It’s summer again, and that means I’ll be writing a series of short fiction pieces based on inspiration from some of my 8th graders. I asked them for the first line and last line of a fictional story, and I’ll fill in the rest. I’ve been doing this for a number of years now, and it’s a great chance to have some fun and take a break from pontificating. This week’s lines come from Caralee Koopal.
With a single breath, I closed my eyes, beginning the treacherous journey ahead. As I reopened them, I looked out on the path before me. It was strewn with debris from the shelling our village had received from the enemy. A haze hung in the air as fires burned through buildings.
I had closed my eyes for fear of seeing what now entered my peripheral vision. It was a body, unmoving. Tears sprang to my eyes as I thought back over the past 24 hours.
Though the invaders had been marching toward our village for some time, we remained steady in our daily activities. There were still chores to do and animals to tend. We were not a wealthy collection of people, but then, that could be said for most parts of our country. Why we had been attacked was beyond us. What could there possibly be here that would be worth killing and dying over?
My mother had been sick and my older brother had trudged off one day to join the military and defend our country. I’m convinced the two things were connected; Mother was in a constant state of worry over Brennan. Father was working over his blacksmith’s fire 12 hours a day, so I had to take care of the cows and pigs along with Mother and my younger sister.
“Freida!” my sister Carol had called. She had been picking daisies from the roadside and held a bundle in her small hand. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
I smiled. “Yes, they are. Why don’t you present them to Mother? She needs something to bring her joy.”
Carol ran off to do as I had suggested. Just as I turned back to scatter feed for the animals, gunfire erupted nearby. My head was up and alert, scanning the area for the direction from which the gunfire had come. I could see movement in the woods to the north and moved quickly to alert Father about what had happened.
As I entered his workshop, I could see him bent and sweating over the fire as he worked on a project. “Father!” I called out. He looked up, wiped the sweat from his forehead, placed the project aside, and walked toward me. Perhaps he could see the look of panic on my face because he usually would not put down a project until it was done.
I explained the gunfire from the woods. He moved quickly. “Come, we must get your mother and sister to shelter,” he said as he hustled me toward the door.
But as we reached our house, a crack came through the air and Father let out a grunt before tumbling to the earth. “Father!” I screamed. I dropped to the ground beside him and saw that he was gone. The tears flowed quickly. When I looked up, I saw Carol at the door, wide-eyed. I also saw soldiers from the enemy entering our yard. One took aim and the bullet whistled over my head.
I should not have felt even the smallest bit of relief. I feel guilty for that since that bullet took my little sister from me. Pure instinct kicked in and I scurried up and away. Other bullets missed me as I rounded the side of the barn. I dove under a pile of hay, praying. Soldiers walked by my hiding place, but they eventually gave up looking for me and focused on burning down all our buildings, including our house with Mother inside, too weak to try to save herself.
When nightfall approached, I came out from hiding and arrived at the path I mentioned in the beginning.
I could feel the favonian wind pick up, and it encouraged me to move from my past. I moved at a brisk pace into the future.
Alas, I had no idea where to go. The soldiers had continued toward a nearby village, and I could only imagine they had left a path of death and destruction behind them. I decided to go with the wind and head east.
A mile away, I saw men from our country, marching along in their military garb. I approached slowly, knowing that they might be keyed up enough to shoot if startled. Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice call out, “Freida!” and my brother broke ranks and dashed to me, grabbing me in a fierce hug.
I told Brennan and the others what had happened. My brother was either too stunned to show emotion or he had seen so much in this war that nothing shocked him. He sat, stone-faced, as another soldier took me to get some food and drink.
And then it happened again. As I sipped from a mug of coffee, gunfire rang out once more. Another group of invaders had come upon this position. I heard shouting and more guns as both sides engaged in battle. I peeked out the flap of the tent and saw men falling to the ground all around.
As I hung my head, distraught and hopeless, the darkness, dismal and terroristic, closed in.
Word of the Week: This week’s word is favonian, which means mild and gentle and can also mean the west wind, as in, “The favonian wind brought hints of someone grilling in the neighborhood.” Impress your friends and confuse your enemies!