War Games

• Jack Watson, Grade 7, Mukinbudin District High School
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'Write As Rain 2014' competition

Sam felt the blaze at ten o’clock at night. Magnified through the window, it felt warm on his face. He stroked aside his fringe of soft fair hair and slid out of his covers and into his slippers. It was strange, he thought, to wear pale blue pajamas with green slippers. Mum usually got matching colours. He peered on tiptoes through the window to see the glow of the fire. It crackled in his ears. Fire was bad, Mum said. Yet the whole street was full of it. He walked to his door. Must tell Mum and Dad, he thought. He opened the door and made for his parents room. He made a dull thud noises as he ran on the balls of his feet. He grabbed the door handle and shook it. Nothing happened. He sat down and wailed, expecting his Mum to come comfort him. Nothing. He remembered when she burnt her hand cooking. I need cold water, he thought. He ran outside and turned on the hose, picked up the nozzle and walked towards the burning street, determined. He froze halfway across the front lawn. A man stood there facing the fire.
“What’s your name boy?” he said with his back to him.
“Sam.” His voice seemed insignificant next to the power radiating out of the man and the burning street.
“And what do you plan to do with that water?”
“Put out the fire.” Sam whispered. The man boomed with laughter, facing the fire.
“How old are you?”
“Five.” Sam announced proudly feeling a little strength. “I’m a big boy now.”
“Five,” the man chuckled, “It’s too easy. There’s no-one left to put out the flame of war but a five year old boy.” He turned to face Sam, his military medals glinting from the fire. Suddenly, the house burst alight, leaving everything but the patch of grass on fire.
“You will learn to hate me and finally I will have an enemy in war!” Before it seemed possible that the knife had left his belt, Sam could feel the cut down the middle of his face. Sam was too shocked to react. The man wiped the blood off his knife onto his hand and slapped Sam on the forehead, leaving a red handprint. Sam lost his footing. He fell backwards, tensed up, waiting to land flat on his back…

Sam Wood was shocked awake on his office desk. He ran his finger down the scar that went down his forehead, across his nose, over his mouth and onto his chin. He was older physically and emotionally. He had gone to war. Many of his men had died. He had played the man’s game. He now knew the man as Destruction. No-one knew his real name. He had played the game and won.
“Sir,” he heard a voice outside, “what do we do with him?” Him. The man. Destruction. Sam had given him pleasure playing the game. He had done exactly what Destruction wanted. Destruction had torn away his life and replaced it so he could have an opponent. Destruction’s life was over- he probably expected if not wanted death to finish off his story. What should he do with him?