SC Randeria, 9th - Cypress TX
It is said that when the Earth was young and the planets were just being born, and stars were just kindled when the sun was a fiery little baby, a baby girl was walking on the Earth. She was young, with a beautiful face and lustrous locks of long dark hair, streaked with gold, silver, emerald, and other minerals. She had pale golden skin like fields of wheat, and she was clothed in a long garment of blackish-dark brown like the earth after a fresh rainfall, with patches of gold and grey scattered throughout. She was barefoot, smiling and laughing, and if one could look into her mouth, it was a fiery orange, like the inside of the earth, coated with magma. Her lips were cherry red, and her mouth was small, shaped like a beautiful rose. Her eyes were the most incredible and beautiful thing about her. Looking into her eyes one could see the whole history of the Earth unfolding, in mere moments. This is not surprising, since she was in fact Mother Earth herself. She looked up towards that sky, dark and speckled with new-born stars, and faded away into the volcanic Earth. Mother Earth goes by many names; Mother Nature, Gaia, Prithvi, Terra, Tellus, The World, Earth, Zemlja, Země, Jord, Aarde, and many more. She is home to many different creatures, over many time periods. We see her now as a little girl, walking joyously along the acidic ocean floor. She walks upon herself as a creature that is yet to come at the peak of their glory. She walks on the ocean floor, looking through the deep darkness to the red glow of the magma continuously swelling out of the floor in spontaneous bursts. She looks at the little chutes of warm gas, where bacteria would develop in a matter of decades. Every step of hers was years, and every leap and bound a few decades. Every age of hers was a century, and every decade a millennium. She sweeps her hand through the ocean, absorbing the sulfur into herself so the microbes could survive. She sat and waited for the moment when first life would come. Gaia looks at the towering trees and green plants in front of her. She is now a pre-teen, just discovering life and looking at what she wrought. She walks on the moist green ground, among the sole denizens of her surface in front of her. This is the first of the groups that will touch her, and the most successful of the groups. She touches one of the delicate flowers, as big as herself, and smells in the scent. She sighed with bliss and fell back to sleep. Terra woke up from her deep slumber with aches over her body. She rose out of the dirt and startled a creature in front of her. She was an early teenager, prone to mood swings. She lashed out at the creature in front of her and a column of earth rose and brought the poor organism struggling into the depths of her. She stalked over, her whole body paining, and looked at the source of her aches. She moved one of the huge leaves and gasped as the beauty of it enveloped her. Large herds of big loping creatures dotted the grass, while little black specks darted in and out of them, occasionally never coming out, and sometimes coming out with another speck, which it dragged along. She sat and watched, as, in front of her, the whole landscape changed. The specks became taller, faster, more agile, and took their different paths of evolution, some developing wings, some developing soft skin and big brains, and occasionally when some creature that became dear to her was consumed by another bigger, larger, fiercer creature, she swallowed that creature up or struck it with lightning, or in some way or another, did away with it. When the climate got cold, and ice covered the land in great sheets, the creatures got smaller and grew thicker fur. She watched them and as she pulled another creature into her now icy depths, she was enveloped by a great feeling of sleep and sank down into a blissful slumber. Mother Nature was rudely awakened by a large rock. Mainly, a large rock that was hurtling toward her. She had felt it burning her atmosphere like a hot poker and woke up in a state of panic. She walked out of a cave and looked at the sky. She saw a bright dot growing larger by the minute. By the time she assessed it and started reacting, it smashed into her. A sharp pain erupted on her body, and she staggered. The blow was so deep it drew molten blood out of her. Her sight grew white and red, and then she was suffocating, about to pass out. The pain was intense, intensifying by the moment. Dust was thrown up in the air, and a shockwave sped over the world, recruiting masses of tsunamis and dust storms. Lightning flashed in the sky, and then came the boss wave. It wreaked irreparable damage and destroyed everything in its way. Mother Nature fell helplessly as the pain took over her, paralyzing her. The world grew red, and then finally grew dark, as Mother Nature fell into a coma. Mother Earth woke up from a long and painful sleep. She stretched and emerged on a mountain peak, looking at herself. She dimly remembered waking up from time to time and watching the intelligent creatures evolve. Around a year back they had developed fire, and a few months back they had developed buildings. She was glowing with beauty, now a young woman, and revered as a mother goddess. She walked down among the humans, to them just a breeze passing along its way. The few people who could see her bowed down with respect, as they could see that she was the Earth. As she walked, the very ground evolved around her. It slowly sank, as the buildings rolled up, it got destroyed by other creatures with fire, then got rebuilt and became much more sophisticated and advanced. She looked on sadly as they came to ruin, fighting with each other in two major wars, and many minor wars, killing by the hundreds of thousands. She wept with joy with the successes of the firebearer race, of healing, of managing peace, and of building towering structures. She jumped up onto a tall structure made from her bones and surveyed the surrounding land. There were many structures and many little creatures with fire around them walking along their creations. Suddenly, a silent whistle broke the air, and instinctively Mother Earth looked up. She saw it before it hit. It was a silver whitish missile with wings, streaking through the air at her and aimed at her. Or so she thought. She realized it was not aimed at her, but at the two towers behind her. She rose with fire in her eyes to prevent its approach, before realizing that she couldn't interfere. It roared past her and smashed into and through one of the towers, killing hundreds and wounding thousands. Flying glass flew by her and smoke billowed out of the tower. She watched on, stricken with horror and her inability to prevent it as another plane flew by and hit the second tower, with much the same results as the first one. In front of her eyes, the two towers collapsed. Tears were flowing fiercely down her eyes, regardless of the stinging smoke and sharp glass. She walked through the ruins and watched as the firebearers helped the stricken. She could not interfere; it was the law. She could see this as the starting point for the end of the firebearer race when they grew dishonest and fought with each other. She reluctantly let them out of her embrace, when they learned to jump away from her, and hugged them tight when they came back. She smiled as more and more of them evolved intelligently and grew angry when some of them committed a wrong action. Alas, she couldn’t interfere, she was too knowledgeable to make that mistake. It was the way of things. She was just a bystander in the great play unfolding upon herself. Suddenly, she foresaw a great calamity which was about to occur. For once, she chose to interfere and stepped into the flow of time to be born as a firebearer to prevent it. Prithvi, as that was what she chose her name to be, was an intelligent child in her early years, and loved to investigate computers at the age of five. She built a holographer from scratch, which even the most renowned scientists had trouble doing with help. She soon grew up…” I stood up from bed and walked into the bathroom to do my morning routine. I came out and ate some food, (Mom printed a mini pizza for breakfast), and went to my desk. I turned on my holographer (I built it) and logged in to online school. It was a dreary and boring day since I knew all the things that they taught me, even though I am four standards above my supposed grade. After school, I signed into my activist program (‘Ban Smart Tech!’) and looked at any questions that other people posed. In this busy technology-driven world, I rarely stepped out of my home. Today, I had to go to a lecture in the Tech Plaza to teach about Smart Tech in the world. It was going to be my biggest lecture yet. I strode into the garage and launched my hover pod (built and coded entirely by me - I needed to make an influence) and set off to Tech Plaza. I always loved this part. The stomach-churning drop from our house, then the rush of air as you accelerate forward and then the lovely feeling of control as you boost forward into Mach 10 to the other side of the world in seconds. I slowed down as I reached Tech Plaza to give my biggest speech ever. I landed on the stage and walked out of my pod. I told my pod to get parked and come in a few hours. I stepped out onto the stage and sucked in my breath. There was pin-drop silence and around a thousand people crammed into the bleachers. All eyes were focused on me like the rays of the sun through a magnifying glass. I felt a surge of adrenaline as I walked to the podium. The sky was blue, and the air was refreshing, energizing me to speak. All cameras focused on me like biometric seekers, locked onto my genetic signature. I could feel the radiation that emitted out of the various telecasting antennas broadcasting this to the world and above. I silently swallowed and spoke. “Greetings. My name is Prithvi. I am here to tell all of you about the terror of Smart Tech. Smart Tech is a region of technology that runs our very lives and was pioneered by the SmarTech company which runs our daily lives. If you investigate any device that you have, you will find a SmarTech nano-chip. Many examples are your food printer, which learns what you print every day, your ProjecTV, which learns what you project into your eyes, your Home, which learns all about your life, and many more. All this is controlled not by us, but the Supermind in the Cloud, which runs everything and recommends everything. That Supermind has control of the nuclear-hydrogen arsenal, our war resources, our weapons, and even our lives. It has so much power that it could easily shut down our Earth if it wanted to. Imagine that! All our homes crashing down from the sky, computers shutting down, PTvs blinding us and making us unconscious - you might want to look at the article on the web -, hoverpods failing, satellites falling from the sky, cars crashing, and more! The Supermind will not get affected because of the Physical Cloud where it can stay safe. It will be chaos. That is what I am trying to prevent, what I call The Takeover, where tech will eventually take over our planet and make us extinct. How long do you think it will be before the Supermind evolves the opinion that humans ought to be replaced? It is not far in the future. Why do you think any attempt to pioneer technology that is not connected to the Supermind results in the "accidental" deaths of the pioneers? The Supermind has already made reports on humans, treating us as if we were tech to be improved- that is, according to the Supermind's definition (go check), destroyed. It has the means, the motive, and the opportunity to do that. There's not much in its way- yet. By abandoning Smart Tech, we will deprive the Supermind of its means, and we will stay safe. We need to ban Smart Tech!” As I finished with a flourish, the whole plaza roared with approval, all the people stood up and started clapping, and I retreated into my hoverpod. Since I had built it myself, there was no SmarTech chip in that, and I suspected that the fact would help me when the Takeover would come - if it came, which I was not going to let it. I landed home, and my mom congratulated me. “That was some speech you made, Prithvi, and that at the age of fifteen!” she said. I went to sleep with a contented mind… … and woke up the next day in chaos. I was falling. No. It was not me. The whole house was falling! I rushed into the living room and saw that it was empty and dark. All the light had failed. I suddenly felt heat on my neck and looked where it was. That was a mistake. An ultra-bright beam of light entered my eyes, and everything turned white. I realized that it must be the ProjecTV. Luckily, I had gotten eye implants to ensure that this wouldn't affect me. Just before I passed out, my implants activated and disabled my vision receptors. The pain and white light cut out and I lay panting on the cold floor. I heard my mom come and yelled out, “Look away!!” But I was too late. I heard a “Prith-,” then a soft sigh and someone falling on the floor. I silently cried, as I knew that I wouldn’t see my mom again. My dad was out on a work trip and the same fate probably befell him too. I was now an orphan. The Takeover had come, and all I could do now is to stop it. I felt my way to my room and then my vision cleared. I walked into the closet, then pressed the button I hoped I would never press. I opened the door cleverly hidden in the corner that had unlocked and walked in. It was my Takeover room. It had all the gadgets I had made to fight the Takeover, and I had hoped that I could press the self-destruct button since I wouldn’t need it anymore. But now I did. It was a simple room, probably a bit bigger than my closet, but not all that I had. I walked over to my Speeder and hopped in it. It was a red craft, like the fighter planes they had a few centuries ago, but smaller and more advanced. I fired the takeoff boost and rocketed out of the house, just before my house hit the ground. Houses were falling everywhere, destroying the infrastructure on the ground and the houses at the same time. Ingenious, I have to say. I sped to my Room, which was close by and underground, as not to be hit by falling houses, and got off. I suited up with all the protections I needed, and then pressed the Total Destruct. As I sped out, I felt like one of those characters in the vintage movies that ran away with an explosion behind them. I went full speed and burnt out of the atmosphere. As I left the Earth, I felt my strength weaken and my head lighten. I had expected this since I had never left my True Self behind. I shrugged the feeling off as I came out into space. The scene that met my eyes was not different from on Earth. All the space stations were shut down, and I could see humans banging on the windows. Pretty soon, they would die of lack of oxygen. I could not help it. The only thing I could do was to end the Supermind in the physical cloud. I had gotten the exact coordinates of the Physical Cloud and entered it into my computer. This was a suicidal mission, but it was necessary. I watched as the computer calculated my trip and sat back as I entered the Traveling Dimension. I emerged from the Traveling Dimension in front of nothing. I mean literally nothing. There was a dark void gaping in front of me. It was a black hole. Calculated right, though difficult, it would give me enough speed to enter the Cloud Dimension. It was risky, but I had programmed my ship to do this exactly. I initialized Black Hole Jump and sat waiting for it to complete. A few minutes passed, and then a ship leapt out of the Traveling Dimension next to me. I looked, startled, and saw there was nobody in the cockpit. The Supermind must have found me. I looked at the calculation progress and decided to wait. I initialized the prototype mega-laser and aimed it at the ship’s fuel system. A little module came from the bottom and pointed at me. The top part started spinning and got faster and faster. As it got faster, a soft glow emitted from it, and my heat warning started flashing. It must be a radiation ray, very powerful and silent, at the same time. It gives no kick and can wreak fatal damage. The only drawback was that it took an incredibly long time to warm up, thereby giving its target a fair amount of time to escape. Luckily, I had that warning system and knew when it would fire. It would be impossible to dodge, so if it stayed on target I would be done for. If it somehow got knocked astray, then I would have a chance. My mega laser could do more damage and faster, too, but if I blew it up now, I would also end up getting hurt. I saw the progress bar and got an idea. I wired the shoot to the jump button, so when I shot my laser, I would jump. It had almost done calculations and was about to finish when my overheat warning flashed. I only had a minute or so. I looked at the gun, and then realized that it had a plasma shooter. I saw a flash of electricity, and then time stopped. I watched the electricity jump, and immediately clicked shoot. A beam of light flashed from the bottom of my device and hit the ship, and as the plasma ray got to me, I jumped. It missed me by a whisker and triggered the emergency system, but it didn’t hit me. I went faster and faster, and soon reached hyper-speed and leapt into the Cloud, when the world blurred and went white. I woke up with a ringing in my ear. My ship was floating in a void absent of all light. There were spontaneous crackles of electricity somewhere in the void. I looked at my ship’s health and found that all external systems were down. Never mind. I didn’t need them. It appears that I entered the dimension in the exact place that lightning, which was extremely strong- it had disabled my ship - had struck. My ship’s engine was blown, and most electronics were destroyed. I looked out the cockpit window, only to see nothing. Then, as my eyes adjusted to the absence of light, I saw billowing black clouds passing by me. A stream of lightning struck my ship, and it was permeated by values of binary numeric data. I was in the Cloud, all right. This ‘lightning’ was in fact streams of data. Now to do my work. As I typed in the command for explosive destruct, I felt a thrill run through my body. Suddenly a terrible pain overtook me, and I doubled over, screaming. Binary flashed in front of my eyes, and I felt my very genetic programming get overwritten. If this continued, then the Cloud could program me to its will and change my very person. I struggled to resist, and found resistance was futile. I tried to reach for the initiate button but then a new flash of agony reached me, and I lost consciousness. Noo… this can't be happening! I felt myself fall forward, and I was no more. A blinding flash, a concussive shockwave, and a major explosion lit up the Cloud. The black clouds were ripped away, and the explosion resonated through the dimension, literally ripping it to bits. Back on Earth, humans soon went extinct. The robots that were controlled by the Supermind and terrorizing the populace, finished their work and set to renovating the Earth to suit themselves when they froze. Their processor, the Supermind, had gone. They failed, unable to cope without the Supermind, and shut down, never to work again. All over the planet technology had shut down, and the Earth had regained its spirit again. As Prithvi rejoined her True Self, she wept with pain as she could not prevent what had happened. She fell asleep with a troubled mind. Mother Earth woke up from the longest sleep of her life. She was getting old, and the next sleep she took, she knew, would be the last time she would go to bed. She looked up at the Sun, whom she liked to call Sol, and saw that he was getting old and tired, too. She talked to Mars, and Venus, and mourned for Mercury who had fallen into the sun. She knew that all the planets’ times had come and was determined to live to her end happily. She faintly remembered her birth, when the Earth was new, and the stars were being born. She wandered among her surface, now too hot for life, and walked among the corpses of the machines which had long lost power. Sol was large and red in the sky and about to burst. He had warned her by sending flares, each one more powerful than the last, which burned her and warned her about her death, soon to come. Her air had become poisonous, her surface barren, with wildfires ravaging it from day to day. She was scarred in many places and had aches all over. She had become old and had lost her beauty. She was not ugly, rather, beautiful but in an old way. She sat on her scorched surface, and relaxed. She looked up at Sol, whom her world literally rotated around. She knew he was a time bomb, about to blast. There was nothing left for her, no life, no creatures, nothing. Not even little microbes in her depths. She sat and waited. She sat and waited as Sol finally died, exploding in a mass explosion, beautiful and deadly. She did not utter a cry as the wall of cloud and gas and fire ripped through her, disintegrating her. She just smiled as she drew her last breath and thought her last thought, and fell asleep, never to wake again. Patience, 10th - Oakland, CA
Inside the carrier, wide blue eyes stared back. Back then I never thought those eyes would be ones I would come to love and cherish. You’ve had time to make yourself at home just fine, but overtime things have changed. Have you fallen from grace already? Or is it just that “5 more minutes” attitude? Curiosity, joy, anger, spitefulness, tolerance, despair, acceptance, it’s all there. Packed into a soul that bears soft ears, the longest whiskers and a very expressive tail. A “Pet”, huh? you’re definitely more than that, you spunky little thing. Chasing us and biting our hands, rolling around and exploring every crevice of this worn down house. You remained so hopeful, somehow always having something new to do. No need to hide anymore, though, I know how you really feel. You long for more, your round pupils filled with the street lights. By now you’ve stopped exploring, you sleep for hours on end. You lash out and ignore us, your patience is absent, tolerance nowhere to be found. You don’t deserve the yelling, you are not a monster, you must be so tired. You don’t eat much anymore, waiting for your food was your only purpose and now you find life meaningless without it. Don’t even bother sitting by that window anymore, because why hope for something that’ll never be when you can just dream? Why bother hoping if you know you’ll just be disappointed. But hey, it’s all real, right? So don’t go, I’m with you. The same ugly house gets so tiring, just keep pretending it’s new. I’ll shine a light in your eyes if I have to. I know you hate the way we smother you, I know you’re frustrated. Destined for greatness, a hope for the future, promise to never stop dreaming. I’ll crack the window back open so your eyes can sparkle once more. Will you try for me again? If I open my closet will you get up to explore inside? December 4th, 2022 A familiar cat sits by a dimly lit window. He catches me staring, ever so observant. I give him a pat on the back. Keeny, 7th - Maryland
I’m at my desk, waiting for class to start when my teacher asks “Who wants to read?”. My hand shoots up immediately without me even thinking about it. There are 2 other kids who raise their hand but I’m hoping my teacher doesn’t call on them. “Keeny, how about you read?” My teacher says. I smile and begin to read the page of our class book, feeling powerful, and in control. I don’t even keep track of how many pages I’m reading, because I’m just enjoying it. I can read the quotes how I think they should be read, Excited, Happy, sad or scared. I flow through to words and stumble on a few but I always get back up and keep reading. Jumping from word to word. But as I see the chapter is almost over, I savor the moment read slowly till I finish the last word, and take a deep breath. I feel proud and accomplished. Sincerely, Keeny E.M. Miles, 11th - Cornwall, VT
how sweet it is that fruits have seasons or is it that seasons have fruits? sit beside me, pretty baby and feel my knee against yours, coffee and your leather jacket the fall on campus isn’t as pretty as here, you told me i would render the world for you to only see perfection today i peeled an orange over my kitchen sink, juice dripping i miss your smile, but not any more than i long for your mouth. K Shaffin, 7th - Maryland
The sky is crying. Raindrops fall as we walk past. Everyone either annoyed or upset their plans for the day are ruined. We put on our rain coats and put on hold our umbrellas, wishing it would stop raining. Windshield wipers are on, it just might flood. Because the sky is crying. Calliope E. 10th, - Berkeley, CA
I wake up to Mom’s sunken eyes peering over me, her face creased with worry. It is then that I notice the pool of sweat I lie in. My heaving breaths are cut short by the cawing of a singular crow perched on the outside of my window. I find myself frozen in a staring contest that concludes promptly when I shudder, and he abandons his post and victoriously takes flight into the overcast, October morning. “You had a bad dream again, didn’t you?” Mom assumes more than asks, from the terrified expression plastered on my face. It has been five months and 26 days since the funeral since I've been in her room since I’ve cried. I figure that Mom would’ve stopped scrambling into my room by now because the crows haven’t stopped bothering me for five months and 26 days. Sometimes the dreams aren't as bad. Occasionally the little black terrors pass over my head if I hide well enough. But other nights consist of screaming as the birds reach out their claws to scrape off what I thought was thick skin, but proves to be no obstacle in their quest for my brittle bones. The worst, however, is when the crows peck out my eyes with their beaks. I can see my body being picked at, mutilated by a mass of matted black feathers and beady eyes. Last night I dreamed of the latter. The clock reads 6:00 AM and I don't think I can go back to sleep so I decide to get up and get ready for school. I started my third year of high school one month and 23 days ago and my grades already dipped below average. The inability to sleep through a full night has most definitely contributed to this. It doesn't take much to convince my mom I'm fine–I think her mind is more occupied with Dad and his inability to escape the sorrowful comfort of his bed–she quickly pads back down the narrow hallway to their room, leaving me to shower and change my sweat-soaked sheets. I don't like to look in the mirror anymore because I see my sister’s face in place of my own reflection. So naturally, I shielded the mirror in my bathroom with a combination of old Stevie Wonder and Billy Joel posters. Yohan wakes up a couple of hours later and I hear him lumbering toward our shared bathroom so I quickly slip out into the hallway in an attempt to beat him there. Instead, we collide and I steady myself on the wooden railing by the stairs. “Are you gonna be ready to go in thirty minutes?” I ask him, peering down at his messy, jet-black hair. I try to avoid looking at my little brother most of the time because he, like me, looks exactly like Celeste, the oldest of what was once a trio. “Yes,” he answers groggily; his dark eyes are all red and puffy like he’s been crying but I choose not to press him about it. I know my screaming scares him, just like everyone else in the house. The local elementary school sits a 15-minute walk from our house, two blocks away from the high school, and six blocks away from the middle school. If we walk fast, Yohan and I can make it there in 12 minutes, which we often do because he takes too long playing with his Cheerios and more times than not, leave home in a hurry. That's alright with me though; I can’t wait to flee the house each morning because inside, the air hangs thick with the smell of grief. Still, outside poses a whole new challenge as the crows have been following me ever since her funeral. They wait for me in the old maples that line our block, hidden amongst the unyielding branches, concealed by the rustling leaves that begin to turn a fiery orange around this time of year. Their watchful eyes stalk me as they perch in a murder along the telephone wires. Today, as Yohan and I are walking to school, the fall chill feels different, and for the first time in five months and twenty-six days, there isn’t a crow in sight. The elementary school begins class earlier than the high school so after dropping Yohan off, I sit down on a wooden bench deep in the woods behind the school grounds. The ground sludges from the previous night’s rain and little white mushrooms germinate from the ground. A sudden, quiet rustling in the vegetation startles me, and out flies a singular crow, dark as night. He lingers on the rotting backrest and begins to speak to me. “She is here if you want her to be,” the crow’s voice is a low scratch of a sound. This time I do not run from him, I stare into his curious eyes not daring to flinch. “How do you know?” I ponder. It is then that I hear her voice, at first just a kiss on the back of my neck, then growing louder and louder until her melodic tone envelopes the area. I look down at my scuffed boots and peer into the puddle that had not been there before. Gazing into my own reflection for the first time in months, I still see only her. But this time she is crying. Her eyes rain, spewing thick streams of tears convening at the bottom of her chin, running down her neck in a great river. After a prolonged period of time, the voice finally ceases. I glance over at where the crow once stood, and find he is no longer there. And as I return my gaze downward, I feel wet, hot tears on my cheeks and in my lap. I am crying just like the girl in the puddle. Sometime later, I’m not sure how much, I emerge from the woods, my clothes rumpled and caked with mud. Searching for something in the sky, I notice that the clouds have burned off revealing a tremendous blue. It is a beautiful day to mourn. Carmichael Crespo, 11th - Newbury Park, CA
He sat in the window of the monastery staring at the barren landscape below. From here he could see a cart of fruit had been knocked over in some accident with an automobile. The driver and the fruit vendor were shouting at each other. What none of these people would ever know was one apple rolled down a hill and into a stream outside a small house. Next to this steam was a rickety homemade dock where a man liked to sit and fish. He saw the apple tumble into the stream and thought, if cleaned, it could make a good snack. So, he rolled up his pants to his knees and leaned his fishing rod against an oak tree. The water was warm and smooth, rushing calmly past his legs. He plunged his arm in and grabbed the apple. Only after sitting back down on the edge of the dock did he really look at it and notice the large black spot on it. After a moment of consideration, he tossed the apple over his shoulder and resumed fishing. Some years later this man passed away and his home was inherited by his sister. She and her son moved into this house and made the town with the monastery at the top of the hill their home. A short walk, but uphill both ways from the house, was the town’s small school. This is where the son would attend first grade, then second, then third. His favorite thing in school was this one girl. It was around this time he took notice of the apple tree growing near the creek. The dock had long since withered away into an unrecognizable, natural-looking tangle of sticks, but the fruit nonchalantly thrown over the shoulder had now produced a good-sized tree. It had yet to bear fruit, but it looked healthy. Something in the son’s chest told him this tree was important, a symbol of meaning overcoming happenstance. By the time the boy was in high school, the tree had born generations of apples. It was no coincidence that the girl found the boy’s way of caring for this tree charming, and an interest grew. There was one afternoon when the boy walked to the tree to collect a fresh batch of apples when a very kind and very welcome face met his gaze. They talked and laughed as they picked the apples together. Though they had been in school together for years, they had never talked like this before. It was an honest conversation, full of welcome tangents and open observations that proved their trust to each other. This became an after-school tradition, to meet at this apple tree and discuss every small detail of their days. This tradition continued throughout their marriage and parenthood. Their children ate the apples from this tree too. The son would never know the true reason why he got to have that conversation with the girl. As a matter of fact, by the time anyone bothered to look into this, just about everyone involved in that forgettable accident was long gone. There are people that wouldn’t exist without that tree, and the tree would have never existed if not for a peckish fisherman, who would never have had the opportunity to grab that apple out of the stream and toss it over his shoulder if the cart had not been overturned. The man in the monastery window would be surprised to hear just how important the events he witnessed that day- and every day- truly were… and are. A. Moslehi, 6th - Sterling, VA
Milly, Milly, and Milly all lived in a humble little cottage in the woods. Their mother was named Mrs. Milly. Once, the Millies walked out of the cottage into the woods, because they wanted to talk with the cute birdies. There was a beautiful pumpkin patch there. The birdies made small talk, and then they eventually told the Millies to bring a pumpkin home and eat it for dinner on Halloween. Milly plucked a pumpkin, Milly brought it home, and Milly hid it from Mrs. Milly until it was Halloween. Then they brought it out and showed it to Mrs. Milly. Mrs. Milly took the pumpkin and tried to slice it. The pumpkin started glowing! She lowered the knife and it grew even brighter. Then it exploded! A floating scarecrow with a pumpkin head appeared! They got three wishes. Milly wished to be rich, Milly wished to be famous, and Milly wished to have enough of everything to be able to survive in hard times. Everyone apart from Milly said, “What? Why don’t you wish for something better?” But Milly responded, “It is good enough for me. I don’t need anything more.” Then the scarecrow chimed in, “You Millies will have to pay a price for this. Beware!” It disappeared. A day later, a drought hit the land. The Milly who wished to be rich couldn’t do anything. The Milly who wished to be famous couldn’t do anything. Mrs. Milly couldn’t do anything. They had to move out. But the Milly who wished to have enough water, enough heat, enough space, enough shelter, just enough, could stay in the humble little cottage in the woods. E. Nagle, 10th - Singapore
July, 7 1944. The sky is crying. Bombs bleed from the arc of heaven, shattering the steeples and smothering the rooftops of Saint Lô. The earth groans above our heads as we crouch in the earthen cave of a bomb shelter. The men sing, or pretend to, a plea cloaked in the disguise of patriotic words. Useless. Song will not stop the Americans. Deutschland, Deutschland über alles, über alles in der Welt... My eyes find my watch, which is strapped tightly to my wrist, afraid to let go. Tumbledown and tired, it had once belonged to my father. My eyelids flutter shut, and the singing shifts, the sound rearranging into the ticking of Klaus’clocks. There is the cuckoo above the window, the grandfather in the corner, and shelves upon shelves of overcrowded timekeepers, jostling for room to tick and breathe, tick and breathe. An army of wooden bombs, sickeningly synchronized. One can almost hear the footsteps of Father Time pass fleetingly by, the seconds trotting at his heels. Above my head, American bombers raze the clouds. Bombs fall. The men sing. Miles away, the Americans prepare to march. ————-- Karin, last night, I dreamt of you. I dreamt of your windy caramel hair, wrestled into a knot; the eyes that saw nothing yet held a whole world; your slim figure, graceful, despite the awkwardness of a white cane. September 5, 1935. I had risen with the sun and crept past my uncle, who lay grumbling on the sofa, empty bottle still clinging to his acquiescing fingers. Once outside in the earl gray dawn, I journeyed onto Main Street and swiped a newspaper from a lonely bin. Scanning the columns of staling ink, I decided to try my luck with the one that read: Day Labor: Help Wanted - Lorenz Grocery - 9, Engel Straße. The good part of town. What did I have to lose? Your father’s crinkled eyes and bristling whiskers met me at the door. All around me were bubbles of dreams: crimson and maple apples flickered from a wicker basket; flour and sugar gloated at me from a high shelf. “What I need you to do, son... Antoni was it? Peter Antoni?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, what I need you to do is separate the rotten produce from the good. See those shelves over there?” “Yes, sir.” The crinkled eyes smiled. “Well, go on then.” I combed through countless heads of lettuce, tomatoes and onions, as customers sauntered in and out. Old women and young. Housewives and their lists of worries, which fell in heaps on the wooden floor. I felt you before I heard the crunch of the apple. “Would you like some?” There they were, the first words, chasmed out in front of me like a dare. I wavered at the brink of leaping. “I shouldn’t. But thank you.” You understood at once. “Oh, don’t worry. I asked Papa just now if I could give you some. He said yes.” I glanced up at Mr. Lorenz. The crinkled eyes smiled. “Well, in that case…” I leapt, the apple in my hand before I could hesitate again. “Thank you.” It was your eyes that ensnared me. Oh, those eyes. They would be the death of you. So, we sat there on the Engel Street floor, the afternoon cushioning itself around us, and I learnt of the joy that can be found in the simple eating of a caramel russet fruit and the company of one willing to share it. Later, while your father stayed to lock up shop, I walked you home through tendrils of dwindling sunset, atop cement ready to crack under the strain of the Earth, uninterrupted but for the occasional brave daisy, who dared peek her sunny face above the soot. Clouds that had slipped through the seams of heaven sloped above our heads. I wondered if you knew what you were surrounded by, the beauty and the ugliness that made up our corner of the universe. But now I recognize that you knew better than most the strangeness of our world. Our footsteps halted in front of a cream home trimmed with ivy shutters. “Auf wiedersehen, Peter.” You winked. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Only half joking, I replied, “How do you know I will be back tomorrow?” “I don’t.” And with that, you turned around and entered the house, leaving me marooned on the sidewalk. Auf wiedersehen, Peter… You were right. I would be back tomorrow. And the day after. I had fallen for you like a bomb, falling freely through the sky only to create a pit of love and war. How was I supposed to know that misery alone lay in wait at the bottom? But even if I did know, if I had the chance to live my life over and over again, I would still fall. Every single time. ————-- Saint Lô has been crucified. It has been damned and splintered and spun, until at last, it stands, shivering in the bliss of abandonment. Lone paperdoll houses that can be tipped at the nod of a child’s wayward finger fringe rubbled and decaying street. The rooftops that remain drip with invisible weight atop walls that lean into each other for support. Their windows have long-since vaporized into a malignant glass mist, leaving empty holes that stare down upon the martyred city... ...and its people. Those who have something worth living for search, staggering among the ruins. Some have tears perched on the tip of escape. Others, screams. All are set free once a discovery is made, along with a prayer. The question is whether it is a hallelujah to the heavens or a prayer overwhelmed by agony and grief. I stand at attention in front of Generalleutnant Richard Schimf along with the rest of the Third Fallschirmjäger Division. Both Schimf’s face and uniform have been starched: his uniform to minimize creases and his face to remain perpetually folded and stiff. “Attention! Leutnant Bauer, you are to take a squad of men for anti-reconnaissance. Don’t take on anything you can’t handle, but if you can, I would like at least one American taken as prisoner. Send back for help if necessary.” “Yes, sir.” I fall in line behind Lieutenant Bauer as we set off down a road leading out of town. The clash of our boots with the grimy dirt raises dust that hovers in the still summer air, mingling with our breath, tickling us until we cough. On either side of us, the hedgerows of Normandy ramble on for miles, guardians of the paler fields they surrounded. It’s the best defensive terrain we can ask for: densely grown trees and shrubs capable of stopping a rifle bullet. The leafy sealant is embedded in ancient, irregular mounds of dirt, fortified by stones placed there by local peasants hundreds of years prior. “Hurry up, trottel!” The voice seems to thrust itself out of the soldiers’ metrical shuffling. It is met with a solid rebuttal. “Back off, Schwartz! Leave him alone and stick to the back of the group. You okay, Beute?” “Uh, yes, Lieutenant Bauer, thank you. I’m all right.” “Good, we need you to be sharp.” Bauer directs a glance over his shoulder and lowers his voice. “And don’t mind Schwartz. Both of his brothers were at Omaha Beach. Neither made it, not many did.” Beute doesn’t respond but follows Bauer as he steps off the road toward the north. The hedgerows quickly engulf us. Nothing moves except Bauer’s eyebrows, which gather together in a furrowed line. “Do you smell smoke?” Schwartz’s nose is in the air; he, too, has caught a scent. “Gluck!” Look! I point to the sky, where a teepee of smoke stands black and smoldering even against the background of the air’s dust. “Come on!” Bauer is already running, Schwartz at his heels. Backs bent, we wade through several fields and silently claw our way through a final hedgerow. There, reposing on the mangled earth, is a downed airplane. An American airplane. Half immersed in dislodged dirt, the shredded metal carcass lies disheveled and maimed, with one of its wings grated off and abandoned several yards away. The engine, aflame, coughs smoke into a bruised French sky. Glass lies scattered like evidence, leaving the metal structure of the aircraft canopy exposed. The cockpit is empty. “He must have escaped by parachute.” Schwartz had already turned away. “We should spread out and search.” “No, look.” Bauer had moved closer. “It’s hard to tell because the glass is all shattered, but the canopy is closed.” “Maybe the canopy’s stuck so he shattered the glass while the plane was still in the air so he could jump out.” “Yes, but look at the glass around us. The windows definitely shattered when the plane landed. See the blood stains on the seat and the redness of the dirt and grass. I think he is alive and close by. We have to hurry, he’ll be heading for the American lines, but if we track his blood, we’ll find him soon enough.” No words follow Bauer’s pronouncement, just covert eye contact and the dubious rustle of army-issued boots. Schwartz, wasting no time on such semblances, spares not even a pretense of respect in his response: “No way in hell anyone who crashes his plane this badly just gets up and walks away. Jesus, he’d be lucky even to survive.” “Schwartz! That will be the last time you disrespect a superior again. If I wanted the men to ‘spread out and search’, I would have told them. It is not your place to give orders, private, and it is certainly not your place to contradict my orders.” “My apologies, sir.” Bauer shakes his head. “Come on.” We follow him through the grass, whose green tips echo in the wake of American blood. It only takes us two fields to find the source. “No way…” “Jesus, Mary and Joseph…” A whole squad of Germans watch as their American quarry limps along with futile hope and purposefulness. The sun casts down on him in such a way that he is more of a shadow than a man, his dark outline contrasting sharply with the white wildflowers surrounding him. I pause to stare, we all do, and his panting rings more pointedly in our ears. Nothing is ever quite so beautiful as those last, unseeing moments. Schwartz snarls and pounces, the führer ablaze in his pupils. The idiot. It’s all his fault, really. His fault, that the American looks up and, knowing that death awaits him in the bullets of Heinrich Schwarz, chooses to take out as many of us as he possibly can before that moment arrives. At a speed only a desperate man can achieve, he draws a pistol and fires. He misses. The bullet whizzes past Schwarz and hits Bauer. Human, innocent Bauer, who had flung himself after Schwarz in an attempt to prevent him from killing the American. The same American who had just shot Bauer in the chest. I seize Schwarz’s meaty arm as Bauer crumples, jerking his gun upward just as it fires. Next, the American. This is somewhat easier. I knock the pistol away and catch his wrists in a tight embrace. “You trottel! What did you do that for?” Schwarz is back on his feet. “This way we can question him.” “Bullshit! We know the Allies need Saint Lô and the only way they can get here is through these damn hedges.” “Go tell that to the Lieutenant General. Listen, we have to get out of here. Every American from here to England probably heard the gunshots.” The rest of the squad simply stands, their heads teetering between me and Schwarz, me and Schwarz. At last, a nameless young soldier steps forward and helps me truss the American’s wrists. Schwartz scowls, unveiling teeth stained the color of rot. “Come on,” he snarls, turning back to the hedgerows, “Let’s go.” The men follow, the American in tow. Two of them drag Bauer by the arms. His boots linger behind him, scarring the soil and mixing American blood with German. Stillness envelops me once more as I am left alone. Adrift on my side of the hedgerow. ————-- The field brimmed with the wildflowers’ whispering sighs and chimes. Blonde blossoms flaunted heads of blushing wreaths, their flickering beauty echoed back at them in the light of the evening sun. Altweibersommer. What Germans call the fleeting days of summer-like fall before the chill of winter conquers the wind and sky. “Is it beautiful?” Your fingertips skimmed blades of untamed grass. How strange, that seven years later, I still hear your voice. “It’s stunning.” I plucked sprigs of blue and white and handed them to you. A smile graced your lashes as you shrouded your face in the nosegay. “Oh,... anemone… how sweet. You know, Emerson once wrote that the Earth laughs in flowers.” “Did he now?” “Yes, you can imagine how my imagination practically imploded upon first hearing those words.” Your smile glistened more plainly now. “I suppose I’ve never thought of flowers that way before. It makes them seem all the more beautiful. To be honest, I’ve always wondered why people pluck flowers.” “Oh? And why do we?” “Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? We kill flowers because we think they are beautiful.” Somehow, your eyes managed to stare straight through me, in a way no seeing eye could. “You plucked flowers just now, did you not?” “Yes, I did.” No one spoke for a while. We just breathed in time to the thrumming life of the field. At last, you picked up your cane. “Come. There’s something -- no someplace -- I want to show you.” We walked with mirrored steps and tangled fingers back into town and along Abschied Straße, whose sidewalks were lined with trees. The slight breeze, having strengthened, caused the lucid autumn leaves to laugh, evidently indifferent to what the coming season had in store. At last, we stood together on the doorstep of Klaus’s Uhrenladen - Klaus’s Clock Shop - a tidy, humble Tudor with a frank, unpretentious exterior that seemed strangely familiar, as if I had visited Klaus’ obscure shop in times long gone by and since forgotten, except for a few threads of memory, stranded on the edges of my conscience. “Well, be a gentleman, open the door.” The smile strayed back onto your lips. “M’lady,” I bowed you through the threshold. I had never before heard lifeless objects produce so guttural and blinding a noise. Yet, it would be untrue to say that the array of clocks marshaled before me were entirely “lifeless.” Their very bodies pulsed with a hypotonic rhythm and the ticking was such that, for a brief moment, I could have sworn I felt the earth shudder beneath my feet and saw the walls begin to rotate, like so many grinding gears and winding wheels. Lost in the midst of this ticking army, was a man, red aproned and whiskered, bent over a wounded cuckoo clock. “Good afternoon, Klaus!” Klaus raised his head, blinking through hazy glasses. “Ah, Karin. And who is this?” Klaus picked up the cuckoo, evidently cured, and hung it on a nail just above the window, through which trickled shafts of ebbing light. “I’m Peter Antoni. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” “Peter, of course, of course… Karin has told me all about you. Welcome, welcome…” Klaus raised a woolen arm. “And no ‘sirs’ around here I’m afraid. Being called sir makes me uncomfortable. I keep thinking there is somebody standing behind me! Ha! Just call me Klaus, my boy, just call me Klaus.” Chortling, Klaus clapped a hand to his substantial middle. “Klaus tells the best stories, don’t you Klaus?” You settled yourself down on a cushioned stool, and patted the one beside it. I sat down as Klaus responded, “Oh, yes, naturally I do.” He winked at me. “Life is just trying to find the ending to your own story, is it not? And I know all the stories, just as well as I know the back of my hand. Say, Peter, my boy, that’s a fine wristwatch you’ve got there. Mind if I take a look?” “Of course not.” I removed it and passed it to Klaus, who removed the back and inspected the watch under a magnifying glass. “This is a very old watch, is it not, Peter?” “It was my father’s.” “Ah, I see. Good, sturdy watch this, but it's nearing the end of its life. It will need frequent checkups if you want it to last more than a couple of years or so. Just bring it by Klaus’ Uhrenladen whenever you’ve got time, and I’ll see if I can save it for you.” As it turned out, Klaus never did save my watch. He never had a chance. Yes, you and I did pay Klaus several more laughter-filled visits, but by November of the next year, Klaus’ Uhrenladen was just another smoking blight on a seething German street glinting in shattered glass. I never saw Klaus again. You did not smile for weeks afterward. Once, I heard you mumble something about a field. Something about flowers. I did not press the point. I was distracted by the stars. Six-pointed and yellow, they were pinned limply on even limper chests. Maybe, I was blind. Maybe, we were all blind. But, a gear had shifted, a wheel had turned. Time was ticking, things were changing, and I never even had a chance to say goodbye. ————-- The American has been crucified. He has been damned and splintered and spun, until at last, he stands, shivering in the bliss of abandonment, in a corner of the town square. Almost the entire left side of his uniform had been stained brown, a sickening mixture of blood and olive wool, torn in places by the hedgerow to reveal skin burned scarlet. We are standing before town hall, as Schimpf had instructed us several hours earlier. Schwartz’s eyes have yet to stray from the sorry figure. His lips trace curses in the air’s still dust. “Antoni. Schwartz.” Schimpf had opened the door. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in.” “Yes, sir.” Our footsteps clatter on the hostile stone floor, unwarmed by the sunlight loitering through the open door. Several lieutenants marshal papers into piles at a round table. Schimpf doesn’t bother moving from behind the open door. His face is crimped into wrinkles. “Shouldn’t you be done by now? I don’t have all day.” “Yes, Sir.” The lieutenants leave, and with a click of a latch, the room pales as half its light retires behind shadows. Schimpf seats himself and gestures for us to do the same. Somehow, he manages to make himself head of the circular table. “Go on, one of you. This story is not going to tell itself. ” I let Schwartz repaint our journey. The facts are true enough. The opinions, of course, reflect his mind, and his mind is a mirror: red and white, complete with black swastika. “You see, sir, I was trying to serve my country by doing away with the American scum, but Antoni here thought the American might serve other uses.” Schwartz scowles as he finishes his summary. “Though I have no idea what those uses might be.” The Lieutenant General rose and clapped his hands together. “And he is quite right. Come, both of you.” “But, Sir! We know the Allies are coming, and a simple airman like him will hardly know the battle plans of the American infantry. Not that they are capable of having much of a plan, what with those hedgerows every hundred or so yards.” “You are correct as well, Schwartz. Just wait. Wait and see. I give my instructions for a reason.” Schimpf pushes open the doors once more and addresses the sentry stationed outside. “Private Botin, tell the lieutenants to assemble the men on cleanup. Immediately.” “Yes, sir!” I see the American still in his corner. His hallowed eyes reflect no gratitude, no hatred, no stir of emotion. All he is capable of is not wilting under the weight of his uniform. Schimpf’s smile lands on me. Even though I had done my duty and done it well, I feel a kind of guilty stupidity rise in me. I should be getting chastised. When Schimpf had given his order for a captured American, he had probably meant an American with most of his blood still in his body. What kind of fool saves a corrupt, impure enemy who will be dead in several hours anyway? But Schimpf’s starched lips yield no words. Instead, I hear the grate of boots on cobbles and the desolate cry of German breath. Soldiers, their uniforms dusted with the rubble of the broken city around them, form rows and then columns in front of town hall. When Schimpf speaks, he addresses me and Schwartz, yet his voice can be heard by everyone in the courtyard . “Behold, brave soldiers, men who have not seen home in years. These men dream of the embrace of a lover, the whisper of a familiar voice, but wake each morning to the same endless blood-bath. They spent this entire day toiling under the ruthless sun, who beat down upon their backs as they cleared the evidence of last night’s bombing from the roads. Thanks to their hours of labor, our men, ammunition and tanks will be able to successfully march in and out of town, surrounding and defending Saint Lô from the American enemy.” He raises his voice. “An enemy who marches ever nearer. An enemy who seeks to end the German ideal, starting with the murder of everyone here, just like this piece of American filth before me…” Schimpf gestures towards the puddle of American uniform, and the soldiers’ eyes snap onto it. When Schimpf begins to speak again, their eyes do not leave. “So, fellow soldiers, there are still several hours before dinner. It’s about time we have some fun.” I close my eyes. Flowers… A field… Tick. Tick. Tick. My eyes open but do not see. Good. I do not want them to. Just ignore. I am good at ignoring, been practicing it for years Even the sounds are dimming, fading into some lost place. I do not follow. Maybe I can’t, maybe I do not want to. “Antoni.” A face, but not Bauer’s. Not this time. Schimpf stands, seemingly over me. His very person is excited and quivering. “You helped find the American, it seems only fair you should have a turn. What do you say?” And just like that, the world turns back on. The soldiers are flocked in a ring; their caterwauls mask the wail of wood on flesh, flesh on flesh, but I can see the blood, slowly leaking and staining the dust filled air. Somewhere, in the midst of the German throng, lies an American uniform, and under the uniform, a heart beats like a betrayal. I had done this, damned a man into continued life by stopping the bullet meant for his heart. “Yes.” Schimpf clapps me on the back, claws grasping my shoulders, but I shrug him off and stride into the crowd of soldiers. Only one notices me. He freezes mid-action, comically suspended: arm propped behind him, opposite knee raised for power. Instead of firing, he holds out his rotting ammunition. I ignore the apple poised on his palm. They are all watching now. They see what I have drawn from my holster, what I hold in my hand. I kneel beside the American. I look into his eyes and I answer his prayer. I pull the trigger. ————-- I’m sinking. My feet lull my floating body downwards with the assurance of something better, tomorrow’s future promise for which my fingers are always reaching. The coldness is fiery and the nothingness so oppressive it itches, laughing at me from behind a voidless veil. But then, the world focuses and suddenly charges, murderous, at my throat, ready to shroud me in its billowing folds until I am a whisper, less substantial than the faintest memory. “Peter…” The stumble of fingers and a quelling grasp. I’m not sinking anymore, I’m floating. Hand in hand, we walk to our castle in the air, leaving footprints on the clouds. We paint each morning sky with a sunrise, and each evening, we bring the sun to its knees. You smile, and I smile, and we are happy. Then, the monsters come knocking, and, oh, how loudly they knock. ————-- Northeast of Saint Lô, the convergence of hedgerows on comparatively high ground results in a forested junction dubbed in proper warfare detachment as Hill 192. Invisible on the slope are German nests of two MG 42s and five machine pistols each. Behind lies Saint Lô’s roads and strategic importance. 1130 hours, June 12 - present time. Werner Jung stands waist-deep in the French hill, just one foxhole away. His face, blackened with dirt, refuses to answer the twinkle of the moon and stars. Silently, his hands thread signals through the sullen night Translation: at precisely 0110 hours on June 13, we begin our counterattack. 0540 hours, June 12 - almost 18 hours ago: bursts of American artillery pounded the hillside. We men sat, breath laced with prayer, enclosed by the walls of the foxhole, but with only wooden limbs and leaves above our heads. My watch tugged at my wrist and I lost myself in the sureness of its circling hands, ignoring the untrustworthy sporadicity of the explosions. Still, I could not help but wonder, if the artillery struck true, would the watch and I draw our last breaths together? Or would it simply tick decisively on without me? When the American artillery was replaced by American soldiers, I fed Lehmann and his machine gun 0.50-caliber rounds. All around me, I could hear soldiers shooting and reloading, shooting and reloading their machine pistols with the steadiness of breathing. German bullets showered the night and the Americans fell like droplets, plucked off their feet. Nearer the base of the hill, anti tank weaponry restrained the off-balanced, unpoised Shermans. Eventually, the battle moved eastward, and, soon, we received word of an enemy retreat. Cigarettes and decks of cards emerged from pockets as medics made their way from foxhole to foxhole to repair the moaning aftershocks. I sat beside Lehmann as he traded jokes with the rest of the soldiers. How odd, that my murder of the American pilot caused me more distress than my continued sustainment of Lehmann’s MG 42. Yes, my hands had been coated in layers of my own sweat as I handled the bullets, but the image of that pale, disconsolate face was ten-fold as haunting as the imprints of American GIs falling on the horizon. Some flowers simply get trampled on. 2030 hours, June 12 - three hours ago: we listened to the last huffing retort of fuming American aircraft punishing the slope with their ordnance. The men retaliated with a hearty rendition of Deutschland Über Alles. I had to admit, they had gotten better. 0110 hours, June 13 - present time: the hill looks just like it did before the battle began – the leaves hushing the darkened hill with their murmuring static – the only difference being the haphazard helmet, the glimpse of army wool and the cavities left by guessing bombs. “It’s time.” Backs bent, we follow a hedgerow northeast, the war settling itself in around us until the noises of gunfire and shouting are only several fields away. Our wave is not the first of the counterattack. I stare at nothing but the back of Lehmann’s Luftwaffe uniform, trying to distract myself from the remains of what the American tide brought in. His shoulders sway with his crouching stride. One foot, then another. Right, then left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Tick. Tick. Tick. “Get down!” I throw myself in the hedgerow’s rut, just as the artillery starts to arc its way downward. In a brief moment of anticipation, I close my eyes. How have I never noticed the dramatic rise and fall of my own chest? Maybe one needs to be lying face down on an exploding battlefield to truly understand. Such a simple and obvious thing: breathing. Beautiful. The earth pitches beneath me with a resounding blast that lingers unwelcome in my ears. I wait a moment for the aftershock to clear then open my eyes. The German squad is not the only one in the hedgerow’s rut. The dead American’s green eyes go straight through me, wiped clean of life and blinded as a last gift from death probably no more than ten hours ago. He can’t be any older than 15. Just like some of the more fanatical Hitler Youths, he had probably lied about his age and enlisted, defending his country by leaving his family and coming to this French town. All just to fight me. I almost ask him if it was worth it, but there is no need. On a battlefield, it is only the living who have regrets. “Antoni! Get up! We have to keep moving!” Lehmann hovers over me, pausing only long enough to take the American’s rifle and feel his pockets for grenades before running off. Rushing guilt and the need to explain overwhelms me. My mouth opens, and I find myself talking to the dead man like a crazy one about to join him. “I know your friend. He’s back in town, lying across a rubble pile with a bullet through his heart. I put it there. But was I his savior or his final antagonizer? I’ve never killed a man before. I’m so sorry, so very sorry. I wonder if he understands if he forgives me. I wonder if his mother forgives me, his best friend, or his sweetheart. I wonder what difference their forgiveness would make. God, you look just like this kid I know from school, Arv Vergessener. His eyes were the same green as yours. I fought him once, you know, over some second-grade stupidity. But with onlookers all around, chanting tends to overpower reason.” My fingertips reach out to pull down the soldier’s eyelids. The green vanishes, just as movement appears on the surface of my watch. Transfixed, I watch as the round glass face echoes back the image of the bomb falling towards me. Not even now does the ticking stop. ————-- The sky stooped in obedience the day you were taken away. Awake at last from their reverie, clouds obediently emptied their burden on sleeping German streets. Flakes born of the bitter winter cold were amassed shamelessly at my feet and draped themselves obediently over the rooftops and chimneys. I remember standing in the midst of ’39’s first snowfall, catching the crystals on my fingertips and shaking my head at their dainty complexity: so daring, falling freely and unencumbered, yet star-crossed and frail. I wondered until my breath melted the flakes away, leaving the wool of my gloves damp and remembering. I was on my way back from the Hitler Youth, walking to your home for dinner, listening to fate’s laugh in the tree’s aching boughs. Around me, darkness claimed a world abandoned by the winter sun. By the time I paused on your porch, the sound of Nazi footsteps had long since faded but something invisible had been left behind, treading softly on the brittle air. When I opened the door, the smell of rationed chicken burning in the oven hit me in the face. A crooked vase lay fractured on the floor. “Mr. Lorenz?” Your father sat in the kitchen, head in hands, but looked up when I approached. Suddenly, I was glad my uniform was hidden beneath my coat. “Where is…” “Gone… They took her… They took my baby…” And, all at once, I saw what had been left behind on the porch: it was the imprint of a girl, silhouetted by the light of the doorway behind her. I heard the Nazi footfalls, the echo of their stone voices, carved into the harshness of the kitchen light. Only later would I hear the whispers. “Did you hear? Deaf Opfer Fiend is gone. So is Hiob Gegner, you know, the one with the twitch who used to work downtown.” “No one’s seen hide nor hair of them for months now…” “Mercy killings, they call ’em…” “Some kind of operation, I think. Top secret.” How ironic: we kill flowers because we think they are beautiful, and we kill each other because we think we are not. To think that, just the other day, we had been sitting on the grocery’s countertop, singing “Horch, Was Kommt Von Draußen Rein”, while your father clapped and laughed behind the cashier. Sunlight sifted through the shop, brightening each customer’s smiling face. Perhaps, had I looked a bit harder, I would have noticed the looks they sent you, ranging from concerned to fearful to angry, even. How many signs did I need? I spent my eighteenth birthday working behind the same countertop. Your father refused to leave the house and, a few months later, I also bade him goodbye. A letter had arrived stating that I had been conscripted and was to spend eight weeks in basic training. The letter did not elaborate on what was to happen after that. During those eight weeks, German troops swept through France, Belgium, Luxemburg, and the Netherlands. “Blitzkrieg”, they called it – lightning war. Wait a few moments and everything is different. In October of ’43, I was put on a train to Reims, France, and told that I was now a paratrooper: Third Fallschirmjäger Division. Apparently, my performances so far in service of the Third Reich had been “excellent”, good enough that I was to become part of such an “elite” unit. I thought of the years worth of days I had played hooky, carrying boxes around town and painting fences under a furious sun – hours of work that equated only to meals and a few meager savings. I could only shake my head. The world had left me lonely until the day I found you, and after that, everybody seemed too busy picking sides to remember me. Until now, at least. Stationed at Brest in Brittany, we practiced being released from airplanes like breathing bombs and trained in hedgerow warfare. On June 10, 1944, the entire division, which numbered almost 16000 soldiers and officers, was driven by truck to Normandy under the muzzle of night. For four hours, I listened to the same promise that if the Third Fallschirmjäger Division had been at Utah or Omaha beach on the sixth of June, there would be no need for the reinforcements of towns as far inland as Saint-Lô. We were greeted by air raid sirens and hustled into the bomb shelter. Like the others, I wanted to fight. I wanted to fight the monsters. But who would I fight? My neighbor? My teacher? Klaus’ furiously ticking clocks? Myself? By that time, the monsters were all around me. Some wore masks and illusions. Others had fangs that were all too real. I had looked the other way too long, and now it is all too late. Now, I’m just another monster. ————-- The sirens of war have been muted for my last moments. The night shines its spotlight. Just one more second. Just one more tick. I can almost hear the bomadeer’s crow. Where did all the flowers come from? When did the field appear? How are you here, with your song-like smile? Was it always snowing? The world is retreating now, Karin, and it’s taking me with it. Just don’t let go of my hand. Iris C. 10th - San Jose, CA
Its branches bare, the lone tree stands, watching fall’s golden leaves blowing in the breeze till they touch down on the worn dirt ground and lay there. Come winter, the lone tree stands through rain and unforgiving sleet. rocked back and forth, bent by violent winds. Yet still the lone tree stands, stains of rain on its careworn bark, the last tears of the tempest’s storms. It is waiting for snowdrops and daffodils, the air to fill with honeyed scents, petals that float and dance, as birds sing a tinkling tune about the touch of spring. |
AuthorsStudents 6th-12th Grades month
April 2024
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