ALL THAT WAS LEFT OF INNOCENCE - By Harithi Perera

Written By: Harithi Perera

Category: Short story - war / melodrama

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the poignant short story "ALL THAT WAS LEFT OF INNOCENCE," Harithi Perera weaves a narrative deeply entrenched in the themes of war and human suffering. Submitted to the distinguished Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this piece delves into the harrowing experiences of conflict, capturing the essence of lost innocence amidst chaos. The story resonates with the universal struggles and emotional turmoil faced by those caught in the ravages of war, appealing to readers with its raw and evocative prose.

About the Work

Harithi Perera masterfully captures the gritty reality of war, highlighting human fragility and resilience. The story is imbued with vivid imagery, painting a stark contrast between the innocence of youth and the brutality of conflict. Through a lens of melodrama, Perera explores themes of desperation, sacrifice, and the instinct to protect loved ones. The narrative’s emotional depth and haunting atmosphere linger long after the last word is read, leaving a profound impact on the reader.

ALL THAT WAS LEFT OF INNOCENCE

Original Submission by Harithi Perera

ALL THAT WAS LEFT OF INNOCENCE

“We seldom recognize the significance of an ordinary moment until it has become a memory.” By – Harithi Perera

“ M ama” was all he said.

*****

The surrounding was dark, though the sun shone mildly beyond the weathered walls of the barn. It was warmer than it had been on most of the days they had endured in the recent past, yet the coldness of their hearts remained overwhelming. Narrow beams of sunlight crept throug h the cracks in the wooden walls, illuminating the dust that drifted lazily above the scattered hay. Beyond the barn, the distant sounds of the war lingered like an unwelcome reminder that safety was little more than an illusion.

He started to cry. The wailing had stopped moments before, but with the loud noises in the sky, he got jittery. The others in that enclosed space frowned at the woman as she tried to shush her child back to sleep.

“mama” he said.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Mama, I am starving.” The little boy said, folding the page mildly and closing his book. He was reading the last chapter.

“Search the bag, child; there may yet be a piece of bread in it. If you don’t find any ask from someone who is kind enough.” She whispered.

“Mama… I must not ask for food from strangers.”

“Dear lord! If you do not wish to do so, please keep quiet! I am already quite desperate to stop one whining child let alone manage another…”

The boy was hurt… But he made sure not to showcase any emotion as he understood thoroughly of the distress and the inconvenience his mother was going through. Hequietly stood up and walked near to an old man and looked at him with the most endearing eyes and a sweet look on his face.

“May I be blessed enough to be allowed to lend a small piece of bread from you,sir?” the little boy pleaded.

“Are you addressing me?”

“Yes sir…”

“Oh well… I do not wish to… Do you recon what a menace you and your family are? One is always whining… He cries at day…he cries at night… he cries in the morning… he cries at every hour of the day that pass… And may I remind you, boy… Your mother tends to feed the child in front of these old eyes… It is disgusting and unethical… And you- ‘’

“I think that is quite enough sire…”

A young woman – a delicate symphony of moonlight and blooming roses. But beneath her gentle grace lied a quiet strengthened heart that learned to bloom through distress and crisis...

That is what the little boy thought…

“Enough!? How dare you tell me that is bloody enough??!! Haven’t you endured the same vex as me and all others from the day, they settled here…! Please mind your own business lady, for I would not shut up till this nonsense and unethical behavior stop…” the man barked at the young girl.

“Hear! Hear!” the crowd inside the enclosed space started to agree with the man. Then she slapped the man with pure ferocity.

She should have felt apprehensive, consumed by worry over the consequences of her actions, yet she remained remarkably composed, as though the weight of her transgressions had failed to awaken even the slightest flicker of remorse within her.

The man, fuming with rage and embarrassment, raised his hand against her cheek. The crowd, though they agreed with the man, were not inclined to see a woman get hit by him. They looked at him with troubled expressions on their faces.

He with all the patience he had breathed sharply, and stopped himself from slapping her again and spit at her feet while muttering a series of remarks with foul language.

The boy looked at the lady. She was still at an age where she had not endured the blooming of a flower, yet knew the technique. He knew because he was intelligent. Because he knew the world. And the tales of it.

Therefore, he knew that she was still fragile by mind and delicate by heart… This might be the first time she had endured a sharp remark and a touch to her body. H e looked at her and whispered, “Thank you”

The child started crying again. His mother was looking at the collision with a hand pressed to her mouth and a tear descending down her eye.

She opened one arm towards the boy and he came running and tugged to his mother’s warmth…

The woman made her way near to the petit family and looked at them with a sympathetic smile on her face.

“Thank you… Oh! Thank you. You have such a blessed heart.” The mother exclaimed. “Is your face in pain? I am dearly sorry that you had to go through such actions because of my boy…”

“Ce n’est pas un problème.” She started. “Sorry… my English is not that good. Umm... it is my pleasure that I was able to hit that imbécile… He was disrespectful towards you… And he should not

have talked in such way to your son…” she looked at him. “Oh! He is such a sweet thing to look at… Is he not?”

“Yes indeed.” His mother replied.

The infant had fallen peacefully into sleep in his mother’s arm. The individuals who were absorbed and intrigued by the series of events were now minding their own business… The man was sitting in a corner muttering to himself and frowning at the little boy and the woman. The surrounding was quiet and solace…

The little lady rummaged through her untidy bag.

“Here you go petit beau…” the lady gave him a piece of chocolate. It was melting in her hand. The boy looked at his mother and she nodded.

He looked at her, smiled, took the piece of chocolate and sat on a corner with an old edition book of A picture of Dorian grey. The book was old and crumpled, its yellowed pages curled at the edges, its faded cover bearing years of thumbprints.

They were in a small compacted farm on the edge of a river bed. The place was deserted, with no breathing souls, except for the couple of peoplewho resided in the barn with ragged clothes and misplaced items. When the little lady arrived to the confined spaceno one noticed. No one had the mentality to notice what happened on the inside. All they were concentrated in was the sound of bombs and gunfire.

Three died in the time of months the boy was here. One was an old man from a haunting cough. The other was a delicate mother of intimately young age, who killed herself and her unborn child, knowing her screams at childbirth would accentuate attention to the people inside. The last was a

dear looking young refuge who had escaped a German prison, and was finding a place to conceal till his departure the next day. He was found dead the subsequent morning, his clothes teared apart, his mouth filled with foam and a strong odor. All that was left with him was a blunt pink triangular badge held tightly in his hands… The little boy’s mother cried all day quietly, whispering to her child’sears ‘What a cruel world! What a cruel world!’ These bodies were thrown to the river behind the barn, and nobody commented about anything. They were not emotionless, but were too wrapped around the betterment of their own lives, therefore, were incapable of causing a scene.

The boy prayed for each of them every night, though he did not understand that he should be praying for himself.

The little lady from before sat near the fatigued mother. The boy could hear them talk quietly ostensibly like two school girls whispering the days gossip. Just as thoughwhen everything was well and content full.

“Esther” his mother told, “That is the name I was given…”

“Je suis Colette…” the little lady replied.

He looked at the two women. The little lady was not much younger than his mother. She wore her blonde hair in a carefree bun and wore a dress, which was now torn in some parts and dirty in other, but one could guess that it was expensive. Even her face denoted such. He suddenly remembered the life they had prior these events, and his -

“I presume you are French. My son once had a professor who taught him your language, for he was utterly captivated by books and possessed an extraordinary passion for reading, particularly French literature. I can still recall him having read nearly half of The Count of Monte Cristobefore—before our house was burned to the ground.”

“Ah… so that is why he has been reading the same book for months. I have often wondered why such a petit beau would take an interest in books of this nature…”

His mother looked at her son and smiled as he quicky turned his head back into the pages. “I am very cruel to him. All that happened because I was not able to provide him bread.”

“Non…Je ne pense pas… It has been weeks since bread was bought… We must ask someone to go to the city again. Do not blame your-self dear, for it is not your fault. It is nobody’s but that man’s who is selfish enough to not lend thepetitboy a piece of bread.”

“Oh, how I wish other people were like you!” his mother mumbled. That made her laugh.

“If everyone was alike mademoiselle Esther, one might wish everyone to be like the bugger over there. I do not hope you wish the same…” she replied gesturing at the man with her head.

“I most surely do not. Oh, how wise you are! People tend to reveal things that are thought through heart without considering through mind… I insist Colette, you must come and teach my son, as soon as this conflicts end.”

“I surely will” Colette smiled.

It was a smile that spread merriment and bliss. A smile that meant something. A smile that showed a binding between two souls… A special friendship.

The little boy looked at them. How happy they were! He wished that his father was here to witness his mother happy, after a long period of time. It was as if the lily which did not perished in the fire at their house had bloomed yet again through the flames and brutal rain.

“I will be crossing my line here...” His mother started, “But I must ask you, why be here of all places in the midst of this war?”

“There are some obligations one must engage in. Excusez-moi, but I do not wish to reveal…” It was rather rude.

But she must have her reasons.

The boy thought.

While the two ladies talkedabout timely topics, the boy inclined in finishing the book and starting over again. It was one of the only that survived the fire the Germans started. His father was a commander at the front and was brutally murdered at the German prison when they incarcerated the Jewish camps, while his mother was due with child.

After the birth of her youngest she tended to lock herself up at day and paint at night. She was a woman who believed that she should lose herself after the death of her beloved, therefore she forgot her task as a mother. But the little boy loved her for who she was. He attended his mother’s wishes. Had a good education and silently bore the weight of all his emotional adversities deep within his heart.

His mother grieved for a year and abruptly changed back to her old self and started handling business and homely duties with intelligence and grace. She was inclined in raising her children in an accurate way while managing and administrating the supply of their wealth. She handled the work of both her husband’s and herself at day, and lived her life in enclosed clubs at night. Through

out that period the boy started seeing less of his mother. He sustained his life through books where he gained a copious amount of knowledge, and started learning about the beauty and cruelty of the universe.

When they fled their house after the fire, all he was able to save was the book by his cabinet. It had not contained an engaging tale nor a pleasant back story. It was just an old book that was in their library from a long time back.

He cursed the Germans for not letting him save the books his father had bought, his mother had written and the ones he cherished knowing it had a complete story from the past…

The boy glanced at the woman and his mother. His mother was resting her head on Colette’s shoulder, her long brown hair plaited and strandsof hair concealing her eyes. She was rocking the baby muttering something as she too fell asleep. Colette met the little boy’s eyes. She was drifting to sleep as well. She smiled with her eyes and shut them inhaling a sharp breath.

*****

He woke up to a sound of struggling.

The man from before was on top Coletteholding from her neck… Some people had already woken up and some were still in the process of waking up. As the boy’s eyes grew aquatinted to the darkness, he saw that the man had a dagger holding to the little lady’s neck. He opened his mouth

to scream but his mother was quick enough to hold his mouth. The faintest sound might draw attention.

“Remember how you slapped me you pest!!?? Do not think that you would be able to walk out free from this barn without a scar in your body.” He was purely evil.

While four other men held her from her arms and legs, the man started to carve a lines and curves on her neck, from her collarbone to the place where clothe touched her chest.

B

Every one was looking tense and scared, but no one was able to help the poor little lady. Colette looked no where except Esther’s face though she quietly flickered a gaze at the boy beside his mother, who was sobbing and chocking on silent tears.

I

The eyes that sparkled when she offered him the chocolate was now welled up with tears that gradually descended from her eyes and mixed with the blood on the hay. The sweet and full lips which she used so freely to talk with his mother, and to call him ‘petit beau’ was now bitten by her own teeth which tried to not let any noise pass.

T

The hands that slapped the man was now clenched tightly holding the ground… The same that was used to stroke his mother’s hair and the baby’s head was fisted so tightly that he was sure a vein would pop out.

C

Nobody was inclined on making a scene because they knew that one shout, one loud noise would be the end of all the individuals present at the barn. The little boy’s mother was closed his eyes from her hand, before he could see the last letter.

-

But he knew what it was. He was not so immature as to remain oblivious to the word’s ending. He was not so naïve as to believe that she would survive the loss of blood … A little lady who must not have endured the smallest harm that is subjected to all – a delicate flower who was rigid by heart would not be able to surpass this agony which a grown man could not.

Colette fixed her eyes at the mother and her two sons and wept silently. God must have heard the melancholic cry of anguish for he made the sobbing mother’s child scream as if he was in pain…

“Shush your damn child!” the man whisper yelled.

And Esther tried her best.

But she failed miserably.

There was a shuffling noise outside.

The man who had finished his task drew closer to the little child on the mother’s arms, and kept his palm on top of the child’s delicate mouth and closed it tightly. All Esther was able to do was shake her head while her eyes pleaded for him to stop.

The baby’s scream turned into a murmur.

The sound outside stopped.

And so did the weeping child’s…

And so did the sound of his heart…

And so did the struggling sobs of the mother…

Then she screamed.

She screamed in pain and agony as she knelt to the ground holding her dead son. She cried as if the world is tearing her into pieces.

She wailed andthen she stopped.

It was too late…

The doors were kicked down and the guns started its sorrowful duties…The Germans started shooting all the people one by one. The ground which bore the bodies of two innocent and virtuous beings now carried dozens of sinful souls…

“mama” he said…

Then he fell to the ground with a piercing sting on his lower stomach.

“mama” he said…

She was already on the ground laying on a pool of blood.

“mama” he said…

He closed his eyes while thinking how his own species can be so cruel.

“mama” he said….

And sighed his last breath.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating the art of storytelling. This competition gathers creative minds from around the world, offering them a stage to share their unique voices and perspectives through poetry and prose. The event is renowned for its diversity in themes and the opportunity it provides for writers to engage with a global audience, fostering a community of literary excellence.

We express our heartfelt gratitude to Harithi Perera for sharing "ALL THAT WAS LEFT OF INNOCENCE" with us. Your participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 enriches the tapestry of voices contributing to this esteemed event. Your story's exploration of innocence, loss, and the human condition amidst war is both powerful and poignant, and we thank you for the courage and creativity you have shown.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.