THE WAR OF THE SANDS
Island School, Holly Keefe, Fiction: Group 3
T
he sand was like tiny daggers, piecing further into my skin each time. I can see father
ahead, though only barely. He tilts his head like a lion about to roar and he lifts his
chin above us all. He shows his place and his state in our clan. We were once a clan of
huddling penguins, but now the sand and the wind has draw us apart. I keep my gaze
ahead, peering over fathers shoulder, his brown leather cloak, wrapping around him, a snake
killing him slowly. Fathers black hair is almost blonde from the sand and his neck looks pale,
sickly actually. Father gets a ride. So do the goods and trading items. The rest of us have to walk.
Its tiring and my feet ache. Looking down at them I can see that they are red, red from blood
stains and blisters long burst. I can only just make out the tattered boots that makes my feet’s
pain a little less hurtful. I think I see the little huts that we set out for in the distance, nearly
three months ago. Yes, it is!
“Sir, sir!” I scream with the rest of my voice. I knew it was inevitable, and I knew I would collapse.
The weather worn buildings were falling apart and breaking into nothingness. The buildings
are bad, they are terrible. But at least they are clean, at least there are no rats, and best of all
no mud. The mud was the worst back home. It got into your boots and filled them to the brim.
It dirtied you clothes and itched your body. Soares of pain and agony, created by memories and
experiences that I would prefere to never again experience. Once on you it never got off, it stuck
and stayed for night and day, until the rain came. Here they have baths. Baths! Tubs of water in
little wooden ales. The water always leaks in the end, but its nice while it last, and they heat it!
They use little stoves to heat the water then it cools down as they poor it in the ale pot. You have
to be really careful, otherwise it spills and burns deeply. Father thinks the rain was better. I think
it was not. This is far better. The rain chilled you right into your bones and rattles your heart.
I start walking towards the biggest woden hut. Thats where father is. He’s been good to me,
yesterday he gave me some of his rations as he had double my amount. He deserves it. He saved
hundreds of men in the great battle.
I wake up and the brightness of the day shines in, my legs are not as painful and my neck
is not as bad. I have decided to run. I think they will understand. The great war is coming and I
cannot face it. I will hide in the alleys and never come out. Many men my age have run. Scared
and cowardly, they call it. Scared and rightfully, I call it. Its normal. It is not running. It is legal,
you go of to a school of a type and work like a normal boy, but its on a boat. They call it the
biggest boat every made. The finest and oldest oak used to make the wood. The boat is called
run. Thats what is meant when it is said to run. It sounds bad, but it is not. The boat was meant
to be for the great war, but then it was declared that the war was to be in the Gobi. My choice is
simple. Stay here, in the heart of the war and die, or escape and live with the little pride I have
left. Father will turn around and head back, he will not notice, nor care to such an extent of my
disappearance. He will no longer be proud of me ,although he never really was.. He will cover it, a
death or tragic accident I suppose, or he will say I was lost and never found. At least when I come
back it would be a cover.
The sand burns hot and red again. Blisters upon blisters, scars reappearing and wounds
opening. I see nothing ahead, just the same sand. The same hot scalding sand. I think of home,
