An earlier piece from my writing course. This one I really liked and so did a lot of other people. We had to choose a postcard and then write whatever thoughts came to mind as a result.
I shout. I scream, but the sightseers pass me by as if they cannot see me. The tourists continue their slow gait, looking at everything but me. Maybe I smell. It's hard not to smell under the circumstances. Occasionally their offspring look my way, but a parent quickly chastises them and pulls them away as they protest, "But Mum! MUM! Look at …"
I watch them disappear as they always do. Some return from time to time. Some linger for a while, where I have been for so long. They sense the pain, agony, and despair. For a brief moment, I hope they will look me in the eye, but they never do. I still stand unseen, unacknowledged. Maybe it is the smell. I do smell, but there doesn't seem to be any way to stop it.
The crosses may appear virgin white to the sightseers glowing in the warm sun. They imagine the leaves smother the trees like admirers around Lillie Langtry. "Shall we picnic here?" they ask each other.
Picnic? Are they mad? Here?
Maybe the entire world has gone mad?
Maybe that is why they ignore me?
I am forever concerned that they cannot comprehend that the crosses are not white. Why do they not see they are stained red? An ignorant glance might suppose it to be red wine. But it can't be, it's too thick, too rich. The rich ruby red that fountains down the crosses is blood. The finest our country ever produced. Blood, which soaks into the mud of no man's land. The twisted shards of humanity doomed to remain, rotting in the blood and mud of no man's land. So many hopes, and dreams, that were lost in the blood and mud of no man's land. Young men, barely out of short trousers seemingly doomed to lie forever in the blood and the mud of no man's land. They are remembered with a cross as a symbol of their sacrifice, their pain, and their agony in the blood and mud of no man's land.
Why did we die?
For the neutrality of Belgium? Surely not?
Suddenly there is a change. A cool breeze pulls me away from the long lines of marble crosses and tourists who never acknowledge me, to a field in the middle of the no man's land. Now I remember, the shell hole, the water. A sea of faces look as I am what apparently is termed "excavated", intact, with my kit and my dog tag. My family have been traced and are soon here photographs and I have grand children. My biggest regret is that my own wee son died before I ever held him. I am found. I am recognised.
BELOW THE ORIGINAL POSTCARD I CHOSE
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