Cold Morning, Quiet Night
Flash fiction
A large banner reads Thank You, Veterans, in the auditorium at Melrose Elementary School. Hundreds of small, painted handprints cover the banner in shades of red and blue. Teachers corral their students into specific sections and maintain a semblance of order as the principal, Ms. Whitney, begins the “Good Morning” program.
Wallace Moore, a Vietnam War veteran, is pushed up the ramp and wheeled onto the stage by his daughter, Jennie. They halt alongside a row of a dozen other service members. Wallace nods politely. He doesn’t realize it, but he wears a solemn expression.
The thought of war brings him back to the hill fights near Khe Senh, and more specifically the never-ending evening where his company was surrounded. Wallace can still feel the bullet sear through his left leg. He can still hear his lieutenant screaming above the rattle of gunfire: “On your feet, Wallace!” As blood poured from his wound, Wallace remembers propping himself up, repositioning his M-16, and taking aim.
Ms. Whitney calls for quiet as she queues up the National Anthem on her laptop. Side conversations lull to a whisper.
Wallace scratches his chin and thinks, Should I try to stand?
As he ponders the question, he observes a group of boys and girls sitting directly in front of him. They watch him intently…whisper to one another. Then, on their teacher’s cue, they rise to their feet.
“Hell with it,” Wallace whispers. He grits his teeth and pushes himself off his chair, arms wobbling, left leg good as dead and right leg—a crumbling pillar—on fire. He loses his balance and begins to fall, but his ever-watchful Jennie rushes to his side and catches him.
“I’ve got it,” he says to her, eyes ablaze. It takes him every ounce of strength to bring himself to a standing position. The song begins. Wallace tries to stand tall. Despite his best efforts, he’s nothing more than a gnarled, crooked tree in this grove of promise. Wallace raises his trembling right hand to salute his brothers he lost in the hills on that fateful day—not to mention all those who perished in the weeks and months that followed. Tears sting his eyes, but he remains resolute—his eyes fixed solely on the flag.
The song comes to a close, and Wallace crumples into his chair, chest heaving. He doesn’t hear the applause or catch what the principal says into her microphone. Jennie wheels him away.
All afternoon he thinks about the group of children in the front row and the look in their eyes. Was it one of admiration? Respect? Profound wonder about the old man standing before them?
Later, as he drinks his evening cup of coffee and watches the sunset from his front porch, he realizes that maybe—just maybe—it was worth it.
Wallace abandons the quiet night and finds comfort in his somehow quieter home.
Thank you for reading “Cold Morning, Quiet Night” today. I sincerely appreciate it. If you enjoyed my story, please consider clicking the heart icon or sharing it with a fellow fiction reader.
Please see below for our next Fifties by the Fire prompt.
Take care, all. Have a wonderful week!
Let’s schedule our next fifty-word story gathering for Friday, November 15th at 3:00 PM EST. The prompt will go live at this time. As usual, feel free to drop in when you can!
Hope to see you there.
Prompt: Write a fifty-word story (fiction, CNF, or poetry) that involves a dirt road.
Special thanks to my friend
for providing his photo.
"The song begins. Wallace tries to stand tall." I hear it, I see it, I feel it. Darn it, Justin, you made me cry again! The utter horror and total futility of war. Humans are a strange race, are we not? We can't seem to learn... Thank you for touching me this morning.
Beautifully written story!! I felt like I was at a the auditorium. It reminded me of the Good Morning programs when you were in Elementary school..Thank you to all of our Veterans!! Love ya son 💙