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The one sentence pitch for this story:
The one sentence pitch for this story:
A mother and son talk about his decision to join the army...
A mother and son talk about his decision to join the army...
I’d always wanted a warm kitchen. I wanted one of those country kitchens you see in the magazines, with bronze pots and pans hanging around a warm stove and a continental smell of baking bread hanging in the air. I worked hard all my life and earned one. I’d never felt it turn so cold so quick.
I’d always wanted a warm kitchen. I wanted one of those country kitchens you see in the magazines, with bronze pots and pans hanging around a warm stove and a continental smell of baking bread hanging in the air. I worked hard all my life and earned one. I’d never felt it turn so cold so quick.
“I want to go.” my son, said, staring down at the saltcellar he slowly turned in his hands. “I volunteered.”
“I want to go.” my son, said, staring down at the saltcellar he slowly turned in his hands. “I volunteered.”
My heart sank and my gut twisted. “Where are they sending you?”
My heart sank and my gut twisted. “Where are they sending you?”
He spoke slowly, almost guiltily. “I’m a peacekeeper. I volunteered for action and we’re being called to the Gulf in two weeks. We’ll be on the HMS Kent for a few days then we’re being transferred to Oman for Desert training.” He stopped as he raised his eyes and saw my pale face staring back. “We’re peacekeepers,” he said with a surety any mother would be proud to hear in her son. “We won’t be on the front line.”
He spoke slowly, almost guiltily. “I’m a peacekeeper. I volunteered for action and we’re being called to the Gulf in two weeks. We’ll be on the HMS Kent for a few days then we’re being transferred to Oman for Desert training.” He stopped as he raised his eyes and saw my pale face staring back. “We’re peacekeepers,” he said with a surety any mother would be proud to hear in her son. “We won’t be on the front line.”
The numbness I felt was suddenly washed away. “Yet,” I pleaded, “Andy not yet… but… they’re talking about going in further… if you’re there… you’ll be…” My mind raced ahead to a conclusion I couldn’t face.
The numbness I felt was suddenly washed away. “Yet,” I pleaded, “Andy not yet… but… they’re talking about going in further… if you’re there… you’ll be…” My mind raced ahead to a conclusion I couldn’t face.
“I’ll be able to make a difference if I’m there.”
“I’ll be able to make a difference if I’m there.”
Like an air balloon deflating, my body collapsed on the seat. I breathlessly cried, “You could be killed if you’re there, baby. You could die.”
Like an air balloon deflating, my body collapsed on the seat. I breathlessly cried, “You could be killed if you’re there, baby. You could die.”
A silence as stony as the slate floor tiles fell between us.
A silence as stony as the slate floor tiles fell between us.
My mind travelled back: summers watching him play on the lawn at my parents’ house, winters dancing around the Christmas tree, autumns shifting through fallen leaves, chilly spring mornings wearing his shorts to school – he always wore his shorts, no matter how cold it was, he was stubborn like that… stubborn like his father.
My mind travelled back: summers watching him play on the lawn at my parents’ house, winters dancing around the Christmas tree, autumns shifting through fallen leaves, chilly spring mornings wearing his shorts to school – he always wore his shorts, no matter how cold it was, he was stubborn like that… stubborn like his father.
My heart chilled as I remembered Andy’s face the day he watched his father leave, the day he made sure his father left. He was gritty, strong and determined not to be bitter; it was the first time I’d seen him as a man. He was fifteen years old when he dragged his father off me and ordered him out of the house.
My heart chilled as I remembered Andy’s face the day he watched his father leave, the day he made sure his father left. He was gritty, strong and determined not to be bitter; it was the first time I’d seen him as a man. He was fifteen years old when he dragged his father off me and ordered him out of the house.
I broke down in tears, my body hunched over the table sobbing. I felt his arms softly fold around my back and turn me towards him in an embrace.
I broke down in tears, my body hunched over the table sobbing. I felt his arms softly fold around my back and turn me towards him in an embrace.
I wanted to tell him not to go, order him not to go. I gritted my teeth, sick at my inability to hold him back, to protect him from himself.
I wanted to tell him not to go, order him not to go. I gritted my teeth, sick at my inability to hold him back, to protect him from himself.
“I love you mum,” he whispered. I pulled back and turned my face away from him.
“I love you mum,” he whispered. I pulled back and turned my face away from him.
I didn’t want to, but, “Don’t go!” I said.
I didn’t want to, but, “Don’t go!” I said.
I stood up and moved toward the sink. I don’t know why I do that. When times are hard – and all our hardest times have happened in this kitchen, all our bitterest arguments – I always retreat to the sink by the back door. I opened it a little, pleased at the breath of cool summer night time air.
I stood up and moved toward the sink. I don’t know why I do that. When times are hard – and all our hardest times have happened in this kitchen, all our bitterest arguments – I always retreat to the sink by the back door. I opened it a little, pleased at the breath of cool summer night time air.
“Do you remember when Dad left,” he said behind me. I didn’t want to look round. “I knew the difference between right and wrong, that it’s wrong to be weak, to turn away. Dad was weak when he hit you; when he took out his anger on you, he was weak and he was wrong. Well I’m not like that, and if can do something about this I have to try.”
“Do you remember when Dad left,” he said behind me. I didn’t want to look round. “I knew the difference between right and wrong, that it’s wrong to be weak, to turn away. Dad was weak when he hit you; when he took out his anger on you, he was weak and he was wrong. Well I’m not like that, and if can do something about this I have to try.”
I struggled to fight the hot tears which threatened to flood down my cheeks. I turned to look at him. He was a man. As he stood before me in the kitchen then, I knew. My little man was big.
I struggled to fight the hot tears which threatened to flood down my cheeks. I turned to look at him. He was a man. As he stood before me in the kitchen then, I knew. My little man was big.
He spoke clearly, with focus and determination. “These people need help. I’m not going out there to fight terrorists. I’m going out there to help…”
He spoke clearly, with focus and determination. “These people need help. I’m not going out there to fight terrorists. I’m going out there to help…”
“There are other ways,” I mumbed uselessly.
“There are other ways,” I mumbed uselessly.
“There’s no substitute for being there.” He smiled and moved to lean against the counter opposite me, and continued speaking with the determined air he used when informing me of his decisions. “I’m going to help civilians in a war they’re not a part of. I’m going to help mothers and children… and fathers. People who can’t help themselves…”
“There’s no substitute for being there.” He smiled and moved to lean against the counter opposite me, and continued speaking with the determined air he used when informing me of his decisions. “I’m going to help civilians in a war they’re not a part of. I’m going to help mothers and children… and fathers. People who can’t help themselves…”
“And if you get called into battle? To the front line?”
“And if you get called into battle? To the front line?”
“Then I’ll go.”
“Then I’ll go.”
“And die?”
“And die?”
“If that’s what’s meant to be,” he said, calmly.
“If that’s what’s meant to be,” he said, calmly.
I could feel impotent anger growing in me. As though his philosophical approach to death ignored the impact it would have on his family – on me, his sister or his wife. I remembered fights we’d had before, when he left school, when he left to go travelling, when he joined the Army in the first place. I would always push him to question his decisions, he always took it as disapproval, and in the end he did what he wanted anyway. Too much of his father in him.
I could feel impotent anger growing in me. As though his philosophical approach to death ignored the impact it would have on his family – on me, his sister or his wife. I remembered fights we’d had before, when he left school, when he left to go travelling, when he joined the Army in the first place. I would always push him to question his decisions, he always took it as disapproval, and in the end he did what he wanted anyway. Too much of his father in him.
“Mum,” he said at last. “I know you think I’m stubborn.” He smiled, “I know you think I’m arrogant and I don’t listen to you. And I know you’re scared for me. But I want you to know something: I’m proud of you mum. I’m proud to call you my mum.” I could feel my heart slowly breaking inside me. “You taught me what’s right, you taught me how to be strong. I want to go and fight for what I believe in. I’m not going there with illusions. It’s gonna be tough, I’m gonna see things…”
“Mum,” he said at last. “I know you think I’m stubborn.” He smiled, “I know you think I’m arrogant and I don’t listen to you. And I know you’re scared for me. But I want you to know something: I’m proud of you mum. I’m proud to call you my mum.” I could feel my heart slowly breaking inside me. “You taught me what’s right, you taught me how to be strong. I want to go and fight for what I believe in. I’m not going there with illusions. It’s gonna be tough, I’m gonna see things…”
I couldn’t bear it, “Don’t!” I turned my head away, tears welling up again.
I couldn’t bear it, “Don’t!” I turned my head away, tears welling up again.
I heard his voice continue as he moved closer to me. Before I knew it he was standing before me, with his arms holding my shoulders: “You taught me that the world is a beautiful place, mum, I think it’s worth fighting for. Let me go into a place where my strength can help people. Let me go with your blessing.”
I heard his voice continue as he moved closer to me. Before I knew it he was standing before me, with his arms holding my shoulders: “You taught me that the world is a beautiful place, mum, I think it’s worth fighting for. Let me go into a place where my strength can help people. Let me go with your blessing.”
I put my arms around him and held my little big man close, soaking his shirt with my tears. “Take care, my son,” I whispered. “I love you.”
I put my arms around him and held my little big man close, soaking his shirt with my tears. “Take care, my son,” I whispered. “I love you.”
Notes on the writing:
Notes on the writing:
I wrote this when I was in my early 20s, as a part of a creative writing course. The course recommended finding the kinds of magazines that published short stories, and suggested a few of the magazines you see near the counter in supermarkets. I bought a small pile of them for research and then wrote this. As a result, this is a 23 year old man writing the kind of story that he thought a 60 year old woman might want to read. Needless to say, it wasn't published.
I wrote this when I was in my early 20s, as a part of a creative writing course. The course recommended finding the kinds of magazines that published short stories, and suggested a few of the magazines you see near the counter in supermarkets. I bought a small pile of them for research and then wrote this. As a result, this is a 23 year old man writing the kind of story that he thought a 60 year old woman might want to read. Needless to say, it wasn't published.
Despite its awkward beginning, I do still quite like it and I honestly think there's something really wonderful to be found in writing stories like it.
Despite its awkward beginning, I do still quite like it and I honestly think there's something really wonderful to be found in writing stories like it.
To write it, I started with the scenario: a son and a mother talking about his decision to go to war. Then, I let the story play itself out. I didn't know either of the characters before I started writing, letting them grow as the scene went on. As a result, when the mother begins referring to the absent father, I started worrying about how I was going to deal with it! The key here, though, is not to panic and to trust yourself to find a way. Here, I kind of brushed over the story to a large extent as it wasn't something I felt I had the time to go into.
To write it, I started with the scenario: a son and a mother talking about his decision to go to war. Then, I let the story play itself out. I didn't know either of the characters before I started writing, letting them grow as the scene went on. As a result, when the mother begins referring to the absent father, I started worrying about how I was going to deal with it! The key here, though, is not to panic and to trust yourself to find a way. Here, I kind of brushed over the story to a large extent as it wasn't something I felt I had the time to go into.
But sometimes, writing a story can be a bit like that: you set the characters up and let them play the scene. In this way, writing can be a bit more like drama than you might. A story like this is like an improvised scene between characters you've made up. When I write scenes like this, I write down what I imagine happening but let my instincts about the characters control the scene.
But sometimes, writing a story can be a bit like that: you set the characters up and let them play the scene. In this way, writing can be a bit more like drama than you might. A story like this is like an improvised scene between characters you've made up. When I write scenes like this, I write down what I imagine happening but let my instincts about the characters control the scene.
You can have a lot of fun with this: pick a crucial moment in someone's life and play it out. The magic comes from remembering that great stories don't just come from life shattering, earth changing events. The best stories often just come from appreciating someone else's circumstances and letting the story celebrate that appreciation.
You can have a lot of fun with this: pick a crucial moment in someone's life and play it out. The magic comes from remembering that great stories don't just come from life shattering, earth changing events. The best stories often just come from appreciating someone else's circumstances and letting the story celebrate that appreciation.
Life changes happen all the time, one of the joys of being a writer is being able to appreciate them when they happen.
Life changes happen all the time, one of the joys of being a writer is being able to appreciate them when they happen.
I hope Andy ended up ok. He seems like a nice enough bloke...
I hope Andy ended up ok. He seems like a nice enough bloke...
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