WAR BEFORE PEACE
Word Count: 246
The old man was a shiver or so short of death. He lay in a hospital bed mumbling prayers to a God he was hoping was there.
It hurts, God, it hurts bad. Lord, I don’t want to die.
It didn’t hurt, of course, dying of old age, loaded with morphine by nurses who spoke softly as if to ready their patients for angels.
Oh Mary, I’ll miss you so much!
Had he been aware of time, the old man would know that Mary was already long gone.
It was in the great war over in Europe, where gardens spilled into the fields from stone houses and the angels were the young French girls of the night. The soldier lay staring up at a blue, blue sky where gunsmoke like clouds wisped with the breeze. He was down to one leg he could feel, the other lay shattered and bleeding. His stomach was burning. Each breath ached with sweet pain. He was dying and before he passed out he started to cry.
The blue sky turned white. Gone was the scent of wheat and Sweet William. At least he wouldn’t be dying alone. His mother would never forgive him for going, but his dad and Mary would understand. He wondered what life he was leaving; forgetting he’d lived it for years.
The nurse held his hand at the end, whispered lies about God and country. Yes, Private, she said, you did your job and we’re proud.
Poignant! – if I wasn’t thinking about mortality when I woke up this morning, I certainly am now. The meshing of memory and present state is quite well done!
Thanks, Steve! A bit hokey, but that’s where my head was at this weekend.
I like this weave, especially this: “He wondered what life he was leaving; forgetting he’d lived it for years.”
Thanks. I liked the idea of the two moments in time coming together like a loop, or repeating without distinction.
“It was in the great war over in Europe, where gardens spilled into the fields from stone houses and the angels were the young French girls of the night.” touche.
Well, I’m sure they comforted many a lost and lonely and frightened soldier.
I love how you referred to the idea of angels a second time, but meaning something different, “and the angels were the young French girls of the night.” Somehow nostalgic and real.
Stories/ concepts like this always pull at my heart strings. Great!
Thank you, Jonathan. I really like to get into the mind and how it tricks us.