A short-story

‘Twas the night, ‘twas the day; but ‘twas, ‘twas, ‘twas either way. ‘Twas the day I died spliteth asunder were we. Close we were like the quick of lightning and the sound to follow. Existeth no bedlam in my state. Awaketh from the darkness did I and abroad into the night found but small purpose in my midnight creep. ‘Till the early light of yon morn’ threatened to giveth me away; waiteth and waiteth, yay, and waiteth even more. But in my deathly state, betwixt two worlds, I was bootless; ineffectual. Heardeth should I be in the midnight hour to shadows that unsuspect, their fearful voices would calleth into the misty night’s full light:

“Who is it? Who goeth there!”

            Though boundeth I to the graveyard be, wandereth aimlessly until my appointment with Death. So it was with cold hands that raiseth did I toward that white planetoid in the upper night sky, upon which stiff trembling fingers were the only motion in the thin night air, and I would thus reply to the nighttime passerby:

“’Tis he, who is there

Writeth did I so fair

Writeth did I of our love

But thanks to death

Through the midnight air

Wandereth now I in search

Aye, even in death forgeteth not

‘Tis he, who is there

‘Tis he, with a flaming pen

Who put to paper her romantic grin

Inscribed a thousand times

And a thousand eft

Beholdeth, ‘tis he who engraveth in your hearts

A boiling love with flaming parts

Who’s there?

‘Tis he, who enshrineth eagerly

Dight with ink ablaze

From writing of her burning ways

About how love stays and stays

Through all the March’s, April’s, and May’s

‘Tis he, ‘tis he,’ even says my grave:”

‘Tis he! ‘Tis he!

Who lies in this heap

That wrote of a love so fair

And a heart that did beat

Even writeth he did of her hair

Also: eyes, cheeks, mouth, chin, and heart,

Fingers, love, beauty, and feet

‘Tis he! ‘Tis he! The master of love

That is who is buried so deep!

            Upon my appearance in the night underneath the beorht light of the moon, I would showeth myself. Neah I would draweth upon them who passeth by with a sarig and atelic shadow who did close behind followeth. Heareth now how his chains rattle and mock! Shreadeth do they his garments! Perhaps thinking I was the beadurnic of death, fleetful feet would carrieth them away.

            Our story had a beginning as so many others before. Shareth did we several years betwixt us an abode; both in heart and home. Nary a day and nary a night was she alone. Liveth we did in a small house in the greenwood and delivereth to the world a cozy home. Though I was a carl and hath not seen 25 seasons shifteth their desire, and though she, likewise, not 19 years yet agone, we had the strongest appetency for one another.

            Eftsoons, with love and happiness in the air, taketh on the most wonderful feminal nature did our home. Maintaineth did she a small garth and a candle’s glim in the window. Yet, furbisheth evil did the ever watchful Star of the Morning and his Fruit. Nary a gardyloo for friends to harken, nor would God’s Good Acre be of any benefit as safety or refuge. Knoweth we how hie evil traveleth. Ifsoever appeareth did Evil in his houppelande of black, I should fight him tooth and nail! But not Death for concerneth me He did not.

            Happily tendeth did I to the love apples in our garth with care. One day, falleth ill did I to a malison. Cometh the morrow and for the worse was I. Assiteth did I with bootless muster, the needs of our humble abode. But nigh time Death, the moil, calleth a meeting. One cannot nubbeth the gallows of Death once He overleapeth the thin line that demarcates with a sharp wire that of life and death! My heart did capsizeth not three full days later. Calleth to plain over my corpse that she could releaseth not, was Lyla.

            Aft my funeral my soul did watcheth as they buried me. In her hand holdeth did she a collection of roses close to her milky bosom. Sitteth in misery next to my grave and sobbeth  loudly did she.

“Alak! my love!” she cried with the shrill of a trembling voice.

            Death is everyone’s receipt for life.  Watcheth her cry did I upon which a billow of sorrow did sweepeth athwart my now bleak heart cage. Though wandereth did I the Earth for several days, knoweth did I it was nigh high time that I and Death would meet first hand. My appointment Death did keepeth soon enough. Appeareth did He in the yard of graves and the smell of brimstone did filleth my nostrils.

“From the pits of hell art thou?” I asked strong and clear.

“Hell unattended?” laugheth did he.
“Supposeth do I the devil is there,” sayeth did I.

“Then that would maketh me a servant of the devil, which I am not. Though I am able to attendeth Hell, I do not Liveth there.  I am that which I am. Death is my name and nothing more,” he did sayeth with a few steps closer.

“Wherefore goeth I from here?” I did asketh.

“That is not up to me. Thou could crosseth over now or thou might haveth a chance at another opportunity,” he spoketh to me.

“What shall I do for that chance?” I asketh.

“Answereth satisfactorily two questions. Thou must answereth them both with my approval. Hadst I the final say as to the fulfillment with which I thinketh thou answers falleth,” he spoketh.

“What are the questions?” asketh did I.

“Then thou art ready,” smileth he did with even a few more steps in my direction.

“I am more than ready. Hast I faith in myself,” sayeth I.

“If answereth thou not satisfactorily the first question, then prevaileth thou not to the second question. Thou must answereth to my standard of satisfaction. So, with that, beginneth shall we,” and stroketh his pointy chin and beginneth did he thus:  

“Suffereth all things must. All religions, leaders of men, and philosophies teacheth that suffereth thou shalt . My question to thee is why must thou suffereth?” he did asketh in a very motionless manner, to which even the fingers that so intelligently did stroketh his chin did temporarily stoppeth themselves.

            Pondereth did I heavily.  Remembereth even the Christ who did sayeth to the apostles that suffereth they must. Even Muhammad did speaketh openly that His followers shall endureth and suffereth, too. Finally, I remembereth that even Buddha concludeth upon his journey that suffereth shall we all, and pleasure shall we denieth not, but accepteth as fleeting. With these thoughts beginneth I thus:

“Abroad the world we abjure from suffering. Likewise, the cause of thirst itself stir within us all for succor. Suffering is a part of life; it is not a choice. Those who suffer are not stricken. Without suffering there is no motivation and we become ill and heedless. Without motivation the only things that will change are the Hunter’s Moon and thine doughty winds which blow athwart the hogback and break the daffadowndilly. Without change there likewise would be no progress.”

            He stood motionless in the moonlight. He lifteth up his eyes as he looketh straight at me underneath his cloaked hood. With a long, thin, pale hand did he reacheth out in my direction and speaketh thusly once more:

“None an answer as satisfactorily hath befallen the ears t weareth afore now. In fact, this shall be the new standard.  Now we shall move on to the final question when thou art ready,” he did speaketh as he began to stroke his chin verily.

“I am ready,” was my response.

“Thou art a wise man in death. But art thou as wise in life?  Supposeth a beggar hath cometh to thee who hath been baseborn; homeless and hungry. Asketh thou what he could do to end his suffering. What sayest thou to him?” he did asketh.

“I wish not to belie the. Though it may appear that I munch on the bit, beg, let it taketh not away from the approval I seeketh in our dainty essay of truth. Be that as it may, I would tell the beggar to embraceth his suffering as it is a part of life and it is good to be alive. Also, unlike pain he shalt not die from it,” I said.

            Upon this moment did Death taketh a few steps back and stareth at me with a look I had yet to see during our meeting. He spoketh once more.

“Very well, my friend. Remember, killeth thou I didst not, nor killeth anyone have I ever. I am just here to taketh thou when it is thine time. However, as only a few have done in the past, and as I have promised, I shall giveth unto thee a second opportunity to be alive in thou world. It will not be forever nor will it be for many years. Thou will have a short time of less than one year but more than three months. Also, I will not bringeth thou back from the dead, but I will taketh thou back aforetime before thou were beset by the dark bane cloak of death. Use thou this time wisely,” Death did speaketh.

            As I lay down my short story I called out to Rebecca. She came in from the living area to my writing desk and leaned over with her hands on my shoulders.

“Did you finish it?” she asked.

“Yes, yes I did. Will you read it and tell me what you think?” I asked as I showed her the poem. She began to read it quietly in her mind.

“This is quite a piece,” she told me.

“I plan to submit it to Harvard for a review,” I informed her.

“Oh, I think they will love it. Who helped you with the Old English?” she asked me.

“That was something I had to work out on my own time. It was not so easy, but I learned a lot,” was my response.

“So what happens? Death gave him a second chance, right? What does he do with it?” she asked.

“Well the story could end there or perhaps not. It depends on my response from the writers guild,” I told her.

“Oh, fair enough. Well, keep me posted,” she told me. I agreed as she handed me back my story.

“I have to be honest,” I began. “I have had dreams about that story. I have almost become a part of the story it seems.” I continued.

“Everything, ok?” she asked.

“Yeah. Everything is fine,” I told her.

      I woke the next morning with coffee and sat watching the sun continue to rise outside my kitchen window. As I sit there contemplating the meaning of life it ever so subtly occurred to me that life must be cast away. Not the hope of life itself but the actual living of life. We sacrifice the present in order to gain the future but life itself is lived in the present. That is a huge forfeiture. We have to postpone gratification and often times happiness in order that one day we may gain a future that allows us to die in a comfortable bed with those whom we share love with abiding by our side. We must do as a tree does in the winter and decide that it is better to die temporarily in order to live in the future we hope for. But sometimes during hibernation the tree gets chopped down never to be a tree again! Life is suffering and the meaning of life can be found in the process of attaining goals and accepting responsibility, not the confirmed fulfillment of either.

      It often led me to think of the things my character touched on in the short story I was working on. Would there even be purpose in getting a second chance? How could I add to the story? For me, I thought it was a complete story just as it was. He came back, lived and died. So what? I began to muse about things from my very own past.

     Many years agone, my grandmother Teresa shared an intimate story with me. The story was how she and several siblings shared a single bed growing-up in a very cold house. The house was extremely old. The cracks in the wooden floor conquered more domain with each passing year. It was customary to sweep the chicken feed athwart the spaces in the hardwood floor each morning. This was so that it would fall underneath the house for the chickens.

            My grandmother’s mother was up earlier than everyone else each day. Teresa said she could hear her chopping the weeds with a garden hoe and digging jakes for everyone to use before breakfast.

            There were two colors of corncobs which were used to clean the hindquarters. The brown cob was used to get most of the mess removed and was thrown in the hole afterwards and buried. The white cob was used, and reused, to make sure everything was clean. And to that, as my grandmother would say, “a new day was begun and untouched.”

            A new day can bring about a totally new way of thinking. Sometimes, for no other reason than we are just older. The American naturalist and philosopher Henry David Thoreau said that if one can change their context they can change their perspective. This is true, excluding cognitive dissociation, perhaps. I do believe that age alone can change our context, however.

            What happens when one realizes at some point in their life that they are at the very bottom? Is this not met with an egad exclamation? How long after that realization becomes a daily part of forethought does one begin to excogitate at their chances of making it out? What if one does make it? What happens next? Is that, perhaps, a second chance?

            Let me tell you what happens next: a pinch-test! Then, after the initial pinch, another question: how long can it be maintained?

            If one observes somethings realness, then it is real. A mere observation, to be clear, is all one needs. If one needs to kick a stone for a reality check then my recommendation is to first remove the shoe.

            It is the maintenance that awakens difficulty. Maintenance is difficult with regards to where one stands with their belief in the realness of things. If one is walking through the woods contemplating whether or not they are indeed real, do they not still run from the mountain lion until they can reach a reasonable conclusion?

            But one who is irrational and believes that they are not real, or they are questioning the integrity of their realness, may indeed get mauled badly or eaten up; therefore, becoming unable to maintain with previous enthusiasm what they have attained thus far in life. Do not become confused or question too seriously the realness of things. Focus instead on the maintenance of positive and meaningful relationships and the purpose of the things achieved thus far.  I do believe that is why Death gave my character a second chance. Because he wanted more time to maintain a relationship that was important to him.

            What if one day one awakens to a life where everything is so perfect; minus the little imperfections that amount to no more than trivialities? Of course, the pinch-test continues. Daily one may ask if life will make good use of them for another day. Life, generally speaking, is it not almost impossible? To dig a latrine each day, no matter the weather, and question nothing; only to question the realness of life at every corner once a better standard of living has been achieved!

            It is extremely easy to become absorbed with one’s self. Gather what may be gathered from me like a flower gathers rain; only what is needed. And like a flower growing beneath a bell tower, though it receives plentiful amounts of water, how much stress that tolling must cause such a small creature who is unable to escape. Alak! how the desperate flower beseeches each day the attention of artist’s and passerby’s to behold its suffering without any consolation.

      As I sat sipping my coffee in the kitchen I saw a cardinal come and dance around on the lawn. I scattered a few seed there the day before as I cleaned out the bird feeder. This bright red bird was the first to approach the scene this particular morning. It stirred my thoughts even deeper. I sipped again.

      You see, birds have had a profound and far-reaching effect on me and the thoughts which have guided my life. Basically, all my philosophies revolve around an experience I have had with nature, but especially birds. My first real experience with birds came when I was a very ignorant child of about five.

      My parents divorced when I was three years of age. I went to visit my father when I was five for the first time. This was one of only four or five occasions. It was a very cold fall deep in the woods of Moselle, Mississippi. The woods and swamps, rivers and streams, gave a young country boy great cause for exploration and happiness.

      My father, whose serious mental problems plagued his whole life, had a serious obsession with guns. He bought me a BB gun which I seemed to have enjoyed. I do not remember if he gave me any instructions as far as what I could or could not shoot. There were no houses nearby and traffic hardly ever came down the road. The roads were typically named after most of our neighbors and family. In fact, one such road which turned down a steep hill close by my grandparent’s house, Watkins Road, was named after my uncle Harmon Watkins.

      I remember the chilled weather and the dark denim jacket that I wore that time of year. Maybe it seemed colder to me because I was younger. Maybe it was actually colder during those years. Perhaps, such memories are just cloaked in a shroud of cold, gray, bleakness. 

      I never had a BB gun before and began to explore the many things that I could target. The trees were plentiful and their branches were naked of leaves. Fog came from my breath as I breathed heavily in search of something to shoot.

      Songbirds filled the air as they do in the forests of Mississippi perhaps as they do nowhere else in North America. I walked no more than forty yards from the house and saw a cardinal sitting on a branch all by itself. It was singing so beautifully and my heart filled with a sudden desire to capture it and to be able to touch it.

      I certainly had no desire to kill anything at that age. I am not sure that I had developed a strong enough theory of mind to know how other things felt. I was certainly not aware of my own actions and their effects, good or bad, right or wrong. But come what may I really wanted to touch that beautiful bird; to feel its feathers and touch its orange beak.

      I pumped up my air rifle and took a careful first aim. I missed. I took aim at the songbird again and pulled the trigger. He was facing away from me and looking to his right.

      What was he thinking? Was he enjoying the weather? Did he have children or a wife? Was there anyone eagerly anticipating his return to the nest? Such thoughts never entered my mind. There was a short, loud, SNAP! as I fired my weapon into the cold autumn air. The way that the bird fell from the limb really caught my attention. It must have taken several seconds for it to reach the ground.

      He fell like the weightless yellow leaf falls from the twig in fall weather. There was a definite twirling motion as he nose-dived into the brown weeds underneath the large, dark oak tree. My heart raced with excitement at the thought of touching a bird; those ever-evasive little creatures which took flight every time I approached.    

      I was told once that if I wanted to catch a bird, an infatuation I had for the longest time, that I simply had to put salt on their tail feathers. So, it was not uncommon for the saltshaker to go missing from the kitchen table at my granny’s house. Sometimes she would even hand the shaker to me and with an excited voice as she pushed me out the front door would say, “there’s one! Hurry up before he flies away! Go! Go!” But more than likely, she just wanted to keep me outside during the daylight hours.

      As I got closer to where I saw the bird fall my eyes began frantically searching the ground, my heart beating faster and faster. I have to admit I really had no idea what I was going to find. But as I searched the weeds, which were nearly as tall as my chest, I found the tunnel in the grass his body made as he fell. I stuck my hand in and was simply overwhelmed that I had caught a bird for the first time in my life.

      I ran back to the house to show my father who came to the door. I eagerly presented the bird to him, much like a dog or cat would a squirrel that they had recently killed, to which he told me to go throw it away and not to shoot anymore birds.

      It was not long after that in which I began to realize that I had killed the bird and his body was of no value. I cried, and eventually, sobbed uncontrollably over the cruelty that I had committed. And even then, not so much at what I had done as far as killing the bird, but that the little bird would never fly again, that it would be a bird no more.

      This is still, in my opinion, the absolute worst thing I have ever done in my entire life. By that I mean, it is one of the handful of things I wish I could take back. A feeling I do not encounter with the other mistakes I have made in life. It was just such a horrible thing to do, to have taken that poor little bird’s precious and beautiful life. It is often the fact, as I got older, that he was not even anticipating the cold shot to the back that bothered me the most. That he was just doing what birds do and I interrupted the whole process. At forty, it is still tough to write about.

      The second time as a child that a bird would have such an intense effect on my life was at about the age of eight. My mother and step-father Stan, along with us four kids, lived in a place called Clarksdale, Mississippi. I was the proud owner, to everyone’s dismay, of a long black slingshot. In Clarksdale, I often chased large frogs and dug them out of their hiding places in the ground. I also collected about fourteen snakes during the short time we lived there.

      There was not as much countryside available as I was used to and I was often in trouble with the neighbors. I remember the incident with the bird I am about to describe clearly, even after all these years. Sometimes, I am just not sure why I endeavored to do the things that I did. I can say, however, that they were done without any thought; just actions followed by consequences. The heavy burdened process of learning.

      I believe that it was once again late autumn or maybe early winter. I just don’t remember any sunshine. I was walking about with my slingshot attached to my left arm. I had a rock in the sling and was tromping about ready to shoot whatever I could find. I was eagerly searching for something as I made my way back home when, suddenly, on a branch right next to a small tree I had just walked underneath, there was a large black bird; maybe it was a crow.

      I thought he might fly away because I was so unbelievably close to him, so we just stared at each other for several moments. His large blue eyes blinking occasionally. I never imagined that I would have time to shoot him. Afterall, we were staring each other right in the face. I could have literally stretched out my arm and touched him. When I realized that the bird was not about to fly away, I pulled back on my sling and took aim. The bird just looked at me. Did he see me? Was he blind?

      I let the rock fly from my slingshot. It hit the giant black bird right in the chest and small black feathers left the bird as the rock connected with his tender bones. I was, once again, amazed and ran home to show my mom. This time, however, it was a much different experience. The giant bird was still alive. For the moment it had gone according to plan. I finally captured a bird and was going to keep it as a pet. Yet, somehow, still totally unaware of the damage I had caused. The pain that I had inflicted on another living creature still unable to be processed in my tiny brain.

      I arrived at the house as my mom and Stan were getting ready to leave for the grocery store. I showed them my prize and, momentarily, I was excited. They said I couldn’t keep it and I began to cry and scream. Finally, they told me to put the bird on the back porch until we got back; that they were ready to go. I told them if I put him on the back porch he would fly away. They promised that the bird wasn’t going to go anywhere. However, I was still adamant. Then my mom told me that because I shot the bird with my sling that he would probably die.

      This made me feel terrible and I began to sob. After several minutes of fighting they convinced me to put the black bird on the back porch and we would check on him once we returned. I cried and threw a fit all the way to the grocery store and, likewise, for the entirety of the time we were gone.

      I only became excited once again as we began to approach the house on our way home. My heart began to flutter at the hope of finding the bird walking around on the back porch ready for his new life. Sadly, this was not the case. The large black bird was dead and stiff. I remember the way his large, blue, empty, cold eyes looked. It saddened me in a way that I still am not able to fully describe. Unfortunately, this would not be the last time I would kill a bird.

      Fast-forward about sixteen years later. I am not sure that anything regarding the killing of this bird was remotely like the first two with the exception that it was a large black bird.

      It was a hot summer day in south Mississippi; full humidity. I was at a place called the Windham House. This was what we refer to in the south as an “old folks’ home.” Me and another guy named JT were working for a guy named John. He owned a small grass cutting business and we were there at the Windham House, as we were every two weeks during the summer, simply cutting the grass and weed-eating. There was quite a bit of grass to cut there so me and JT each had a mower going at the same time. I only had a small amount to cut before I would start weed-eating. We would almost always finish at the same time and meet back at the truck.

      On this extremely hot day I had just made my first round or two on the mower. I was working in an area that was just a small amount of neatly kempt lawn near the entrance gates. Upon my next loop I noticed that there was a small area in the weeds that had been pressed down as if something was lying there. I made one more cut then I got off my mower to see what it was. I left the mower going and walked over to the small patch in the weeds that had caught my attention.

      As I left the mower, I walked over to the spot I saw in the tall grass. A black bird startled me as he flew away from the spot I was approaching and went to a nearby tree for a couple of seconds. After it looked back, it flew off to a more distant place and continued to watch me with eagerness. I approached the spot in the weeds with caution, and as I peeked over I saw another black bird that was lying there, slightly squawking at my approach. He didn’t move and he never even picked up his head. I wondered what was wrong with him but decided to let him be. My past experience with birds flashed before me and I knew it was better not to get involved.

      However, as I made several more passes, I began to think about the possibilities of what might be wrong with the bird. I thought that since he didn’t pick up his head when I approached, maybe he flew into a tree and broke his neck. Next, I thought of the fire ants finding him and how they would eat him alive, which could take several hours. I then began to think that maybe a wild cat would get him and tear him to shreds. As I made another pass and wiped sweat from my brow, I began to feel sorry for the bird who must surely be injured, thirsty, and hungry.

      On the next pass I stopped, got off the mower which was still running, and walked over and simply picked-up the bird. The bird just lay there in my hands. He didn’t seem to be able to fly or otherwise move at all. I made what I thought was an extremely difficult decision.

      As we finished cutting the grass, we blew off the parking lot with our blowers and walked back to the truck. After we threw our blowers onto the back of the truck we got into the vehicle and slammed our doors closed. I had to slam my door twice. The inside of the vehicle was so hot that it was difficult to breathe even with the windows down and to make matters worse, there was no air conditioner. I told him that I found a black bird in the weeds. His immediate response affected me deeply.

“Yeah, I know. He’s been there for months, he’s blind. You didn’t kill it did you!?” he shouted with a deep stare. 

“How was I to know? I thought he was going to suffer,” I returned immediately and truthfully.

“You killed it!?” he yelled once more looking deeply at me.

“Yes!” I shouted, still in disbelief that he already knew about the bird.

“No! You shouldn’t have done that! He was fine! The other birds were feeding him. He was only blind. How did you kill it!?” he wanted to know. I just looked over at him for a moment, then looked away. “You ran over him with the lawn-mower, didn’t you?!” he shouted again. I sat quietly looking out my window.

      The lesson this taught me took time to comprehend completely at the substrate level, not to say that it has been fully comprehended. I still had to force myself to concentrate on my work for the rest of the day. I had killed an innocent bird when I had no right or authority to do so. I was apparently under a grave misapprehension as to the birds’ situation. He died because of how I felt and what I thought I knew. What I thought was in the best interest of another living creature.

      This was honestly the beginning of my belief that I had not the right, the knowledge, the place, or whatever, to kill anything and I would try my hardest to never kill anything again. But the struggle became should I even resort to killing in extreme circumstances? And how would I recognize these circumstances? I thought I had recognized them in this situation but obviously I didn’t.

      Working on a large farm in Mississippi I heard the story from the landowner about one of his horses that I will never forget. He relayed to me that one day while he was at work he received a phone call from his wife who was at home. The horse barn was on fire and the horses had broken out.

      The horses were fine, save for one, a much older one, who tried to jump the fence an impaled herself on a corner post. Since she was older she wasn’t able to jump as high as she once could. So the owner had to take a tractor and lift her off the post. But first, he had to shoot her.

      Another story told to me by my father was a farm situation as well. This was during the “dropping” season when mother cows were having their babies. One mother cow was not able to drop and she was found lying down by a tree about to die from exhaustion.

      Afraid of losing both the calf and the mother cow he took a chain and tied the mother by the neck to the tree. Then he took another chain and tied around the calf’s feet while still inside the mother and pulled it out with the tractor. Of course, this choked the mother to death, but it was much better than watching her suffer, being unable to give birth. The calf survived, thankfully.       

      Honestly, everything considered, I still don’t know what’s right or wrong, good or bad, intentions, morals, meaning, context, etc.; a grocery list of confusion is all I can ever come up with. There are however only three things I wish I could take back when I am deep in the throes of the retrospection of my life: killing each of those three birds.

      My morning now over I went back to my desk to finish my story. I thought about what the characters had discussed and all the things that came to my mind that morning while drinking coffee. I decided that my character whom Death had given a second chance would find that living in this manner was much more difficult so he decided to go into the woods and commit suicide.

THE END