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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Death / Heartbreak / Loss
- Published: 04/20/2021
The Old Man
Born 1994, M, from Raleigh, NC, United StatesThe old man lifted the sack that his wife had stitched him, placing two stale pieces of bread inside and his sharpening stone. He placed the sack on the table where he had spent so many winters seated watching his wife cook their meals. He took one last look around the small home he had built with his own hands when he was younger man and all the memories it contained. He shouldered the sack, grabbed the axe that hung by the door and stepped outside.
Instantly his thoughts turned to his wife and he made his way to her. His heart pained as he saw where she lied. He knelt down on knees placing his forehead on the moist ground. He hadn’t laid a gravestone for fear of grave robbers but he knew where she lay. He had dug the grave with his own hands. The cold had made the soil rock hard and his shovel had broken after the first few shovels of earth. It was as if the earth didn’t want to take her. He understood. he didn’t want the earth to take her either. She had died 2 winters passed. He had woken in the night to relive himself and came back to see her wide eyed, staring up at the celling lifeless. He burned the body and buried her urn of ashes the next morning. He thought of her face on the day they were wed 30 winters past. Her long red hair and how it had wrapped around them both that night.
He began to walk, his boots squished in mud made by the summer rains. After a few minutes his knees began to ache. His mind turned when he had last walked this path with his son, only to return alone. He thought of his blonde hair and his beard which he liked to keep short. Misery filled him as he made his way down the road. He stopped at midday to drink from a stream and eat one of the loaves of bread. The bread was hard, it took a few swigs of water to soften it.
He kept his pace the rest of the day, stopping close to sun down. He picked a spot in the woods far from the path so the light of his small fire wouldn’t draw attention. He laid his blanket down stretching himself out next to the fire, feeling his joints crack and muscles finally relax. He thought of the coming day and what would come but resigned himself to thinking only young men worried about such things. He already knew how tomorrow would end.
A light early morning shower woke him. He looked down at his swollen left knee, rubbing some life back into it. He then took his sharpening stone and put it to the axe as he had a thousand times before. His father had made this axe. He remembered the morning his father had given it to him and the very next day he took his first life with it alongside his father in battle. The chill of the morning rain set a chill in his bones that he couldn’t shake. Even after the last loaf of bread and an hour or so on the path, he still felt the chill in his bones.
It was mid-morning when he arrived at the camp. It was just beginning to empty as scores of men carrying weapons made their way out of the camp. He saw the over confident looks on some of the younger men and the fear that it was masking. He stopped and leaned his axe against a tree. He then stripped down naked, leaving his tunic a pile on the ground. He held the sack his wife had made him fondly, turning it over in his hands one last time before setting it down atop his tunic. He then picked up the one of the many small bowls of blue paint that littered the camp and began to paint his face and chest. Lastly, he emptied his bladder one last time.
The old man suddenly felt a youthfulness return to his old bones as he entered the field with the rest of the men. The sun finally hitting him, casting out the chill in his bones he had felt all morning. He joined the rest of the men that were forming up some kind of a line. Many had already begun to scream and begin their war chants. As he made his way to the line, many men regarded him, glad to see a white beard among them. Despite his age, he still held on to some of the muscle from his youth and the scars covering his body made it evident this wasn’t his first battle. He took a place in line about 8 men back from the front. He stood next to a youth not even half his age with blonde hair and a short beard. His heart pained at the thought of his slain son. He then faced forwards feeling the anger rise in him at who had taken his son from him. He stood a head taller than most men and was able to see the outline of the enemy with their square shields and golden eagles leading the way. The trumpets blared and as one they marched slowly towards them.
Many of the younger men in front of the old man began to scream and give themselves over to their fury. Suddenly a man similar to his age, white hair and naked, covered in blue paint, sprinted forward from their line towards the enemy. Then as one they all were moving in one giant mass towards the enemy’s line. The sound of trumpets halted the enemy’s progress. They stood in their tiny boxes of flesh and metal.
The old man suddenly didn’t feel the ache in his knees anymore as he moved. Suddenly there was a whistle and a call in their foul tongue when the sky became black with the enemy javelins. The first few lines were devastated as always. He was far enough back to escape unharmed. He didn’t carry a shield for he knew when the time came to need one there would be plenty on the ground.
The first lines met in a crash. They broke upon the enemy’s shield wall like water on a rock. Small gaps in the wall appeared as men surged forwards. The old man’s blood became hot with rage, he longed to be at the front. After a few minutes their shield wall had held and was rebuilding, bringing them to one giant mass of bloodied screaming men. The old man was near the front now, the smell of shit and piss was everywhere as he stepped over his fallen kin. He pressed on being forced by the weight of the hundreds of his kin behind him.
A gap in the shield wall finally opened once more in front of the old man. The three younger men in front of him rushed in widening it. The old man jumped in behind them screaming with all his fury and brought his axe down on the helmet of young soldier, the axe splitting his head in two.
He gave himself over to the axe as he had so many times before. He swung with all his might, knowing the weak spots in their amour or behind their big square shields. Men fell before him, he didn’t feel fear or pain, only anguish. Anguish for everything they had taken from him. For years they had stripped his small farm dry, they had raped his wife, they had taken his friends, his father, his brothers and his son. Now he wanted them to take him.
The men around him began to rally to him as he pushed forward. Soon he was face to face with a man wearing a bear’s skin, carrying a golden eagle. The anguish swelled up in him, screaming tears falling from his cheeks like a river he swung his axe taking the man in the neck, sending the eagle flying from his hands. It landed in the mud and the old man stepped over it.
One of the officers with his big red crested helmet pointed his sword at the old man and thundered “ET AQUILA!” and the men around him answered by screaming “ROMA! ROMA! ROMA!”. Suddenly the enemy surged forward. He swung his axe with everything in him but he couldn’t hold the force of the men back. At first, he didn’t feel the cold steel as it slid into his stomach, but as the man twisted the blade and pulled it out, the old man’s strength suddenly failed. He swung the axe with one last cry, taking the officers lower jaw off. The old man collapsed to the ground, feeling the anguish leave him. He held his spilling guts in his hands. He was going to see his family soon. He longed to embrace his wife and son. He longed to see the people he had cared for who had been taken away. He felt his arm snap as men trampled him. Soon almost every bone in his body was broken as the rush of men passed over him. But he didn’t feel a thing, he thought only of red hair.
The Old Man(david hunsinger)
The old man lifted the sack that his wife had stitched him, placing two stale pieces of bread inside and his sharpening stone. He placed the sack on the table where he had spent so many winters seated watching his wife cook their meals. He took one last look around the small home he had built with his own hands when he was younger man and all the memories it contained. He shouldered the sack, grabbed the axe that hung by the door and stepped outside.
Instantly his thoughts turned to his wife and he made his way to her. His heart pained as he saw where she lied. He knelt down on knees placing his forehead on the moist ground. He hadn’t laid a gravestone for fear of grave robbers but he knew where she lay. He had dug the grave with his own hands. The cold had made the soil rock hard and his shovel had broken after the first few shovels of earth. It was as if the earth didn’t want to take her. He understood. he didn’t want the earth to take her either. She had died 2 winters passed. He had woken in the night to relive himself and came back to see her wide eyed, staring up at the celling lifeless. He burned the body and buried her urn of ashes the next morning. He thought of her face on the day they were wed 30 winters past. Her long red hair and how it had wrapped around them both that night.
He began to walk, his boots squished in mud made by the summer rains. After a few minutes his knees began to ache. His mind turned when he had last walked this path with his son, only to return alone. He thought of his blonde hair and his beard which he liked to keep short. Misery filled him as he made his way down the road. He stopped at midday to drink from a stream and eat one of the loaves of bread. The bread was hard, it took a few swigs of water to soften it.
He kept his pace the rest of the day, stopping close to sun down. He picked a spot in the woods far from the path so the light of his small fire wouldn’t draw attention. He laid his blanket down stretching himself out next to the fire, feeling his joints crack and muscles finally relax. He thought of the coming day and what would come but resigned himself to thinking only young men worried about such things. He already knew how tomorrow would end.
A light early morning shower woke him. He looked down at his swollen left knee, rubbing some life back into it. He then took his sharpening stone and put it to the axe as he had a thousand times before. His father had made this axe. He remembered the morning his father had given it to him and the very next day he took his first life with it alongside his father in battle. The chill of the morning rain set a chill in his bones that he couldn’t shake. Even after the last loaf of bread and an hour or so on the path, he still felt the chill in his bones.
It was mid-morning when he arrived at the camp. It was just beginning to empty as scores of men carrying weapons made their way out of the camp. He saw the over confident looks on some of the younger men and the fear that it was masking. He stopped and leaned his axe against a tree. He then stripped down naked, leaving his tunic a pile on the ground. He held the sack his wife had made him fondly, turning it over in his hands one last time before setting it down atop his tunic. He then picked up the one of the many small bowls of blue paint that littered the camp and began to paint his face and chest. Lastly, he emptied his bladder one last time.
The old man suddenly felt a youthfulness return to his old bones as he entered the field with the rest of the men. The sun finally hitting him, casting out the chill in his bones he had felt all morning. He joined the rest of the men that were forming up some kind of a line. Many had already begun to scream and begin their war chants. As he made his way to the line, many men regarded him, glad to see a white beard among them. Despite his age, he still held on to some of the muscle from his youth and the scars covering his body made it evident this wasn’t his first battle. He took a place in line about 8 men back from the front. He stood next to a youth not even half his age with blonde hair and a short beard. His heart pained at the thought of his slain son. He then faced forwards feeling the anger rise in him at who had taken his son from him. He stood a head taller than most men and was able to see the outline of the enemy with their square shields and golden eagles leading the way. The trumpets blared and as one they marched slowly towards them.
Many of the younger men in front of the old man began to scream and give themselves over to their fury. Suddenly a man similar to his age, white hair and naked, covered in blue paint, sprinted forward from their line towards the enemy. Then as one they all were moving in one giant mass towards the enemy’s line. The sound of trumpets halted the enemy’s progress. They stood in their tiny boxes of flesh and metal.
The old man suddenly didn’t feel the ache in his knees anymore as he moved. Suddenly there was a whistle and a call in their foul tongue when the sky became black with the enemy javelins. The first few lines were devastated as always. He was far enough back to escape unharmed. He didn’t carry a shield for he knew when the time came to need one there would be plenty on the ground.
The first lines met in a crash. They broke upon the enemy’s shield wall like water on a rock. Small gaps in the wall appeared as men surged forwards. The old man’s blood became hot with rage, he longed to be at the front. After a few minutes their shield wall had held and was rebuilding, bringing them to one giant mass of bloodied screaming men. The old man was near the front now, the smell of shit and piss was everywhere as he stepped over his fallen kin. He pressed on being forced by the weight of the hundreds of his kin behind him.
A gap in the shield wall finally opened once more in front of the old man. The three younger men in front of him rushed in widening it. The old man jumped in behind them screaming with all his fury and brought his axe down on the helmet of young soldier, the axe splitting his head in two.
He gave himself over to the axe as he had so many times before. He swung with all his might, knowing the weak spots in their amour or behind their big square shields. Men fell before him, he didn’t feel fear or pain, only anguish. Anguish for everything they had taken from him. For years they had stripped his small farm dry, they had raped his wife, they had taken his friends, his father, his brothers and his son. Now he wanted them to take him.
The men around him began to rally to him as he pushed forward. Soon he was face to face with a man wearing a bear’s skin, carrying a golden eagle. The anguish swelled up in him, screaming tears falling from his cheeks like a river he swung his axe taking the man in the neck, sending the eagle flying from his hands. It landed in the mud and the old man stepped over it.
One of the officers with his big red crested helmet pointed his sword at the old man and thundered “ET AQUILA!” and the men around him answered by screaming “ROMA! ROMA! ROMA!”. Suddenly the enemy surged forward. He swung his axe with everything in him but he couldn’t hold the force of the men back. At first, he didn’t feel the cold steel as it slid into his stomach, but as the man twisted the blade and pulled it out, the old man’s strength suddenly failed. He swung the axe with one last cry, taking the officers lower jaw off. The old man collapsed to the ground, feeling the anguish leave him. He held his spilling guts in his hands. He was going to see his family soon. He longed to embrace his wife and son. He longed to see the people he had cared for who had been taken away. He felt his arm snap as men trampled him. Soon almost every bone in his body was broken as the rush of men passed over him. But he didn’t feel a thing, he thought only of red hair.
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Shirley Smothers
04/26/2021Great story. Held my interest to the very end. Thank you for sharing. Congratulations on SHORT STORY STAR OF THE DAY!
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Gerald R Gioglio
04/26/2021Very powerful, David. To think this was the way humans fought for eons. You remind us just how personal and brutal it all was. Nice work. GRG
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Radrook
04/23/2021Very well described! Held my attention as a reader from start to finish. Reminded me of the battle where Boadicea was the queen and rallied the Iceni and other tribes against the Romans Britain I have always wondered why they believed that blue dye would protect them when it should have be obvious from previous experiences that it didn't.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
David hunsinger
04/26/2021The woad plant which they used to dye their clothes and make the blue paint from has healing capability's. They some how thought it would heal scars after the battle? its just a theory I found while researching it.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
JD
04/22/2021That was one bloody battle to the bitter end.... I could not help but think of Braveheart as I read, and all the other historical battles which eventually changed nations and the world. So many have sacrificed so much for their 'cause', whatever it has been. No matter which side of a battle you are on, the costs are enormous, and the loss of life tragic. So it was in your story. Thanks for sharing your short story on Storystar, David.
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