It Takes Two: A WoE writing contest.

So, Write on Edge has a special contest going to celebrate the upcoming volume of Precipice. The editors are being tight-lipped about the theme for 3rd year submissions, but this contest is designed to wet our whistle. We have 1,000 words and the following quote from the Great Gatsby:

"It takes two to make an accident." - F. Scott Fitzgerald.

For the record, I'm not a fan of the Great Gatsby. While this literary classic had genius moments, I thought it lacked a defined plot and it certainly head-hopped point-of-view too often for my tastes.

But that has nothing to do with the price of tea in China, or with the rules of engagement concerning this contest.

In addition to the 1k word limit, we can use the quote as an opening/closing line, or simply to draw inspiration from it, then we link up as we usually do. Out of the WoE community who participates, one story will be selected by the editors and another story will be selected by a vote of participants. The two selected stories will be featured in Precipice, volume 3, theme yet to be announced.

Exciting, right?

So I would like to offer the following as my entry.

Taps

  Gone the Sun

The trumpet sounded. Taps haunted the living. The flag was folded with military precision and the captain walked the triangle of starry cloth to an elder woman clad in black. She sat expressionless in a row of crying adults as she received the colors with gloved hands.

Melissa kept her distance, knowing she wasn’t welcome, especially now that her future husband was gone. His mother said the vilest things at the engagement party. Zach promised that it didn’t matter, that his mother’s opinions were base and ugly, but she would eventually come around. And none of it would change how he felt about her.

There was no benefit for Melissa. The Marine Corps didn’t consider her as next of kin. It was the cruelest trick of fate, to dangle the possibility of forever before her eyes, only to rip it away two weeks before the wedding.

Afghanistan couldn’t kill him, though it tried. The heat during the day, the cold during the night, the rabble with a penchant for locking their own in suicide cages, all of it and he still managed to come home well-adjusted and strong. Zach was supposed to be safe in the States. Gunfire disturbed the silence. Melissa forced a breath through her tired lungs, wiped a tear from her cheek, and counted.   Seven rifles times three rounds equaled twenty-one.  

And it was over.

The shadow clad family and friends wore their grief like a shroud and dropped ruby roses after the rosewood casket lowering into the ground. Her vantage point grew stale, yet she remained, numbness returning to her veins. Melissa watched Zach’s mother rise and depart in a sea of supporting arms. She sucked in another breath and whispered her silent argument to the sun for another hour with Zach. Just one more hour, she begged.

“You’re Melissa, right?”

She lowered her head, preparing for the avalanche of ill-will from a tongue under the employ of her would-be-mother-in-law. “I am.”

“I’m Bricker.” He sounded nervous. “Well, my name is Anthony Brickman, but everyone calls me Bricker.”

The name was familiar. She looked up and caught a pair of melancholy eyes, gray like an ocean of storms. “Zach’s…cousin.”

“Yeah.” He flinched. Something was troubling him.

“Nice to meet you. Zach told me a lot about you. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You’re sorry for my loss?” He gave a humorless laugh. “No wonder he loved you. You were too good for him, you know.”

“You’re wrong.” Her tongue was sharper than she wanted it to be. “He was bloody perfect.”

“He was a better man than me, that’s for sure.” Bricker sniffed and looked away. “It’s my fault you know. My fault he’s gone.”

“That doesn’t make sense. It was an accident.”

“I know it’s not my fault in that respect. But I’m the reason he was there at all. He wouldn’t have been on that bridge if not for me.” His weight shifted on his crutches. “You know that’s enough reason for Aunt Addie to cut me out.”

His tears drew more tears of her own from hiding and fished anger from her soul. “Zach’s mother, she blames you?”

“Can’t say I blame her for that. I mean, I blame myself too, so it’s only natural.”

“It’s not fair that Zach’s gone. I’ve begged every deity in history for a glimpse of what we could’ve had together.” Melissa shook her head. “But you didn’t make that accident happen. And he is the only one gone because the two of you together worked to get everyone out. Time just ran out for him. Time just ran out for us both.”

He was quiet for a long time, which was okay. She needed to process what she had just said. As her emotions tugged at her thoughts like taffy, she watched the Cat scoop earth into Zach’s final resting place. Zach saved thirty-two people that day, twenty-eight of them children, completely emptying the bus before the fire consumed him. Pointing fingers at anyone seemed petty in comparison.

“Look, Bricker,” she reached out and touched his arm. “Zach isn’t the sort – wasn’t the sort – to stand by and watch children perish. The others on that bridge were too busy catching the wreck on their smartphones. But you and Zach…I don’t want Zach to be gone, I want so bad to have my wedding and to live happily after. All those parents though, they all get to wrap their arms around their babies for one more hour. Why on earth would I ever wish this pain on them? No, you did good, Bricker. You both did.”

“It should have been me.” His voice crackled and sputtered. “Zach had so much more to contribute to this world. Can you ever forgive me?”

Melissa wiped the waterfall from her eyes and tried to smile. “There’s nothing to forgive. But if you need to hear the words, I forgive you and I hope someday you can say it to yourself.”

His crutches clattered to the ground. Strong and sudden, his arms engulfed her in a cocoon of a hug. They stood clinging to each other’s warmth in the shadow of Zach’s grave-site. “I’m so sorry, so very sorry,” he repeated like a child over a broken toy.

She began to overheat, feeling sweat bead at the nape of her neck. She kept the hug as long as she dared before giving him a gentle push. “I don’t want to keep you. I know the family is having a small reception at your aunt’s house. But I’m hoping…”

His gray eyes locked her gaze. “Hoping what?”

“Your aunt isn’t the type to be forgiving, no matter how wrong she is, and it’s going to take a long time before she’s willing to budge. Would you like to grab a cup of coffee with me? Maybe some lunch? I’d very much like not to be alone right now.”

He nodded. “I’d like that, too.”

Happy Birthday America!

Freedom isn't free.

I remember, and keep very faithfully, the vigil for those who have spilled their blood so that I wouldn't have to live by another's leave.

Thank you.

Photo courtesy SKD albums: Paul Revere statue at Heritage Park

Memorial Day 2013

In honor of those who have left us, by force or by choice, I wish to say: You are Remembered.

Last Homecoming (WoE #8 Philospher/Ballerina Challenge)

Write at the Merge this week gave us a Degas ballerina and the following quote:

It stands to reason that where there’s sacrifice, there’s someone collecting sacrificial offerings. Where there’s service, there’s someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice, speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master.
—Ayn Rand

I was not inspired by ballet or dance or art this time, although that isn't surprising. Even as an Irish Ceili dancer, I was never that invested in dance. Ballet bores me. I respect the ballerinas who shape their bodies into instruments of expressive art, but I can't sit through the whole Nutcracker or Swan Lake. And therefore, art that features dancers does little for me.

What caught me this week was the quote itself. While I don't believe that all sacrifices fall under this train of thought, it did make me think of what a government could do to a people made too weak to fight against it. This thought led to our Founding Fathers and the American Revolution. Which led me to Thaddeus. We last saw him at the Battles of Concord and Lexington at the cusp of the Siege of Boston.

I offer the following in response: The Last Homecoming

The entire city was eerily quiet under the King’s Curfew as Thaddeus slipped around the sentry post. Tension gripped the air as if Boston awaited the order to breathe. Using the cover of night, Thaddeus climbed the elder tree and pried open the latch on his bedroom window of his childhood home.

The narrow bedchamber once housed three boys. After tonight, only his younger brother Adam would remain, sleeping the sound sleep of a care-free twelve-year-old boy. Thaddeus fought the urge to wake him to say good-bye. The less his brother knew while the Lobster-backs controlled Boston, the better. As he crept across the floor, his heart hammered in ears. His only thought was to remove evidence he existed at all, not that there was much. A cobbler’s son didn’t have the pistareens to spend on frivolous objects.

A rap at the house door gave him pause and he heard the familiar shuffle of his father’s steps cross from the parlor below him in response. “Mr. John White?”

“Er, yes, I-“

Hinges squealed as the sound of men pushed by his father’s voice. Thaddeus risked the landing outside his bedroom, settling into a shaft of darkness to spy on the proceedings. His heart spiked to his throat at the sight of Regulars – an officer with a small detail - crowding into the entryway. His father, still gripping a candle for light, grumbled objections to the inconsiderate visitors. “The hour is quite late, gentlemen.”

The officer removed his hat and ran a gloved hand through his hair. “I apologize, Mr. White. We have been delayed this e’en with many troubles that I will not bore you with at this time. His Majesty kindly provided more troops for General Gage, unfortunately, we are not yet in a position to house them. City records indicate that you have three bedrooms and a back parlor, yes?”

“Correct, Mr.?”

“Lieutenant Gregg,” he responded. “I have a need for these rooms, or any space you can sacrifice for the sake of the Crown. It should only be for a few days while we fortify Boston’s gates.”

“Of course, Lieutenant. I shall wake my son, there are three beds in his room. And we can use the back parlor for our purposes, if you would like the front rooms.”

“Very generous, my good man.”

“I only ask that your men endeavor to behave like gentlemen during their stay, for my daughter is of an impressionable age.”

Fury erupted within as Thaddeus retreated from the landing. How could his father be so blind, allowing abuses simply because they were asked of him? Would the Regulars compromise his sister's virtue? There was some discussion among the soldiers before Thaddeus heard boots on the staircase. He grabbed his satchel and raced for the open window, sliding from the sill to the tree with the precision of a boyhood’s muscle-memory; muscles that ached with the knowledge that this was the last homecoming of a once-loyal British subject.

In Honor of Those Who Served

I write a blog from the comfort of my home, eating far too much food and wasting a great deal of time "researching" stuff on the internet.

I am able to dream from my armchair about the life I'd like to have. And I have a great many dreams. My books published and read by more people than just my parents and my editor. Enough success from my writing that perhaps I can live out the rest of my years in moderate comfort.

My desires seem so dreadfully important day in and day out that I am driven to achieve the smallest of goals, but in the grand scheme of things, my dreams matter little to the cost for my freedom. I owe those dreams, the life of who I was once, who I am now, and who I will become, everything to those who serve.

It's a simple phrase that shakes me to my core:

All gave some. Some gave all.

And they did it for me, an overweight armchair writer with very selfish dreams.

To the all that gave and the some that gave, to those who joined for the chance at higher education, for a direction or career path, to those who joined out of anger or joined out of pride, to those with families and those without, to those who are remembered or are forgotten, or would like to remember or forget, to Omar and my Uncle and my father and my neighbor and all their brothers in arms forever bound together in loss and sacrifice, to all I thank you for your service.

I am forever in your debt.

Write On Edge: Freedom Challenge

Red Writing Hood gives us 400 words this week.

Freedom.

Mankind has spent its entire existence in pursuit of Freedom. Even now, around the world, some of us are seeking freedom from bills, and are working hard to pay them off. Some want freedom from their parents and are working hard to move out on their own. Some want the freedom to travel so are working hard to get that promotion at their place of work. Or some want the freedom to do absolutely nothing at all, and have worked hard their whole lives so they can retire. Freedom isn't free. For each measure of individual freedom, there is a price, a sacrifice to be made, and it requires a fanatic devotion to maintain once obtained. Freedom is fleeting and delicate, and when we barter our freedoms, we gain nothing and lose everything.

Oops, that was more dismal than I intended it to be. I really should put up the soapbox.

So close to July 4th for the U.S.A. and July 14th for France, I find it difficult to avoid the more obvious route here. So I've decided not to fight it. We last met Thaddeus here. Paul Revere rode at midnight. The British carried orders to imprison Samuel Adams and John Hancock, and to seize minuteman supplies.



I offer the following in response: A Budding Patriot

 

The pitched battle yielded the tactical withdrawal of the British Regulars. A latecomer, Thaddeus gripped his primed rifle, straining to see through the smoky haze. Shot peppered the ground around him. The sound of a horse reached his ears and he turned towards its origin, squeezing the trigger as he aimed for its Redcoat rider. He dropped back to the earth, already dispensing a measure of powder into the warm rifle barrel. Ramrod impacting the load, he was back in position, ready to fire.

“Push ‘em hard!” someone cried.

Gun-smoke obscured his vision and sulfur burned his lungs as he breathed through his next round of fire then repeated his reloading ceremony. Powder. Linen. Ball. Ram. Prime the flashpan. Aim. Fire. Hearing someone call out for shot, Thaddeus reflexively checked his pouch. He had three balls left.

Hearing hooves of horses, he plastered himself to the ground behind his berm. Equine shadows thundered over him, the hock of one missing his head by inches. Thaddeus spit the dirt from his mouth and pushed himself up to reload.

Powder. Linen. Ball.

Redcoat approaching.

Ramrod. Flashpan.

Devil raising bayonet.

Aim. Squeeze.

Redcoat dropping.

Thaddeus ran the few feet to his felled victim. He knelt for a time next to the dying man, unable to move, watching his chest rise and fall in shallow, rapid succession, then shudder to complete stillness. Instinct made Thaddeus divest the redcoat of weapons, shot, and powder. “May angels guide you home,” he whispered, knowing that this death would haunt him as Christopher Seider did.

Awareness resuscitated by a nearby muzzle flash, he reeled to catch his bearings. There were more militiamen beside him, reloading and priming. Thaddeus forgot his kill for the moment, renewed at the sight. The redcoats were vastly outnumbered. Giving chase, the militia was pressing the regulars back towards Boston.

Hope was heavy on the breeze as he realized he wasn’t just there to keep the redcoats from arresting Mr. Adams. His participation was about all of it; Christopher Seider’s death, the massacre, the tea, the taxes, the frustration. No more would he fear customs officers at the harbor. No longer would he yield to a man wearing a red coat. Thaddeus could taste freedom, and he would die before returning to the shackles of oppression. He loaded his rifle, preparing for a new target..

Happy Independence Day, America!

Please take a moment, my fellow Americans, between the hamburgers and the fireworks, to remember the price paid and the debt owed.

On the Fourth of July, 1776, the final draft of the grievances of a People was approved, two days after the Lee Resolution was enacted. Fifty-six delegates signed the document over the following weeks, the last rumored to sign on November 4th of that year. Within the many copies of the document lies the best-known sentence in the English Language: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness."

By the time of ratification, American colonists had been engaged in warfare with Great Britain over a year. The Battles of Lexington and Concord, the capture of Fort Ticonderoga by Ethan Allen's Green Mountain Boys and then Colonel Benedict Arnold, and the Battle of Breed's Hill, all took place in 1775.

Blood had already been spilled, lives had already been sacrificed. The course of action was arguably set in stone before it was set to paper.

Our Founding Fathers had a great burden on their shoulders. They never presented themselves as perfect. We the People who survived them these 236 years, have placed them on alabaster pedestals with lofty heights. Legends are so long persisted that there is shock when one among us realizes that our Founding Fathers were mere men. Men with flaws, certainly. Men with agendas, possibly. But most assuredly, they were men with Hope.

They had Hope for reconciliation with British Parliament. They had Hope that as they were subjects of the Crown, their goodly King George would hear their concerns and acknowledge their burdens. They had Hope that Liberty, although delicate and fleeting, might survive if given the chance to grow unfettered.

The penalty of High Treason against the British Crown was the very public and brutal practice of hanging, drawing, and quartering. Our Founding Fathers, the Men, potentially signed their death warrant when they signed the Declaration on behalf of the colonies that elected them to Congress. They could have been hanged to the point of death, emasculated, disemboweled, and then chopped up for their limbs to be scattered. Women who followed the example set by Abigail Adams could have been burned alive at the stake.

And yet their need to expel the bonds of an oppressive government was greater than their fears for their own lives and livelihoods. Their desire to give the gift of Freedom and Liberty to their Posterity so overwhelmed their senses that they risked this and more so that We the People might endure.

Yes, the United States of America have had some dark years. We the People have at times allowed injustice to prevail in our borders. It is easy for a People to look back from afar, out of time and place, and pass judgment. It is inconceivable to our modern sensibilities that a person could own another person and trade him as a commodity, that tribes of people native to our soil could be removed from their homes under deplorable conditions and marched to inhospitable lands to be forgotten for the sake of expansion. We are not alone in this; other nations great and small still practice and suffer tyranny. But if We the People forget our past, ignore the pain and blood and death it took to rise above our faults, We will be doomed to repeat it, and suffer all of it again.

To paraphrase a sentiment held by Benjamin Franklin: We the People who choose to relinquish our Liberty for a little security deserve neither and will lose both, dishonoring those who sacrificed all to obtain it.

We the People are charged by our Founders with the care of the delicate Liberty Tree. Who among Us would see it fester? Not I. I hope and endeavor to keep sacred the responsibility gifted me and I thank God everyday that I was born an American.

Happy Birthday America! 
May your blessings be great for centuries to come, and your standard proudly wave o'er mountain majesties and fruited plains.

Memorial Day

Those of you cut down before we could bring you home
Those of you who bled, whether by choice or by force
Those of you who faced horrors and holocausts
Those of you who made the ultimate sacrifice that the idea of freedom might endure

We the People owe you a debt that can never be repaid, but may We endeavor always to try

I do not know all your names, your stories, but I love you still
I survive you but I will not forget
I remember you faithfully, daily, devoted as a daughter, a sister, a mother, a lover, a friend
I will defend your memory from all predators, foreign and domestic



And we therefore commit our fallen to the deep, in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection unto eternal life, when grave and sea shall give up their dead in the life of the world to come. 

Write On Edge: Crossing the Line Challenge

This week's Red Writing Hood gives us 450 words to write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece about a time someone crossed a line, legally or ethically. The prompt was inspired by laws similar to Florida's Stand Your Ground statute  and the ideas of vigilante justice and citizen's arrests. Frustrated with the justice system, private citizens are individually and collectively testing the waters of taking matters into their own hands. These laws, these groups have met with murmured words of approval and understanding, despite questionable methods and tragic circumstances.

I read this prompt and thought of the times when America was shaped, forged by citizens frustrated with the structure of a government that was failing to meet the demands of her people. We are a rebellious lot, deeply loyal to our convictions and our passion for freedom. In a letter to James Madison, Thomas Jefferson wrote "I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical."

Sons of Liberty adopted several rebellion flags like this one represented. This one was known to be raised in opposition of the Stamp Act.

I give the following in response: A Little Rebellion

“This meeting can do nothing further to save this country,” Mr. Adams said, crestfallen. His pleas to allow cooler heads to prevail fell on deaf ears.

Thaddeus was swept from Old South in a tide of angry people. Sucking in a welcome blast of December air, he knew the chill could do nothing to curtail the frustrations of his fellow Bostonians. He shivered, not from the stirring icy wind, but from his own bitterness. The Sons of Liberty, most dressed as Mohawks, marched towards Griffin’s Wharf where the Dartmouth, Eleanor, and Beaver lay in wait.

His heart pounding, Thaddeus painted his face and joined their ranks, hatchet in hand. The civil unrest of mobs made him anxious of late. He was just thirteen when Christopher Seider, a German lad two years his junior, was killed by a heartless customs officer. Thaddeus remembered all too well the grizzly scene that followed on King Street when soldiers at the Customs House fired into the gathered crowd, killing three men instantly and inciting a riot. The scent of blood and saltwater lingered at the edge of his nightmares, waking him in a pool of sweat and tangled sheets time and again. This night he banished his fears with the hardened resolve of men twice his age. Governor Hutchinson would have no choice but deliver their message to Parliament. Townshend Acts violated the covenant between the crown and his majesty’s loyal subjects and the time for passive men was disremembered.

They reached the docks in a surprisingly orderly fashion. Thaddeus half-smiled at the familiar sight of the full-rigged ships bobbing in the harbor. The Dartmouth he remembered seeing regularly, as it belonged to a prominent whaling family with offices located nearby. The captain met their boarding party, his face sour and harried. He was caught between the naval blockade keeping the Dartmouth in the harbor and the Bostonians eager for the tea and its levy to disappear.

“Captain Hall, we wish to relieve you of one-hundred-fourteen tea-chests bearing the East India Company hallmark,” stated a demonstrator Thaddeus did not recognize. “Sons, remember, just the tea,” he instructed.

They filed aboard, eager to begin. As sounds of joyous whistles and splintering wood ricocheted about him, Thaddeus hesitated, examining the intricate pattern on the chest at his feet. It seemed impractical aboard the Quaker whaler. A pity to damage this, he thought.

“No time for doubts, Son,” another demonstrator urged him.

The image of Christopher Seider flashed into his mind. Setting his jaw, he smashed the chest’s lock with his hatchet. With the demonstrator’s aid, Thaddeus hoisted the chest righteously over the side and watched the dark tealeaves trickle unfettered to the lapping water below.

In Memoriam...

November 11, 2011

Veteran's Day

America is because they were. We must not forget. For so long as we remember, their sacrifices shall never have been in vain.

When my buddy Omar went through boot camp, we exchanged letters often, he more faithful than I. When I ran out of humdrum daily life to discuss, I'd write tales my dad told me of his navy days or I'd share examples of my creative writing passion, usually a quick poem or story with a patriotic theme. I shared the tale below with him once, and he informed me that his CO reread the letter to his fellow marines. I have since polished it, and I would like to offer this today in remembrance of those who serve so that I can write.


The Last Casualty

Ah, the days of wine and roses. We had joy and song, even though the air was thick with ash and death. We celebrated every second we could, for no other reason than we had survived another hour. That was plenty of excuse for a pair of soft lips surrounding a gentle smile, with a lyrical voice and an angelic face, or a pint shared with our brothers at a rare cafe along our route. Bitter, but oh so sweet the recollections are that flood my senses.

It never occurred to us that we could lose the battle, you see. We didn’t have the luxury of that choice. For the sake of the world we could not fail our mission. The fears we had were more immediate in nature than losing. Would the sniper fire claim the life of my platoon brother next to me? Or worse yet, would that round have my name on it? These were the fears we faced every minute, but never expressed aloud. There wasn’t time. We were there to do a job, nothing more.

We were called a lot of names in those days. Heroes, warmongers, soldiers of freedom, cannon fodder….every name true in reflection. None of those names mattered though. We were brothers, young, and full of piss and vinegar. We were saving the world from itself. We believed we would change the course of history, and we did. Although, I imagine this future is not what we expected the present would become.

How we all came to pass that way will be forever argued among scholars who did not have to fight for every square inch of space in mud and acrid smoke with gas masks and bayonets. It is perhaps easier for them, those who wear suits in corner offices, drink lattes, and squander the freedoms they forget they have. Or perhaps they do understand and I judge them too harshly? I knew once the impulsiveness and eagerness of youth. It was idealism, after all, that led me to the lowlands to fight. Now those suits see in my face the old man I have become, and not the soldier battle-scarred and terrified of the night. Nightmares plague me incessantly, returning me to the age when cousin was pitted against cousin, and the whole world was consumed in angry flames. My men at least were honored and loved. Those who eventually followed us were spit upon by treasonous speaking do-gooders who have no right to judge. They didn’t bleed while the best of men died, listening to the horrific screaming of the injured. They could turn down the volume or change the channel.

Fear not, my band of brothers. Your memories I have kept faithfully. Those who have not may hold their manhood cheap, for they are not men, and I pity them.

This field in France lays fallow among a few scattered patches of red poppies, dancing happily in the summer breezes, and a few mass grave markers, standing stoic as testimony to Mankind’s darkest hours. A fitting end perhaps, to the stories that will remain unheard of glories that would never be. Here, among the trenches and the barbed wire, I lost my innocence as did the countless I fought alongside. The man I became was born from this ground, once scorched by fire and saturated with blood from the sacrifices of thousands of boys and a belief that the war would end all war. Knowing now what I didn’t know then, I still would not choose a different path, changing any of the events that touched my life. The trenches are gone, vanished beneath the protective blanket of earth. By the grace of God, no one will soon remember they ever existed. May we be lost forever among dry pages of history text books that collect dust on the shelves in school libraries.

If I had regret, it would be only that it was I who walked away from the trenches when so many more deserving men did not. Little Joey Petrelli, “Micky” Donnelly, Sean Wyatt, Corporal Watersone, Sergeant Brady, were a mere few of those that I would gladly have traded places with. Those men should have had my mundane civilian afterlife. I can only hope for their glory, not mine, that I fought the good fight, and lived out the remainder of my days to the fullest. I hope that will be all the tribute they need, for it’s all the tribute of any value I have to give.

I have made this difficult trip to say goodbye to the boy I once was, the boy I lost here. I am in my final hours, so my doctor tells me, and I am ready to join my fallen brethren, my beloved parents, and my dearest heart, and all those who went before me. Weep not for me, for I am happy to make this journey. My bones are weary and I wish to sleep.

This field is silent. I hold my breath to listen to the absense of machine gun fire, though I hear it still. I am the last man standing who remembers. When I fall, no echo of the past will sound. Nature has reclaimed the common clay beneath my feet.Like a mother's gentle caress, peace has kissed this valley and cleansed it of its sin. The smell of fear and the stench of death have not lingered here. The songs we sang, the women we wooed, the laughter we shared, the stories we made up are long since forgotten. The sun is warm and brings me comfort. I will lay me down here among the poppies and watch the clouds roll past until I can see the heavens part and angels bid me welcome.

To you, who have found me, know that I am content, and I am where I wish to be. In my pack is the compass I used to bring me here, both times, a small pocket knife used often to open ration tins,, and a picture faded to yellow bearing the faces of those who I hope are waiting for me to take my place among them. I have nothing else to leave you except Hope. I hope you will never seek the path that will lead you here to this end, in one of many forgotten fields. However, should the trenches find you and should you be faced with the loss of all your tomorrows, do not hesitate to fight for the sake of your brother, celebrate all the tiny moments you can, loose upon your enemy all the fury of hell, and may God’s Grace bring you safely home.

..._.
sk