Last updated: October 15, 2017 at 2:54 am
Tags: The Short Story, Short Stories, Short Story for CXC, CXC English, English, English for CXC, English Composition, Writing, Creative Writing
Write a short story inspired by the following line:
“It all depended on us to defend our country.”
The President came on air to address the nation. “The crisis is very real. The danger is very real. The future of this great nation lies in the hands of you the people and our armed forces. I, the President of the Cooperative Republic of Guyana, call on you to join forces with our military now.”
The journalist then came on air. She started to speak, “As of the last fifteen minutes we have received word that President David Granger has moved one hundred thousand troops, 20 gun boats, 15 tiger tanks and 50 long range rocket launchers to the border with Venezuela. Since last night, at least five Venezuelan fighter jets have invaded our country’s airspace. By all indications, President Maduro is preparing for an offensive against Guyana. Stay tuned for updates.”
It’s the oil they are after, I thought. But they already have so much, and still they are greedy for more. Just then, word was passed that Venezuelan soldiers have assaulted civilians in the North West District of Guyana. The President came on air again. He declared a state of national emergency. He announced the immediate passing of Martial Law – a law that gave all Guyanese the right to bear arms. “Defend yourselves, defend your country!”
Just then, a loud explosion was heard far away. The TV screen went blank. The sounds of war planes roared overhead. I ran to the nearby ammunition store. The whole country was in a state of frenzy. I loaded a machine gun. I lay down in a corner. I waited. I heard the sounds of heavy boots and foreign voices. I was determined to do my part.
Tags: Comedy, War, Fiction
The voices grew louder and the footsteps got heavier. I pointed my gun in the direction from which the soldiers were likely to emerge. At that time, I didn’t speak Spanish, so I couldn’t understand what they were saying; but from the tone of their voices they sounded angry, their language foul.
The gun in my hands could not have been steadier in hands made of marble. My fingers were itching. I wanted to fire. In the next instant, three soldiers emerged. As they walked, they glanced left to right, back and forward, and moved their powerful machine guns about rapidly. For a second I thought I was dead, but they didn’t see me. But I knew that at any moment, they would. They were scanning every corner mechanically with rapid movements of the head and eyes.
I aimed carefully at the one at the left and fired. The other two spun around. The second one spotted me. I squatted on one knee and aimed at him. He aimed in my direction, but I fired first. He fell to the ground like a rock falling from the sky. I heard a loud “thump” as he hit the ground. The third one was baffled as to where the assault was coming from. He turned left, right, looked up and then down. Just as he laid eyes on me, I fired again. He fell. I ran over and picked up their rifles, but not before I made sure they were dead.
I loaded the ammunition around my neck. I hung one gun across my back, one on my left shoulder, and I held the other in my hands.
Just then, I spotted a group of enemy soldiers in the distance. They were coming in my direction.
I ran into a nearby house and took a seat by the window. They were advancing at a frightening pace. I took aim. My gun rattled angrily in a deadly rain of fire. The soldiers lay dead. I ran out. I saw an abandoned car.
I loaded all their weapons into the back of the car. Then I got into the car and hot-wired it. It jumped into a start. I drove off.
I had to get home. I had to get my family. The road was populated with civilians running in a frenzy. They were running away from enemy soldiers. As I drove by, or rather, flew by, I whizzed past soldiers assaulting civilians, invading their homes and beating them. I wished I could have stopped and fired at them all, but I had to get home.
I turned the corner of my street, and the next instant I pulled up to my front driveway. Three Venezuelan soldiers were about to enter my home. They started banging at the door. I pulled out my gun and opened fire. Their blood painted the wall red.
I broke the door down. My sister and dad had locked themselves in, out of fear. They were cowering in a corning, trembling violently. “Follow me,” I said.
We ran to the back yard, over the bridge across the big trench and into the savannas. Many villagers were talking refuge there – among the deep crab grass where they were unlikely to be seen or bombed. I placed my dad and sister near to a large clump of crab grass. I reassured them everything would be OK.
I was about to run off to the war zone when I stopped. I was gripped by a flash of sentiment. I looked at the clump of bushes nearby. I grabbed some of it in my hands. I rolled it in my hand and squeezed it. I put it to my nose. I smelled it. My mind reeled back to when I was a child. Yes, I use to lay in these bushes as I flew my kites. My friends and I. We use to play “hide and seek,” “ready catcher” and many other fun games right in this field. “My childhood friends,” I sighed. How beautiful were those days! Pearly, Artie, Akbar. Where are they now? I wondered. I feared that they were probably dead, but I hoped not.
But now, look how everything has changed! Look at what our playground has turned to. These bullies! Why? My mind bubbled with rage. I stamped my feet. These bastards! “I will kill everyone of them!” I shouted as I stormed off to the city.