The Writing Challenge Will Improve Your Writing!
A Child's Shoe
By Amy Michelle Wiley
Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 – Advanced)
Topic: Beach (07/04/05)
The waves rolled steadily onto the Sri Lankan shore, falling just short of the woman’s toes. This was the water in which her husband had spent his days fishing, the waves her children had played among. But in the end, it was this same water that had taken all that away.
A wave caught her feet and panic constricted her throat as she scrambled desperately backward. But, loosing its power, the water drifted back into the ocean.
But the wave left a piece of its guts at her feet. A tiny child’s shoe lay before her. Shantha picked it up. Emotions suffocated her. She wondered if this child’s mother was alive and if she, too, was standing with empty arms, full of despair and guilt.
All her memories were overpowered by one day. One surge of water that had washed everything away. If only she had seen the rising water sooner. If only she had been able to carry all three girls. If only she had not tripped, maybe little Rani would not have been wrenched from her arms by the waves.
“What have I done to deserve this?!” She fell to her knees, arms outstretched. No answer came.
Tears filled her, great sobs that threatened to wrench her very soul from within her. Spent, she finally rose, half-consciously clutching the shoe. As she plodded back to the refugee center in Ampara she tried to ignore the empty stretches that had once been forest, now scattered liberally with litter. The putrid smell of dead bodies filled the air and Shantha gagged, quickening her steps toward camp. Finally the smell of death gave way to the sent of the living--sewage and sweat.
Reaching the camp, she awkwardly shoved the shoe into her pocket and scanned among the white tents for her one living son. She spotted Marudu unloading bottled water from a truck.
Shantha jumped when she felt an arm around her shoulders. It was her new friend, Danika. “Shantha, will you help me hand out food?” Danika smiled.
Shantha nodded wearily. She followed Danika toward the makeshift kitchen, grateful to have something to do. She marveled that she had become friends with a Sinhalan. Who would have imagined that it would be the Tamil people’s worst enemies who would come to their aid when disaster struck?
They worked alongside missionaries late into the afternoon, preparing food packets. One of the missionaries turned to Shantha and Danika, “A local church is having a service tonight. Would you like to come?”
A longing stirred inside Shantha. Perhaps the pastor could give her assurance that her family had gone to a better life. Their bodies had not been recovered. They had not been cremated. Shantha shuddered at the thought of their souls trapped forever under the cold water. “My son and I will come.”
Shantha, Marudu, and Danika listened as the pastor preached, telling of one God, the creator of the world. He spoke of a man named Jesus, of the miracles He had done, and of heaven. But he did not tell Shantha what she wanted to hear.... Continue Reading
Amy has been a FaithWriters member and moderator for years. Find more of her work HERE. 
