Young Writers Society

For Cal's Colorful Contest. This is based on picture #4.

Later edited for Creative Writing class

***

Green Tinted Goggles

Wilson threw open the cabinet and stared dimly at the collection of alcohol inside. It was sparse, he thought, hardly enough for his present need. But it would have to do. Reaching his hand inside, he fumbled around and recovered a dusty bottle of Bengal Lime Gin from a corner. It was half full. It’s a start, he told himself.

Clutching the bottle, Wilson retreated to the old wooden chair that still stood at his dinner table. It, like everything else was falling apart, and as Wilson sat the chair loudly protested the additional weight. It should have been replaced years ago, Wilson mused, that would be one of the first orders of business once such purchases were possible. His gaze drifted over the chair, and to the contents of his bottle.

In his memory, it had once been a very alluring drink. Bengal Lime Gin had been sold every month off big carts in the local market. The best quality was hued a thrilling light green, and sparked merrily when you held it up to the sun. It was even better when you drank it. Everyone had a theory, but Wilson was sure that it tasted exactly like India and fireworks. But the version he held here was a sad imitation of the real stuff. All the color has since been bleached out and Wilson suspected the taste had escaped with it. The liquid inside didn’t sparkle, but it sat stagnant, like mosquito water. Wilson didn’t particularly relish drinking it, but then again, what was left?

He rested his hands on the ancient dining table at which he sat, and then looked up and out through the window beyond which his fields smoldered. It wasn’t a pretty sight. His gaze dropped and he picked up the bottle of gin again.

It had been almost a day since the soldiers came through. Their presence was announced when a fat, balding colonel barged through Wilson’s front door and proclaimed that the fields were now property of the army, and that they were being commandeered for the welfare of the gallant fighting men. Perhaps, the colonel hinted, the army would see fit to reimburse him in the future, but at the moment he couldn’t make any promises. Then the colonel turned smartly around and exited through the way he had come. Wilson went for a stiff drink, and then sat on the porch watching his life fall apart. He saw his fields harvested, consumed, disemboweled and thrown out. He saw the blank look in the men’s eyes as the ravenously tore at his livelihood. He saw the treads of the armored vehicles as they tilled the pillaged land anew. It was all so terrible, he didn’t want to stop watching, but eventually the smoke forced him inside. It was there that he learned that he had also donated most of his alcohol to the army’s use as well.

There was something else too, and only now did Wilson become conscious of the strange object that occupied his pocket. During his speech, the tubby colonel had given it to him, mumbling something about standard issue, and the first of many blessings.

“Your freedom from tyranny sir, is your first reimbursement, but I’ve been instructed to give this to all the citizens who so generously help provide for my corps.” Wilson hadn’t so much as offered his hand, but the colonel grabbed it, and pressed the object in with pudgy fingers. “I’ve been told it’s a great help for everyone,” he confided, “they’ve used it on donkeys – imagine! – but everyone gets a comfort out of it.”

Wilson had pocketed the item without thinking twice. Now however, curiosity got the better of him, and he set down his drink and gingerly pulled out a pair of goggles from his pocket, and examined them with surprise.

They were of cheap make, their lenses constructed of substandard war-issue glass, and rimmed with weak rubber. The band with which they were meant to be secured was a frayed piece of string, that looked barely enough to wrap around Wilson’s head. Wilson held the lenses up to the light and was perplexed to find them tinted a vibrant green. He put them on the table next to his gin and contemplated the two. So this was his “reimbursement”. Poor gin and weird glasses. It all seemed part of an absurd joke.

Anger rose to the surface. To think that the army felt it could walk all over him! To think that a pompous man in a tight beige coat could march up to his porch, enter his house without so much as a knock and proceed to strip away the last vestiges of wealth he possessed. The insignia on the man’s coat meant nothing to Wilson now, two stars and a crown symbolized the tyranny that he was supposable being protected against. If they though they could walk over him, they were wrong, he ruthlessly concluded, they did this to the wrong man.

And then, with a sigh, Wilson gave up. His muscles relaxed, his eyes unfocused, and his jaw loosened. He was a beaten man. He had nothing left with which to do anything. He had no future. He was no longer of any consequence whatsoever.

Wilson’s hand trembled and he looked down at the object clenched in his hand. The lenses caught the little light that came through the clouds and the smoke, and they twinkled up at him. Wilson sighed, and reluctantly put on the goggles.

When he looked up, the world had changed. The clouds had broken and rain was coming down in torrents, beating at the roof and the charred earth. The sun was shining too, peaking through a hole in the rain clouds. They cut through the smoke like a knife, and soon the air was clear and fresh. Wilson grabbed his bottle and ran outside. He inhaled deeply and smelled the scents of growth. He looked out through the lenses, over the rolling hills over which the army had disappeared. Now, Wilson saw himself standing at the edge of a vast verdant carpet that stretched for miles. Already, he could see the heads of tiny seedlings that were reaching for the sun, and poking up through the soil. He stepped off the porch, and walked into his field. The rain embraced him, and it washed him clean of soot and sorrow. It was exhilarating. It was as if he too was part of the renaissance, as if the rain was renewing his body and his soul.

He thought of celebrating, and remembered the bottle in his hand. He stared at it, and found that it was the soft, mesmerizing hue that he remembered so well. He unscrewed the top and took a deep draught.

It tasted delicious.

***

The original version is contained below. The above is based on Kylan's comments.

[spoiler]Wilson threw open the cabinet and stared dimly at the collection of alcohol inside. It was sparse, he thought, hardly enough for his present need. But it would have to do. Reaching his hand inside, he fumbled around and recovered a dusty bottle of Bengal Lime Gin from a corner. It was half full. It’s a start, he told himself.

Clutching the bottle, Wilson retreated to the old wooden chair that still stood at his dinner table. It, like everything else, was falling apart, and as Wilson sat the chair loudly protested the additional weight. It should have been replaced years ago, Wilson mused, that would be one of the first orders of business once such purchases were possible. His gaze drifted over the chair, and to the contents of his bottle.

In his memory, it had once been a very alluring drink. Bengal Lime Gin had been sold every month off big carts in the local market. The best quality was hued a thrilling light green, and sparked merrily when you held it up to the sun. It was even better when you drunk it. Everyone had a theory, but Wilson was sure that it tasted exactly like India and fireworks. But the version he held here was a sad imitation of the real stuff. All the color has since been bleached out and Wilson suspected the taste had escaped with it. The liquid inside didn’t sparkle, but it sat stagnant, like mosquito water. Wilson didn’t particularly relish drinking it, but then again, what was left?

He rested his hands on the fading dining table at which he sat, and then looked up and out through the window beyond which his fields smoldered. It wasn’t a pretty sight. His gaze dropped and he picked up the bottle of gin again.

What had occurred, just over a day ago, was that the army had marched through. One corps had walked straight through his fields, and a fat colonel had walked right through Wilson’s front door to inform him that his fields were now property of the army and were, as they spoke, being commandeered for the welfare of the army and blah blah blah and that he was confident that someone would come along and reimburse him but he didn’t know when. Then the fat colonel left, back out the front door off the porch and into the fields where his men were harvesting Wilson’s crop. This left Wilson to sit on the porch with the first of many stiff drinks, and watch his property consumed, disemboweled, and thrown out, and then finally burned to ashes (to deny what remained to the enemy). He would have stayed if it hadn’t been necessary to go indoors because the smoke was choking him. Once inside, he found that some soldiers had snuck in a raided his primary stash of alcohol.

There was something else too, and only now did Wilson become conscious of the strange object that occupied his pocket. During his speech, the tubby colonel had given it to him, mumbling something about standard issue, and the first of many blessings.

“Your freedom from tyranny sir, is your first reimbursement, but I’ve been instructed to give this to all the citizens who so generously help provide for my corps.” Wilson hadn’t so much as offered his hand, but the colonel grabbed it, and pressed the object in with pudgy fingers. “I’ve been told it’s a great help for everyone,” he confided, “they’ve used it on donkeys – imagine! – but everyone gets a comfort out of it.”

Wilson had pocketed the item without thinking twice, Comfort indeed! Now however, curiosity got the better of him, and he set down his drink and gingerly pulled out a pair of goggles from his pocket, and examined them with surprise.

They were of cheap make, their lenses constructed of substandard war-issue glass, and rimmed with weak rubber. The band with which they were meant to be secured was a frayed piece of string, that looked barely enough to wrap around Wilson’s head. Wilson held the lenses up to the light and was perplexed to find them tinted a vibrant green. He put them on the table next to his gin and contemplated the two. So this was his “reimbursement”. Poor gin and weird glasses. It all seemed part of an absurd joke.

Anger rose to the surface. To think that the army felt it could walk all over him! To think that a pompous man in a tight beige coat could march up to his porch, enter his house without so much as a knock and proceed to strip away the last vestiges of wealth he possessed. The insignia on the man’s coat meant nothing to Wilson now, two stars and a crown symbolized the tyranny that he was supposable being protected against. If they though they could walk over him, they were wrong, he ruthlessly concluded, they did this to the wrong man.

And then, with a sigh, Wilson gave up. His muscles relaxed, his eyes unfocused, and his jaw unclenched. He was a beaten man. He had nothing left with which to do anything. He had no future. He was no longer of any consequence whatsoever.

He put on the goggles, and suddenly, it was a whole new world.

Before Wilson’s eyes, his fields bloomed. They changed so rapidly, it was implausible, but yet, there was no mistaking the truth in the verdant land Wilson now saw around him. Absentmindedly grabbing his gin, Wilson rushed outside and was astonished to see the incredible richness of the earth. The hills and valleys overflowed with life, incredible life! Wilson stood on his porch and no longer saw smoke or destruction. Instead, it was raining, vast beautiful rain coming down in torrents. Rain coming to preserve the vast emerald carpet that stretched for miles beneath him. Wilson sat on his dry porch and watched the fulfillment of miracle. He thought of celebrating and remembered the gin in his hand. It was the perfect, mesmerizing hue that he remembered with such fondness. Without pausing, he opened the top and took a deep draught.

It tasted delicious.[/spoiler]