Faerie Tales; Short Stories

"are we the bad guys?" a wwii based short

(939 words)

 Gunfire sounded all around Andrew. He ducked and covered his head from the rapid fire, his eardrums pounding from the ruckus, his heart pounding as hard as the artillery shells hitting the ground. His world spun around him as he hit the ground, the trees and grass playing in a dizzy way with him. Trees splintered like someone took a giant foot to them, the screams and cries made bile arise in the soldier's throat. Was he really even a soldier at all? Oh what he would give to have a shell hit him, or a stray bullet find its way into his lungs.

 An explosion sounded behind him and he was blown to his face. He looked up, coughing and choking, the ash surrounding him. The sky a hazy red, almost as hazy as his vision. His eyes burned, his throat ached, he pulled his coat up to his face, but that barely belittled the pain he felt. He looked down to see what he had tripped over, and his eyes widened in horror. An allied soldier lay on the forest floor, his arms stretched out as if trying to grasp something, his ashened face twisted in pain and fear. The bile rose again in Andrews throat, and this time he didn't hold it back. That was all he remembered before the blackness settled in, the cold eerie stillness that taunted him with memories and flashbacks.

 Andrew woke up with a start, drenched in sweat and chilled to the bone. He was lying on a stretcher on a table, other men, other soldiers lay next to him. But no, they weren't soldiers were they. They were but mere boys, boys forced to become men. For what? For the sake of this god-forsaken war. He looked down to the bandage on his right hand, or what was left of it. He let out an audible gasp, letting the army nurse know he had regained consciousness.

 As she came over, he started blurring reality with his own fantasy, the nurse became his wife, and the medical grounds became fields of tulips. He blurred in and out of reality, until reality rudely jolted him back. He was in a cab on his way to his house, or what was left of it. He was on his way to see his wife and son. Tears started forming in his eyes, and he cried. He cried for the lives lost in battle, the soldiers who lied, injured. He cried for those who still has hope, and those who didn't. But most of all he cried for coming back to his family. It was always hard when he had leave, it was easy to forget his loved ones and the fact he might not come back to them on the battlefield. But when he was at home, an overwhelming depression would fill him. He was happy to be with his family, but how long would it last. How long....

 He looked up to see the all familiar streets and alleyways. The only difference is that there were no children, no flowers, no busying out on the street. Just silence and sadness. The gloomy gray clouds above could prove that much to you. The cab came to a stop at a tan house with a brown door. Andrew slowly opened his door and said a half-hearted "guten tag" to the cab driver.

 Walking up to his door he knocked softly. His beautiful wife answered, and a small smile perked  at his lips.

"Hallo Anna."

"Hallo liebe."

 A tender kiss was all he needed to be reminded of the pain and the unaccustomed comfort he was feeling. His son came running and wrapped his chubby arms around his father's legs.

"Da!"

 He exclaimed happily, a bright smile lighting up the room that was fixed with such a heavy cover of darkness.

"Hello George." Andrew said as he scooped his beloved son up.

"How's my little soldier?"

"Really happy to see you Da." George grinned again.

 He was having a fairly good time, but the gloom of war kept clawing it's way into Andrews mind. Making it hard to focus during dinner. After dinner he took to the couch, his and his wife's bed was too soft, but the couch was acceptable. He soon fell asleep on it, and was so deep in sleep he didn't remember Anna covering him with a quilt.

 The house was quiet for a while, but George had woken up and decided he was thirsty. He tiptoed down the stairs, his stuffed animal in his hand. He tried tiptoing past his father, but the wooden floor creaked. Andrew's hand shot out and he grabbed George, and in a heat of rage swore in German at his son and raised his fist. George was stunned and frightened, not moving an inch. Andrew then realized his son was not the allied soldier from his dream.

He moved towards his son, and his son flinched away.

"I'd never hurt you George, it's okay, I was dreaming."

  George looked up to him, tears streaming down his face. Andrew started tearing up too. Scooping his son up, he sat on the couch, holding his son close. He leaned over a bit to grab his son's stuffie. His son's sobs shook his body and soul, and Andrew held on to him for dear life.

"D-Da, are we th-the bad g-g-g-guys?" His son spoke, his lips quivering.

"No, son. I'm just not sure I believe in what I'm fighting for."

And so they sat there, for the endless hours of the night. Until both fell into a peaceful sleep.

{t h e  e n d}