One Last Story
The final story in my writer's craft course--written during my exam today.
Half a World Apart
Stars blaze in the night sky.
On the east end of town the children cry out in delight, held secure in the arms of doting parents as they lean their heads back and point high above them. The rosy cheeks of their mothers, the sparkling eyes of their fathers, all following obligingly the single, unmittened digit lancing through the frosty air. High above the little suburban neighbourhood and its center square, clear as the coloured lights on the newly-lit tree, a meteor shower dazzles the minds and the hearts of these tots and their families. It is a unifying moment-magical, even-for these businessmen, these yoga-practitioners, the not-quite-teens dragged out reluctantly this night to walk these clean-swept streets.
The little ones, too young to care for decorum, shriek and laugh at the falling stars. They raise their hands high above their heads, safe in mama or papa’s arms, as though to catch the sparkling balls of fire as they plummet towards the earth. “Make a wish,” two dozen people whisper, leaning their cheeks against their partner’s, their child’s, eyes shining with wonder. Some couples kiss, their children’s attention caught by the phenomenon taking place so untouchably far away, too engrossed in this beautiful light show they’d likely never see again to whine or chide their parents for the public displays of affection.
It is cold, tonight, and the townspeople’s breath sparkles on the air as they breathe out through their smiles.
It is beautiful.
---
Bombs blaze in the night sky.
Half a world away from anything so miraculous as a meteor shower, in streets lit by burning buildings instead of Christmas lights and punctuated by the screams of children instead of their shrieks of euphoria, a mother desperately wraps her arms around her son under the pile of rubble that was once their house. Enveloping him in her arms, though he’s grown far too large to cover at the age of twelve, she seeks to give him even the facsimile of safety even as she shakes involuntarily, tears streaming down her face.
A girl of nine stumbles down the street, blood rolling down her calf from a gash in her leg. She doesn’t feel it, heart pounding with adrenaline and mind awhirl with fear, though it gives out supporting her every so often and she pitches almost drunkenly to the side. Gunshots ring in her ears, an ever-present reminder of the horrors she has witnessed, each press of the trigger bringing back to mind her kitchen floor, splattered with the remains of what was once her parents’ faces. Her brother, she knows, was at school; spared the nightmares and the flashbacks she will doubtless have to suffer-if he was lucky. If he is safe. She calls his name as loud as she possibly can, dark hair and dirt sticking to her face. The school building has only half collapsed, she sees, and at the sight of it her heart nearly tears itself apart with the ferocity of its own hope.
The fires are hot, and all around the street victims of this crime against humanity scream for their lost loved ones. There is no hush of breathless amazement, here. There is no still air. The only miracles to be seen tonight will be for those who have only lost some, and not everything. Even they will have lost too much.
It is so far from beautiful.
---
And you, now. You. For I have written through my tears and through my empathy, and through my inexperience, that you might swallow around the lump in your throat as hard and swollen as a peach pit and hear my voice in these small words. I ask you this, hoping that your heart might be breaking as mine shatters in my chest just at these thoughts:
How can we stand to know that this happens less than half a world apart?
Half a World Apart
Stars blaze in the night sky.
On the east end of town the children cry out in delight, held secure in the arms of doting parents as they lean their heads back and point high above them. The rosy cheeks of their mothers, the sparkling eyes of their fathers, all following obligingly the single, unmittened digit lancing through the frosty air. High above the little suburban neighbourhood and its center square, clear as the coloured lights on the newly-lit tree, a meteor shower dazzles the minds and the hearts of these tots and their families. It is a unifying moment-magical, even-for these businessmen, these yoga-practitioners, the not-quite-teens dragged out reluctantly this night to walk these clean-swept streets.
The little ones, too young to care for decorum, shriek and laugh at the falling stars. They raise their hands high above their heads, safe in mama or papa’s arms, as though to catch the sparkling balls of fire as they plummet towards the earth. “Make a wish,” two dozen people whisper, leaning their cheeks against their partner’s, their child’s, eyes shining with wonder. Some couples kiss, their children’s attention caught by the phenomenon taking place so untouchably far away, too engrossed in this beautiful light show they’d likely never see again to whine or chide their parents for the public displays of affection.
It is cold, tonight, and the townspeople’s breath sparkles on the air as they breathe out through their smiles.
It is beautiful.
---
Bombs blaze in the night sky.
Half a world away from anything so miraculous as a meteor shower, in streets lit by burning buildings instead of Christmas lights and punctuated by the screams of children instead of their shrieks of euphoria, a mother desperately wraps her arms around her son under the pile of rubble that was once their house. Enveloping him in her arms, though he’s grown far too large to cover at the age of twelve, she seeks to give him even the facsimile of safety even as she shakes involuntarily, tears streaming down her face.
A girl of nine stumbles down the street, blood rolling down her calf from a gash in her leg. She doesn’t feel it, heart pounding with adrenaline and mind awhirl with fear, though it gives out supporting her every so often and she pitches almost drunkenly to the side. Gunshots ring in her ears, an ever-present reminder of the horrors she has witnessed, each press of the trigger bringing back to mind her kitchen floor, splattered with the remains of what was once her parents’ faces. Her brother, she knows, was at school; spared the nightmares and the flashbacks she will doubtless have to suffer-if he was lucky. If he is safe. She calls his name as loud as she possibly can, dark hair and dirt sticking to her face. The school building has only half collapsed, she sees, and at the sight of it her heart nearly tears itself apart with the ferocity of its own hope.
The fires are hot, and all around the street victims of this crime against humanity scream for their lost loved ones. There is no hush of breathless amazement, here. There is no still air. The only miracles to be seen tonight will be for those who have only lost some, and not everything. Even they will have lost too much.
It is so far from beautiful.
---
And you, now. You. For I have written through my tears and through my empathy, and through my inexperience, that you might swallow around the lump in your throat as hard and swollen as a peach pit and hear my voice in these small words. I ask you this, hoping that your heart might be breaking as mine shatters in my chest just at these thoughts:
How can we stand to know that this happens less than half a world apart?