war

It’s been a wee while since I posted on here! Life, Christmas and some family health matters have been keeping me busy and, if I’m honest, somewhat distracted. I’ve also had my head down trying to finish the first draft of my current novel, Amenti Rising. I’m pleased to say that I completed this in December. I’ve just finished a first read through and have started the first round of editing. I feel good about this one and am eager to get it published later this year.

But today, in keeping with my habit of documenting my writing successes on here, I am delighted to have something new to share with you. Last week I won first place in the Solihull Writers 2024/25 Fiction Competition. The theme was symmetry and had to be no more than 1000 words.

The Wall

The rhythmic thwump of a ball striking concrete echoed across the barren landscape. Avi was lost in his game, throwing a worn yellow tennis ball against a wall. Throwing. Bouncing. Catching. Each thwump reverberating off the concrete like a heartbeat. Again and again and again. Pleasingly distracted by its repetitiveness and soothed by its normality. Comforted. Oblivious to the diggers behind him clearing the rubble of the latest air strike. Oblivious to the daily symphony of rumbling, crunching, and grinding. Oblivious to the cries of grief-struck mothers and the shouts of angry fathers.

The day was hot and dry and each bounce of the ball raised a small cloud of sand that was carried off and scattered by the Autumn sharav. Rivulets of sweat created dark tracks through the pale dust that coated the boy’s face. His clothes and shoes, that had once had colour, were the same dirty shade of beige as the razed land and devastated buildings around him. His throat was raw and scratchy and his lips dry and cracked. He needed a drink.

He stopped throwing to walk over to where his plastic water bottle nestled in a cool patch of shade between the wall and a broken lump of masonry. He had only taken a couple of steps when he heard the thwump of a ball against concrete. With a small frown, he looked down at the ball in his hand and then up at the tall grey wall in front of him. He laughed at himself and took another step towards his water. Thwump! The sound was real, and it was coming from the other side of the wall.

Avi picked up his bottle and drank long and deep. The ball on the other side continued to bounce. He examined the wall. Its top was lined with vicious coils of razor wire and its surface decorated with shrapnel pock marks and swathes of graffiti. A few feet away to his left, a large projectile had penetrated deep, and he could see a small circle of daylight from the other side. He walked over to the hole and peered through.

The other side looked very much like his own. Broken buildings. Broken people. Rubble. Twisted metal. Dust. Burnt-out cars. Stray dogs. Dirty children. Weeping women. Armed men. He twisted his head towards the sound of the ball. A small skinny boy was throwing it against the wall. A worn yellow tennis ball, just like his. Throwing. Bouncing. Catching. Again and again and again.

“Hey!” Avi called.

The boy stopped throwing and looked towards Avi’s position with a blank expression. He glanced over his shoulder towards the buildings behind him but, seeing no-one, he recommenced his ball throwing.

“Hey!” Avi called again. “I’m over here.”

The boy stopped again and walked slowly towards the hole in the wall, clutching his tennis ball in a small, dirty fist. When he reached the hole in the wall and caught sight of Avi, he stopped and looked nervously back towards the buildings again.

“Hi. I’m Avi. I have a ball like yours!” Avi held up his ball.

The boy held up his own ball and grinned. His brown eyes were round and bright and his small teeth white and even in his dusty face.

“I’m Tariq. I’m nine,” he said.

“I’m nine!” Avi exclaimed

“I have a dog,” Tariq said.

“I have a dog! His name’s Tzippy.”

“Mine’s a girl. She’s called Khalil.”

Avi pondered this for a moment.

Tariq studied his face.

“Do you wanna play ball?” Avi asked.

Tariq looked up at the wall between them.

“Yes,” he said hesitantly.

“OK! Throw. Bounce. Catch. First one to drop it is out.”

“OK!” Tariq nodded enthusiastically.

“Start when I say! On the count of three,” Avi yelled, backing away from the wall.

Tariq moved back as well, and they both got into position.

“Ready?” Avi called.

“Ready!”

“On three! One…two…three…go!”

The boys started throwing and catching. Their balls thwumped in perfect rhythm. The sun beat down. The hot winds blew. The boys panted and sweated. Dust swirled. Diggers rumbled. Rubble crashed. Dogs barked. Gunfire rattled. Drones buzzed overhead. Babies cried. Women wept.

The game stopped when the air raid sirens wailed and both boys ran grinning to the hole in the wall.

“Tie!” Avi gasped.

“Play later?” Tariq asked.

“Sure!” Avi agreed.

“Here again after?”

“Here again. After.”

“Later!”

The boys turned and ran to their shelters, whooping all the way.

Avi emerged three hours later in a haze of dust and smoke. The noise of the diggers had stopped, replaced by the crackle of fire, the creaks and groans of damaged buildings, and the wails of the trapped and injured. Men screamed. Women shouted. But all Avi could think about was getting back to the wall to meet Tariq and resume their unfinished game.

He ignored his mother’s cries as he ran to the wall, leaping over new piles of debris and weaving through crowds of bleeding, tattered people. He reached the tall concrete barrier and peered through the hole. Tariq’s side was as bad as his own. Worse.

There was no sign of Tariq, but a solitary worn yellow tennis ball lay on the ground at the edge of a huge crater where a building had once stood.

Avi turned silently away from the wall. He took his ball from his pocket and resumed the game alone. Throwing. Bouncing. Catching. Each thwump reverberating off the concrete like a heartbeat. Again and again and again. Pleasingly distracted by its repetitiveness and soothed by its normality. Throwing. Bouncing… Avi dropped the ball. The air was hot and suffocating. He raised his small face to the sky. This time the rivulets of sweat that coursed down his cheeks were mixed with his tears.