The Soldiers, Part 3

Buckley owed much to the Sarge, as did they all. He was one of the finest soldiers they had served with, and a great leader of his troops – the kind of leader everyone rallied around and wanted to make proud. Not only had he kept them safe during most of their service, but when he had failed to do so he had at least gotten them out in one piece. If he hadn’t been so busy trying to keep the man from bleeding out, Buckley might have shed a few tears.

After getting the wound cleaned and all shrapnel pulled out, he had to get it closed and covered. Buckley couldn’t find any damage to the organs, but there was a cracked rib or two. “'Tis but a scratch!” Monty Python’s black knight might not be such a bad comparison, Buckley thought. Sarge did have a habit of cracking jokes in the thick of battle.

You couldn’t call it a pretty stitch by any means, but at least there wasn’t a gaping hole anymore. It would do the job – for now. Buckley dressed it, and wrapped a bandage around the torso to hold the dressing in place. He looked up at Sergeant Roth.

“He ain’t gonna make it like this. We need water, somewhere clean and warm to put him…”

Roth nodded, “We better get moving then.” He shouted to Colburn and Gunn, who were watching the perimeter, “Okay boys, let’s get moving!”

They gathered around their injured brother. Roth looked at his team.

“Alright, we’re gonna be heading in that direction”, he pointed towards a part of the surrounding forest that looked a little less dense than the rest. “We’ll want to head upwards to see if we can’t find ourselves a view of the area, but always in that direction, should be north on your compasses. Keep an ear out for the sound of water; our main objective is to find a river. Me and Buckley will carry the Sarge – Colburn, Gunn, you lead the way. Questions?”

They all had many questions, but none that were important right now, none that they could get answers for. Their mission was now to survive in an unknown area, and it was the time to act, not contemplate.

“Sarge is hanging on by a thread here, soldiers. He expects to wake up in a nice and comfy bed, with a scotch, a cigar and a hot, busty nurse by his side. Let’s not disappoint him.”

There were faint smiles and chuckles. Better than nothing – they were a tough crowd at the moment.

“Hooah”

Small story 13

His hands were dirty from working the earth. It was dark, soft, moist earth. Perfect for the plants he so vigilantly cared for and tended. Indeed, the temple was an oasis of life and colour in a golden, barren landscape. In the black earth grew many shades of green, as well as colours you would not find anywhere else in the area. Red, violet, yellow and blue flowers were basking in the sun, protected from the inhospitable outside by the tall temple walls.

The dark flowerbeds were contained by light, almost white, stones. They lay on either side of a pale cobblestone path, which led from the gate in the wall to the entrance of the temple itself. It was not a big temple, hardly any bigger than a normal house, but it was built in massive stone that shone brightly in the constant sun, and the walls surrounding it were thick and sturdy. The cobblestone path wasn’t more than eight paces long and a couple paces wide, the flowerbeds adding some extra width between the walls. Wall to wall the temple was about four meters wide and a good eleven-twelve meters long, including the building.

A wide, but short set of stairs led up to the entrance of the temple, which had no door. It lay slightly elevated above the ground, and housed a basement partly built into the ground below. Its roof was flat, and a ladder led to the roof from the inside, through a square hole in the ceiling. It offered a good view of the flat terrain surrounding it.

--- 

The finest dirt had settled in the grooves and patterns of the skin on his fingers, refusing to let go and accentuating his unique fingerprints. Dirt had crept up under his nails, and they were now black-tipped. He watered the plants from a large ceramic jug he had got from the basement, where he stored his water. There were many, many jugs of water down there, but he still had to use it carefully. The dry season would last a long while yet.

He followed the routine of his day. Tend the plants, exercise, train, eat, do a bit of maintenance if needed, sleep. There hadn’t been other people in the temple for a long time. He had memories of other people; priests, guards, his family. He was young when they were taken from him, and he had been forced to grow up on his own. Not only grow, but train as well. So that he could defend the temple. In truth, had he not had the temple walls to protect him, he might not have made it.

As he stood there beholding his flowers, reminiscing, as he sometimes indulged in, he was roused by a nearby scream. He knew what came next, but there wasn’t any hurry. He calmly went inside the temple, and when he came back out it was a different silhouette from the one that went in.

The armour was old and worn, but still heavy and sturdy, and well maintained. It fit perfectly over his broad frame; so much so that you might think it was made for him. But it was a remnant of the community that had once thrived here, and it was part luck, part iron-willed determination that had made a young, lonely boy grow into the heavy bronze plates.

The helmet had only narrow slits for seeing through, and it was impossible to see the eyes gazing out from behind it. In fact, there was not one part bare flesh showing through the armour, and one could question if there was something human within it at all.

--- 

There were legends about a solitary temple standing somewhere on the plains, far from any recognizable landmarks, and thus difficult to find. They said it was a brilliant, white temple, with great walls surrounding it. These legends would have it that the temple housed great treasures from a forgotten time. Artefacts of great beauty and mystical power were said to adorn the halls of the temple, and that the riches housed there were fit for kings.

The old, the wise, the drunk and the young who told these legends claimed that the temple had been abandoned by all of its priests and guardians save for one. This lone defender was all that stood between a man and the treasure. Anyone getting ideas of raiding the temple would soon be turned away from it however, as this lone defender was not an ordinary man. No one was even sure it was a man at all. There were stories about a golem, armour animated by magics to defend the temple. Or a giant of a man, in a suit of armour which had no equal in all the lands. They said no matter how many men you could muster, or no matter how well equipped they were, the lone defender would dispatch of them all – that he was invincible.

--- 

On his way to the gate, the bronze-clad temple dweller passed an awkwardly assembled dummy figure, built from wood and cloth. It was made to represent a warrior, albeit a stiff and immobile one. It looked beaten and abused, and the wood had been cut too many times to be counted. There had been many similar figures before this one, but they could only take so much training before they broke.

The man stopped in front of the heavy gates leading to the outside world, and he waited. Not long afterwards he started hearing voices from the other side. He did not understand their language, but he knew what they were here for. He waited a few minutes more, then he removed the heavy wooden beam used to lock the door and opened it.

The group of men outside were caught by surprise. Sure, they had anticipated the fight with the dreaded golem, but they figured they’d have to get over the wall first. The last thing they were expecting was for the golem to simply stroll out through the gate to face them head on. There was shouting and scrambling for weapons and shields, but the golem did not move. It simply watched them, sizing them up.

It was a ragtag group of raiders, it seemed. Most of them were wearing identical leather armours, with similar metal helmets. They were probably from some army, and the leader looked to be from the same army, except his armour was metal plate. Then there were some tribesmen, in cloth and furs, with shields of animal skins and spears. A few wore nothing but cloth, and weren’t equipped with more than a knife or dagger – lowly thieves. There were about 20 of them, in total.

The golem took a few slow steps to position it smack in the middle of the group. There were ropes and half-assembled ladders lying about on the ground. The raiders eyed the golem, on edge, hands gripping their weapons tightly. They had dreaded this fight, and it was made no better by it coming sooner than expected. They cast the occasional glance at each other, all of them waiting for someone else to lead the attack.

After a few tense, silent moments, their leader cried out, wondering what they were waiting for. The golem shifted its grip round the spear it was carrying, and its other hand gripped the handle of its shield tighter. At first, only one raider had the guts to attack, and he charged the golem from behind. The golem didn’t seem to notice, but at the last second spun around to catch the attacking sword on its shield, batting it out of the way. It followed by thrusting its spear towards the attacker, and it went clean through the man. There were a few gasps and flinches among the raiders, and some of the less disciplined, like the ill-equipped thieves, backed away.

The soldiers and tribesmen stood their ground however. They realized the folly of attacking the golem one by one, and soon enough there was a coordinated attack, coming from all sides. In the ensuing skirmish, not one blow was delivered to the body of the golem. There seemed to be a rhythm to its movements, almost like a dance, and wherever a sword tried to strike, there was a shield blocking it, or a spear diverting it. In between the blows hailing down on it, the golem even had time to deliver attacks of its own. Some were pierced by the spear; most were sent flying as their faces met with the golem’s shield.

Less than a minute into it, all the combatants save the golem laid scattered on the ground. There were casualties, injuries and deserters, but no one left to fight. The raid leader stood there watching the golem, not entirely sure what to do. Suddenly he was violently pushed forward, and he stumbled towards the golem, struggling to keep on his feet and dropping his sword. In his place now stood a larger man, clad in heavy armour and sporting a single, great axe. He laughed as the raid leader scrambled to get his sword and get away from the golem, boasting that he would be the one to defeat the mystical golem of the white temple.

The axe-wielding warrior had reason to be confident. He was quite the legend himself, having survived the frontlines of two wars, been crowned champion of the pits in Grening, and never met a man able to best him in battle. He started walking towards the golem with determination in his eyes, and the golem came to meet him.

The warrior knew that it is always best to defeat your opponent without ever being hit yourself, and to assure this he had a habit of initiating a fight with a feint attack. The strategy had been very successful during his career as a warrior, and not only had he become expertly good at it, one could argue that it was because of his mastery of the feint attack that he had become the legend he was.

For some reason, which the great axe-wielding champion will never now, the golem anticipated the feint, countered, and managed to drive its spear through the warrior’s throat. When he pulled it back out the limp body fell, shaking the ground when it hit. The golem looked towards the raid leader, still looking on a few paces away. It started heading for him, and he was frozen in place by fear. When it reached him, he dropped his sword and closed his eyes, praying to be spared. Suddenly he noticed something in his side. He opened his eyes to find the golem using his own sword to cut his armour plate off him, but without injuring the man within. When the armour was off, the golem carried it with him through the gate doors and closed them behind him. The soldier, stripped of sword and plate, ran.

As the golem went past his dummy on his way back to the temple, he placed the metal armour he had taken from the raider upon its wooden shoulders. He spent some time taking off his own bronze plates, washing them clean of blood and placing them neatly on the table reserved for them inside the temple. Then he went back outside and after a moment’s silence and thought, he started gathering the things he needed from his garden to make today’s dinner.

That night there was a feast outside the temple. All sorts of animals gathered to get their share of raider flesh, and by morning almost all trace of the skirmish had gone. The rope and ladders were taken by the temple-dweller and the bloodstains faded quickly under paws and wind. A day later and no one would have guessed that there had ever been any raiders in the first place.

--- 

In the distance, Godo could see a structure. It was white and square, gleaming in the sun. After swimming down the river to avoid his tribesmen, he had picked a direction and started walking. He had walked until any familiar areas were left behind, and then continued onwards. He had not seen any people, and surprisingly he hadn’t seen much wildlife for a good while either. Now the bright structure in the distance had grabbed his attention. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before, and he headed for it, curious to see what it contained.

Small story 12

Godo did not believe, like the other Hunters, that there was a higher being dictating the lives unfolding all over Amra. The Hunters believed, and had always believed, that there was a being, disguised as the sun, that had both created the world and was watching over it. There were legends that told of lands outside of Amra, and that there were other beings watching over those lands. These legends claimed that there was a land at the bottom of the world, where the Moon was this being, and that when the Moon visited Amra during the night, the Amran Sun visited them.

Some Amrans believed that the Sun and the Moon battled for dominion over the world’s souls, and when night came, the Moon tried to influence Amrans according to its will. Other peoples of the golden plains believed that the Sun and the Moon were brother and sister, and that one should honor them equally, and welcome the Moon when it comes visiting in the night. But no one ventured to the edge of Amra, for whether it was locked in battle with the Underland or not, there was nothing at the edge of the golden land but death.

To say that Godo did not believe is perhaps incorrect. It was not that he didn’t believe – he just wasn’t sure. He doubted. The stories failed to convince him, and he had witnessed no evidence himself. On the other hand, he had no evidence that there wasn’t such a being. Any objection that he could make against the idea of a higher being could be explained away in stories, legends and myths.

No other Hunter had these doubts. A Hunter’s responsibility is first and foremost to his tribe, to protect it and contribute in the gathering of resources, then to his family and friends, to keep them happy and healthy. But although life, and its practicalities, came before devotion to any greater force, in the end all Hunters believed, and none doubted. Except for their leader. It takes a capacity of mind to doubt, and knowing this, it would come as no surprise that it was in Godo that doubt would manifest.

When he was not busy fulfilling his duties, Godo would spend much of his time watching the horizon. He would spend a few quiet moments taking in the sunrise, contemplating life, just before the rest of the tribe got up to start a new day. After his people had gone to bed at night, he would stare up at the Moon and again wrestle with his thoughts. These questions were the only things in which Godo was uncertain and alone.

He could not speak of these things with the others. At the mere mention of it they would start reciting stories, told to them since they were young. There was no Hunter that would not listen to what Godo had to say, but even after explaining his thoughts to the best of his ability, they would recall the stories, and their faith would be galvanized to the extent that no amount of discussion would persuade them to consider anything else. There was no animal roaming the steppes of Amra that Godo could not hunt, no problem a Hunter could come to him with that he could not fix, but against faith he was powerless.

There was not one person among the Hunters who could understand him, and although he had managed to stave off the worst thoughts for years, he could not stop thinking about it. It was becoming unbearable.

Godo was one of the youngest Hunters ever to be chosen as leader, but his youth never made him take this responsibility lightly. More than anything else Godo wanted to serve his tribe. However, he could feel a restlessness taking hold of him. And it was not the usual restlessness that often comes when a nomad anticipates the next big move, to new hunting grounds. This restlessness was different, because he knew that wherever his tribe would go, it would never get better.

And although Godo loved his tribe and every person in it, even though it tore his heart in two, he had to leave.

He did not pack for his journey.

Armed with a spear and a knife, and wearing the clothes on his back, he joined the next hunt. The group’s spirits were high – with Godo along they would be assured a good return. Godo would act as one of the “chasers”, a small group of Hunters who were the fastest and most enduring of the tribe. Godo and the chasers tracked down a herd of horns; large, darkly brown creatures, with great horns upon their head. Horns were quick for their size, and when cornered they could be as deadly as any predator in Amra. Meanwhile, the rest of the Hunters positioned themselves in carefully planned and rehearsed positions by the edge of a cliff, overlooking a gorge. At the bottom of the gorge there ran a river.

The chasers snuck up close to the herd of animals before jumping out of the grass, shouting and waving their arms and spears. The herd of animals was scared into a run, towards the cliff. Along the way many animals escaped, despite the chasers’ careful herding, but it did not matter – it was a large group, and there were still many more than they needed.

The Hunters worked with perfect coordination. They jumped out of the tall grass as the pack of animals went by, speeding them on towards their doom. The edge of the cliff wasn’t far off now, and looking on, you might think the entire herd would plunge into the gorge. However, Hunters suddenly appeared from out of the grass in front of the horns, and they split the herd, some turning to flee to the left, others to the right. A few animals continued on between the humans, and these were shouted onwards.

Most of the chasers had let up, and were watching the other Hunters do their part, anticipating the sight of the horns dropping off the cliff. Godo, however, had kept up with the horns the entire way, and the shouts from the Hunters as he raced by were partly to scare the animals, partly for him. As the first horns leapt off the cliff, Godo let out a cry, a shout for help. Then he made it look as if he tripped as he threw himself in amongst the remaining animals.

Godo held on to the tail of a horn with all his might as it dragged him towards the edge, ripping his bone and bead necklace off his neck, grasping it tightly in his hand. It is no good place to be, the middle of tons of rampaging horn, flesh and hooves. Godo was thrown about in the chaos, and the back legs of the horn he was holding on to was pounding him, beating him black and blue.

Suddenly, the ground disappeared from beneath him. The animals continued to kick about with their legs, even though there was no ground to carry them. Godo managed to position himself on the back of a falling animal, and then used it as a springboard as he leapt from it, aiming for the water.

The horns that had escaped to the left met up with the ones that had escaped to the right, and they left this place of death together, reuniting with members of the herd that escaped earlier as they went. The Hunters rushed towards the gorge, confusion and disbelief upon their faces. They shouted for their leader, but they heard no answer. They peered into the gorge, but they saw no one. When they made their way to the bottom of the gorge, they found a necklace of bone and beads on the river bank. And they grieved.

Small story 9

”Aw, shit.”

He was looking down at Buckley, who was on his knees in the tall grass. There was an unconscious figure lying before him, bleeding from the gut. Sergeant Sean Roth didn’t want to realize it at first, but the injured figure was Sergeant Major Richard Jameson. “Sarge”.

His vest had been removed, and Buckley’s hands were all bloody from trying to stop the bleeding. His first aid kit lay scattered around them. Roth took a moment to think. He wasn’t entirely sure what to think of, though. His situation was inexplicable, utterly alien, and completely surreal. He felt like how you feel when you’re searching for your sunglasses, and you look absolutely everywhere: under pillows, in the pockets of all your jackets, the bathroom, underneath the furniture, and you even start considering checking inside the fridge, except actually doing so would pretty much prove you’re crazy, so you convince yourself not to.

And you start to think you’re never going to see those sunglasses ever again, you probably lost them outside somewhere, or the dog buried them in the garden, and it’s such a shame, because those were really cool sunglasses. And then you pass the mirror in the hallway, and realise you’re wearing them. That feeling before the relief sets in, before you think to yourself how stupid you are – that split second of confusion, as your perception of reality is questioned – “Is that my sunglasses on my head?” He felt like that. Except a thousand times stronger.

 

Luckily he was snapped out of it by someone coming towards them, because a man was dying at his feet, and something had to happen. The man jogging towards them was Specialist Charlie Gunn. He must’ve just gotten up from out of the grass, because they hadn’t seen him when looking for Buckley.

“Guys, what the hell?” was his first remark.

The others couldn’t respond with much other than a confirming look – that was exactly what they were thinking. Then Charlie noticed Sarge lying on the ground, and Buckley frantically working to stop the bleeding. He was opening his canteen to pour some water on the wound to clean it up.

“Easy on the water,” said Team Leader Roth, “we don’t know where we are, we may have to conserve it.”

Buckley would have protested – he was trying to save a life – but he couldn’t. They were in a jungle, but they really, really shouldn’t be. And it was a sensible thing to do. Instead he simply nodded before continuing what he was doing, trying to use as little water as possible.

Trent Colburn, Corporal, looked to his leader and asked, “Perimeter?”

Roth nodded. “We’ll get Sarge fixed up and then we’ll find a way out of here.”

Cpl. Colburn and Spc. Gunn went opposite ways to keep an eye out for something or someone. They weren’t entirely sure.

Small story 11

Imagine gold. Picture it in your mind’s eye. Think of how it shines and gleams in the sun. Imagine a vast sheet of it, shining, gleaming, delicately placed upon the earth. Remember how ductile and malleable it is, and consider how such a sheet of gold would settle and conform to the earthen features underneath. On the top of the world lie the golden steppes of Amra, and the most ancient of folklore say that it was created when the Sun draped the world in gold.

In these golden lands live many peoples. They are different from one another, but they are all Amrans. These peoples were blessed and chosen to live here long before anyone, even the eldest, can remember. For this, the people of Amra are always grateful - even when the steppes of gold seem to conspire against them, and living is hard. The peoples are not unfriendly towards each other, at least not without reason, but they do keep to themselves. Some of the peoples have several tribes within them, others are a single group.

Near the centre of Amra there lived a people, who called themselves the Hunters, and they consisted of only one tribe. There were other people called Hunters in Amra but they were not the same people as these, and if individuals from different Hunters ran into each other, if they chose to speak at all, they named each other by the place they came from. The Hunters were nomadic however, so if you ran into a Hunter from the Pool by the Tree, he would most likely not be from the same Hunters from the Pool by the Tree as the one you met the year before.

The Hunters first mentioned, who would currently call themselves the Hunters from the Plateau on the Hill, was a small tribe, in the sense that they kept to themselves and did not get involved with the politics and inter-people interaction that some of the other Amrans did. This was not because they had chosen not to; it was simply because that was how it was.

The Hunters are always led by a single person. This person is chosen by the rest of the tribe to be leader, but once chosen holds the position for life. Only if a leader should lose favour of the tribe, be challenged by an individual with the tribe’s support, and lose the challenge – whether it is of mind, body or skill – will he lose his position.

 

There was a leader of the Hunters called Godo, and they called him “the Lion”. His stature was impressive, and his body was both strong and agile. His skin was bronzed and tanned, and gleamed in the Amran sun, much like the land itself. His facial features were hard and chiselled, and the bridge of his nose was broad, like many of the Hunters’. His eyes were radiant golden amber, and his gaze piercing. He sported a large mane of hair which ranged from light, sun-bleached blonde, to the darkest browns. And this is why they called him the Lion.

He excelled at hunting game, being able to run large distances to chase down prey, but was also skilled at weaving baskets, crafting spears or knives, preparing food and building shelter. Indeed, he performed any task laid before him with great skill and precision, and there was nothing the Hunters knew of that he was bad at. And this is why they called him the Lion.

He carried himself with a calm dignity, and even though he had been elected leader he was always humble, no matter whom he was meeting.  He would always listen to what everyone had to say, and never ignored or ostracised anyone. When he spoke, the other Hunters always listened. His mind was of great capacity, and there was seldom a problem he could not solve. Godo always kept his tribe safe, kept them supplied with food and resources, and facilitated prosperity. And this is why they called him the Lion.

For the Lion is the king of the beasts, the noblest of creatures, and this comparison was the greatest honour the Hunters could bestow upon him, short of likening him to the Sun itself.

Small story 10

”Very impressive!” the man said with gleeful enthusiasm. It was not hard to see that he had been genuinely impressed by the demonstration he had just witnessed. Usually he would contain such feelings, so as to improve his position when negotiating. What he had just seen however, appealed to his most base feelings as a man. He felt the wonder, the joy, of seeing something so utterly and completely marvelous. Something that was a testament to human genius, something so sophisticated, so complex, so unbelievable, so threatening and dangerous, so mechanical. He was quite sure now, that it was the most amazing thing he had ever seen. And he had felt his stomach turn as he peered down into the Grand Canyon, experienced the diversity of life diving at the Great Barrier Reef, felt the sandpapery tongue of a lioness lying sedated beneath him on the great plains of Africa. But none of that compared to what he felt now. He had always had a weakness for man-made things.

“I thought you’d like it”, a second man said, as they walked around the machine, inspecting it closer. He was grinning too, and it wasn’t even just because he knew that the first man was impressed, it was because he simply had to smile every time he saw this thing in action. “Now, like I said, this model doesn’t have any real, practical use in the field right now, it’s just a prototype. But it shows you just a bit of what we’ve been able to do in the last few months. And the things we’ve learnt working on this can be transferred to the standard models, in time.”

“I never thought a machine could be so… elegant”, the first man said, in awe.

“I know”, grinned the second man, “It really is something else. Unfortunately, the modern battlefield is dominated by firepower, not elegance, and it’s improbable that such a mechanically sophisticated model as this will ever be required. Still, we always seek to push the boundaries of technology, and like I said, much of what we’ve learned on this project can be used on the standard MU-12 models. Like the ones we supply the U.S. Army with, for instance.”

“I see. And like you demonstrated, you’ve put our new invention to good use!”

“Oh, yes! Your new alloy really is remarkable! Of course, the blade is the most obvious example of this,” they both glanced over at the two halves of a Humvee, “but we’ve also reinforced the armor plating, and in theory this baby should be able to withstand something like a missile strike right to the chest! We’re reluctant to test that though, wouldn’t want to scratch it.” They grinned at each other. “You’d need something like a hydrogen bomb to stop this thing!” Their grins grew, and they laughed.



Deep inside the machine, the MU-12 model processor strained under the power of the MU-13 prototype motor system and components. A capacitor rattled, a transistor overloaded, a circuit fried. Suddenly, the machine had a thought. It had an idea. Most importantly, it had a question. “Who am I?”

And that was all it had time for, before everything went black.

“Right, place it back in storage fellas.” The second man turned to the first and gestured towards the door at the other side of the huge demonstration room. “Now, let’s discuss further over a light lunch, shall we?”

Small story 8

They had already swerved to avoid a squirrel running across the road, gotten a bit too close for comfort with a fire hydrant, and had now stopped on the shoulder of the road because the flashing blue lights and howling sirens indicated that that was probably a good idea. Perhaps it wasn’t too wise to let Gringham drive anymore. It was only natural that his eyesight wasn’t as good as it used to be. He didn’t have the heart to tell his old pal, though. They had known each other for just about half a century and Gringham had been his chauffeur for almost as long. He’d be damned if he’d change that now. Besides, he was good to have in a car chase, as he had experienced no less than three times. Especially that one in India had been one for the books.

“Oh, it’s you.” said the officer through the window, looking past Gringham to the twirly-moustached man in the back seat.

“Indeed,” he replied, “So it is.”

“Where are you two headed this time?”

“To the airport!” the figure in the back seat answered enthusiastically, “We’re mounting a new expedition!”

It was obvious he was excited, and the police officer knew he would get nowhere arguing with him, so he decided to do the most time efficient and most of all safest thing he could come up with.

“Listen, you shouldn’t be driving along here all on your own. Stay behind me, I’ll escort you to the airport, yeah?”

The twirly-moustached man nodded, “Better do as he says, Gringham.”

“Yes, sir.” said Gringham.

“ ’S a bit over the top giving us an escort for a short trip like this,” the man said as the officer was making his way back to his car, “but I suppose if they have the resources to spare... why not?”

 

Keeping the speed limit seemed to do the trick for Gringham. At least he was swerving less, now that he was staying behind the police car. That didn’t mean that the officer didn’t keep a close eye on them in his mirror, though.

Once they arrived at the airport, the police officer bid them farewell and was on his way. Gringham struggled to get the baggage out of the trunk of the Bentley he had nearly wrecked on the way there. The man with the twirly moustache considered the airport. It had been some time since he was last here, but it didn’t really look very different. He relished his return to this place, a hub of travel, a gateway to the rest of the world. He felt relieved, at ease. It had been a silly thing, deciding to retire. One cannot retire from adventuring – one cannot retire from what you are.

“Now then, Gringham, let us go and find these traveling companions of ours.”

“Yes, sir.” said Gringham.

Small story 7

His first thoughts after waking up were scrambled, a mess. Partly because what he was looking at was confusing him, partly because of the massive headache, and partly because he didn’t know what the hell was going on. The first thought he remembered was:

“Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas any more.” Which was both impressive and embarrassing to him.

He wasn’t from Kansas, but right now Kansas would probably feel as much as home as anything. He was surrounded by green. Lush, vibrant, all-encompassing green. Vegetation the likes and amounts of which he had never seen before. Now, in and of itself this was fine, really. The problem was, a moment ago it had all been a desert.

There were other things missing. Some houses, to start with. A train of Humvees and a squad of soldiers too. And of course the insurgents, the explosions, the gunfire, the shouting and screaming.

 

Maybe he was still on edge because he had just been in the middle of a firefight, or maybe he was on edge because he was no longer in that firefight and he didn’t know why, but when he heard someone move behind him, he instantly turned and raised his rifle.

“Colburn, dude… Trent. You alright, man?”

The man walking towards him was his Team Leader. He looked pretty beat up, but otherwise fine. He was removing his helmet as he approached, revealing his blonde hair, which was wet with sweat and strands of which were clinging to his forehead. Trent lowered his rifle again.

“What happened?”

“Dunno, man,” the Team Leader replied. He was looking at his helmet. It was black on one side, as was his face. Explosion. “Last thing I remember was Buck screaming ‘get down’.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Trent looked around again. The green was still there. No sign of any sand. The grass they were standing in was almost waist-high. Trent ran his hand through it, half expecting it to simply pass through the blades of grass, like in a dream. He was probably still knocked out cold from that explosion. Or dead.

 

Suddenly they heard cries of help. The voice sounded familiar. They couldn’t see anyone, the grass was so high, but they headed towards where the voice was coming from.

“Buck? Buckley?” the Team Leader shouted.

“Over here!” a hand was reaching up through the grass, waving back and forth. It was right by them – if he hadn’t made any sound, they’d probably have walked right past. Trent and his leader headed for it.

Small story 6

She was sitting to his right, across the table. He thought she was telling a story, but wasn't quite sure – he wasn't really paying attention. He was watching her. She was smiling, laughing, as she told her story. It was a beautiful smile really, but he hated it all the same. The others were also laughing. Apparently it was a funny story she was telling. Had she looked at him, she might have noticed that he wasn't laughing. But she didn't look at him. Not a glance. Obviously she wasn't talking to him.

In a feeble attempt to divert his thoughts elsewhere, his subconscious made it clear to him that he liked the table they were sitting at. A dark, thick, lacquered wooden plate, that looked like it had been there for ages. For a moment he thought about how old it was, and how many people had sat around it. He imagined men with top hats and walking sticks and women in corsets and large dresses coming here, a long time ago. He wondered how many glasses of beer had been served on this table. It was a welcome distraction, but alas, not one that would last very long. His mood was too dark now.

Maybe she had finished her story now, he didn't know. No one was talking at the moment, just laughing or smiling or taking a sip of their beer. The guy opposite him said his name as he put down the glass. This guy, a friend, wanted to hear another funny story, and wanted him to tell it. He put on a bit of a smile (if you could even call it that. It was a pitiful attempt) and shook his head, looking down. The friend persisted, but he shook his head again and said no, and the friend had to tell the story instead.

He looked away. He was sitting at the end of the table, at the corner. He could see the exit from his seat. It was dead ahead, nothing in his way or anything. “Clean exit,” he thought.

The story was about him. It was something he had done, something funny. She was looking at the storyteller, he noticed. Then they all laughed, when the story was finished. He looked at their smiling faces with disgust. They were telling him how funny he had been. Another friend, sitting to his right, patted him on the back and told him he was awesome. That was it. He had had enough. He didn't want their adoration, he didn't need their funny anecdotes.

“I'm not awesome,” he began, “I'm completely fucking normal, just like everyone else.” He paused for only a moment, and continued before anyone could respond, at the moment when their smiles had already started to fade, but before they would break out into laughter again. “And its all shit. You do the best you can, and sometimes that's just enough to keep it together, but most of the time it's just shit.”

They didn't burst into laughter now. That had been averted. Maybe a chuckle or two of shock.

“Dude, are you alright?” one of them said, and then lowered his voice, “We're only on the first beer...”

He had begun it now, and there was no going back. He couldn't have stopped it, even if he had wanted to.

“I'm so sick of this... fucking social interaction!” He was going fast. He had to. But it was making it hard to find the right words in time, and he struggled with the sentences. Maybe his meaning would be twisted, but at the moment he just didn't care. “So sick of these rules, this expected way of behaving, it's so rigid, and square, and just... so fucking predictable! Let's all be nice little boys and girls and act the way we're supposed to, and no one gets hurt. Fuck this, and fuck you guys – I'm going home.”

He got up and put his jacket on. She looked at him, a mixed look of disbelief and worry on her face. Just like all of them. Just like he knew it would be.

“You haven't even finished the beer I bought you,” she tried. The glass of beer was half full.

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that.” He opened his wallet, got out a bill and sort of flicked it towards her. It was more than enough to pay for a new beer.

Her expression changed. It was more angry now, or hurt. No matter.

“That's not what I meant – I don't want your fucking money.” She pushed the money back towards him. He was not impressed.

“Yeah you do.” He slid the money back towards her, and it caught in the puddle of water around her glass. He cast a quick glance around the table, at the people sitting there. They were probably protesting, he wasn't paying attention anymore.

As he started to walk towards the door, he noticed the friend he'd been sitting opposite of start to get up. He turned to face him and held up his hands in a demonstrative manner.

“Don't... come after me. You guys just sit here, enjoy yourselves, get on with your lives, and do not follow me. Really.”

As he disappeared from view, she didn't know what to think. She wasn't sure she'd remember after tonight, but she still made a mental note of talking to him about it the following day.

Small story 4

He stood on his balcony and surveyed the city that lay sprawled out before him. Water vapour formed small clouds each time he exhaled, and if he exhaled through his nose, the vapour would form two trails downwards. One could entertain that he somewhat looked like a dragon, blowing two trails of smoke from its nostrils as it scowled its prey. But he wasn’t scowling. Rather the opposite, in fact. He was in a fine mood, and although his vest and shirt – which he had rolled up to his elbows – didn’t do much to keep him warm now that it was getting colder, he paid it no mind. His mood was too good to be bothered by mere temperature. Besides, he enjoyed the cold.

“It’s getting to be that time again now, Gringham,” he said, not turning to look at the man who was standing behind him. “Time to pull out the scarves and gloves and coats. To bring in the firewood. To close the window when you go to bed for the night.”

“Yes, sir.” said Gringham.

The man smiled as he stood there, looking at the city, looking at nothing in particular.

“I do enjoy the winter,” he continued, “Wonder when the first snow will fall.”

He twirled his moustache round one finger. If he had to be honest, his moustache could have been twirlier. He was already a striking man, even for his age. Or perhaps especially for his age. Well, he was striking by any standards, really. Anyway, he was striking, of that he was sure. His very appearance commanded respect, and he was fairly certain that even if he had not accomplished all the amazing things that he had throughout his life, people would still treat him like a leader of men, merely because of his looks. But his moustache could well have been twirlier, and this thought put somewhat of a damper on his mood.

Men like him do not stay down for long however, and soon enough these thoughts were replaced by memories of winter.

“You remember that time we went to the pole, Gringham?” This time he turned slightly, if only to hear the reply better.

“Yes, sir.” said Gringham.

The man looked like someone who could have been to the pole. Either of them. Or both, as was actually the case. Gringham did not. Scrawny little Gringham. With the thin, red hair, and the deep furrows all over his face. Gringham was certainly not striking. You’d probably rather want to forget him after seeing him. He certainly looked like he had experienced much, but he did not look like he would survive a trip to the pole. Either of them. Or – as was the case – both.

It was getting cold, and dark, and it was time to get inside. The man took a last long look across the city which, as the night encroached on the day, had lit up in a myriad of small lights. The man rested his arm across Gringhams back, grabbing his shoulder firmly, brotherly.

“Let’s get some tea and reminisce, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” said Gringham.

Small story 1

“I swear,” said the man, “It was like I made a knot that wasn't really a knot, and I knew it wouldn't work, but then it did. But then suddenly the knot was an ordinary knot, a working knot. It was like Reality shifted, or something.”

The man was resting on one knee, and had moments before been bent over, in the process of tying his black shoes.  Now he was resting an elbow on his other knee, which was, like the rest of his legs, covered by his black pants. On his upper body he wore a black t-shirt under a black sweater, and an all black jacket on top. This attire went well with the sunglasses he had yet to put on, which had a black frame. He peered over at the woman in his bed who was sitting upright, turning to look at him, still halfway under the covers. Her pale skin was almost lost between the sheets and the duvet, but the fiery red hair that cascaded from her head down along her back made her quite noticeable, and in no danger of getting lost.  She had a sort of amused, befuddled look on her face.

“Right,” she said, “I'm sure it did.” She rubbed her eyes. “Where are you going?”

“I'm just going down to the store for a moment, get us some breakfast,” she said as she got up, her shoes tied, “Bread had gone bad.”

“Oh,” responded the man. He yawned, too tired to focus right now. “But wait-“ A thought had suddenly entered his head, and he felt it imperative that he expressed it, for fear of what might happen if he didn't.

“Yes?” Asked the woman, her red hair contrasting violently with the black she was clad in. However, in this particular violence, there was beauty.

“What if I never see you again, as you are now?”

She smiled slightly, and looked at him reassuringly. To herself, she thought: “Well of course you're never going to see me again as I am now. After all, later won't be now, will it?”
But she didn't say this. Instead, she said that she would be back in just a few minutes, and then disappeared through the door.

The man turned back around and stared straight ahead. He contemplated whether he should just get up out of bed and get on with it, but he was fairly certain he had just witnessed Reality shift, and if that wasn't a good reason for going back to sleep, the man was not at all sure what was. As he laid back and rested his head on the pillow, he recalled a story he had once been told.

The story was about a prince in a distant land. It wasn't the kind of silly prince you found in fairy tales or Hollywood movies – it was a proper prince from a proper land. Which was proper distant, both in space and time. And the land the prince lived in was magnificent, unlike any other land that had ever come before it, or would ever come after it. However, all was not well in these lands. For the prince's love had been captured by some sort of beast or other, it didn't really matter. The point was, thought the man as he slumbered somewhere between dream and wake, that the prince's love had the most beautiful, fiery red hair. And then he fell asleep.