Here's a piece of a historical, creative non-fiction story that I'm playing with for fun. Give it a read and vote in the poll at the end of this segment to tell me whether you'd be interested in reading more, or not. You can also comment.
He dipped the end of the quill pen into the indigo. He took one last look out the window towards his farm before returning to dab the excess ink onto the side of the ink well. He drew in a deep breath and then ran his signature out onto the parchment. That was it. He was a member of the 26th V.I.
That last look out the window would stay with him. The view offered him a single-paned perspective on everything that mattered to him in this world. He thought of his beloved wife Harriet. They had been married twenty years – more than half of his lifetime – and this would be the first time they would be apart. He thought of their oldest daughter Nancy-Ann. She had grown into a fine young woman – very mature and helpful to her mother. She would be counted on even more now. Their son Lewis, too, was a fine young man. He recalled his fourteen year-olds’ confidence in telling him, “Don’t worry, Father. I’ll be the man of the house until you return.” He believed in his son. Then there was Ryl. At seven, he was too young to fully understand what was happening. And baby Ellen. She was quite the attentive and inquisitive two-year old. “Where are you going, Father?” she would ask each time she saw him pulling his boots on. How would his family fare while he was away? How would he fare? Was this cause worth it?
“Mr. Trites!” a shout came from behind him in the trench. Looking back he saw young Thomas writhing in pain. There appeared to be smoke rising from the young man’s chest. And blood – more blood than Job had ever seen or imagined. “God!” Thomas shouted. “God, help me!” Job dropped to his knees next to Thomas and attempted to compress the wound. “Where are the surgeons?” Job wondered aloud, furiously looking backwards and sideways in hopes of spotting someone who could help. “Hang on, Thomas!” he demanded. “Help!” Job himself began to cry out. Beneath his hands, Thomas’ chest rose and fell in awkward rhythms. Although it was only a matter of minutes, this seemed to Job to go on for hours. Thomas grabbed Job’s wrists and gasped, “I’m going to die, Mr. Trites.” All of a sudden it seemed to Job that the entire world went silent around them. “No, son, you’re not going to die”, Job insisted. Young Thomas’ breathing labored, their eyes met. Thomas smiled broadly and said, “Sure I am! We’re all going to die Mr. Trites.” Then he breathed his last and died with a smile on his face.
The sounds and the smells of the scene rushed back. Shouts and screams were heard everywhere around him. As he scanned the area, barely a healthy body was to be seen. Members of his regiment littered the trench – doubled over in agony here; dismembered and furiously working to tourniquet their wounds before they bled to death there; everywhere reaching, pleading and begging for assistance. He replayed Thomas’ words in his mind, “We’re all going to die, Mr. Trites.” That strange silence seemed to return again.
‘I’ll bet Ryl is working the plow right about now’, Job was absolutely stunned that this thought crossed his mind at this terrible moment. It was as if he was having a conversation in his own head. ‘And Nancy-Ann – I’ll bet she’s hanging laundry for her mom.’ He even imagined that he could see them.
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