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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · History · #2319590
George is a 113 years old man who is telling his grandsons, Bran and Dean, about his life.
Hey y'all, I just wanted to share with you a story I'm currently writing. I'm excited to get your thoughts on the first chapter. Here's a glimpse:

[Part 1]


In an old seat, there was a man called George who lived for so many years and had countless adventures to tell his grandsons. He would tell them about the first girl he loved, a beautiful lady who served the medicinal front in the war, his first job where he almost got fired after a discussion, and some other exciting stories.

They loved the days their grandfather told them these adventures because they were always interesting and exciting. Bran and Dean always came back with questions and sparking curiosity, as if they could hear some of the greatest tales of all. Even the older brother seemed interested and behaved like the child he was.

George was a man of the world. He lived in England during the 1940s, marked by revolutions and changes that bubbled all around the globe. In his youth, people feared and respected him. His competence and discipline, along with the terrors of war, hardened his heart.

His grandsons heard with pleasure and enthusiasm, thirsty to know more about their grandfather’s life.

-The story I’m going to tell you, sons, is a very long and sad piece... And marked me forever, as you will know as I start. I have lived in England for many years, saw a lot, and can say it’s a heck of a country... But my life was not that harsh or bad. I can say it was, in some moments, very happy, although not easy.

It all started when I met Ayla. She is dead now, but teens like you wouldn’t know how much I felt great by her side... This is what a great woman teaches you. I knew her in the War, and at first, she tried to run from me or even bite or hurt me seriously. None of us shared a great first meeting if you ask me.

I thought for a moment that the doctor-that woman- was crazy, but I recognized it was not easy to serve, especially wounded soldiers on the verge of death. I must tell the anger, despair, and sorrow around that place, which was something I never forgot. The smell and taste of blood still stick with me to this day.

And, yet, I wanted to help in some way. Don’t know why, but I thought that I could not leave that room without doing something. Then, I started giving bandages, scalpels, medicines... Ayla was an extremely determined person, maybe even more than me.

A man with black and short hair came to the local where we’ve treated the soldiers. He seemed to be one of the most suffering guys until then. His eyes revealed that some of his friends had died, and he could not help them. For moments, I felt the pain of this man and was able to understand a glimpse of what he came through.

The eyes are such a wizarding source to the human soul. You can lie whatever you want, but you cannot stop them. And the truth is always hard to swallow. That boy I saw was the age of you, Bran, and I think you are similar to him.

In this particular episode, it was raining, and so strong that I feared we would be wiped out or hit by lighting. But all the terror the medical front had was with the patients' lives. It would be devastating to lose the soldiers, and they all did their best to make sure they returned home after the war.

Of course, we lost. Never felt so disappointed or disturbed in my life, even when I joined the Don’t know what Riders... “Kameo Riders”.

But I guess I’ve talked too much...

As if opposing George’s statement, Dean, the younger brother, made clear his disappointment:

-But this soon? You didn’t finish your story! What happened next?

Bran, as always, made an odd observation:

-Why did you say your life was happy if every story you tell us is either sad or dangerous?

George thought that his child sometimes noted things he couldn’t explain exactly. “That is a good question, indeed”. The old man sighed, and only responded “That’s why people are happy”, and, trying not to sound so mysterious, “Maybe you’ll find happiness when accepting the way the world is”.

Bran disagreed with that, but he accepted the advice. Dean too seemed to not agree with his grandpa's words, but still kept quiet. It started to rain, the thin fingers of water running through the roof and falling below, onto the sidewalks.

They felt relieved, especially the old man as if this was lifting a burden from his shoulders, which warped his perception of life.

The senior had a faint smile. He started to get a little tired, and then he got up from the chair and headed to the kitchen.

There was a red bottle of coffee on the sink. He set it down and poured some into a glass cup, sipping. His legs were hurt because of the time he sat, and he tried to walk a little before going to the chair. His grandsons were using the smartphone, and the other was reading a Japanese comic that George didn’t know the name.

The bitter black liquid went down his throat like an anvil, but it was nothing compared to war. He remembered seeing death hovering over the soldiers, like a merciless executioner. The rain soaked into the bones of those present that day, but it could not disguise the trail of death that cut through the air.

He returned to the chair, drinking his warm coffee, while Bran and Dean bombarded him with questions. The first one was more curious about the story of the war he fought, and what he saw there, meanwhile, Dean was eager to know more about the Kameo Riders.
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