Not Yet

• Stephanie Liang, Grade 5, Glendal Primary School
• Short Story
• 2015

Excellence Award in the 'The Write Track 2015' competition

The way my children cower in anxiety at the sound of a bomb hitting, yells of consternation, and screams of horror is unbearable. They deserve so much better than to be stuck, stuck just like glue, in this madness.

“Where has Daddy gone?” they gaze at me imploringly, intently. They do not understand yet, these wars, but the memories which will linger with them like scars are the things I am afraid of.

I should be running, running away from the hatred and spite twisted and entangled in this war. But my dear heart aches for my beloved husband, who stands at his station, preparing for the worst possible outcome.

We are still lucky. Houses have taken some critical hits, and lives have been torn away. Our house is isolated and desolate, and no damage has been taken...yet.

Not a day goes by when I do not wake up thinking, fearing, that our luck has run out. The constant bombings we dread are getting closer, inch by inch.

I know my children are filled with trepidation too. They are courageous, being able to still cope in a situation like this. Their optimism drives them on like a raging motor car, hardly taking any stops or breaks.

Our patience is all wearing out. At every hour of the day and night, we glance out of the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the handsome face which we all long to see. All I would need is his simple smile, and then I would know everything is alright.

Our fear grows, stronger, like a flickering flame turning into a raging inferno, into desperation. We grasp onto our yearning like it is going to be our savior.

The war has not hit us, but my husband has not come home. Not yet.