((Part two, to: “In a Birdless Sky) (After the French, Trenches, 1914
a Soldier of the Great War: WWI))
Chapter One
Corporal Anton
They were still huddled at the cemetery (several family members) when the sun had barely set, the cold face of the moon showing, it was winter in the Midwest of the United States, the year 1914: the old man, Corporal Anton’s father, inside his head, he heard bugles, they rang and then ceased, the sounds of guns reverberated, then ceased, as if bouncing from one lob to the other inside his skull. He, like his son, had been in war; his was the Civil War, unlike WWI, where they had to live in trenches throughout the war: it had almost faded from his memory, now brought back by the funeral.
Tomorrow there would be a parade for the deceased solders of the Great War, of the county. No one did a thing but become more still, as the coffin was lowered, even the dogs that chased one another across the graveyard meadows, stood at attention for a moment, curious.
The old man, sixty-four in October of the previous year, now it was January of the next, stood still in the half frozen drizzling rain (in old, Oakland Cemetery). The silence was unbearable, a pitched silence that the human ear was not used to, a dead silence, with eyes closed, and mouth shut (a tongueless, eyeless silence): on the hard frozen grass—no motion at all, thus, came a gigantic uproar, like the blast of a volcano, hitting his heart, likened to a wave-crashing all around his sides, tides’ overflowing his heart valves; a windless flame dried up his mouth. He held an unknown glare in his eyes, as if they had received an electric shock, immobility prevailed, and here and there eyes looked at him. His face revealing—death!
Chapter Two
The Light
He knew perhaps—at this juncture—tomorrow’s parade was out of the question, he’d most likely miss it, but it didn’t matter. Then the old man tumbled to his knees, akin to an old factory building, dropping to the ground.
The people around him faded, completely faded into a dusty dark night (one eternal night to be): he could only see shapes and a mass of huddled shadows, he knew now he’d miss tomorrow’s parade for sure. Next, he saw a lighted window, and the motionless silhouette of his son, he was standing clean and decorous, in his infantry uniform, the one he died in. Then the old man began to push forward to get a better look (the dead pushing the dead); his previous life, was like a dim lit bulb, now turned off, for within a blink of an eye, a new and gratifying sensation had filled him, completely…
Written 10-22-2008, inv Huancayo, Peru, at the Mia Mamma Café, in El Tambo: somewhat inspirited by my Grandfather, who was in WWI, Anton Siluk, born 1891, died, 1974, dedicated to his memory, and his war. The story was originally called, “The Cold Face of the Moon.”
a Soldier of the Great War: WWI))
Chapter One
Corporal Anton
They were still huddled at the cemetery (several family members) when the sun had barely set, the cold face of the moon showing, it was winter in the Midwest of the United States, the year 1914: the old man, Corporal Anton’s father, inside his head, he heard bugles, they rang and then ceased, the sounds of guns reverberated, then ceased, as if bouncing from one lob to the other inside his skull. He, like his son, had been in war; his was the Civil War, unlike WWI, where they had to live in trenches throughout the war: it had almost faded from his memory, now brought back by the funeral.
Tomorrow there would be a parade for the deceased solders of the Great War, of the county. No one did a thing but become more still, as the coffin was lowered, even the dogs that chased one another across the graveyard meadows, stood at attention for a moment, curious.
The old man, sixty-four in October of the previous year, now it was January of the next, stood still in the half frozen drizzling rain (in old, Oakland Cemetery). The silence was unbearable, a pitched silence that the human ear was not used to, a dead silence, with eyes closed, and mouth shut (a tongueless, eyeless silence): on the hard frozen grass—no motion at all, thus, came a gigantic uproar, like the blast of a volcano, hitting his heart, likened to a wave-crashing all around his sides, tides’ overflowing his heart valves; a windless flame dried up his mouth. He held an unknown glare in his eyes, as if they had received an electric shock, immobility prevailed, and here and there eyes looked at him. His face revealing—death!
Chapter Two
The Light
He knew perhaps—at this juncture—tomorrow’s parade was out of the question, he’d most likely miss it, but it didn’t matter. Then the old man tumbled to his knees, akin to an old factory building, dropping to the ground.
The people around him faded, completely faded into a dusty dark night (one eternal night to be): he could only see shapes and a mass of huddled shadows, he knew now he’d miss tomorrow’s parade for sure. Next, he saw a lighted window, and the motionless silhouette of his son, he was standing clean and decorous, in his infantry uniform, the one he died in. Then the old man began to push forward to get a better look (the dead pushing the dead); his previous life, was like a dim lit bulb, now turned off, for within a blink of an eye, a new and gratifying sensation had filled him, completely…
Written 10-22-2008, inv Huancayo, Peru, at the Mia Mamma Café, in El Tambo: somewhat inspirited by my Grandfather, who was in WWI, Anton Siluk, born 1891, died, 1974, dedicated to his memory, and his war. The story was originally called, “The Cold Face of the Moon.”
No comments:
Post a Comment