Here is a short story i am working on. what do you think? comments

>>8533720
stupid

>2
Life was calm and the world carried on its hullabaloo, paying the little farming family no mind. For a brief time, they forgot all about the fascists and the French and the sharp clop of well polished boots on ageless cobbled streets. But one day in spring of the fourth year of their sojourn the little girl's eldest brother came racing over the horizon from the direction of the town. The family waited a full two inutes for him to catch his breathe. There was a war, he said, and it was spreading and the French had lost almost as soon as they had joined. He had excitement in his eyes, for young men are drawn to violence as a mixed up moth skirts the naked flame, both confusing the message for the method. From that day forward, Daddy stopped smiling to himself or anyone else. No good will come of this, he was oft heard mumbling as he hoed the earth or scrubbed his hands. The little girl's brothers spoke only of war and violence and glory. They would change their allegiance every day, unable to decide if Mother Italy or Father France was more deserving of their loyalty and immortal strength. Momma said nothing. What could she say?
Pt. 2
The day the Germans first came to their home would be etched in the little girl's mind forever. She was freshly sixteen, blossoming from youth into beauty just like her patch of weeds did every spring. They came in a loud and smelly petrol carriage with bright markings of the triumphant Fatherland splashed upon its steel doors. There were four of them dressed in all gray with shiny black helmets and polished black boots. The one in charge had a clipped mustache trapped beneath his nose. Another was a wizened old man who could have been confused for a doting grandfather if not for the hideous trail of scars that stretched from his left eye, across his mangled lips, and over his stubbly chin to blotch his neck well below his collar. The other two were little more than boys, seventeen and nineteen respectively. The younger had jet black hair and was too tall for his age. The slightly older boy was stocky and shaved bald with bright green eyes and a veiled sorrow behind his sturdy face.

>>8533726
what absolute twaddle. post your autist biography faggot

>3
When the not so little girl saw this not quite boy, a bolt of lightning from the blue sky pierced her heart and turned her insides to steam. She felt cold and hot all over and hid her face in her tiny, dirty hands. Through splayed fingers she stared at him, and he back at her. His eyes flashed like the glint off of a bayonet and his cheeks reddened in embarrassment. In their own ways, the both felt stricken with love and terrified with the fear that everyone knew it. In truth, no one noticed a thing. The mustachioed officer only had eyes for the girl's three strapping brothers. His French was clunky, but his Italian was worse, so he stumbled through a terse greeting before he informed them that the three boys were to be pressed into service of the New Order in France. He thanked Momma for raising such fine gentlemen and congratulated Daddy on having made such a generous contribution to peace and stability. He ordered the new recruits to fetch their boots and a day's meal and board the big metal car. They did so quickly, barely able to contain their excitement. And just like that, Momma and Daddy had a daughter and three memories.
Before the Germans left, the second youngest soldier with the piercing green eyes sidled up to the side of the girl and pressed something into her palm. When their skin touched they both inhaled sharply and ripped themselves away from each other. In a flash, the soldier was stepping onto the baseboard of the car and the girl was scurrying off to her secret garden in the stand of trees. In her palm was a flower, roots attached and periwinkle blue. Long after the crank and sputter of the petrol car had died out, the girl sat amongst her rows of weeds and sought a place for her newest little one. Unable to decide, she made a small mound and planted the little blue blossom in the middle of the plot. The yellows she had loved for so long now seemed garish, like the fascists from her last memories of Italy. That little blue flower and the German's green eyes were the last time she was truly carefree.

>4
Her oldest brother was dead in a week, blown to bits when a Partisan bomb demolished the café he was in. The green eyed German was with a different officer when the news was brought to her parents. He kept his gaze from her eyes as if she were invisible, and somehow this hurt worse than the thought of never seeing her brother again. She watched the car disappear then walked slowly down to her glebe to stare at his little blue gift until the sun sank too low to light the hollow under the trees. That night she cried twice, once for her lost brother and once for her broken heart.
Pt.3
Soon after the news arrived that another of her brothers had died, messily in a field hospital far from home, the Germans came again to the cottage. This time they informed the dwindling family that Daddy must take a job in a munitions factory. Momma and the girl were to go and cut bandages from cloth that had been intended for curtains in a simpler time. The Germans would send a car to the scattered homesteads every morning and the family was to be prompt and prepared. As they stood and waited the first day, the girl was crestfallen; who would tend her little garden and make sure that the unruly rows of weeds did not choke the life from her little blue gift? The smelly petrol car ambled up over the rise and from a long way off the girl knew who was driving. Her German kept his green eyes pegged forward, but his ears burned when Daddy opened the front passenger door of the motor coach so the girl could sit in the front row.
As they wended their way through the countryside, they picked up more and more families until the vehicle was full to the brim and the girl was pressed up tight against the green eyed German. She could feel his heart beating rapidly, his pulse coursing through his body like that of a mad man. She could smell him; his scent was that of cucumbers and toil. She relished in their contact and wondered if he felt the same. That first day at the bandage cutting house went by in a blur as a fat German woman with an ugly face curtly informed the farm ladies that despite their stupid disposition they would soon be making bandages as good as any daughter of the Fatherland if they only heeded her instruction and avoided her always just reproof. The work was simple and the girl received a brusque word of approval from the ugly German woman. She neither heard nor cared. She was readying herself to race out the door and be the first in line for the ride home.

>5
Much to her chagrin, the driver was not her green eyed German, but a sallow, fat Croat who stank of beer and failure. She managed to avoid being the closest to him, but his reek spread all along the front bench seat. This then was the pattern: cucumbers in the morning and cabbage in the eve. She did not always get to sit next to her green eyed German as he sometimes had to pick up other laborers first depending on the schedule of the Wehrmacht that day, but more often than not she felt love's beat through his arm. His muscles were like braided cords and she was sorely tempted to lay her small, calloused hand on his forearm, but this was a bridge too far. As time progressed the citizens of Provence had grown to loathe the Teutonic invaders. News of more and more devastating attacks spread far and wide. Some of the farm folk went missing if their relations or friends were found to be involved in the sabotage. The quotas for shells and bandages doubled, then doubled again, so each night Daddy and Momma and the girl ate their issued ration and went straight to bed. As often as she could, the girl went down to her green refuge and tidied the rows. She would bring a sheep's bladder of water and a crust of hard bread heel, slowly munching as she watched the imperceptible growth of her of her children in the falling light of dusk.
One day, whilst the woman were cutting and the men were assembling, a joyous tumult was heard all through the town. The Wehrmacht had scored some great victory and the workers were each given a few Vichy Francs and the rest of the day off. Most of the farm girls went directly to the fine fabrics vendor or the markets. The girl walked the opposite direction towards the German barracks. Long before she saw the perimeter fence she heard the obnoxious bars of Das Vaterland being belted out by various men with varying degrees of skill. When she arrived, she saw that most of the off duty soldiers, steins in hand, were crowded around an old Prussian who was manipulating an accordion with great gusto. Away from the crowd, leaning against a group billet with his arms crossed and an unlit cigarette dangling from the flat crease of his mouth was her green eyed German.

>6
The girl waited by the gate after asking the only French speaking guard to call on the green eyed German. The guard flounced over, punched him in the shoulder, and pointed at her. The cigarette fell from his lips as his jaw went slack. He deftly snatched it from the air and shouldered past his grinning comrade, striding with a gait that caused the girl's heart to skip and stutter. The green eyed German cut from his path abruptly, spoke with an officer, then came directly to the gate. For weeks the girl had practiced a phrase in his language and before her German could speak she gushed out "Please coffee me you take." The guard detail collapsed with whoops and howling laughter as the girl melted in embarrassment, and for the first time in her life she saw her German break into a twisted smile she would come to yearn and fear.

>END THUS FAR

all i got so far. i know it is easy to hate, but it would be cool if you actually lived up to the storied legend of the board and eviscerate me on the grounds of classical reference, grounded experience, and logical commentry.

...or, you know, use one word replies to seal your superiority in your tightly held terracotta jug of loneliness.