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NOTES:

YOUNG WRITERS' SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2008/2009
HIGHLY COMMENDED

Please note: this work is copyright by the author and may not be used, copied or shared in any way whatso-ever without his/her express written permission. If you wish to be put in contact with this author, please contact us.

This story text appears exactly as sent in by the writer. No changes or corrections have been made; however, all stories to be included in the published Anthology will be edited for grammar and punctuation before printing.

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"A Change In Thought"

by Giulia Disanto (13 yrs) - Downingtown, PA, USA
(Ages given are at time of entering the competition)
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Giulia Disanto: Author Bio to come.

COMMENTS FROM JUDGES:

A vivid portrait of a soldier's life in a foreign war. I loved the contrasting of the two characters with an empathy that highlights how difference is good, rather than something to be rejected. I would have liked to have seen more of a build-up in the relationship between the two men; at the moment the story is more an exposition of the horrors of war and misses its main opportunity - to be about the friendship itself, which has been created THROUGH that war. Without this, I'm not really sure what the "journey" was; needs better definition, and a stronger ending and raison d'ètre. The piece about both men being in hospital was rather flat, and could have been built on to create a more poignant and emotive situation, rather than simply relying on the "I'm moving next door" bit. The use of tenses sometimes got crossed; be careful of this - it's a common problem when writing in the present tense. But I did enjoy this passionate piece of writing - good work!
 

THE STORY:

A more desolate, battle-scarred wasteland than Iraq would be very hard indeed to imagine.  There are no trees here, and no foliage other than short scrubs.  There is also sand.  There is sand everywhere.  Sand in the tents, sand in the food, even sand in the air.  Everything is coated with the yellow-gold haze.  And, to make things worse, when it is not freezing, it is boiling hot.  There are no in betweens here.  Only extremes.

“Wake up, troops! You are now officially soldiers!”  I looked at the clock. 4:45 A.M.  Next, I looked at the calendar on the wall.  June 26, 2007.  Then I looked at Nick.  His fair skin, fair hair, and blue eyes are so different from my black skin, dark brown hair, and brown eyes.  Even his voice and manner of talking are the complete opposites.  I have a loud, booming voice, where he has a soft, almost timid voice.  I like laughing and love telling jokes, where he is more quiet and solitary.  Yet we had become best friends, almost brothers.  It had started on the plane to Iraq.  Nick had been looking out of the window quietly, when a couple of our regiment’s bullies had started harassing him.  I had stepped in, and that had been the start of our friendship.  

“Hurry up, John.  That is, unless you want Mr. Barker to come back,” Nick said.

“Oh no, we certainly don’t want that!” I replied.  It is my first day in Iraq, and things were already looking bad.  I mean, who wants to wake up at 4:45 in the MORNING!?  How many times would I ask that question over a year?  

It feels like I have been here for 20 years, even though it has only been a year.  The never ending battles, the never ending sounds. Today we are going into battle...again.  I have been here for a year, and all I have learned is how sounds that are usually harmless could kill you in war.  A swoosh of air could be a bullet whizzing past your ear.  A whine like a bug could be a missile.  A thud could be a bomb that landed next to you.  

“Charge!” roars the commander.  We get up, and, like a wave that has been building up and finally crested, so are the troops.  I run as fast as I could, my fear propelling me to greater speeds than I thought possible.  I feel a pluck, and, as I had finally reached the trees we had been charging for, I thought that I had caught my coat on a branch.  It was not to be.  A bullet had ripped through my side.  Seeing my lifeblood pouring out of my wound, I blacked out.

I later learned that it was July 1, 2008, around 10:00 in the morning that I came to in a hospital with a doctor standing over me.  

He said, “You are really lucky.  If we had been just one minute later, there would have been nothing we could have done for you.”  As soon as I was well enough, I was shipped home.  I am staring out the window when I hear a familiar voice say,

“So, those bullets got you, too.  How’re you feeling, old friend?”  It was Nick.  

“Nick! What happened to you?” I asked.  

He replied, “Same as you, I guess.  I got a bullet through the side.”  We sat in silence for a little bit.  

Then, Nick said, “Guess what? I just learned that my family just moved into that empty house right next to yours!  My parents sent me a letter just before I was shipped home.”  

“That’s great!” I exclaimed, “We can visit each other every day now!”  

It is now, in the early reaches of morning, that I remember what I have tried to forget most.  The war, the worst year of my life.  The cries of the wounded, seeing the men with bodies ripped with the claws and teeth of war.  Seeing those broken men, ravaged by the war, made me realize that war is not the glorious adventure that I formally believed it to be.  War is a killer, a murderer, a cold-blooded beast.  Fighting in a war is like watching friends, family, people you just met, and even people that you don’t even know, who you only know by sight, falling behind, and becoming lost, as if swallowed by the earth itself.  Fighting is watching people appear in front of you, and disappearing in a matter of days that feel like minutes.  Fighting is knowing you’re next.
 

Copyright (c) 2009 by Giulia Disanto - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!

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