Previous Challenge Entry (Level 2 – Intermediate)
Topic: The Family Reunion (06/05/08)
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TITLE: The Verdant Death of Appearance | Previous Challenge Entry
By David Johnston
06/12/08 -
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“We hid under the kitchen table at the beginning of the war. The bombers, their terrible noise. Safest place to be, you see? Bloody Anderson shelters were full of water again. One hit the shop at the end of the street.”
Grandpa’s stories were the usual mix of life in war-torn London and death in the trenches of France. Warfare had surrounded him as he grew up and here sitting on this rickety old chair Matthew was entranced. As his mother waltzed into the night, crumbling biscuits an echo of her presence, Matthew listened in awe to his grandfather, whose upbringing seemed to be a decaying of his own: as he’d spent his summer holidays swimming in the lake, his grandfather was adrift on the debris of bombings and gunfire, whilst exploring the forest by night, his grandfather was experiencing life torn from its roots. As his grandfather took a sip of wine, Matthew nibbled on a grape and silence descended from the trees. A silent bird stared at the back of grandpa’s head; the family cat prowled around. His grandfather coughed, the cat caught sight of the bird which flew back to the apparent safety of his nest and Matthew interrupted: “What happened in the trenches grandpa...?”
Grandpa began his tale of rations and boredom where death was omnipresent but never omnipotent. Hunger would torment him, would cause the stomach to make endless calls for bread, as the mind tried to focus on the distant sounds of gunfire, registering that pause in firing which signalled an approaching enemy. Matthew’s eyes closed momentarily, thinking of the moments he’d fasted and prayed, prayed and waited, trying to focus on God’s voice, hungry for something, anything which would comfort him.
“One time, we lay there under the stars.” Matthew remembered the park. “It all seemed so peaceful for once. The gunfire lit up the sky, like fireworks.” He thought of the laughter crackling around him. “Then, there were shouts, German voices, closer than we thought.” The argument seemed to come from nowhere, a gang of kids he didn’t know. “They seemed to be right on top of us, with this menacing growl. I was ready.” They were coming near to Matthew, a knife in the gang leader’s hand. “Bob wanted to go over; he was always the brave one, the foolish one.” An argument, one of Matthew’s friends moved towards the gang leader’s hand, towards that glinting knife. “I could see the spark of a gun above us. I could see Bob starting to climb. I shouted.” Matthew screamed as the gang leader’s knife moved sharply. “His blood covered me. I should’ve stopped him.” Matthew sobbed, “I could’ve stopped him. I should’ve stopped him”.
The family cat attempts to climb the tree as the plane continues overhead. Two men hug each other, the reality of warfare, earthly and spiritual, uniting their lives. Tears roll down their cheeks, dripping to the ground where they attempt in vain to irrigate the long-forgotten vegetable patch. The plane banks, its bombs long since having been released over the desert wildernesses of another country, leaving behind the crumbling farmhouse, the stagnant waters of the lake, and those browning fields carved into the beauty of the land.
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