Short Story Competition #4 Winning Entry

Written by Philippa Bower
Littlehampton UK

FIRE

The young man sat beside the fire, huddled in a thin khaki blanket.
The fire was new and the flames were high, looking - to the man’s fevered imagination - like screaming faces and clutching hands.

A twig exploded with a sharp crack and the man started and shook uncontrollably.
Gradually he relaxed and looked deeper into the fire, to the flickering shadows at the roots of the flames.

He was reminded of sunlight flickering through trees as he drove his old Austin down country roads. Mary was at his side, her golden hair rippling in the wind. Later that night, at home in their big warm bed he would bury his face in her cool, silken tresses and breathe the sunshine.

He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a bundle of her letters, white squares of hope and love in the black horror of a world at war. He wondered for a moment if he should burn them but he could not bring himself to do so. Instead he kissed the bundle of letters once and then kissed it again for the baby son he would never see and put it back in his pocket.

The fire was settling down, with a golden glow like summer sand. He remembered days at the seaside; Mother busying herself with a picnic; Father helping build the biggest castle on the beach, his great muscled arms bulging as he shovelled up mountains of sand.

He remembered his siblings – Steve and Mitch always first into the sea; little Suzie sitting with mother helping lay out sandwiches; and dear Julia, a tomboy, determined to be as brave as her brothers yet frightened of the rolling breakers. Where were his brave brothers now? He wondered.

It was getting cold. He shivered and drew the blanket closer round his shoulders. The fire was dying and in the glowing embers he could see many beloved faces. There was his mother smiling at him reaching out to enfold him in her warmth and love as if he were a babe in arms once more.

He slept.

It was dawn when he woke. A grey spiral of smoke from the embers of the fire rose to the reddening sky as if it was a blessing. His heart felt at peace.
He got to his feet, letting his blanket fall to the floor. A group of men was coming towards him led by an officer. He saluted. The officer returned his salute and said “The firing squad is ready.”

“Yes sir.”

The officer looked at him with troubled eyes “I am sorry Evans,” he said. “You were a brave man once but you know the penalty for desertion.”

“Yes Sir.” The young man showed no trace of fear as he was led away.

The officer stood gazing down at the dying embers. From a distance a harsh voice called out “Fire.”

There was the rattle of gunfire – and then silence.

-end-

© Philippa Bower 2006

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