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- Stariqe
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
all the light unshed | a swc entry
word count: 1,977
CW: heavy subject matter
link to the project version
HE DREAMS OF an endless aureate field of wildflowers, slumbering contentedly beneath the sky’s recesses. Some flowers are strong and young: they bear their weight against the might of the world. With determined poise, the blooms reach up, up, up, braving an attempt to brush their petals against the blue.
The older ones are wilted; skin slightly darkened and wrinkled pitifully. They stoop low, eyes downcast. Their time is nearly upon them. And yet others are only just beginning to bloom; pushing up through the earth, tender buds leisurely spreading their petals. The promise of life: circular and never-ending.
The wind embraces all their thin, weedy forms. Together, they dance: Thousands and thousands of varying shades of yellow synchronized in a slow, gentle waltz. The breeze sings, and the flowers whirl. A symphony of unity.
In his dream, a girl runs through the field. The wildflowers part for her—a curtain of swaying gold. He squints, but try as he might, he can’t make out her face.
Yet somehow, he recognizes her. Maybe it’s the way she runs, how her head tilts back slightly to look at the sun. Maybe it’s the sound of her laughter, higher than the wind and the sky.
A memory floats up through the shadows in his head… A gentle voice humming a soft lullaby. A reassuring squeeze of fingers, a bright smile. A sister; a family he thought he had lost. Here, in his dream…
Hope!
He lifts a foot, then the other, and sprints after her. Hands shove aside the yellows and golds with hasty abandon. As he runs faster and faster, the wildflowers—as if offended by his heedless gestures—begin to change before his eyes. Their dance no longer looks carelessly beautiful, but rough, and choppy: The blossoms have sharp edges and they clash together with harsh unison.
Their petals fall, fall, fall: an endless, heavy rain. They turn to sand, the green stems and leaves to bitter dust—burning golden grains beneath his bare feet. Searing pain. His soles scream in agony, but he keeps running. He can’t let her vanish.
Just as he begins to think he won’t catch up, she finally turns around. Her eyes meet his. He breathes, and the dust scorches his throat.
“Lesley?” she whispers softly.
Lesley? he wonders, and then realizes—
“That’s… me.” Something is not right, obviously; how could he have not known his own name?
A faint smile. “You’re here—you’re still here…”
Here… In that moment, he can’t quite grab onto what the word means, but it’s comforting; a gentle, soothing breath against his burning skin. A reprieve, even if it’s only a dream of one.
“You’re here but… I’m gone, Lesley.”
Is she gone? He doesn’t know.
“Don’t you remember?” she asks. Her figure fades and reappears, pulsing shocks. “Don’t you remember what happened?”
Tears fall onto her cheeks.
“Will you die with me, little brother?” His sister whispers.
The wind kicks up more sand. He’s suffocating, still struggling to breathe—on his knees now, fists curled into white knuckles.
He can only watch her fade away.
Hope!—
The boy opens his eyes in the light. His cheeks are wet, white-hot tears spilling over.
He’s shaking. His body is tethered to a vast array of needles and a criss crossing pattern of wires lace across his arms and legs. Monitors beep urgently, and masked faces flash in his line of sight. Meaningless.
And light. So much light. Blinding, dazzling, immeasurable. Too bright… He closes his eyes against it.
The dream, the wildflowers… Hope.
But what came before? A blank roll of tape stretches out before him, a memory vanished, depleted… gone.
He breathes, but his lungs won’t take in air.
A sharp pain pierces his skull, but he doesn’t know how to cry out. His eyelids flutter close. As soft as the flapping of butterfly wings, the murmur of a ghost.
He falls into its arms, and the light washes him away.
TWO WEEKS LATER
The park is quiet, frigid, and windy. He can feel it now (it’s quite unlike the wind from his dreams); merry and crisp, not a care in the world. The breeze bites his cheeks lightly, and windy paws ruffle his thick, brown hair and wrinkle his shirt. An October breeze, bringing with it the distant promise of frost and winter sun.
Despite everything, the world continues to move forward. Wounds heal, and then scar over. Some of them.
That year, autumn had been forgotten. No one cared for the changing colours in the leaves of the poplars and maples, the migratory patterns of the birds. Wherever one were to look, it’s the same—heads held down, fingers scraping for every last penny. The survivors can’t afford the luxury of looking. Such are the trials of wartime.
But he’s different and he knows it.
The boy’s back brushes against the cool, metal surface of a wheelchair and feet lean against the sides. He pushes a button on the remote control and the chair inches forward. Wheels scratch against the ground; leaves crunch beneath them.
The breeze is still whooshing by. It reminds him of a different wind, a different time, a very different reality—or a dream?
He can’t seem to make sense of anything anymore. Fourteen days. How long he’s been since he opened his eyes in that lab. How long he’s been dreaming about his family.
Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember what happened? the voice cut into him sharply. He shakes his head as if that might make them go away.
He doesn’t remember how the bombs fell from the sky that night. Like rain, they said.
He doesn’t remember how legs became paralyzed, nor the moment he’d learned that he’d never be able to walk again.
He doesn’t remember how he lost his family.
Maybe grief would have hurt more, if he knew why it mattered. He could only grab fleetingly at thin, golden strands—always from too far away—and wonder if he will ever get close enough to wrap his fingers around them.
Gold. Even the thought of the colour makes his head ache.
Lesley, don’t you remember?
He wishes he does. He wishes…
Wishes—
His head turns, and his thoughts scatter.
He hears the shriek first: loud, pained, and decidedly inhuman. And then the raucous cheers. The children, neighborhood war orphans. Ragged clothes and bare feet.
They brandish sticks. Small stubby fingers are wrapped around stones.
Their target has sleek brown feathers and a slender bodice. A sparrow. Its flight is elegant: a smooth drive across the pale, cloud-spotted sky.
He sees the rock sail. He should’ve said something, should have screamed, at least—but invisible bars have locked in his voice, a firm prison of teeth and lips.
A spot of red. His sight blackens as the rock finds its mark.
It’s there again in a moment—and he watches, eyes wide, as the bird falls. Impossibly quickly, ungraceful on clipped wings. Falling, falling…
Thud. The bird lands beneath the shelter of a tall oak tree.
His eardrums rattle; the sound echoes in his head repeatedly.
The bars come down. Now he screams.
The children turn and they see him. Before he can say anything else, they’re scurrying away; tripping hastily through the tall, untrimmed grasses. He would’ve tried harder but his thoughts are on the bird.
The body. It lies in the dirt, unmoving.
Roll. Roll. Roll. His wheelchair drags forward, little by little, interminably slow. The uneven ground doesn’t help, nor does the fact that his thumb keeps tripping over the button. The wheels come to a creaking stop a few feet away from the tree.
The sparrow’s body on the ground.
He reaches forward, vainly thinking that maybe there’s something he can do, anything, anything—
He ends up leaning too far. Bracing his legs against the chair is ineffective: They’re too weak and they refuse to support him. He collapses onto the ground, limbs twisting beneath him. Pain shoots through his body.
He can’t walk. He can’t even sit up.
Slowly—too slowly—he crawls to the tiny body. Agonizing moments tick by, each one punctuated by a strained gasp.
By the time he reaches the sparrow, he knows that it’s too late.
And yet he cannot help but pick it up. He cradles the quivering, broken body in his hands; the tender limbs soft against his bared skin. He can feel its failing heartbeats; a rhythmic pulse. His own heart flutters—caught in a sudden, unexpected moment of emotion. His hands tremble.
Tears fill his eyes. They cloud his vision: hot, suffocating, and uncomfortable. He watches them fall, one by one. Quiet, gentle raindrops—and then a storm. A thousand forevers; endless, deepening seconds. The bird stills. Silence.
And then something snaps; a half-scream, a sharp whistle, shattering glass. The chipped sounds of a heart breaking. Is it his heart? How… odd.
His shaking fingers clasp together and draw apart—again and again, wanting to break away but not able to bear it. The sight of the children flashes through his mind. Nameless faces: torn clothing and mud-staked hands.
His heart had been stitched back in clockwork. But theirs—he reflects with an aching pang—had never been found nor replaced.
Gently, he sets the sparrow down.
His elbows dig into the ground as he pushes himself up to a sitting sort of position. His neck cricks painfully. With assured, over-confident breaths, the breeze determinedly wipes away his tears.
The Earth still refuses to stop spinning.
He looks up through a misty veil. His gaze travels across invisible air-woven paths. Clouds meld together; wispy threads of cotton. And the sun. After many days of rain, he can finally see it. When had it come out? His eyes widen under its brilliance.
He has been beneath the light bulbs, awash in a sea of artificial colours. But now… Now, he’s in the sun’s embrace. It enfolds him in its arms, warm and forgiving. He closes his eyes. It’s too cold to cry now. But the voices, unbidden, still fill his head.
The bombs fell like rain that night, they said.
What does it mean to be a survivor, to endure past what most could not? Is it a result of courage, or of cowardice? Simply good fortune, perhaps. Or are the dead the lucky ones? His head whirls.
Once more, he sees the children; the stones, the smiles playing on their lips. He sees the holes in their clothes, their matted hair, thinks of the splinters in their tiny feet. What hands will feed the helpless? What eyes will look for them?
An image of a field of wildflowers trips into his view.
Will you die with me, little brother? she asks.
No, the boy thinks. I will live for you. For you, and for my mother, my father, and everyone else I have loved and been loved by. And others too—all those who have died, for the sparrow and for the children who cannot afford a pair of shoes. I will live for you because you could not.
The war is not over, he knows. And there are no triumphant winners, only victims.
But one day, he will see them rebuild a nation. A place where every dawn is full of a light that all can see, every spring of hopeful buds, every winter of food and clothes to spare. And every summer of sprightly dancing wildflowers.
A country raised from its ashes. A chorus of freedom.
His eyes open and he reaches for the sun.
The glare envelops him.
The truth in every war: The world tears itself apart. The rivers flood, mountains crumble, cities turn to dust beneath bare palms.
But, as he comes to realize, the world always rights itself again.
Beneath the midday sun, the boy buries a sparrow at the foot of an oak.
He falls into a wheelchair; a beacon leads him home.
CW: heavy subject matter
link to the project version
all the light unshed
a short story
a short story
HE DREAMS OF an endless aureate field of wildflowers, slumbering contentedly beneath the sky’s recesses. Some flowers are strong and young: they bear their weight against the might of the world. With determined poise, the blooms reach up, up, up, braving an attempt to brush their petals against the blue.
The older ones are wilted; skin slightly darkened and wrinkled pitifully. They stoop low, eyes downcast. Their time is nearly upon them. And yet others are only just beginning to bloom; pushing up through the earth, tender buds leisurely spreading their petals. The promise of life: circular and never-ending.
The wind embraces all their thin, weedy forms. Together, they dance: Thousands and thousands of varying shades of yellow synchronized in a slow, gentle waltz. The breeze sings, and the flowers whirl. A symphony of unity.
In his dream, a girl runs through the field. The wildflowers part for her—a curtain of swaying gold. He squints, but try as he might, he can’t make out her face.
Yet somehow, he recognizes her. Maybe it’s the way she runs, how her head tilts back slightly to look at the sun. Maybe it’s the sound of her laughter, higher than the wind and the sky.
A memory floats up through the shadows in his head… A gentle voice humming a soft lullaby. A reassuring squeeze of fingers, a bright smile. A sister; a family he thought he had lost. Here, in his dream…
Hope!
He lifts a foot, then the other, and sprints after her. Hands shove aside the yellows and golds with hasty abandon. As he runs faster and faster, the wildflowers—as if offended by his heedless gestures—begin to change before his eyes. Their dance no longer looks carelessly beautiful, but rough, and choppy: The blossoms have sharp edges and they clash together with harsh unison.
Their petals fall, fall, fall: an endless, heavy rain. They turn to sand, the green stems and leaves to bitter dust—burning golden grains beneath his bare feet. Searing pain. His soles scream in agony, but he keeps running. He can’t let her vanish.
Just as he begins to think he won’t catch up, she finally turns around. Her eyes meet his. He breathes, and the dust scorches his throat.
“Lesley?” she whispers softly.
Lesley? he wonders, and then realizes—
“That’s… me.” Something is not right, obviously; how could he have not known his own name?
A faint smile. “You’re here—you’re still here…”
Here… In that moment, he can’t quite grab onto what the word means, but it’s comforting; a gentle, soothing breath against his burning skin. A reprieve, even if it’s only a dream of one.
“You’re here but… I’m gone, Lesley.”
Is she gone? He doesn’t know.
“Don’t you remember?” she asks. Her figure fades and reappears, pulsing shocks. “Don’t you remember what happened?”
Tears fall onto her cheeks.
“Will you die with me, little brother?” His sister whispers.
The wind kicks up more sand. He’s suffocating, still struggling to breathe—on his knees now, fists curled into white knuckles.
He can only watch her fade away.
Hope!—
────
The boy opens his eyes in the light. His cheeks are wet, white-hot tears spilling over.
He’s shaking. His body is tethered to a vast array of needles and a criss crossing pattern of wires lace across his arms and legs. Monitors beep urgently, and masked faces flash in his line of sight. Meaningless.
And light. So much light. Blinding, dazzling, immeasurable. Too bright… He closes his eyes against it.
The dream, the wildflowers… Hope.
But what came before? A blank roll of tape stretches out before him, a memory vanished, depleted… gone.
He breathes, but his lungs won’t take in air.
A sharp pain pierces his skull, but he doesn’t know how to cry out. His eyelids flutter close. As soft as the flapping of butterfly wings, the murmur of a ghost.
He falls into its arms, and the light washes him away.
────
TWO WEEKS LATER
The park is quiet, frigid, and windy. He can feel it now (it’s quite unlike the wind from his dreams); merry and crisp, not a care in the world. The breeze bites his cheeks lightly, and windy paws ruffle his thick, brown hair and wrinkle his shirt. An October breeze, bringing with it the distant promise of frost and winter sun.
Despite everything, the world continues to move forward. Wounds heal, and then scar over. Some of them.
That year, autumn had been forgotten. No one cared for the changing colours in the leaves of the poplars and maples, the migratory patterns of the birds. Wherever one were to look, it’s the same—heads held down, fingers scraping for every last penny. The survivors can’t afford the luxury of looking. Such are the trials of wartime.
But he’s different and he knows it.
The boy’s back brushes against the cool, metal surface of a wheelchair and feet lean against the sides. He pushes a button on the remote control and the chair inches forward. Wheels scratch against the ground; leaves crunch beneath them.
The breeze is still whooshing by. It reminds him of a different wind, a different time, a very different reality—or a dream?
He can’t seem to make sense of anything anymore. Fourteen days. How long he’s been since he opened his eyes in that lab. How long he’s been dreaming about his family.
Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember what happened? the voice cut into him sharply. He shakes his head as if that might make them go away.
He doesn’t remember how the bombs fell from the sky that night. Like rain, they said.
He doesn’t remember how legs became paralyzed, nor the moment he’d learned that he’d never be able to walk again.
He doesn’t remember how he lost his family.
Maybe grief would have hurt more, if he knew why it mattered. He could only grab fleetingly at thin, golden strands—always from too far away—and wonder if he will ever get close enough to wrap his fingers around them.
Gold. Even the thought of the colour makes his head ache.
Lesley, don’t you remember?
He wishes he does. He wishes…
Wishes—
His head turns, and his thoughts scatter.
────
He hears the shriek first: loud, pained, and decidedly inhuman. And then the raucous cheers. The children, neighborhood war orphans. Ragged clothes and bare feet.
They brandish sticks. Small stubby fingers are wrapped around stones.
Their target has sleek brown feathers and a slender bodice. A sparrow. Its flight is elegant: a smooth drive across the pale, cloud-spotted sky.
He sees the rock sail. He should’ve said something, should have screamed, at least—but invisible bars have locked in his voice, a firm prison of teeth and lips.
A spot of red. His sight blackens as the rock finds its mark.
It’s there again in a moment—and he watches, eyes wide, as the bird falls. Impossibly quickly, ungraceful on clipped wings. Falling, falling…
Thud. The bird lands beneath the shelter of a tall oak tree.
His eardrums rattle; the sound echoes in his head repeatedly.
The bars come down. Now he screams.
The children turn and they see him. Before he can say anything else, they’re scurrying away; tripping hastily through the tall, untrimmed grasses. He would’ve tried harder but his thoughts are on the bird.
The body. It lies in the dirt, unmoving.
Roll. Roll. Roll. His wheelchair drags forward, little by little, interminably slow. The uneven ground doesn’t help, nor does the fact that his thumb keeps tripping over the button. The wheels come to a creaking stop a few feet away from the tree.
The sparrow’s body on the ground.
He reaches forward, vainly thinking that maybe there’s something he can do, anything, anything—
He ends up leaning too far. Bracing his legs against the chair is ineffective: They’re too weak and they refuse to support him. He collapses onto the ground, limbs twisting beneath him. Pain shoots through his body.
He can’t walk. He can’t even sit up.
Slowly—too slowly—he crawls to the tiny body. Agonizing moments tick by, each one punctuated by a strained gasp.
By the time he reaches the sparrow, he knows that it’s too late.
And yet he cannot help but pick it up. He cradles the quivering, broken body in his hands; the tender limbs soft against his bared skin. He can feel its failing heartbeats; a rhythmic pulse. His own heart flutters—caught in a sudden, unexpected moment of emotion. His hands tremble.
Tears fill his eyes. They cloud his vision: hot, suffocating, and uncomfortable. He watches them fall, one by one. Quiet, gentle raindrops—and then a storm. A thousand forevers; endless, deepening seconds. The bird stills. Silence.
And then something snaps; a half-scream, a sharp whistle, shattering glass. The chipped sounds of a heart breaking. Is it his heart? How… odd.
His shaking fingers clasp together and draw apart—again and again, wanting to break away but not able to bear it. The sight of the children flashes through his mind. Nameless faces: torn clothing and mud-staked hands.
His heart had been stitched back in clockwork. But theirs—he reflects with an aching pang—had never been found nor replaced.
Gently, he sets the sparrow down.
His elbows dig into the ground as he pushes himself up to a sitting sort of position. His neck cricks painfully. With assured, over-confident breaths, the breeze determinedly wipes away his tears.
The Earth still refuses to stop spinning.
He looks up through a misty veil. His gaze travels across invisible air-woven paths. Clouds meld together; wispy threads of cotton. And the sun. After many days of rain, he can finally see it. When had it come out? His eyes widen under its brilliance.
He has been beneath the light bulbs, awash in a sea of artificial colours. But now… Now, he’s in the sun’s embrace. It enfolds him in its arms, warm and forgiving. He closes his eyes. It’s too cold to cry now. But the voices, unbidden, still fill his head.
The bombs fell like rain that night, they said.
What does it mean to be a survivor, to endure past what most could not? Is it a result of courage, or of cowardice? Simply good fortune, perhaps. Or are the dead the lucky ones? His head whirls.
Once more, he sees the children; the stones, the smiles playing on their lips. He sees the holes in their clothes, their matted hair, thinks of the splinters in their tiny feet. What hands will feed the helpless? What eyes will look for them?
An image of a field of wildflowers trips into his view.
Will you die with me, little brother? she asks.
No, the boy thinks. I will live for you. For you, and for my mother, my father, and everyone else I have loved and been loved by. And others too—all those who have died, for the sparrow and for the children who cannot afford a pair of shoes. I will live for you because you could not.
The war is not over, he knows. And there are no triumphant winners, only victims.
But one day, he will see them rebuild a nation. A place where every dawn is full of a light that all can see, every spring of hopeful buds, every winter of food and clothes to spare. And every summer of sprightly dancing wildflowers.
A country raised from its ashes. A chorus of freedom.
His eyes open and he reaches for the sun.
The glare envelops him.
The truth in every war: The world tears itself apart. The rivers flood, mountains crumble, cities turn to dust beneath bare palms.
But, as he comes to realize, the world always rights itself again.
────
Beneath the midday sun, the boy buries a sparrow at the foot of an oak.
He falls into a wheelchair; a beacon leads him home.
Last edited by Stariqe (March 23, 2021 17:12:59)
- softlysinging
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
all the light unshed | a swc entry
Critiquing for the daily (I already critique your work, but just generally.)
Also, why I chose to critique you: because you’re an awesome writer and person in general!
Positive feedback
1. I really like the way you presented it, it was really precise and detailed.
2. I love your word choice. You added really great words in there!
3. The format and the whole setting is just beautiful, and the symbolism of the bird contributes to it as well.
Constructive feedback
1. Well, I know you said it was morbid, but maybe you can make a connection of some sort between the birds and the person some more? I read it and it was only mentioned once.
2. Maybe describe the families’ background a little bit more (I know in the story it says that they didn’t remember, but it would be nice as a sequel or something.)
3. Do they end up having a funeral for the person (after he dies?)
Also, why I chose to critique you: because you’re an awesome writer and person in general!
Positive feedback
1. I really like the way you presented it, it was really precise and detailed.
2. I love your word choice. You added really great words in there!
3. The format and the whole setting is just beautiful, and the symbolism of the bird contributes to it as well.
Constructive feedback
1. Well, I know you said it was morbid, but maybe you can make a connection of some sort between the birds and the person some more? I read it and it was only mentioned once.
2. Maybe describe the families’ background a little bit more (I know in the story it says that they didn’t remember, but it would be nice as a sequel or something.)
3. Do they end up having a funeral for the person (after he dies?)
- Stariqe
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
all the light unshed | a swc entry
Critiquing for the daily (I already critique your work, but just generally.)
Also, why I chose to critique you: because you’re an awesome writer and person in general!
Positive feedback
1. I really like the way you presented it, it was really precise and detailed.
2. I love your word choice. You added really great words in there!
3. The format and the whole setting is just beautiful, and the symbolism of the bird contributes to it as well.
Constructive feedback
1. Well, I know you said it was morbid, but maybe you can make a connection of some sort between the birds and the person some more? I read it and it was only mentioned once.
2. Maybe describe the families’ background a little bit more (I know in the story it says that they didn’t remember, but it would be nice as a sequel or something.)
3. Do they end up having a funeral for the person (after he dies?)
aah thank you so much rain! <333
but about the third one - i'm kind of confused? xD which person do you mean? hehe
- softlysinging
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
all the light unshed | a swc entry
Critiquing for the daily (I already critique your work, but just generally.)
Also, why I chose to critique you: because you’re an awesome writer and person in general!
Positive feedback
1. I really like the way you presented it, it was really precise and detailed.
2. I love your word choice. You added really great words in there!
3. The format and the whole setting is just beautiful, and the symbolism of the bird contributes to it as well.
Constructive feedback
1. Well, I know you said it was morbid, but maybe you can make a connection of some sort between the birds and the person some more? I read it and it was only mentioned once.
2. Maybe describe the families’ background a little bit more (I know in the story it says that they didn’t remember, but it would be nice as a sequel or something.)
3. Do they end up having a funeral for the person (after he dies?)
aah thank you so much rain! <333
but about the third one - i'm kind of confused? xD which person do you mean? hehe
Well I meant this “ Will you die with me, little brother?” she asks
But then I reread it a THIRD time and realized that's not what you meant and the brother was supposed to be alive.
- FloraFauna_SS
-
Scratcher
1000+ posts
all the light unshed | a swc entry
CONGRATS THIS IS SO GOOD <3 <3
- starrii_sprinkIes
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
all the light unshed | a swc entry
CONGRATS!!!! THIS IS BEAUTIFUL OML
- Livia_10
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
all the light unshed | a swc entry
THIS IS STUNNING STARR!! CONGRATS ON FIRST 
- horsesforever13
-
Scratcher
6 posts
all the light unshed | a swc entry
Exquisite really does describe this! Your word choice is phenomenal; I love the descriptive language you used. Congrats, you really deserved first place!
- _kittykay_
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
all the light unshed | a swc entry
Congrats on winning the writing comp!
- -Sweet_Cake-
-
Scratcher
94 posts
all the light unshed | a swc entry
CONGRATS!! _10mil_ (hope this emoji works xD)
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