Young Authors Fiction Contest - San Juan Island Library

Young Authors Fiction Contest!
May 7, 2003

Finish this thought:
“Out of the darkness, there came a light…”

Middle School - Kelsey Kennedy (first place), Kate Fyrquist (second place), and Dylan Marriner (third place)

Out of the darkness there came a light. Slow and unsteady, but sure enough, the sun rose quietly over Baghdad. Yet there was an eerie feeling over the city. There was no early morning laughter from the marketplace, no country folk coming to sell their wares, not even the joyful skipping of one child on her way to school. It seemed as though Baghdad had forgotten to wake up.

I woke to the sound of my father's radio. Fuzzy, unclear and distant even though it was being broadcast close by. I was beginning to lose interest and patience in hearing reassuring words and promises for the future. Those words stopped protecting me the day President Bush, of the USA, declared war upon our country.

The chants in the background of the news brought me back to reality. Jumping out of bed, I sleepily took a seat at our breakfast table. My father was eating some stale, crumbly bread, the only food we could get, since many of the groceries had closed down.

"So any change?" I asked hopefully, almost thankfully, reaching for my own piece of bread.

"They're getting closer," father replied. He rubbed his temples and sighed, "More chaos downtown, no one really knows what the heck is going on..."

A sound cut him off. We could hear airplanes in the distance, becoming louder and louder, like a waterfall, the hum of falling water coming closer. I threw open the door and jogged out onto the dirt road in front of our small, inconspicuous home. Four fighter planes were flying directly overhead.

Silence.

A second later two more fighter planes zoomed past. Everyone looked to the sky in confused hush. We could hear screams from downtown. Three more planes passed over our quiet street. Slowly the sound of the planes faded; soon it was only an echo.

Once again, Silence.

Slowly a black cloud rose. We could see flames rising above buildings like little spurts from the sun.

Baghdad was under attack.

We set off at a run leaving our house in the distance. Suddenly, my home didn't seem so safe. Others began to do the same, searching for some safe place. Many had bags with them, perhaps trying to leave the city. How, I had no idea. My father clutched my hand; it felt sweaty and tight around my own. Suddenly I heard shouts behind me. Whipping around and straining my neck above the muddled crowds behind me, I could see a group of rebellious men holding up guns in the air and roughly pushing through the mob. Fearlessly, they ran straight to the explosions, like bees to honey. I felt like a scared mouse, confused, helpless, and most of all, a coward. Without warning, a cluster of men pushed their way between my father and me, breaking his grip on my hand. I stumbled onto the road, and at a snail's pace, made my way to the other side of the street weaving through the crowds afraid of being trampled and squashed like a bug. Reaching the other side, I screamed my father's name. There was no answer. I partly climbed some cardboard boxes that were sitting precariously near an abandoned mud-brick house. There was no sign of my father anywhere.

There were fires and explosions all around me now. I was reaching the heart of Baghdad. I heard gunshots...oh, where was my father?? Through the dust I could see a flag waving proudly, held by two men running past one of the burning buildings. Curiously, I took another look. It had stripes and stars on it and seemed proud and sure of itself as were the men all around it. Turning, I could see a faded sign that I recognized as the grocery's. The shop's door had been unhinged and the windows had been crudely broken. Tears filled my eyes. My whole world was falling apart. I could see no light in my future.

Abruptly, I heard whimpers coming from behind the icebox that children had always loved to take ice chips from on a warm day. Slowly and inquisitively, I crept over to the icebox. Looking behind it I saw a mop of black hair, a pug nose and two wide brown eyes. I recognized that face as the owner's dog. Without saying a word, I picked him up from his hiding spot and hugged him tightly. Weeping madly I jumped at the sound of my name being called urgently from around the corner. Twisting around I saw my father running towards us.

No words could describe how I felt at that moment. Everything was so right even though it was all so wrong at the same time. In a mere hour, I had become strong. I knew with my father and this little puppy beside me I could face anything this war shoved in our path. I looked down at the puppy I was still cradling in my arms and smiled. That poor little abandoned puppy may not know it now but he had been the light at the end of my tunnel.

Out of the darkness there came a light. This light eventually comes to everyone in desperate need of it. It comes in many forms, and sometimes it's there all along, but we just don't appreciate it.

A baby girl was born, but it was an unlucky time for baby girls. Her tribe favored boys and left weak children to die. Their code was, "Have the strength of a horse, and the fire of a wolverine." However, this girl was one of the fortunate ones. She was born healthy into loving, yet stern parents, when it came to what was right for their tribe. Overjoyed to have such a lively child, she received the name Anita.

For seven short years Anita thought she was the happiest child on the Earth. She had the freedom of a bird, and would spend long days and sometimes nights out in the natural world. Before she went to bed every night, her parents would tell her stories of bravery, strength, and honesty. They taught her that no matter what, she should do what is best for her tribe.

Springtime that year brought great sadness among Anita's family. She was condemned with `'the illness," a slow-killing disease that was "incurable." Anita's parents realized that she was growing weaker and, unfortunately, they were very strict in their tribal beliefs.

Anita, realizing what would soon happen, began to plan an escape. Knowing that if she stayed and got any weaker, she would be useless to the tribe, Anita thought it would be best to run away. She would rather live in the wild than let her weakness make her tribe vulnerable to enemies.

Anita and her horse, Rosebud, rode to a distant land in the foothills of tall, irregular mountains. They packed little, a few blankets and some food to get them started on their trip. Rosebud's ugly, thick, brown coat kept her warm and comforted. When danger approached Rosebud's mule-like ears would perk up and she would warn Anita of the predator.

This odd pair traveled for a few hours each day, then stopped in the early evening, for Anita couldn't travel as well, being sick as she was. One day they came across a spring where she thought it would be best to stay for the night.

That night was warm, and Anita couldn't sleep. She felt a strange feeling of presence. It was the presence of someone or something that wanted to kill her. She was afraid, but the humidity in the air was too much; she couldn't concentrate. It captured her, and imprisoned her in a world of no worries.

Way too early for anyone to be awake in the natural world, Anita was awoken. It was freezing cold, and the feeling of being watched had not disappeared with the warm air. Anita snuggled down under her blankets where she would be "safe." As she got farther down, the feeling got stronger. It was inside her. The sickness was taunting her, trying to weaken her, so it could take over. Anita told herself to "be strong" and to "fight back," but she wouldn't listen. She started to toss and turn, wanting to fight, but being too afraid.

Rosebud awoke with a jump from the movement. She was fierce and ready to fight anything that would dare threaten Anita. Looking up at her beloved horse, that was so ready to fight, and even give up her life, gave Anita the strength to fight her predator, no matter what it was. Anita stood up, now confident that she would win this battle. From that day on she grew stronger. The strength of this horse had given her the fire of a wolverine.

Eventually, Anita overcame "the illness" completely. She traveled back to her homeland, where her mother and father were overjoyed to see her. In their own way, the tribe expressed their happiness to have her back. They were proud that she was a strong, brave warrior who fought against the "incurable" disease. But, Anita was glad for her life. She could never thank Rosebud enough for showing her the light; for being the light in her time of darkness.

Out of the darkness, there came a light, as a lone figure stepped around the corner of a side street in Baghdad. A flashlight illuminated the scared face of a young American soldier who carried it. In his mind, every shadow hid an Iraqi soldier, and every corner concealed an ambush. There was a sudden rattle from a trashcan on the left side of the alley. He jumped and aimed his gun at it, but realized an animal had made the noise. Then, out of the shadows, there ran a small Iraqi boy. The jumpy American, acting on instinct, sprayed the poor child with his M-16. Suddenly, he realized what he was doing, and the finger came off the trigger. His body began shaking with sudden, knifelike feelings of horror. The soldier flung down his weapon and ran wildly off into the night in the opposite direction from the way he had come.

Just a few hours after that, a wounded Iraqi woman, Iying on the street of a village to the north of Baghdad, caught sight of the same American soldier. She had almost cursed at him, but to her surprise the American came over to her and tried to help her by bandaging her injury. It was then that she noticed the loose threads on the soldier's shoulder, where an American flag had once been sewn on.

Soon, wounded Iraqis all over the region were being assisted by this strange soldier. Some whispered that it was a miracle from Allah. Others laughed at this cowardly man. Why was he not fighting for his country? Ali, the young son of Yussuf Kazim, laughed with them, until he met the man.

Ali, like all children, loved to explore. He would walk the streets of his town, investigating every corner. One day, as he was examining an abandoned airplane hangar, he heard an unexpected soft shuffle. Ali broke into a run. Maybe one of his friends would be hiding there, pretending they were fighting the Yankees. As he sped along, he heard the shuffle again. It came from the office in the rear of the hangar. Ali burst into the room. Sitting in a corner was the soldier.

Startled by the sudden noise, the American jumped. Then, after seeing Ali, he started crying. Ali could not comprehend why this had happened. He was just a small, harmless boy.

Without thinking, he asked the man, "Why are you crying?"

"Shot kid like you before," the man sobbed in broken Arabic.

Ali could understand this. After all, Yanks were dogs, weren't they? "How could you do such a thing?" he wondered aloud.

The soldier told his story and what little Ali understood kept him mesmerized.

When Ali returned home that night, he did not report the American as he thought he would. Instead, he saved a portion of his dinner and took it to him. He continued to do this for a few days. Every time he heard another report of the soldier helping someone, Ali felt as if he had helped them too, if only in a small way.

One day, the American army came. As he watched, Ali thought about how wonderful these Americans must be, for surely they were all like the soldier he had met. He never saw the soldier again.

Excerpt from the New York Times:
Today an American Marine was captured in the town of Adil and detained in a nearby prison. White House spokespeople said that he had deserted his unit and aided Iraqi terrorists. He has been designated an enemy combatant and will not be allowed a trial.