We were all sitting cold here, just waiting. Making hollow soundwaves spill out across the concrete, our small "waiting station" construct became a beehive of shivering, chattering, and shaking. No one really wanted to say anything, which made this the first and last day of an actually awkward time waiting here. Julie wouldn't catch my eye, so I couldn't say sorry. No one really would catch my eye. Even in a crowded place like this everyone couldn't help but want to isolate themselves.
My eyes followed my breath as it rose like a phoenix taking flight, then disappeared. My eyes stopped then, focused on above as I stared at that glorious blue sky. I've seen it so many times while waiting for the bus, but a day like this really helped me appreciate it. I thought of my dad, dead from a hit-and-run, when he ran to help a crash-victim on the interstate. That was him, a hero to the world and a no show when it came to being in his son's life. He never was perfect though and I can't fault him for that. I guess it takes more to be a great parent than anyone really has.
He tried his best.
I said it now and they look at me.
He tried his best.
Overpowering the shaking noises we were all making at this point the high pitched scream pierced us suddenly, like my breath-turned-to-phoenix had just been shot down.
The first round of mortar shells killed us all.
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2 comments:
"Making hollow soundwaves spill out across the concrete."
Beautiful language in here John. And a really good story as well. I think it's all the more beautiful for its brevity. Death is a strong theme in here and I like the phoenix motif, but are you drawing a connection between the father and the son? Oh! Now is the main character going to be father of a child? Maybe Julie's? Doesn't really really matter I guess. It's a good piece John and it has wonderful rhythm.
See, John, it's stuff like this that makes me embarrassed to call myself a writer. What I like most about this piece is that it feels very complete despite all the loose ends it obviously leaves. Somehow this particular scene and the particular information that you chose to accompany it feels like a comfortable totality, and that is always the goal of any short fiction. I also am always a fan of futility and humanism being squeezed into the same artistic space, and I think that you do it with more skill than many. You're not, by chance, reading Camus?
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