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The Singer So Shy
For the Just a Minute Challenge
She stood near the cold fireplace, watching the second-hand tick down to the hour. In another minute, the clock's bird would emerge and warble the hour. She reached up and touched the clock, tracing the gentle slope of the farmhouse roof, then trailing down the lilac strewn side, to the white fence framed dooryard. She wished she was there, where the air would smell of lilacs rather than smoke.
Her eyes went to the farm door, where the clever clockmaker had made a frame to hold poems.
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
She ran a finger along the doorframe, feeling the gentle movement that would pull the card out. She wished she had a different poem to inlay; something cheerful to match the painted lilacs, and to distract her from the dull sounds of explosions outside.
Booming drums of the regiment
She touched the delicate lilac blossoms, the paint faded from two hundred years of family history. They had been carved by her great-grandfather’s great-grandfather after the first Civil War, inspired by the poetry of Walt Whitman. She’d always liked the clock. The little scene of the farmhouse, the sound of the hermit thrush and the gentle lull of the ticking.
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d
She wished she knew a happier poem, and her eyes lingered on the poem card. Do not weep, war is kind. That one was Crane. She closed her eyes and listened to the ticking. She had always found the sound soothing, and now it was a calming refrain against the muffled gunfire and screams outside.
The Air raid siren pierced through the boarded windows. An incoming bomb, perhaps, or some brand of missile. Her eyes still closed; she pictured the projectile approaching from the Western front.
The unexplained glory flies above them
Somehow, she was certain it would hit her block.
She wanted to feel afraid, but she couldn’t muster the energy. If the missile would wait another forty-five seconds, the bird would emerge. She’d always loved the activity of it: the clicking of the internal gears, the hatch opening, then the little hermit thrush emerging to sing its warbling song.
"It made a "Cuckoo" when he made it," her grandmother had told her, then shook her head, "but that wore out about hundred years ago. Sometime in the '50’s I expect. My dad said he never heard it worked when he was a kid, so at least since then."
"Why's it sing then?" She'd asked
"I fixed it! About twenty years ago. I was furloughed during the Pandemic, so I taught myself clock work and added the electronics. When you're older I'll have to teach you so it can sing another hundred years!"
Years or months, all she wanted was once more. She peeked at the time. Thirty seconds. Then closed her eyes tight, trying to hide in her memories.
“Great-great grandpa would have liked it,” her grandmother would say every time it sang, “He read a lot of Whitman. You see the lilacs on the sides and the little thrush? Those are for Whitman.”
She touched the side of the clock, and smiled at the sensation of the lilacs, many a pointed blossom rising delicate. She wondered whether they’d break when the missile hit, and through the boarded windows she heard a dull noise. The sound of the projectile approaching. She opened her eyes, and they fell on the poem,
Soft blazing flag of the regiment
Eagle with crest of red and gold
She turned her gaze to the hatch. Twenty seconds until she could hear the song again.
O Singer bashful and tender
She thought of her mother. They had read When Lilacs Last at her funeral- the quiet acknowledgement of this family history built into a clock. Her eyes fell back to the poem.
Do not weep, war is kind.
They had read that one at her father’s funeral. That’s why she’d placed the poem in the door. He was a soldier, an early casualty of the war.
Your father tumbled in the yellow trenches
She pictured the projectile tumbling to the ground, an instrument of war and a victim. Her father loved the irony of the poem. He’d often recite it like a president giving a motivational speech.
Ten seconds.
“It was written for that terrible war,” he’d say, “And it shows us how horrid this war may well become. But to me it's also about our war against Time, which we fight with or without a purpose. Do we praise the fallen soldiers? Do we mourn them if they fall in battle, fighting for their belief? No, “The unexplained glory flies above them, great is the battle-god, great! And his kingdom- A field where a thousand corpses lie!”
Five seconds.
A dull 'thoom'. The sound of cries. The explosion would make her city a field to the battle-god. But the thrush, how she wanted it to emerge and sing the “song of the bleeding throat,” before she rejoined her parents, then the thrush could receive them comrades three, two, one, the gears began to move until
Solitary the thrush
Sings by himself a song.
About the Creator
Judah LoVato
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoy perusing my collection of works, and I would love to hear your thoughts on anything you read: what you liked, what you disliked, and any other feedback you may have.
I look forward to reading with you,
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Comments (24)
I really like the ominous mood..... loneliness and sadness, that you've created because of what's taking place around your character as they desperately wait for something to distract them and provide a small sense of relief and comfort.
I love it
Hauntingly beautiful writing, like the poem. <3
Happy to come across your writing today; newly subscribed!
Nice
Beautiful…so emotional
Beautiful and filled with emotional resonance
Congratulations! So much can happen in a minute… Such a sad ending “ Solitary the thrush Sings by himself a song.‘🥺
Back to say congrats on your win!<3
I loved the weaving of history and recollections you put into one minute. Congratulations to you!!! Well-deserved :)
Wooohooooo congratulations on your win! 🎉💖🎊🎉💖🎊
Wonderful - I would have given it first place!!!
Congrats on 2nd place!! Well deserved!
Congrats on your Top Story!
Lovely intersection of irony, beauty, war, desolation, urgency, and eternity all wrapped into one heartbreak of a story. Lushly written, and haunting. Congratulations on Top Story!
Congratulations on your top story.
This was so very adeptly written, excellent work.
Brilliant, masterful piece. Some poems/stories you can emotionally feel, like silk or the touch of soft cotton. Feel, smell, see, touch. This is one of those pieces, timeless and authentic. This is a Masterpiece!
Judah!... I was ruined by how you crafted the very clock that ticked down the last minute of her life carry so much sentimental value. She spent her last minute adoring the object that was counting the seconds toward her death (I know I'm repeating myself, but I'm just blown away by this). This was both genius and gut-wrenching.
That is a fantastic war poem.
Your writing evokes strong memories and powerful new visualizations. Congratulations on Top Story!
I am in awe of the way you so gently unfold this world, layer by painful layer. The gap between the peaceful world of the lilac-sided farmhouse, and the horrors of war approaching her real house, is filled with such lyrical sadness. Your story has moved me deeply.
Moving and engaging story! I love how you create a soft tension with the countdown. You’ve created a sense of acceptance of their fate within your narrator where I felt both sadness and hope; hope that the narrator gets to hear the bird’s song one last time. We are also resigned to the inevitable end, albeit with a silent hope that maybe, just maybe …. ‘If the missile would wait another forty-five seconds, the bird would emerge’ and ‘it's also about our war against Time, which we fight with or without a purpose’ were two poignant standout lines for me. And the weaving in of Whitman’s poetry, just sublime 🥰
Great story! Well written!