War

• Maddy Spiess, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2021

Bleak silence erupted within the thick air. Sitting alone, upon a sleek wooden seat. Severed strings emanating from the moribund cushion stained with months of spilt coffee. She stared plainly at the monotonous wooden floor, thinking of nothing.
Her fingers entwined within her greying thin hair, interlacing streaks secreting to her nimble fingers. To be lonely was an understatement.
Why bombs and guns may thoughtlessly attempt to resolve world issues, why the bullet upon a young boy’s head may mean success; the desolations of the world unfolded, wings of dagger, slicing demeaning locations as mothers widowed lone. She began to ponder whether, or rather when, she would receive that letter upon her doorstep to say he was dead. She was sceptical her son would ever come home.
And she sat, the beginnings of oncoming rain rapping gently against her roof, thinking about what an utter disaster the world had begun to seem. War may end in peace. But peace never lasts forever. It was a simple story with an ending seen common. Widowed mother lives to see her sons die at war. At least they died fighting, right? Or did they have to die at all?
Morbid thoughts plastered the sheer seclusion within. Her mind was plagued with memories of him, gleaming eyes of brown, hazelnut curls. The memories persistently thudded against her consciousness until she delved into deep thought. A ribbon of tear cascaded down her pale cheek, tumbling down unto her prominent knuckles. It was a new day but a frighteningly similar outcome. Or so she thought, as a subtle thud sounded against her door.
A frayed letter, ivory faded beige with the coming of rain and dust.
An overwhelming surge of perturbation and knowing clouded her head. Surely this was to say he was dead. He never sent her letters. But as she delicately tore open the envelope, she was glared at by three simple words. The three words had more meaning than she could have ever comprehend. It was written in shaky cursive, of one she knew.
"I am alive."
But for how long? Yet her outcome had drastically changed within seconds. Her trembling fingers arose to her crinkled face, clutching at the one essence of light she sought. Her son was alive. He was alive. It seemed surreal. She was so undoubtedly sure he would have already died.

His eyes cast down at the paper. He had not enough time to write in detail. A raucous series of discordant gunfire erupted. He could do nothing but write to her. She would be wallowing in fear.
But as he sat in the trench, feeling secure after sending her a simple letter, his eyes trailed unknowingly at the small bomb thrown recklessly beside him. But before he could comprehend what to do, the darkness secluded his consciousness.

To know darkness is to know when haunted by its monotonous melancholy tune, the true beauty of coming into light. Ten years on, she looked back with a subtle smile.