Bear

A short story inspired by the poem: A Call To Arms In Our Streets

Before we get to the Short Story, here is the poem that inspired it.

A Call To Arms In Our Streets

There’s a woman sobs her heart out,
With her head against the door,
For the man that’s called to leave her,
 — God have pity on the poor!
    But its beat, drums, beat
    While the lads march down the street,
    And its blow, trumpets blow,
    Keep your tears until they go.

There’s a crowd of little children
That march along and shout,
For it’s fine to play at soldiers
Now their fathers are called out.
    So its beat, drums, beat;
    But who’ll find them food to eat?
    And its blow, trumpets, blow,
    Oh, its little children know.

There’s a mother who stands watching
For the last look of her son,
A worn poor widow woman,
And he her only one,
    But its beat, drums, beat,
    Though God knows when we shall meet:
    And its blow trumpets, blow
    We must smile and cheer them so.

There’s a young girl who stands laughing
For she thinks a war is grand
And it’s fine to see the lads pass,
And it’s fine to hear the band,
    So its beat, drums, beat,
    To the fall of many feet:
    And its blow, trumpets, blow,
    God go with you where you go.

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Throughout this assessment piece I knew I wanted to take one particular character’s perspective (in this case the girl from Stanza 4) and shape that into a story of its own. From that I created the character of Elizabeth Atkins, a rather naïve girl who fantasizes about romance. Elizabeth has these beliefs that ‘war is grand’ and it’s ‘fine to see the soldiers go by’ as referenced in the poem which were then challenged as the story goes on. I also kept the setting, a WWII parade, in my story and made it the starting place for the plot. Throughout my short story there are a few lines taken almost directly from the poem as a call back to the inspiration for the entire piece.

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How I missed when I was young and naïve to the terrors of war. Blissfully ignorant to the death and despair, blissfully ignorant to the longing and lament, blissfully ignorant to the concern and confusion. How had it only been 3 months since he went? I still wait every day. Waiting with the hope that he hasn’t forgotten me. Waiting with the hopes that he actually cares. Waiting…

“Eliza darling!” my mother called, bringing me back to reality, “There’s a man who wants to talk to you!” Could it be him? The mystery man revealing himself?

***

              It wasn’t too long ago when my friends and I decided to go to the parade for the soldiers armed with flowers with the hope of finding a… pen pal? We weren’t sure what we were looking for to be entirely honest. We tied notes to the flowers with our names and addresses hoping a soldier would catch it and write to us.  When the parade came, I threw my flower to the brave men defending our country, full of hope, only to see it taken away.

I saw it fall. An occasional flash of red beneath green boots. The delicate petals being pressed in a soul-crushing way. The beating of the drums thumping in my head and the blowing of the trumpets ringing in my ears as I see my one chance getting crushed as if it were nothing. Maybe it was nothing to them, but it was everything to me. After the parade had passed, I stumbled over to my flower, tears blurring my vision. It was gone. My note was gone. My thoughts raced a million miles a minute as I wondered where it went. I couldn’t see it anywhere. Did someone take it? They must have. It was now time to play the waiting game.

***

Another day the same old routine. Waiting for the mail in the hopes that my prayers would be answered. Waiting for his next letter. When the first letter came, I reached for it as if it were my lifeline, now I reach for the whole pile, searching and scanning for answers. I re-read the letters he wrote to me, fingers tracing the familiar handwriting on the creased sheets, covered with light traces of dirt from the trench. At the start of each letter Ms Elizabeth Atkins and at the end Sincerely, Bear.

Even though I was annoyed at this mystery man for not telling me his name, I still wrote back. We went back and forth informing each other of life in the trench and at home in England. We had a regular schedule of when letters were sent and received, at least for a while. After about 6 weeks ‘Bear’ stopped writing as often; a few weeks after that he stopped altogether. I never met him, yet his cease of communication stung me like a hive of bees. It’s been weeks since his last letter yet the rejection was still fresh and painful; if he was here to see me now, I had some very strong opinions to share with him.

“Elizabeth! We don’t want to waste his time!” Walking down the stairs I could hear a faint voice, a hearty chuckle at something my mother said and then I saw him. A young man in army uniform looking every bit dashing as I had hoped. When he saw me, I could tell, this wasn’t my soldier. He started explaining who he was and why he was here. As he kept talking, I couldn’t concentrate there, was too much going on. He was gone, he didn’t reject me, he was just… gone. He passed me something, a box? But I wasn’t paying attention. I needed to get to my room, I needed to get out, I needed to…

“Thank you,” I managed to blurt out before I turned to escape. It was too much. I collapsed onto my bed, shaking and sobbing. It took a while to control myself but as I did, I turned my attention to the box. The polished box covered in intricate designs, filled with… letters? I ripped open each of the letters, reading them over and over again. I got to the end of the last letter, I could barely read through my tears, until the last line. Yours forever, Theodore Ashcroft-Williams. Theodore. 1 word, 8 letters. Maybe it was nothing to them, but it was everything to me. The boy I never met yet knew and loved with all my heart, mind and soul would always be special. I was his and he was mine. My sweet, sweet Theo, God go with you where you go.

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Unfortunately this was not how I wanted my story to go. My English teacher (who we’re not sure how he got his degree) was very persistent with me changing my story so it is essentially all a major flashback scene instead of moving through the motions of her losing the note, getting the first letter, writing back, communication dropping off and then finally his death (RIP Theo). Like, I get where he was coming from with the lack of an adequate word count but still man, let me be delusional. Anyway (gosh I say that a lot as you all be aware of soon enough), if you enjoyed this let me know and I’ll bully the other to put theirs out too.

Live, Laugh, Love, Violet <3