Scarred for life

 I wrote this piece for a monthly contest out of Australia, although I was not familiar with the contest, it must be very popular because there were over 1500 entries. I didn't win, or make it to the short list or even the long list. This just tells me I have more work to do.

Here was the criteria:

Each story had to begin at sunrise.
Each story had to use the words SIGNATURE, PATIENT, BICYCLE. (Longer variations were permitted.)
Each story had to include a character who has to make a CHOICE.
500 words or fewer
55 hours to complete

 

 

 

“Grandma, tell us how you got your scar,” the two little girls said.

“I got up as dawn was just reddening the sky and gathered eggs, those along with butter and cream to take into town on my bicycle. Just before you got into town there was a checkpoint; the guards would stop you to look at what you were carrying and to make sure your papers had the correct signatures. The Germans had occupied France and we had to follow their rules, except for the resistance. They approached me and gave me the option to join. I knew it might be dangerous but I chose to join. I became part of it although I was only a few years older than you two.

My job was to take baking supplies to the cafe and on the return trip to give the two guards a pastry and a smile. The people in the resistance told me I needed to be patient. It wasn’t until the Germans had let their guard down that we could strike. This went on for over a month and the guards had gotten used to me and just waved me through.

It was early July, 1941, and my bicycle basket had be retrofitted with some kind of explosive. I was told that when I took the hamper out of my basket it would pull the pin on a hand grenade. I would have about six seconds to get to a safe spot. They recommended going all the way through the cafe and out the back side and putting as much distance between me and my bicycle as I could in six seconds.

I rode through the checkpoint as usual, all the time wondering if my bicycle was going to explode. A few feet from the cafe was the county office building, and that was where the Germans had set up their base. My bike was supposed to do great damage to this building and all that were inside. The resistance had passed the word around and although everything seemed pretty normal as soon as I showed up, people began to quietly disappear.

I leaned my bike against the building. I took the wicker hamper out of my bike basket and I heard a click. I dashed into the cafe knowing I only had six seconds, nearly tripping in my hurry. All the while I was counting the seconds off in my head. I’d made it to the back of the cafe and the waiter grabbed my hand and pulled me out the back door and down the alley. Still counting in my head, five seconds and now six seconds. Nothing. Seven seconds, eight seconds. Then the rumble and the ground shook. We were thrown to the ground. Glass from the windows above rained down on us. Your Grandpa shielded me the best he could but one jagged piece fell at the very end ripping through my forehead. He said I should have gotten a purple heart."