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Description
There were sirens in the distance, loud and ominous. He brought his hands up to his ears but they blocked out none of the gun shots or explosions. As he started to wake up, he could smell burning flesh and thick, kerosene laden smoke that coated the inside of his lungs. He coughed, sitting up amongst the burnt out cockpit of the scout bomber. Around him was a field of shot down planes, some American, some Canadian and some German. Many were still smoking as the ever present fuel of flesh kept fires going. It was starting to snow, and a thin layer had accumulated as far as he could see. To be fair, he could see quite far now.

The young man stood wearily, brushing ash and broken pieces of metal away as he did so. There was a large hole in his bomber jacket where fire had burnt its way through his elbow. His body was free of injury, which surprised him as he looked around at the state of the aeroplane he was in.

He stood silent for a minute, taking it in that he had somehow survived a brutal crash. He would have to find a way back to his baton. What number was it? What country was he even fighting for? Was he German? No, that couldn’t be it; he was wearing the wrong uniform for that. He had to be Canadian or American. But WHICH?

“Where am I?” He said out loud, listening to the way he pronounced he words. “What is this about?”

American. He was American.

Now that he figured that out, WHO WAS HE? He couldn’t remember his name, his age, what year it was.

“Your name is Clark, son.”

Who said that? The young man whipped his head around, scanning the field for another living person. There were none though. Where was this voice coming from? Who could possibly be talking to him?

“Look up.” Clark did as he was told, squinting as the full moon spilled silver light onto his white, translucent skin. “I have chosen you to spread honour. I have also tasked you with bringing winter to the children of the world.”

“What do you mean, chosen me? How am I supposed to spread winter?” Clark called out, reaching out towards the moon. He wanted closer, he wanted to know more.

With the desire to become closer to the moon, Clark’s feet lifted off the ground. He yelped, throwing his arms in the air wildly in an attempt to keep his balance. He fell against part of the cockpit wall that hadn’t been blown away and was surprised when the metal became cool and frosted with the touch of his hands.

That was how he would spread winter. He looked up at the moon for confirmation only to be hit with silence. He was alone now.

In the distance, guns kept firing and the sirens didn’t stop.

Description
There were sirens in the distance, loud and ominous. He brought his hands up to his ears but they blocked out none of the gun shots or explosions. As he started to wake up, he could smell burning flesh and thick, kerosene laden smoke that coated the inside of his lungs. He coughed, sitting up amongst the burnt out cockpit of the scout bomber. Around him was a field of shot down planes, some American, some Canadian and some German. Many were still smoking as the ever present fuel of flesh kept fires going. It was starting to snow, and a thin layer had accumulated as far as he could see. To be fair, he could see quite far now.

The young man stood wearily, brushing ash and broken pieces of metal away as he did so. There was a large hole in his bomber jacket where fire had burnt its way through his elbow. His body was free of injury, which surprised him as he looked around at the state of the aeroplane he was in.

He stood silent for a minute, taking it in that he had somehow survived a brutal crash. He would have to find a way back to his baton. What number was it? What country was he even fighting for? Was he German? No, that couldn’t be it; he was wearing the wrong uniform for that. He had to be Canadian or American. But WHICH?

“Where am I?” He said out loud, listening to the way he pronounced he words. “What is this about?”

American. He was American.

Now that he figured that out, WHO WAS HE? He couldn’t remember his name, his age, what year it was.

“Your name is Clark, son.”

Who said that? The young man whipped his head around, scanning the field for another living person. There were none though. Where was this voice coming from? Who could possibly be talking to him?

“Look up.” Clark did as he was told, squinting as the full moon spilled silver light onto his white, translucent skin. “I have chosen you to spread honour. I have also tasked you with bringing winter to the children of the world.”

“What do you mean, chosen me? How am I supposed to spread winter?” Clark called out, reaching out towards the moon. He wanted closer, he wanted to know more.

With the desire to become closer to the moon, Clark’s feet lifted off the ground. He yelped, throwing his arms in the air wildly in an attempt to keep his balance. He fell against part of the cockpit wall that hadn’t been blown away and was surprised when the metal became cool and frosted with the touch of his hands.

That was how he would spread winter. He looked up at the moon for confirmation only to be hit with silence. He was alone now.

In the distance, guns kept firing and the sirens didn’t stop.