Young Writers Society

Story I wrote for a writing competition!  Thought I'd share it here.  Enjoy!

The night we left, my older brother stood by the back door of our house, talking with my neighbor. They whispered in low voices. My sister saw me listening and sent me into my father’s study to get crayons. I hadn’t been in the study in a long while, and so I jumped up, and ran down the hall, away from my neighbor, Brother, and their secret conversation. The study smelled of pine. My father loved pine, because he told me that it had a story. “Plastic, concrete, what’s the fun with that? Wood grows and matures, becomes a monument in its own sense.” There was a cardboard box of crayons on the mahogany desk. I inhaled deeply, the crayons’ sweet, yet acidic scent reminded me of school. On the shelves behind me sat my father’s dusty books, lined up by height. There were some little, carved wooden figures on the shelf with the books. Upon the shelf stood an oak giraffe, a birch elephant, a maple unicorn, and even a tiny corkwood dragon. My father traveled far to collect his figurines, and he had always been proud of them.

The night we left, Brother called me into the living room, where he was stuffing clothes and food into backpacks. Sister was turning out the lights and drawing the curtains. Brother told me to keep an eye out for danger. I stood by my post in my bedroom window, clutching my bear, Mr. Major, as backup.

The night we left, I looked around for the cat. There was no time to find him, though, and we left the empty cat carrier behind.

The night we left it was dark and rainy. Fog clung to the streets like hovering phantoms; the asphalt was slick and muddy. Streetlights reflected in the puddles, and I could smell smoke.

The night we left, the bombings were the worst yet. “Just fireworks,” Sister whispered. “Run!” yelled Brother.

The night we left, my neighborhood was bombed to the ground and burned. My father’s wooden study was no more. I guess wood isn’t as permanent as my father thought.

The night we left, the city went dark, and we wandered upon the hospital. There was an injured boy there, maybe my age, with a man who prayed and sang to him. The man looked up at the sky, like he was searching for a savior. “He’s not my son,” the man said, “I just found him, and he’s hurt!” Sometimes I worry; if my brother and sister weren’t there, who would sing me to sleep?

The night we left, the city faded into a haze of smoke and chaos. We climbed the hills and I scraped my knee on loose barbed wire. “Just a scrape,” Sister said. “Could be worse,” added Brother. He said the same thing when his nose got broken after the fight he had at the last grocer mart. There had been one loaf of bread left. And back then, he was providing for six of us.

The night we left, we got to the shore later than we were supposed to and we didn’t have enough money. Only Sister and I could go; Brother stayed behind. I watched him fade into the fog, his eyes shimmering like the water below, and his hand rising in a parting gesture.

The night we left, icy water clung to my eyelashes and my lips were chalked with salt. There weren’t enough life jackets, and Sister held onto me so tight that she left marks on my arm. It was too cold, though, and I was too numb to feel the pain.

The night we left, I realized that I left Mr. Major behind, still guarding my house. I wondered how fast cotton burns.

The night we left, my whole world seemed to be coming to an end, and I had no idea of what lay beyond the dark waters our boat traveled upon. I raised my eyes away from the bobbing boat, up, up to the starless sky. I searched and searched for a break in the clouds, but I never found God.