Kashmir by Zeronova
Started on: May 12, 2009
Summary: So, if anyone recognizes me, this story is typical of my style, meaning it's set in the GG world, but it's not really about the GG cast. And that probably means half of you are already leaving. Sigh. Oh well. This first chapter is the introduction. I am intending to make this a vignette log of a bunch of disconnected stories that all have links to each other. Anyways, hope you enjoy what I'm offering, and hope that this sort of story can still please some readers. Expect updates until I get bored of making stories for this piece. Onward! Hope ya like it!
The bar reeked of some sorta mold growing underneath the carpet. It was likely that some rot had taken hold of those threads, fed from the cloudy mugs of the oft-spilled moonshine and home-brewed beers traded in this joint. Rarely a night went by when some old coon wouldn't spill his drink all over the discolored rugs. But, it was kept dark so that no one noticed. And you didn't go to a bar for the smell or the decoration anyways, so drink up. We also like the smell.
A big neon sign out front flickered, hanging at an odd angle, reading Cosmetics. The place used to be some fashion spa way before the war, but nowadays, it was our pub. Since that damned sign never lit up properly, vandals had gone to changing it, and this shit-house got its name.
So, we have Kashmir: the type of hole-in-the-wall that you're told you to stay away from, but the smell of cigarettes and the allure of some old, deep, sad music always draws ya in. Some broken old man would sit on a stool with a rusted microphone held close to the cigar box of a guitar, and he'd play something sad and slow that would make the place melt into the fears of yesterday. When it was done, everyone would take a slow drink together, unsure of how to respond, and a cloud of desperate smoke puffed up like a victory salute in the heavy silence.
In a few years, the kids squatting in the allies, listening at the backdoor—hungering for a smell of that atmosphere—would get their chance to enter the gin joint. One day, those boys will strut in here, put their quid down on the counter and ask for a tall boy just like the rest of the vets. Difference being was that in this day, you could finally have yourself a sixteen-year-old boy-o who wasn't one of God's Murderers a decade prior—a kiddo-dandy who didn't hold the Holy Order broadsword. That was the new type of lad.
Since Justice was defeated, bars like these are one of the last places you can actually feel scared of the unknown; that's why some of these kids stuck around the edges, waiting to get in. In this place, there are still dark corners full of secrets and some threat hidden behind the cold stares. For the types of men whose entire lives were made up of those dark fears, well, they didn't have any place in the new, peaceful world. The kids in the alleys, they idolized those torn, quiet veterans drinking the nights away in silent community grief. Those beaten men represented a world they wish they were born into. These kids wished that they still had a war to fight in. I don't think anybody likes peace.
Truth being was that the war had been over for six years 'bout now. The kids, well, they had seen only some of the horrors. Some lost their parents, families, and homes to it. Undoubtedly, they knew the war had happened, but sometimes, you found a kid who just wasn't a part of it. A boy who didn't respect the sacrifices your brothers made and the duty you served. Hell of a disgrace when that next generation that you bled for treats you like yesterday's trash. But, some of us, we wished we still had a purpose, too. Still wished to hold up that old Holy Order sword and rumble the battle hymns. But, now, we're just a bunch of useless old drunks. At least we got each other.
And together we always stayed. Used to be us holy brothers against the big, great, ugly world owned by Justice. Now, it's just us drunk brothers against the world owned by a different type of justice—not the armor clad one, but the written, bureaucrat-clad one. We ain't got a place in any world; we just know how to fight for what we got, and sometimes, they're even takin' that from us. What a shit world. Times I feel like this, we get the bar all humming the words together of the old songs we'd sing at the funeral pits for our brothers.
Lifting that mug with a slosh, I'd lead. "All I see turns to brown." I'd say it loud, without any meter. The boys next to me would look with a cautious eye, the place would go kinda silent, the young idiots asking "what's going on?" in their stilted whispers. Then, the guy next to me nods, looks down and raises his glass and echoes, "As the sun burns the ground." Soon, we'd get the rest of the place chanting quietly, repeating the whole verse.
All I see turns to brown, as the sun burns the ground. And my eyes fill with sand, as I scan this wasted land. Trying to find, trying to find where I have been.
We'd say it over and over. Long enough until we forgot what we were so sad about in the first place. Then we'd be sad we stopped chanting. And then we'd drink. And we'd drink. And we would drink.
Author's Note: Well, been a while. I usually say that. It's usually true. I guess I'm attempting to write this story as a more mature endeavor than my past stuff. I don't wanna waste too much time with this note, but I do wanna say a few things. Damn, FFN's tools when you log in have gotten spiffy. Look at all these cool features! Moving on. I hardly recognize a single author on the main GG page, and it looks that the stories shift very slowly...so GG isn't very active these days. Not different from my old days. Anyways, hope you stay tuned for the rest of what I got packed for this series! Oh, and yay summer time.