<chapter>Collected Stories, World War I

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Story Bytes - Very Short Stories<br>
<http://www.storybytes.com>
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<chapter>Introduction

The British refer to World War I as "The Great War." But the Second World War overshadowed it in holocaust and in the shaping of modern history. Thus we may also call World War I "The Forgotten War." These very short stories (many of them true) explore experiences, ironies, tragedies and triumphs of this Great and Forgotten War.

Though the author(s) may have taken some liberties for dramatic purposes in these very short stories, every effort has been made to assure accuracy and consistency with the depicted historic events of World War I.

These very short stories have been arranged by approximate date.


<toctext>
<toctext>1914

<chapter>For Kosovo!<br>
by<br>
M. Stanley Bubien


"The date, tell me the date!"

"T-t-today," I said, hands clasped behind my back, hiding their
trembling, as I concentrated upon the words.  "Today i-is --"

"Not today," our leader barked, "damn you!  The da --" he fell into a
fit of coughing, leaning front-wise upon the table, though it hardly bent
under his form.  His aid, and second-in-command, moved to intervene, but
he waved the assistance aside.

We waited until the tremors in his body slackened, and he dropped,
breathing wetly, into a chair.

"Thehhh..." he rasped in an attempt at speech, but shook his head. 
Clearing his throat several times, yet to no avail, he finally gestured
to his aid.

"Our instructions for you are clear," the aid lifted a pistol from
the table.  "You will be first in the line."

"F-f-f-first?" I stammered.  "Are-are you s-s-sure?"

"Absolutely!  You are our most capable shot, and the automobile will
pass first position the fastest."

I nodded.

"Freedom for Kosovo!" the aid stated solemnly as he presented the
firearm.

"F-f-f-reedom."  I replied, unclasping my hands slowly, but before
bringing them forward, clenching my fingers into a fist.  Yet that simply
caused the whole of my forearm  to tremble as I reached toward the
pistol.  I closed my eyes as I grasped it, but another palm, cold and
clammy, laid itself upon mine.

"Unity!" our leader said, having found voice once more.  "Won with
the blood of their 'fearless leader.'  Pah!"  He spat on the floor.  "Our
hands are already blackened, but blood will pave our path.  Are you up to
this task?"

I stiffened, for to express doubt now would certainly mean my own
death.  "A l-l-land united for u-u-s and all Serbians, its r-r-rightful
heirs." I said, though my hand still shook.

At that moment, his grip tightened, the firmest grasp he had ever
thrown upon me.  "Ah!  You are for the task!  These aggressions will not
abide, and you, my friend, you will have the first opportunity to free
our land from such treacheries.

"The instant that he dies, it will be for Kosovo.  And his
people -- all people! -- will know the Serbian wrath cannot be contained."

The three of us stood there at that moment, each with a palm
surrounding the pistol.

"The date, I ask again.  The date?" our leader said in a tone that
had earned him his post, though in contrast, he had become so pale, he
seemed to fill the darkened room with a glow.

"Twenty-eighth, June," I stated with perfect annunciation.

"In the year of our Lord 1914," our leader continued.  "Then, the
Archduke Ferdinand, heir to the Austrian throne will fall."

And as one voice we repeated our rallying cry.  "For Kosovo!  Union
or death!"

They released the pistol, leaving it fully in my possession.  They
had finished with me, this I knew, and made my exit.  I fled to the
street, and falling against an alleyway wall, I held my hand before me. 
Through the moonless night I could not see it, but I knew that, still, it
shook as though it would never stop.

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<chapter>Attepted Assassination<br>
by<br>
M. Stanley Bubien

Our motorcade wound slowly through the streets while throngs lined
the walkways.  Mixed amongst the varieties of flowers waved hand-held
cloths, some makeshift flags, others less intricate but sporting the
Imperial colors.  Over the grinding of the automobile's engine, I no
longer heard the cheers, though I assumed they still came, and to which I
answered with searching eyes lingering methodically upon random faces
while maintaining my standard blank, slightly disapproving expression. 
This was the extent of which the crowd received from me, for my arm had
long ago tired and I refused to lift it again, even to loyalists such as
these.

The other arm, however, I dutifully wrapped about my Sophie -- a
luxury I seldom enjoyed because of the staunch customs court life imposed
upon royalty, especially those like myself who -- as my uncle deemed
it -- "foolishly" chose a wife outside the nobility.  Certainly for this
breach the court attendants treated me a laughingstock, but such
judgements I easily ignored, for customs were only binding socially, and
my Sophie's companionship afforded me whatever impetus I required to cast
aside any and all embarrassment.

"Enjoying your anniversary gift?" I asked loudly enough to be heard
over the engine.  She nodded her response.  This gave me comfort, for,
though I hated travelling into our annexed territories, it accorded the
opportunity to skirt the restriction keeping Sophie from sharing my
automobile while upon our homeland soil.

I rested my free hand upon Sophie's belly, "And how does our newest
son enjoy riding with his father?"  My expression remained entirely
unemotive for our surrounding subjects, but I knew Sofia could read my
heart through the light caress.

In answer, she placed her palm upon mine, allowing herself the smile
that I myself would not.  "Our son rests both in comfort and security. 
Just as his mother does whenever in the arms of her Duke."

Earlier in life, my demeanor would have broken at such sentiment, but
ages in court had taught me well, and my countenance did not waver in the
slightest.  I did, however, pull her closer, imperceptible to those
without, but enough to lend my Sophie every assurance I could offer.

It was a sunny Baltic morning, and as the motorcade circumnavigated
River Miljacka en route to City Hall, a light Sarajevan breeze carried to
my ears pieces of the conversation between the front seat occupants, a
Count of the family Harrach and our driver.  This sensorial mixture
compelled my gaze to drift out upon the smooth waters of the river.  But,
at that moment, a sharp report cracked from the opposite side of the
automobile, tearing my attention back to mob on the street.

"Bravo!" the Count cried as he slapped his legs.  "A flat tire!  Now
we shall have to stop!"  He was looking directly at the driver -- far too
comfortable in his home city to sense any danger -- and missed the man
near the light post throwing the package in our direction.

Fortunately for Sophie and myself, the driver was not as much a fool
as the Count.  He pushed the accelerator.  The auto, however, did not
respond immediately, and the package arced undeviatingly toward us.

"Sophie!" I cried as I sat upright and threw my arm outward.  My
elbow met the package painfully, deflecting it over the rolled-back
canopy and behind the automobile.  I could not turn completely around to
see where the package went, but it was of no import, for I received my
answer when the bomb exploded, throwing only a flash of light heat over
us.

Police appeared from the crowd and went to work instantly and
efficiently, apprehending the bomber who had cast himself into the
shallow river for escape, clearing away the uninjured, and assessing the
damage upon the automobile to our rear.  I held Sophie low in the seat
and scanned the remaining crowd until we received the order to move on.

With our arrival at City Hall, I turned my attention again to Sophie.
Though still shaken, she understood my expression and tipped her chin
dutifully.  Accepting her consent, I leapt out as my door was being
opened and marched directly toward to the Mayor, covering the distance in
four great strides.  Seeing my approach, I do believe he cowered.

"Mr. Mayor, this is outrageous!" my voice boomed as I encroached upon
the squat, egg-shaped man.  "One comes here for a visit and is received
by bombs!  It is outrageous!"

The  Mayor's eyes darted from side-to-side, seeking counsel from his
advisors, but they remained stiffly mute as my own entourage caught up
with me.  He took a blustering breath, and his cheeks puffed up as he
stuttered, "Muh... ah... mmm..."  Lifting the kerchief he had held prior
to my approach, he wiped it across his forehead, an action which seemed
to return him to a semblance of sanity.  He grasped for words, but
stuttered nonsense yet again.  With lowered head, he brought a fist to
his mouth and cleared his throat into it three times in succession.  He
then faced me, and commanding a politician's smile to his lips, he spoke.

He began in a rather stilted tone but gained further composure as he
continued.  A comical figure this man was, deserving of the most
desperate hilarity, for -- and I believe my nostrils may have flared with
this realization -- instead of addressing my accusation, he had launched
into his prepared speech.

"Your Royal and Imperial Highness!" the Mayor bellowed.  "Archduke
Franz Ferdinand, we welcome you!  Our hearts are full of happiness as
Austria-Hungary graces our humble city with her blessing, for on this
28th day of June, the Year of Our Lord, 1914, she honors us with her
finest nobility..."

He continued to prattle on, and I noted privately to myself that this
was yet another of the multitudinous reasons I so despised visiting the
provinces.  Though I remained at attention, I felt Sophie's presence
beside me and I longed desperately to be in the automobile again,
speeding away from this pompous ass with Sophie once more in my arms.  My
sole consolation was that it would be soon -- though indeed, not soon
enough.

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<chapter>A Moment of Indecision<br>
by<br>
M. Stanley Bubien


It was a moment of indecision, a single instant, but even after four
years, the consequences to my hesitation are still being paid out.  Could
I have guessed at the time, though?  Surely not.  Surely not.  Especially
on such a bright, sunshine-filled day.

<BR>

The crowd had thinned by the time I approached the shop, hoping to
procure a small meal and a curbside seat from which to view the
procession.  A slightly haggard young man came out bearing a sandwich and
brushed past me.

"Gavrilo?" I said, spinning after him.

He hesitated.

"Gavrilo?" I repeated.

He glanced back at me, squinting sallowly as though he were
evaluating a rival from the street corner.  But, recognizing me, my old
roommate's demeanor relaxed and we clasped hands.  His grip had weakened
in the intervening years though he was a youth of barely twenty.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.  "I thought you opposed the
Empire.  'Filled with imperialist dogs' you used to say, yes?"  I laughed
while Gavrilo answered with darting eyes  --  always the understated one.

"How have you been, then?" I asked.

Gazing about, he replied, "Getting along," his voice sounding as
though it lacked oxygen.  "You look quite fair yourself," he continued. 
"Married yet?  I seem to recall a courtly maiden striking your fancy."

Never a healthy man, but always a barbed wit!  We both laughed, for
he referred to a woman he himself had introduced me to  --  the daughter of
a politician.  Yes, she had struck my fancy, but her father  --  he had
struck my jaw!  I touched my mouth and Gavrilo laughed harder.

"You rascal," I told him.  "You knew her father wanted her married to
the Mayor's son."

"Is that right?" he feigned ignorance.

"I still marvel that you shared acquaintances with such an
influential family.  Quite well-connected for such a young radical."

He nodded, "I have a tendency to know people."

"Often to your own foul purpose," I joked, but a dark cloud passed
over Gavrilo's demeanor.  From down the lane, a clacking reached us, but
neither Gavrilo or myself gave it attention.  I decided to change
subjects, "And you, Gavrilo, are you betrothed?"

Unfortunately, I made poor choice of subjects.  Gavrilo's head
drooped as though he were examining his shoes.  "Almost," he replied in
near whisper.  The noise from down the street resolved into a rumble and
the crowd began thickening about us.  Still staring at his feet, Gavrilo
coughed once and said, "I have not the time for love these days, having
returned to Sarajevo on a matter of some urgency."

His sandwich crinkled while, as if choreographed to the crush of
paper, the noise of engines filled our block.  Afraid to say more to
Gavrilo, I reached out to grasp his shoulder as I had oft in times past.

"This is the wrong way!" a voice cried from the street.  "Go back to
Apple Quay!"

Gavrilo looked up, and before I gripped his shoulder, he dropped his
sandwich and took a single step to brush past me.  From his jacket he
pulled a revolver, pointing it at the nearest of the vehicles pausing
before us.  Within the automobile, I realized, sat the man everyone had
come to see, the Heir Apparent, Archduke Ferdinand.

My arm remained outstretched, and though Gavrilo was moving forward,
he hovered scant centimeters from my grasp.  As I realized my
predicament, all motion slowed  --  Gavrilo's waving gun, the converging
crowd, the braking autos  --  as if time itself was attempting to avert
coming disaster.

In these frozen seconds, events resolved within my mind.  Three days
prior, I had heard rumor of a Black Hand plot to retaliate against the
Empire's annexation of our Bosnia-Herzegovina  --  an illegal maneuver on
behalf of the Archduke's uncle that most Serbians opposed.  Gavrilo's
presence here made a sudden sense.

My hand approached Gavrilo  --  so frail, I would easily be able to
wrest him backward.  He took aim.  I reached further.  His finger slid
against the trigger in an agonizingly slow progression.  Palm
outstretched, I sought to grab his coat.

And I hesitated  --  just for a moment  --  for I understood what Gavrilo
set out to accomplish.  Austria-Hungary's ruler, Franz Josef, a powerful,
arrogant man, stole the land of our fathers believing he would force us
to his will.  So self-absorbed, he sent his nephew to review his troops
on our own soil, further humiliating us upon the anniversary of our great
defeat by the Turks.  It was outrageous!  He would pay  --  yes!  --  for
underestimating the dangers of meddling in Serbian affairs...

In that instant, time returned to normal.

"Wait!" I screamed.

Before my hand fell upon Gavrilo, he stepped away from me and fired. 
The echo of two gunshots drove all other sound away, and from my vantage,
I viewed the blood spreading from both Archduke and wife.  I also heard
the Archduke speak his last words.

"Sophie.  Sophie.  Don't die," he said in German.  "Stay alive for
our children."

As if this were a cue, the mob attacked.

"Gavrilo!" I cried, trying to reach him through the gauntlet of
bodies, "Gavrilo!"  They knocked him to the ground and kicked him
mercilessly.

The bloody vision, the cracking gunfire, and my own hesitation all
resounded within my head.

"Gavrilo!"

Madly, I forced my way into the mob, renting away those weaker than
myself.  In my furor, I reached the center, and there upon the ground lay
Gavrilo, receiving blows like a dead man.

"No!" I cried, bending my foot back, but a police whistle wailed and
I was thrust aside.  Officers surrounded the assassin, lifted him to his
feet  --  for he yet lived  --  and bore him away.

"No!" I cried again, rushing forward to strike at my old friend, but
I received a blow myself and collapsed upon the street.

"No," I sobbed.  "No, no, no..." I repeated, for, with all my being,
I wanted to kill Gavrilo.  He forced the responsibility of two lives upon
me, and, in a moment of indecision, I failed them.  And could I have
looked ahead four years, I would have sobbed all the more.  For the
millions  --  oh!  --  the millions!  I failed them all.

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<chapter>Delible Ink On Paper<br>
by<br>
M. Stanley Bubien

"I did not want this," I told my Chancellor, proffering the "Danger
of War" declaration I had presently signed; no more than spidery letters,
delible ink on paper, something so fragile that it could be easily
frayed, torn, burned even; and yet it fully prefigured an inevitability,
preparing our armies for mobilization.

"Ah, Majesty," he replied, accepting the order for the Admiralty. 
"Yesterday, you howled your anger at the Russians.  Called your very own
cousin Nicholas the most unrepeatable of names!  It seems to me that the
evening's passing has left you overly cooled.  May I reiterate once again
that this is most certainly for the best."

"Humph," I waved off my previous day's rage with a sweep of my good
arm.  "And how, pray tell, will this be for the best?"

"On so many occasions, I have heard you, yourself, declare your
intention to achieve a 'Place in the Sun' for the German peoples."

"Of course," I agreed, matter-of-factly.  "As Kaiser, I have striven
for this noble goal."

"Ah, but all that remains of Europe are places of shade."  He waved
the document before me.  "This, however, changes so much.  It opens so
many possibilities.  First, against those uncivilized Slavs.  And also,
as you certainly need no reminding, the Eastern occupied territories of
those nameless Poles."

I hunched silently within my seat, my great teak desk before me,
spanning forward, extending sidewards in its girth, immovable, save by
the strength of five men, in its mass.  I always sought a measure of
potency leaning upon this desk, for the strength of its ancient trunk
held me up and sustained me at times.  Oft considered the most powerful
man in Europe, this desk, more than anything else -- territories, armies,
navies -- allowed me the luxury to believe as much once or twice during my
rule.  Just as now, it seemed the only thing solid enough to prop these
pages, the weightiest the world has ever known, which I had scattered
upon it over the last several days.

"I hate the Slavs, though it is a sin to say so, it is most certainly
the truth."  And with that confession, I brought myself to my feet, and
strode around the desk, advanced to the open part of the room, and paced
with boots thumping firmly upon the flooring, while in contrast, the
medals upon my uniform rattled lightly.

"All men are sinners," the Chancellor informed me, as his eyes
followed my progress, to and fro, about the chamber.  "That much we both
know.  But to hate those who deserve your hatred?  I am not convinced
that such a thing is evil."

I halted, turned fully on him, and cocked my head.  "Be that as it
may, I believe it was these feelings, in part, that motivated me to agree
to your declaration of support for Emperor Joseph and Austria-Hungary."

"Well," the Chancellor began in a slightly contradictory tone, "I
must point out that the Emperor has been a mighty ally for quite a number
of years."

I exhaled and nodded.  "Certainly."

"And in the tradition of our Teutonic ancestors, we are honor-bound
to adhere to that agreement.  And you have been informed that the
Austrian army has already began their invasion of Serbia."

"Yes, of course," I said, gesturing toward the page in my
Chancellor's hand, "and with the Russian army moving as well, I realize
the necessity of this."

He broke into a grin.  "You should also realize that this is merely a
beginning.  Once we have taken our place in the sun, you shall no longer
be known as Kaiser."

My eyebrows furled.  "Oh?"

"Leading the German peoples to victory, certainly many will refer to
you as one of legend; even, I must say, as a god!"

I thrust myself forward, threw a clenched fist toward his projecting
nose, and, index finger extended, I cried, "Fool!  Get out!  Take that
damnable order and leave."  Unabashed, he complied to my command with a
bow.  He retreated, and the door creaked wide, and he twisted slightly,
and as he stepped through, I called afterward, slightly less gruffly,
"pray, my friend.  Pray that it goes no further than this.  For if
England enters this struggle alongside Russia, I will then be at war with
both my cousin and nephew."

He hesitated, grasped the jamb, arched his neck slightly.

I knew his thought, knew the words he would speak, so surely I could
speak them myself.  "Go!" I ordered, halting his response, and driving
him finally from my presence.

"A god," I shook my head, "humph, damnable fool!"

And with that I glanced upon my desk the papers, in reality, a small
pile, emblazoned with various official seals, spun of such delicate pulp,
yet again I fully realized that only this teak masterwork could prop such
a burden.  For, in the two days that they had flooded across my desk, I
had come to know them, memorize them, and, above all, despise them.

But it was one in particular, a Serbian document, a reply -- a full
capitulation, no less -- to the most formidable, and absolutely absurd,
demand imposed by the Austrian state upon her enemy.  I lifted it lightly
between fingertips, and it flopped slightly as I studied it.

"Fool," I had called my Chancellor.  But surely that was my
designation, for this document, sent to Austria-Hungary several weeks
ago, had been completely ignored by myself until day before yesterday. 
And there, in the margins, in an ink so delible, were words that I should
have written not two nights ago, but twenty.  "A great moral victory for
Vienna; but with it every reason for war is removed --"  Unable to read
any further, I allowed the page to drop to the floor.

"God," my Chancellor had called me.  And yet, alone in my office,
before my great teak desk, I considered also the statement I had halted
him from speaking in his departure.  For, as he well knew, today I was
totally powerless; war would soon rage across our land, and there was not
one single thing that I, the Kaiser of Germany, could do to stop it.

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<toctext>
<toctext>1915

<chapter>The Devil's Trap<br>
by<br>
M. Stanley Bubien


The rain had been falling for weeks, and I along with my comrades in
arms were bloody soaked -- soaked in our trenches, soaked in our dugouts,
we either slept in wet clothes or stood with boots full of water.

"Grin and bear it," our sergeant blurted as he slogged into our
trench.  To illustrate, he grabbed off a boot and, draining it into the
mud, he cried, "Aye!  You see?" Which he followed with a belly laugh that
rumbled like a Howitzer.

It was a most ludicrous sight, our sergeant, boot in hand with yellow
water spilling forth, swaying as he made mockery of our situation.  It
was too much for the men -- and myself as well.  Pointing fingers or
nudging our nearest mate, we let go a torrent of laughter that echoed the
length of our trench.

This had to be more than poor old Fritz could take -- his enemy across
the field drenched in misery but guffawing as though sharing an ale with
his pals down at the corner pub.

"What's this?" the sergeant squinted as he staggered to replace his
boot.

Above the German parapet, a plank raised, upon which had been
scrawled "The English are fools!"

The sergeant grunted, "not such bloody fools as all that!" and he
waved myself and two others forward.  We pressed our chests against slimy
trench wall and, aiming over the top, we made quick work of smashing the
sign to splinters with rifle fire.

"Jolly good!  We've shown them!" the sergeant said too soon.

Another plank appeared, this time bearing the words "The French are
fools!"

"Loyalty to our allies, men."  And we destroyed this board as well.

"Bullocks," the sergeant said.  He shook a bout of slime away and
pointed across No-Man's Land.  There rose yet another plank.

On instinct I fired, and these words I made out just as it
disintegrated: "We're all fools!  Let's all go home!"

The gunfire had silenced only moments before some of the men
chuckled.  They repeated the message and began talking amongst
themselves.

"There's a deal of truth there.  Why should this go on?" one said.

"The fighting men have no real quarrel with each other." another
agreed.

And a riflemen who helped me extinguish the signs replied, "Bloody
right!  Let the old men who made this war come here and fight it out
themselves."

Nods of ascent spread, and mine was one of them.

"Bloody right!" the sergeant broke in.  "But who will go home
first?"  He glanced about, looking each man in the eye.  "Will it be us?"
He raised his chin toward the Germans, "or Fritz there?"

The question struck the men dumbfounded.  I, however, peered over the
trench in hope that the Germans were actually making a retreat.  But alas
no.  I sank back down.  We were, each side, caught by the same
question -- it was a trap, a devil's trap from which there was no escape.

The sergeant slapped me on the shoulder with a mucky hand.  "Grin and
bear it man," he said and marched away through the trench.

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<toctext>
<toctext>1916

<chapter>A Scratch on the Nose<br>
by<br>
Captain Philippe Millet


"Twenty-two days in the trenches...  The regiment has lost 500 men. 
As for me, I've only had a scratch on the nose, but the bullet which did
that killed my pal outright."

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<toctext>
<toctext>1917

<chapter>No Longer Have the Courage<br>
by<br>
M. Stanley Bubien


Upon repeating the official French commendation for valor, General
Joseph Jacques Cesaire Joffre reached over to pin the medal upon the
soldier's lapel.

The soldier's head followed the motion.

Joffre sucked a breath, for briefly the soldier's scar -- cutting from
his brow down through both eyes, and raking away the bridge of his
nose -- had given the impression that, though completely blind, he watched
the decoration being attached.  It was, Joffre realized without
shuddering, simply an illusion.

Afterward, he made an opportunity to address his Staff.

"Never again," he stated.  "I mustn't be shown any more
spectacles..."  He paused and rubbed his brow, sighing as his fingers ran
upon the smooth flesh which stretched there.  "I would no longer have the
courage to give the order to attack."

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<toctext>
<toctext>1918

<chapter>The Bolsheviks Were Ruthless<br>
by<br>
M. Stanley Bubien


The Bolsheviks were ruthless, even after my father abdicated.  I may
not remember details, but that I shall never forget.

"Don't worry Anna," my father had said, wiping my tears.  "We're
under their protection."  I don't think he trusted them, but he tried to
make us believe he did.

The house arrest lasted years -- or so I've been told.  What I do know
involves visions of my mother's stern beauty and constant planning.

"Here's another diamond.  I've tied it off." She handed it to me.  I
fingered it gingerly, and, as she taught me, obscured the heirloom within
my favorite gown using needle and thread.

"You'll be a princess again when you wear that," my mother smiled,
returning to her own sewing as if that action could return us all to the
Czardom.

The Bolsheviks, however, denied us.

Even in his finest dress, I noticed the sweat upon my father's brow.

"Ah," the hulking Bolshevik said as he lead us downstairs.  "What a
portrait these children will make, sparkling like angels above."  He
rested his palm upon the shoulder of my gown.  The gentleness of his
gigantic fingers surprised me.

"Don't touch her!" my father commanded.

The Bolshevik turned a dark eye to him.

My mother brushed his grasp aside and scolded, "You cannot manhandle
a princess so."

His gaze fell to the floor as if ashamed, "My apologies."  His toothy
grin, however, betrayed him.

The portraitist made an elaborate show of arranging us.  First all
seated, then in a circle about my father, then an embrace.  Finally, he
waved "Perfect!" with satisfaction.  But something was amiss, for he had
set us standing shoulder-to-shoulder in an awkward pose.

Stepping away, he grasped the curtain, "And now to the tools of my
trade."  With a tug, he revealed soldiers -- many soldiers -- aiming rifles
at us.  My mother's grip crushed my forearm as the room exploded with
gunfire.

The bullets sparked as they bounced from my diamond-encrusted gown. 
But it still hurt.  It hurt so badly, I actually passed out.  Pain is
strange, though.  It renders you unconscious, yet awakens you also.  And
so it was, that, the cold, and the voices.

"I won't do the children."

"I will, then!" a throat rumbled.  "Take your hatchet, use it on the
Czar."

Someone grabbed my arm.  Recognizing those gentle fingers, I opened
my eyes to the hulking Bolshevik hovering over me.

"AH!" the man screeched and jumped back, dropping his axe.  In that
instant, I took in the bodies of my family, the ground wet and red with
blood.  I leapt to my feet, kicked off my shoes and sprinted into the
trees.  I think that was my mother in me.

"Get her!  There must be no heir!  Find her!"

But I had had years to explore the forest, and I eluded them...

Or so the story goes.

I have read that account, and so many others that I no longer recall
the exact truth.  But details matter not.  For my family died that day. 
Yet I lived.  And so, too, did the Bolsheviks.

<center>
###
</center>


<chapter>Copyright and License

<i>For Kosovo!,</i> 512 Words.<br>
Copyright &copy; 1999, Mark S. Bubien.

<br>

<i>Attempted Assassination,</i> 1024 Words.<br>
Based on a true story.<br>
Copyright &copy; 1997, Mark S. Bubien.

<br>

<i>A Moment of Indecision,</i> 1024 Words.<br>
Based on a true story.<br>
Copyright &copy; 1997, M. Stanley Bubien.

<br>

<i>Delible Ink On Paper,</i> 1024 Words.<br>
Copyright &copy;  1999, Mark S. Bubien.

<br>

<i>The Devil's Trap,</i> 512 Words.<br>
From <i>Realities of War</i> by Phillip Gibbs.<br>
Copyright &copy;  1998, Mark S. Bubien.

<br>

<i>A Scratch on the Nose,</i> 32 Words.<br>
From <i>Comrades in Arms.</i><br>
Copyright &copy; 1916, Captain Philippe Millet.

<br>

<i>No Longer Have the Courage,</i> 128 Words.<br>
Based on a true story.<br>
Copyright &copy; 1998, Mark S. Bubien.

<br>

<i>The Bolsheviks Were Ruthless,</i> 512 Words.<br>
Copyright &copy; 2000, Mark S. Bubien.

<br>


The author(s) hereby <i>grant</i> the right to electronically distribute
these stories via e-mail, ftp, and/or usenet news for non-profit purposes
provided the story, title, authorship, and copyright (including this
notice) remain in their original form, without modification or deletion.

<br>

To place stories on a Web Site (free): <editor@storybytes.com>

<br>

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