Pumpkin and the Pocket Watch

and the Pocket Watch

  By

  Hanson Hovell Holladay

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Cover Art by Robert Lee Edward Holladay

  Image #AP3903160145, Associated Press (Public Domain)

  Pumpkin and the Pocket Watch

  Copyright 2014 by Hanson Hovell Holladay

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Pumpkin and the Pocket Watch

  About Hanson Hovell Holladay

  Other Works by Hanson Hovell Holladay

  Connect with Hanson Hovell Holladay

  Hundreds, if not thousands of men ran past her through the littered street, most in pairs carrying the wounded in stretchers. For what must have seemed an eternity, she watched them from beneath a capsized carriage near one of the few towering light posts. Alone, and almost in the open, she fed from a maggot infested horse carcass in front of the carriage for days, with only stagnant water polluted by blood and debris to drink. Outside of her refuge the War continued.

  Covered by the scars of mange and malnourishment, the angled mark of a blade over her right eye, drowned in murky fog, with a shortened tail, she existed with a fear and caution indescribable – like that of a sole prey amongst an infinite herd of predators. Perhaps she had been abandoned. Perhaps she had been born into the War – a product.

  Throughout the street screams of fear, panic, and rage streamed from every direction; her senses allowed her to detect the rise in amplitude – the coming of conflict.

  Gently, she eased out onto the street in a flat crawl covered in mud and excrement. In just moments her coat of dry filth was replaced by fresh muck. The men were still running, but too engaged in the wounded to take notice of her. Ever so slowly she began to rise, as though in preparation for a final sprint. And, as she observed their rhythms, from somewhere behind her the growth of a ferocious hum signaled an approach, and within an instant she flattened herself further – deeper and deeper into the wet foulness. With her eyes directed upward, she watched an enormous fighter with stacked wings fly over the caved-in rooftops, and barely evade, across the cityscape. And, just like a bird, it steered into the sky in an angled climb.

  Still low to the filth, she moved onto the sidewalk buried beneath broken timber, bricks, shingles, glass and nails, and pressed her sickly body to a building. The groans and stretcher-bearers increased; more men and nurses raced from down the street and from within the buildings. Like a mudslide of catastrophic power, the filth from the clash of a near endless number of boots sailed through the air in a shower of both human and natural sickness.

  The loose filth fell upon her like rain. And as she watched the men and women panic along the street, she began to tremble, unknown of the new approaching fear.

  “Aus der traum!” Screamed an unseen man from around the corner.

  “Feuer frei!” Shouted another, followed by defining blasts. “Feuer frei!”

  Without hesitation – without fear of what lay ahead, she sprinted with all her might down the sidewalk, having leaped over torturous obstacles and shards that were hellish in appearance. In mere moments she raced through a broken down door and up a flight of splintered stairs. Infested with dampness and mold and the odor of death, she pressed her body onto the wooden floor, her vision fixed on the fallen door in which she entered.

  Outside, through the haze of the world’s might, the War neared, just as an approaching tempest of pure hatred. In a desperate want to sink further onto the floor at her paws, she sealed her eyes and became near level with the rough protection beneath her. From outside a whistle on the rise could be heard.

  Across the street, out of sight through the fallen door, an immense explosion of heavy savagery consumed all in its power, having released filth and debris high into the air and through the doorway before her. For seconds – for minutes the hum of the War echoed throughout her mind and body.

  The debris and filth rained from above like the dark cinders of an apocalyptic fire. As she loosened the tight seal of her eyelids, the passing of shadows and boots over the littered sidewalk consumed her vision. Without control – her nerves and muscles outside of her physical authority – she began to shake. Like a creature near death in the catacombs of a harsh winter’s ice, she trembled violently; like the machines of production, her heart and body raced without halt, penetrating all of her existence at once.

  In a mad release she yelped over her trembling. Over and over she yelped aloud into the War through the broken down door.

  “Schnelle truppen!” The voices of many shouted over the falling debris. “Schnelle Truppen!”

  Through the hum of battle, somewhat faded, the near and distant bursts of the War consumed the air; and the shadows – the shadows moved in the opposite direction, only far less frantic. Like firecrackers, the shots each popped one behind the other, interrupted only by the occasional shriek of pain.

  Just before her, through the fallen door, a man fell onto his chest, half inside the building and half out. Again, without control, she yelped aloud at the sight of the grey uniform covered in filth and ash before her, thick and dark blood over scorched shreds of wool.

  Still wet with grime, the falling filth and debris finally settled through the open ceiling above her, leaving her in near perfect camouflage within the urban setting. Covered by ash and grit, she listened to the War: faint, though still present. The shouts continued, along with the occasional pop of small arms fire. The hum had still been within her mind, but much of the horror seemed to have vanished with the new shadows.

  She continued to shiver, and outside the broken door the shadows continued to move in the opposite direction of the stretcher-bearers, one behind the other. For her, stranded and alone for so long, shadows quickly formed a representation of pure and absolute terror.

  “Chase the Heinies through!” Shouted a loud, almost over-amplified voice. “Forward! Forward!”

  New voices: foreign voices, though still unrecognizable – still different. They were fresh voices over the old, just as the filth over the street and her coat.

  “Corporal Jennings!” Shouted the same voice. “Check the apartment and get topside. We’ll need you there.”

  The clash of boots re-emerged. “Lieutenant! Lieutenant, get down to the…”

  From down the staircase she could hear the combination of boots and wood. Slowly, step-by-step, the pair of boots covered the ground floor with great softness and ease, as though frightened of every square bit of surface. More so than before she shook uncontrollably, like a tree in the midst of a terrible storm, in desperation to dash forth and out the door, not once making an attempt to look back, only to press forward until the War’s end – until the very end. Unable to move, she urinated onto herself and the floor.

  She could hear debris shatter beneath the boots below. After several moments the treads of the boots moved onto the splintered steps, one by one, nearly each having announced itself in a low tone, an eerie creak. She released a muffled whine, both front paws over her snout. She trembled so violently, and more so as the steps neared.

  The man on the steps breathed heavily as he neared the top. With what strength she had left she pressed both paws tightly atop her snout. She didn’t seem to have the energy to escape – to run from the War anymore.

  “Dear God’n Heaven,” whispered a gentle, almost boyish voice. “Pumpkin, are you alright?”

  With her snout buried beneath her paws she must have felt invisible. For moments she remained silent, still in a severe tremble.

  “Pumpkin – pumpkin…” The man seemed to stop, as though unprepared. With a light thump onto the floor, followed by a much lighter thump, he approached her. “My God. Pumpkin, what they done?”
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  Just another voice, she must have thought; another voice capable of harm. No more urine remained within her system to release, only a tremble of absolute terror – another muffled whine.

  More light thumps of gear impacted the wooden floor. Still gentle, the steps of the man approached until directly at her side.

  “Shh,” he whispered to her, “it’s gonna be alright.”

  She released a sudden loud yelp when he tried to take hold of her. Both paws were still covering her snout, with muffled sighs.

  “It’s alright, pumpkin,” He whispered, with his hands in a soft, gentle grip around your frail body. “It’s alright.”

  Corporal Jennings, with a rifle strapped across his back, made his way through dozens of other men, all identical to one another in clothing and gear, insignia and weapons. He held two tin canisters, one