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  1. Gannon
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    Gannon Contributing Member Contributor

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    Winner Silque Short Story Contest (31) Theme: Picture Worth 1000 Words

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Short Story Contest Archives' started by Gannon, Nov 6, 2008.

    n.b. for the picture used as inspiration for the piece, please see the original theme thread for SSC 31 in the short story archives.

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    Silque - The Rain

    My father used to say that when it rained, God was crying, and that somewhere on Earth, something terrible had occurred.

    Father would often tell me stories of the olden days, days in which he would go hunting for rabbit with his friends and go playing down by the river banks.

    I often pondered about the day those tanks had come rumbling into our village, all those soldiers crunching over the tall grass, gun shots cracking off into the sky, and palls of smoke billowing out of the houses that lined the bank of the river. Sitting on my little wooden stool that my father had made for me, I would stare at the sky, watching the birds flap around the old trees and singing to one another, in their sweet voices. I used to think that birds sang because all was right in the world. Now, I know they sing because they are just too stupid to know better.

    The day had been a hot one, with a slight breeze just slight enough to make the grass sway softly, and the red dust from the old road that lead to Damascus to be lifted into the sky, and swirl around in a beautiful maelstrom. It was early morning, and the sun basted the village in a buttery glow, painting a beautiful canvas, and giving life to our gloom filled existence. Peaceful was one word that many a person had used to describe these times. I felt safe. With my father next to me, and looking over me, I felt so safe.

    He was my hero. He had fought in the war against the Hassana, in which people said the blood from the fallen had stained the roads that branched from the village. From the stories that were painted of my father, he was a brave man, a soldier, a fighter, but above all, beyond all of that, he was my father, and I loved him for nothing more than that. He would often take me fishing, down to the old river that ran behind our village. The murky waters were home to an abundance of fresh fish that proved to be a delicious catch, for anyone that was lucky enough to wrangle one of them from the depths. My mother used to love fish and it was her favourite, especially when cooked with a little bit of lamb’s fat. My mother was a beautiful woman, with eyes as deep as oceans and equally as mysterious. Her and my father had met during the war, and he told me that he instantly fell in love with her, and that he never fell out. I still blame myself for her death for it was during the birth of me that she endured an excruciating death. My father maintained that she bore me through nothing but love, and that she would be looking down on me with the utmost pride. I hope she did.

    Father, and me often went on long walks through the scrub on mild days, with him often educating me on the wildlife and fauna that surrounded us.
    I would dream about flying through the trees, allowing the fresh leaves to softly rub against my skin, before I landed in the crystalline lake that wrapped around the mountain side...I would often wake in a cold sweat, with the sound of gunfire, and ghostly images plaguing my vision.

    One day, in the middle of September, a light rain began to trickle from the sky. Father sat me down, and told me that two of our cattle had been killed the previous night.

    “That’s why it’s raining” he said, softly.

    I used to think that rain brought hope, and gave life to the world. Now I know it just brings about pain, and takes life away. With every drop that soaks into the ground. With every splash and stream that forms and runs away deep into the valleys, rain brings nothing but pain and suffering.

    I would never forget the day he was killed. I could never forget the day my hero was taken from me.

    It all started with the rumbling, of which, many in the village thought a bout of thunder was on the horizon. The skies had turned a creamy grey, with a gentle mist hovering just above the tall grass that protruded up from around the river. Then, the tanks appeared, and hundreds of men. Within minutes, the village was being ransacked. Women were screaming, men were fighting, and gun shots were cannoning off anything that would dare to take one. I ran through the village, desperate to get home to my father, desperate for him to hold me, to protect me from the soldiers. My feet crumbled through the dust, leaving a trail behind me as I sprinted with all my heart.

    The front door to our little house stood ajar. I stood for a moment, before creeping forward and slowly pushing the door to one side. The house had stood silent. Only the sounds of screams and gunshots could be heard, where was my father?

    I walked slowly into the bed room, peering around the door as I went. A pungent smell hit my nose, and made me wretch. My eyes were pulled towards the bed. There, lying amongst a puddle of blood was my father. He didn’t move. I stood over him for a moment, hoping that he would wake up, but he didn’t. I stood there, and didn’t cry. Although I knew what had happened, I just didn’t cry. I sat on the bed. All was silent now. Tears started to trickle down my cheeks, falling gently into my lap. The bedroom door began to slowly open, and a soldier stood staring at me, gun at the ready. He glanced at the body of my father, then at me. He shook his head, and turned around, before disappearing out of the house.

    The rain began to patter against the window...
     
  2. Heather Louise
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    Heather Louise Contributing Member Contributor

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    Congratulations Silque, this is an excellent competition entery; I loved reading it.

    My commiserations to the other enterant. :)
     
  3. yellowm&M
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    yellowm&M Contributing Member Contributor

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    very good job! very vivid descriptions
     

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