What it Means to WinA Story by Delicate Pelican A quick blurb. My first submission of any kind to any website. Please tear it to pieces. The black car was idling
at an intersection in Akron, Ohio. The
sky was wide and blue. Cumulus clouds
were lazy mountains of cotton, drifting without care. From time to time one would be so bold as to
try and blot out the summer sun. It was
a humid day, and the windows of the black sedan were rolled down. Its chrome bumpers were a mirror for the
sun. When the traffic light turned the
engine spoke up. The muffler rattled and
spewed exhaust as the vehicle continued through town. *** “Do you think he’ll ever come home?” “Of course, Child.” “Because he promised?” “He promised,” agreed
Mary Johnson. Time had brought wrinkles
to her face and dimmed her sight, but her back was still straight and her hands
were sure. She was busy in her kitchen,
kneading dough. The radio crackled in
the background while her youngest daughter capered about in bare feet, fussing
over a worn stuffed bear and chatting incessantly. “He can’t miss Christmas again, he wasn’t supposed to be gone this
long.” Mary turned from her
flour-dust and rolling pin, “Elizabeth, child, I need you to bring me more
water. Bucket’s by the door. And take care you don’t spill half of it on
the way back this time!” Elizabeth was eight. Her hair was honey and her eyes were hazel. Growing up on a farm wasn’t always easy, but
she wouldn’t have it any other way. She
loved chasing chickens through the yard and sharing crunchy carrots with
Harold, the stubborn old horse in the barn.
She helped as much as she could.
With people going away all the time, every little bit she did was
appreciated. The day was hot, but the earth
was cool beneath her feet and she hummed her way to the well. The bucket was heavy when full, forcing Elizabeth
to exchange her careless trot for slow, measured steps. *** The road the black car
turned down was both uneven and unpaved.
Out here, beyond the hustle and bustle of Akron, the land opened up and
crops far outnumbered curbs. The rain
had abstained and the soil was thirsty. Dust rose from the fenders of the black car,
swirling and spreading as the vehicle bounced along. Eventually, the dirt road came to a T. To the left, in the distance, was a farmhouse
with a fence in need of repair and a barn peeling paint. To the right the road followed a dried up,
rocky stream bed into a fallow expanse of brown.
The car swung left, beckoned by a smoking cobblestone chimney. The sedan groaned to a
stop. The midday sun was cruel and omnipresent. The man opened his door and deliberately unfolded
himself from the driver’s seat. It was a
long trip and he relished the chance to stretch. He looked about the property and allowed
himself a long sigh. Gravel crunched
under his polished shoes as he strode up the drive and to the house. A young girl in a faded sundress was padding
his way, sloshing water from a stout wooden bucket and shouting “Peter! Mama!
Mama, Peter’s come back!” After stepping
onto the creaky porch, the man straightened his hat. He rapped on the door three times and cleared
his throat. *** Elizabeth came around the
corner just as the rolling pin fell from her mother’s usually confident grip. It clattered across the chipped and splitting
boards of the porch, but no one seemed to notice. Mary was leaning heavily on the door frame and
slowly sliding to her knees. Her legs
wobbled and gave out, and she began to sob, repeating over and over “He
promised…” The officer knelt before her,
his white gloved hands offering her an American flag folded into a tight
triangle. “This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation as an expression
of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service rendered by your loved
one…” © 2016 Delicate PelicanAuthor's Note
Featured Review
Reviews
|
Stats
575 Views
6 Reviews  Last Updated on March 4, 2016 Author
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
