Yea I was going to develope on the ‘orange’ after another person seemed not to know what that was intending. I think I’ll fill in more on the colours in general to make it slightly more clear but not too much so that there’s nothing left for people to interpret themselves. Thanks for the typo note, I’ll get on that.
Short Story / From the dismal sidelines – War
From the dismal sidelines – sidelines, what a green word – men could be seen running rampage, gun-in-hand madmen. The feature of the bloodshed was a dying soldier who clutched in his mind the memories of his so treasured wife and child. He condemned the man who fought him, shot him, and left him to die. He condemned this man who hadn’t thought of the fact that the soldier he left to die might have a family and a life to return to after the war drew to a close. Yet in his condemnation of this enemy who pierced his flesh to the point of death’s door, he did not even consider the other man’s life. He did not consider whether or not any of the opposing side had families to return to. He simply shot them down and moved on to another kill. So why then would it be so wrong to have this fate for himself? It being the fate he chose for others. The hypocrisy of a man’s mind in war, on the battlefields and in the high up positions where war’s arrangement were made, is a phenomenal thing.
War – so full of several shades of red – between man, beast and other, taking specific recommendations for young hero-wannabes to give it a go, see if they come out alive. Like a sport really, men on a field but instead of kicking battered footballs around they kick heads, living heads. War is a lively sport, slightly more serious than the likes of football yet more seem willing to participate in war.
The dying man slowly slips away, the image of his wife and child distorting with the pain of the loss of life. At least now he won’t be alone like he was on the battlefield. Now he can stand on the sidelines and watch with his friends while others prepare to join them. Maybe he’ll even meet his wife and child there, so many things happen in the time of war even outside the battlefield.
I can’t say I quite understand war. It’s rather scary. A child shouldn’t have to deal with such things anyway, that’s what my father always said… I lost him to war. Father was a brave man. Wanted to help his country he did. I told him numerous times not to go; it’s just land, no need to throw away life for land. I never understood why people have all these silly fights over land and why they can’t simply get over it like children do. If I had a war every time that annoying boy from next door kicked his football into my garden then they’d give out to me for it, silly men with their wars. They say I’m too young to understand. I disagree. I think it’s them that don’t understand. Oh well, there’s nothing I can do but watch and wait. Waiting is so dismal.
I’ve seen so many casualties. I would cry if I wasn’t so used to it by now. War is such an orange word. People say war is red because of blood and all of that but I don’t think they’re right about that. It’s certainly orange, if you really think about it.
All at once men are releasing the triggers on their rifles and letting ripples of bullets encase the surroundings. Many fall as a result of these ripples. Sprays of blood pistol outwards and spread like a river burst its banks on a winter’s evening, flooding through the darkness with cool oozing liquid. Heavy boots withstand the soaking battle-floor, that is, of those who are still able to hold themselves in a vertical enough position. It’s a sight no child should have to witness. It’s a sight no child should have to learn about or grow up to join in on.
About this time would be dinnertime. I expect to here my mother calling out to me to come and eat my dinner while it’s still hot. I carry on expecting. Today is Sunday, Sunday dinner consisting of moistly buttered potatoes, homemade vegetable stuffing and the most juicy of bird, be it chicken, turkey or duck, topped off with the finest made gravy which simply sizzles in the mouth not too spicy but just a bit. Whenever someone mentions Sunday I always associate it with Sunday dinner.
Men dive into the trenches for cover as another wave of bullets sprays towards them. Not all the men are successful in their dive, several die.
A phone would ring in some poor unfortunate person’s house to inform them of their ‘dearly departed’. Condolences would be given and tears would shed but the war would carry on. Both sides share this experience. Well actually both side share many of the same experiences. Another silly point in war, while fighting over some best-forgotten cause, two sides so different have to suffer all the same sufferings. Silly really, they see each other as completely different yet they go through the same pain, we’re all human. Sometimes I wonder if they fight simply because there’s nothing better to do. They blame individual crimes against each other’s governments – or something like that, I fail in comprehension of politics – and they see this as just cause to slaughter each other. What’d make more sense than taking it out on the entire country though would be if they left it to the individuals to sort out. War is not necessary, involving so many innocent people. But as they say, I’m simply a child who doesn’t understand such official matters. Sometimes I hate being a child, constantly being patronised, having my opinions waved off as childish notions. Then I remember the great part of being a child, innocence, not having to participate in such trivial matters as war. But then again I do have to suffer in times of war, even though I’m too young to take part or even understand, I still have to suffer.
A retreat, men are retreating – retreat is such a white word, not out of peace is it white though, cowardice makes it white, how funny that cowardice and peace are both white. They can’t stand and fight any longer, they’ve grown too weak and too many of their men have fallen. They’ll be back in the morning, retreat is never permanent.
It’s late, bedtime I think. I’ve lost track of time at this point. Ever day is the same as the last where I stand. My pretty new dress is no longer the pale pink it began its life as, now my pretty dress is encrusted with that red liquor I see the men in battle release from their wounds. My father was a brave man. Maybe if he hadn’t gone off to fight in war I wouldn’t be standing here on the sidelines. Mother will get the call now he’s dead. She’s lost so very much, this’ll break her heart. If she’s still alive that is. They burst into our home, army men – not the people father was fighting for though – the enemy. I didn’t see what happened after that sinister looking man released the trigger on his rifle and killed me.
Well at least daddy was thinking of us before he died.
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Dasheti reviewed Version 1 -
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Malchex reviewed Version 1 -
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GeorgiaIreland reviewed Version 1 -
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” They burst into our home, army men – not the people father was fighting for though – the enemy. I didn’t see what happened after that sinister looking man released the trigger on his rifle and killed me.
Well at least daddy was thinking of us before he died.”
How sad, yet how many times does this happen every day all over the world? Innocents dying for lust over land, or what not? COuntless times, and I think your short story illustrates this very well.
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thesaint reviewed Version 1 -
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This piece certainly has potential. The dinner time paragraph could be ommited, I think. Or substantially shortened. It really messed up the nice flow you had going. I like how you ascribe colors to different words dealing with war. War being orange was very original and creative. You might try to clean up the run on sentences and add to the fragments. I realize this is somewhat of a monologue, but unless its a quote, try to stick to good grammar. This will be real nice once you clean it up. Good luck.
easywriter57 reviewed Version 1 -
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boredatwork reviewed Version 1 -
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I like the narrator’s perspective and read on to find out just who was telling this tale.
There are a few typos in the text and a “here” that should be “hear”, as in, “I expect to here(sp)my mother calling out to me.”
I did not understand the imagery of the colors and think that further development of this concept would be helpful. I guess it may go towards a child’s perception of war and the association of the same with colors, but some of this was not fleshed out; e.g., in the discussion of the color “orange”.
Just a few thoughts. Good luck.
ladykatrina reviewed Version 1 -
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Wow, I REALLY like this story. It could still use some polishing, but I like the concept of the story, the deeper meaning behind the colors and behind war. It is especially moving in the times we are experiencing now (with the war in Iraq). How many little girls are caught in the crossfire over there? Anyway, I digress. Here are some specifics that needs fixed, but overall I think this story is wonderful!
• “his football into my garden then they’d give out to me for it” – awkward wording
•”It’s certainly orange, if you really think about it.” – how is it orange?
•”What’d make more sense than taking it out on the entire country though would be if they left it to the individuals to sort out.” – again, this sentence structure and wording in awkward.
Vijnana reviewed Version 1 -
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You have an insightful, biting turn of phrase unusual to find in writers of any age.
You are inspired to take on the most serious kind of subject matter. This is admirable, especially as you do it so well, with such gusto.
here my mother [hear]
We’re all human; great point. Notice how each side seeks to dehumanize the other; note how rampant patriotism says “my country is the best in the whole world,” even while its leaders and the people look down their nose at the “evil animals” the other side of the war, forgetting in the eyes of those others, we are the evil animals, and with nukes to boot.
Excellent throughout. You should write and write; you will finish enough to make a difference in the hearts of others.
tigger33178 reviewed Version 1 -
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This is real imaginative but the ending saddened me.
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