A Boy. A Man.

• Elysha Mccauley, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2016

I come across a lad, a boy, just standing there. His back not arched, his head not covered. As if he had given up all hope of return. The bombs land around us shining brightly in his eyes, acting out the horrors that filled his head. The dirt on his face would never be wiped clean, he would forever be a shade darker then he was before. Small dots jump in and out of his hair, and off his clothes, as if they too are hoping to get away from this hell. He, like the rest of us, is covered in mud from head to toe. You can’t quite tell whether the drips that are falling off of him are drops of water or sweat. Or blood. Underneath the mud soaked clothes and disintegrating skin, stands proudly a chivalrous boy. A boy who chose to serve his country and become a man before his time. If you were able to clean off the horrors on his face, you may be able to see his innocent smile. Teeth as crooked as a fence on a rundown house. Hair messier than a mop head. A healthy young lad whose bright future has, too, been smothered in mud. The photo of a dignified young man standing, hands behind his back, in the glory of an army uniform, slips out his hand as he begins to lose hope. The photo of who he used to be sinking into the mud like everything else around him. The body of the young man taken to the earth until the earth spits up its horrors again. In he’s face you can see the fear, the horror of what is to come. He did not want to be left behind, to be one holding in his hand a cold white feather. But now the boy watches as who he used to be sinks away.