Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

In real life

"Whats the matter?"
"Nothing, Im fine,"
They soared past open fields and filthy rivers, India had changed in the past two years. The windows of the shuttle were clean moist, but the inside was hot and stuffy.
The shuttle was made for one.
"We'll be there in about two hours," Flight master Ben Hanson said through his helmet. Commander Willis would dread every minute. The green tinted visor made everything look wierd.
But the world had changed, and these made flying simpler.
"Good."
It was hard to imagine that India was overpopulated, with all the open fields and the plains, and the animals that were not dead. It showed humans were absent.
Which was not only weird, but disturbing too.
It had rained last night, and most of the dirt was mud, monsoon season was coming.
"What are you here for?" asked Ben.
"Military stuff."
Ben knew he wasn't supposed to ask further.
And Commander Willis wasn't going to answer.
A little red light on the side of the shuttle began to beep.
"Camp Grushon approaching."
It was only about five or so tents, with a little wicker fence around and one tower with an armed guard. But it was Camp Grushon.
"We need fuel."
"How long will this take?"
"Not long."
And Commander Willis would not ask further.
And Ben Hanson would not answer.
They red faces of thirteen soldiers looked up at them as the fluttered to the ground. Some held their guns as their sides and patrolled without care and some had their shirts off.
Bathing in the sun.
Without a care.
India had indeed changed.
There was no landing spot beacuse one of the great thing about the SS2-07Y Flight craft was that there didn't need to be a landing space.
The men were bored, so was Willis.
The no-smoking sign came on.
He stepped out onto the hot sand and looked about him. A few villigers here and there, looking at the strange men and their guns. A few people with angry faces, angry that the UN had invaded India, Two years ago, and made it like this. Willis had enough of this hell-hole already.
"I'll just be a moment Commander Willis."
"Fine."
Ben was talking with a few of the privates so he decided to take a stroll around the camp. Nothing important was in veiw.
"What are you here for?"
He turned sharply to the right where a private with his shirt off stared in his direction. The sun reflected of his white skin like a mirror.
"Military stuff."
"Thats me, just a hunk of Military stuff."
"Right you are."
They starred at the solace for a couple of seconds.
"What are you really here for?"
"Thats classified."
One of the boys in the villiage was fighting with another over a can of dried tommatos, flies buzzed noisily of the dying vestiges of once was a cow, a mother tried to fix a gapping hole in her shacks wall.
"They live like hell,"
"So do we commander."
The dust kicked up from the wind made his visor blurry.
India had changed in the past two years.
Then from amoungst the crowd a man emerged. He was old, about 80 or so with red eyes and receeding gums. He looked like Moby Dicks leftovers.
"Damn you!" he cried while pointing at the camp, "Damn you and your shuttles."
"Don't mind him, Commander, he the town idiot."
But the town idiot was carring a hatchet.
"You come in your spaceships and transports, you come with your guns and helmets, what have you done."
This was perplexing, because India was responsible for the state it was in.
The military was there to protect them from the other nations.
"Damn you, why have not you given to us?"
He started walking towards them.
"Stop!" the private yelled, "Stop right there, this is military grounds."
"Damn you, burn in hellfire, burn in hellfire with me."
The man was climbing over the fence with his hatchet raised, "Come to hell with me."
"Last warning," the private raised his assult rilfe and switched the safe off.
The boys stopped fighting, the market stopped moving and the mother stopped fixing. All looked on.
"Damn you!"
The hot sticky morning air was broken by a buzz from the high powered machine gun. The tense atmosphere shattered.
The old man was thrown from where he was running to against the fence as the five round burst ripped through his torso. The hatchet fell harmlessly to the side.
Silence.
The market continued its transaction, and one boy grabbed the tomato can and began to run with the other in hot persuit.
Willis was not shocked, or angry or sad. He felt nothing, the scarist feeling of all. The old man was still alive, his limbs twiching and spirting while blood and sweat soaked the dust.
"Damn you," he whispered.
Commander Willis walked slowly over to the old man, the camp, the air, the situation suddenly making sense.
India had changed.
He locked eyes with the dying man and drew his .45 colt semi-automatic pistol, and put one foot on the bleeding chest.
"Your wrong about one thing old man." he whispered.
The man looked at him with red eyes.
"I'm not going where your going."
He flipped the safty off and cocked the gun.
"Swing home, sweet char-iot, comming forth to carry me home," he sang feeling better, "Oh swing home sweet, char-iot, comming forth to carry me home."
He aimed the gun about two feet away from the mans forehead.
"Bye bye, a chariots comming for you!"
Another shot echoed throughout the air.
But no one looked.
"You know one thing, private?"
"What?"
"I'd like to be that old man."
Flight instructor Hanson tapped him on the should and mentioned they were ready for take off.

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