2-10-15 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © Mehmet Turgut, All Rights Reserved - http://mehmeturgut.deviantart.com/
Story and Characters © Corey Blankenship, All Rights Reserved
Story and Characters © Corey Blankenship, All Rights Reserved
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”
“Aren’t you afraid of death?”
The white clad prisoner answered without blinking, “It is the duty of a warrior to die honorably. This death is good.”
The Marine shifted his carbine to his hip and fixed his helm. His olive drab blended well with the dark foliage around them, while the other two men stood in contrasts of black and white. He nodded and said, “Sir, prisoner’s all yours.”
“Thanks, Corporal.”
The charcoal overcoat accented the other’s operator status. He held a carbonized 1911 idly in his right hand. He gripped the prisoner’s collar and gruffly jerked him down onto the hill’s ridge. The condemned man’s kimono fell open as he dropped to his knees. The agent produced a ceremonial wakizashi, tossing the ornate short blade into the leaves and long grass. The Marine knelt a few feet behind, his shortened rifle gripped tightly. This was the first harakiri the Westerner had witnessed.
The defeated officer collected the hilt. The hilt of his grandfather. The blade of his thrice great grandfather. The characters which danced along the edge told the victories of his clan. Stories only the first sons could discern. He read the hero feats without ever glancing at the inscriptions. The last warrior of Koka stared through the haze toward where the homeland hid. A scroll flashed into vision as the steel bit into his stomach.
“Aren’t you afraid of death?”
The white clad prisoner answered without blinking, “It is the duty of a warrior to die honorably. This death is good.”
The Marine shifted his carbine to his hip and fixed his helm. His olive drab blended well with the dark foliage around them, while the other two men stood in contrasts of black and white. He nodded and said, “Sir, prisoner’s all yours.”
“Thanks, Corporal.”
The charcoal overcoat accented the other’s operator status. He held a carbonized 1911 idly in his right hand. He gripped the prisoner’s collar and gruffly jerked him down onto the hill’s ridge. The condemned man’s kimono fell open as he dropped to his knees. The agent produced a ceremonial wakizashi, tossing the ornate short blade into the leaves and long grass. The Marine knelt a few feet behind, his shortened rifle gripped tightly. This was the first harakiri the Westerner had witnessed.
The defeated officer collected the hilt. The hilt of his grandfather. The blade of his thrice great grandfather. The characters which danced along the edge told the victories of his clan. Stories only the first sons could discern. He read the hero feats without ever glancing at the inscriptions. The last warrior of Koka stared through the haze toward where the homeland hid. A scroll flashed into vision as the steel bit into his stomach.
Quiet reeds now whisper
In Shogunate’s empty halls.
I join my fathers.
The swift stroke painted a crimson slash across his abdomen. Without delay, the condemned withdrew the weapon and pressed the stained tip into his breast. Burgundy fountains poured upon white robes as the man fell into the withered bed of leaves. He neither stirred nor twitched as the crimson blade stood in a snowy mound.
Crack! A small geyser flew from the prisoner’s skull. The Corporal jerked as he swung slack-jawed to see smoke drift from the operator's pistol. The Marine let out a trapped breath and moved forward from his crouched position. He prodded the executed with his carbine’s muzzle. A gentle breeze ruffled the fallen man’s hair and draped them all in fresh leaves.
The Marine looked up at the operator’s face, grim behind its bearded mask. The two grabbed an arm and dragged the slain enemy into a nearby grave. More shallow depressions stood silently nearby for the sleepers waiting to be interred.
In Shogunate’s empty halls.
I join my fathers.
The swift stroke painted a crimson slash across his abdomen. Without delay, the condemned withdrew the weapon and pressed the stained tip into his breast. Burgundy fountains poured upon white robes as the man fell into the withered bed of leaves. He neither stirred nor twitched as the crimson blade stood in a snowy mound.
Crack! A small geyser flew from the prisoner’s skull. The Corporal jerked as he swung slack-jawed to see smoke drift from the operator's pistol. The Marine let out a trapped breath and moved forward from his crouched position. He prodded the executed with his carbine’s muzzle. A gentle breeze ruffled the fallen man’s hair and draped them all in fresh leaves.
The Marine looked up at the operator’s face, grim behind its bearded mask. The two grabbed an arm and dragged the slain enemy into a nearby grave. More shallow depressions stood silently nearby for the sleepers waiting to be interred.
***
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