07/08/2020, 17:42
Fandom: -
Summary: Dit was voor een 'literary imitation' opdracht, eveneens Creative Writing. Ik probeerde hier de schrijfstijl van Thomas Pynchon te imiteren (maar het is misschien een beetje James Joyce, oops).
Words: 406
Von Stauffenberg moves between the bodies, keeping his clouded head empty. He snuffs out his cigarette, knowing it will not be appreciated, and thinks it will not do in a wooden conference room, damp and stuffy like the trees circling its layout, fixing his gaze on the small man hunched over the Eastern Front, his hand clammy. Von Tresckow’s hell. About twenty staff officers are gathered around the table as if in solemn prayer. Earlier than planned: five and a half by twelve meter room, oak table lined by similar-minded windows, wide open on the other side of the table to drive out the early afternoon heat. . . .
He has to get closer to God. Not the right bunker, not the right time. This won’t do at all. Heusinger’s voice shrill in the open space. His companions are not there as the chief operations officer, his thin hair sticking to his strawberry skin, catches his eye with unasked questions –
Does he. . . ? No. He wants a full report before hearing his expert opinion. Brandt next to him, his face grim and serious, fiddling with a loose thread of his trousers. Not unkind. Might die today.
He allows his hand to trace the leather handle of the briefcase and slides it down under the table, close to the feet. Hope this one works. Stieff can be trusted, can he? The acid is digesting the last fibres. . . . make an excuse . . telephone call . . .
Hope Fellgiebell will make one. Meets his eye as he rushes past the SS checkpoint without any difficulty. He has the right papers. The sun is rising in the sky. Minutes turn into seconds. Von Haeften is waiting in his car, the beast already groaning with anticipation. His face is sweaty and he fears his glass eye will fall out. It won’t.
Yes. Yes: this is it. He hears the explosion, silence hits his ears and seconds turn into fire, he steps into the started car, grey hard tyres on the dented road.
He looks at his watch, a worn specimen with faded inking on the dial. Nina’s name engraved on the back, pressing her mark into the skin of his wrist. Her lips on his split ones, her rosy lipstick seeping into the cracks and leaving her imprint on him. . . to keep him safe.
12.42. Der Führer Adolf Hitler ist tot! –
Summary: Dit was voor een 'literary imitation' opdracht, eveneens Creative Writing. Ik probeerde hier de schrijfstijl van Thomas Pynchon te imiteren (maar het is misschien een beetje James Joyce, oops).
Words: 406
Von Stauffenberg moves between the bodies, keeping his clouded head empty. He snuffs out his cigarette, knowing it will not be appreciated, and thinks it will not do in a wooden conference room, damp and stuffy like the trees circling its layout, fixing his gaze on the small man hunched over the Eastern Front, his hand clammy. Von Tresckow’s hell. About twenty staff officers are gathered around the table as if in solemn prayer. Earlier than planned: five and a half by twelve meter room, oak table lined by similar-minded windows, wide open on the other side of the table to drive out the early afternoon heat. . . .
He has to get closer to God. Not the right bunker, not the right time. This won’t do at all. Heusinger’s voice shrill in the open space. His companions are not there as the chief operations officer, his thin hair sticking to his strawberry skin, catches his eye with unasked questions –
Does he. . . ? No. He wants a full report before hearing his expert opinion. Brandt next to him, his face grim and serious, fiddling with a loose thread of his trousers. Not unkind. Might die today.
He allows his hand to trace the leather handle of the briefcase and slides it down under the table, close to the feet. Hope this one works. Stieff can be trusted, can he? The acid is digesting the last fibres. . . . make an excuse . . telephone call . . .
Hope Fellgiebell will make one. Meets his eye as he rushes past the SS checkpoint without any difficulty. He has the right papers. The sun is rising in the sky. Minutes turn into seconds. Von Haeften is waiting in his car, the beast already groaning with anticipation. His face is sweaty and he fears his glass eye will fall out. It won’t.
Yes. Yes: this is it. He hears the explosion, silence hits his ears and seconds turn into fire, he steps into the started car, grey hard tyres on the dented road.
He looks at his watch, a worn specimen with faded inking on the dial. Nina’s name engraved on the back, pressing her mark into the skin of his wrist. Her lips on his split ones, her rosy lipstick seeping into the cracks and leaving her imprint on him. . . to keep him safe.
12.42. Der Führer Adolf Hitler ist tot! –
![[+]](https://nomaj.nl/images/emerald/collapse_collapsed.png)