NAPALM

by Brandon Hong
edited by John Hong and Brandon Hong

written 11/07/06
edited 5/06/08

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The war was over! She ran out of the house shouting and giggling with glee. No more having to worry about a possible raid or attack. She had been praying that an enemy raid would never happen on her town, and her prayers had been answered! Allied planes were grazing the skies overhead, in a celebrative fly-by and the city was filled with joy and happiness. She skipped through the town streets dancing and hugging with people she didn’t know, but didn’t care. Life could go on as it used to! No more false alarms, frightened people, and nervous troops passing through. It was all over.

She felt the urge to get something for Papa, who had probably heard the news by now, maybe flowers. Yes, flowers were a good gift of jubilation. She would get him a bouquet. She skipped down the streets looking for the florist. Townsfolk were still dancing in the streets and are shaking each others’ hands, many crying for joy.

She reached the florists’ shop. It was a madhouse of men and women laughing and sharing the wonderful news. She joined in for a while, but realized she still needed to buy the flowers. Taking only the most beautiful flowers that fit such an occasion, she raced back out of the town and past the jubilant crowds back to her father in the fields of corn where he worked.

She smiled and laughed. Everyone was so happy! Years of fighting, bickering, sadness, fear, and every other negative human emotion were finally endured and had paid off! All over…all over.
She continued to race through the streets, connecting with other people’s elations with each other’s smiles. Every now and then she would stop and stare at the sky to take in the calm and exciting beauty of peace. Peace! What a joy!

The hill climb back to her farm was of no struggle. Her delight overcame all and she felt nothing but happiness and solace. She saw her father standing at the edge of the field, dancing while working at the fields. He too felt the same way as she, having waited so long for this day.
She extended her flowers to her father and –

The scream, the flash…the napalm. Everything was on fire…everything. The smell…the putrid smell of gas and some fetid evil, filled her lungs. It smothered out the joy, it drowned her solace, it murdered her peace. Her father was now on fire, still dancing, a darker dance, a dance that only the fires of hell could start.

Her grotesquely burned body turned around to see a grotesquely burned city, once a beautiful creature of its own now was like her father…ablaze and dancing the dance of hell.
Turning around she, fell down at the shock of a second napalm bomb. Now she too was ablaze.

She couldn’t feel anything anymore, yet she had now joined the dance. Yes, everyone had to dance now. No longer could they choose as before, but it was now compulsory, enforced by the machines of death that man had created for one other...

She died.

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“Look at that lady on fire, mommy!” squealed little George. “She looks like she’s-a-dancing!”

“Yes it does George. But isn’t that a bit harsh of a punishment?” replied Mrs. King, squirming in her seat, but still obviously elated by what she saw on the television screen.

Mr. King lit another smoke, readjusting his relaxed posture on the sofa.

“Hell no, Gwen,” he muttered. “You already forgot the dirty surprise attack those bastards pulled on the Ruby Marine Compound?”

She looked into the television screen, blankly as if she had no power to think, seeing bodies fly off buildings and onto the streets, getting back to the join the dance of fire. The bodies called to her in a silent scream, the screen called to her flickering every now and then, and the patriotic parade band in the background made her forget all that.

“Gwen?”

She shook her head and curled her fists into tight balls.

“No…I remembered all right…those…those…those SAVAGES! Those savages killed General Barton. They’ll burn in hell for what they did.”

Napalm fell on the city once more, sending lined balls of flame shooting across the city square.

“Exactly,” Mr. King affirmed with a smile. “They started this whole war.”

Looking at little George eating his dinner, eyes transfixed on the screen, Mr. King put out his cigarette as the tuba section started playing their soli for the second wave of aerial bombardment.

“What do we do to people who show no amnesty for us?” he shouted.

“Show no god damn mercy for them!” George replied, corn spilling from the sides of his fat mouth.

Mrs King turned pale white. Her face contorted to that of a silent scream.

“George! Never EVER, EVER use the Lord’s name in vain in this house. EVER! UNDERSTAND ME?”

On the screen, napalm blew out an apartment, and burning things ran out of the building and onto the ground.

“Sorry, Ma…” George sincerely replied. “It’s all just so exciting.”

Mrs. King’s contorted face broke into a slight smile.

“Of course it is…now finish your chicken...you've only eaten the skin,” she said patting the fat ball of boy on the head.

The camera in the TV zoomed out, an aerial view of the flaming city. No…not flames. Balls of fire. No…not balls of fire. Napalm. Yes napalm. Little black dots moving around the city covered in it.

“Mommy, it looks like a birthday cake,” squealed George. “Those people on fire look like candles!”

They all laughed. Momma was doubling over with laughter, and Papa was slapping his knees. George’s peas continued to flow from the sides of his mouth in laughter.

“We must be celebrating a really old person’s birthday,” snorted Mrs. King. “Look at ALL those candles!”

Those candles are hard to blow out…candles lit with napalm are hard to blow out. Only with sand… Only with sand…

“They’re doing the ‘boogie-woogie’!” Mr. King excitedly cried as he began playing his phantom keyboard in the style of Ray Charles.

The shrieks from the victims grew so loud that from the telly that they seemed to laugh along with the jolly Kings. They really couldn’t stop laughing! Haha!

“Today we celebrate a glorious victory for our motherland!” cried the news announcer. “We have taken out the last stronghold of the malicious enemy and have successfully won the war!”

More napalm. More bodies. More patriotism. A third wave of thousands of bombers flew over the city, slowly…calmly…relaxed…with the pride of true patriots. The city was already leveled and the dance of fire had stopped, yet they continued to bomb a second time.

The family cheered and hugged one another.

“Sadly, a bomber crew of three airmen was killed by heavy enemy resistance. But thanks to the valiant efforts of our glorious military, we stopped the enemy from advancing any further and claimed a magnificent victory for a magnificent country!”’

The family had a moment of silence for the three airmen. Even little George bowed his head/blob of fat in grief. They would never forget the three heroes who died protecting their country from those who were aflame…laughing at their loss.

Lazily, the bombers plodded on, taking turns leveling out the rubble of the city, the patriotic march only growing louder and grander as the city, if it could still be called a city, disappeared.
The aerial view from afar was shown again, and the whole family cheered and shouted for joy.

The savages were pushed back!

The camera again zoomed on a blazing crop field, the black soot and smoke making it difficult to see. Mrs. Smith smiled when the smoke somewhat cleared, and a flaming body was seen lying on the ground, holding a bouquet of what she thought were flowers. They too were ablaze.

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NOTES

Man...I must have seriously been angry about something in the news. This story is obviously and heavily biased against one side. I did not mean this to be an inflammatory statement of a story, but in retrospect after reading this story, I think it does read much better as an inflammatory statement than a middle ground standing. I think there were a lot of parts that were much too heavily and flamboyantly portrayed (the whole Kings description and responses, and the all too cliche 'girl with flowers running across the fields' depiction), but for the purposes of this story, I guess they were necessary (again, this reads better as an offensive paper).

My verdict? Nothing in this work to regret.