The Potomac School
Claudia Ann Seaman Award
Runner-Up for Fiction
A resounding creak, and the door to the attic swings open, rudely awakening a half century’s worth of dust. Hordes of tiny specks flutter in the air, a whirlwind illuminated by a single ray of light peeking through two time-warped wooden boards. On the floor, a small photograph, smeared with sun-stained memories from a distant past. Two dusty textbooks, half-filled with chunks of crinkly pages and well-packed chapters. A crumpled bill with a distant date, 1-9-6-something, insignificant, and yet surely an artifact of some grand history. Two eyes scan the foot of the sunbeam, driven by a memory. A beautiful doll -- where is it? -- worn out by now, undoubtedly, but the image remained strong -- and that dress! -- a silk rainbow-colored masterpiece fit for Joseph the Dreamer himself. The eyes dart back and forth, scouring the floor. A realization. And suddenly, the dust vanishes and it is 1950 again, and like a torrent the memories of a birthday and a long walk and horror come rushing back and flood the attic.
It was Korea and 1950 and summer. The doll was a gift for a birthday -- six was it? -- no, seven, and hand-stitched, a present for a girl from her loving mother, a mother indeed long gone but whose warm smile still radiated sunlight through the cracks of the attic roof. It was that glorious season, yes, those ephemeral few weeks when the year was still young, and summer, having just sprung forth from the buds of the trees, was unblemished by the rains of the coming monsoon.
Then the war came and a wondrous time of birthdays cut short. Surprise, terror, questions. Uncle’s house, it was decided, a safe haven from the armies of the North, but so far away it was -- over 200 miles -- and no car in sight.
Walk. Father, ever the disciplinarian, declared nothing but the bare essentials. No toys.
And yet that night, there was still a girl and her beautiful doll, the doll carefully tucked away under a shirt, clutched ever so tightly away from the watchful eyes of father.
And so the walk marched on, from dawn to dusk, from town to town, from the road’s serpentine windings to the sun’s cruel yellow whips, from the aching burden of their well-stuffed sacks to the cruel thirst in their sandpaper throats, from the scuffles for the last scrap in the food jar to the red dust kicked up by their heels as they marched, one foot in front of the other, the small plumes of dust climbing up, up, up, like birds -- no, like lost souls reaching for the sky, for the heavens, only to be displaced by the wind and never reach the clouds, yet still again and again the plumes rose from the earth, a monotonous cycle, the girl’s small heels and heavy footsteps beating into the ground, and she was merely an ant crawling across the face of a drum, the drum of the world, and she was a soul playing a tune, sending a melancholy rhythm up toward the heavens, the plumes rising into the cerulean sky, and a doll, her doll, clutched tight and shielded from the dust of the world.
And then the war. An American plane. So close -- close enough to see the young face up in the plane, up in the sky, close enough to count the stripes on the flag, yes, seven red ones, blood red ones, and then the blast and blood everywhere -- one step and now the babies, yes, close enough to see the babies, close enough to see the blood, the veins, pulsing, twitching in their necks, spurting blood up into the heavens, their souls scattered with the dust, two more steps and now close enough to see the men lying there, stomachs spilling out, too close, too close, too close for a little girl, yes, a little girl and her rainbow doll, her small heels kicking up dust into the heavens, the red dust and now the smoke and the blood and the flames curling, billowing, rising with the fallen souls, reaching for the sky, twisting and stretching and yearning and crying out, but the sky, so close, tantalizing, taunting, its gates closed, closed forever. And there on the ground, eyes open and tilted toward the pale sky, was a girl, a girl -- six was it? -- no seven, seven years old, a girl and her beautiful rainbow doll, clutched tight against her chest, so tight, so tight, so tight she could not let go.
Then the thirst. The monsoon rains had not yet arrived. A stream, but 10 miles off the main path, the thorny underbrush clawing at their legs as they picked and plodded, yearning for the old red dusty path, for the same dust which they had once hated so dearly. One foot in front of the last, their feet this time playing a slower rhythm, a more emotional rhythm, a pain-filled rhythm. Finally, the sweet melodies of the stream. Flasks and bellies filled to the brim and then some, and the clawing in their throats now replaced by a new weight and a new heavier, hobbling rhythm -- but how wonderful to be rid of the thirst! Then the thorny ten-mile walk back to the road. And another blast -- a young boy sprawled on the ground, blood everywhere, his soul on the platform and the train pulling into the station -- and his eyes, tortured, eyeing the splash, the gentle splosh of the newly replenished flasks. And then the moaning, begging, only for a few drops -- but no -- No! The next watering hole is 40 miles away and we can’t afford it, we must save. And then a desperate flurry of whimpers cut off -- a crying silence, and the boy, abandoned. Plodding off -- swish, swash, splosh -- a funeral dirge, the boy’s soul waiting to depart and be scattered off with the dust. His soul and all the others, the smoke, the flames, and dust, to wander and cry out and pry at the sealed gates of the sky.
Then one day the bombs arrived like raindrops in the monsoon. And smoke rose to the heavens, spiraling upward, a great conflagration, burning the lungs. And with each blast the dust rose with the smoke, blinding, and the noise, the crying and wailing and coughing. The girl, lost amid the heat and the ash. For the first time alone. And at last, a hand -- father, but where was mother, where was mother whose warm smile radiated sunlight through the cracks of the attic roof.
“Mother’s Doll” is the story of a vibrant, loving little girl and her doll braving one of the most violent periods in history. The story has a life of its own, starting with a steady heartbeat rapidly quickening as the sections grow smaller, more gripping—until the end, when our ragged breaths match the rhythm of the poignant one-liners extricating us from the girl’s spell.
EDITORIAL PRAISE FROM MICHAEL ZAPATA, FICTION JUDGE
"Mother’s Doll" is a devastating historical witness of loss, told with absolute urgency and measured tenderness. Its exceptional use of ascending imagery and repetition forms both a hopeful rhythm and a harrowing reminder of the type of exile that war manifests. When reading, I thought both of The "Mountains Sing" by Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai and "Fruit of the Drunken Tree" by Ingrid Rojas Contreras. I’m honored to have selected Mother’s Doll as an honorable mention for the Claudia Ann Seaman Awards for Young Writers.
Benjamin Choi is a current student (Class of 2022) at the Potomac School in Northern Virginia and an avid reader and writer. His short story, "Mother's Doll", is loosely based on the experiences of his grandparents as refugees during the Korean War. Outside of his literary pursuits, Ben enjoys trivia, playing the violin, and enjoying a good game of squash.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR