Writing Challenge ~ November 2014

WRITING CHALLENGE ~ NOVEMBER 2015​

A hectic start to the month – including the first week of NaNoWriMo – has meant I’ve only just managed to sit down and get this set up. Apologies for the slight delay!

It's also time to start thinking about this year’s Special Christmas Challenge but more on that in another thread!

For now, here are your November prompts…good luck!


You can involve the prompts themselves in your piece and make your link to the prompts as obvious or as subtle as you like or use them simply as inspiration for something else. You can use part of the prompts, just one aspect of the images, or use them in their entirety.

As there are several prompts you can of course chose to use all of them in one piece or write one for each…again, it’s your writing, your challenge. You write whatever you’re inspired to write!

The word limit for this challenge is 1,800 words and your submission can take whatever form you desire – poetry or prose, complete story or a vignette. Erotic or not, serious or light hearted, it’s whatever you want it to be!!

Post only your submissions in this thread, constructive comments and reviews are to be posted in the appropriately named – Comment and Review Thread
And please, if you do take the time to read? Please just take a few more minutes to leave a comment.

The deadline for this month’s challenge is Monday 30th November 2015, with December’s Special Christmas Challenge hopefully going live the next day but more on that shortly!

Previous challenges and reviews can be found here.

Happy writing!

Remembrance


Wispy hair, thin like the man beneath, grayer than the man beneath, yet resilient as the man beneath, blow wild in the cold wind while the heavy layers of cloth prevented him from swaying in the wind like his hair. Faded blue eyes were wet as he stared at the Eternal Flame.

Within the flame, he stirred. Not just once, or twice a year did people come to stand before him, to call forth the memories of those men and women who died in war, sacrificing themselves for their fellow people, to make the world a better place, regardless of which side of the fighting they served. Nearly every day, someone would come and stop, remembering someone special to them. Each time they did, the left something behind that grew with knowledge and purpose.

Remembrance was the name he was given. Remember is what he did. All of them. Those people came to remember and honour, and those that everyone had forgotten. To him, there was no unknown soldier. Each and every one of them he could name, and if anyone could see him, and know his tongue, he would tell them their name, when and where they died, even if they passed in a time of peace.

He saw the old man, also seeing him in his prime, when he stood beside those Remembered, watching them fight and die for what they believed in. In time, the old man would be Remembered too.

The old man blinked, sending the water in his eyes down his wrinkled cheeks as he smiled at memories of the good times he had with the mates that had all gone before him, leaving him as the rear guard for them before he too 'went over the top'. He looked into the flame, and he saw Remembrance within. Remembrance appeared as an British infantryman of the Crimean War, standing at attention in proper reverence to those who paid the ultimate sacrifice.

The two looked at each other, one in surprise, the other with respect. The old man slowly stood straighter, his back returning to the way it had been in his youth. He moved with deliberate motions, drawing himself to attention, then saluting the figure in the flames.

Remembrance returned the salute, and then facing the old man, he spoke with a voice that was heard for the first time by another person.

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain. #

Tears flowed down the man's face, as in the flames he saw his mates, all long gone from war, illness or age. All of them saluting the last of their number who hadn't answered the final call. In those moments, the words echoing in his ears, the final call was made, and as the ever loyal soldier he was, he answered it without hesitation.

When his body was found, he was smiling, and looked like he was at peace. For he was.

Remembrance had another to honour, another He never forgot.

Lest We Forget.


# For The Fallen, By Laurence Binyon

The Hero


Barkers Pool was awash in whispers. People, such as my mum and I, had gathered where no obstructions would hinder our sight. We weren’t supposed to know, but loose lips had filled the gossip mills and we all knew when the bombers would return. My mum was calm, or as calm as widow could be. The war had already done its damage to us, taking my dad in a German bombing run.

We had always strived to be together during a raid. That fatal night, the sirens were late in sounding and dad never made the shelter. God had taken him so I prayed my toll was already paid. Mum stared at the WWI Memorial; it’s sorrowful brass soldiers seemingly knowing that it was not the war to end all wars. I think she saw her brother there. God took my uncle at Dunkirk. Evacuated, but drowned when his ship was sunk on the way to Dover.

I moved to mum’s side and grasped her hand. I wanted to give her some strength but knew I was taking more than giving. I looked back up at the empty sky and thought up new prayers and promises to God. He wasn’t listening much these days, but I had no one else to appeal too. I was in love with an American, a bomber pilot on his 25th mission. His last. My last.

My mum hated Gregory. Not for the man he was, but for taking my heart over Germany. She had fought our courtship with all her love. I fought back with even more of my own. Losing dad had hit us hard, leaving us at the mercy of odd jobs and the charity of neighbours. My heart had shut down and life dulled. I was serving tea, trading work for a place to live, when I met Gregory. He and two of his pals were on a spot of leave in Sheffield with the optimism of those who had never experienced the carnage. I found his demeanour enchanting. Everything became brighter and the future held something other than death.

“They’re late,” My mum whispered. She was looking across the sky.

“It may not be the correct time,” I countered, “no one knows for sure.” She nodded though I knew she didn’t believe it. Somehow, we always knew when they would return. Once the bombs dropped, the secrecy lost its necessity and the information flowed through a web of homes.

A sporadic engine echoed in the park. I felt my heart leap as the sound gained strength. Someone on the other side of the plaza shouted that they were coming. I instinctively rose on my toes and lengthened my neck to try and see.

The first bomber flew past the memorial toward Manchester Field, closely followed by a second. Then silence. No one spoke as we waited. Two planes couldn’t be all. Another engine grew in strength as the first two drifted away. The third, its wing smoking, flew overhead. I prayed they had enough strength to land. I again stretched myself trying to see a fourth plane. My ears waited for another engine. They heard only worried whispers.

“They may be late,” my mum commented. We waited a span more. Then another.

“Three planes, mum,” I cried. My eyes showed my weakness as the idea began to take root.

“One of them could be his,” my mum told me, moving quickly to my side. I folded into her, wishing I could hide from the thoughts I was thinking.

“His squadron has twenty-two,” I slurred. I could feel the tears, running warm on my cold cheeks.

“We don’t know how many went out.”

“They always send them all,” I yelled as I pushed away from her. Being close seemed wrong. Space is what I needed, space without facts. No one is dead if you don’t think about it. I ran.

“Elizabeth!” my mum called. I covered my ears and ran on. I ran past a woman, no older than I, cradling a newborn. Our eyes met and we fed on each other’s despair. I turned away, wanting to get far away from everyone. I promised God my life for his.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

God didn’t return Gregory to me. His fate never revealed, just silence telling me what I already knew, his plane was never found. My mum and I ate what rationing would allow, victory bringing nothing but less death. The euphoria had worn off the country quickly. Hitler had cost the world too much.

I waited as prisoners returned from camps deep in Europe. No trace of my love. Something hardened inside as hope shrunk so small I couldn’t find it. My mum struggled to get me to move on, not wanting the war to kill my future as well. It was hopeless since I saw the same defeat in her that lay like a stone in my soul. We at least buried my father. Gregory would survive only in my memory. I promised myself never to let it fade.

Before the war, we were a family of adequate means. Now, my mum and I were poor. In some ways, the rations were a blessing, charity for all means charity for none. We wouldn’t starve as we tried to rebuild. My mother sewed. I did the only thing I knew how to do. I tended tables.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Dear, my cup is dry,” the annoying woman in the corner called. She acted as if she were my only task. I moved to the table and refilled from the pot that lay well within her reach. A pot that was intended to forestall the need for my help.

“Thank you,” she smiled. I returned a weak one in return. I moved away quickly, not wanting to feel like the servant I was. There were tables that needed cleaning and the owner could barely afford me, much less a boy for the dishes.

A man entered wearing a brown suit and sporting a brown fedora pulled low to hide his eyes from the setting sun that obscured his face. He walked with a slight limp, one of many who felt the war every day. Another hero who returned, unlike Gregory.

“With you in a moment, Sir,” I called, pointing at a table up front while I collected dishes. I had no time to play seater, not with four tables to clear.

“I don’t want to wait a moment,” he retorted. I almost threw my rag at him. His American accent galled at me. We owed them our undying gratitude, but it didn’t mean we would take a knee. I closed my eyes and took a breath and swallowed my anger. Jobs were not easy to come by and I couldn’t afford to lose the pissy one I had now. I straightened and moved toward him, my head held high, ignoring the sun that glared through the windows blinding me.

“May I show you a seat, Sir,” I said, struggling not to make the ‘sir’ sound less than honourable.

“No,” he responded which stalled my steps. I moved to the side letting his shadow block the sun as he removed his hat. “I think I’ll stand.” A perfect tear ran down his perfect cheek. His smile blotted out the sun. I dropped the stack of china I was carrying and let it shatter on the floor. Somehow, I cried and laughed at the same time as I ran into his perfect arms.

“Well, I never!” the old biddy in the corner exclaimed. Gregory wrapped his arms around me and somehow found my quivering mouth. The awfulness of the past years faded away and nothing but our lips remained. Strong soft lips, made of everything wonderful, attacked my future, destroying the bleakness and filling it with light.

Not every hero returned home, but my hero did.

Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

Some are covered in slate or granite, while for others simple dirt suffices. Names emblazoned on plaques or plainly marked with crosses in the mire. Flags of many countries, draped and wav'ring in the wind. Unknown, but not discarded; countless, nameless heroes' sacrifices. Undying, ever-vigilant; dauntless, ageless sentries forged of faith and fire. In edifice the guardians stand, always ready to defend.