Story Time

I got bored and wrote this..

The war started over a year ago, and now its force is felt more than ever. Dawn attempts to creep in as a glimpse of warm orange light fights the darkness in battle over the horizon. The transition from a bitterly cold dark night into a frosty winter’s morning has begun. A mist of heat that is not felt, but only glanced at through gaps between the buildings. The smallest flurry of light from a huge blazing sphere breaks the black line of the earth’s curvature. The light spills out, low over the ground, drenching what is left of the night’s shadows. An hour later and the shadows are shortening. The Friday morning’s light combats the ground’s frost but as temperatures fail to rise, the rays are left bloodied and bruised. Humiliated, the redness in the sky starts to give way to plain old blue.

The morning reveals the damage left from what were just noises for many in the city. Late last night, the sounds of the devastation struggled through cracks under doors and drafty windows to reach the awoken. Now, in the crisp light of day their imagination is made redundant as they gaze upon the remnants of life. 16 hours earlier a building stood tall, strong and noble as the sun faded, leaving behind a harsh stillness in its stead. Now, rubble and dust clutter the ice-ridden streets. Firemen and the police had worked through the cold under darkness’ cover, stinging water splashed the glowing fires until their blazes were beaten back. Embers quashed by hosepipes as water flowed like a flood in the desert of wreckage. Survivors were pulled from carcasses of the fallen buildings by those who worked til’ their fingers bled, but it was not their blood which stained the broken debris red.

That morning would go as normal for those unharmed by the night’s bombs. Mothers would wake children in time for school and fathers would scurry off to factories. Porridge would be eaten and overalls worn. The bustle of London would be unheeded by the dark’s disturbances and lives were tallied onto the growing statistic that was death. A young boy with a mess of deep brown hair woke early, his dark eyes acquired their usual spark of brightness as he glanced around his room. He ran downstairs to the cream walled kitchen with its white cupboards. He sat down hurriedly on the wooden stool, elbows resting thoughtfully on the table. His mother handed him toast, which was becoming more sparingly spread with butter each day. He shoveled the breakfast into his eager mouth and once finished stared hopefully at his mother, she nodded. The boy smiled, staggered off his char and ran out of the room. Opening the front door onto the dry street allowed the wind to bite at his pale fresh face. He winced slightly and fought his way down the road. It was an almost daily trip for the boy, excluding Sundays, and the bell rang with an alerting twang as the post office door swung open. He queued impatiently for the desk behind an elderly man who smelt pungently of cigar smoke with a hint of whatever it is that gives any old mans jacket its distinctive smell. On the wall hung painting of not very much at all, they were the usual muse for would be artists and they bored the boy as he looked around the dull room. Upon reaching the desk, he spoke politely to the lady behind it, he granted the usual set greeting which had become a conversational habit which he had adopted. He spoke excitedly and got as far as “any word tod…” before the professional looking woman had started shaking her head apologetically, with a sincere sadness on her face. The boy’s shoulders dropped as he turned away despondently and trundled out the door back to cold harsh street.

As rations were collected by the late in the early afternoon, while machines from factory next door churned and gurgled, a hum overhead grew louder. The cities sound seemed to quiet as the drone from the engine in the sky came ever nearer. The sharp edges of the black figure high above were clearly visible cast upon the sky’s cool blue canvass. One dark figure became two as the bomb was dropped and two became a countless number when the bomb landed. The shavings of earth and brick were cast into the air near Saint Pauls Cathedral as the plume of smoke rose. Through the shades of grey stood the cathedral’s ivory dome as it towered over the cities’ smoldering skyline. The afternoon dragged on and children sat bored in classrooms, staring at blank walls, while the walls stared back at blank faces. They fidgeted and doodled while they though their teachers droned on about some arduous topic. Some hunched over their desk fixed to their seats, wondering would it be so bad if their school got hit tonight. When the school is empty of course, they assure themselves in denial to remove any lingering guilt. While perhaps the less sensitive of children, or maybe those who can hold a grudge, think it may be satisfactory if a particular teacher is working late. Maybe marking their last exam that they didn’t revise for. Then the school bell rings summoning the silent relief of hundreds.  A stampede generates at the gates as the heard head home. The more enthusiastic and younger charge out in front.

Fathers return to the houses, sweaty and dusty, to loving wives who hug them only slightly disgusted. Before long, but not soon enough for the children, dinner is served. It’s not late but light is already beginning to dissolve into the acidic black, which engulfs the once coloured sky. Upwards, specks of brightness appear in the vast black cloth. Tiny holes through which the blank canvass can be seen hanging lifelessly above. House light after house light disappears as dark non-metaphorical curtains shield their signal. The blackout begins and the city tries to hide. As the evening grows late and children grow restless many collapse onto a hard, unforgiving bed in the upstairs of a two up-two down house. They may pray for the ones they love and know, forgetting those that they don’t. Excluding them, with faith, in the assumption that another will include them in their prayers. The night descends on the quiet city, and as it plays its deadly game of hide and seek on a huge scale, its people sleep. Bombs will fall tonight but for most life will continue. Just like the city itself, they will struggle on. Although they don’t know it the blitz is only halfway through.