A young couple walks home, sirens blast, people hurry. A defeated newspaper lies crumpled in the gutter, the headline WAR BREAKS OUT IN POLAND glares at the passerby. The woman kept her hand on the swollen bump on her stomach, wary. He tightens his arm around her.
The husband walks over to the liquor cabinet, the woman sees him taking shots of whiskey, and his fingers trembling as he reads the newspaper over and over again. He walks over to his wife, fingers running through his hair. He shows her the newspaper once again, and he places an enrolment letter in front of her.
Three months later, he walks over to his wife placing his hand on the woman’s ever growing bump, his eyes whispering the words, “I’ll be back.”
“Flash” As soon as the photo was taken he was gone, the photo showing a tear rolling down his fresh shaven beard onto his new uniform and on his polished boots.
5 years later, the war was soon over but still no sign of her dear husband.
“Happy birthday, I wish your father was here to see this day, your fifth birthday.” Elizabeth whispered to herself as she tucked in her little boy under the covers.
The doorbell rang, Elizabeth rushes to the door. A man in uniform with a sealed envelope came in and sat down at the table.
Tears rolled down her face, eyes whimpering, thoughts rolling in like tidal waves, waves of tears landed on the envelope. Department of National Defense it read, but all that you could make out now were the tears forming new words, words of sorrow and pain.
Every morning for as long as I could possibly imagine she would glare at that god forsaken photo wishing that the war never started, the newspaper was still laying on the desk. Even the whiskey glass lay there undisturbed since that dreaded day, a layer of dust engulfing it.
Out side of London Ontario, in a small house on a big farm, excitement was brewing. A wedding was to be held, a proud strong living replica of his father, Maximilian was to marry a beautiful woman with a strong, loving character named Elli.
Max was soon to have a son, he nervously paced back and forth in his fathers old house, running his fingers over the photograph of his father, hands trembling. Small blurs appeared on the photo, drops rolling down the photo. He looks left of the photo to see a telegraph.
Deep in trenches on the outskirts of France a strong army of 100 men was attacking the German front lines. Then Max’s father Luke saw a wounded comrade. He sprinted on the hard beaten soil; the air was full of a strange fog as he ran back to his allies. He saw a glimpse of sunlight, a silver ball of light was thundering to the ground. It released its tongue, like a serpent crawled its way over to us. Its hot embers turning everything in its clutches to a dark pile of dust, blowing in the wind. The monster sucking the souls of many, Luke’s eyes were so pale you could see right through them. His legs missing, his skin scorched by the monster, all that was left was his soul floating in the wind among the ashes.
“In his name, I will name my boy Luke Watson in memory of my father.” Max Announced.
Max looked at the newspaper, and the enrolment letter next to the photograph of his father. The letter seamed to have a feeling of dread in it, but reminisced of love, pain. The newspaper, yellowed, showed a group of eager young men, a rip running down the photograph. It’s what the war had done, Max thought. Left us broken, alone. He runs a hand through his graying hair, pins a poppy on his suit. Moves on. Thinks about clients, business deals. Never showing the photograph of his father that he keeps in his heart.
- Written by Peter Skrajny, age 12. Edited by Joanna Skrajny, age 15.
Remembering....
