BRUSH CREEK WRITERS began to encourage conversation among writers of all interests and genres.  It has evolved into a twice monthly meting with an emphasis on prose and poetry.  Many members attend both meetings, though a few only attend the prose or poetry sessions.

Brush Creek Writers was established in 2007 by Katherine Stevens.  We meet monthly on the second and fourth Thursday of each month at 2:00 at Brush Creek Mill, 121 South State Street, Hillman.  The second Thursday of each month has a focus of prose, and the fourth Thursday of each month has a focus of poetry. We have no dues or membership fees.  At each meeting there may be a prompt, there may be a lesson, there is always time for every member to share his/her writing. Our goal at Brush Creek Writers is to encourage writing of all kinds.  Our members vary from beginning writers to listeners to published poets and authors. We all have something to learn from each other.

We welcome writers of all ages, High School and up, of all genre inters and of all ability levels.

At a typical meeting:

Prose:  Second Thursday of the month.  Each writer is asked to read their reaction to the month’s prompt.  A writer may always pass.  After each writer in the group has had the opportunity to share their prompt response.  We go around the table again and each writer is asked to share something he/she brought-something she/he wrote or something another wrote.  If an author has a piece he/she wants critiqued by the group, I need to know in advance so copies may be made and time maybe allotted.

Poetry:  The fourth Thursday of the month, works much the same way.  This year, instead of  a prompt we study a poem by Bob Dylan each month and each writer’s reaction to it.  Then we share the poetry we brought.

We may also have a lesson at either of the meetings.  The choice is often based on discussions, or an article from Writer’s Digest or from  Poets and Writers.  Group members often bring in articles of interest, or send me articles with questions for discussion.

Brush Creek Writers also supports an annual Student Writing Contest, open to students from grades 7-12.  The rules change yearly and will be posted here in the future.  They are also mailed to libraries, newspapers, and schools in the fall.  Due dates are February 28th.  Ceremony in June. A Copy of the Rules is available by CLICKING HERE.

This year’s Winners of the North East Michigan Student Writing Contest

Brush Creek Writers is pleased to announce the winners of the fifth annual North East Michigan Student Writing Contest.   Usually we award four $100 prizes and one $200 Prize. But this year we had a tie! That is, after meeting three times, we could not decide between the top two stories, so we awarded three $100 prizes and two $200 prizes.  After we made the decision, we discovered we had chosen brothers!

The contest began in 2014 as the brainchild of Allan James Grund, who felt we needed to do more to encourage young writers, so the contest is open to students in grades 7-12.  At first a Tri-County Short Story contest, it was open only to students who resided in Alpena, Presque Isle and Montmorency Counties. Because some of the students attended schools outside of these counties, or attended non-traditional schools, the requirement was that they reside in one of the counties, regardless of the location or type of school attendance.  We maintained this same requirement when we enlarged the contest to include all of North East Michigan.

Brush Creek Writers was established in 2007 by Katherine Stevens.  We meet monthly on the second and fourth Thursday of each month at 2:00 at Brush Creek Mill, 121 South State Street, Hillman.  The second Thursday of each month has a focus of prose, and the fourth Thursday of each month has a focus of poetry. We have no dues or membership fees.  At each meeting there may be a prompt, there may be a lesson, there is always time for every member to share his/her writing. Our goal at Brush Creek Writers is to encourage writing of all kinds.  Our members vary from beginning writers to listeners to published poets and authors. We all have something to learn from each other.

This year’s winning students are:  Jonathan Prevo of Alpena, for “Heidi’s Creek” (A reminiscence on the death of a friend);  Erin Senn of Oscoda, for “Skipping Stones” (A story in poetic form of parental abandonment); Jacklyn Wintersheimer of Roscommon, for “I Died” (A suicide who watches life go on without her ); and our two winners, the Price brothers of Fairview, who wrote historical short stories:  Joshua Price for “Fallen Forest” (how a child, in the midst of the horror of World War II brings sanity); and Jonathan Price for “Brothers in Arms” (A Civil War Battle where brothers learn the terrible cost of war). All these excellent stories are available on the Brush Creek Writers page at www.brushcreekmill.com.

The Contest is supported each year by donations from Brush Creek Mill “Teeing Up For Kids” (their annual July golf tournament), Thrivent Donations, and donations from Brush Creek Writers.  Next year’s contest deadline will be February 28, 2019. Rules will be available at school and public libraries, from English teachers, online at www.brushcreekmill.com and on Facebook at Brush Creek Writers.  Brush Creek Writers may be reached at brushcreekwriters@gmail.com.

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up. I made myself breakfast. I added grape jelly to my eggs and made myself a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. I squeezed an orange into a glass. I put my dishes in the sink.

The night after I killed myself, I went back to the yard where my brother and I left our handprints in concrete as toddlers and saw how they were already fading away. I saw my brother, tracing my handprint and then his. I saw him crying, crying harder than I’d ever seen him before. I touched his back, to see what would happen. I saw him shiver, and wrap his arms around his legs. I saw my elderly neighbor, as his wife told him the news of my death

The Wednesday after I killed myself, I fell in love, but not in the sense that you’re thinking of. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room, holding each piece of my coin collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. She held the coin that started my collection, the one I got from Japan. She held the one that she had given me just before I died, the one from Germany. I hugged my mother one last time, as she put all of my coins back into the drawer. She shook her head and wiped her tears.

The Saturday after I killed myself, I went to my funeral. I watched as my mother collapsed at the casket, a bawling mess. I watched as my twin brother gave a speech. How he would have tried to help me. I watched my father hold my mother’s back as the priest gave a speech. I watched my casket get lowered into the six foot grave they had dug.

A week after I killed myself, I fell in love with my father, down at the beach, as he placed my letter, gently into a bottle and sent it into the waves. I watched the way he let it go until it was completely out of sight. I took his hand as I had so many times as a little kid. He shivered and ran back into the water fully clothed to get my letter back. I watched as he put it in the cupholder of his truck and never let it go.

Two weeks after I killed myself, I fell in love with my brother who always told me that it would get better. My brother who, had just yesterday believed in magic, now sat at his desk, desperately trying to believe I still existed. I watched my brother walk our dogs. I watched the way their tails twitched when birds flew by or how they quickened their paces at the sight of a squirrel or a cat. I saw the empty space in their eyes when they reached the sticks and turned around, but instead of greeting us both, it was only my brother.

A month after I killed myself, I saw my favorite teacher, Mr. Hale, driving his car down the road and pullover. I saw him take out his bronze sobriety coin. I saw him flip the coin in his hands, and then look around at where he was. I saw him look at the liquor store. I set my hand on his shoulder and he shivered as if it was cold. He took one

last look at the liquor store before driving off.

Four months after I killed myself, I saw my brother graduate along with my friends. I saw the principal give a speech about me and dedicate the plaque by the showcase to me. I saw my friends and brother cry along with my parents after the graduation. I saw my best friend place a cap on my headstone along with a couple bouquets of my favorite flowers. I hugged his back, slowly realizing something. He straightened back up, sniffed and walked back to his truck.

A year after I killed myself, I ran into the person I was destined to marry. I saw him get the chill so many other people I had touched got. I had known him before. Who knows… Maybe if one thing had turned out differently, it all would have.

Two years after I killed myself, I watched in a more dream like state, the things that would have happened. I watched as my brother and I stood with our friends, graduating on the small highschool stage. I watched the three of us go to different colleges and I stayed with my true love. I watched as we all graduated, and went on a wonderful vacation. I watched all the things that could have been different. I watched myself get married.

Three years after I killed myself, I watched in horror as my dad suffered a heart attack. I watched as my brother huddled around my father’s hospital bed. I stood next to his bed and told him not to let go. I told him that I had given up too soon. I told him not to give up; that I had missed too much and that I would give anything to go back.

Four years after I killed myself, I watched my twin graduate from his dream college. I watched as my mother cried and my father hug his son. I watched my brother get engaged to his girlfriend he met in freshman year of college. I watched him get married. A beautiful wedding. I saw they saved a seat for me, a seat that would never be filled. I sat in the seat and watched as they said their vows. I sat in the seat and imagined all of the things I could have had, now gone forever. I watched as they danced on the floor of the reception hall.

Five years after I killed myself, I saw my niece and nephew on the anniversary of my death. My brother, his wife, and the new twins huddled around my grave. I saw him explaining, even though they didn’t and couldn’t understand, that their aunt had died and that she would have been the greatest aunt ever. On the anniversary of my death, I saw my dad down at the beach, writing his own note and putting it into a bottle. I waited until he was gone and picked it up. I unravelled the note and read it.

Sometimes, I can still feel you here with us. It’s been five years and still…I hope whoever finds this can see that someone out there is watching. Someone out there cares. That people will miss you.

Love, Dad Ten years after I killed myself, I watched the sun go down, each shade of orange, purple, blue, and pink illuminating the sky.

Ten years later, I opened my eyes.

By Jacklyn Wintersheimer

It all began on a dreary fall morning. We were cold, damp, and groggy. Our military bags had been drenched by the rain the night before. The smoky breakfast fire was barely adequate to even to warm our coffee. It was then that we realized that Captain Holland was missing. Most of the men assumed that the captain had gone for a walk. Nonetheless, I felt uneasy. Something hung in the air, a melancholy feeling of tragedy and despair.

I set out immediately, taking my rifle with me. The Germans had fled, but my courage was always wavering. The war left us all in emotional shambles. The pain we had seen would stay with us the rest of our lives. I found Captain Holland standing alone on a stone jut out that overlooked a small lake and gazing toward a row of picturesque mountains. His stony glares revealed the war that raged within him, a battle between his humanity and his insanity.

I saluted and called out, “Private Amos Drake reporting, Sir.”

Captain Holland didn’t move a single muscle as he replied, “At ease, Drake.”

I relaxed some and approached the captain. As I came alongside him, I beheld the large and ghoulish gash that had been torn across his face. The injury had been inflicted during the battle on Normandy Beach. One of the landing boats had exploded throwing shrapnel everywhere. Many troops died from the flying metal, but Captain Holland received only the severe facial wound. After that, something had changed in him. He wasn’t the same captain I had once known. I knew not what traces of a man remained in his blackened spirit.

I bent my head and spoke softly. “Captain, we must pull back. The Germans have been routed. Let’s go home.”

The captain fixed me with a strange and unnerving sideways glance. “I will not rest until I have tracked the last of those dogs down.”

I nodded hesitantly. “But, sir, we’ve chased them over their own land. They have already abandoned this war.”

He whirled on me with a scowl that showed every detail of his nightmarish face. “They must pay for what they’ve done to this world. The last of Hitler’s vermin will fall to Ally hands. I’ll see to that.”

“But, Captain…”

He raised a hand to cut me short. “Quiet, soldier.” He got a far-off look to his eyes; his face became etched with intense concentration. After a long pause, he motioned south. “Do you see that? There’s smoke rising.” A wild fire lit up within his eyes. “We haven’t lost them yet! Move yourself, man! We march now.” He turned on his heel and nearly ran toward the camp.

We got moving in quick order. The thirty of us had our packs on and guns in hand. We trudged up the muddy slopes of the mountains on foot. Many a time we slipped and nearly went over the cliff’s edge. But Captain Holland kept moving rapidly forward.

It was a long and grueling trek. Our limbs were worn, and our bodies were coated with mud and grime. It was nearly dusk when we found the German camp. It was surrounded by a large palisade with an iron door at the front. We darted cautiously forward. Thick black smoke rose from the interior. Holland thought it to be the remnants of a campfire. I doubt he knew what he was thinking. Anyone knows that a campfire would never be this large or black. I felt a cold sensation crawling down my spine.

The air began to stink of blood, of human flesh. Every nerve in my body tingled with reverberating stabs. The captain refused to recognize this. He rushed toward the iron door with determined vigor. He began to kick the door in hopes of breaking it open. The veins on his neck bulged, sweat beaded his forehead, and his scar gleamed like hot metal. We pulled back, unsure what the extent of his madness was.

The door burst open with a forceful stroke. Following that final booming kick, there was silence. I ran to the captain’s side with my fellow soldiers. What we saw drew our breath from our lungs. So this was what hell looked like.

In that moment, I felt my soul leave my body. A shock that war had never given me before was suddenly thrust upon me, for there, lying on the cobblestone, were bodies. Dozens of skeletal bodies lay strewn across the courtyard. Realization quickly dawned on us. This was a death camp.

We had all heard tales of that unnamed evil lurking in Germany, that unspoken word which so few accepted or wished to believe. Now, we fully grasped its meaning. This word, Holocaust, was perfect to suit this pit. The word holocaust translates to “burning sacrifice.” This was Hitler’s sacrifice to his vile imitation of the Christ.

We strode forward in solemn silence. Men, women, and yes, even children with their young faces withered away, lay dead, strewn across the ground like freshly cut trees. We found people from all walks of life. Gypsies, Englishmen, Frenchmen, and even Germans lay in this pile like trash. But of all the bodies found, none were as numerous as the Jews. There were Jews everywhere of every age. They all bore the mark of a yellow star.

We discovered more evils as we progressed through the camp. The worst of our discoveries was a great pile from which pitch black smoke billowed. Within that dark cloud lay a massive pile of ashes. To the naked eye, this would seem no different than a great bonfire. But the stench told us otherwise. I fell to my knees, and allowed my heart to cry out.

Holland commanded us to move out. There were too many corpses for us to bury.
“For pity’s sake, Captain! We must give these poor wretches some form of memorial,” I insisted.
He whirled on me with rage etched on his face. “Private! The Germans are in fast retreat! The fact that not all of these bodies were burned indicates that they ran out of time!” His forehead creased and his lip curled into a savage snarl. The boom of thunder sounded in the distance. “Now, move before we lose them!”

I felt my jaw tighten. “Sir, these are not scraps of evidence! These are human beings!”
““Let the dead bury the dead! There’s nothing we can do for them.”
At that moment, we heard the unmistakable cry of a child. This caught us all off guard. The air fell suddenly silent save for these cries and the rumbling thunder. The storm was fast approaching, and all eyes turned to the captain. If we searched for the child, we would lose the Nazis.
“Captain?”

We looked into Holland’s eyes and saw confusion, compassion, fear, and sorrow intermingling in his eyes. He pulled the pistol from his holster and fired a shot into the ground in frustration. There was a long pause. Then, raising his head slowly, the captain first sighed, then spoke. “Search the camp.”
After much careful searching, we found a little girl. She appeared to be no older than six and bore the marks of a young Jew. She recoiled in fright at the sight of us. We set our guns aside, and Captain Holland knelt down to her level. The poor thing was terrified, as she had a right to be. He removed his jacket and offered it to her. She tentatively accepted it, but she continued to keep her distance. Holland gave her a biscuit from his pocket. She started by nibbling at it, and then she began to devour it with alacrity.

The captain sat down and tried to make conversation. They spoke in German so it was hard to decipher, but I caught the main points. She and the other captives had been rushed out of the bunker at gunpoint. Once they were outside, the shots were fired. In their haste, the Germans were not quite as thorough as they had presumed. Someone had grabbed her as they shot and shielded her from the bullets.
The captain asked her, “What is your name, child?”

The girl’s eyes shone as they revealed the pride in her heritage. She looked like a young queen at her coronation. “Hadassah,” she replied boldly.

Holland’s words came in the form of pure emotion. “It’s a mouthful for me. May I call you Esther?”

With an expression strangely mature for her age, Hadassah nodded.

Captain Holland became a new man. The solemn experience left him somehow reborn. What did it take to soften this man’s iron heart? He had been dead inside; nothing but death could be found in his soul. Yet the simple cry of a child filled him with life once more.

By Joshua J.D. Price

I stand here on the rocks of Brush Creek, water lapping at my ankles, breeze waltzing over my arms. It was almost romantic, really, how different parts of nature flourished off of one another. Sitting on the rocks was a bit difficult, but, once you are fully relaxed and set down, the pain decides to back off. The wheel behind me turned lazily at work at a job so repetitious that it became dull.

It had been a few years since I had sat with her here. I was quite little when Heidi died, but I remember the time I spent with her so well. Sometimes, when she was babysitting me and she couldn’t stand being cooped up inside any longer, she would take me out to the water next to the mill and sit here on the rocks with me as we watched the fish travel down the creek. Heidi wasn’t very old when she died; she had heart problems and died in her sleep at twenty-two years old.

They like to tell you that pain ebbs away like gentle waves, but what they refuse to tell you is that where there is ebb, there is flow. Yes, the pain subsided, but it only takes one moment, one second to remember someone and feel that same heartbreak again. I look at the current of the water and see life going by. It has been a little over a decade since we lost Heidi, and it pains me to see myself getting older and enjoying life knowing that she was robbed of this underappreciated gift. I was very young when she passed, only seven years old, so I didn’t fully understand life and I didn’t fully understand death. All I knew was that my best friend was no longer there.

As I’ve matured, I’ve learned that life isn’t always fair; sometimes you get robbed, and you realize that(Life is not a benevolent overseer but rather a pensive deity, watching and deciding when it must extinguish the flames burning within us. Sometimes, when I go back to Brush Creek

ter, I see her in the current, too. I see Heidi dancing down the smooth, eroded pebbles at the base of the creek, crystallized in a moment of joy and laughter and eternal harmony. I sit there on the rocks until I see her again, but sometimes I can’t quite find her.

It is during those times, when I’m sitting there looking for an answer that life won’t give me, when I realize that life carries on with or without you. When I was little I didn’t understand that this was a good thing, in fact I was rather angry and affronted by this. What audacity does it take to move on from me! Was I not worth it at all? Rather, it’s a blessing that life slowly sails down that creek. A life that stops once you or a loved one is gone is no life worth anything. Once you’re gone, the fish still swim, the cows still graze, the birds still travel. It’s unfair to them to expect it all to quit once you can no longer enjoy it.

Anyways, sitting at Brush Creek makes me feel philosophical. Every now and then I make myself feel better by pretending I was some intellectual like Voltaire or Socrates, pontificating over the stones. I don’t think they knew any more than we did; sure, they knew how to express what they were thinking better than we might, but they were both given the same life we were given. I can’t find Heidi on those pebbles today, so I grab a fallen-down branch, pretend it was a staff, and walk down the shore toward the trees.

The forest isn’t anything too special, but, to me, surrounding oneself with more life is a panacea. I get it; it’s ironic that when one is angry at life the cure-all is to run away somewhere life’s song is the loudest. Perhaps when one is surrounded with so much life the focus is taken off of oneself. Perhaps everyone is searching for that liberation, that freedom, that answer.

You know, I wonder if, wherever she is, Heidi’s out there looking for the same answer that I’m looking for. Maybe she misses our little getaways like I do. Maybe, if she’s an angel now or a fish or whatever, we’ll cross paths again. Man, I’d give anything to catch up with her and to tell her just how much I’ve grown up. I’m sure she’d love to hear it too; she was always willing to listen to me ramble.

Tiring of walking on broken sticks and fallen pine needles, I sit back down on the rocks next to Brush Creek again. I stare at the water some more, looking for Heidi. Maybe someday, when my time’s up and the fish still swim and the cows still graze and the birds still travel, we’ll be wherever, staring at that creek and catching up like old times.

By Jonathan Prevo

Moonlight exposing untouched shore She stands, water lapping at her bare feet Skin luminescent in the night’s glow Her eyes struggle to focus through The fog before her

Two eagles sit beside her She watches the symbols of freedom Wondering what brought them here

To this place of nonexistent potential

A hand reaches out and she takes it She looks over and sees on aged faces For the first time in years Her parent’s smiles

They hand her a pebble And in it she sees the reminders of her past So young, she flicks her wrist Releasing them, and like an old time slideshow On the shore, throwing rocks She sees her past With every pebble plop

Skip Her first memory, a puppy With chocolate for eyes And a coat of gold That paralleled it’s heart Her first friend

Skip Her heart slams As do the doors of the house Her mother packs And her father yells And they leave their daughter behind She holds her companion closer And the system swallows her whole

Skip Her eleventh birthday Where she and her pup sat on a porch Waiting for the ones who never came home They wore cone-shaped hats And sashes with the number Of the uncelebrated day

Skip A car too fast doesn’t see the fur of gold It doesn’t cease its speed A coat colored crimson And a girl’s grasp losened On a sun bleached leash They both fade away

Sink The pebble into the water And her to her knees She feels alone once again And as the fog rolls in She falls into the grey forevermore

By Erin Senn

Frederick sburg, Virginia: December 11, 1862: Adam Jackson “We’ve been sitting up here behind our barricade for near a day, and I seen them unions marching into Fredericksburg as if it was their town. .l been told a regiment from Maine is there, and I hope to God none of them is anybody I know. Them Yankees will see what’s coming’ to em’ after taken our town! My family barely got out of there in time afore all them flooded the place and tore it up. Somehow though, I still feel mighty sorry for em’, an’ I hope they’ll see what’s what an’ leave.”

“Pa, what you doin’ up so early?” Adam’ s son Luke interrupted.

“Nothin,’ Luke, just journaling what we’ve been doin’.”

“Yeah, it’s what Ma would’ve wanted us to do. Well, ain’t ya gonna get some sleep? I hear them Yanks is marchin’ up today.”

” Yes, I know, that’s why I’m up. Seeing a good holy sunrise before this awful affair is gonna make a difference.”

“How’s that?,” Luke was puzzled

“It’s always good to see somethin’ holy before seein’ somethin’ bloody.”

“How’s it gonna be bloody? We got them Yanks where they is! They cain’t get all the way up here!”

“Pray for them Yanks, Luke, just pray for em’ cause they’s gonna need some protection.”

Fredericksburg, Virginia : December 11, 1862: Mathew Jackson ” It’ s been four days since we started marching for Virginia, and we all know what’ll happen when we get there. All I can think of is my daughter Susan back home, and I don’t even know if I’ll make it back to her. Ah, just the thought of Maine; the beaches, the mountains, the forests all in their splendor. I just hope I’ll live to see it again. Oh, God, I pray that I’ll live to see them again!”

“Hey, Mathew! How’ s about you and I get some of the loot they got stored u/p these houses?” James was a friend of Mathews, and a young scruffy soldier who was always anxious for action.

“Now James, you know that ain’t right! It’ s their possessions; we’ve got no business takingri ( ” ‘– “Aw, c’mon! We’ s gonna be rich! And these Johnny Rebs don’ t deserve nothin’ for what they been up to.”

“That ain’t the point. You should be gettin’ yourself some rest before we head up there.”

“Ha! When did you get to being a nanny?”

“Since they’s not reckless like you’s are,” Mathew stated bluntly as he grimaced over his coffee.

Fredericksburg, Virginia: December 11, 1862: Mathew Jackson “We’ve started marchin’ up that hill. I can see the flags of the Rebs up there on the barricade. I see that Virginia flag up there and think of my brother. I can’t believe he chose to live here so far away from family. We used to be so close, but he had to go and see the world without me. Of all places, why settle here? There’s nothing here compared to Maine.”

Fredericksburg, Virginia: December 11, 1862: Adam Jackson “The Yanks have started up here alright, and our cannons is already firing on em’. I pray for their souls. It’s an honor servin’ under Lee, but I know that this ain’t right. Our nation shouldn’t be split like this! What happened to the United States? What happened to my home? Our Virginia flag sails in the wind over my head, and I can feel the courage to fight, but I sincerely wish I didn’t have to. It just ain’t right what’s happenin’”.

The Union forces marched up the hill toward Lee’s men hoping to God their lives would be spared. Meanwhile, the confederates watched as that wave of blue washed up the field. It made Adam think back to the beaches of Maine, but this time the waves did not bring a playful frolic.

All was quiet save for the murmur of some soldiers. Suddenly, the cannons opened fire, and spouts of smoke and dirt popped up all throughout the union forces. The battle had begun.

“Hah! That was a close one!” James called as they slowly marched up the hill. “Figure any of ’em will get us?”

“God only knows. Well, God and the person aiming the cannon up there.” Mathew smiled grimly.

“Ha! You’re putting your trust in Him?” James snorted.

“Whatever’s wrong with God? He put us here, didn’t he?”

“Heh, don’t matter. He ain’t gonna save us, we’s the ones with the guns.”

“Just wait and see, James; just wait and see.”

Suddenly an urgent call rang out from the regiment commander, “Double time, lads! Double time, let’s move!”

“Yes, just wait and see,” Mathew muttered to himself as they charged up the hill.

Ducking behind the barricade, Adam reloaded his rifle for the fifth time and hoped he wouldn’t be aiming it at anyone he knew.

“Hey, Pa!” Luke shouted standing up. “Here comes the regiment from Maine! Chargin’ right on up here!”

“Git down, son!” Adam said sharply. “We cain’t have you gettin’ shot now, can we?”

“Aw, c’mon, I’m fine! They won’t make it all the way up here before we blast em!” Luke stated confidently.

“Is that all they are to you? Are they just targets to you? No Luke! These are people, and people who are our brothers, and sons, and family!” Adam said with a grim tone.

Meanwhile, Mathew and James charged with their regiment up the hill. Mathew looked ahead and saw the Blue Union bodies strewn all across the hill before him, and he shivered at the sight. When his regiment reached the top, he had no time to think; they stopped, aimed, and fired.

“Hah! None of them rebs is gonna take me out! Let’s see what guts they got!”

“Were dropping like flies!” Mathew Yelled to him “They’re barely taking any losses! Don’t let your ego get in the way of your sense!”

Just then, a cannonball whizzed past them and exploded with deafening force behind them. “I cain’t here nothin’ no more!” Mathew cried. “What’s happened?” As Mathew slowly looked up through the haze, Mathew saw a very familiar face.

“Is that Adam?” Mathew said to himself.

“I don’t who you’re talking about, but keep firin’!” James bellowed to him.

Back behind the wall, Adam lowered his rifle, and he saw his brother standing in the line before him.

“Mathew? Well, what in…?”

“What’re you lookin’ at, Pa?!” Luke yelled up to him from his crouched position. “It’s your Uncle Mathew! He’s out there in the regiment were firin’ at!” In a daze, Mathew lowered his gun and stood, dumbfounded.

“Why? Why’s it need to be this way!” Mathew cried.

For a long moment, Adam and Mathew stared at each other. Adam saluted to Mathew, and Mathew saluted back as tears flowed down his face. They stood, less than thirty-yards away from

each other, when suddenly, Adam’s expression changed to one of shock and pain. He stared intently at Mathew for a moment, with a tear in his eye, and he slumped over the wall.

“No! No, no!” Mathew cried as he fell to his knees.

“Mathew! Get up, this no time for blubbering!” James yelled furiously at him.

“You shot him!” Mathew screamed in rage. “You shot my brother!”

“We all have brothers and fathers here! He got on the wrong side, and he lost!”

“There shouldn’t have been sides! This should never have happened!” Mathew roared back through a stream of tears. “Our country should never have been ripped apart like this!

“Well, it is, and there is nothing you can do to change that!” James replied back as he fired another shot into the Confederate ranks.

Meanwhile, in the barricade, Luke pulled his father back behind the barricade, and Adam heard his brother calling out in anguish.

“Why did this happen?” Adam thought. “God, why have we been torn apart like this?” With all his remaining strength, he turned his head to look at his son. Luke wept over his father, embracing him with all his might.

“I’ll kill every one of them Yanks!” Luke cried through bitter tears and gritted teeth.

“No, there are too many angry people already.” Adam said in short breaths. “What we need is someone who sees wrong and rights it, not a vengeful man. We need compassion, not chaos. We need righteousness, not revenge.”

“But what’ll I do, Pa?” Luke sobbed.

“Be a man, a righteous man.”

With that, Adam closed his eyes and collapsed.

It was dark now, and the sky was filled with smoke and the stench of blood. That night, Luke and Mathew both looked up into the sky and wept, One for a brother the other for a father. A mist rolled in, and colors flowed through the sky. Some say it was the cannon smoke, or the northern lights. Some say it was God’s spirit looking o’er the bloody sight That say that rainbow mist that filled the sky; it was the tears of God.

By Jonathan Price