He was no longer a boy. With his bare hands he had killed men. And held dying friends. Such things had aged him far beyond his four-year enlistment. He sat and wondered if he would ever be free from the war. Today at least, on that bus home, he was free from the uniform.
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I originally posted this over at another blog I write for b5 called Re:Retro… I’m reposting it here because I don’t write many of these, so it would be a shame to let this one go to waste :)
As if carried across the winds for a score the music hit my ears…
It was a song […]
Sweat dripped down his forehead. He checked the oil before trying to start the old machine yet again.
He should have been finished with several jobs already. But luck has frowned on him.
One. More. Try.
The engine roared to life. He straightened up, smiled meekly at the homeowner and proceeded to mow the lawn.
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I sat in my chair slowly rocking back and forth in the dim light, a book on my lap and a cup of coffee cradled in my left hand. A man was talking to a woman, about what I don’t know. The soft lullaby of words caressed my mind as I drifted off to sleep.
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He cried at the top of his lungs, squirming and wriggling in the woman’s arms. She did what she could to ease his pain.
As suddenly as they started, the screams stopped. His eyes unfocused, staring at nothing in particular. She waited in silence.
He let out a giant burp, and grinned toothlessly, finally relieved.
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Petrol fumes and the acrid smell of smoke were all Sergei could smell, even after two showers and having disposed of his “work” clothes in the incinerator, he couldn’t get rid of the whiff of his morning’s exertions. He didn’t mind, the fact that he was still alive was testimony to a job well done.
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He sat in the cold, wet grass staring intently. Slowly the shimmering lines that extended from the object arced toward him, stopping inches in front of his nose. Luke reached out with his hand and was met with a splash of cool water. His eyes twinkled; his face lit up; and he squealed with delight.
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Drained and exhausted, he fell to his knees. There were people around him. They were trying to help him up, but not because he needed help. It was a celebratory gesture.
Amid the cheers he quietly contemplated his performance. It still wasn’t good enough, not for his self-imposed standards anyway.
“Next time” he thought…
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Sergei whistled while he worked, an atonal Ukrainian folk tune at the moment but just as likely to be The Beatles or the Beach Boys such was his love of Western culture. He placed the last of the petrol cans under the stairs and threw the match as he stepped back into the doorway.
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Ron walked dejectedly down the cold blustery beach. He debated proposing to Dora. He was poor, can’t even buy her a decent ring. Her family disliked him.
He saw a tiny glint a few steps away. He picked it up and cleaned the sand off.
It was a gold ring, its precious stone long gone.
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