A Challenge Accepted – Archie Goes to War

Another challenge from The Britchy One, see the post below for the details:

Bedtime Stories for Insomniacs.

She has set the challenge, to write a short story, poem, 6 word story, serious article, or anything really, but everyone is set the same title.

This weeks title is Archie Goes To War

So here is my offering:

Archie Goes to war

Tina hated being dragged to the old folk’s home by her Mother. She did this every couple of months, to see great-aunt Alice. It was a sad, depressing place and it smelt funny. She’d rather be playing out with her friends, Pauline, Susan and Jonathan. They had found an old shopping trolley in the brook that runs through the woods and they were going to turn it into a go-cart. She longed to take part, but Oh no! Her Mother had different ideas.

“Come on in Tina and get washed and put your pink frock on. We’re going to visit Aunt Alice. Look sharp!”

So here they were driving across town to the old folk’s home that great-aunt Alice lived in.

Great Aunt Alice was her grandmother’s older sister and she had turned 97 a couple of months ago. They had given her a small party. It wasn’t a large family. She had outlived all of her siblings. She had never married and had never had any children of her own, but apparently had doted on all her nephews and nieces, including her Mother, when they had been little.

They pulled up in the car park outside the crumbling old mausoleum. Mummy had told her not to call it that, because it meant tomb, but she’d read the word in an old story about a big old house and she liked it and thought it applied to this building perfectly.

The big bay windows were lined with dark velvet curtains but the floor was mainly grey linoleum. The place was littered with high-backed chairs, with lacy arm rests and those things that you rest your head on to stop it getting the upholstery greasy. Her mother had told her what they were called, Anti-something or other.

They walked along the corridor and passed many open doors with old people looking eagerly at the visitors to see if it was someone coming to see them. The look of eagerness in their eyes fading to disappointment was so heart wrenching, that was why she hated coming here.

Then at the last door on the right, they knocked. Her Great Aunts voice called out.

“Who is it? Come on in. Oh, it’s you Belinda and you’ve brought Tina, how lovely. Shall I put the kettle on? I think I have some fondant fancies in the cupboard.”

“No Auntie, just sit there and I’ll put the kettle on. Tina sit next to your Aunt and keep her company while I make the tea.”

Obediently, if slightly reluctantly, Tina sat on the small sofa next to Great Aunt Alice, who was wearing numerous layers of knit-ware over a floral dress. The sofa smelled of camphor mixed with Lily of the valley. A smell she associated strongly with her Aunt.

On the mantelpiece was the normal collection of photographs. Aunt Alice with her brother and sister, both dead. They looked young then. The two ladies in flowing gowns and the young man in baggy trousers and a peak-cap. There was another photograph of a young man in army uniform. She’d noticed it before, but this time her Aunt had placed a paper poppy next to it.

“Aunty Alice?”

“Yes, what is it sweetheart?”

“That photograph you have, with the poppy next to it. Who is it?”

Her Aunt looked down at her, her milky blue eyes looked sad for a while. Then she replied.

“That, dear, was Archie, going off to War.”

Tina thought for a moment. They had been studying war in their history class. It had been 80 years since World War One.

“But Auntie, who was he?”

“He was the young man I was betrothed to marry. He had gone to school with your Great Uncle Arthur, my Brother.”

Tina remembered Great Uncle Arthur. He had died a while ago, but she remembered him smoking an old pipe and having a massive white bushy moustache that twitched when he laughed. He laughed a lot, she remembered.

“But Auntie, you didn’t get Married, did you?”

“No love. Archie never came back. So many young men never came back. That is war for you. Broken lives, broken dreams.”


The End

Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 16/May/2018


There’s no place like home – A short story

Jack had been born on the farm, just seventeen summers ago. His family had been poor but happy on their farm. Until his seventh birthday everything had been pretty perfect.

Like a lot of people at that time the whole extended family had lived together. Not just his father and mother and his brothers and sisters but also his Grandmother and his Uncle Jack, who he’d been named for, and his wife and two sons. 

It was a fine balance between having more hands to carry out the work on the farm, but also more mouths to feed. Old Granny Mabel didn’t work in the fields but she used to wash and mend clothes and he always remembered her sitting in the parlour spinning wool or knitting with the wool she had spun. He still remembered those itchy pullovers she used to give him at Christmas. They were warm though. 

His Mother and sisters would clean and cook and also come harvest time they would all help gather the crops in. 

They had a flock of sheep and a herd of cows. Uncle Jack and his family used to look after the cows while his Dad and his brothers would look after the sheep. He remembered well feeding the lambs in spring.

He also remembered his Aunt Catherine sitting on the stool next to the kitchen door churning the milk into butter. Everyone had their jobs to do and although it was hard work. They had felt safe and secure. 

That was until the war had come. They had never experienced anything like that before. They had been at the mercy of the weather, like all who lived off the land. Some years had been plentiful with mild winters and good wet springs that watered the crops. Other years had been harsh and the winter storms seemed never-ending, they had struggled to produce enough to eat. The war was like a winter storm that didn’t end. In months the raging war had deprived them of everything. First the fighting men had taken their livestock and then the fighting itself had churned up their fields and destroyed their crops. 

Granny Mabel had died in the middle of the war. She had been eating less and less to make sure the children had enough to eat and no one had been paying attention to how little she had been eating. She had been old, it was true, but it wasn’t old age that had finally claimed her but the hunger pains. We buried her behind the house near her favourite apple tree. The one she and Gramps had got married under all those years ago, when they had started the farm together. 

Then the war was over. That was when the strangers came and turned them off their farm. Uncle Jack and two of his sons had already died fighting in the war and so had one of his brothers. His father hadn’t believed in fighting. When they came with their strange weapons his family had no choice but to leave, with nothing more than they could carry on their backs. Not that the war had left them with much at all. 

They had travelled west for weeks before they had finally found a place that would take them in. The war had affected everything and everywhere so many places wouldn’t or couldn’t take in any more people. Finally, they had come to a small town that needed a hard-working family who had farming skills.

Gradually they began to rebuild their lives, but forever scarred by the events of that war. Then, against all belief and understanding there had come another war. This time his father had changed his mind. He now believed that whilst war was never good, sometimes you had to fight.

The strangers that had come and taken their land had begun to get sick. Many of them were dying of a mysterious illness. The religious men said that it was divine wrath. Others said it was because they had used special weapons that had carried diseases and this had poisoned the land they were now living on.

The strangers had finally been swept back to the east and the war was over. Hopefully for ever, but now no one trusted this to be true. Once you have tasted war, it forever clings to your tongue.

Now here he stood on the path to the farm that he’d once called home.

The wooden fence posts still stood to mark the edge of their land, although not much of the fence itself remained. It had been ten years, after all.

He walked slowly up the path that had wound its way to the house. The house was gone. Not a stone of it remained. Part of the cow shed was still there, to give some bearing on where the house should have been.

Then he caught a glimpse of something wooden lying in the long grass.

He walked over and the sight of it took him back again. Tears, that he thought he would never shed again, not after all he had gone through, came streaming down his face and brought him to his knees in grief for the past.

It was the old butter churn.


The End

Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 04/April/2018



via Daily Prompt: Churn