The heavy gray fog sinks down and suffocates the glazy-eyed water, a limitless expansion of obsidian abyss. The blackened liquid struggles, it gasps, it spews, it tries to save its life. But the fog does not cease its torment. Its ally, the wind, thrashes at the helpless water as if the blinding fog is not enough. The enraged water throws itself at everything, at anything, splashes up the sides of the indistinguishable boats. The frigid liquid stings the cheeks of the men in the boats, who stand still as rocks, like thousands of sharp pins. In the midst of the hellish natural torment, the boats press on towards their fate.
The smell of salt and the steadfast thoughts of inevitable doom combine to trigger dreadful nauseating feelings within the groups of men on the boats. Their numbed gray lips tremble, from the cold or from fear it is known not, but most likely from both. Eerily silent, the men huddle together, some murmuring nothing-words, just spasmodic, unnatural sounds. Nervousness swells in the ranks, more sickening than the terrible nausea. No one speaks.
The sky begins to lighten, but only very slightly so, as the grayness of the fog becomes like dull pearls. The fog sustains its spiteful wrath upon the water. The men, in their somber mood, realize that the darkness is giving way also, for they become more alert. The metallic drone of the multitude of boats they finally notice, but it only reminds the men of their fateful mission. For they are knights of allied nations sent off to slay an evil dragon. That beast of death, they know, is very close, and its lair becomes closer by the second.
A few men briskly shout marcato commands to the others. Now there is no turning back. The waves shove the boats forward as if on cue, but for whom they work cannot be known. The time of action comes nearer still; the fast-forward into doom tortures the mind of every man.
Suddenly, time stands still, as the beast has awakens and unleashes its ferocity. Infuriated crashes shake the hulls of the boats as water sprays upward toward the unseen sky of dawn. Other times, the water does not spray at all; excruciating cries of pain and grief pierce through the air, not just as sounds, but also as deep, probing feelings.
Commands are yelled to the men as their moment of destiny has finally arrived. The boats lurch to a halt in the gray expanse. The massive, flat doors on the boats open, only creating more bloodshed, as the beast targets each individual man. But the men file out anyway, into the hands of death, sloshing through frothy seawater toward an invisible enemy that is sure to cut them down. As more fall down, forever silenced, more progress forward, slowed by the beast’s spiny iron obstructions designed to retard an invasion.
The men soon see the horror before them on this dark, wicked June morn. The beast has ultra-intense yellow eyes, which flicker mechanically on and off, and on again; its gaze alone is fatal. Oh, how its stature towers above the brave men! The beast waits for the perfect moment to seize its prey, those many men who march to their slaughter. Then the dragon roars. Mighty violent flames from its terrible black mouth blaze away at the men, splattering blood and brains upon the beach of Normandy. Its fiery breath does not stop……….
But the men kill the beast.
READER'S REVIEWS (2) DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"a descriptive description, eh?" -- jackie.
"'A descriptive description.' I caught the same thing before reading Jackie's review. Either change the adjective or lose it all together. The redundancy is far too much, unless you want the reader to think there might be a comedy beyond the introduction.--The Advisor " -- JA St.George.
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