Calling

• Lisa Huynh, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2019

God. A name known by so many. A name known for the light it’d bring. A name known for promised return. A name, she’d figured, did not have to be a holy entity to do the same job - sometimes, His counterpart could do just the same.

Relieving the thick scent of Shephard’s pie, Valentine opened her window, her kitchen promptly adopting the minty smell of yesterday night’s thunderstorm. The black paint stained her hands - blackout hours were difficult to accommodate to, especially in times of early sunsets. She returned to her comfy Barcelona chair, stared well at the thick mess of wires and got to work. Four valves the size of light bulbs glowed, coppery coils glistened in response, clear as the coming day. She was well renowned for being a lunatic; belittled for pursuing her dreams instead of a dream man, “be little” she ‘d always thought. Little, she then figured, was a title not fit for a woman. Considering she’d at least got the job done, little did little justice at all.

Despite the deep filter of the radio, Vera Lynn’s voice still shone brightly throughout the household, hitting the jet black window panes, shaking them. Valentine sat there watching them vibrate to the impossibly high tones of the female singer - not at all little. It was only when the movement stopped did she realise the sudden cut of the voice - silence.

“For the second time in most of our lives, we are at war.” Valentine, near startled, stared long at the radio. The iconic manly voice of the unexpectedly crowned king - stuttering, weak almost. He continued on.

“The task will be hard.” The man spoke of the sudden declaration of war, the sudden need for light, the sudden need for soldiers, the sudden need to no longer be little.
Valentine’s head perked up like a soldier from the trenches, “...commend our cause to God.” God? What was God to her? A man whom no one dared condemn; then again, no man was condemned - only women. It didn’t seem fair that men had the privilege, the advantage, wherein the bonfire of light is furiously kindled by the mention of a male label as if verbal witchcraft. Valentine stood up from her chair, almost knocking it over. She didn’t have any BC or D tattoos, nor was she younger than 20 - perfect. To her, God was a dog - all bark and no bite. A real “god” would stand their ground, aid physically, not only morally. To her, a real God was a woman - but not at all little in the slightest.