Category Military

Question Time

freyathewriter 26 Comments

Are they really human

Those people at the top

That they can even think

Of letting the atom bomb drop?

 

Do they have minds

That work like this

Day in and day out

In maniacal bliss?

 

Do they drink and eat

Atomic genocide

And dream about explosions

From which only they can hide?

 

Do they have bacon for breakfast

Like any other man

Or do they eat mushroom clouds

Which you can’t fry in a pan?

 

Shall we let ourselves be run

By these inhuman heads of state?

Or do we assert ourselves

Before it gets too late?

******

As I wrestle with revisions, plot lines, character (assassinations) and general staring at an impending submission entry deadline, I have taken a trip down a (very long) memory lane this week.

I would be delighted to find out if, when reading this, you had any idea if this poem was written nearly 30 years ago, when I was but an angst-ridden teenager? This is the poem I mentioned in a previous post, being the last time I entered any sort of writing competition. I’m kind of impressed with my much younger self’s first forays into poetry, although I blush at the idealism – but isn’t that what being a teenager is partly about? It was the 1980s and I seem to remember being frightened silly by the prospect of nuclear war (which is rather sensible, when you think about it).

Thanks to my Mum digging out the book so that we could check the title (both of us could picture the cover, but not the name), I have managed to source a very good condition second hand copy, received it yesterday and am now able to share it with you all, just in time for the weekly extravaganza that is dVerse Open Link Night (which I will link up to later this evening).

The competition was run by the National Association of Youth Clubs in 1985 (I was 14 for most of that year) and was open to girls and young women between the ages of 8 and 22. I think I saw the notice about it in Jackie magazine, which was published weekly until 1993 (and is now defunct).

Come one, come all and join in at dVerse – and do let me know what you think of my old, old work 🙂

True to Life

Remembrance Day

freyathewriter 8 Comments

I was not just enshrined in black and white
trained to react to a whistle
and launch myself over the top
I didn’t just stare at No Man’s Land
jumping at every falling leaf
nerves shot to pieces, trembling with fear
I was not just shipped hastily to Europe
attempting to aid our Allies
in facing down the Nazi machine
I was not just despatched to the Mediterranean
sand-whipped and sweating
to fight in a theatre far flung from home
I am not a romantic notion of old boys and idealism
telling war stories of camaraderie
I am not decades past.
I am the young man hobbling down the street
I am the hands held out for a bit of spare change
I am the woman bound to a wheelchair
I am the mental health patient facing down the day
I am sitting next to you on the bus.
I am here.
Remember, I am here.

****

Tomorrow is Remembrance Sunday here in the UK, and of course Monday is 11th November, Armistice Day.

Copyright - Nicola J Cutts

Copyright – Nicola J Cutts

Jankers – Alastair’s Photo Fiction

freyathewriter 8 Comments

Here is my offering for Alastair’s Photo Fiction this week, inspired by the photo below.  Why not take part? And why not visit his photography and writing blog to take a look at his other photos…?

Copyright - Kattermonran

Copyright – Kattermonran

– Jankers –

All the boys had second jobs when they weren’t on a tour of duty, but no way could you be working in Civvy Street whilst in uniform. Paul pictured his bag of clothes making their merry way on the 6.41am to Swansea without him. What an idiot.

Money was scarce these days, but the sight of his ice cream cart persuaded even the tightest fist to loosen up for a 99-flake, especially at his local hospital’s fundraiser. He scanned the crowds for signs of military bearing amongst the happy family groups. No, he was safe.

Satisfied, he crouched down, rummaging in his cart for more napkins. A shadow grew tall on the grass next to him, ram-rod straight, stretching out forever. Sweat prickled between his shoulder blades. Damn – he couldn’t even look the soldier in the face. If it was his Warrant Officer, he was done for….

“Corporal Jones! What the hell d’you think you’re playing at?”

Paul’s head snapped up, recognising the voice as if it was his own.

“Dad! Thank God! I though I was done for!”

“Here’s a change of clothes, son. Now get a move on before you get caught for real.”

*****

And for those of you scratching your heads at my choice of title this week, take a look here.