short story (edp)

this is a short story , I entered for the EDP short story competition , I listened to alot of zero 7 and air when I was writing the summer idyll bits and mars by gustav holt for the parts in itallic. The theme of the competiton was "Norfolk : a county of stories" , I hate the title massively.




The Poppies Of Aylsham
Warm air breathed through the sunny reeds of grass, the little emerald stems of grass dancing with childhood abandon. Above only the blue sky, those long vast acres of distant heaven that not the Saxons, the Vikings nor the Normans had ever seized. Distant erratic sounds gently appeared and then fluttered away basking in the beauty of a rural scene. Along with the thin clean air Reg breathed it in, he would also breathe in the dignity of the tall old oaks that lined the fields, the useless twittering swallows that darted around with seemingly no essential purpose and the serenity of being home.

Lost in all its empty beauty Reg could see Tom and Jack hiding in the grass, buried within the rough . Jiggling with laughter they pushed their stubby little digits against their mouths and hissed at each other to hush as not to be found. Their poor tiny legs did them no good as they tried to stand, falling over their clumsy young stumps hoping that Reg would not see them.

Reg looked a little more, allowing them to suspend their illusion of invisibility , he turned his head slowly, furrowing his brow, every part of his face was a caricature , his thin lips screwed up and his eyes intensely sharpened. The more confused he looked, the more the long grass would giggle, the more a patch of it would wriggle and shake.

"Now wherever could they be ?" he asked aloud

There you were sat in the pub, the golden light of a summer evening falling through the window, drinking ale with the boys , talking about how you would miss old Aylsham but you would be back soon with tales of all the things you had done, serving king and country. How you loved those boys as if they were your brothers, singing and laughing, your blood and theirs . When Christmas came you'd all be back as heroes, how you felt you would be young forever.

Reg walked a little closer , deliberate in the pantomime of his walk , slowly and steadily pacing around the grass.

"sshhh… shhh… be quiet, he's gorta find us" he heard little Jack say
" I am being quiet" Tom gasped.

As Reg heard the laughing stop , he darted for them both, his hands outstretched yet only finding more field. Perhaps there was more in the minds of these young boys than Reg had thought, he was underestimating the wily little cubs.

Sitting upon the earth, somewhat tired, Reg thought he would leave the boys until they tired a little or it at least until it grew darker.

The sodden black dust threw up again, those long piercing screams whistling through the air and then coming violently at the ground. You had never seen a look in a man's face like that before, the crippling fear choked him dumb. Under your feet you felt the lice and the earth, under your feet you felt it waiting, coming like a promise.

After a while, Reg picked himself up and decided to walk home , knowing little peeps of laughter would follow him to the village. Taking them by invisible reins he walked toward the village , where he could share the burden of responsibility for the boys.

Little Tom Feek and little Jack Yaxley, effervescing in a summer orb, where time gently passes and things were slowing down, they tumbled around and screamed with laughter.

It comforted Reg to hear them happy, it helped him make sense of why he went away and for whom he had gone away.

Tom, the older of the two boys, would often decide what they would do, his days seemed to be spent in tireless pursuit , he enjoyed the simple things of childhood the most, were it running , hiding or playing sport , they were skills he took to with ease.

Reg noticed how Tom seemed to enjoy the beautiful triviality of these things and he also noticed how in Tom there was a nature that people could often draw from, people would often seek to see themselves in him, to relive their past.

How all of this county and all of this country seemed to be open for Tom, Reg often thought, how anything the boy wanted he could have.

Sucked up by the damn mud and ground, he held his trembling hands up, screaming for his mother. Screaming for her to take him from here, this land of twisted steel, this land of vile dirt and wailing skies. You were supposed to come home with him, that's what you had promised to his mother. You had heard him drawing sharp and panicked breaths crying himself to sleep, they had never told you or the boy. You went back for him and held his grip, you can not forget the way that bony, trembling white thing felt against your skin, you can not forget the promises he made you keep through his shortened breath, you will not let yourself forget.

Jack was not so fortunate , early on in his life he had been troubled by the obstacles handed down to him from his short sighted mother and clumsy father. He would amble and lag behind when the two lads played together and often when they hid it was Jack's feet or his arms Reg would see sticking out from the grass or behind a tree. Even at the age of 8 he seemed to wobble precariously over the earth , slowly and carefully chasing his young friend.

There was a sensibility in Jack that Tom admired , even in their young years Tom could never bring himself to tease Jack were he unable to climb as high as him , or stopped to breathe when they had been running as poor Jack often did. Tom loved his friend Jack because it was Jack who had nursed Tom's grazed knee when he had fallen , it was Jack who never rose to anger or being unkind . There was a safety in Jack's presence that Tom felt he could bathe himself in, a feeling that he would always have his friend around if anything bad were to happen.

You would have told him if he had lived that poor snivelling boy, no use to anyone in this hell, go home lad, you thought to yourself. If you shoot yourself in the foot, they'll let you go, they won't waste much time over a clumsy lad who couldn't hold his gun for the trembling. Sometimes you would look over at him staring in the distance, his gaze held at the empty grey skies wondering how soon he would be dead.
That's what bites at you the most , that nags and will not end its choke, the faces of those that were afraid, those who could not kick a stone in anger let alone kill a man , forced out here, in this scorched terrain.

Reg walked toward St. Michael's and the boys were now ahead, the old cobbled house of god before them, how stiff and straight it looked. The gravestones were another matter , age had bent the old grey planks crooked , their crumbling faces no longer bearing names.

The cenotaph , they had cared for well, it's dignity had not been worn by the crashing tides of time and against its concrete spine were the poppies, little red darlings, nestling safely against the stone.

Safe is what they would always be now , safe in the small green field of St. Michael's church , safe at home again.

Reg looked at the cenotaph again and saw the names of TOM FEEK and JACK YAXLEY , hearing the boys laughing again , he thought he would leave them here a while , wishing he had time to stay.