Progress
"This is where we fought the invaders," the old man said to the
little girl holding his hand.
The little girl looked in awe at the field. She expected to see a
place with soldiers and flags. Instead, it was a pretty place
with wild flowers and bushes dotted amongst the yellow green of a
meadow in the first days of autumn. A simple dirt road wound
through the center of this place like a snaking stream. This was
the kind of place she dreamt of – a place for playing and
riding horses. Not the kind of place her Grandpa told stories
about.
"Where are the soldiers, Grandpa?" she asked.
"Gone," he said in a hushed tone. "I'm all that's left."
He saw the faded line that marked the trenches he and his friends
spent days of their lives in. Scanning along the line, he saw the
remnants of the crater where his sergeant died. The sound of
shells whistling through the air, the screams of terror, and the
moans and sobs of the dying. This was a place where heroes walked
the earth.
He felt the tug on his hand. Looking down he saw his
granddaughter was bored with the place. Her mind was on toys and
seeing other things. War and remembrance were too complex for her
to comprehend. Relenting to her wishes, he let her lead him back
to the car. As they passed, he read a NEW HOMES at the
mid-100's placard. A contractor's trailer and bulldozer
announced that soon no one would remember this place for what it
really was.
by Joseph J. DeRepentigny III
... who is a military intelligence veteran now working as a
security screener; with more than fourteen published essays and
short stories, principally in the fantasy, horror, and science
fiction genres, to his credit, including previous works in this
literary magazine.
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