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The Silence of War

I was ready for battle. I was skilled and had the heart and the spirit to march into war and kill. I was ready to defend France's borders and I thought I was ready to die, but I was wrong.
Silence was a common sound in the observation cupola. For more than twelve weeks, the steel and concrete tomb had been my home; the metal barracks, my bedroom. My job was simple: to observe and to report to an ouvrage that sheltered Lorraine. As of May 10, 1940, there was nothing to report. That morning, however, the silence of my watch was broken by a phone call. German forces were pushing through Belgium's Ardennes Forest in an attempt to pour into France. Our job was to stop them. And so, I abandoned our massive sepulcher and turned my face northward into the stink of death that emanated from the timber of Ardennes to cover Lorraine like a shroud.
Lorraine did not serve as a battlefield, but as grounds for murder. The moment I arrived I thought my eyes had deceived me. Tanks rolled over hills and large rocks as if they were our own dead bodies, for they could have easily had us pinned beneath them. The birds of prey, the Luftwaffe, swooped down from the blackening sky, as if to eat us alive. We were not yet defeated, however. We were prepared to hold our ground, though I was not prepared for this-death coming so close. Flashes of light, like the judgment of a god, approached, threatening to overcome us. The thunder of gunfire assaulted my ears and left my knees weak. I longed to return to my concrete coffin, for I would be safe inside the metal shell and circular walls.
The battle did not last long. The Germans pushed us west and west again. They took Lorraine; they took Amiens. Night turned to day and then night again as bullets rained on us. But we were foolish. We had underestimated the enemy.
A bullet caught my side and drilled a hole from my right to my left, as its brothers flew by my ears in hot flashes. Pain, immeasurable by words or by numbers, coursed through my body like an irregular heartbeat. I stood for a moment, unable to take a step, unable to fall to the ground-a numb shell of a human being-before gravity eventually overtook me. And I reclined on the cold battlefield, letting the hot evil flow from my body into the earth to await a new, young soldier, ready for the thrill of war.

Oh.

"I told her today. She didn't take it well."
"How did she take it?"
"Not well."
"What did she say?"
"What does it matter?"
"She said that?"
"No, I did."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"That's okay. It's been a long day."

"What did she say?"
"She told me to get out. She pushed me right out the doorway. She was so angry."
"Well, you can't blame her, dear. You knew she would be angry."
"But, she was angry at me."
"I'm sorry. Give her time. She'll get over it. There's not much time left to be angry. She'll realize that soon enough."
"You're right."

"It's the last night, and she still hasn't said one word to me since I told her."
"She's just scared. Has she talked to you about it?"
"I told you, no."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Have you tried to talk to her?"
"She won't return any of my calls."
"Maybe I should try."
"She wouldn't listen to you."
"Why not? I'm her mother, aren't I?"
"Yes, but she never listens to you. No one does."
"Oh, you don't mean that."

"I didn't mean that. I'm sorry."
"No need to apoligize."
"I'm just worried about her. She's never gone this long without speaking to me."
"Oh, she's just scared."
"Scared of what?"
"She doesn't want the world to end like the rest of us do."
"That's nonsense. Why wouldn't she want the world to end?"
"She likes her life, dear."
"Oh."

Fingerpainting

Alex noticed the difference the second he walked through the door. "Hmm...let me see. Is it new curtains?"
"No!" came Sharon´s answer, surrounded by a fit of giggles.
"Oh, then I don´t know. I give up. What is it?"
"I painted my room!"
Indeed she had. The walls were covered with lines and spots of red. It looked more like a butcher´s apron than a fingerpainting.
"Sharon, where did you get this paint from?"
"Under your bed, daddy."
Alex gently pushed the child out of the room. "Why don´t you let daddy clean this up for you?"
Alex sighed and retrieved a sponge and bucket.
How did she find it? Does she know? Of course not, she´s only eight, what could she know?, Alex thought, and scrubbed harder.

Behind Black Eyes

She was not a filthy creature. She bathed daily and exceedingly well except for her back, which she could not reach. She could not do many things for herself, but bathing was one that she insisted on doing. Guy came home in a bad mood. He took care of her, and she thought he loved her; at least, he seemed to. He sat down next to her on the old floral sofa and rested his hand on her, bringing it away with small black hairs stuck to it. He then removed her from the sofa so that he could recline more easily.
"How was your day?" he asked her, knowing full well she could not answer. "I had no luck finding a job," he said with a sigh. She looked at him with a question on her face. "I know what you're thinking, but I have no respect for burger-flippers and I am not about to become one." Guy sighed again. It was the kind of sound he made when he wanted sympathy. She did feel sorry for him, but there was nothing she could do to change his mind.
He fell asleep on the sofa and did not stir until dawn. She woke him with a soft cry so that he could feed her. The food was stale but edible, and she was hungry. Guy lazily returned to the sofa. He did everything lazily.
The only time he was not slothful was when he was angry. His face would grow ruddy and flushed, while his eyes shone like polished marbles. They too seemed to have a tint of red in them. He would scream and throw things-toast, empty bottles, and anything else he might get his hands on-until he calmed himself and returned to his usual pink color. After the storm, however, he would not forget what had made him angry and would hold a grudge against it.
She entered the bedroom and climbed onto the soft vermilion comforter. She let her head sink into the pillow, which was covered with her little black hairs. Guy never slept in his bed. Sometimes she thought he wanted to be like her. Unfortunately, he would not be able to separate himself from anger, greed and other human imperfections, and he therefore, could not become like her. He was very human, as humans go. He was petty and trivial and never saw the whole picture. He barely understood the universe around him. He always focused on the flaming core instead of the spacious surroundings.
After a short nap, she returned to the sofa where Guy sat in the dark and rested her hand on his. He looked at her and his shining eyes smiled. He was not a bad human, as humans go.
The doorbell rang. She ran to hide in the bedroom, for strangers frightened her. She could hear Guy answer the door and greet the person. A woman's voice replied, evoking an angry response from Guy. A loud sound, like thunder, filled her ears, and she ran back to the door in time to see Guy fall to the floor and a streak of color, as the woman's crimson high heels fled from the open doorway.
She carefully approached Guy's lifeless body, sniffing the air. She saw the red run out of his body and onto the floor. The color slowly receded from his face and his eyes as darkness overtook him. His pupils dilated, the dark orb consuming the iris in each eye. She watched as death drew the scarlet life from the small hole in his chest. The black, empty air filled his veins.
She did not know what to do. The sun had set and risen in a constant motion, though she had not moved. A breeze entered the room as a creature appeared in the open doorway. His long, sleek body seemed only a shadow with black eyes staring at her with their usual smile. He approached her and began to wash her back with his rough tongue. She knew Guy would never abandon her. He was not a bad cat, as cats go.

Grandpa

She learned to walk when she was one year old. The first person she walked to was her Grandfather.

She watched him from the driveway as he planted a rose bush. He planted herbs like rosemary. She did not care what he was planting. Yes, she liked the way they looked, red and green and brown. But, she was just happy to have her grandfather in America with her.

Her grandfather loved his canary. He liked to hear it sing. Her mother said that he used to breed them in Lebanon, whatever "breed" means.

She watched him as he got excited over the televised soccer game. Her mother told her that he used to play soccer when he was young. She asked why he did not play anymore. She got no answer.

The house was dark with the exception of the dining room. She walked through the kitchen and stopped at the table as her mother did. The old man sat in a chair on the other side of the room.
"Hi Grandpa!" she said, running up and hugging him.
He squeezed her small body and lifted her up onto his lap. His hands were rough and large. She listened to his deep voice as he conversed with her mother in Arabic, only understanding half of the words spoken. Her grandmother welcomed them as she set the table with the same disposable napkins she used at every meal, dirty as they were. Her father had not come. He never did. These were his parents, but he never came to see them. She did not know why, she loved them, especially her Grandfather. The four of them sat down to eat. The dinner was no better than expected and she did not eat very much because children her age never do.

On Easter Sunday her mother dragged her to church, which she hated because it was very boring for someone as young as she was. After church, they went home and carried the colorfully decorated eggs to the brick house next door. The pink egg had a sticker on it that said "Grandma" and the purple egg had a sticker that said "Grandpa" and she lovingly delivered both to the correct recipients. They thanked her and offered her and her mother pastries. Her father had not come. He never did. They asked about him and her mother told them that he had a headache. Her grandmother sat in her old, pink easy chair with her legs up. Her grandfather sat in his newer, blue recliner. She played with the music box on the shelf and the tiny doll on the dresser. The music box was a fairly large porcelain piece with a small bird that poked its head out of a hole as the music played. Her mother sat and talked to her grandparents and she could only pick out a couple of words here and there. Her grandfather shook his hand in his pocket so that the coins made noise. This got her attention immediately and he gave her the coins out of his pocket.

Christmas was her favorite holiday. Her family would get a Christmas tree and decorate it and hang up the stockings and watch Christmas specials on television. On Christmas Day, her grandparents would come over for a turkey lunch. They would eat and talk. Her grandmother always made cookies for Christmas. They were shaped like stars and spades, clubs and hearts, stars of David and diamonds. There were chocolate ones and vanilla ones. Her father did not come downstairs. He never did. After lunch, they would all move into the living room to hear her brother play the piano. This seemed boring to her, so she stayed in the den to play and make a mess.

She did go to visit him in the rest home. His room was clean. His radio was stolen after the third day and he hated the food. She wished she could take him home to the small, brick house next door to hers. Her father had not come. He never did. She wanted to climb into his lap like she always did when she was younger, but she was too old for that now, and so was he.

Her mother took her to visit him in the hospital. This time she was older and she barely knew him. He had different diseases and disorders. He could barely talk. He could barely breathe. She did not know him, but she loved him anyway. She stood watching him as he talked to her mother. She did not understand what they were saying, but she did not want to. The room was plain and beige. It smelled like a hospital room, empty and dry. She did not know what to do. She did not know what to say. So she stood there and watched. Her father had not come. He never did. Her grandfather said as much as she did, before they left. She missed him already.

She sat in her fourth grade class, attempting to pay attention to the teacher, but with little success. Her grandfather was dead. The funeral was beginning somewhere in the large cemetery in Chapel Hill. Her mother had gone to the funeral. Her grandmother had gone, her brothers had gone, and her father had gone. She had not gone, she was not allowed.

She went to visit his still unmarked grave a year later. She cried at his grave and stood alone with him. She brought the pocketfuls of coins that he had given to her over the years and she told him that she loved him. Her mother accompanied her to say goodbye to him. Her father had not come, and he never would.

The Creation

Argal followed the path between the trees. As he went, the toe of his shoe kicked up a clump of dried dirt. Argal picked it up and played with it, rolling it around in his hands, until he formed a perfect sphere. He held it up to the sunlight and smiled. He carried his new toy along with him. He passed a field of newly cut grass and stopped a while to enjoy the smell. Argal rolled his ball of dirt in the grass and let the small green pieces stick to it. Then, he spun it in the air, and laughed as it slowed, but did not stop spinning. He touched it with his hand as it hung in the air, and it began to move in circles. He watched it spin and turn and loop until he had to sit down. When he looked up again, his toy had life on it. He smiled.
"Planet." The word rolled off his lips.