The Smell of Canvas

A short piece that I wrote for my school's literary magazine. Just wondering what other people think of it.

The light was dark and the air thick and still as I looked at the pile of humanity that lay against the wall in the army hospital, draped the in the olive drab rags of what once was a uniform of pride. He slumped, a bundle of stick thin arms and legs, against the wall of the building. Working as a nurse I had found him, emaciated, among the hundreds of other refugees from the invasion, and he was a shade of what he used to be.

I remembered growing up, neighbors, and even though he was a few years older than me, we were still best friends. Happy- a person with time for anyone, and strongly loyal, one who would not forget friends and not leave anyone behind. He was the one who I watched lead the group when he played soldier and who held me when I fell and cried. In his embrace the smell of canvas from his grandfather’s army coat would smother me, and slowly I would stop shaking as he would run his fingers through my hair. When the war started he was one of the first to volunteer- happy to serve and help his country in the time of global need. When he was discharged, he returned, with a bullet in his side and the mark of killing engraved deeply in his soul. Before he left his eyes had shined with the next joke, the next story, the next adventure to come. Now they glinted- a hard look like sun off a polished gun barrel- and while the rest of his attitude shone like it had, his eyes became harder, sharper and edged.

I remembered when the enemy came to our homeland, jerking awake as he shook me, in his grandfather’s uniform, rifle in arm. He half pushed me, half carried me as we ran out of my house with my parents- the sky suddenly alight with explosions and the drone of transport planes carrying the enemy soldiers that would parachute across the nation’s coast. His arm was strong, under my shoulders as he lifted me forwards, running, the smell of canvas ever-present. When we were captured, I saw his face as I was ripped from him at the gates of the work camp. I will never forget it. When the soldiers first came to liberate us, he was one of the many taken deeper into enemy territory, as I escaped.

 

Now among the cries of humanity, the smell of the hurt and dying, the metallic pang of spilt blood, I found him, slumped in a corner, half aware of what was going on around him, a picture clutched in his hand. I stared, as he coughed, painful and he stared at the picture in his hand. I walked forwards and crouched beside him. The olive drab rags were ripped open on his chest, his first wound’s scar a round bump where the bullet had lodged in rib cage. As I crouched, he looked up weakly, staring at me, and for a long moment he did not recognize me, and looked down at the picture in his hand for just a moment before he slowly turned his head to look at me. We locked eyes, and he stared, before he slowly reached up, brushing the hair from my face, his touch on my cheek as soft as a feather, and his hand shook slightly, though out of weakness or emotion I could not tell.

“Eric?” I asked, my voice breaking… He pressed his palm onto my cheek, with a firm softness. He shook his head slightly, and his eyes focused on my face, then unfocused. In an instant the last five years of separation played across his face and a tear rolled down his cheek. Grabbing my hand with a surprising force he opened my palm and forced the picture into my hand, closing my hand over it.

“I…….. I… you………….. I missed you,” he said quietly, his voice rough and cracked. I smiled at the understatement, and felt my eyes grow hot as tears slid down my cheeks. “Parents……..?” Eric posed softly the question. I shook my head, hair obscuring my face, which he brushed away as before, this time softly wiping away the tears. This time his hand dropped away, as if the effort exhausted him. “I held on you know………for you. I…… knew you’d come. This will be twice in one lifetime…………. I forgot your name… in a time………… of want,” Eric said, and my voice stuck. His grip got stronger but his eyes unfocused. I waited, not knowing what to say. Finally, “I love you Eric.” Something I had wanted to say, should have said a long time ago, when we were just teens- me a lost girl in a small town- him a boy already a man, purpose found in life. He smiled. Only then did his grip slack, and I could look at the picture he pressed into my hand. It was wrinkled, and had a smear of blood on it. It was a sepia tone of a young girl, sitting straight in an old style dress, a contrast of composure and age. I slowly realized it was a picture of me- a yearbook photo from middle school. I smiled, and sobbed, falling onto my knees and collapsing into his side. Slowly he put his arm around me, and weakly his fingers brushed the hair on the back of my head. “Emily…………” he whispered, and his hand slowly slid to my shoulder. I cried, and as I cried I could smell canvas.

Author's Note

I wrote this about a year or so ago, and it's kind of just a test submission. I'll probably post more of my more recent writing soon.

Reviews

[Taylor]

At the very start, the reader stumbles over "the light was dark." I don't think you want that since the reader needs to be engaged early on or the reader who is quite fickle will stop reading. Also in the first paragraph you write, "bundle of stick thin arms and legs, against the wall of the building." I like the description of him; however "of the building" is unnecessary and dilutes the impact. You might use a description of the wall, such as "cold" or "rough" or "gray" or ??? You also had made the point in the previous sentence that "pile of humanity" of which he was a part "lay against the wall."