Wartime Interrogations

You guys are probably getting tired of me changing my mind! First, I had my regular blog, then I decided to try my hand at fiction and decided to rewrite Disney classics. Well, you know what? I changed my mind again! Sorry, but Disney's tough competition. No matter how good my fiction writing is, it's not gonna beat the original versions! Readers will always be comparing my versions to the real ones... it's just human nature.

I wanted to find a Pocahontas meme to insert here, and this was my favorite...

So! Keeping on the fiction theme, I'm gonna start writing short stories. As I've said before, I want to be a fiction writer, and I actually have some pretty decent ideas, I'm just not ready to give them to the world yet. So I'm gonna do short stories and see how it goes.

I had kind of a long day today, so I'm actually publishing a short science-fiction story I wrote in high school, circa 2008, that I thought was pretty good... or at least interesting.

As always, I value your feedback!

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The war was in it’s final stages, and every maneuver had to be executed flawlessly. A single mistake could end all hope of victory. But, unexpectedly, a stroke of luck had been granted to them- one of the enemy’s higher-ups had suddenly been captured. Normally, they took no prisoners; every living creature bearing the mark of the enemy was slaughtered. Men, yes of course, but they weren't about to underestimate a woman’s love or a child’s determination.

But they weren't about to kill this enemy. He alone possessed secrets that could be used to win the war in an instant. He wouldn't have been chosen for his position if he couldn't keep secrets, but they had ways of making even a mute man talk.

He was brought into the interrogation room, a small, cold cell with no windows, harsh lights, wires running all around, and soundproof walls. He sat in his chair tall and proud, like a wall made of pride and honor and every brave man that had fallen for his side in battle.

As they waited for the chief interrogator to arrive, they began to hook him up to the machines, wires circling him, clamped near his brain. The door opened and the chief interrogator entered. The technicians rose, nodded curtly and exited the room. The chief sat down by the control board and said briefly, “Let’s begin, shall we?”

He hit and button, and a wave of energy surged through the prisoner’s brain, collecting memories and emotions, and then sending them to the computer.

The computer screen instantly flooded with names and images and feelings from the captive’s
mind. The interrogator studied the information for several minutes and then turned to the prisoner.

"We have now scanned and copied information from your brain. These machines are made to take this information, mutate it, and feed it back into your brain as a hallucination. You have information we need. Give it to us willingly, and we won’t have to use the machines.”

The prisoner just maintained his cold, stony gaze, but with just a bit of fiery determination festering behind his eyes.

“Very well, then,” said the interrogator, and hit a series of buttons.

Instantly, the prisoner’s mind was filled with horrible, gruesome images. He saw his 6 year old daughter beaten and mutilated, his wife shot in the head, his parents festering in the bottom of a ditch, his home burning to the ground.

Suddenly, the images stopped, gone from his brain. He looked quickly around the room, becoming aware of the sweat on his brow, and screams still hanging from his lips.

“Ready for some more?” the interrogator asked, his face polluted with mock concern and sympathy.

Half an hour later, the interrogator emerged from the room, smiling. The technicians approached and peered behind him into the room. There was a man in there, but it wasn't the same one. This one was broken and defeated. His head hung low and he was crying.

The interrogator said, “He broke. Go get the information and then finish him off.”

The technicians all went in except for one. She lingered for a moment by the interrogator as if debating with herself. Finally, she asked him, “Sir, why is it that you don’t just extract the information from his brain? The hallucinations really aren't necessary.”

He smiled strangely for a moment. He put his hand on her shoulder and said quietly, “Where’s the fun in that?”

And walked away.

Pocahontas 2

Continued from last Wordsday Thursday!

Catch up with last week here: Pocahontas Part One

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"Close your eyes," she prompts. I do. We are sitting cross-legged on the ground next to her small fire. The dying embers provide a gentle heat on the bare skin of my arms, legs, and face. My idle hands find their way to a scab on my ankle and I pick at it absent-mindedly.

"Now," she instructs, "Think about your dream. In your mind, what stands out most?"

I screw my eyes shut tighter and let my head fall back. What do I see? What do I remember? Running. Always running. The day beginning. I am always running into a lightening sky; a rising sun. But why? Of course...

"The face," I answer. "It's a man's face. But I don't know him. He is strange looking. He looks older than me... definitely not a boy any longer. He is strong, but I feel I must save him." I open my eyes. "Why, Grandmother Willow? Why would I have to save him? How? I mean, look at me." I do not mean this literally- she cannot see anymore. But she knows what I mean. I am small and scrawny.

She chuckles quietly. "You can save him, Pocahontas, because you are so much stronger than you think you are." I am unconvinced, and she can sense it. "Pocahontas, what is more powerful: the rain or the wind?"

I sigh. "The rain, I guess. We need it to water our crops, and fill our rivers."

"But Pocahontas," she says, "Can't the wind make the rain go where it chooses?" I have no argument. "And with wind, my dear girl," she tells me fondly, "you can't see it. You feel it." She puts her hand gently on my cheek, then stands, brushing herself off. She heads away from the fire, facing the river. Her silvery mane of hair is blown gently around by the breeze, as though proving her point.

"And change is in the wind, I fear," she says quietly, almost to herself. I scramble up off the ground to join her.

"What do you mean, Grandmother?" I inquire. It is obvious things are changing: it is harvest time, and now the leaves of the trees begin to change color. We are on the cusp of fall. But I sense she is speaking of something else. "Is it the spirits?" I ask softly.

My grandmother is one of the few who communicates with the spirits- it is an honor, a rarity. We grow up respecting the spirits, and we are taught they are everywhere. In the rocks and trees and water. In the sky and in the ground and everywhere in between. I have heard many people in my village whispering to one another that I might someday have the gift, but I doubt it.

"Yes, child, the spirits. They tell me something is coming. With the autumn breezes comes something else. Something we have never seen before. Whether it will be good changes or bad, I cannot tell. But I know the transition will be difficult." I can tell she is worried, and that troubles me.

I reach over and hold one of her hands in both of mine. We are together, and together we will face anything.

Something skitters across our feet. Meeko. "Hungry again, you little pest?" Grandmother Willow laughs. "It is comforting to know some things will never change."

She smiles, and I smile back.
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Till next time!

Sarah