The thrill from adrenaline and newly-obtained self-satisfaction that filled my mind and body within that instant temporarily liberated all discomfort that I had been feeling as a result of the frozen winter air.
The arrival of the cap into my awaiting hands had simultaneously marked the disappearance of Duncan from Mauthausen camp. I could only assume the worst; that his faux act of theft had resulted in the grey-haired, ex-guard’s assistant being sent on a direct route to Auschwitz.
As days passed, I came to realise through my newly promoted social rank that not even a prolonged stint in a concentration camp can do a lot to suppress the individual ambition that can be found within all conscious beings – whether being victorious in a metaphorical arm-wrestle with mortality or not. As my brother grew ever more bitter with the passing of each day, his words became to be all but generated with a supportive or compassionate motive. His actions seemed to become increasingly colder, as did the temperatures outside. Contrastingly, outside of Mauthausen the war grew hotter; its unrelenting grasp on our throats slowly but surely tightening. Prisoners started dropping like flies as the smoke that rose from the chimneys grew fatally thicker as a result.
I found myself cold and alone. Without the comradeship of my brother I became quite literally just another number on the long list of death-assured Jews. In my position of solitude and social isolation, the vultures were my only companions. They were without guilt or moral conscience, seemingly appearing then disappearing at their own free will – the perfect disposable partners in crime.
Without a real reason to continue living as well as not having the fortunate gift of flight like my new-found feathered friends, I found myself digging a mentally-draining hole that felt to be kilometres deep. It became difficult to find things that were worth greeting each breaking day for. My existence had been solely and wholly reduced to the simple repetition of breathing in and out, with my eyes constantly darting left, then right.
The extra food was so insignificant an increase that I noticed no difference in my physical health; my ribs still jutted out at an angle that no longer seemed alarming to my eyes.
The satisfaction that I had once held quickly approached guilt while the empathy and fairness that I had prided myself on within my red-capped role of responsibility in the past, dwindled, and soon became overridden with an abusive lust for power.
Friendship and equality turned to words that I had, either subconsciously or consciously, wiped from my vocabulary as well as from all mental thought and processes.
Again, my sight appeared to alter on a remarkable level; mirroring my thoughts almost identically. My cap drooped and sagged at the edges, as if others were always trying to pull it off my head and from my grasp completely. Its colour returned to a shade of stale blood…my blood…Duncan’s blood. Ben’s sneering eyes undeniably understood more than they let on, and I felt his stare burning a deep and dark hole into the back of my crimson headwear whenever he was reduced to a hazy image at the very edge of my peripherals.
I heard whispers, which caused me to don my cap protectively, even in my sleep. I slept lightly or not at all, panic taking over every physical sense that existed in my body.
‘Michael murders sleep, Michael murders sleep, Michael murders sleep’, I heard the wind howl through the worn, wooden rafters at night.
Faces in the mass of Jews appeared to sprout grey hair or a rugged moustache, just as Duncan’s had been. Backs grew hunched and towering, similar to Ben’s.
No corner could I turn without the sight of looming smoke from human death. It overwhelmed me entirely, weighing down my tired lungs with every waking moment of its constricting embrace. Paranoia was not an obsession or irrational disorder of mine, but a form of safety; a comfortable blanket of peace.
After weeks of distress along with a zombie-like gait, I fell; simultaneously both mentally and physically. Ben, soon after, disappeared on a train to nowhere.
If anything, this camp has shown me that out of all of the combinations of emotions on Earth, that without compassion and companionship, no person or difficult circumstance can be conquered or indeed even endured.
there's bits i like, bits i don't like. it was veerrry last minute, like literally half a week before it was due because so much was going on academically at that time. it was sposed to be a modernised version of Macbeth. mine was set in a concentration camp. on the most part, its embarrassingly over-descriptive. like 'hi, i like creative writiiing guyz, its a hobbie of mine, i've never read a book in my life but im going to use the word 'however' as many times as i can in a single paragraph.' or maybe not like that at all.. you decide.
i hate the way i made it end so abruptly because i got lazy and idea-less.
AND i know it's looong but that's to be expected of me nowadays, i think ? i know i'm a waffle. but i like waffles. they're great with syrup.)
'Incineration of the Human Conscience: Macbeth modernised.'
Overhead, three vultures circle. Their keen eyes search the sea of emaciated bodies for their next meal. They don’t notice that we exist down here, or that we continue to live; to survive, from sunrise to sunset, though all the while showing no real signs of life. We are the dead - herded like animals, void of all rights and dignity that would allow us any opportunity of communication or exterior emotion. Just as birds flock elsewhere in the colder months, in search of nourishment and shelter; an escape, we travel together in an exhausted mass in desperate hope of a slight improvement of where we are now – Mauthausen concentration camp.
One of the scavengers released a rasping screech - in doing so breaking the aching silence for a fragment of a second. As vultures, they are the scum of the sky. Here as Jews, albeit humans, we are the scum of the Earth.
Our heads remain obediently bowed, our shoulders collectively slumped. We shuffle uniformly, in single file, day after day after repetitive, melancholic day. We are always being watched; always seen through the scrutinising eyes of the authorities, but not once are we ever heard.
The cold is so stifling that all the brain can concentrate on is the slow, steady trudging of the skeletal excuses for legs in front. Not a single foot is stepped out of line on either side. There is no forgiveness for error here, you learn quickly.
To the side of the front of the food line a comparatively less-gaunt figure can be seen. Although more or less physically alone in his stance, the man’s self-conscious dependence upon and admiration of his superiors is demonstrated quite plainly, although non-verbally. He can be seen with arms crossed, mimicking the other three guards in child-like search of approval or recognition as they intrude upon his shadow, apathetic dispositions in tow. Sporting a red cap, he is stuck in an awkward limbo between camp prisoner and camp authority. He wears the same uniform as the rest of us, but is not one of us. His similarly bald head is covered instead with a few scraps of red fabric that have been roughly sewn together into the shape of a cap.
A red cap is more or less royalty. It signifies a little extra food, a thicker blanket and indifference from the guards. Indifference is a blessing, as in this case, camouflage is synonymous with a longer life expectancy. Within the first few months of the camp’s existence, the more fit of the male workers were given a red cap and a sense of duty. They had been given the role of guard’s assistant – they tell the authorities of any thefts or traitorous activity that takes place behind closed doors.
The red target that was central in my sights this morning belonged to 70-odd-year-old Duncan, and I wanted in.
My envious thought processes were broken as I found myself on the receiving end of a tired nudge in the ribs from what is now my brother’s painfully skeletal elbow. I would have groaned had the cold not blocked out all of my physical senses weeks ago.
In my direction he hissed, ‘Michael, you’re staring at Duncan again…you know that cap’s got your name written all over it.’
I knew he was right in one respect. Partially, I wanted the cap and the extra food, without doubt, but was not about to forcefully remove the position from anyone. If anything, this camp has shown me that out of all of the combinations of emotions on Earth, that without compassion and companionship, no person or difficult circumstance can be conquered or indeed even endured.
I studied the inside of my eyelids for a minute before further diverting my attention to the growing and gaping hole in the front of my faded cotton shirt. I pulled at a loose thread until the worn opening had almost doubled in size. Being agonizingly close to succeeding in wholly distracting myself momentarily, I irritatingly found myself only to be tugged from my thoughts for a second time.
In an impatient and whispered tone I heard the words,
‘Come on, he’s not even good at what he does. I know you’re tired of barely scraping through survival on this slop, we all are. Think of the extra food you could be getting with that cap. He’s a liar, Mike, he’s a danger to all of us. We can get rid of him easily.’
I shook my head, though in partial defeat, with my eyes once more focussed steadfastly straight ahead. I noticed that the line for food was growing progressively shorter, as was my struggling resistance.
As the sun reached the horizon we retired to our icy wooden bunks for another uncomfortable night of unrest. We were retiring once more, but as brothers; as people with names, rather than numbers. For the entirety of the evening no crack in the wall, splinter in the bed or fleeting draught of wind went unnoticed. My eyes didn’t shut for a second all night. Instead, they incessantly flicked around the room, for the constant and choking fear that my thinking would become verbal as I continuously deliberated and tore my morals apart over Ben’s words and the possibility of Duncan’s position soon becoming solely and rightfully mine.
While lining up for the morning soup ration, Duncan’s cap appeared to be redder than ever; the fabric darkened to a deep crimson of blood. His usual stone-faced expression of authority had transformed instead to a taunting and smug smirk. As I approached him in the line, an overpowering smell of human death arose from nearby brick towers in the form of stiflingly thick black smoke. The dawn seemed to be entirely without noise other than knives being sharpened against each other at the food stand, while a quiet, more distant chugging noise could be heard from two steam trains in the distance. It was a recognized realisation that both trains were headed directly to Auschwitz death camp.
It seemed that even the vultures understood the fight against fate of the red –donned figure on that morning. The ravenous birds circled a few times but never once swooped down, as they had every day previously.
Upon reaching the soup-laden guard I veered a sharp left, directly into the sights of the other who stood at that stage unoccupied, arms crossed, on casual but sharp surveillance. I tipped him off in hushed and hurried tones about Duncan’s ‘theft’ of food. While in full awareness that it was in actual fact his colleague’s wrongdoing, I could see the sentry’s ears prick up within seconds. He nodded, while his eyes visibly widened with surprise; darting around in both confusion and perhaps betrayal.
Upon returning silently into the line once more, I felt another friendlier shove to the ribs, although in this instance no words were exchanged. A slight nod signalled my brother’s approval, fully aware that the deed was indeed done.
There was rewarding for acts like that of my own, regardless of red cap or not. I knew that Duncan’s position would so soon be mine, and fairly so.
The following morning was as anticipatory as the previous, if not more. At daybreak, I was handed a small pouch along with my soup bowl. Its contents were expectantly no more than a small scrap of now-faded red fabric that had a short brim at one end.
The thrill from adrenaline and newly-obtained self-satisfaction that filled my mind and body within that instant temporarily liberated all discomfort that I had been feeling as a result of the frozen winter air.
The arrival of the cap into my awaiting hands had simultaneously marked the disappearance of Duncan from Mauthausen camp. I could only assume the worst; that his faux act of theft had resulted in the grey-haired, ex-guard’s assistant being sent on a direct route to Auschwitz.
As days passed, I came to realise through my newly promoted social rank that not even a prolonged stint in a concentration camp can do a lot to suppress the individual ambition that can be found within all conscious beings – whether being victorious in a metaphorical arm-wrestle with mortality or not. As my brother grew ever more bitter with the passing of each day, his words became to be all but generated with a supportive or compassionate motive. His actions seemed to become increasingly colder, as did the temperatures outside. Contrastingly, outside of Mauthausen the war grew hotter; its unrelenting grasp on our throats slowly but surely tightening. Prisoners started dropping like flies as the smoke that rose from the chimneys grew fatally thicker as a result.
I found myself cold and alone. Without the comradeship of my brother I became quite literally just another number on the long list of death-assured Jews. In my position of solitude and social isolation, the vultures were my only companions. They were without guilt or moral conscience, seemingly appearing then disappearing at their own free will – the perfect disposable partners in crime.
Without a real reason to continue living as well as not having the fortunate gift of flight like my new-found feathered friends, I found myself digging a mentally-draining hole that felt to be kilometres deep. It became difficult to find things that were worth greeting each breaking day for. My existence had been solely and wholly reduced to the simple repetition of breathing in and out, with my eyes constantly darting left, then right.
The extra food was so insignificant an increase that I noticed no difference in my physical health; my ribs still jutted out at an angle that no longer seemed alarming to my eyes.
The satisfaction that I had once held quickly approached guilt while the empathy and fairness that I had prided myself on within my red-capped role of responsibility in the past, dwindled, and soon became overridden with an abusive lust for power.
Friendship and equality turned to words that I had, either subconsciously or consciously, wiped from my vocabulary as well as from all mental thought and processes.
Again, my sight appeared to alter on a remarkable level; mirroring my thoughts almost identically. My cap drooped and sagged at the edges, as if others were always trying to pull it off my head and from my grasp completely. Its colour returned to a shade of stale blood…my blood…Duncan’s blood. Ben’s sneering eyes undeniably understood more than they let on, and I felt his stare burning a deep and dark hole into the back of my crimson headwear whenever he was reduced to a hazy image at the very edge of my peripherals.
I heard whispers, which caused me to don my cap protectively, even in my sleep. I slept lightly or not at all, panic taking over every physical sense that existed in my body.
‘Michael murders sleep, Michael murders sleep, Michael murders sleep’, I heard the wind howl through the worn, wooden rafters at night.
Faces in the mass of Jews appeared to sprout grey hair or a rugged moustache, just as Duncan’s had been. Backs grew hunched and towering, similar to Ben’s.
No corner could I turn without the sight of looming smoke from human death. It overwhelmed me entirely, weighing down my tired lungs with every waking moment of its constricting embrace. Paranoia was not an obsession or irrational disorder of mine, but a form of safety; a comfortable blanket of peace.
After weeks of distress along with a zombie-like gait, I fell; simultaneously both mentally and physically. Ben, soon after, disappeared on a train to nowhere.
If anything, this camp has shown me that out of all of the combinations of emotions on Earth, that without compassion and companionship, no person or difficult circumstance can be conquered or indeed even endured.
lol at the however reference haha.
ReplyDeleteA for sho.