Mila

~ A historical flash fiction piece ~

Hello everyone!!

I’m sorry it’s been so long since I last posted! Life has been a bit crazy with school, moving house, and other things, but I’ll say more about that in my year recap post that I’ll be doing soon.

In the meantime, here’s a historical flash fiction piece that was published as a guest post just recently on S. I. Brubaker’s The Kingfisher Quarterly magazine. I’d definitely recommend checking out her publication!

Here’s the story, and if you have any comments or feedback, I always love reading them down in the comment section below :)

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Moaning wind gently assailed the cottages lining the narrow main street of Lésen, Belgium. Snow settled on the rough cobblestones, hiding their cold colour behind a blanket of white. It was a stark contrast to the ravaged battlefield that now hid beneath its perfect cover. Eerie silence hung heavy in the streets, as though the air itself was holding its breath in acknowledgement of the war-strickenness of Europe.

A young soldier strode down the street, heading towards the camp where his division was preparing to move out. On the collar of his uniform, a single gold bar lay pinned to the fabric.

A small group of children were silently kicking an old ball between each other in the middle of the road, too weak to make any significant noise. The soldier’s heart sank as he saw their gaunt, malnourished forms. Their cheeks and eyes were sunken, as though they were trying to protect themselves from the harshness of the world. Winter had been a hard one even without the scarcity of food that had arrived with the German attacks, and it was possible that none of these children would survive to see spring.

As he passed the children, the young man stopped, feeling a tug on his coat. He turned to see a little girl of about seven or eight years; her emaciated body and twig-like limbs making even the other children look healthy in comparison.

Image Credit: Pixabay

Memories flashed across his mind of his own little sister, who bore a remarkable similarity to the child in front of him. Edie giggled, grinning up at him. Her warm nut-brown eyes were filled with mirth as she tugged on his coat, begging him to play with her. How could he resist that?

Ted blinked away the memory and crouched down beside the girl, gently taking her cold, frail hand within his own. “Salut,” he said softly, looking into her dark eyes and immediately noticing their chestnut hue. Just like Edie’s… But where his sister’s eyes were so full of life and mirth, the eyes staring straight into his right now looked as though their life had been stolen from them. He shook his head again, trying to clear his thoughts.

He patted his chest and then pointed back to her. “I’m Ted. What is your name?”

The child seemed to understand; a smile tugging at her blue lips. She pointed to herself and murmured. “Mila.”

Ted smiled at her as a fresh sprinkling of snow drifted down from the blanched sky.

Reaching into his uniform pocket, he pulled out a small paper bag of peppermints and held it out to the little girl.

Mila’s sunken brown eyes lit up as she saw the contents. She tentatively slid her hand inside, retrieving one of the sweets and slipping it into her mouth.

Ted glanced down at his watch, frowning slightly. He rose to leave but halted as he saw the look on Mila’s face.

Her eyes welled up with tears, and she tugged on his coat once more, her eyes pleading with him to stay.

Forcing back the lump that was rising in his throat, he shook his head wretchedly. “I’m sorry.”

He stepped away and then turned back, remembering something. He held out the packet of peppermints to her. “Here, you can keep these.”

Mila slowly reached up for the packet and took it, the brown paper crinkling in her tiny fingers.

Ted turned away once more, this time forcing himself to continue walking.

When he reached the end of the street, he glanced back.

Mila stood exactly where he had left her; flakes of snow settled in her hair and on her threadbare clothing like the silent tears that had left pale streaks amid the dirt of her face.

He blinked back a tear, knowing he would never see the child again.

By morning, he would be gone.

And so, perhaps, might she.