jmqwrites

[jmqwrites]

Short Story - The Winter Stand

A more literary short story about a young man remembering his father.

THE WINTER STAND

By J M Quick

 It was the smell that put me off at first. Mildewed carpet, old furniture, and geriatric perfumes— malodorous and thick in the air—stretched the limit of my constitution as I sat in the parlor. Folks stood around talking in hushed tones, cooing words of condolence to my mother and filling their small paper plates with cheese and meat cubes. I knew some of them, but many of the ones I didn’t acted like they knew me. Once in a while they looked at me, sitting next to my brother Lucas, with doe-like eyes filled with sorrow seeming to say “you poor, poor kids.” I was seventeen and Luke was a year younger; I couldn’t help wondering if maybe they were sorry because the coffee had run out.

My mother, a thin and dramatic waif washed up on the shore of loss, floated from one acquaintance to the other, shaking hands, thanking visitors, and hugging family members. She’d always been the emotional one, and I could hardly blame her; Dad was gone now, and things would be different. It was the cold, scary, harsh winter season of life and she was in the midst of the storm like the rest of us. Her bony frame seemed to crumple into each concerned embrace; the two ends of a black lacy shawl swung gracefully about her waist as she moved between groups, leaf-like as if caught up in a constantly changing breeze.

Dad was in the other room; the viewing had been over for a while and he was allowed to rest after being laid out on display for the people now munching hors d’oeuvres and sharing their collective wistfulness with each other. I wished that they hadn’t put him out there. Seeing a body—Dad’s body—dressed up in a suit and tie, his face covered in cosmetics, stuff he never really wore on any other occasion, was a real shame. A man who lived life in blue jeans and tee shirts apparently couldn’t be seen that way in death; I guessed that it wouldn’t have pleased the audience. I only looked at him once; his large, muscular frame was packed tightly into a suit which was also packed tightly into a wooden box on a pedestal. His face disgusted me, someone had given him rosy cheeks and a stiff smile as if he was passed out drunk and having a wonderfully pleasant dream. I knew that it wasn’t my father; it was only remains dressed up for the crowd to enjoy. It made me ill.

We sat along the oak trimmed wall of the parlor; Luke was fiddling with a cocktail napkin and I was slumped in my seat, staring out at the talkers. I looked at Luke, and realized that we were the only two not engaged in conversation, consumption, or excessive hugging. I saw desperation in his eyes and thought that he probably had the same idea that as me; I wanted to get out, go home, and maybe hit the trail behind the house and spend the afternoon in the deer stand. That’s where Dad would’ve been—if he wasn’t in the box in the other room.

As folks would come and go through the heavy oak doors of the funeral home, the sharp, chilly November air would swirl in behind them, bellowing the sound of the traffic outside and spraying the stifling parlor room with a cooling blast. The smell of wet leaves and mud came in through the door as well, making me—and probably Luke—ache even more for the open. The quiet, peaceful woods behind the house held the promise of relief from these doldrums and the relentless chattering of the visitors.

I looked around the room again, scanning over the faces and trying not to meet any eyes along the way. I wondered why we do things like this; why do we remember someone by forcing a false image onto their memory? The man on display in the coffin on the other side of the funeral home was not the man that I grew up trying to be like. It was a mannequin, a made-up memory that was supposed to help us through this wintry time of life when the winds are a bit colder and things freeze in place rather than wash away quickly. I guessed it’s true that funerals are for the living. I was sure Dad didn’t care either way.

Luke and I thought the funeral service was too depressing for a guy like our Dad. He always made us laugh, even when we had no reason to smile. When I broke my arm in fourth grade, Dad told me jokes while the doctor put on the cast. The service was just morose, sad, and cold; it did no justice for the warm and happy subject of the memorial. I guess that’s what Mom needed, though. Dad would have wanted her to have what she needed. I asked her this morning if I could do anything to help and she smiled a wan, hollow smile that make the tear ducts in my eyes ache. She hugged me, tighter than normally, longer than normally, and told me that she was ok and that I was a good son. Strangely enough, that was the hardest part of all of this.  I felt that she could have used something, but she thought that she still had to be strong for her sons; I realized in that moment that I would never cease to be that little boy to her, someone that needs protecting from the harshness of the world, from the reality of life. What she didn’t know is that Dad had taught us all we really needed to know a long time ago. It was the most important memory I had.

####

           It was snowing then, a year or so ago, in the backyard of our house. We crunched the snow beneath our boots, waiting for Dad to come out of the back door. Luke and I were dressed in our coveralls; mine was orange and dingy from constant use and Luke’s was printed with leaf and tree patterns. Luke wore a thin, orange vest made entirely of synthetic fiber and an orange wool hat that made his hair curl out by his ears. Dad always gave him hell for his long hair, and Luke would always joke that Dad was only bald and jealous—which would usually prompt Dad to put him in a loose headlock and tousle his long hair while Luke made muffled protests.

The back door swung open, and at first only the ends of three black plastic cases protruded from the doorway. A couple of loud thumps and what was probably a stifled curse signaled that he was having difficulty getting through with all three gun cases in hand.

“A little help here, guys?”

We chuckled as we rushed around the back porch and clambered up the stairs, clunking heavy snow-laden boots up the wood steps, slipping slightly on the transparent sheet of ice on the surface. Luke took his case, I took mine and Dad’s, and we went back out into the yard where the pickup truck was parked a distance from the house. We carried the cases to the truck and placed them side-by-side in the bed, slamming the dented tailgate closed once, twice, and finally a third time before the latch closed and locked. Dad had started the engine and the heater by the time we got in.

“Ready?” Dad said, pulling the selector down on the steering column and letting the truck thud into gear.

“Yup” said Luke and I, almost in unison.

The truck chugged ahead; chained tires dug into the thick powder on the ground. We rolled across the white field behind the house that was now devoid of the life that had grown there during the summer. At the far end of the field, we spotted the opening in the trees that marked the trail going back to the camp. Dad always said that we were lucky to have the land and that, when he was our age, he lived in the suburbs where your neighbors’ houses were right next to yours, almost touching. He said that if he had never met Mom, he’d probably still be there.

We rumbled and bumped and jolted along the trail for a few miles, watching the weighted-down pines lean in the wind and slough off large sheets of snow. Everything seemed clean. When we arrived at camp, we saw that the little old cabin in the middle of the clearing had put on a fresh, heavy coat of white. The pile of logs that we built up in the fall was still standing, mostly hidden under the ice but protected by the tarp that we tied down over the stack. It was all as expected; this tradition was at least a few years old now and we looked forward to spending the weekend hunting, drinking coffee—which was something we weren’t allowed to tell Mom about—and listening to stories that Dad would tell by the small wood burning stove in the cabin.

Dad parked the truck and got out, took a deep breath of the cold, clean air and began to cough violently into his arm. Luke and I looked at each other; Dad had quit cigarettes about six months ago, but they must not have quit him yet. The cough seemed normal enough until it lasted for about twenty seconds. I opened my door, hopped out, and rounded the front of the truck.

“You alright?”

“Yeah-“ Dad said, seeming to fight off the last few coughs of the fit, “it’s the cold air.”

He looked into his arm, closed his eyes for a moment, and brushed the inside of his elbow with a gloved hand.

“You and Luke get the rifles; I’m going to get the stove going.”

So we did, Luke and I grabbed the cases from the bed of the truck and carried them into the main room of the cabin; Dad was in there striking a match over old newspaper and a couple of split logs in the stove. I didn’t tell Luke until that night about the blood on the snow where Dad was standing by the truck.

###

The following morning, we were out early to the deer stand. Dad had his massive thermos slung over one shoulder and his rifle on the other. Though he was an electrician, I think that he could’ve been a lumberjack if he wanted; his legs and arms were thick tree trunks supporting a barrel chest. He didn’t have the beard, but I thought he could grow one. I wanted to grow one.

The sky was still dark and the white snow was gray in the low, early morning light. The stand was only about a quarter mile from the camp; Dad said that putting it farther away from camp would prevent the deer from spooking. The wind was light, and the air was inundated with the smell of dirt and pine needles when I wasn’t shooting snot out of my runny nostrils. The tranquil morning was only punctuated by tromping boots and the steady, steamy huff and puff of three bodies walking along a narrow, snow-dusted trail.

When the stand was in sight, Dad let out a soft, low whistle.

“Thank God, it’s still there. I was getting worried. Phew!”

This was his old joke, and we laughed anyway. He laughed with us, albeit a little short of breath. At the base of the ladder leading up to the stand, he stopped for a moment; he set down his thermos and case and motioned toward the wooden cube perched atop the tall frame to which the ladder was attached.

“You two go ahead, take the coffee and the rifles. I’ll be right behind you.”

Luke grabbed the thermos and started up the ladder, minding the icy rungs as he climbed. I stole a quick look at Dad, who had his hands on his knees and was breathing deeply.

“Dad, you ok?” I whispered. I didn’t want to the deer to be spooked.

“Oh yeah, bud,” he replied, “just stretching out a minute before climbing up. I’m not your age anymore-“

He coughed again, once more using his arm to muffle the sound in the otherwise silent surroundings. It was the same dirty, ugly, guttural thing that had come out of him the day before. I didn’t look, but I was sure that there was more blood on the snow. I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say anything to him about it, nor would I tell Luke this time. It didn’t matter though, everyone would know soon enough.

###

We sat in the cold quiet for about an hour while the sky took on its early colors. Around the stand, the woods began to glow as only things that have been long untouched can when the first rays of sunlight hit them. Everything shined and was slick with icy wetness; the world seemed covered by a sheet of watery glass.

Dad poured some coffee out for us into some stainless steel camping cups we brought along.

“Remember gentlemen,” he said, “Mom does not find out about the coffee, right? You know how she is about caffeine, sugar, carbs, and all that other stuff.”

Both Luke and I nodded and added an “uh huh” each. We sipped the pleasingly hot liquid and it made me feel like an adult. We were just three guys, having a coffee, waiting on deer. Dad had a way of making you feel less like a kid when you were with him. I don’t know how it worked, but it did. I wished that we could do this all the time. As soon as that though hit my mind, I felt the question begin to blurt from my mouth.

“Dad…”

“What’s shakin’ bacon?”

Luke laughed, he always did at that one.

“Why is it winter?”

I felt stupid after I said it. It made no sense…but it did at the same time. Dad’s eyebrows wrinkled. He was pondering the question. Luke responded first.

“Didn’t you pay attention in school, dummy? The earth goes around the sun and we have winter when we’re—“

“Yeah, I know that, genius,” I said. The thought was coming together more clearly now and I realized what I was actually asking. “I mean, almost everything is dead in winter. Why does that happen? I guess it doesn’t make sense to me.”

Luke sat back; he seemed to have nothing left to say. Maybe the question was too deep for him. Dad was still pondering, looking out the window of the stand at the trees, the sky, and the birds that were now waking up and chirping their first songs of the day. That was when I think I first saw it; the sorrow and helplessness in his face. His eyes desperately searching the horizon for an answer. I felt stupid again. I must have said something that made him angry.

As if he found something out there, distant and vague but reasonably satisfying. His gaze came back to the inside of the stand, and his eyes rested on me.

“That’s a good question, son.”

I had nothing to say, so I waited.

“I think you’ve got to have winter sometimes,” he continued, “some things have to die to make room for other things. You know, a deer might die out here today but he’ll feed us for a while. He’ll die so we can go on living.”

Still, Luke and I listened, something about what Dad was saying had gravity, substance, and we were enamored.

“The leaves fall off of the trees and get crushed up and broken down in the soil. When the snow melts and spring comes around, new plants will eat what’s left so they can grow.” He looked at me as he spoke. “Even the cold, sometimes ugly parts of things are necessary to make the good and new things possible.”

He chuckled a bit as the slightest shadow of a tear welled up in his eye. “Good things and bad things, summer and winter, they all have their limits. They go on as long as they need to, until something else’s turn comes up.” He reached out and patted the toe of Luke’s boot. “One day, I’ll be gone too and maybe it’ll be your turn to be a dad. Just remember, whether you’re living in the summer sun or surviving the winter, everything has another side.”

I looked over to see that Luke was already looking at me with a “are you hearing this too?” expression on his face. We remained quiet; I was unsure of what to say. I thought of the blood on the snow, the cough, and felt the need to fight the tears that wanted terribly to escape from my eyes. I didn’t want to cry in front of Dad; I didn’t want to look like a baby. I saw it though, the truth in his face. I understood what he wanted to tell us. The reality of Dad being gone one day hit me like a punch to the nose. My eyes were cloudy and my face felt numb; a million thoughts cascaded at once through my adolescent mind, displacing the selfishness of youth and placing priority on things that never seemed to matter before. A new door opened up for me that day—for Luke too I think—and I started growing up.

“But it’s nothing to get down about,” said Dad, pushing joviality back into his weathered face, “everything’s got another side, that’s just how things work.”

###

There were no deer that day, and Luke blamed it on Dad’s coughing. As it turned out, there was no deer all weekend, and we spend most of our time in the cabin with Dad teaching us how to play poker. He gave us the same old disclaimer about not telling Mom that we were playing cards; she also had a thing about gambling. Luke, as I began to find out, didn’t seem to know that something more serious was going on. I did, and I felt it the whole weekend.

I sat in the deer stand, now seeing the ending of winter and the onset of spring’s renewal and remembered that day and my Dad. Luke sat behind me, laying on the floor of the stand and leaning into the corner of the structure, just as he did on that winter day. I looked out at the changing scenery, the greens poking up though dead brown grass and some birds hopping from bush to bush, picking out remnants of old vegetation and insects that ventured out of their holes.

“Do you think we’ll see Dad again?” said Luke.

I turned to look at him; he hadn’t shifted from his original position nor had he taken his eyes off of his phone’s screen.

I looked back out at the woods; the sun was setting and it was nearly time to head back. I thought about Dad; I wondered where he was and what he was doing. I thought about what he said to us that day. I realized that, even if Mom still saw Luke and I as her little boys, she would have to accept that we were all she had and that we were growing up.

“Yeah,” I said, swinging my legs over and starting down the ladder. “It’s like Dad said, everything’s got another side.”

 END

[jmqwrites]

Short Story - The Wyveric and the Root

A children’s story, written for a contest in Ember: A Journal of Luminous Things.

THE Wyveric and the Root

by J M Quick

The treetops and lush gardens covering the rolling hills of Anharet danced as the gentle breeze caressed their leaves and vines. The cultivated rows of vegetable crops, multicolored and swelling with ripeness, stretched far into the distance and traced the undulating crests of the hills before disappearing into the horizon. The Lagomans worked this land; their small, furry bodies tilled the soil, harvested corn as if felling a tree, and collected the plump fruits that grew happily under a cloudless sky. As they picked and plucked, they stole tastes of the luscious produce, reveling peacefully in their autumn haul in the shade of the tall plants. There was plenty for everyone, and the festival of the harvest would soon commence.

Homehill, the great burrow of the Lagoman people, sat at the north most point of the farmland. To a bird's eye, it was a vast verdant portion of raised land covered in trees dressed in yellows and reds. Below, a deep and mammoth contortion of tunnels and chambers formed the center of Lagoman society and government. The largest of these caverns, the Honored Hall, housed the seat of Walson, high governor of Anharet. He was resplendent; his rich, chocolate coat was wrapped in a creamy white sash decorated with the embroidered emblem of the Lagomans, the Sacred Root. The honored symbol, an orange spike of a vegetable with a deep green sprout at the top, was the prized possession of Lagoman society. In the fields surrounding Homehill, large tracts of the Sacred Root were always growing, producing the delicious delicacy. 

Walson, seated on a raised stone next to his wife in the Honored Hall, addressed the assembly of the governing representatives.

"Friends," said Walson, "another year of bounty is passing, and the harvest is nearly complete. Let us discuss the preparations for the harvest feast and festival. Greloe, what gifts has the land given this year?" 

The others, various officials representing the working population of Anharet, sat looking up at Walson; some looked around for Greloe--master of the harvest and stores--and saw his long grey ears perk up at the sound of his name. 

"Plenty, Governor," said Greloe, now standing from his seat. "The land is generous as always, as we are thankful always. We have extended an invitation to the Ruswina of Ogelstye, and I am confident that they will accept, as always." 

This elicited a chuckle from Walson, and he saw that some of the others found Greloe's response equally comical. Even as a child, before taking the seat of Governor, Walson knew of the insatiable Ruswina and their penchant for raucous festivity. Every year, an invitation to the harvest feast would be dispatched to their friends on the other side of the southern forest; every year, the Ruswina would attend, feasting heartily and singing the songs of their ancestors. Though larger in stature than the Lagoman, the Ruswina were joyful people from their snouted faces to their curly tails, and were usually the last to start an argument. They were a tribe of scribes, teachers, and thinkers that frequently assisted the Lagomans with technical matters in trade for a portion of Anharet's produce. The Lagomans and Ruswina were very old friends, cooperative communities living in peaceful co-existence on opposite sides of a great wooded valley. 

As Walson recalled the fond memories of festivals past, a young Lagoman scout in a bright bronze helmet entered the hall and delivered a piece of parchment to the only Ruswina in attendance. 

Sitting on the edge of the group in the great hall, the rotund Ruswina, Maragele, read the parchment with a furrowed brow; her small triangular ears quivered as she stood and smiled politely, but with an obvious weight on her mind. As the resident record keeper and guest of the Governor, Maragele was the collector of news and reports from the scouts and traders that traveled beyond the boundaries of Anharet.  

Walson watched the exchange, and saw the concern that strained the face of the record keeper as she read. 

"What news have you, Maragele?" 

"To be sure," Maragele said, “we are always most happy to join our friends for a celebration. However, I must admit that today's news is not of the cheerful kind." 

Walson raised an eyebrow. Bad news from beyond the border was an occasional occurrence, sometimes a violent storm was on the way or a pack of the giant wolf-like Lycenites had been spotted in the nearby mountains of Crescent Peak. Walson was troubled; the harvest feast had never been cancelled, or even delayed for that matter. It was the oldest tradition in the history of the Lagoman people.  

"Is it serious?" Walson replied. 

"I'm afraid it is, Governor Walson," said Maragele. "This morning, I received reports of a Wyveric from the Upper Lands roaming the western edge of the Southern Forest, moving along the coastline. The early reports were corroborated by scout dispatches that have just been delivered to my hand. I apologize for the delay in relaying this information, but I wanted to be sure before causing a stir." 

Murmurs rose from the group in a growing din, fearful words in nervous, chattering voices. 

Walson raised a hand, "Quiet, everyone. Please!" 

The din lowered in the hall and the last echoes ceased to reverberate from the walls of the cavernous chamber. 

"This is not the first time," Walson continued, "that a stray Wyveric has roamed this far from the Upper Lands." As he spoke he stood from his stone seat, taking a strong posture. His father, the long retired ambassador to the Ruswina, had always told him that strength in a leader helps to calm the people. Walson could still remember the words that his father told him on the day he took the Governor's seat. In troubled times, the people will find strength in their leader. Your job as Governor goes beyond making decisions; you must also be the symbol of confidence and integrity.

Walson placed a paw on the shoulder of his wife, Dilenna. "We have dealt with this before, long before our time. The great beast Yorek, having strayed into the Southern Forest, managed to start a wildfire that burned for a month and consumed a massive swath of vegetation. Trees are only now beginning to return in that place. Maragele, surely you could tell the story better." 

"Well," said Maragele, "you've told most of the important parts. However, as I remember it, the combined forces of the Lagomans and Ruswina went out to face the beast Yorek as he wandered the forest. The behemoth covered in gray, stony scales lumbered through the trees and shook the ground with each stride. It is said that, seeing the armies of both peoples amassed before him, he was enraged and started the blaze of which we've all been told. Upon further advance from the armies, he fled, outnumbered by the multitude that came to meet him. He was never seen again. It's curious, but quite true." 

Dilenna spoke up suddenly. “So, we must meet this beast in the field and drive him away?" 

Walson looked to Maragele, waiting for a response. In his mind, he considered the potential damage of another wildfire as well as the threat of a relatively unknown beast freely roaming the forest. What if someone unknowingly crosses its path? Perhaps a trade caravan passing through the forest may inadvertently surprise the beast and trigger more destruction or even be killed.

"If history is to be consulted, then yes." Maragele's reply was tremulous at best; her words lacked the confidence of personal experience. "However, we have very little history to consult. I believe that, if left unaddressed, the Wyveric might depart without confrontation. There is, though, the possibility that the beast might stumble upon one of our towns--"

More fearful chattering erupted from the group as the notion of an entire town being put to the flame began to sink in.

"People!" Shouted Walson, realizing that if he did not halt this panic, it would spread uncontrollably

"We must go," he continued, "and seek to prevent any harm from coming to our people and our lands. With the harvest close at hand, I see no option to wait. If a great fire were to ravage these lands as it did in the stories, it would be catastrophic. I would ask that Maragele take an official dispatch to Ogelstye and ask for the assistance of the Ruswina in this matter."

Walson hoped to exude, through his speech and posture, a calming confidence in his decision. Inside, he felt weakness as it trembled through his limbs; he felt unsteady, unsure, and anxious. A Wyveric is nothing to trifle with; we may be marching directly into destruction.

Collecting himself from this moment of doubt, he began to speak again, firmly addressing the group before him. "We will raise the banner of the Sacred Root and go out to meet the beast. Assemble the ranks!"

#

Walson, along with his lieutenant Dakus, came to a stop along the main road through the Southern Forest. It was silent, save the rustling footsteps of those halting behind him. Maragele and the Ruswina governor Lauril emerged from the settling masses and approached.

"What is it?" asked Lauril.

Walson had stopped, signaling Dakus with a hand on the shoulder, in response to a change in the wind. The smell is what stood out from the otherwise green and empty forest surrounding them. At first, the fragrant scent of pine and mossy ground was present; cool gusts of occasional breeze whipped about, turning over leaves and spreading the lovely odor of the woods through the air. Now, Walson sensed, a different note was present. It was a smell of smoky, sulfurous vapor, as if a campfire had been extinguished nearby.

"Can't you smell it?" said Walson.

"Burning. Something is burning," said Maragele.

Walson turned to his lieutenant, motioning back to the mixed horde of the two partner tribes. "Dakus, ready the troops, I believe that danger is near."

Behind them, the mass of Lagomans and Ruswina stood waiting. Each wore a helmet of bronze with colored plumes of grass adorning the crests. Each carried a shield, bearing different variations of the Sacred Root's image. In the other hand, each held a spear holding the Root itself on the tip as a totem of fortune and safety. With an arcing wave of his hand, the procession began to move again.

The scent intensified as they marched, and soon the faint sound of rustling echoed through the trees. Walson could see the beast, stone shingled skin glistening with the dampness of the morning air. It lumbered along, twisting its massive head back and forth, fiercely scanning the surrounding woods. Heavy, charcoal smoke puffed from its twitching nostrils as a forked tongue licked out of a toothy reptilian maw. The beast was as tall as the surrounding trees, but not quite tall enough for its lengthy neck to protrude from the canopy above.

Again, Walson halted the march.

"Hold for my order to advance," he said to a sergeant in the front line. "I will take a small group forward and attempt to make contact from a distance. Maragele, Dakus, will you join me?"

"Of course, Governor," replied the lieutenant.

"In friendship," said Maragele, using the Ruswina affirmative for an old companion.

Walson nodded to both of them; a sense of pride and honor swelled in him at the loyalty of his comrades, almost shadowing the anxiety of facing the task before him.

"Let us go then."

The party of three stepped forward toward the great lumbering lizard; Walson felt the weakening of his muscles as the gravity of the situation revealed itself. He steadied himself with the thought of an old Lagoman prayer. Mother of the land, be kind to us in this moment. Let us give peace instead of discord, produce friends instead of enemies, and live content and grateful in the gift of your bounty.

Still a distance away, Walson bellowed out toward the giant. "Wyveric!"

The beast turned quickly with a jet of black smoke from its snout. It now stared back at them, silently surveying their position with golden eyes that seemed to glow dimly in the shade of trees.

"We come to you as friends if you will have us!" Walson continued. We should not risk threatening the beast.

The scaly neck of the beast recoiled and the head angled slightly to the side, apparently confused by the salutation. The puffing of smoke came irregularly from the snout now, seeming to sputter rather than jet. Looking closely, Walson could see...a slight tremble along the length of the creature's curvy neck.

Walson, leaning his spear against a nearby tree, raised both hands. "We mean you no harm, and would speak with you if you wish."

"Can it not speak?" asked Maragele.

"It seems...afraid, Governor," said an awestruck Dakus. "How--"

Suddenly, a low hissing voice emanated from the beast.

"Help," it said. "H...Help me, please." As the words were formed, small wisps of smoke slid out from between its teeth.

Walson and his two companions now stood, each with a variation of the furrowed brow of confusion on their faces. A moment passed quietly while realization came. Walson was unsure of what he had just heard. Did it just ask us for help?

The three approached, moving slowly, cautiously, deliberately. This, Walson understood, was not the time for sudden, hasty action.

"Are you hurt?" Dakus asked the now more violently shaking giant.

"Not hurt," it replied, "lost."

As if a wave of understanding had crashed into Walson's consciousness, he felt dizzy with the sudden comprehension of the situation.

"You are...a child," Walson said, lowering his voice to a gentler tone, hoping to soothe the fearful creature. "What happened? How did you get this far from the Upper Lands?"

"We...were hunting wolves in the lower foothills near the water," said the Wyveric, seeming to calm and speak more comfortably. "My name is Rufred."

Now closer to the giant, the air was thick with the smoky sulfur as Walson breathed. "I am Walson, governor of the Lagoman people. This is Dakus, and Maragele, my friends. We are most pleased to meet you as we have never actually spoken to someone of your kind."

Rufred's neck relaxed and he dipped lower to the group. "I wandered into the woods, and now I cannot find my way back out. I wandered along the water for some time, but had no idea which direction to fly. I just want to go home, I apologize if I am trespassing--I mean no harm to anyone."

"Of course not, dear child," replied Walson, finding some humor in using the term for someone so much larger than himself.

"We can point you in the right direction. You are not very far from home if you are able to fly."

That seemed to calm Rufred. Maragele and Dakus gasped collectively as Walson reached out and touched the hard, scaly skin. It seemed that they had not yet understood the nature of this encounter. The erratic puffing of the thick vapor slowed, reaching a natural rhythmic cadence as the calming touch communicated more important notions than any words could have in that moment. This was no raging beast, no terrible scourge to be dealt with, just a child separated from its parents. He was a gargantuan child, but a young soul nonetheless.

"You have been out here for days, you must be starving," Walson said, eliciting looks of surprised disbelief from his companions as they slowly shook their heads, still staring at the Wyveric. Still, they must have believed that it was not safe to remind such a creature that it was hungry in the presence of other creatures of edible size. "Do you like vegetables?"

"What is a vegebal?" Rufred answered,

"One moment, I'll be right back."

Walson trotted back to the tree where his spear was still leaning, holding a Sacred Root firmly on its tip. Retrieving the weapon, he returned to Rufred with the Root bobbing up and down as he ran.

"Try this, see if you like it," said Walson, grunting and lifting the Root as far as he could reach.

"Governor!" said Dakus, suddenly snapped out of his gaping stupor, "that is the sacred food of our people!"

"And it is to be shared, is it not?" Walson replied.

Carefully, Rufred pulled the orange vegetable, leafy top and all, from the tip of the spear and crunched its crisp and firm flesh between his teeth. The three companions waited for a response. After a moment, Rufred licked his sizeable chops as something resembling a grin turned up the corners of his mouth. Though he knew it was a sign of approval, Walson couldn't help but find a Wyveric smile to be dreadfully intimidating.

Rufred belched; gassy jets of vapor spurted from his nostrils. Walson and his companions stepped back, alarmed.

"Do you have any more?" Rufred asked.

After a moment's pause, spontaneous laughter erupted from Maragele's short, round snout. The chuckling was almost instantaneously followed by Walson, and soon enough Dakus was snorting heartily. Rufred, at first embarrassed, fell in with the laughing trio, sending bursts of smoke into the air as he guffawed in his vaporous, raspy voice.

Soon, the entire regiment that had been waiting patiently close by could hear raised voices shrieking from the direction in which their governor had gone. They decided to move forward, fearing the worst for their leader and his friends. When they came within sight of the group, the first reactions were confusion mixed with wonder. Before them, their governor and his two companions were howling along with the massive Wyveric.

Seeing that the regiment had arrived, Walson called out to them. "Come forward, meet our new friend Rufred!"

Tentatively, some made their way closer. As curiosity took over, more of the group came closer to see the large creature before them.

"A Root!" Walson called. "I need another Root!"

From the large group, another spear was handed down to Walson. He promptly hefted the shaft up and over so that Rufred could reach it easily. The crowd gasped and cheered when Rufred devoured plant after plant. Little time had passed before questions began to come from the mass of Lagomans and Ruswina gathered around; many wanted to know more about the Wyveric people and their customs as most had never seen one before. As it turned out, Wyverics hunted wolves for sport, and primarily lived on vegetation and fish from the sea. They had little taste for furry food.

As the questions came, Rufred answered, telling stories of his people and their kingdom in the Upper Lands--plateaus above the great desert across the sea. Enamored, the group took in every word, quietly listening as the Wyveric told them how he had become lost in these woods.

When the stories were finished, Walson brought forth a bundle of the Sacred Roots that some of the soldiers had made while listening to the tales.

"It was quite a pleasure to meet you, new friend," Walson said, offering the bundle up to Rufred. "Please, deliver these to your people as a token of friendship as well as an invitation to join us for our harvest festival in three days' time. There will be plenty for all. Now, you must head away from the sun as it sets; when you leave the forest, fly in the same direction. You will be across the water in no time at all."

"Thank you," said Rufred, dropping his head and neck in an elongated bow. "I will."

As Rufred departed, Walson and Maragele watched him go.

"Do you think that Yorek was also a lost child?" Maragele said.

Walson nodded, eyes still fixed on the lumbering giant. "It is certainly possible. We came here armed for a fight much like our fathers did with Yorek. Had we not given the creature a chance, approaching with caution and respect rather than aggression, we might have suffered a repeat of the same events. What is true now, though, is that we made a friend instead of an enemy, hopefully an entire race of friends."

"Big friends," said Maragele, chuckling lightly. "Thank the land mother for the Sacred Root; it has certainly lived up to its name."

"Yes," said Walson, "a gift can certainly be more powerful than a weapon; sometimes, the Root is mightier than the sword."

END

[jmqwrites]

Short Story - Adrift Above Unara

A science fiction story about a pilot who discovers life on the brink of death after his fighter is disabled in battle.

Adrift Above Unara

by J M Quick

Part of me died at the battle over Unara, where I found myself drifting in a disabled fighter craft on the outskirts of the engagement zone.

I can remember the sensation of waiting for the launch order aboard the Unaran Alliance Fleet vessel Amorie. Strapped into my fighter, nervous excitement vibrated out through my extremities as I looked around at the other hovering craft that sat poised for action. Like a swarm of agitated wasps, the collective noise of each fighter resolved into a squealing, undulating hum that shook the inside of the cockpit. The power, the anticipation, the invisible yet entirely palpable pressure that hung about me drove a trembling in my fingers as I held the control yoke. I was intoxicated, high on my own existence as a finely-tuned weapon of the UAF.

The attack on Unara was imminent. Our enemies, vicious and unyielding, would soon be upon us; if we failed in our defense, doom was guaranteed for the people on the surface. This conflict, generations old, had lost basis long ago and any animosity was merely the product of tradition. This attack was in response to our assault on their home planet, which was retribution for their previous attack. It was a cycle that went farther back into history than most could recount, save for the record keepers.

Still, I was sworn to defend and would hold to that oath until death. Such was the honor of the Unaran soldier. Over a ten year career as a pilot, I upheld that promise with no regret; the lives ended by my hand were a price paid for the safety of my home. These lives, honorable foes of past battles, were memorialized as inscribed bones along the fuselage beneath my cockpit canopy.

The order, at last, came through. The pack began to thunder out of the hangar and through the ionic haze of the barrier. Like a cell in a larger organism, instinctual reaction pressed the yoke forward as the craft in front of mine shot off. I was forced back, into the seat as screaming thrusters catapulted me toward a vaporous event horizon shrouding an empty, black nothingness beyond. I passed through the wall of light, and the thunder ceased.

War in space is soundless. With the exception of the gentle hum of my once shrieking engines vibrating through the ship's frame, I was utterly isolated from the external. All that I had, all that was necessary, was the radar console above the flight instruments and the voices chattering over the comm unit.

The squadron slipped forward through the vacuum. Light, reflected off of the rusty sphere of Unara, gleamed upon the fighters. For a few moments, we were a shining, crimson beast, the obsequious harbingers of our planet's wrath. The warm glow abated, fading to blue and green reflections across the cockpit glass as the enemy took their first shots.

We spread out as the squadron leader ordered us to engage at will, opening up to face the incoming multitude of enemy craft. In the span of a few seconds, the area erupted with ion blasts as the two opposing swarms melded into a furious cloud. From a distant vantage point, it must have been a spectacular sight.

The radar screen, now full of various violet and yellow shapes crossing over and around one another, indicated my nearest target. Rolling and pitching the craft through the maelstrom, I saw the glow of thrusters on the target ship. I fell in behind and waited for a target lock. The pilot of the ship had some skill; obviously aware of my presence, he jerked and swerved erratically in an effort to shake my pursuit. For a moment, I believed that I might lose him. Then, a small orange box on the console illuminated with a warning chime. I pulled the trigger.

Almost instantly, I saw strips of metal straying from the aft section of the now listing enemy. His hull was breached. As I began to pull the trigger for a finishing shot, a small explosion sent pieces of the target ship in all directions. There was no boom, no heat, only bright, fleeting light and a rapidly expanding field of debris.

There was no love for destruction in me, only a sense of duty and self-preservation.

My hands felt cold and clammy inside their gloves. Dealing death was not a joy, but a damning necessity of the world in which I lived. Nonetheless, I could not deny a sense of pride in triumph over an adversary, in performance of my duty to the Unaran people--more bones on the fuselage.

Another box, red this time, began to glow on the console. There was another ship on my tail and I would have to shake it off or suffer my own explosive end. Banking back and forth, doing my best to make moves as random as possible without colliding with another fighter, I turned hard and jerked the retro-thrust lever. Propellant spray blew forward from the nose of my ship and I felt myself pushed painfully into my restraints as the ship slowed rapidly. I watched the blip that was my pursuer overshoot and turn hard, suddenly realizing that I was now behind him.

The orange light appeared again, I pulled the trigger again, and another detonation sent hot metal spinning off into the void.

Jamming the throttle back down, my body pressed back into the seat as the ship accelerated. There was no time to look for another target before it happened. An eardrum rupturing blast penetrated the silence of the cockpit. Suddenly, I was tumbling, flipping and turning in all directions. The blast left a ringing in my ears and I could feel air rushing against my back. Had my flight suit breached? Another jolt, this time my head was thrown sideways, rattling inside the helmet as it struck the unforgiving surface of the canopy.

It was black for what seemed like only a moment. Ears ringing, body freezing, and head throbbing mercilessly, I searched for something to anchor myself in reality. The tumbling had stopped for the most part. I was now slowly rolling, the ensuing battle still raged in the distance though I had no idea of how long I'd been unconscious. As the battle spun into view periodically, I could see the fighters buzzing around, spewing bolts back and forth. On two opposite edges of the cloud, massive frigates sat stationary, lobbing giant volleys across the fray. In a way, it was beautiful, a quiet stream of lights punctuated by tiny pops of fire and the shimmer of the frigates' shields as the volleys were repelled.

The console was dark now, no lights and no response from any of the switches. When I noticed the lack of voices over the comm, I felt the real weight of isolation. I was helpless and adrift; I was alive but of no use to anyone in this state.

The explosion of my thruster array did not destroy the entire capsule. I remember that at least, but what caused the jolt and the subsequent death spiral out into space? Did another ship hit me? Apparently the inertial controls weren't destroyed right away because I would still be spinning wildly if the orientation system was offline. In any case, it was dead now.

I could move my arms and legs, which was good, but one of my legs was surely broken as it seared with pain when I tried to shift myself in the seat. I could still feel my toes, at least to the best of my knowledge, and I was still breathing which meant my suit was intact. I turned my left hand over, revealing the small screen attached to the suit sleeve. According to it, my suit pressure was normal and I had little more than two hours of oxygen left. A yellow indicator showed that the external temperature was below forty degrees Fahrenheit, and it would only get colder as remnant heat radiates from the ship's equipment. Eventually, I would feel tired and drift off to sleep as my body gradually shuts down.

Fear swept through me and a rock dropped into my stomach. I always thought that if something happened in a dogfight, I would be almost instantly killed. I never really considered dying slowly, riding a rotating viewing platform of the battle in which I was killed.

Still, there was something about the waves of light zipping across the gap between the frigates, the way that their gargantuan engines threw off a wavering, ethereal glow, and the way the giant vessels hung suspended in a weightless pocket of nothing. They were titans at war. I think it was the sheer scale of it all that got through to me in the end. Never before had I taken the time to appreciate the magnitude of the powers involved, and how they dwarfed in comparison to the even the smallest celestial bodies.

It could have been the head trauma, but it all seemed so silly in that moment, being stuck in a floating coffin, unable to do anything to help myself or anyone else. Though I knew it to be illogical, for some reason it felt cowardly, as if I had somehow chosen this predicament. There was no glory or heroism in freezing to death outside of the fight. I would only be another bone on someone else's ship, the memorial of a brave, but vanquished combatant in an endless war. Worse, I might be forgotten, not even a painted mark. I would be meaningless.

As the capsule rotated, the view of the battle wiped away to an open expanse of black littered with distant stars much greater than the largest ship I could imagine. Out there, a vast, empty universe populated by an infinite dispersion of glowing hot centers of fusion watched indifferently as a race of beings insistent upon destroying each other continued to do so. I started to laugh, continuing through the stinging pain of a few broken ribs. I couldn't stop, even though the throbbing in my head surged with each chuckle.

It was absurd, really; I never asked why fighting was necessary. It was ingrained in me from a life of competition. I grew up believing that the only way one can succeed is by outperforming everyone else. It was imperative to be elite, to be of the clan that can claim some sort of superiority over the rest. In a society that had essentially advanced beyond the shortage of basic needs like food and shelter, we still fought as if we lived upon the Old Earth, where the violence escalated to the point of rupturing the planet so long ago. What was the point of all of this?

I coughed as I looked down at the suit display. Oxygen levels were nearly depleted, and cabin temperature was now below twenty-five degrees. I looked outside again, the battle still boiled and churned as it slid past again, though the accumulating fog on my helmet was starting to obscure the view.

As the capsule turned once more away from the fight, I gazed again at the expanse. It seemed to stare back at me as I contemplated the end. I thought about all of the things I'd done in my life, the things that I felt were accomplishments as well as the things for which I still had regrets. I felt exceptionally insignificant, a tiny dot of heat in the cold universe, petering out among the stars, alone. I realized then that my laughing had stopped. In my mind, a slew of thoughts unfolded as I took in the finality of these moments. I thought that we are insignificant if we remain alone, that no one human exists as an exception from the rest. It seemed suddenly clear that mankind would never become truly significant unless we could unite instead of self-destruct. The most amazing thought was that there was no physical rule that disagreed with this idea; even gravity, one of the most fundamental forces, works to pull all things together. I realized the folly of my own participation in this charade.

Seemingly prompted by this moment of understanding, a flash of light reflected off of the glass. I had to wait until the capsule finally rotated around to see that one of the frigates had been destroyed. Small, rapid bursts of flame, licked out of breaches in the hull as the frigate separated at the middle, dumping glowing metal and oxygen-rich air out into space. My first thought was that the enemy was defeated, but quickly I understood that there wasn't really an enemy; all that was there was a ship, slowly coming apart while its occupants died. Instead of victorious, I felt ashamed. I felt angry and terrified of the human capacity for violence. At that point, I was sure that enough was enough. I didn't want to see anymore.

Now that the fight was over, for them and for me, all that was left was for the sweeper teams to scour the area for any useful materials or enemy ships that lagged behind on the retreat. Then, life would go on. The war would go on. I would not, however, continue on. The fighter in me was dead, and my quarrel with the so-called 'enemy' was done. My part in the war had ended, and it seemed fitting that my life should end along with it.

I reached up, weak and sore all over, and felt around for the release lever on my helmet. Once the pressure seal was breached, death would follow immediately. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to muster the strength to end my own life, and a tear rolled off of my eye and floated to the side of my head.

Another light shined, brilliantly filling the capsule. I thought that I had finally run out of oxygen and was slipping into asphyxia. The light washed over me, moving over the entire capsule as if searching for something. More tears floated away from my face and deposited themselves on the inside of my helmet when I saw the source. It was a searchlight; they were sweeping the wreck. As the recovery ship closed in, I knew that a part of me had already died in the capsule, left to drift in the vacuum of space. Perhaps, though, there was still hope for the part that survived.

END