The cruelty of war

[Patrick]

Dasha had never thought that playing with the boys in the city’s ruins could be so exciting. Since her parents had been killed three months earlier in a German bombing raid, she had lived with several other families in the shelters, and at times they sneaked out to play ball, in the parts of the city, which were least touched by the fighting.

 

Today the sky was grey, and the smell of gunpowder could be felt even this far from the frontlines. The battle for Stalingrad was raging on in the distance, but for Dasha and the three boys she was playing with war was only a distant smell and a barely audible background noise.

 

They were playing ball in the crippled ruins of an old hospital. Only a tattered and torn ground floor remained. Strangely the reception area was still whole, and it was against one of its walls that they kicked the bright red ball. Dasha and her friends were wearing grey clothes, not because they liked to, but because in the siege everything became bleak and grey.

 

The vivid colour of the ball contrasted starkly against the monotone colours of the background. Even the normally immaculately white walls of the building, which had once been a hospital, were smeared grey by dust.

 

Petja, the oldest of the makeshift bunch, kicked the ball too hard, and it sailed over the ruined wall of the hospital.

 

“I’ll get it!” – Dasha shouted. She ran after the ball.

 

The German sniper saw only the bright red colour of the ball, and a figure moving to get it when he depressed the trigger.

Edited December 22, 2005 by Patrick Durham

[Sweetcherrie]

A really nice piece Patrick

 

It gave me a shiver...and again it's such a real thing.

 

Years ago I went on holiday to Croatia with my parents. The war there was running at its end, and the people in the cabin next to us were Croatian people. Their daughter and I became friends, and I still remember clearly the conversation we had about the war one day.

 

The line that touched me most was something she had said to her mother.

 

"But mama, don't you know we won't get a war?"

 

I've always thought that, and guess that I will keep thinking that until the day of war is there....may it never come.

 

One thing though...you mention in the first paragraph that she was playing with 'boys', and later her friends are wearing greu 'dresses'. Not sure, but I don't think boys wear dresses, not even during the war

 

Edit: Ah, I see you already changed dresses to clothes while I was writing the reply

[Wyvern]

Nice little piece of flash fiction, Patrick. :-) I thought that the subject matter you chose to tackle in this was mature and thought-provoking, and found the realism of the piece very strong. I really liked the choice of the hospital ruins as the main setting for the kids playing their game of ball, and thought that your uses of colour were effective at giving the feel of devastation that war produces. The final situation with Dasha was also tragic in an appropriate way, and drove across the theme of the piece well.

 

Having said this, I'm not sure if this piece conveyed a sense of cruelty to me. I think this may be due to the emphasis on telling in the piece, since many elements of the situation are told and repeated to the reader rather than shown. I think that in a piece this short, a strong eye for detail is very important, as you need to draw the reader into the piece and make them experience the situation to show that it's cruel. What I might recommend is to include more specific details on the devastation that the war has caused: especially things that the reader wouldn't want to see. Some spots where you could elaborate: Dasha's last memory of her parents, her memories of her shelter families, a description of Dasha herself and the boys she plays with, the description of the ruined reception area of the hospital, a more vivid depiction of Dasha's death. Give the reader more details to wince about, and I think the sense of cruelty in war should become much clearer. :-)

 

Anyway, still nice stuff. Keep up the good work.

[Patrick]

Thanks for the comments Wyv and Sweet! I do plan to have another look at this story, but first I'll concentrate on my QQ and Lost.

 

Oh and Wyv, I haven't forgotten your PM, just haven't had the time to reply yet.

[Patrick]

Finally got a second draft of this done. Changes and additions are in red.

 

Also if an elder could move this thread to the Writer's Workshop, I would be grateful, since this piece obviously isn't finished yet.

 

Dasha had never thought that playing with the boys in the city's ruins could be so exciting. Since her parents had been killed three months earlier in a German bombing raid, she had lived with several other families in the shelters, and at times she and other children sneaked out to play ball, in the parts of the city, which were least touched by the fighting.

 

She still recalled that fateful night. It had been a Friday, but not the thirteenth. Not everything happened as the stories described them. Dasha had been playing with Yelena, a girl living next door, just outside their house, when the bombers had come screaming from the sky, and released their deadly loads. She couldn't go home, since she had no home anymore, and she never saw the familiar faces of her parents, and baby brother after that day. Yelena was killed two weeks later, by an artillery shell.

 

Today the sky was grey, and the smell of gunpowder could be felt even this far from the frontlines. The battle for Stalingrad was raging on in the distance, but for Dasha and the three boys she was playing with war was only a distant smell and a barely audible background noise.

 

They were playing ball in the crippled ruins of an old hospital. Only a tattered and torn ground floor remained. Strangely the reception area was still whole, and it was against one of its walls that they kicked the bright red ball. Dasha and her friends were wearing grey clothes, not because they liked to, but because in the siege everything became bleak, dusty and grey.

 

The vivid colour of the ball contrasted starkly against the monotone colours of the background. Even the normally immaculately white walls of the building, which had once been a hospital, were smeared grey by dust. Dried, and barely recognizable traces of bloodstains were visible on some of the walls, and on a torn stretcher standing next to a ruined desk.

 

Petja, the oldest of the makeshift bunch, kicked the ball too hard, and it sailed over the ruined wall of the hospital. The four children watched the ball fly out of sight, following its curve with their eyes never leaving the bright red globe.

 

"I'll get it!" – Dasha shouted. She ran after the ball, pouncing with joy. She hadn't had this much fun since she had last played with Yelena and she didn't want it to end yet.

 

The German sniper saw only the bright red colour of the ball, and a figure moving to get it when he depressed the trigger.