The Face of War

I am currently enjoying my third term at Mohawk College, enrolled in the Creative Writing program. We were asked to submit a postcard story, a story of 500 words or less. This is one of my efforts.

        

    I had come south to report on the evacuation of Tyre. The whole of the country was in upheaval, but here, in the south, entire populations were on the move, running for their lives ahead of the bombardment.

            I never reached the city, I could not; I was caught up in the tide of humanity that was pressing north. I, a piece of flotsam, could not fight against such a current, and my car was forced north alongside this baggage train of refugees. Some drove tractors, donkeys, or camels. Others, small Fiats with their dining room sets tied to the roof.

            I listened in horror to the radio, the newsman saying calmly that Israeli artillery were about to target the “terrorist supply lines” that run along the coastal highway. This very road, choked with this human flow. All of these men, women and children, seeking to flee the violence, only to find themselves in the midst of slaughter yet again.

            The shells began to drop. The concussions were loud, pulverisingly so. It was not a sound to be heard, but rather felt; your bones rattled, your ears popped. Prayers, both Christian and Muslim, filled the air, which stinks of fear.

            A blast, again felt, and not heard, rocked my small automobile. I tell the driver to slow. There is a pile of mangled wreckage up ahead, still smoking, the remains of another car, one not as lucky as mine own. I get out, and walk towards the fiery metal heap. There are human bodies within, but no screaming. Their deaths were merciful in that they were sudden and quick. I can see by the clothing that they were women. Their dresses floral, orange and bright, like the flames about them.

            Men run to the car, faces and heads wrapped in chequered kuffieh, Kalashnikovs slung across their backs. So, there are Palestinian gunmen here amongst the civilians. That realization does not excuse this bloodletting. They open the doors to the car, and try to pull the bodies free. The flesh has become a congealed mass, and the one gunman succeeds only in tearing away the arm of the driver. Another, reaching gently into the interior, picks up a small child, pulling her from her mother’s protective embrace; a gesture made futile, as the arms could not save her child from this rain of death. The fighter begins to lower the child to the roadside, when the unthinkable happens: her face sloughs off, the tortured flesh simply releasing.

            Still holding the child to his chest, the gunman, a ragged veteran of many battles by the look of him, one inured to violence, kneels, and vomits. Shouts fill the air. Some claim that this is the work of the Jews, others that it is that mad dog Haddad and his militia.

            It does not matter. Whether it is done by that hobgoblin monarch on his mountain throne, or by his shadowy vengeful allies, it is done. Hers is the face of war.