Writer’s Spotlight: Ethan Shaw

Ethan Shaw 

Thoughts of Sleep 

Ernest Winslow sat uncomfortably in a muddy hole. Actually, he was not sitting, but rather squatting with his back leant against an earthen wall. His feet falling asleep, he did all he could to resist the incessant desire to slump onto the muddy ground. After a moment, he did slump, and he resigned himself to being wet. 

It was nighttime, and tonight he was on guard duty. This required him to sit near the most forward point of the lines and listen for any signs of an approaching raiding party. It was a rather terrifying job to have, and Ernest carried out his duty with the usual reluctance and apprehension. He sat there in the quiet dark, dreading the thought of hearing voices or the sounds of boots. He held onto his one saving grace, his loaded trench gun, as if it was going to be taken from him at any moment. Having such a weapon terrified him as much as it settled him, as it would all but ensure that any raider would quickly and mercilessly dispatch him were he to see him armed with it. The thought of this, unfortunately, only made Ernest grip his weapon that much tighter. 

Ernest sat there in the mud armed with his weapon and listened for even the smallest sound. He felt as if his ears were the size of cooking pots, as there was not a sound which succeeded in alluding him, nor one which failed to petrify him. The wet shuffling sounds of rat feet scurried all around him, as if a rodential raiding party were readying to ambush him. The churning, crackling sound of a brush fire loomed above him, and its glow threw shadows over his head leaving him like a specter in the muddy blackness. In fact, his whole figure cut something of a demonic appearance, owing to his mud-soaked uniform, his overstuffed bandolier, and his lower face wrapped in a dark scarf he had stolen from a rear guardsman. 

Ernest listened closely for footsteps as he had been instructed to do. He was terrified to discover that he could in fact hear what he perceived to be footsteps coming from above. He froze with fear and held so tightly onto his weapon that his hands cramped. The sound was fleeting, and could very well have been a figment of his imagination, as a child may hear a reproduction of a monstrous sound after being told a ghost story. In a way, the warning of an incoming raiding party was very much like a ghost story, except the listener’s job was to stay steadfastly awake and ensure that the monster did not visit. And whereas the teller of a story often assures the listener that the monster does not exist, bands of trench raiders most certainly did exist, and they were likely to be on the move on any given night. The listener can only hope that they will be visiting another section of the line when his number is called to stand guard. 

Terrified, Ernest slowly lifted himself out of the mud in an attempt to catch a glimpse of whatever could have made a sound above him. It very well could have been nothing at all, and it very well could have been a club-wielding brute who wanted nothing more in life than to bash in the head of an American. He lifted his head, understanding that -all monsters aside- a sharpshooter may find his mark on Ernest’s forehead the moment his flat-brimmed helmet came into view. Resolved that he was either to die or not to die, Ernest peeked apprehensively above the embankment wall. He saw before him the azure figure of a specter standing half upright in front of him. He sunk down without hesitation, the sight of a human figure being enough to engage his fight or flight response. The figure was not that of a trench raider, and it remained motionless all throughout the quick affair. Ernest built up enough courage to raise above the ground once more to gain a clearer sense of what the blue figure truly was. He cast his eyes upon the figure, and realized it was a human, but not a living one. He studied the body from afar, even in darkness noting the blue hue of the uniform peeking through the burn marks and grime. The

body, a man, stood hunched toward Ernest with his arms out, as if he were leaning over a table. Underneath him was a mess of wire, on which he rested. His coat was long both at its tail and at its sleeves; it was far too large for a man like him, and in it he cut the figure of a schoolchild whose mother dressed him to go play in the snow. Ernest could almost make out the facial features of the man. He was, though smaller in stature, more masculine than Ernest. Visible in the night was a very sharply lined face with a thick black moustache and scruff, and underneath a bowl-like helmet rested a full head of equally black hair. It was, however, of no consequence that this man was much more handsome than Ernest, because Ernest was alive and this man was not. 

Ernest resolved that he had seen enough of the deceased man in blue, and he sunk down into his trench. He had sat for quite some time in this spot, doing his part in guarding it from aggressors. No-one had come yet, and he was getting quite tired of feeling terrified. In fact, he was getting quite tired in general. The main order he had been given was to remain awake, as one could not detect any sound quieter than a rifle shot if one was asleep. However, no one had come, and it seemed plausible that no-one would come yet. Even then, Ernest thought, if someone did come, or someone did find him asleep, he would surely be killed. It was easy to accept that he would either die or live, especially when the thought of sleep seemed so appealing to him. With all questions put to rest, Ernest drifted off to sleep in the muddy dark, resting easy, knowing that he would either wake up, or not.