Whether it is nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous anonymity, or take arms against a sea of obscurity by revealing a plausible path to immortality; and by opposing, recognition? To die: to sleep our souls never to share in small measure the essence of life to be dreamt, carried on wings tilted, to soar the longing hearts in the darkness of this mortal coil. To die, the calamity of failure of undiscovered gifts born to strengthen the resolve, to bear the whips and scorn that oppress in life. Thus the conscience does makith cowards if we bay yet action resolves, and fear rejection; thus thought, turns awry, even as pith of effort wanes with action demised.

My friends,

Relatively new to this site and pretty socially inept, I turn to you to understand the in-and-outs of choice with how best to gain an audience to words penned. If as authors we sign with a house as unknown writers, we have the responsibility to sell ourselves to the public at large to gain readers. If we don’t put ourselves out there,— our words will not be read, and if our words are not read,— are we truly authors? Here I feel is a community of like minded people who love penned words and share a longing to put their works forth for the eyes of all to see. But simply posting a work does not guarantee perusal by the many if lost in the numerous posts of fellow artists. If I tag a fellow Poser, am I pushing myself wantonly, or merely asking politely — a friendly face — to maybe stop by my door and take a look at my work? I’ve had many people tag me to read their posts and I am happy as time allows to take a look-see, yet I feel a certain trepidation in tagging others to look at my work. I’m not sure if this feeling is unwarranted for I’ve noticed ones tagging, offering a courtesy of stopping the tag. Is tagging all my followers a means of simple advertisement, or do I simply wait and hope recognition falls in my lap with those so kind as to repost my work? Please advise.

“I am sure that you must remember the pools of blood on the floor after I killed him,” he snarled.

I watched in fear as his evil countenance seemed to mutate with a life of its own as his lips curled, ejecting a wad of sputum. “No, no, I don’t remember this at all. Please, I won’t tell anyone because I was sound asleep upstairs.” I cringed in my corner covered in the blood of our landlord. “Daddy, please, I didn’t see anything! I know it was just a nightmare.”

But Daddy took menacing steps towards me, holding the ax above his head. I could see that he was completely out of his mind as he laughed a wicked laugh. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend this was not happening. As he advanced, I heard a sloshing sound a few seconds before I felt his entire body weight on top of me. I felt my body to make sure I was still alive and was astounded to see my Daddy had the ax completely buried in his head. Apparently in his drunken stupor, he had slipped on the blood, landing on the ax with his head slightly to the side of me. I cried, as I attempted again and again to push the dead weight of his body off of me.

The next thing I knew was when the authorities pried him off of me, swooped me up and took me to the hospital. And that is where I am now, in a locked ward with other unfortunate human beings. “Please, don’t make me remember,” I beg the doctors. I must always remain seven years old in my safe little world away from the pain of the past. It is so quiet and peaceful in my small room that I can’t hear or see anything at all.

Mamahen was Yushomoto’s prized possession ever since he had moved to India. Being a Japanese, Yushomoto was extremely fond of well-cooked ramen noodles. Yushomoto himself was a part-time sous-chef in his mother’s kitchen in Japan. He knew several mouth-watering recipes of ramen noodles.

Hen comes home

It was on a bright sunny morning of early April when Yushomoto was walking down the lush Arunachal valley that his attention was drawn towards sounds of commotion. They were the joyous noises of boys being hooligans and exulting at the pain of a poor hen, with a trail of firecrackers attached to its feet.

Yushomoto was a compassionate human being who found the sight utterly disgusting. He quickly shooed away the boys, and then, with the help of his pocket knife, carefully removed the firecracker trail. The distressed hen was completely confused of its whereabouts and just ran into the squatting Yushomoto, who was carefully observing her.

Yushomoto looked nearby to see if there were any claimants of the hen. When he found none, he picked the hen in his arms and walked up the valley to his home. Yushomoto was a timber merchant and had a nice big place he called home. He had constructed the house using wood as the chief material and concrete was only sparsely used. He had a beautiful front garden as well as a plush backyard. He lived there alone. But this was going to change, now.

A name means everything

On reaching home, he decided to name the hen. He called her Mamahen. 

The story behind the name was poignant. Yushomoto had lived all his life with his mother, a single parent. She was a tough task-master and provided for their living by selling ramen noodles in various flavors to the local working classes. He learned his discipline and her recipes, both, in her kitchen.

But just like other mothers, Yushomoto’s mother was equally loving and caring. She stayed up nights when he fell sick with jaundice. He hardly saw her sleep those days. His slightest needs were met even at midnight without as much as a grumble. When he recovered, he had to toil hard like always; and to that, she allowed no excuses. She was his role model.

In her last days, Yushomoto’s mother had grown frail but her spirit was still steel. She did not suffer any specific diseases but the battering of life had weakened her. The three main teachings she gave Yushomoto were a disciplined life, honesty towards work and people, and compassion towards humans, animals and plants.

After his mother passed away, Yushomoto was alone. He had learned the workings of the timber business from one of his uncles. From his mother’s kitchen, there was a huge amount of savings. When he heard of a good timber business opportunity in Arunachal, he shut down the kitchen in Japan and moved there. His mother was his sole companion throughout life and thus, he missed her every day of his life. Not anymore. In Mamahen, he sought his mother; and this, was his own little secret.

Getting to know each other

He carefully constructed a spacious pen, for Mamahen, in the backyard. Mamahen was also slowly developing a fondness for Yushomoto. When he was not at the timber factory, he was busy having fun with Mamahen in the backyard or having silent chats with her inside the house. Yes, Mamahen was allowed inside the house when he was home.

Once, during one of the quiet chats while sitting on the floor, Yushomoto was fondly telling stories about his mother to Mamahen. She was looking at him intently and responding with prompt intermittent clucking. In between, she would also keep looking for any stray insects on the floor whom she could convert into a nice warm meal. But the house was clean and so, she had no luck.

Suddenly, even Yushomoto felt hungry. So, he got up and went to the kitchen. Mamahen sauntered behind him; knowing nothing better. She thought she might find some stray insect in the kitchen. But the kitchen was clean too. So she kept pacing the kitchen and clucking intermittently while Yushomoto told her the ramen recipe of the day.

Sharing the meal!

Piping hot ramen noodles with a savory aroma were ready in no time. Mamahen was lurking nearby, unaffected, despite an acute sense of smell. Perhaps, the search for an ill-fated earthworm, or any other stray insect, which she could convert into warm food for herself, demanded greater attention.

Yushomoto sat down at the low-height dinner table and began savoring the tasty meal. Suddenly, he started missing his mother who would often sit across him while they both had dinner. He wanted to share the meal with someone. Just then, it struck him that he could share it with Mamahen! So, he picked a long noodle strand with his chopsticks, kept a saucer on the floor, and placed the noodle on it. After that, he called out to Mamahen.

Mamahen was still busy looking for food when her attention was caught by the saucer and something on it that looked like an earthworm. Her irises expanded, she quickened her pace, and reached out for food! She pecked at it till she thought it was dead. Then, she ate it, piece by piece, with the flair of a conquering knight.

Yushomoto was amused and thrilled at the sight. Never before had he thought that a single strand of noodle could be a reason for so much pride for someone. He felt a filial bond forming between the two of them.

After finishing her noodle, Mamahen looked at Yushomoto with a slight tilt of her neck. Her eyes intense with expression. At that moment, Yushomoto knew that they had formed a close bond. He decided to not just treat Mamahen with ramen noodles every time he made them from then on but to spend more time with her.

©nehasri/Neha Srivastava

~This story was written earlier for a contest on another writing platform. Even though the story got a lot of attention and good comments, it did not place. Since it's a piece from the heart for children, I thought this is a good place to submit.

(continued from Part 1 here: https://theprose.com/post/160595/when-angels-cry-part-1)

...

I never thought it would happen this way. Somehow, I have to make my way through the endless stream of minutes left to me, alone and missing her. Lord knows we faced mortality together a time or two. Her faith and spirit always carried us along. Even Tonya learned quite early that to love is to hurt when it's over.

#

The dirt in the back field was rocky, and it was hard to get a shovel into. Tonya had refused our help though. Ree and I stood and watched together as our daughter, her face lined with tears and determination, dug a grave for Max.

He had been her dog since the day she was born, and at twelve, she had made the decision herself, that his time was done. It had been hard on her. He was old, mostly blind, and could no longer run and play.

That morning, she had come to me with tears in her eyes. "Daddy... it's time to call the vet. Max peed all over in his bed, and he can't stand up to get out of it."

"Okay sweetheart. I'll call him."

"No, I'll do it. I want you and Momma to be there with me though, okay?"

"Of course. We’ll always be here for you."

She had been brave on the phone. Even later, when Dr. Bloom came out and gave Max the injection that let him fade off to sleep for the last time, she had been strong. The tears coursed down her cheeks, but she held his old paw until he breathed his last. She even stood and thanked the doctor.

I am so proud of you, baby girl. Your heart is bigger than your whole body.

She had lovingly washed the urine from his back legs, and wrapped him in one of her old blankets. I’d offered to help, but Tonya said no. Marie had grabbed my hand and when I looked at her with a question in my eyes, she shook her head. She had known this was something Tonya needed to do on her own.

The dog was almost as big as she was, but she lifted him and carried him outside. She placed him on her wagon, and when he didn't quite fit, she looked at her mother. The pain on her face was almost more than I could bear. Ree helped her tuck his feet into the wagon and fold his tail up under his belly, so Tonya could wheel him to the field.

She accepted my help lowering Max into the grave, but she again refused any assistance when it came time to fill it in. She found a big rock for a grave marker, and I was pretty sure she only let me carry it, because it was too heavy for her to lift.

After the marker was in place, she took her mother's hand. "Can we say a prayer for him?"

Marie and I both had joined her in grief, though ours was compounded by an inability to take her pain away.

Oh Tonya. I'm so sorry that you have to learn this lesson, but it was inevitable. Everything we love carries with it the seeds of pain when it passes on.

She bowed her head and led us in the Lord's Prayer. I’d never heard a more beautiful or heartfelt prayer in my life, nor one that touched me as deeply as my little girl's prayer for her lost best friend.

(4)

I listen to the thunder roll through the black sky and stare out the window at the sleeping city below. The rain continues to fall mercilessly; it was a sound that used to make me sleepy and comfortable. I don't think I’ll ever feel that way again. I'm not sure I will ever feel anything quite as much as I did before.

The tears threatening once again, I stand up, step into my slippers, and walk to the kitchen. Maybe a late-night snack will help me sleep. The clock in the living room does it's soft reminder that it is 3:30 in the morning, and I find myself chuckling.

You always said I had an internal stomach-clock, set for 3:15. It's still working, Ree. I won't get any crumbs in our bed, my love.

Our bed... our room... our life. I don't want to think any more. I grab some leftovers from the fridge; there must be twelve kinds of casserole in there. I think everyone brought me food. I wonder why we do that. Maybe it's because so many folks find comfort in eating.

Three or four bites in, I realize I'm not hungry. I know that if I continue eating, it will just make me nauseous. I scrape the rest of whatever it is in my bowl down the disposal and rinse my plate. I make my slow way back through the darkened house to the bedroom that I now must sleep in alone.

I sit back on the bed; turning, I see my reflection in the mirror. Her mirror. I hardly recognize the old man I see looking back at me. Somewhere in that lined face, lives the ghost of the man I used to be. I've gotten old.

Damn, Ree... how did you still love me when I look like this? You still looked as fresh and beautiful as you did the day we met. Okay, maybe not as fresh, but every bit as beautiful.

I reach over and pick up the last picture we took together. It was at Christmas, two years ago. It saddens me now, to realize we will never get a chance to take another one. That was one of her passions for so many years; she loved pretending she was a model, even when we only had a little disposable camera.

#

"Say Cheese..."

"Rally, James dah-ling, no one says cheese any more. It's so passé."

Her fake British accent sounded more like a cross between French and Irish, but she always made it cute anyway. She started posing for me, so I started directing her as well. "Okay, now show me your best pouty-face."

She did, and I took three pics to be sure one of them turned out okay. By the time she had done three more poses—innocent, flirtatious, and then best of all, sexy—the camera was done.

She wasn't ready to be done however, and forcefully suggested we get another disposable camera. I knew she was also going to insist on the one-hour photo to get them developed that evening, but when the mood was upon her, there was no denying her whims.

We bought three more of the little 35mm cameras with built-in flash and went to the park. We saw a lady with a pair of poodles out for a walk, and Ree couldn't resist.

The poor woman. Ree not only convinced her to let us use her dogs for our "photo shoot," but to come with us until we found the perfect spot for pictures with them.

I didn't think it was possible, but I love you even more today than I did yesterday, Marie Jacobs.

I was still getting used to the sound of that. We had been married for three months at that point, and every day was an adventure. I was sometimes afraid of how much I loved her, but mostly I just enjoyed it and our new life together.

"Okay, now I want you to climb that tree, and give me your best ‘come hither’ look, while lying on the bottom branch." She was already half-way up the tree before I finished saying it. Sometimes we just clicked on the same wave-length. That was one of the million reasons I knew she was my soul mate.

We didn't know it at the time, but that shot of her lying on the branch would become somewhat famous. Life magazine bought it, and my Ree was a star for a month.

(5)

I sit up and blink at the sunlight shining in my eyes.

"Ree! Can you close that curtain?"

My voice is swallowed by the room. I realize that I am in my recliner, and on the heels of realization comes memory; there is no one here to answer me now.

The sun is shining through the sliding glass door that opens on the small balcony. I'm not sure what time it is. I'm not sure of much right now, except that the rain stopped sometime after I dozed off, and that my old chair may be great for watching football games, but it wasn’t meant for old men to sleep in.

My back is going to be screaming at me all day long. I wonder if we have any aspirin... We... I think I hate that word now.

I stumble to the bathroom and can't help but notice - all of her things are still scattered around the sink and on the medicine cabinet in front of the mirror. Her denture case is still there, though it is as empty as her side of the bed will be from now on.

I finish using the toilet and hear myself laugh; no one will mind if I leave the seat up now. The sound of my laughter rips something loose inside me, and the grief floods into me. I grope my way back to my room and fall to the floor next to the bed, as the tide of pain and sorrow rises like a tsunami, washing away all coherent thought.

Oh Ree! I need you like never before, and you’re gone.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, the sobs clawing their way out of my chest, hot salty tears pouring from my eyes, and the dull ache of loneliness, pain, and fear thumping in time to the beating of my heart.

I do know when I finally felt able to breathe normally again, my eyes were tired and sore, my nose was plugged completely, and my diaphragm felt as if I had been working out for hours.

It's strange how a deep bout of emotional release can leave you so tired, especially right after waking. My tears helped take the sharp edges off my pain; it would always be there, but I could now stand again.

I made my way back to the front room and gaze at the black and white photo on the wall - the one of the impossibly young couple who had just gotten married.

Is this my new normal?

The word "forever" echoes in my head. Suddenly I hear the preacher's words on that day, so long ago. The words we both repeated.

'Til death do us part.

I had no idea, literally no concept, of what those words actually meant. It's just now sinking in; this parting is permanent, at least this side of Heaven.

#

The sun shone brightly on the grass, and the birds sang sweetly in the trees overhead. We had over 80 people with us that day, and the folding chairs in the back yard were full. I stood there on the small platform, nervously talking to my cousin Fred. He had offered to be my best man, since my lifelong friend Aaron had come down with the flu the day before.

The flu my ass! He’s just hungover and still mad because I no longer want to spend my Friday nights hanging out with him and the boys at Dell's Bar.

I heard the music start. That single tune that can only mean one thing. Here comes the bride. I turned and there she was, her father walking next to her with tears streaming down his face.

She was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen, and I forgot how to breathe as I watched her approach. My balance threatened to send me tumbling to the ground.

As her father placed her hand in mine, everything made sense. All of my confusion and doubt vanished, and the world became crystal clear and was in sharper focus than it ever had been before.

This was where God meant for me to be. This woman—this magnificent, gorgeous, beautifully happy woman—was the one He meant for me to be with. She was my one and only. My soul mate.

I held her hand as she stepped up on the platform, my eyes glued to her face. Slowly we both turned and faced the preacher who was standing before us, beaming.

Nothing has ever felt this right. These vows will be etched in my heart and soul forever, Marie.

#

My reverie is broken by the door opening. As stupid as it sounds, there is a split second of hope that I’ve been dreaming; this whole thing is nothing but a nightmare and she’s only been at the store.

I get to lose you all over again, Ree. I guess that's also part of my new normal.

I turn as the truth asserts itself to find Tonya standing there. My baby girl. She holds out her arms. I match the gesture, and she runs to me, embracing me in a grip that feels like she’s drowning. Maybe she is; I feel that way as well.

"Oh, Daddy. It hurts so much."

"I know it does, sweetheart." I release her, holding her at arm's length. "We’ll get through it together - the way Mama would have wanted us to, okay?"

She nods as tears course down her cheeks.

She's as tough as you always were, Ree. I'll do my best to be just as tough.

A movement catches our eyes, and we both turn and face the glass doors.

The balcony overlooks the city, and everything is still wet. The rain must have stopped more recently than I thought. On the railing was a giant yellow butterfly, slowly fanning its wings.

I can almost feel the smile that breaks across Tonya's face. Yellow was always her mother's favorite color, and butterflies her favorite photographic subject. Sometimes the signs are obvious. She was still with us.

Thank you Ree. I will love you, and miss you, forever. Save me a place on a cloud next to you, and I’ll see you when my turn rolls around.

(c) 2016 - dustygrein

(1)

I turn my collar up against the pouring rain. I don't feel the water running inside my coat, but I don't seem to feel much of anything. Maybe I just don't want to.

I pull my eyes away from the darkness hiding beneath the clean white lines of the casket, and stare into a future beyond the sea of sad faces. They will all go home, and I will be alone, more alone than I have ever been. I turn my heart away from the pain I see reflected in their eyes.

I can't let that pain get too close. It looks hungry, and I don't think I can survive if it climbs inside. It will eat my soul.

This place seems nice. I think she'll enjoy this hillside, and its beautiful sweep of lawn. I guess I will get used to the view. Not sure what else my life will consist of from now on, but I will keep this place—her place—cared for.

Oh, Ree... the green lawns remind me of that day I finally asked you. Remember?

#

The late summer sun was shining in the cloudless sky. I pulled my sunglasses over my eyes and watched her walk toward me. I felt a lump in my throat, and realized I couldn't swallow. The sunshine wasn't enough to take the slight September chill out of the air, but her smile was all I needed to warm me from the inside out.

Marie Holter. Sweet Marie. Her youngest kid sister calls her Ree-Ree, and I have a feeling Ree will stick. I still can't believe you are here with me. I'm not sure if I found you, or you found me, but I thank God that we found each other.

My nerves threatened to get the better of me. I turned and sat down in the grass. Reaching over, I grabbed a soda from the cooler and opened it as her shadow fell across me.

"I grabbed a big beach towel, instead of a blanket." She shook the largest towel I had ever seen out, and spread it on the grass. "I think lunch will fit on it though."

"Uh, yeah. I'm pretty sure Thanksgiving Dinner would fit on it." Her smile was dazzling.

I started to get up, but she pushed me back onto my butt, climbed across, and straddled my lap. Her arms interlocked behind my neck as she wrapped her legs and those impossibly tight blue jeans around my waist. The smell of her shampoo was driving me insane, and the closeness of her mouth to mine made me dizzy.

"Speaking of Thanksgiving, you better not even think about making any other plans this year. Last night at dinner, Julie asked me if you were coming to the Holter Holiday Hijinks. My mom grinned, and Daddy tried his best to look as if he couldn't care less, but it got really quiet, you know? I mean, even Becca closed her yapper and stared at me."

I reached up and pushed a runaway strand of hair behind her ear. "What did you say?"

"I said that not only would you be there, but I was thinking about having you carve the turkey. You should’ve seen it. Daddy's fork actually stopped halfway to his mouth and my mom spit her wine across her plate. It was the funniest thing ever!"

"Great. Now your dad is going to glare at me even harder the next time I see him."

"Don't be silly. Daddy’s a pushover." She took my face in her hands. "Now, do you wanna keep talking about my family, or can I distract you?"

She leaned in to kiss me, and then threw herself sideways, pulling me on top of her, and rolling us both onto the towel.

Nervously, I slid my hand into my coat pocket. The little box was still there.

Whew. That was almost a disaster, my Ree-Ree.

The time had come, and suddenly the great speech and romantic flourishes I had been practicing were gone. My tongue felt too big for my mouth and I wasn't sure if I could even form words correctly any more.

"Hey, I need to ask you a question."

She must have heard something serious in my voice, because she got the cutest worried look as I sat up. It wasn't until I got on one knee and reached in my pocket that her eyes softened, and then grew large.

"I know that you still have your senior year to finish, and that I don't have much money, or a good job yet, or stuff that makes me worth what you deserve, and I know that Jacobs is kind of a boring last name, and that your family may not even like me, but... well... I..."

She smiled that sweet, sweet smile, and reached out with her finger, placing it against my lips.

"Shh. I’ve been waiting since you started carrying that ring around for you to ask me. Just relax, then calmly and quietly, ask me whatever it is you were going to ask."

I was in shock. She knew about the ring!

She sat back down, folded her legs under her to the side, batted her eyes at me demurely, and folded her hands together.

"Okay" My voice sounded like a rusty tin can being dragged behind a car. I couldn't remember what I was saying a few seconds earlier. I knew I’d planned this whole thing out hundreds of times in my head, but I had nothing. "Uh ... Marry me?"

I'm such an idiot. That was the stupidest proposal ever!

Her expression as she sprang into my arms was almost as welcome as the words she whispered in my ear. "Yes, and I think Jacobs is a lovely last name."

(2)

Most of the people who are here have umbrellas. Black umbrellas. I suppose that's normal for funerals, but we only own a red one. We share it. Well, we used to share it; I guess it's just mine now.

I left it at home.

I can see my daughter, but she won't meet my eyes. I know she hurts. She and her mother were close in a way that she and I never have been. I love Tonya with every fiber of my being, but she and Ree shared what felt like a psychic connection, at least to outsiders like me. When she scraped her knee as a child, I would always kiss it better, but when she got her heart broken or was filled with pride at an accomplishment, her mother was the one she ran to.

I can't kiss this one away, Tonya. I wish I could.

The minister says something, but I can't quite hear his voice. Just a droning sound under the patter of raindrops on stretched black fabric. I notice the tarp that covers the dirt from the hole. I don't want to think about that hole.

What was it you used to say, Ree? "Never dig a hole you aren't prepared to fill?" Something like that.

As I watch Tonya lay her single red rose on top of the white box that now holds the remains of my heart, I can't help but think about the day she told me that the two of us would become three.

#

We walked along the side of the road, as snowflakes fell around us. The world was soft, and the trees wore their new white mantles like fine jewelry. I could tell there was something on Marie's mind. She was unusually withdrawn; it wasn’t like her to be this quiet.

"Hey, Ree, want to have a snowball fight? I bet we could find some great hiding places in the woods."

"No. James, I need to tell you something."

My heart leapt into my throat. James. Not Jimmy, or Jimbo, or even Jim - but James. This was serious. I stopped and reached for her hand, but she grabbed mine first. Squeezing it tightly, she pulled me along with her.

At least you grabbed my hand. I know we will get through this, whatever it is.

"Please, keep walking with me."

My mind began to run through scenarios, each more devastating than the last. Was it the house? A shutoff notice for the power? The dog... was Max okay? He was a 65 pound mix breed who ate twice his weight in kibble each month, but I knew she loved the big lug even more than I did.

"Marie, what's wrong?"

"I know that you’ve been saving money for a trip to Vegas." She wouldn't look at me, and I began to worry even more. "But I don't think we can afford it."

Is THAT all this is? Oh you silly woman!

Marie had a good job waiting tables at a family restaurant here in town, and even though my teacher's salary wasn't a lot, it was more than enough for us to take a trip to Sin City during Spring Break next year.

"Sure we will, babe. I have enough put away for us to..."

"Not with another mouth to feed, especially after they make me take a few months off."

We continued to walk along as my mind processed what she said. The realization she was telling me she was pregnant broke through my thoughts like sunshine on a gray day. Everything gained color and clarity. The world became a different place, and for a moment, I was unable to speak.

"James." She was staring down at her feet as we wandered along the snowy road. "Say something, please. You’re scaring me."

I stopped her and pulled her close. I used my teeth to remove the glove from my right hand and reaching forward, I lightly took her chin between my thumb and fingers. I gently eased her face up to mine, and found her beautiful eyes brimming with tears.

"Hey." I wiped my thumb under her eye, and rolled the tears away before they could run down her cheek. "Do you love me?"

"Of course I do!" I could hear consternation and a little fear in her voice.

"And do you trust that I love you?"

She nodded slowly.

"Then stop crying, and let's celebrate." I reached down and lifted her up. Her legs found the familiar spot around my waist, and she linked her hands behind my neck. Spinning us around and around, I yelled, "We're having a baby!"

Her tears became that gorgeous smile I love with all my heart, and she leaned her head

back as we spun and shouted along with me. "A BABY!"

Max, it looks like you’re going to have to share us, bucko.

My heart felt like it would overflow. The snow no longer even felt cold.

(3)

I stand here and listen to the sound of nothing at all. Everyone else is gone. I'm sure that Tonya is serving cake and coffee at the grange hall by now, but I can't make myself leave just yet. Truth is, I’m terrified. Not of death, but of life.

I never realized how hard it would be to even think about living without you, Ree.

The rain has turned cold, and the sun is much lower in the sky than it was when the service began. I can see the workers; they’re waiting for me to leave. I know they have a job to do. They have to bury my wife.

Those words sound alien in my head; I remember us laughing together, just the other day.

It occurs to me that it wasn’t really days ago. The truth is, it’s been over a month since we had laughed, or even spoken to one another. Over a month since that horrible day she was admitted to the hospital.

At least I know you faced the end with faith, my love. I suppose that's how I will manage to make my way through what's left of my life...

(c) 2016 - dustygrein

Chapter Six

The Siege

Letter From Family

April 30, 1823

Dear Sir:

My brother recently answered your advertisement for employ. I wish to reach him with some important news. Could you please forward the enclosed letter to Isaac Gibson, or let me know how he can be reached?

Sincerely,

Daniel Gibson

* * *

 Five riders came full tilt across the rolling meadow, the lead man bursting through the break in the trees on the edge of the outer rim of the encampment, about five rods ahead of the others. Zeb rose, lifting his rifle, as Willie came on the run, barefoot, still struggling with the top of his one-piece-wool underwear.

Zeb spun at the sound of a war cry that pierced the air and a shower of arrows rained down on the camp.

Willie shrieked out in pain as an arrow struck his left side, passing through his rather abundant love handle, and another lodged itself in his right thigh, just above the knee. The man stumbled, caught his balance with the butt of his rifle and staggered to the nearby cover of a group of trees.

The lead horseman, with rifle in hand, reined his horse at the sound of the enemy. The animal began a slide, going down on its front legs. While still in the slide, the man threw his left leg over the front of the saddle, leaving his mount and continued at a run to try and reach his friend and ward off the attackers.

Zeb turned to his right, catching sight of a brave hurling insults in front of a large smattering of pine trees. The warrior spun, bending over, and exposed the fleshy side of his seat, still screaming insults.

Zeb raised his rifle and fired in one quick motion, hitting the brave in the backside. The bullet shattered the tailbone and snapped the backbone, throwing the brave forward into the branches of a small pine tree. Zeb heard Clay’s rifle discharge a short distance behind, at which both men made a break for the nearby cover of a large fallen tree.

Two other riders came to a halt at the break of the camp, but too close to come off unscathed. The foremost horseman, on an Appaloosa, turned his ride as an arrow lodged itself in his calf, while two others struck his horse in the neck and rump, causing the animal to falter then rear up; but weakened and off balance the Appaloosa fell over backwards.

A brave, charging from the cover of nearby brush, launched himself at the other rider on a white Indian pony. With both legs straddling the rider, the Indian drove the man from the saddle simultaneously grabbing the man by his long beard and driving his blade into the right shoulder, missing the intended spinal cord at the base of the neck.

Zeb pulled his German horse pistol from his belt and set it in easy reach then began to reload his rifle. Before he could finish, an Indian charged him from his left. Grabbing his horse pistol he shot the brave cold, then dropped both his pistol and rifle. With a defiant cry, Zeb pulled his tomahawk from his belt to meet the charge of a second hostile emerging from the nearby cover of trees.

Zeb deflected the swing of the enemy’s war-axe with his tomahawk, while bending slightly to retrieve his long, Green River butcher’s knife from his boot. In one seemingly continual motion he plunged the blade deep in the abdomen of his would be assailant. With the forward motion of the brave and the disemboweling upward cut, Zeb threw the Indian over his head, clearing the fallen tree now at his left side.

A third enemy pounced with a horrid scream. Zebulon spun, deflecting two stabbing cuts with his hunting knife, then caught the attacker in the crotch with an upward swing of his tomahawk. His enemy staggered as Zebulon tried to plunge his blade into the assailant, but the stroke was deflected by the opponent’s knife. With one fatal swing of the battle-axe Zeb cleaved the top of the warrior’s ear and buried his weapon an inch into the skull of the Indian. The enemy fell back lifeless, wrenching the axe from Zeb’s grip.

A pistol shot grabbed Zeb’s attention. Turning he noticed two of his fallen comrades at the break in the camp. One was down with an Indian pulling his blade through the dead man’s scalp, removing the top patch of hair. Behind him another brave was leading off, as spoils of war, Zeb, Clay, Willie’s and the now scalped man’s horse.

In the field beyond a spooked Appaloosa charged through the meadow dragging a man whose right leg was caught in the stirrup.

The brave on the back of Zeb’s dead friend stood, lifting the scalp high and looking right at Zebulon yelling out a defiant challenge as he waved his bloody prize in the air.

Zeb was distracted by a sound behind and spun in time to meet the attack of an Indian coming over the top of the fallen tree. The enemy jumped, as Zeb ducked under the assailant’s right side, bringing his blade up into the abdomen of his foe. Using the forward momentum of the assassin, Zeb pulled himself around and behind the bleeding warrior, grabbing him by the hair. As the victim fell to his knees, Zebulon freed his knife from the man’s stomach and carved his blade through the scalp of his would-be assailant. He then lifted the bloody black locks of hair and hide in full view of the defiant warrior he was again facing: the one who had taken his friend’s scalp. “You yellow squaw, let’s see how you fair with me.”

The Indian began his charge with a fierce war cry; but not moving far, flew backward spinning at the report of a rifle sounding about two rods distance from Zeb’s and Clay’s location. Zeb watched as the warrior hit the ground still clutching the scalp, a large hole through his chest.

Zebulon looked in the direction of the discharge, seeing Claude who had veered his horse from the meadow to the east of the camp.

“Whatcha do that for?” barked Zeb, looking over at Claude.

Clay fired his rifle pitching a warrior into the crotch of a tree.

“Dun’t have time fer nun of dat,” spat Claude, yelling back at Zebulon.

Zeb ducked as a torrent of arrows perforated the earth around his position, one hitting him in the leg.

Another hit Clay in the hip. “I tink it ta be time ta be going,” Clay grimaced.

Zeb nodded pulling the shaft from his thigh. “I’m right behind you,“ and gathered up his rifle and pistol looked over the fallen tree at Claude, “Meet at Big Yellow.” Then waving his arm, “Git yer topknot outta here before you lose it fer sure.”

Claude, reloading his rifle yelled back, “I’ll git the otter packers.” Then ran to where he left his horse.

While retrieving his tomahawk, Zeb glanced at Clay busy reloading his muzzleloader. “Where’s Willie?” Zeb asked.

Clay stayed low and close to the trunk of the fallen tree. “He’d blew,” was the response, as he removed the rod from its barrel and slipping upward against the tree for support, Clay grabbed the shaft of the arrow and pulled it from his hip without even a grunt. Taking a breath, he grimaced. “Broke the ridge yonder,” nodding to the Northeast.

Claude reached his horse, then threw the opposite rein around the animal’s neck and looped it through a notch in the saddle. Reaching up with his left hand, he grabbed the hair of the mane just in front of the pad. The animal, somewhat spooked by the noise of the war party, began to spin its back end away from the rider, making almost a full circle around the trapper. Claude managed to get one foot in the stirrup, spinning some on his right foot, when the animal broke into a dead run out into the meadow. With rifle in right hand, and one foot in the stirrup, Claude pulled himself forward with his left hand then dropped back and hopped with his right foot and swung into the saddle already some distance from where he had started his journey.

The whoops and hollers of the war party, reveling in the victory and spoil of the conflict, prepared for another assault. It was a customary behavior that signaled a short break. Clay reloaded his pistol and began to crawl toward Zeb. For a time the war party had seemed to lose interest in their game, but the break wouldn’t last long.

Zeb nodded as he turned and worked his way down the length of the fallen pine. He then paused to finish reloading his rifle, then the pistol. Looking up, he saw Claude with a good lead on a small band of eight Indians in pursuit. Zeb leveled his rifle on the lead rider of the war party. It was a long shot, but Zeb felt the need to even up the odds some for Claude. Taking in consideration of the distance and the speed of the riders, Zeb led his target and fired. About the time the smoke cleared from the discharge the lead Indian dropped from his buffalo-pad saddle. The two companions then slipped into the dense underbrush and foliage of their surroundings.

Claude, looking over his shoulder was assessing his options, when the lead Indian fell from the saddle. He then heard the report of the rifle. He knew Zeb had dropped the enemy; it was the shot of a marksman that few men could have made. He thanked Zeb under his breath, then reined his horse to face the oncoming enemy.

Two of the Indians fired rifles at Claude as he heard the fusee balls whistle by. With horse stopped and now facing the assault Claude took aim and fired, hitting an assailant. The party split apart with some still continuing their charge. Another fusee whistled by.

Claude now knew he had misjudged the time he had. Without removing the rod or lifting the rifle from his side he pointed the barrel at the two Indians approaching from the right and fired from the hip at the brave furthest back of the two, knocking him from the saddle. 

 In a fortunate chain of events his ramrod had shattered upon the discharge of the weapon and a large section of the rod lodged itself in the left shoulder of the foremost rider, almost dropping him from his mount. 

 He then drew his pistol from his belt and fired at his attackers from the left as a war lance grazed his right shoulder. The ball hit its mark and Claude spurred his horse forward when another rider drove his mount at full speed into Claude's animal, turning his ride and knocking his mount to its knees. The force of the impact caused Claude to drop his pistol and lose his balance as the attacker with battle-axe held high plunged forward over the top of his pony at the impact, hitting Claude in the chest, driving him from the saddle. Both hit the ground, but Claude was able to break free of his assailant, rolling to the side and away from his enemy at the same time pulling his knife.

Jumping to their feet, facing each other, they then lunged in an all-out charge, both yelling a war cry. Claude collided with his foe blocking the downward swing of the tomahawk with his left forearm while driving his knife into the abdomen of his enemy lifting him off the ground with the force of his right shoulder’s impact. He then ripped the battle-axe from the dying man’s hand and turned to face two more riders charging in at full speed with bows ready.

Both riders had held back some from the others of their party. Seeing Claude as a formidable enemy and not sure of his weaponry they rode the side of their mounts: one leg over the back of the horse, with bow at full draw under the animal’s neck.

The Trapper had seen this type of attack before when in the company of eight others: trapped on a small wooded delta three years back. Half the enemy of about forty strong would ride using their horses as a shield to draw fire and get closer into bow range against a force of rifles while others approached the delta by stealth. It was a desperate battle that lasted several days, in one hundred-degree temperature. The white men’s horses had been killed early on and by the third day the smell of the rotting animals, gunpowder, human waste and dead comrades, was almost unbearable. Weak from feeding on raw rancid horse flesh, and an inability to get to the river during the day, Claude was selected on the third night to escape and get help before they were all too weak to travel. He had successfully evaded the enemy, but upon returning four days later with a party of twenty white trappers, found the mangled remains of the small group of hostages.

Today Claude's chances of escape looked less probable. The horsemanship of Claude’s enemies was unmatched. The guerilla fighters were armed with horse and bow and he with only hand-to-hand weapons. Claude made a break for his horse as the two riders rode by at full gallop passing within a rod’s distance unloading their bows. Both missed as Claude reached his animal, grabbing the front of the saddle with both hands. The horse broke into a gallop as Claude jumped forward of the animal, with both his legs together, still hanging onto the front bridge of the saddle while being carried by the horse away from his enemy. The forward motion of the horse pivoted Claude's feet to the animal’s side as the man repeated his maneuver, jumping forward then swinging into the saddle.

The enemy, upon missing their target swung upright into their saddles almost in unison. Reining their horses to a sliding stop with sod flying and back ends low the horses spun on their hind legs turning a full 180 degrees and broke out into pursuit of the quarry.

Claude looked back over his left shoulder to see his short lead when his eye caught sight of a gray Appaloosa lifting its head up from the meadow’s grass. It was Jed’s horse. Claude had seen Jed being dragged. The animal must have gotten tripped up and gone down. Jed carried two pistols on his saddle and perhaps Jed’s rifle was still in its boot. He hoped they were still there.

Claude slid his left hand down his animal’s neck taking the rein and turned his mount to the left. His enemy was gaining with bows drawn. Time was short. Claude slipped his left stirrup and swung to the right side of his...

“Is life a mystery,

which so many want to sort?”

I once asked this question

and the reply was a retort:

“Woman, is it your mind that you have lost?

Time is of essence

Don’t waste on such a quest

Don’t squander what cannot be retrieved

Go on, don’t think of rest

There is no mystery

and, there is no puzzle

Life is a river

and each day a new bank

a new discovery

Sometimes, it’s pristine sand

Sometimes, dirt and water you can’t tell apart

But what you see each day

is not the same as last

Flow – the purpose of a river

Flow – the purpose of life

The very effort to stop the flow

can bring a flood

and spell doom

So, don’t stop to solve the mystery

Instead, just flow

And discover what life has to show.”

~ ©nehasri/Neha Srivastava

P.S. ~ This poem was published in 2016 in The Ibis Head Review. Usually I would write a new piece for all Prose challenges but I believe this is one of the biggest lessons I've learned in life. Most often we get caught in the web of life or stuck in situations which require us to simply go with the flow.  Time is not just a great healer, it is also a great puzzle-solver. Sometimes what time shows us is way beyond our imagination.

#ProseChallenge #CotW66 #itslit #getlit

Chapter Five

The Arena

Haiwi’s head pounded and her jaw hurt as she slowly regained consciousness. She could hear many voices around her, but the noise seemed distant and rumbling. Her wrists, restrained high above her head and her hands were almost lifeless from the constriction of the wraps and weight of her body on the straps.

Haiwi opened her eyes, dazed, and looked about the arena then to her arms. She was tied securely between two poles. The crowds had gathered to see the Feast of Incubison. She scanned the stadium spotting the soldiers that had pulled her from her cell with two big cats stationed at either side of the entryway. Only nine are guarding the ingress to the prison? One’s missing?

Her head dropped. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The sound of the crowd rose in a crescendo that was almost deafening as the proud little captive pulled herself, staggering to a stand. “Father,— where are you?” she cried out.

She rubbed her chin on her shoulder, smearing blood from her jaw across her clammy skin. Will death be swift? Then she thought of the Messenger. A confidence spilled out over her countenance as she raised her chin in defiance and again filled her chest. “Stand back and see the deliverance of the Great Spirit and his right hand of power!”

But the volume of the arena masked the words to the assembly as a chant took form among the parishioners.

“The war god is angry and you have awakened his spirit!” the woman cried.

Perhaps the soldiers heard her warning, but the empty dirge sparked no waning of purpose. Haiwi filled her lungs once again to shout and the crowd suddenly fell silent. “Behold,— The War God Cometh!”

The words echoed over the stone walls of the amphitheater. Haiwi looked around the stadium wondering why the abrupt hush when she spotted a lone man at the opposite end of the arena from where the soldiers stood. The young woman watched hopefully for the other warriors of her father; but only the single individual moved her way: no armor of her city adorned the stocky frame; no spear or shield toted to protect or defend. Dressed only in a loincloth of soft deer leather, the man continued his approach. 

What is he holding? Haiwi thought. Is it some kind of one stringed musical instrument?

“Where are my father’s men?” she cried. “Where is my father? Does he stand ready to overrun the arena,— destroying the false worshipers of Incubison?” Haiwi looked intently for an answer, but the musician was silent. “Why won’t you answer me?”

The crowd cheered; and the stranger and Haiwi looked back, spotting Incubison emerging from where the lone man had appeared.

The breech clothed man with the one stringed instrument, stuck what Haiwi took for little spears into the soil and jumped to her side. Swinging his musical contraption he severed the thong that secured her right hand. Handing her a knife with a shiny blade the stranger spoke mere gibberish and then retrieved one of his little spears.

“Come, we must run,” Haiwi screamed as she freed herself from the last restraint. “Please,— we must run.— What are you doing?” Haiwi was in shock as the stranger faced the angry serpent with the puny useless sticks,— placing one on his instrument. With the speed of a·ah·rah,— lightning itself,— the little missile struck the mighty dragon in the eye,— burying itself deep in the pupil.

Incubison thundered forth its rage.

Haiwi was amazed at the man’s courage and he was defending her,— but what could little thorns do against the mighty dragon?

She ran to his side grabbing his arm, “Come! We must run!”

The serpent lunged at the stranger, but the man’s nerve was as flint. As fast as a·ah·rah,— the man bent the wood of his shapely weapon and blinded Incubison completely.

Admiration swelled in the heart of Haiwi as she marveled at the prowess of the warrior before her: her deliverer. Was this the Hand-of-the-Great-One? This was surely the deliverer the Messenger spoke of!

The warrior’s last shot had little to do with Incubison’s ultimate demise. The poisoned flint blade lodged in the creature’s back from the cave had completed its work. With every movement of the beast’s wings the razor sharp tip continued to sever tissue until it finally cut into an artery. Once into the bloodstream, the serpent’s own poison attacked its nervous system. It took a few moments; but shortly after the Hand-of-the-Great-One’s mini-spear struck the monster’s second eye, it dropped into a quivering mass on the arena’s ground,— almost at the stranger’s feet.

Silence fell across the masses, then a cheer, Haiwi screamed, and the warrior spun. The two large cats were charging. 

Swiftly, the Hand-of-the-Great-One fitted a small spear and bent the wood pulling the string. The flight of the feathered stick was so fast Haiwi could not even see its path; but the closest lion dropped in its death throes, pierced through the breast and heart. The second bounded over his fallen companion with a roar of challenge almost on top of the lone warrior; but the deliverer spun dodging the mighty talons and taking his stringed weapon like an axe, swung its deceptive contours. The heavy cable, stretched between its two extremities, cut through the flesh of a raking paw, severing it halfway up the leg. 

The cat stumbled at the shock and fell face first into the dirt. The warrior jumped, twisting, and brought the weapon down across the animal’s neck. The head rolled free of the body.

The parishioners were standing and cheering in amazement, but the soldiers of the high priest ran forth throwing their spears. The Hand-of-the-Great-One ducked and dodged catching one of the shafts in midair and returned it to its owner through the heart.

Haiwi yelled a war cry and joined the deliverer, armed only with the stranger’s knife.

“Taste the wrath of the war god’s mighty hand,” she screamed in defiance.

Arms, legs and heads, severed clean from the soldiers’ torsos, spilled out onto the arena grounds. The Hand-of-the-Great-One danced through the enemy lashing out with his instrument of death: every swing a mortal blow, every twist a brutal slash. No one could match the deadly accuracy of the formidable weapon as the warrior hacked and chopped.

Never had Haiwi seen such a display of strength and courage, “Death to you all!” she cried, charging into the fray and locked into mortal combat with one who dragged her from her cell.

A savage swing cut the air as the large battle axe missed by inches. Haiwi dodged the blow and buried the glistening blade of her deliverer deep into the thigh of her attacker. No scream issued forth from the tongue-less man, but the shock on his face spelled the shame and horror of the indignity. Backhanding Haiwi, he tried to jump on her as she stumbled back; but the wound to his leg had severed the artery — and weakened, he fell to his knees.

Haiwi scrambled to her feet as the fallen arced his weapon again in a useless pass. Haiwi easily sidestepped the blunder and catching the man’s arm as it whipped by, she grabbed it with her left hand. The momentum swung her to the man’s back where she plunged the blade deep into the soldier’s neck. A hard right elbow caught her in the stomach, driving her from her foe; but as she jumped to her feet the man fell quietly to the ground.

Haiwi looked up to the cheering crowd, then to the Hand-of-the-Great-One. All the soldiers were dead, the two big cats, even Incubison lay lifeless on the arena’s floor. And the crowds were chanting a song of praise. “Surely you marvel at the war god’s wrath?” she shouted, but they could not hear. Then she spotted more of the high priest’s soldiers making their way into the arena from smaller entryways hidden by the contours of the tall stone walls from strategic points around the grounds.

The multitude in the stands booed the forces,— throwing remnants of food and casting jeers; but the arm’s-of-the-holy-man ignored the insults and stepped quickly,— stationing themselves for an assault.

Haiwi spun back to the deliverer. The Hand-of-the-Great-One was moving toward the entryway previously guarded by the soldiers. He will free the Messenger, she thought. “Boo-bee,” Haiwi cried as she charged out after the stranger. Reaching his side she walked into the tunnel of the prison.

The wide mouthed opening of the ingress was a huge archway fully twenty yards across and Bobby’s guard was standing at the end of the tunnel where it crossed the access to the catacombs of the pyramid. The guard had witnessed the miraculous battle in the amphitheater. From his vantage point he stood stone still as the two victors approached.

Haiwi jumped ahead of her champion waving the silver blade of the knife menacingly and shouted at the guard in his own language, “As was spoken by the Messenger, the Hand-of-the-Great-One has come.” She pointed her instrument of death at the keeper’s heart and commanded, “Kneel before his authority or he will take your head as will befall any that oppose the Great-One!”

 Behind the sentry others of the king’s personal guard clamored into the narrow passageway of the prison.

* * *

https://theprose.com/post/135294/the-golden-city-i-posted-the-first-300-words-for-a-contest-but-i-thought-for-any-that-wanted-to-continue-i-would-post-the-full-prologue

Chapter 1

https://theprose.com/post/135238/the-golden-city-chapter-one-prison-bonds

Chapter 8

https://theprose.com/post/136480/the-golden-city

Chapter 12

https://theprose.com/post/246382/the-golden-city

Chapter 20

https://theprose.com/post/246680/the-golden-city

Chapter 38

https://theprose.com/post/165305/the-golden-city-chapter-thirty-eight

Chapter 52

https://theprose.com/post/136801/the-golden-city-chapter-fifty-two

Guys, here's a very cool opportunity I came by. A contest on Amazon U.K.

If you have an old manuscript gathering dust on your shelf or lying cold in a folder on your laptop, make it hot!! 

Yes, submit your previously unpublished books on Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing.

The winner gets a cool prize of £20,000, roughly $25,000.

The book will become published and will be considered such by other publishing houses. 

For more information please go to: 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/b?ie=UTF8&node=12061299031 

Let's all submit a book! 

It isn't compulsory to submit the complete manuscript. Though there is a minimum requirement of 5,000 words.

More power to all Prosers!!

It was an early evening of the summer of 1997. I had entered my teens and was late by different standards in learning one of the most crucial life-skills. To ride a bicycle.

So on this particular evening, I gulped down my glass of milk. As the milk travelled through the  food pipe into my gut, I felt like a cousin of Popeye, growing strong every moment. Milk was my manna from heaven.

I walked out my aunty's home, where we were staying for the summer vacation. There was a bicycle rental place nearby. I reached there.

 The place boasted of an assortment of bicycles in various sizes. I closely scrutinised all the available samples. 

At 4'6" around that time, I knew I couldn't take the adult size bicycle. So I decided to go for a red-coloured mid-sized one. 

I was excited to immediately ride back home on it. But, I still needed to learn how to!!

In order that I wouldn't turn myself into a spectacle, I just walked with it towards my aunt's home. 

And thus started my tryst with learning the bicycle on that day. 

Did I mention yet, I'm a fast learner? Ummm...or let's say an impatient one. 

It had been an hour of plodding with no results. It was going to turn dark soon. The bicycle would have to be returned. 

I would have to sleep through a night of failure!!!!

Dejection was turning to frustration. I took the bicycle inside my aunt's house and to the backyard where my mom sat on a  charpoy.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I said I was unable to learn riding a bicycle.

My mom laughed and said you just started learning. Do it tomorrow.

My frustration gave way to ire. I saw my Popeye muscles building in my arms. I picked up the bicycle above my head and threw it with all my force.

My mom got up from the charpoy. She came near me and the next I remember is the tightest ever slap. 

She said, "pick up this bicycle and return it. But, don't see me or talk to me till you've learned."

And so, I picked up the bicycle  and walked to the gate.

My mom's slap actually hurt my pride. I had to show her that I could do it. 

I took the bicycle to the slope at the  gate to give it the natural push and momentum.  As soon as it was in motion,  I started pedalling.

It was almost like magic that the bicycle balanced itself and I rode my first few meters.

The milk, the muscles, and the slap had worked their charm!

#itslit #ProseChallenge