Churchills
Water dribbles over the edge of the kettle. The old man turns off the faucet. He pours a little out, enough to give the steam a place to grow. He hadn’t meant to fill the kettle completely, but his mind wandered, something that happens far too often recently. He considers pouring away most of the water, since he won’t need it all, but the instincts of one who has lived without water cannot allow such waste. Besides, he is in no hurry and can wait for a slow boil. He pulls a book of matches from his left shirt pocket, checks to make sure there are still some left. As the match flares, the old man turns the knob on the stove, the third from the left. He touches the match to the front right burner, pulling his hand back as the flame races round the circle. Placing the kettle over the flame, the old man opens the kitchen door, walks onto the back porch.
As he steps through the door onto the well weathered decking, the dog stirs from its slumber. Her eyes open, glancing at the old man for a moment, but she will not rise. In another moment she returns to sleep. The old man gazes fondly at his last companion, not able to blame her for this small slight. He knows what it is to be old and will not begrudge his friend a well-deserved rest.
The old man settles into his chair, feels it creak once before accepting his weight. He almost laughs. Even the furniture is feeling the strain of time. He pulls a crumpled package of cigars from a pocket, chooses one, and begins to unwrap it. These are thin cigars, pale brown and packaged in plastic, so different from the ones of his youth. That was during the war, when he had smoked those black monstrosities now referred to as Churchills. That was a time when the more you got out of a cigar the better. Now his lungs can’t handle it. Back then he was a mighty man, barrel-chested with a heavy beard, looking more like a bear than a twenty year old kid. The old man remembers that time fondly. What a sight he must have been, dressed in three coats to keep away the cold, eyes bright under his fur hat and his mouth set in the crazed grin that was required to keep a firm grip on a large cigar.
That was so long ago, and the obscuring fog of memory paints a far better picture now than it once had. He can remember the coats and blankets, the desperate search for dry socks and a good place for a fire, but his mind cannot bring forth the actual feelings, the cold and wet. So it is with all the other parts. He can picture Mickey’s laughing face and even a few of his more sordid jokes, but the screams are gone, the pain in Mickey’s eyes when the bullet ripped out his stomach is beyond the old man’s ability to recall. So it often happens. The blood and death fade, but the glory and brotherhood remain. He can still feel the bloodlust, the heightened senses and the burning adrenaline, but not the depression that always followed. Horror became so common that it blended into the landscape, falling away into the past.
The old man strikes a match, waits for the sulfur to burn away, and sets it to the cigar. He holds it away from the tip, just close enough to sear the paper. If held too close the match will go out when he inhales, will not light the cigar. A wasted match. To waste a match is a sin that the old man has long avoided, as he does so now. He cups the match in his palm, protecting it from the wind, but also sheltering the telltale flame from hostile eyes. Another habit that is too strong to fade. One more relic of a time long past.
If there was a soul wandering on the open fields beyond his home that night it would be hard pressed to catch a glimpse of him. The old man’s chair rests behind the carved lattice screening much of his porch. He sits in its shadow, just one more shade in the night, even the burning tip of his cigar muffled by a protective hand. The old man knows how to stay hidden, learned it the hard way. Learned it when it mattered. Then he had been hiding from death, avoiding the iron glare that brought sudden and certain demise with a passing glance. There no longer seems to be such purpose. Can a man hide from death, is any man so canny? For how long can he keep up such a game, and will he even know if it is over, if he is found?
As the old man pulls another long drag from the cigar, feels the hot smoke searing his palette, he is startled by movement behind him. The dog is up, her eyes focused on something out in the darkness beyond, growing as the last light of the day is dragged over the mountains by the falling sun. She advances towards the edge, coming to stand next to him, her hackles up as she growls fiercely. The old man places his hand upon her head, calming her, telling her to sit. As he moves his hand down towards her he folds the cigar against his arm, but for a single instant its ember flashes out across the open ground, a momentary beacon, there and then gone. The dog relaxes at his touch but remains wary, settling beside him, her eyes searching the night.
The old man wonders what startled her so, something he has not seen in years. He considers going inside and fetching his rifle, but dismisses the idea as foolish. Nothing out there ever approaches the cabin. They recognize it as foreign ground, a man’s domain. He is safe there. Something is different this night, but he is no stranger to odd feelings. It is nothing worth doing something foolish over. The old man has heard of people who panic out in the bush, who kill innocent people because they are so afraid. Even kill themselves. That is not how he will end. He knows that much at least. He understands what real danger is.
Quiet settles over the cabin, a sullen silence that covers the smaller noises of night, dares anything to make a sound. The old man no longer smokes, he just stares out into the darkness, his hand resting on the dog’s neck. As a light breeze begins to play across the grass she brakes the silence, leaps to her feet and barks wildly at the darkness, echoing across the plain. This time no firm hand calms her; there is no flash of betraying light from the cigar. It lies dead against his arm, cold and lifeless. The kettle begins to scream, cutting through what is left of the silence with its piercing shriek, but no one comes to stop it. No one listens as its mournful cries drift into the night.
Short-Short Story : Critique Appreciated
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Originally Posted by Ian Altano
