He was crouched on his knees under the deck. The sand was wet and freezing cold on the legs of his jeans. He was desperatly trying to rake and shovel sand to where it needed to go. He thought for a minute about how this was a little glimpse of war. Every negative sensory experiance possible all at once. The inseccant thundering or artillery replaced with the insane chorus of frogs in the swamp next to the house they were working on. Cold, rocky sand biting into his knees just like the trenches in the war. A mercilus, monotonous task that although unchallenging was frustratingly constant. A bitter and hard bitten sergent in the form of his father/boss. Just like the nicest most Disney polished view of war.
"Coffee" Bryden said.
He climbed out from under the deck into the inscencant drizzle that had been going all morning. Not hard enough to stop work but enough to pin the hair to your head and make every wheelbarrow of clay twice as heavy.
The gathered there lunch boxes and coffee mugs and sat with there backs against the wood retaining wall that sat below the deck holding the earth in place. Once again a flash of war as the three privates pulled out ciggerettes or drank terrible coffee inbetween bombardments. He sipped at his own coffee. Cheap Foldgers grounds, estimated water ratios and three hours in a sealed coffee mug since it was made had made the coffee cold and tasteless. Like water but a little worse. He drank it anyways, his movement was sluggish and he needed the caffine however he could find it. As he drank it back his father came up to them.
"You boys out partying last night? You seem...dopey."
They grunted there responces. His father sat down and started munching on a granola bar. He began peeling back the utter layer of his egg. Something you'd never see in war. To expensive, to breakable, doesn't keep well. He remembered a story that his father told him about his grandfather during the war. How, during the liberation of Holland his grandfather traded his whole tanks supply of choclate for a basket full of eggs from a little Dutch girl. They fried the eggs on the engine block of a transport truck on a hubcap pulled off a Nazi Officers Rolls Royce. Strange times, little tastes of joy.
He finished his egg and got back to work.
"Coffee" Bryden said.
He climbed out from under the deck into the inscencant drizzle that had been going all morning. Not hard enough to stop work but enough to pin the hair to your head and make every wheelbarrow of clay twice as heavy.
The gathered there lunch boxes and coffee mugs and sat with there backs against the wood retaining wall that sat below the deck holding the earth in place. Once again a flash of war as the three privates pulled out ciggerettes or drank terrible coffee inbetween bombardments. He sipped at his own coffee. Cheap Foldgers grounds, estimated water ratios and three hours in a sealed coffee mug since it was made had made the coffee cold and tasteless. Like water but a little worse. He drank it anyways, his movement was sluggish and he needed the caffine however he could find it. As he drank it back his father came up to them.
"You boys out partying last night? You seem...dopey."
They grunted there responces. His father sat down and started munching on a granola bar. He began peeling back the utter layer of his egg. Something you'd never see in war. To expensive, to breakable, doesn't keep well. He remembered a story that his father told him about his grandfather during the war. How, during the liberation of Holland his grandfather traded his whole tanks supply of choclate for a basket full of eggs from a little Dutch girl. They fried the eggs on the engine block of a transport truck on a hubcap pulled off a Nazi Officers Rolls Royce. Strange times, little tastes of joy.
He finished his egg and got back to work.
