Bullets in the Rain (ON HOLD)

Prologue

   My town is a rundown place with dark corners on every street. My Mother made sure that our house would be outside of town, less chance of being robbed. Also, a place outside of the surrounding woods, a place to flee and hide.

   My Mother thought of a lot of things when she came to this town and with me in her stomach.

   Food: down the road at the food market stands.

   Water: a canal full of water runs behind our house.

   Money: she knits and sows really well and was able to get a job at the town's dress shop.

   Shelter: my father was able to give his parting gift of a small house he built before he passed.

   What more do your need to survive? And that's what we did, we survived every day.

   My Mother was strong; she taught me everything I know. I can take care of her and myself because of her wisdom. She is my everything in this rainy town.

   I quit school two years ago when I was 16. My Mother made enough to scrape by, but if I helped I knew I could give us more. More than just scraps.

   For the past year and a half, I have worked at a local rancher's property. Feed horses and cows, plow fields, pick strawberries from the small garden, and then get paid at the end of the week. It is a good job, but it doesn't really improve anything for our lives.

   I needed to do something. I couldn't do two separate jobs, I would have no time to be home with her, but also my job at the ranch takes up the whole day. I don't have time, unless I quit. If I quit, it will be for a job that is worth it from the start.

   The rain hasn't stopped all week. Typical weather here. I put away the muck rake as I finish up for the day. My jacket is soaked and my back aches from the rhythmic pellets of rain. My work boots muddy and wet, thankfully not on the inside of them. That's one thing I like about this job. My boss pays for everyone's work boots. He gets nice one's sent in from the city and gives them out to all of his workers.

   The horses restlessly stomp their hooves as thunder begins to echo in the sky. I quickly clean up the rest of the stable tools and head out to the work shed next to the rancher's house. I make sure to scrape off the mud from my boots at the doorstep and walk into the well-lit shelter.

   No one else is in the shed, must still be working or already went home. I head over to the open graph book and find the page with my name written on it from this morning.

Morris Thornton. Clocked in: 5:47 a.m.

   I glance at my leather watch and write down the time.

Clocked out: 6:23 p.m.

   The walk home is a simple one through town. Wet streets, warm lit shops, and people huddled under roofs or umbrellas.

   I walk to the grain shop and buy the last loaf of bread of the week until my next pay. I make sure to tightly wrap it in the small towel that the baker gave me and stuff it inside my shirt.

   Before I race back into the rain and make my way home I notice a crowd of people across the street next to the bank.

   A crowd outside in the rain? It must be new comers or some sort of merchant from the city trying to sell. Good luck with that.

   The curiosity in me gets the best of me though. I hug the loaf close to my chest and run across the street to where the rain is sheltered by porch roofs.

   I notice that there are only males in the small crowd, most of them around my age. I dodge and weave through the throng of guys and finally get a better look of the cause of the ruckus.

   Military sign ups.

   A man in a fancy uniform sits on a stool in front of a table with two uniform men on either side of him. A bold banner is strung across the front of the table with the words, "Stand and Fight with Us," written on it.

   I don't know much about the city's military system. I know that some go to wars and some stay in the regions to help with keeping everything in order. We might be at war, but I'm to bothered to search for those answers when my first priority is to get food on the table at home.

   The man sitting on the stool is a strong man. His uniform clean and dry from the shelter. His gray hair is bushy and peeking out from his cap. His eye match the color of his hair and hold memories and mysteries behind closed doors. Wrinkles form around his tight brow and stern mouth. I can only think that he looks like a man who is on a mission. Someone who has seen more than I could never hope to see.

    His eyes slide to me in a quick motion. When our eyes meet, I can feel his judgement flow from him in dark waves. A shiver slithers up my spine and grips my cold limbs.

    I don't like it.

    "Hello, sir," I say in a shaky but politely voice.

    He nods in acknowledgement. His eyebrows scrunch up in deep thought.

    I'm about to turn away and just head home but his hand hits the table as he stands up from his stool. The two men on his side look towards me when he is fully stood up. All eyes on me. It's suffocating.

    "You young sir, listen up," the middle aged man with gray eyes says, pointing at me with one hand and leaning on the table with the other. "There is a war going on."

    His voice is loud and clear but rough. Everyone huddled around the table fall silent and all attention goes to him.

    "We need men who are in need. Men in need are determined and worthy of this uniform," he says gesturing to the men on his left and right. He pauses, licking his lips with a thoughtful expression. "I am not a lying man. This town is broken and the people living here are holding on by thin strings of hope. You people are cutting yourselves off from others and focusing on the now and what in your lives. Nothing wrong with that, but in the big scheme of things, it's a fruitless life."

    His words hang in the air like a blanket wrapping itself around everyone. Tension is growing around me in high volumes and my heart is beating at the truth behind his words.

    The boys around me fidget and restlessly murmur among themselves, but I can't hear them. I can't feel anything.

    The man in front of me looks at me. His features soften and he leans forward over the table. He holds a pen out to me and simply says, "What if hope was staring at you in the face, son? Would you stare back or walk away?"

    I look at him and then to the pen. Breathing in and out. I slowly take the pen and firmly nod once.

    For my Mother. For the place we call home. For the road that we walk down that needs hope. I stare back at hope for these precious things.

    Then I write my name the second time today.