Writing!!

Today In literacy we had to choose out of 5 images and write a story inspired by that picture. This is the story that I wrote.

Every year we come back to this place. 

And every year it’s the same.

The usually glistening sky is concealed by dull grey clouds and shows only hints of blue. As I trudge up the hill

and clamber over rocks, the grassy and overgrown ground gradually becomes highlighted by poppies.The red and

green reminds me of Christmas, although I don’t think that this place should ever be associated with happy memories.

All these things add up to create a depressing feel to this area that drags me in and lingers with me for the rest of the day.

Sometimes when I walk up the slope I wonder what was going through his head as he did the same, did he know that this

was the end? Was he hoping that one day he would come back? Did he really believe that he would see us again?

Now I stand on the top of the hill, wheezing from the treacherous walk up here. I hear my Mum start whimpering and

she covers her mouth to conceal the sobbs. I stare down at the ground and even though his body was removed so many

years ago, when I look at this spot I can almost still see him. Lying down motionless on the grass. I can see my 7 year old self

crouched by his side, my eyes filled with tears, asking him to wake up, shaking him until my fingers find the bullet hole.

That was when I realised that he wasn’t coming back. Mum had walked up behind me, her eyes throbbing and soaked and

she collapsed into a continuous stream of tears as she saw him lying motionless on the ground. I turned around to look

at her and asked those words. Those words that I wish I could never have asked, I wish I had never heard the answer to, I wish

I could go back in time to before those words left my mouth.

“Is he really gone?” 

That was 5 years ago now, and the shock of his death still hasn’t left me, it just sits in the back of my mind and never leaves. But now, all I can do is stand and watch my family as their eyes disappear into a river of tears when they relive the memory of what happened that day. Of course, their experience was different to mine, but I think that I had it the worst. I had to discover that he was dead for myself. My grandparents had the news delivered to them, my Mum wasn’t told but I think she knew anyway. I remember one evening, it was the same day the war ended, I walked down the stairs and saw her sitting on the couch crying. It terrified me, I had never seen her cry and I couldn’t imagine why she would be. My sister wasn’t even born back then, she never even knew Dad so I guess that this day is a lot easier for her than it is for anyone else. Come to think of it I don’t think she has ever cried up here. I wish I could say the same.

Somehow, today I have managed to stop myself from crying, maybe experiencing this every year has made it less emotional.

I stare down at the grass and try to maintain the slight smile on my face, but my vision starts to blur and the tears begin to

stream down my face.