Looking up, the sky was ablaze with orange smoke and glittering embers dancing placidly among it. The only noise feasible to him was the low ringing in his ears. Tears flowed down his cheeks carving paths through dust packed onto old sweat and blood packed onto more dirt and so on. His chest hurt. Fuck, his entire body hurt. He rolled slowly from his back onto his side and fell from his side onto his stomach. As if this had sent a ripple out that had just made its way back, reality came crashing all around him in waves. Screams. The rapidity of German machine guns. Cannonballs screaming through the night air. The blunt and sickening noise of a bayonet piercing cloth uniform and sinking into the flesh concealed beneath. A quiet hiss near his ear as clouds of green gas flowed a silent river all around the air from the canister. He knew it was gas by the noise before it had made its way to his eyes, nose, and mouth. He couldn’t move fast enough. He squirmed desperately, flailing his arms out to find grip only to find blood soaked mud in all directions, too slippery to hold onto. He screamed but it was muffled by the mucus and foam and vomit that was all coming up at once. His eyes were burning. No, they were melting. His entire face was melting, or it felt like it, and as mucus and blood began to seep from every orifice of his face it truly became convincing. Flashes of home, of his mother bringing the soup she’d made from what little they had and fussing his hair up. His younger siblings running around him in circles as he tried to direct them through the daily chores. If only the leaders would fight and not send the country’s youth out in their place. Pawns. They only see us as pawns to be played for their personal gain and esteem. Flashes of warmth. Flashes of home. Flashes of pain and nauseating realization. He wished so badly he had stayed on his back so that the vomit would have suffocated him. He could hear the footsteps approaching and the slow, heavy breathing through gas masks. He heard the unfamiliar language and the familiar noise of a machine being put together some yards away. He shakily lifted his head, completely blind, to look in the direction of the noise. One shot, two shots, fifteen shots. They didn’t need to use the machine gun on him, but when this war came it took all human decency with it. Flashes of home. Nothingness.
She was but 6 inches tall. I’m sorry, 6 and a half inches tall. A human, but much smaller. Standing in the middle of the keeled over, split branch where she made her home, she swept excess dust towards the edge. Moving the leaves she had hung up for privacy to the side, she gently pushed the dust pile out of her house and onto the forest floor beneath where it would be naturally recycled.
“Knock, knock,” a familiar voice came from the entryway.
“Mr. Frog!” She cried excitedly, spinning around towards her friend who was making his way into her home, “So glad you decided to come by today. Bringing anything good with you?”
“Wren, do I ever come to your house empty handed?” He asked, bringing his left hand to his front to reveal a large acorn husk with the cap on, but not tight enough to conceal the fermented honey water that had sloshed up during his hop over and was now oozing down the sides, gleaming in the midday sun.
Wren licked her lips, “No, Frog, you always come strapped don’t you? Well go on ahead, I’ll grab the mugs you made me and meet you at the perch, just have to finish tidying up!”
Frog nodded and hopped away. After a quick brush over the room, Wren grabbed the only two cups she had, smaller acorn husks, and ran out through her leaf wall, down the makeshift path down the dead tree, and onto the stepping stones below. She hopped from stone to stone following her friends footprints to the soft path through the cattail reeds and up onto a tree stump conveniently located halfway in the lake.
She could see that Frog had already taken a few sips of his famous concoction and passed him a mug before eagerly holding hers out to be filled by the golden goo. Frog tilted the container to let the honey water make its way out, filling their mugs with the beautifully bright sun shining through the semi-opaque liquid.
Wren had known Frog for as long as she could remember. He was her closest friend and they did not need to fill the quiet, calm space between them with conversation.
They sat, their legs dangling off the side of the stump while water bugs and tadpoles danced in the shallow water, taking drinks from their mugs and enjoying the warm fuzz that slowly blanketed over them as the effects of the honey kicked in.
The sun was setting quickly now. The first of the songs started from the bank opposite of them, a lovely feminine voice croaking a song of longing.
“Care to dance?” Frog asked.
“Why of course.” replied Wren, far too familiar with the routine, but always eager to enjoy it after a mug of honey. She stood on her toes and waited.
Frog hopped onto the broad cap of a mushroom that had recently sprouted atop their perch and laid on his back, looking up to the emerging stars above, coughed a couple of times, and began his deep sounding melody.
Wren moved around the stump in smooth gliding motions. The music was much slower tonight than usual, and required a graceful step.
As Frog sang and Wren danced and the sun set beyond the trees, lightning bugs emerged and sailed about the evening air. Almost every night was like this. Almost every night was perfect.
The summer sun was fresh and hot, dangling there in the sky and dripping it’s heat onto the kids playing beneath it in the schoolyard. Looking across the green field she could see the shimmering illusion of a heatwave rising up from the grass.
Fanning herself with the papers she’d brought out just for that purpose, she strode over towards the playground where it seemed two of her students were preparing for one of their imaginary duels. these kids she thought to herself smiling.
“YOU DON’T CALL ME THAT!” Jose, one of her fourth grade students, screeched, ripping the calm in half.
“YEAH!? And what are YOU going to do about it!?” Seth, a fifth grader, was yelling back.
She realized this was NOT an imaginary duel and remembered how the two of them had been having a rough week of getting along with one another and quickened her pace to a light jog.
These kids she thought to herself again, but did not smile.
“I’ll have my friends help me beat you up.” Jose said angrily, his head down.
Seth laughed exaggeratedly, “Your friends?,” he laughed again, “What friends? You don’t have friends!”
Jose moved his head quickly to look up at Seth, his hands dove into both pockets of his cargo shorts, “THESE FRIENDS!!” he shouted, pulling his hands up and opening them to reveal piles of small rocks.
She interrupted the altercation unfolding in the elementary school yard before Jose’s friends could do any beating. She knew the two boys would be back to being close friends by the end of the day, and had the most trouble with concealing her smile at the drama that had just played out before her eyes.
