Short stories

Short Stories

Have I Died?

Sonoda Gin gathers fruit at her local grocery store just off the east coast of Japan. She hums a soft tune to herself as she adds several plump peaches and a few crimson cherries to her basket. After paying the cashier, she leaves the store with a huge smile on her face. Her bag of fruit swings above cobble stoned streets as she makes her way through the city.

This is her first day off in weeks. Nothing is going to ruin it. Not even that huge blister that’s starting to swell on the back of her heel. Why? Because her fiancé, Kasamatsu, waits for her at their spot underneath the cherry tree. It was there just two years ago that she first spotted him. He was running late for a job interview and came dashing around the corner. His broad chest slammed into Sonoda and sent her strawberry smoothie flying out of her thin hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

Sonoda glanced down at her new white trainers, now covered in bits of strawberry gunk.

“It’s fine,” she shook her head and smiled at him.

He ran the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead, “Do you know where I could find this place?” he shows her an address scrawled in blue ink across the back page of a bus timetable.

Sonoda knew the location well, she passed the building on her way to work every morning. It was some kind of computer company, perhaps specialising in software development or something. So Sonoda, being the helpful person she was, offered him directions. The only problem was that she gave him directions to a nearby pet store instead. Whether it was a mistake or not is still a matter up for debate.

This misinformation led to an intriguing conversation twenty minutes later. Upon spotting the same girl who mislead him and caused him to miss his interview, Kasamatsu thought it appropriate to give her a taste of his mind. But when he lay his eyes on her for the second time, he caught something he must have missed before.

It wasn’t long before the two fell madly in love with each other. The following year, Kasamatsu knelt down on one knee and presented Sonoda with the biggest diamond ring she had ever seen.

She glances at the ring on her finger, remembering the moment with fondness in her heart.

Heat from the blazing sun beckons a pink glow to roast on the apples of her cheeks. A stream of direct sunlight blinds her. She shuts her eyes and lets the light dance on her lids, casting flares of red and gold that paint Kasamatsu’s face. His pinkish lips, although merging into the buttery hue of his chin, smiles back at her.

She hasn’t laid eyes on the real Kasamatsu in over four weeks. He has been in Italy with his family.

Sonoda always wanted to go herself and Kasamatsu’s mother was even kind enough to invite her along. However, the invitation was declined. Sonoda’s father had fallen ill and she needed to stay home and take care of him. She spent the last few weeks tending to his every need. Some days were good, others weren’t.

Her aunt came to the house this morning to give Sonoda a day off from dressing and feeding her father. She couldn’t believe her luck. Kasamatsu had just returned from Europe this morning and she was dying to hear all about his trip. Today she could push thoughts of her ill father to the back of her mind and focus all of her attention on Kasamatsu.

Just for today.

The soles of her strappy sandals slap hard and fast against the pavement. The bag of fruit sways at her side as she half walks, half skips towards the cherry tree. It wasn’t far. Just a few more buildings to pass and then there it would be.

And there he would be.

Thoughts of Kasamatsu and their upcoming wedding floods Sonoda’s mind.

What kind of neckline should her wedding dress have? She was fond of the sweetheart neckline.

But perhaps a higher neckline would be more suitable for her thin frame? And then there’s shoes to think about…

Busy with thoughts about wedding dresses, shoes, cakes and venues, Sonoda doesn’t notice the family of four running past her. Each of them with tears streaming down their faces. Nor does she catch the disarray drum of beating footsteps clambering up behind her.

It isn’t until a by-passer knocks into her right shoulder that she is brought back to reality. The runner tosses her arm upwards. Cherries and peaches are thrown into the air before landing

scattered about the pavement. One of the peaches (a particularly juicy one) rolls off the edge of the curb and is crushed by a weighty man carrying his screeching son on his shoulders.

A stampede of frightened pedestrians run towards her. They scramble together like a herd of wild buffalo. One frightened woman clutches her new born against her chest. The child is wrapped in a white cotton blanket.

A loud series of thunderous clatters escapes from deep in the city. A flutter, not the good kind, arises in Sonoda’s stomach and her ribcage twists around her lungs like clutching chains.

The noise echoes and is soon accompanied by huge rolling waves of murky water. They crash into a block of flats at the end of the street. The building shatters like a house of playing cards. People scream. They fall into the waves and are swept away too fast for Sonoda’s eyes to keep up with them.

An instant shot of adrenaline courses through her veins. Forgotten muscles in her legs tighten and she runs. Her heart pulsates in her chest. She cannot scream like the others. Her throat refuses to loosen enough to let any sound pass through at all.

She keeps her sight straight ahead. She does not think of the waves nor the falling buildings around her. Instead, she thinks of Kasamatsu’s face. Holding his hand and finding comfort in his profound embrace.

That would be a sweet death, she thinks. I’d be lucky then.

Gritting her teeth, she pushes her legs to go faster. She skips past the other screaming runners and dodges their abandoned cars. She leaps over dropped handbags and broken toys. She begins to think that she will escape this. They both will. Kasamatsu and her. Both of them together.

The cherry tree is in full bloom but he isn’t here. He isn’t here and the waves are coming.

She brings her hands to her mouth and calls out for him, “Kasamatsu,” she cries. “Kasamatsu!”

Has he run off and left her?

“Kasamatsu!”

It’s too late.

The rolling waves sweep her away with fragments of pink cherry blossoms.

She dies fast, cold and alone.

5 years later

A taxi man picks up his next passenger outside a local café. The passenger is a young man in his early twenties called Henry. He wears grey skinny jeans and a red checked shirt. He takes a seat next to the driver and asks to be left off at the Ishinomaki station. The driver nods and starts the engine.

A photograph of a pretty Japanese woman next to the steering wheel grabs the young man’s attention. She smiles in the photo with her dark hair hanging in loose curls about her shoulders.

“Is that your daughter?” Henry asks, perhaps hoping to get in good with her father while he can.

The driver shakes his head, “My fiancé.”

The young man widens his eyes at this revelation. She looks a lot younger than him.

“You’re a lucky man,” he replies, “She’s very beautiful.”

“She’s dead.”

Henry apologies and offers his deepest sympathies.

The driver seems unshaken by it. “It’s okay.”

“Do you mind if I ask what happened to her?”

“The 2011 tsunami claimed her life,” he replies.

Henry shakes his head, “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

The driver doesn’t respond. He keeps his eyes on the road and his mind on the job at hand.

“I’m Henry, I’m here travelling with my girlfriend,” he says in a meek attempt to start a conversation with one of the locals. “I’m meeting her at the station.”

The driver nods. “Kasamatsu,” he says, accepting Henry’s handshake across the gear stick.

After a few minutes of silence, Henry decides to break the tension.

“Where you and your finance engaged for long?”

“Just a year,” Kasamatsu replies.

Henry nods. He’s tempted to ask more but he bites his tongue and says nothing.

Kasamatsu seems to pick up on his interest though and answers Henry’s unspoken questions before he has a chance to ask them.

“On the day she died we had arranged to meet at the spot where I proposed. But I was running late,” Kasamatsu explains, his voice is steady at first but he loses touch of it before he can finish his sentence. Henry listens intently. “I tried to get to her,” he says. “But I was too late.”

“I’m sure she knew you would have been there if you could.”

Kasamatsu nods, appreciative of the boys attempt to comfort him. They exchange small chat for the remainder of the journey. Kasamatsu recommends a few restaurants and places to visit during Henry’s visit while he jots them down on his notepad. He scribbles little stars with a ball point pen next to the ones he thinks his girlfriend will like best.

When they reach the station, Henry offers his condolences once again before stepping out of the taxi.

“Thanks for the lift,” he says. “Keep the change.”

Kasamatsu thanks him and is about to reverse the car but notices Henry lingers by the curb.

He rolls down the window. “Don’t keep her waiting,” he smiles.

“I won’t,” Henry winks back, before running up to a blonde girl holding a pink and white polka dot suitcase. He gives her a kiss on the cheek and turns to wave goodbye to Kasamatsu.

He returns the boys gesture and starts up the engine.

Just when he is about to drive off, someone thumps on the roof of the taxi. The back door of the car opens and a woman dressed in a blue coat gets inside. She shuffles herself over to the middle seat.

Kasamatsu glances at the mirror when he speaks, “Where to?”

“Minamiyama District.”

Upon hearing the mention of the dishevelled Minamiyama, Kasamatsu looks at the woman in the mirror. She has her hood up, casting dark shadows across her face. He can tell that she is young, perhaps in her late twenties.

“The area is empty and quiet. Do you still want to go?”

Silence.

When the woman finally replies, her voice trembles.

“Have I died?” she asks.

Kasamatsu turns his head to answer her, but the passenger seat is empty.

“Sonoda?”

End

Silence

The wind filled the sails and propelled the ship gracefully through the water. With the land always visible to the starboard and the ocean to the port, the ship made its way up the coast. The Chief Mate assigned Justin, Jake, and Elan, each, to a member of the crew who taught them as much and as quickly as they could. Justin worked with the ships carpenter who taught him how to maintain the ship at sea and tend to injured crew. Jake worked with the men who set and repaired the sails. Jake had no fear of heights and enjoyed climbing the rope ladders to the top of the masts where he could peer out into the vast sea. He could watch the porpoises chase the ship, as they emerged into the air in arcing leaps. Elan worked with the cook preparing meals for the crew. Some days he would go with the cook to shore to look for berries, fruit, and other edibles, or trade with locals for supplies. The ship was broad and stable as it sat low in the water filled with goods from far away lands. The boys were returning to the valley of the Black dog, the ship’s homeport and their home. They had signed onto the ship and were working to pay for passage home. Each evening the three boys met at the bow.

“Do you think my parents will recognize me when we finally get home?” Elan asked his cousins, Jake and Justin.

“You don’t look any different to me, “ Jake answered. “ I think they will know who you are. We’ve been away from home for only a year. Seems longer than it was.”

“Time is relative,” Justin added. “With the anticipation of arriving home, I’m certain that the trip will seem longer, just as our trek over the mountain seemed so long.”

Each was learning a lot, and developing a deep respect and appreciation for their teachers, the ship, and their captain.

“Just so you know,” Elan said. “When we put off in the row boat yesterday we found berries and greens to add to our hard tack bread and jerky meat. When we set out our nets we caught some nice fish and shrimp.”

“That’s great,” said Jake who loved to try new things. The berries sounded like a welcome change.

“Did the skiff take on any water?” Justin asked. “I helped fix it the other day.” He added proudly.

“No water in the boat. You did a good job.” Élan responded.

“You know,” Jake began, “I can see for miles from the top of the mast. I like helping to set the sails.”

They would lie back on the deck and look at the stars. On a dark moonless night they could see the Milky Way stretched out across the sky as a hazy cloud, the stars too numerous to count. On a moonlit night everything about them had a radiant glow.

During the days they did their jobs. In the evening they met at the bow, unless they were assigned night watch. Then, they would spend the night working in shifts with other crewmembers standing by the captain or his mate with an eye on the horizon. The seas were mostly calm at this time of the year, the wind steady, and the days governed by routine. An occasional squall would appear on the horizon. The captain would judge its distance and speed and either out run it or seek shelter by the coast that was never too far. On the chance they’d be caught in rough seas they’d lash themselves to a sturdy spar or stay below to prevent being washed over the side. No one ever was.

There was a member of the crew who was from a far off land. He had tattoos on his face, arms, and across his chest and back. He was powerfully built and wore a vest for a shirt and leather pants. His expression was proud; he appeared fearless, not easily approachable. He carried himself with a swagger of assuredness, never acted rashly, but was rather calm, and deliberate in his actions and movements. He was a very skilled seaman and could do anything the captain required. Rumor had it that he had once sailed on whaling ships. The boys had gotten to know all their shipmates, most were from the Black Dog valley, that is, everyone except the exotic man with the tattoos, named Tangi.

Tangi was quiet and generally kept to himself. He worked well with others but said little as he worked. He was liked, but everyone seemed to respect his solitude, and left him alone. In that, he seemed content. Justin, Jake, and Elan would rarely have an opportunity to work with Tangi, but they, never the less, remained curious about him. At night they might speculate on Tangi’s origins. Some of the other crew rumored that Tangi came from a land where one ate his fallen enemies. This put a certain amount of fear into the three, not wishing to find themselves on Tangi’s bad list. One evening, when the three met at the bow, they found Tangi there. He sat in the middle of the deck, his legs crossed, arms resting on his thighs palms up, his fingers slightly flexed, his back straight, eyes closed, as he faced the wind. His breathing was steady and even. Justin, Jake, and Elan approached quietly, cautiously, not wishing to disturb him.

“Is he asleep?” Elan whispered.

“I don’t know,” Jake said. “He’s sitting up, his eyes are closed, but he looks like he is in a trance.”

“Maybe, he’s just resting,” Justin said and held a finger to his lips to silence his cousin and his brother. Not wishing to disturb and anger the fearsome man.

They observed Tangi who appeared to be moving only his breathing muscles. Jake sat down beside Tangi, crossed his legs, rested his arms on his thighs, positioned his hands like Tangi, and shut his eyes. Elan and Justin did the same.

Justin listened to his own breathing. He wondered what he was supposed to experience. His mind continued to race, and he thought about the ship, his duties, and his experiences of the day. As he sat, he began to realize that the silence that surrounded him wasn’t really silent. He became aware of the rippling of the sails as gusts of wind filled them; he heard the lapping of the waves against the bow, and the squeak of the wood as the ship bent with the shifting forces from the sea as the ship rose gently up and down with the waves. These sounds silenced Justin’s inner voice. These sounds evoked a mental picture of what was around him, bright, beautiful, and clear. He was alone at one with himself and nature, yet he felt connected to Elan and Jacob, and Tangi. They sat together each of their senses subjected to the same experience.

“Ok,” Jake said. “I’m not sure I get it. What are we doing here?”

Tangi opened his eyes and looked at Jake. Tangi was not angry; if anything, he was sad for what Jake didn’t feel. He hadn’t really acknowledged the boys during the trip except to be polite and always say hello. He didn’t object to their curiosity in his behavior now and was willing to take the opportunity to share.

“I was visiting silence, my old friend,” Tangi said. “I came here to walk with him again.”

“How can you visit silence?” Jake asked.

“By listening,” Tangi responded. “Silence is golden, speech is silver, I’m sure you have heard that before. When you speak, you may not hear, so you should only speak when you have something meaningful to say; and, otherwise, you should listen. That is a good way to learn.”

Tangi asked Justin, Jake, and Elan to sit as he sat, close their eyes, and concentrate on not speaking aloud or to themselves. He suggested they experience all that was going on around them without interacting or commenting internally.

“Listen carefully in silence,” Tangi said softly. “You have to be quiet to hear the spirits. You see, the spirits around you speak very softly, and you may not hear them, if you make any noise.”

After that night, the boys took time out of each day to sit quietly and listen.

Bio: Peter Barbour is a retired physician, former neurologist, who loves to tell stories. He lives in Allentown, PA. He is active and likes to fish, bike, canoe, and play golf. He carves wood and likes to draw. He is married. He has had four stories appear in Short-story.me, “How the Night Became Bright”, “Messyman”, “Simplicity”, and “Enthusiasm”. He recently published an illustrated children’s book, “Gus at Work” available through Amazon. His latest submission to Shortstory.me, “Silence”, is based on a mindfulness principle, silence.

New roses

One part of Cora prayed that Billy would hurry, while one part of her prayed that he would not come at all. Through it all she knew that it did not really matter what she prayed for, because he would come, as he always did, and he would not be late. No, he was never late.

She stood at the parlor window throughout the night, hoping and dreading as she looked down into the darkness at the spot where the dead rose garden lie. She could not see the garden in the darkness, but she could see it perfectly in her mind’s eye, the image engrained there in flawless detail after decades of looking upon it in the sunlight. She prayed again, this time asking only for the strength to do what she knew she had to do.

The grandfather clock ticked behind her like someone tapping on her shoulder. She did not turn to face it. She did not want to look at the time and know how close Billy was to arriving, because then she would have to admit how terrified she was, and if she admitted that then she might lose her nerve. She could not let that happen. Not this time.

The sun broke over the hills and lighted the yard, the dead roses, the broken trellis. She pressed one hand against the window and tried to remember the times she'd spent with her mother in the garden, but the memories would not come. They had not come for so terribly long now. Cora stiffened, pulled her hand away from the glass, and waited.

The doorbell rang in the same instant that the clock’s seven o’clock chime sounded, startling Cora so badly that she nearly cried out. She composed herself and walked briskly to the door, opening it quickly so as not to allow herself any hesitation, lest she lose her resolve altogether.

"Mrs. Fiortura," Billy beamed a toothy smile. His sandy hair, blue eyes, and gleaming teeth all looked exactly the same as they had the first day she'd met him, over one hundred years ago.

“Hello, Billy," Cora stepped aside.

“How is my favorite customer?” Billy asked, walking into the parlor.

“Fine. And you?”

“Excellent. Business has been booming, even with the present challenges to the economy. Luckily for us, our business is one hundred percent recession proof. People always want to live to see better times, right?”

He took a seat at the table in the parlor, set his briefcase down, and took out a file. “Well,” Billy said, "I don’t want to keep you from your business, so I’ll just get the paperwork going for the standard annual plan, again. Unless you’d like to upgrade to our decade option?" He lifted his eyebrows at her. "It’s actually become the company standard. It offers substantial savings."

"No. No, thank you," Cora muttered.

"Well, my philosophy has always been to give the customer what they want. Nobody likes a pushy salesman, right? I'll get the paperwork going on the standard annual plan,” he set out the paperwork, whistling quietly as he worked.

Cora stood opposite him at the table and watched him flip through the papers. She was paralyzed, the same way she'd been during the salesman’s last dozen visits. She could feel herself losing her grit, but then she thought of another year of staring out that window at dead flowers, another year of being unable to remember any of the people that she had once cherished, the ones that made life worth living in the first place, and from that sad and fearful feeling a little "no" squeaked out of her.

"Pardon me?" Billy smiled.

Cora cleared her throat, "I don't want the standard annual plan, either. I don't want any plan at all."

Billy sat looking at her, an uncomprehending smile frozen on his face. "I'm sorry," Cora said, hating herself for apologizing. She walked back to the window and looked outside. She knew he was going to try to talk her out of it, and if she looked him in the eyes he might succeed.

“Ms. Fiortura,” Billy said, “you’re one of our oldest customers. You’ve been with us practically since the beginning.”

“I know, Billy. And your company has always upheld its part of the bargain. Physically, I’ve felt great for the last hundred years. Not a negative spot on my health that I didn’t bring on myself. You have fulfilled your part of the arrangement admirably, and I thank you."

"What’s the matter, then?"

Cora shook her head. Her throat tightened as she fought back her tears, “I'm just tired, that's all. I'm ready to leave the world, now." The words surprised her. Only after she said them did she realize how sincerely she'd meant them.

Billy was quiet. He got up from his chair and walked to her, slowly, as though not to startle her.

Cora could see his blurry reflection in the glass. No features, just the smear of his blue suit. He spoke tenderly, “Ms. Fioritura, please don’t say those things. Life is worth living."

“Of course it is,” Cora said. “I hope people go on living forever, falling in love and bringing babies into the world, but I’m not part of it, anymore. I'm just an old woman staring out a window at dead flowers,” she choked and nearly cried.

Billy rested his hand on her shoulder, “You're still beautiful. Gorgeous. Look in the mirror. No one would ever guess you to be a day over 40.”

“But I’m very old inside. I used to jump out of bed into my day, and I thought it would be that forever. But now I realize I jumped like that because I knew that I had only so many mornings to do so. Now, there just doesn’t seem any reason in any of it. I’m just bored.”

“We can help that, too, you know. And with much cheaper means than the life extensions.”

“I know,” she sighed. “You can cure it all.”

“Yes, we can," Billy smiled, the bright white reflection of his teeth stretched across the window.

“These feelings that are happening to you, they’re not your fault. It’s chemicals, that's all. Just chemicals floating through your body. No matter how real they seem.”

“Oh, what does it matter?" She cried in exasperation. "Everyone I love is dead. Do you know how I've spent the last ten years? Standing at this window looking down at a dead rose garden. It used to be beautiful. My mother would spend hours grooming the roses. She was an artist with them. She really was. She used to take me out there when I was a little girl. She showed me how to care for them. They were the best memories of my life. The best. And I can't even remember them, anymore. Can't even remember her."

“All curable," Billy said enthusiastically. "We can have those memories fresh as the day they happened. Or erased altogether.”

She jerked her shoulder out from under his hand and snarled, “You will never touch those memories.”

Billy held up his hands deferentially, “Okay, no memory work. But how about that life extension?

You can go and make new memories. Think about it. The whole world is open before you."

“The time for making new memories is over. This is the forgetting time."

Billy was quiet. When he finally spoke, he did so very gently, “Do you remember the first time we talked, Cora? I do. I remember how hard you were crying. It was the day that your mother died.”

“I remember it, vaguely, though it's more like a story I've told many times than something that actually happened to me.”

“Do you know what you said to me that day? You said that after you found her dead, you never wanted to look like that. Do you remember?”

“What does it matter?”

“What’s changed since then?”

“I have. The way people are supposed to.”

“Have you thought about changing your lifestyle? I’ve been around substantially longer than you, Ms. Fiortura, and I’m still happy. Do you know why? Because my work gives me purpose. That’s what life’s all about. Purpose.”

“I’ve thought about that, and I think that maybe my purpose now is to make room for someone else.

I'm not scared. I'm so thankful for the life I've had, but nothing is meant to last forever. There are too many people already for some old woman to use up what’s left of the Earth so she can stare out a window at dead roses all day. I've seen all there is to see here and I'm excited to see what's on the other side. Even if it's nothing,” Cora looked through Billy's reflection at the dead garden beyond.

“It’s quick, you know," Billy said. "Without a new extension it will be very, very quick. All of these past years will come upon you in a matter of hours. Bones disintegrate. Cells shrivel up and die.

Even if you change your mind, it comes too quickly for us to do anything about. Much too quickly.”

Cora thought about the reality of dying. She was afraid, and it was such a familiar taste that she knew then that fear was the only thing that had kept her going all this time. What a stupid way to live, she thought. What a waste. She turned and looked in Billy's eyes, just to prove to herself that she could, “My decision is final."

“Cora, I understand you’re going through a rough time, but this isn’t the answer. Turning down an option to mortality is the same as committing suicide."

“Call it what you want, Billy. You have your word for it. I have mine.”

“Please, Cora. Things are getting better. Now that the population is stabilized, our services won’t be so financially selective. We are working on becoming the norm. This will be the new way of human life. Imagine it. One family, here on Earth, together forever. What a world it will be!”

Cora was quiet. She turned away from Billy and pressed her fingers to the windowpane, again.

Looked down at the dead roses, “I never thought of you as evil, Billy. Not until just this moment.

The way you talk is frightening. You may have been on Earth longer than I have, but there is something that you seem to have failed to learn."

There was a slight strain in Billy's voice, “Oh, and what’s that?”

“No matter how big you or I get, life will always be bigger. And we should be thankful for that."

“I’m sorry to hear you say that,” Billy said curtly. He went back to the parlor table and closed up his briefcase. “Thank you for your business, Ms. Fiortura. Good day." He walked briskly out the front door, shut it quietly behind him. The house was very quiet, the only sound being the ticking of the clock.

Cora stood by the window and waited. Not long after Billy left she felt it. It didn't hurt, yet, but she could feel it beginning. She looked at the clock and knew that she would never hear it chime seven, again. She wasn't afraid. For the first time in many, many years, she didn’t feel any fear at all.

As she stood calmly at the window looking down at the rose garden, a memory came back to her that she had dearly missed for a long, long time. It was so clear that it was as if she was living it,

again, as though she was really there. She was 9 years old, standing in the rose garden with her mother on a clear, summer day. The roses were in full bloom and their scent filled the air. Cora's mother, smiling, handed her daughter the shears and guided her young hands through the bushes.

She showed Cora how to cut the stems just right and explained how cutting off the right parts of the bush at the right time helps give new roses life. The little girl Cora stood quietly in her mother's arms and let her hands be guided and listened.

Dreams die

Colin drew his cloak tight about his body as he stepped out of Warren's empty tent into the cold night air, eyes wandering in search of his commander and friend. The warrior stood at the edge of the camp, facing the great walled city of Gustrone. Though his back was turned, there was no mistaking his singular poise and armored frame. Colin didn't understand why the man wore armor now, though he almost always did. The weight of that iron plate must have been tiring, but Warren showed no sign of it.

Without turning, he acknowledged Colin's approach. "Can't sleep, even after battle? Is the joy of victory so invigorating?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I've learned not to need sleep, like you." Colin was sure Warren slept at some point, but he had never actually seen him doing it, and nor did hunger or thirst hamper him as much as other men. "Anyway, I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Oh? You're not going to stay and celebrate our victory with me? Now that we've defeated the dukes, the people will have no choice but to accept me as king."

"I'll be back. I'm just going to take Rhona home. You know the battlefield's no place for her."

Warren exhaled, a mist dancing from his lips. "I don't understand you, Colin. That little hellcat matches the best of us in killing every day, and now you say she can't fight?"

"I didn't mean that. The battle's over anyway. It's what's left over that Rhona doesn't need. Her nose has the sensitivity of a bear's, and all this death and sickness does it no favors. As close as everything"—by which he meant morgue, infirmary, latrine trenches, and similar malefactors—"is, my own nose is screaming at me. You know Gustrone might not surrender for a while yet, and we'll be camped out here until then."

The suspicious look Warren gave Colin did not surprise him. Though he was not small, Warren had to look up; Colin was taller and much heavier. "And why, exactly, would she need you to escort her?"

"She is wounded. And the clean mountain air will help that shoulder of hers heal up, too." A few months back, his sister had nearly lost her arm to a nasty sword wound, and still had not recovered completely.

"Wounded my foot. Come on, Colin—she killed at least thirty men yesterday. You just want to go back to the mountains to visit that wife and son of yours, and Rhona's nothing but an excuse for you to leave me."

It wasn't surprising that Warren had seen right through him, either. Colin nodded slightly, though the commander wasn't even looking at him. "You got me. Is it so wrong? I miss them."

"I won't stop you from going. You could've just told it to me straight, though."

"Rhona does want to leave."

"Damn Wild Axe. Good for a fight, not so much for the aftermath."

Colin smiled. "Would you want my sister at parlay?"

"No. Take care."

Colin returned to his small hide tent and lay down next to the snoring form of his half-sister. He fell asleep easily now, for his worry had been that Warren would take his decision to leave worse than he had. He felt glad Warren wasn't mad; he was not always this understanding, unlike most of his friends. # The next morning, Colin was awakened by Rhona's hand on his shoulder, shaking him out of his slumber. "So we're going, right?" she asked impatiently. "Get up and get dressed."

"What time is it?" Peeking outside, Colin saw that the sky was still gray, the sun's rays only beginning to push away the darkness. "Do we have to go this early? I do want to say goodbye to my friends."

"If you want to do that, just wake them up before we go. Those silly city folk hardly need to sleep so late."

"Oh, fine," Colin said with a sigh. He was no soft city dweller himself, having grown up in the hills herding sheep, but Rhona was something else entirely. Born to Colin's mother by another man, she had run away from home as a child after being harshly beaten by his drunken father. No one had been able to find her, and after awhile everyone assumed her dead. But somehow she had survived alone in the wilderness, growing into the young woman people called the Wild Axe. Some tales made her out to be less human than animal, and if Colin wasn't her kin he might have believed it. She looked like a beast, with that tangled black mane and those thick furs she always wore, and in battle she was more dangerous than a rabid bear. She ate meat raw, and could track as well as any hound. And of course, she bore what passed for great hardship to civilized folk with

contemptuous ease. Neither wretched weather nor exhausting marches fazed her in the least. Her only weakness seemed to be also one of her great strengths, that amazing nose which no smell could escape.

Rhona had turned away to retrieve her leathers, and Colin could not help glancing disdainfully at the hairy crack of her ample ass. One other thing about her, was she had no qualms about exposing her nakedness to others. In fact, it was only at Colin's insistence that she maintained a passable level of decency around the army. If not for him, the abundant curves of her stocky body might have created great danger—not only for her, but any man tempted to try and take her by force as well.

She put on the leathers and bear pelt which served as her public garb, and the two of them walked outside. The camp was so tightly packed, Colin almost felt the need to walk sideways between the tents. Little Rhona, of course, showed no such concerns, skipping lightly through the camp.

They said goodbye to their mutual friends, then Colin quickened his pace to match Rhona while she headed towards Candace's tent. "Now remember to be nice."

"Pah. Candace! Wake up, Prettyhands!"

Colin got an urge to reach out and strangle his sister. Candace's old nickname could hardly be used in anything but a mocking context now. The warrioress' hands were rough and callused and covered with scars, including the terrible burns of a flaming arrow burying itself in her palm.

One might have expected Rhona to feel some kind of camaraderie with another female warrior, but it hadn't worked out that way. Despite her great courage and prowess in battle, Candace still possessed a bearing appropriate to her noble heritage, and this trait seemed to irk Rhona even more than it did in other aristocracy. Colin thought his sister wanted Candace to be like her, and her hostility came of the fact that she was not. For a while, the two women had seemed to become friends. But then, Rhona's dislike for Candace had come crawling back.

"Hi, Rhona," Candace said as she stepped outside, polite in the face of adversity. Though scarred, she was still beautiful, her lovely round face framed by soft brown curls. Her figure was slender and lithe, yet deceptively strong. Rhona turned away, disrespectfully avoiding her gaze. "What's happening?"

"I'm taking her home," Colin said. Despite her attempt to keep her face neutral, he thought he saw relief flash through Candace's eyes.

After a pause, she spoke. "What about you? Are you coming back?"

"Yes." Candace held his gaze and put a still graceful hand on his shoulder. "Maybe you shouldn't. Your family must miss you."

"I know they do. But I promised Warren I would see this through to the end."

"This is the end. It's all but over. You can go home."

Colin frowned. Though he appreciated her concern, the knowledge her advice brought to mind sent pangs of pity rushing through his heart. Of course she would encourage him to cherish any

opportunity to spend time with his family; her own parents and sister had been slaughtered years ago by raiders who had destroyed her hometown. She was technically a countess, but all she ruled was a kingdom of grief.

He spread his arms and stepped forward. In the moment before he reached her, he saw her eyes glisten with tears; then he embraced her, gently patting her back. "You're never alone, Candace. Remember that."

After a while, she stepped back and smiled. "So are you coming back?"

He shrugged. "I don't know anymore. Maybe I'll take your advice."

"I'll come visit you someday, meet your wife and son. Until then, goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Candace turned, her gaze lingering sadly on Rhona's back for just a moment, and ducked into her tent. "Let's go," Rhona said.

Colin did not move yet. "She's such a nice woman," he said softly. "How can you dislike her?"

"She's not a nice woman. She's just a fraud, that's all. How can she slaughter men just like we do, and then turn around and pretend to be this demure lady? It's silly."

"I don't think she's pretending. What, because she's a warrior she can't be gentle? What, are we all evil, then?"

"Evil? No. But we're killers. At least you and I don't try to hide it, and in front of other killers at that."

Shaking his head, Colin started south and west. This conversation never went anywhere, and it would be a waste of time to continue arguing with Rhona. But inwardly, he did hope he would do a good job "pretending" with his family.

They traveled in silence for a time, passing many a farm among the sweeping plains. "Colin," Rhona said eventually, "you really didn't need to come with me. I can more than take care of myself." She sounded a bit annoyed, as if she thought he doubted her abilities.

He looked at her and couldn't help smiling. There was a certain innocence in her failure to deduce the real reason for his departure. "Of course you can, Rhona. But I miss Phyllis and Jesse."

"What did you ever see in that city girl? She doesn't even like your herder's life."

Colin laughed. "Don't you get it, Rhona? Why do you think she came to live with me, even though she doesn't like it in the hills? She loves me. That's what love is. It doesn't matter if you have to suffer a bit, because there's nothing more important than your love. Don't you know anything?"

Rhona was not silenced for nearly as long as Colin imagined she might be. "You find someone you like, you rut with 'em. If things work out, they stay with you. That's what love means to me."

For all her deviance, Rhona was not a totally antisocial being. Since reemerging from the wilds, she had shown up regularly at local festivals, and even made a few friends who she visited on

occasion. But she had found no man—or woman—who wanted her for more than a short fling. Colin doubted if she would ever find love, and pitied her for it.

But mulling over his own words, Colin felt happily confident that Rhona did at least love him. Warren's war had nothing to do with her, and for all her viciousness in combat she did not particularly relish bloodshed; her only reason to endure the battles—and prolonged contact with civilization in the form of the army—was her care for him. Like his wife, she had chosen to sacrifice some of herself for him.

The days passed slowly, as Colin could hardly wait to return to his family. His nights were full of happy dreams, which made him reluctant to wake. But he forced himself to rise each morning as early as Rhona did, knowing the real thing would be better than any dream.

The plains gave way to familiar wooded hills, and Colin's spirits grew light with joyful anticipation. "I smell mutton," said Rhona a short way from home.

"Are you sure?" Colin didn't smell anything, but very rarely did he or Phyllis slaughter one of their sheep for food. Maybe one had broken a leg, and needed to be put out of its misery.

"Yeah, I'm sure. My nose doesn't lie."

When the house came into sight, Colin realized that he did indeed smell cooking sheep. He looked towards the sheep pen, and to his alarm saw at least five animals had gone missing. What was going on? Then he saw the blood on the grass, and fear quickened his pulse.

Colin hurried to the door and knocked. His eyes widened when not his wife, but his neighbor Bran opened the door. More blood stained the floor, and a leg of mutton roasted slowly in the stone oven.

"Where's Phyllis?" Colin demanded. His heart tightened at the grim look on Bran's rugged face.

"She's dead," the lanky farmer breathed. "I was waiting here to tell you—sorry."

All the water seemed to evaporate from Colin's throat, and the strength fled from his knees. "Hhow?" he asked numbly.

"Brigands, it seems."

"What about Jesse?!" Colin asked in terror.

"I don't know. He wasn't here when I arrived. They might have taken him."

Colin tried to get his breathing under control, but it was no use. Soon he fell to his knees, shaking and sobbing softly. "How... how could they do this? How could they do it to me?"

"I doubt those bastards took the time to figure out whose home it was before they attacked. Then again, maybe they knew, and that was exactly why they came."

Colin barely heard, distraught as he was over Phyllis's death. He wept and wept, his huge shoulders shuddering uncontrollably. No longer could they grow old together, watch their children grow up together. She was dead, and with her all his humble dreams. He could not imagine his future without her, nor did he want to.

Rhona knelt beside him, and he felt her arms wrap comfortingly about his shoulders. "Colin. Colin, listen to me. Your son could still be alive. Steady yourself, we have to go find him."

He looked at her and sniffed loudly. "How? They could have gone anywhere."

"When did they attack?" she asked Bran.

"No more than two days ago. If only you had arrived a little earlier..."

Damn it! Now Colin knew he would hate himself forever for not taking a horse. Still, he had to save his son. Mastering his grief for now, he wiped his eyes and stood. "Rhona?"

"I know Jesse's smell. Let's armor up and go bandit hunting."

"I'll come too," Bran said. "Phyllis was a good woman, and it hurts to see her murdered by such wicked men. Besides, my family could be next." Colin knew he was no stranger to fighting to preserve his life, having been a career soldier before the plague took his wife and forced him to return home to raise his children, and more than welcomed his aid.

Colin put his chainmail hauberk on over his tunic, and Bran donned his cured leather jerkin. Rhona took the longest to prepare, strapping on mismatched pieces of dull black-enameled plate over her leathers. Then they were off, the wild girl's nose leading them to the bandits' lair. Colin's heart pounded like a drum in his chest. What had they done to his son? He feared to find out. But he knew what he was going to do to them, images of their dismembered corpses vivid in his turbulent mind.

Sometime during the trip, Colin heard himself asking in a choked voice, "What do I do if he's gone? What will I live for, if my son is dead?"

"Don't think about that," Bran said. "We'll get him back. They wouldn't have taken him just to kill him."

The trio eventually found themselves at the mouth of a hillside cave from which firelight glowed. At first they thought to attack with caution, but Colin heard high-pitched cries coming from inside and lost all restraint. A woman! The image of his wife being raped filled his mind, driving him into an irrational rage. With a scream, he charged into the cave.

"Colin, you idiot!" he heard Bran cry.

"Get off her!" Colin bellowed as he rushed, his eyes fixed on the man thrusting his pelvis up and down over the woman prone beneath him. The bastard! Now he was going to find out that there was still such a thing as justice in the world...

The woman saw him first, and with a shout pushed her lover off herself. Colin grew confused when he realized the woman wore a sword and several daggers. Why would the bandits allow a victim to remain armed? The woman drew her sword and scrambled up to strike at Colin. Damn, he'd been wrong. She was one of the bandits!

With a great roar, Colin blocked her slash and retaliated, cleaving through her shoulder and chest.

Rhona and Bran were at his side then, and he looked around to see about twenty crudely dressed, hard-faced men in a ring around them, weapons in hand. Behind them, packs and bedrolls lay on the stony ground. Colin had charged right into the midst of the bandits' camp.

"Joshua," the dead woman's lover whined, "they killed my honey girl! Who do they think they are to be so stupid brave?"

A tall, broad-shouldered man with long braids smiled as he replied, raising a heavy two-handed sword. "Colin and Rhona, that's who. Just as crazy off the battlefield as on it, apparently. So that was your wife?"

Recognition hit Colin like a hammer. "Joshua? So this is what you've been doing, you shit-faced deserter!" But in spite of his anger, a sliver of doubt pricked his heart. Joshua, arrogant rogue he was, had been a remarkable swordsman. Colin remembered losing to him in more than one exhibition match.

The bandits closed in, a few especially aggressive men rushing ahead of their fellows. Colin's great axe clove the air in a wide arc, two brigands jumping back to avoid the whooshing head. Another man ducked beneath the blow, his dagger glinting in the firelight, but Colin's fist smashed against his head with such force that his neck snapped. Bran blocked a sword cut with the shaft of his spear, slammed the butt into the man's head. Spinning the spear around, he stabbed it into the knee of another warrior, who fell howling in pain.

Rhona blocked a sword blow with her shield, ducked another, and splintered a hip with her axe. Smaller than Colin's weapon, her short battleaxe was designed for use in one hand. Before she could free the blade, a bandit lunged and plunged his spear into her upper chest. With a shriek of rage, she hewed through the wooden shaft and opened its wielder's throat on the backswing.

Hearing her cry out, Colin turned and saw the broken spear jutting from her chest. "Rhona!"

"I'm fine," she gasped. "It didn't hit anything important."

Angered nonetheless by his sister's wounding, Colin lashed out fiercely with his axe, severing a man's arm near the shoulder. A sword jabbed at his belly, but he leaned aside and it only grazed his side. His axe drank the warrior's brains in reply. He felt a sudden weakness in his right leg, and looked to see the hilt of a small knife protruding from his thigh. Angrily, he plucked it out and looked around. A lean bandit smiled at him, reaching for a second dagger. Before he could draw it, Colin returned his first knife, and he caught it with his eye.

Bran felled another man, gutting him with a spearthrust below the navel. Freshly dying, his screams rose above those of the other injured bandits. Half the enemy were down, and with a yell of triumph Rhona rushed their now hesitant comrades. "No!" Colin cried.

The Wild Axe's first blow ripped away a man's sword, and her second split his breastbone. But Joshua stepped in, stabbing two-handed with his sword to drive it through Rhona's belly. A foot and a half of sharp steel emerged from the girl's back, and she doubled over coughing red droplets. With a merciless sneer, Joshua kicked her off the blade.

On her back and choking on her own blood, Rhona braced herself with a hand and tried to rise. Joshua's sword hammered down hard, her shield arm barely mustering the strength to ward off

the blow. She moaned, blood pouring from her gut and back. Grabbing his closest foe by the neck, Colin threw him at his allies and started towards his struggling sister.

Bran grasped his shoulder, holding him back. "Forget her! She's already dead."

Colin shrugged him off, scowling through a mask of tears. "I'll fight for my sis as long as she draws breath."

An opportunistic bandit joined Joshua in his attack, and Rhona groaned while an axe dented the armor over her side. Yet she managed to raise herself halfway up and fall towards her new opponent, her own axe coming up and smashing into his thigh. Joshua stepped towards her even as the other bandit fell back, his sword chopping down at her head. She rolled to her knees, bringing her axe up just in time to intercept the blow. But Joshua pressed down, slowly bringing the edge of his blade closer and closer to the wounded girl.

Without warning, Rhona shifted her shield higher on her arm and reached forward and up, her hand snaking underneath Joshua's kilt. The swordsman's eyes bulged, and a deafening scream of utter anguish tore from his throat. He fell away, blood gushing between his legs. Her face scrunching up in disgust, Rhona tossed aside the red, fleshy mass in her hand.

Then Colin was there, slashing over his sister at the next man who would have attacked her. A headless corpse toppled at his feet as he said breathlessly, "You tore off his balls!"

Rhona's response carried none of her usual spirit. "Colin, I'm hurt."

He swallowed hard even as his axe came down on the back of a man who rushed in low, sundering the spine. "I know, sis. Hang on!"

A broken spearshaft flew through the air, transfixing a bandit's face. Bran appeared at Colin's side, a procured sword in hand and a flap of flesh hanging loose from a ghastly wound in his upper arm. "Damn you, abandoning me for your dying sister! Look at what you did to my spear!"

"I knew you could take care of yourself. But Rhona..." Colin could say no more. Guilt stabbed his heart. It was his recklessness in launching a direct attack which had brought them into such an uneven battle. Now, his sister might die for it.

Only three bandits remained standing, and Bran and Colin advanced grimly upon them. One man charged, shouting defiance. Bran parried his overhand slash, and Colin hewed him nearly in two. Another man tried to dive past the warriors, seeking escape. Somehow, he managed to get by the men with only a shallow cut on the arm, but brave Rhonda gutted him from the ground. The last bandit backed up against the wall of the cavern and raised his hands. Slim and beardless, he looked little older than a boy.

"I surrender! Please spare me, I didn't kill her!"

"Where's my son?" Colin growled.

"Aidan took him to sell, I don't know where! We didn't need to know... please, don't kill me! I didn't kill your wife."

"Did you rape her?"

The youth exhaled. "No," he said, looking away.

"Don't lie."

Tears rushed from his eyes. "Yes, I raped her! But they made me do it! What does it matter? She was dead anyway!"

"Don't be a wimp," Rhona said. "You came this far, now finish it."

Colin raised his axe and hesitated. He was still angry, but he had already killed so many and the bandit seemed just a scared child. Maybe he could let him go. Maybe he could live to spread the word of what happened to those who wronged Colin. Maybe...

Rhona stepped past him and swung her axe low, driving the spike on the back of its head into the bandit's lower belly. The youth fell to his knees screaming, blood gushing between his fingers. Rhona looked meaningfully at Colin. Helplessly, he raised his axe and lopped off the dying boy's head. She had purposefully inflicted a wound which would kill slowly and terribly, in order to force his hand.

At the thought of the bandit's gut wound, Colin remembered Rhona's injury. If anything, hers seemed worse. He turned to see her fall to her knees, drooling blood. "I-it hurts."

He knelt at her side, cradling her in his arms. "No, Rhona, don't! Please don't die. You can't die!"

She regarded him with an exasperated scowl, though he was not sure why. "Don't you... panic. II'll be fine."

As much as Colin wanted to believe her, he could not push the certainty of her death from his mind. The huge sword that had ripped through her belly must have torn her innards to shreds. He held her hand and stared weeping at her face, wondering how much time together they had left. Maybe it would have been better for him to grant her the mercy of a swift death, like he had the bandit. But Rhona was his sister, and he could not imagine raising his axe against her.

Bran knelt beside him and touched his shoulder. "Relax, Colin. Put her down, and I'll patch her up."

"You can save her?" he asked, desperate for any sort of hope.

"Weren't you there when I stitched up your uncle's dog?"

Colin's heart sank. "But that dog died..."

Rhona squeezed his hand. "Just... do it," she whispered. "I'm tougher... than a dog."

Colin set her carefully on the ground, pulled his wineskin from his belt and put it to her lips. She took a few swallows, then nodded, and he finished what was left. Bran undressed her and stitched the back side of her wound, so as to save her some blood. He turned her to her back and drew his dagger. Bare, her wounds were hideous to see. Colin watched in horror while he sliced her open. He had little confidence in Bran's abilities as a surgeon, and knew such an operation had little chance of success no matter who did it. Rhona would undoubtedly lose a great deal of blood, and if she survived that, infection was still all but guaranteed.

For a few seconds, the girl managed to stay quiet. Then she began to scream, and Colin cringed with each heartrending cry. He refused at first to look at her face, not wanting to see the unbearable pain reflected there. Instead, he watched Bran mend her tattered innards, holding back the vomit burning in the depths of his throat. Sometime during the surgery, Rhona stopped screaming. Finally unable to bear the sight of her opened abdomen, Colin looked at her face. Her eyes were closed, and he could not tell if she was breathing. Bran did not check if she had died, but just kept working.

Eventually, he finished putting Rhona's guts back together and closed up her wound. Colin simply continued to stare at her still face. She looked gray as death; he did not know if she lived, nor could he find the will to check. There was so much blood everywhere—how could anyone survive this?

Eventually, Bran put his fingers to the side of Rhona's neck and nodded. "She's alive."

Colin exhaled, but his heart was still racing. "Will she be alright?"

"Your sister's very strong. She has a chance."

Gingerly, Colin scooped Rhona up into his arms and started to stand. A feminine moan of pain startled him, and he looked down at her face. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open and she met his gaze.

"C-Colin?" she croaked. "See, I told you I'd be okay... I am going to make it, right?"

He swallowed hard. "Of course you are. Just rest."

"I'll do that. What about you, now?"

Still shaken and scared for Rhona's life, Colin gave the only answer he could. "What else? I'm going after my son." He looked up. "Will you come with me, Bran?"

Bran shook his head. "I can't—I've got my own daughters to feed. But I'll take care of your sister." If she lives, his eyes seemed to say.

"Thank you. You make sure you don't lead his girls astray, eh sis?"

She smiled weakly. "Yeah, sure."

Colin carried Rhona from the cave, Bran following behind. Dreams die, he thought wearily. But hope remains.

Colors

I feel odd, not like my usual self. Something is different; I cannot put my finger on it. I think for a few minutes. I look inside myself. I do not like what I see. I am an empty shell, I just sit here. I occupy space for others. I close my eyes and just breathe. I breathe for one minute, two minutes and three minutes. Just maybe, just maybe I am mistaken. Maybe I am not an empty, rotten cavern. I peek again. I whisper “Hello?� My own timid voice echoes lightly back. Is that really my own voice? This is scary. What is going on? Where am I? A better question would be; WHO THE HELL IS THIS? There used to be so many colours inside of me. I am colourless. I am nothing but air and time.

Where have all my colours gone? Did I throw them all out, was it on purpose or by accident?

Maybe my colours were snatched from me, stolen. No colour equals death.

I miss my yellow, purple, red, pink and even my blue. Without my colours I am no one. I do not really exist. Without colours how can others see me the way I want and need to be seen? Without colours I am close to death. Am I dying? Who put the stamp on me that say EXIT? I would go and find more colours but it is not that easy. No one just randomly leaves their colours pattering around.

I need the colour yellow. Yellow is my laughter. It reminds me of sunshine during the summer. I love having the sun bake down on my skin. Yellow reminds me that there are priceless moments that we live for. Those snapshots of our lives that make us feel on top of the world! Yellow makes me smile and grateful for who I am.

I miss purple. This colour brings me hope. What a life to live without purple! No hope day after day, after day. There would be no point. I need to cling to purple like a raft that drifts alone in the ocean. Purple is like my mask. A mask I need in order to face challenges.

Pink provides me with protection. Pink is what protects me from the ugly slush that is constantly thrown at me. Not just during the winter months either. There is such an abundance of slush. I am lucky enough to encounter it quite frequently. The good news is the slush is free. Just a heads up, frequent use does not accumulate air miles! My pink is a cape with sequins that sparkle and cloak me when I need it.

My blue has been stripped away! How dare they? This is my strength Blue is my mojo and energy.

How am I to give to others? I cannot even breathe without my colour blue. Blue is like water, it quenches my soul’s thirst.

Tears glide down. I blink several times. This is not a dream. This is my harsh reality. I look down and inside myself once again. Still, there are no colours. Inside of me is still horrid black. There are no colours that dance around. Just a dark cavern, I am pathetic space. Something is trying to come to light. There is something crucial that I need to remember. It is important. Without colours, WITHOUT COLOURS WHAT? Why are colours so important?

Someone gently takes hold of my left hand. They whisper gently into my left ear “Do not move, just be. I love you today, tomorrow and always”. NO COLOUR IS.....DEATH.