The Poppy Boys

Just a short story about life through *someone's* eyes (not going to give it away, the identity of the story teller is to for you to contemplate) about the of one soldier furing WW1. Enjoy, it's an on-going thing.
Please comment, I (like everyone) love feedback. I'll always do the same. :) This is THE BOOK THEIF fan-fiction


3. Meetings

I watched them often. The boy and his mother.

The wind would beat rhythmically against the pastures, as I walked, cradling many souls in my palms. The languid dispersal of light would seep into the rolling country backdrop, as the woman sauntered out, with the child placed on her maternal hips. Her soul was fragmented and splattered with blood and she knew that, although it would bring relief, she did not want her wound to heal. She did not want to forget.

She would place the little boy on the crumbling limestone wall, as she clasped her faded shawl around her worn and sunken shoulders. The shire horse would be herded in, with a symphony of soft pounding upon the turf and the hens systematically bustled into their coops, their cooing echoing through the yard.

The boy would dig into his pocket, and pull out a small tin with cracking and decaying paintwork. Inside was a regiment of fine tin soldiers, each licked with a marvellous coat of reds, blacks and a minute gold stripe, running down every leg. Each was adorned with a magnificent wooden rifle, strapped to the shoulders of each tin man, stooping them with ardent duty and glory. That metal batallion were placed, meticulously, upon the ageing gate and then the boy would set half of them on the towering post, opposite the gate, where he would manipulate them into firing at each other.

But he was young. Oh, so young.

Because, though he could not see, each tin man was the same. They were all sculpted by the same ultimate hand. They were all fighting because their leader told them to.

And yes, when the time came, he saw that.

But it was too late.

And, as the sun sunk into the valleys, the woman and the boy would walk hand in hand back to the cottage, just as I did with the man. Except they were returning home. The man was leaving, forever.


And on occassion, I would stay later. Once the sun had succumbed to the bottom of the Earth and the night had arrived, I tiptoed up the wooden stair case and into the boy's bedroom. I am sure that they heard me but, in some ways, they craved my presence. The man had told me about them, as we had walked that night. Lily and Wilfred. The woman he loved and the boy that he gave part of his soul to. Both of them sat, contentedly, cocooned by the bed sheets. They smelt of starlight and purity. Lily read to Wilfred, caressing his blonde forlock. She told him a shimmering, beautiful, moonlit tale of a boy, called Peter, who never grew up. She spoke of the Darling children: Wendy, John and Michael, who made up such magnificent stories, full of pirates and mermaids and fantastic creatures and how, one night, Peter found them and came to their window, promising that, in excahange for a story, he would teach them how to fly.

And that what was what Wilfred needed, more than anything. To fly.


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