Story cover for Spring of 1918 by RandomStoryTester
Spring of 1918
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Complete, First published Mar 18, 2024
In March of 1918, near the end of the First World War, Germany's military forces had been dried out due to the many violent battles fought in the war. Though Allied casualties were higher than German ones, it was estimated that the sheer number of the Allies would still mean that Germany would lose. The commander Erich Ludendorff decided the only way to win the war was to launch an all-out offensive on the Western Front. This poem is from the perspective of a soldier who wants to serve his nation to the bitter end. 
I've been learning German a bit, so I mixed some German words in there. I hope it doesn't make the poem sound cringe. That being said, as always, feedback would be appreciated :}
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Grave digger by major_moron67
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The year is 1964, but the surface has not felt human footsteps for nearly half a century. The Great Retreat of 1919 forced the remnants of civilization underground after World War I spiraled out of control. The war did not end-it merely burrowed deeper. Poisoned by mustard gas storms, chemical fires, and plagues, the surface is a wasteland of twisted metal and abandoned battlefields. Cities stand as hollowed ruins, their streets buried under layers of ash and dust. The sun is a faded memory, its warmth replaced by the choking heat of oil-fed infernos. Humanity crawled underground, carving vast tunnel networks and cavern-cities in the bones of the earth. Here, in the damp dark, people breathe recycled air, eat fungus grown from the dead, and drink from seeping cracks in ancient stone. The tunnels are endless, a maze of bunkers, collapsed mines, and fortresses built into the rock. The deeper one goes, the easier it is to forget the surface ever existed. War never ended-it just changed battlefields. Two factions, trapped in their endless conflict, send wave after wave of soldiers to die in the tunnels. The Golden Empire A militaristic theocracy that foolishly believes that God has not yet mankind. Their soldiers march in formation, clad in gold-plated armor, chanting hymns as they die for a war they cannot win. The Royal Nation A fractured, industrial war machine, where duty replaces faith. They ration food, force conscription, and manufacture war endlessly. Their soldiers wear hate on their sleeves, marching toward death with polished bayonets. Neither side will surrender. Battles are won and lost over mere yards of dirt, trenches collapse under the weight of bodies, and chemical gas drifts through the underground like creeping death. The surface is dead. The underground is soon to follow.
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His eyes are a shade of green I can't quite put a name to. Muddy, overwhelming, pain might come close, and maybe that's why it seems so familiar. Because his arms, clad in the faded homespun my mother once made, feel like home. He's a sad, lovely song I don't know the words too but long with every ounce of my being to sing. ----------------------------- It's 1918 and an entire generation is aching in its very bones. Love and loss are bedfellows. Sometimes in the aftermath of death things grow and in the aftermath of war is life. ----------------------------- Harry Styles/ Emilia Clarke/ Sam Claflin/ Lily James (#1 in WW1)