Sailor_Joe
08-04-2010, 04:01 AM
Whoo-HOOO!!!
First thread!!!
I don't normally post up my writings online simply due to the fact that I often worry about people taking my ideas and running with them. But I love it here on the Tank and thought I'd contribute.
************************************************
This is an excerpt from a full-length novel that I'm writing. I hope that it becomes a series much in the likes of what they have for Star Wars and Star Trek. Keep in mind that this is only a writing sample. It's pieces of the whole to present to you, the fans, for feedback and enjoyment. It has not been edited nor is this even a fraction of the 225 page, 12 Chapter story that is progress.
***********************************************
The premise:
G.I. Joe has been in a semi-deactivated state since the late '90s. Many of the auxiliary team members have been placed on the retired list, gone on with their lives, but subject to reserve recall. A handful of core members remained active and functioning in the G.I. Joe team but more as observers and consultants to side DoD and Federal projects.
***********************************************
The story:
Log Cabin
Northern Canada Yukon Country
2313(CST) -Tuesday, September 11, 2001
A quiet road leads to a cabin in amidst many pinewood trees. Smoke bellows from the chimney stack and several piles of wood lie neatly near the walkway leading to the front door. It is dusk and candles seem to be lit for either warmth or illumination. Inside, there is a rather slender man that is standing at a wood burning stove. There‟s a scent of fresh venison being cooked. A bowl of organic vegetables, grown in the garden just outside, sit in a strainer bowl near the sink. A tamed timber wolf lies comfortably near the unguarded fireplace. The pinewood that fuels the fireplace crackles and snaps as the wolf‟s ears twitch to the sound. The canine is otherwise unaffected and drifts back to its slumber.
The man is clothed only in denim pants that are tucked into his wool lined boots. Despite the chill, he is without a shirt exposing several scars that could have only been the result of being whipped or from a long-bladed sword. His back muscles are chiseled, a result of a life of much physical activity. A red cryptic tattoo rests on his left lower arm. It resembles something tribal or an Asian crest. The ink has been faded for years.
The mysterious man pulls the meat from the fire and throws a sizable piece to his canine companion. Without a twitch or miss of judgment, the wolf pounces up and catches the food in mid-air exposing its sharp, white teeth. The wolf then returns to its place in front of the fire and eats. The man then puts some of the tender meat on a steel plate, along with some of the garden vegetables from the bowl and some potatoes that were boiling in a pot on the stove. He sits down in a large wooden rocking chair, across from his companion, and eats his meal in silence.
When the meal is complete, he takes his dish to a pot of boiling water and begins to clean his mess from the meal. This only takes a few minutes. He then moves back into the area near the fireplace. From the mantle of the fireplace he grabs an unused taper candle that is connected by the wick and some plant that resembles sage. Above the mantle, mounted on a rack, are a matching set of three Japanese Katana Swords and an Uzi Semi-Automatic Machine Gun. Below the gun are the words etched in a piece of wood: NEVER MORE.
The man lowers some sagebrush into the fire, lighting it with sparks emanating from the dry plant. He uses the flame to split the candle wicks and in one swift motion, lighting them and grabbing them with his free hand. The sage smolders and burns without flame. He places the sage and candles on a low-level table against a wall to the left. Placed neatly on the table are several photos of family and friends. In the center of the photos, and next to a photo of a slender, red-haired woman, lies a photo of an elderly Asian man with his arms outstretched around two young boys who appear to be brothers. The three men are smiling, the elder behind donning a
long white beard and flowing white hair that is braided. He glances at the center photo then to the photo of the woman, at first with feelings of happiness then with brief despair. He then lowers himself on the floor; legs crossed and eyes closed to begin a daily ritual of deep meditation.
It‟s a crisp night in the Canadian Yukon. A man in an older model pick-up truck comes hammering down the dirt road leading to the lone cabin owned and occupied by a mysterious man and his domesticated Timber wolf. Smoke bellows from the fireplace and it is dark inside. The owner inside, once asleep in a hammock that hangs near the fire, is now poised between the door and the window. He‟s peeking outside the window to see who approaches. His canine companion is by his side at the ready to defend their home.
It‟s a seldom occasion that they get visitors and never this late in the night. When the man and his companion do get visitors, it‟s often non-intentional and the works of kids from the nearby village trying to poach rabbits from the land. Nonetheless, the truck barreling down the road comes to a stop in a cloud of dust.
An elderly man in faded denim overalls and a short, grey beard emerge out of the truck, slamming the truck door with a loud, creaking thud. The old man did this in part to wake the resident of the cabin, not knowing that he was well awake and ready to greet him the moment he heard the vehicle engine nearly a mile down the road. He‟s holding a telegram envelope and approaches the door. Before the elderly man could raise his hand to knock on the door, it opened suddenly. The mysterious man stands tall in the doorway.
The man in the door is a tall man, with short, cropped blonde hair and pale blue eyes. The same slashing scars that run across his back are also on his chest, neck, and across his face. He looks down at the envelope with a scowl on his face. The elderly man delivering the envelope has a lapse of memory and suddenly realizes that he‟s there to give the envelope to its owner.
The old man‟s voice crackles under the crisp air, his Canadian accent emphasized, “Sir, I got this in the General Store about an hour ago. It‟s addressed to somebody named: Snake-Eyes. No sooner than I get the envelope, a nice young lady with an accent calls me on the telephone making sure the message gets delivered right away. I don‟t know who this Mr. Snake-Eyes is and I know most folks in town, so I figured that this was for you. I hurried as fast as I can to get here. Even changed out of my pajamas.”
The man at the door says nothing. He only shrugs and takes a glance at the envelope in the old man‟s outstretched hand.
“Well, take it Sonny. It‟s gotta be important. And with all the hurrah going on down south, this could be some sort of „secret-mission‟ order,” the old man says jokingly, not knowing how true his words are.
The man at the door, glances at the elderly man parts his lips to speak but doesn‟t. His facial expression tells it all.
The old man catches on and explains, “There‟s been some kind of attack on the United States. It‟s all over the news.” The old man peeks behind the tall man to realize that he has neither a radio nor a television set. “It happened in New York City earlier today. I‟m surprised you didn‟t hear about it.”
Snake-Eyes glares at the old man delivering the message and snatches from his hand. Giving the old man a stare, he then backs away from the door and slams it shut. Snake-Eyes doesn‟t open the envelope right away. Instead, stokes the fire with his free hand, sits in his chair and looks at the envelope. In stencil writing, his Code Name: Snake-Eyes is written on the front. He raises his head for a moment to focus on one of the pictures on the table next to his left. The picture is of him with Scarlett on a sandy beach. They‟re in civilian clothes, holding hands, and smiling. A smile emerges from his mouth all the while, his eyes drift towards his mantelpiece. The words etched in wood grabbing his attention: NEVER MORE.
He returns to the envelope and contemplates it. With almost a sixth sense, he knows its contents. He knows that it contains words of instruction to return to the world he had hoped to leave behind years ago. Despairingly, he grabs a small blade from the inside of his boot and rips the envelope open. Taking a moment, he places the blade on the small end table on his right. He holds the envelope up, draws a deep breath and takes the paper out.
Unfolding the message, a marker of the Snake-Eyes‟ old team, G.I. Joe is on the top part. The blocked lettering and red, white, and blue stripes were familiar. Yet they also haunt him a previous life in which he truly didn‟t want to return. It was a life that took his parents, his best friend, and his twin sister. It was a life he no longer could live, but she couldn‟t live without. Reluctantly, he reads the message:
Snake-Eyes:
I know you have lived that of several lifetimes. Many of which, you would rather let go than accept. The Joe‟s have been recalled and reactivated at the call of the United States. We could really use your skills and training in battling what is a terrible tragedy on the country. I have talked to Hawk and he assures me that you will be compensated at the level you once did. He also assures me that any "misunderstandings” between you and the command will be dropped and any disciplinary actions will be dismissed. Sergeant First Class Stalker is staying at the hotel in the town near where you live. Meet him there
in the lobby promptly at 0700 tomorrow and he will take you to “The Pit”. Please do this. The Joe‟s need you. I need you.
Thank you:
Shana
Snake-Eyes folded up the message and put it back into the envelope. He looks at his canine companion sitting upright on the rug in front of the fire. The wolf lets his tongue hang out
as he pants and looks his master in the eye. It‟s as if the canine knows the dilemma his master is faced with and is by his side to the end. “Such loyalty,” thinks the master.
He then rises out of the chair and to a dusty trunk on the opposite side of the one-room cabin. It‟s military green with faded stencil markings on the top and sides. He removes the wood crate boxes on top of the trunk and blows off the layer of dust revealing the words of the stencil markings and the G.I. Joe emblem. Snake-Eyes takes a deep breath and opens the trunk revealing the black commando outfit complete with mask, goggles, and Kevlar combat vest. He places these items along with several personal knives and blades in a large duffle bag and walks over to the mantelpiece.
He reads the words on the block of wood carved by his own hand only days after he left the team last. He pondered the words written as their meaning drove into his head. He swore that day to hang his swords and weapon forever. It was these things that killed his family. It was these things that broke his heart. It was these things that proved to be a nuisance more than an attribute. On that cold winter morning, he slashed away for hours at the limb of the mighty fir tree with the sword he promised to never pick up again. He chiseled away with a dagger at the tree limb until it was a piece that was the right size and began etching the words displayed.
He spent many hours staring at those words and the pieces they represent. Tonight, as he holds the enveloped request in his hand, those words stare back at him. He grabs the plank of wood and tosses it into the fireplace. The flames rise high and might, as if a show of power as the finish on the wood ignites. Snake-Eyes watches it burn and the words fade into a charred heap. They burn from the center outward, almost mocking him or to show him that despite his mental and physical strength, he is powerless.
He reaches to the mantelpiece and pulls down the swords that were hand-crafted for him and he inspects them. They have been long out of maintenance, laid in the sheathing that houses them. The blades have been resting on the mounted rack since that day cutting the wood. The Uzi also rests below those blades untouched since that day. Live by the sword, die by the sword. But to live by the bullet also means you may die by the same means.
He places the swords on the ground next to the message and reaches for the gun. He examines it thoroughly as if to inspect it. “Such an ugly piece of machinery,” he thinks. “A necessary evil in today’s world,” he continues on his thoughts, “but ugly nonetheless. So brutal as well. Not nearly as clean as a sharp blade. And they called the Samurai savages, hmmm.”
Snake-Eyes then situates the gun and his swords on the floor in front of the lowered meditation table. He then places the message, still in the envelope, in front of the picture of him and Scarlett. Examining the layout, he then lowers himself into a meditation that will take him until the morning. The last mortal words to pass through his mind, “NEVER MORE.”
First thread!!!
I don't normally post up my writings online simply due to the fact that I often worry about people taking my ideas and running with them. But I love it here on the Tank and thought I'd contribute.
************************************************
This is an excerpt from a full-length novel that I'm writing. I hope that it becomes a series much in the likes of what they have for Star Wars and Star Trek. Keep in mind that this is only a writing sample. It's pieces of the whole to present to you, the fans, for feedback and enjoyment. It has not been edited nor is this even a fraction of the 225 page, 12 Chapter story that is progress.
***********************************************
The premise:
G.I. Joe has been in a semi-deactivated state since the late '90s. Many of the auxiliary team members have been placed on the retired list, gone on with their lives, but subject to reserve recall. A handful of core members remained active and functioning in the G.I. Joe team but more as observers and consultants to side DoD and Federal projects.
***********************************************
The story:
Log Cabin
Northern Canada Yukon Country
2313(CST) -Tuesday, September 11, 2001
A quiet road leads to a cabin in amidst many pinewood trees. Smoke bellows from the chimney stack and several piles of wood lie neatly near the walkway leading to the front door. It is dusk and candles seem to be lit for either warmth or illumination. Inside, there is a rather slender man that is standing at a wood burning stove. There‟s a scent of fresh venison being cooked. A bowl of organic vegetables, grown in the garden just outside, sit in a strainer bowl near the sink. A tamed timber wolf lies comfortably near the unguarded fireplace. The pinewood that fuels the fireplace crackles and snaps as the wolf‟s ears twitch to the sound. The canine is otherwise unaffected and drifts back to its slumber.
The man is clothed only in denim pants that are tucked into his wool lined boots. Despite the chill, he is without a shirt exposing several scars that could have only been the result of being whipped or from a long-bladed sword. His back muscles are chiseled, a result of a life of much physical activity. A red cryptic tattoo rests on his left lower arm. It resembles something tribal or an Asian crest. The ink has been faded for years.
The mysterious man pulls the meat from the fire and throws a sizable piece to his canine companion. Without a twitch or miss of judgment, the wolf pounces up and catches the food in mid-air exposing its sharp, white teeth. The wolf then returns to its place in front of the fire and eats. The man then puts some of the tender meat on a steel plate, along with some of the garden vegetables from the bowl and some potatoes that were boiling in a pot on the stove. He sits down in a large wooden rocking chair, across from his companion, and eats his meal in silence.
When the meal is complete, he takes his dish to a pot of boiling water and begins to clean his mess from the meal. This only takes a few minutes. He then moves back into the area near the fireplace. From the mantle of the fireplace he grabs an unused taper candle that is connected by the wick and some plant that resembles sage. Above the mantle, mounted on a rack, are a matching set of three Japanese Katana Swords and an Uzi Semi-Automatic Machine Gun. Below the gun are the words etched in a piece of wood: NEVER MORE.
The man lowers some sagebrush into the fire, lighting it with sparks emanating from the dry plant. He uses the flame to split the candle wicks and in one swift motion, lighting them and grabbing them with his free hand. The sage smolders and burns without flame. He places the sage and candles on a low-level table against a wall to the left. Placed neatly on the table are several photos of family and friends. In the center of the photos, and next to a photo of a slender, red-haired woman, lies a photo of an elderly Asian man with his arms outstretched around two young boys who appear to be brothers. The three men are smiling, the elder behind donning a
long white beard and flowing white hair that is braided. He glances at the center photo then to the photo of the woman, at first with feelings of happiness then with brief despair. He then lowers himself on the floor; legs crossed and eyes closed to begin a daily ritual of deep meditation.
It‟s a crisp night in the Canadian Yukon. A man in an older model pick-up truck comes hammering down the dirt road leading to the lone cabin owned and occupied by a mysterious man and his domesticated Timber wolf. Smoke bellows from the fireplace and it is dark inside. The owner inside, once asleep in a hammock that hangs near the fire, is now poised between the door and the window. He‟s peeking outside the window to see who approaches. His canine companion is by his side at the ready to defend their home.
It‟s a seldom occasion that they get visitors and never this late in the night. When the man and his companion do get visitors, it‟s often non-intentional and the works of kids from the nearby village trying to poach rabbits from the land. Nonetheless, the truck barreling down the road comes to a stop in a cloud of dust.
An elderly man in faded denim overalls and a short, grey beard emerge out of the truck, slamming the truck door with a loud, creaking thud. The old man did this in part to wake the resident of the cabin, not knowing that he was well awake and ready to greet him the moment he heard the vehicle engine nearly a mile down the road. He‟s holding a telegram envelope and approaches the door. Before the elderly man could raise his hand to knock on the door, it opened suddenly. The mysterious man stands tall in the doorway.
The man in the door is a tall man, with short, cropped blonde hair and pale blue eyes. The same slashing scars that run across his back are also on his chest, neck, and across his face. He looks down at the envelope with a scowl on his face. The elderly man delivering the envelope has a lapse of memory and suddenly realizes that he‟s there to give the envelope to its owner.
The old man‟s voice crackles under the crisp air, his Canadian accent emphasized, “Sir, I got this in the General Store about an hour ago. It‟s addressed to somebody named: Snake-Eyes. No sooner than I get the envelope, a nice young lady with an accent calls me on the telephone making sure the message gets delivered right away. I don‟t know who this Mr. Snake-Eyes is and I know most folks in town, so I figured that this was for you. I hurried as fast as I can to get here. Even changed out of my pajamas.”
The man at the door says nothing. He only shrugs and takes a glance at the envelope in the old man‟s outstretched hand.
“Well, take it Sonny. It‟s gotta be important. And with all the hurrah going on down south, this could be some sort of „secret-mission‟ order,” the old man says jokingly, not knowing how true his words are.
The man at the door, glances at the elderly man parts his lips to speak but doesn‟t. His facial expression tells it all.
The old man catches on and explains, “There‟s been some kind of attack on the United States. It‟s all over the news.” The old man peeks behind the tall man to realize that he has neither a radio nor a television set. “It happened in New York City earlier today. I‟m surprised you didn‟t hear about it.”
Snake-Eyes glares at the old man delivering the message and snatches from his hand. Giving the old man a stare, he then backs away from the door and slams it shut. Snake-Eyes doesn‟t open the envelope right away. Instead, stokes the fire with his free hand, sits in his chair and looks at the envelope. In stencil writing, his Code Name: Snake-Eyes is written on the front. He raises his head for a moment to focus on one of the pictures on the table next to his left. The picture is of him with Scarlett on a sandy beach. They‟re in civilian clothes, holding hands, and smiling. A smile emerges from his mouth all the while, his eyes drift towards his mantelpiece. The words etched in wood grabbing his attention: NEVER MORE.
He returns to the envelope and contemplates it. With almost a sixth sense, he knows its contents. He knows that it contains words of instruction to return to the world he had hoped to leave behind years ago. Despairingly, he grabs a small blade from the inside of his boot and rips the envelope open. Taking a moment, he places the blade on the small end table on his right. He holds the envelope up, draws a deep breath and takes the paper out.
Unfolding the message, a marker of the Snake-Eyes‟ old team, G.I. Joe is on the top part. The blocked lettering and red, white, and blue stripes were familiar. Yet they also haunt him a previous life in which he truly didn‟t want to return. It was a life that took his parents, his best friend, and his twin sister. It was a life he no longer could live, but she couldn‟t live without. Reluctantly, he reads the message:
Snake-Eyes:
I know you have lived that of several lifetimes. Many of which, you would rather let go than accept. The Joe‟s have been recalled and reactivated at the call of the United States. We could really use your skills and training in battling what is a terrible tragedy on the country. I have talked to Hawk and he assures me that you will be compensated at the level you once did. He also assures me that any "misunderstandings” between you and the command will be dropped and any disciplinary actions will be dismissed. Sergeant First Class Stalker is staying at the hotel in the town near where you live. Meet him there
in the lobby promptly at 0700 tomorrow and he will take you to “The Pit”. Please do this. The Joe‟s need you. I need you.
Thank you:
Shana
Snake-Eyes folded up the message and put it back into the envelope. He looks at his canine companion sitting upright on the rug in front of the fire. The wolf lets his tongue hang out
as he pants and looks his master in the eye. It‟s as if the canine knows the dilemma his master is faced with and is by his side to the end. “Such loyalty,” thinks the master.
He then rises out of the chair and to a dusty trunk on the opposite side of the one-room cabin. It‟s military green with faded stencil markings on the top and sides. He removes the wood crate boxes on top of the trunk and blows off the layer of dust revealing the words of the stencil markings and the G.I. Joe emblem. Snake-Eyes takes a deep breath and opens the trunk revealing the black commando outfit complete with mask, goggles, and Kevlar combat vest. He places these items along with several personal knives and blades in a large duffle bag and walks over to the mantelpiece.
He reads the words on the block of wood carved by his own hand only days after he left the team last. He pondered the words written as their meaning drove into his head. He swore that day to hang his swords and weapon forever. It was these things that killed his family. It was these things that broke his heart. It was these things that proved to be a nuisance more than an attribute. On that cold winter morning, he slashed away for hours at the limb of the mighty fir tree with the sword he promised to never pick up again. He chiseled away with a dagger at the tree limb until it was a piece that was the right size and began etching the words displayed.
He spent many hours staring at those words and the pieces they represent. Tonight, as he holds the enveloped request in his hand, those words stare back at him. He grabs the plank of wood and tosses it into the fireplace. The flames rise high and might, as if a show of power as the finish on the wood ignites. Snake-Eyes watches it burn and the words fade into a charred heap. They burn from the center outward, almost mocking him or to show him that despite his mental and physical strength, he is powerless.
He reaches to the mantelpiece and pulls down the swords that were hand-crafted for him and he inspects them. They have been long out of maintenance, laid in the sheathing that houses them. The blades have been resting on the mounted rack since that day cutting the wood. The Uzi also rests below those blades untouched since that day. Live by the sword, die by the sword. But to live by the bullet also means you may die by the same means.
He places the swords on the ground next to the message and reaches for the gun. He examines it thoroughly as if to inspect it. “Such an ugly piece of machinery,” he thinks. “A necessary evil in today’s world,” he continues on his thoughts, “but ugly nonetheless. So brutal as well. Not nearly as clean as a sharp blade. And they called the Samurai savages, hmmm.”
Snake-Eyes then situates the gun and his swords on the floor in front of the lowered meditation table. He then places the message, still in the envelope, in front of the picture of him and Scarlett. Examining the layout, he then lowers himself into a meditation that will take him until the morning. The last mortal words to pass through his mind, “NEVER MORE.”