Autumn in the Park

In my quest to get more serious about my writing, I've been trying to write more short stories that are diverse and outside of my typical work (mystery this/comedy that/etc). And, more to the point, I need to write something other than the big long thing I've been working on since last year. So this is another story I wrote, inspired by fall, October, and J. Michael Straczynski, oddly enough. Anyway, I hope you enjoy "Autumn in the Park."

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The fall leaves blew in circles across the gray sidewalk. The grass was littered with them, its pale green color obscured by their oranges and browns. It was October, and the little children knew that it was time to make heaping piles of leaves for play. Their cheeks were rosy and their noses were runny, but they didn’t care. They loved the leaves, and that was all that mattered.

The walk curved to the left ever so slightly, following the black road. Naked trees reached out their arms, creating spiny arches over the road. All was dead, and all was beautiful. That was what was so mesmerizing about autumn. It made death beautiful.

She loved fall. Oh, yes, she did. I remember once she told me that if it was fall all year round that she would not miss the other seasons. She enjoyed them well enough, but fall was so different, so versatile. Some days were memories of summer and others hopes of winter, and some were simply fall, no other way to describe them.

I reasoned that now would be the best time to try to talk to her. Maybe the season would calm her, make her more receptive. If only she would listen, I could explain so much.

I looked about the park. Save for the children and their mothers, it was deserted. Most people favored a cup of tea and a warm room this time of year, but Mary had taught me to love the season.

I loved Mary, and Mary loved the fall. It was quite that simple.

The green bench was peeling and chipped like it had been the day we met. Whether yesterday, a thousand years ago, or longer, it made no difference. The memory was there, clear and unmarred. It had been a day just like this one.

We were strangers sitting on a bench. I was reading a newspaper, and she was anxiously holding a purse. I was on leave from the service. I was young and the world was such a large place. There was still some mystery left out there, wherever “there” was. The whole planet was an unexplored territory, and I was its conqueror. I liked to believe that I was invincible. Maybe I was. I’d never get the chance to really find out. The war ended a week before I resumed my tour of duty. But on that day, the prospect of battle was still a burning notion in my mind. The paper was all talk of killing and gunfire and in my naivety, I was thrilled by it.

Young fool, I thought, seeing myself now, a lifetime ago, sitting on that bench. You wouldn’t have even noticed her if she hadn’t said—

“War is ugly.”

I looked up from my paper, shook it to straighten it, and then folded it down. She was beautiful. That was my first thought. She was bundled in a pink jacket, furred with gray, and a matching pink hat set squarely atop her head. I believed for a moment that a host of heaven had taken the seat beside me. But, as I said, I was young and arrogant and therefore chose to ignore that. I snidely replied, “And how would you know, lady?”

“I can read just as well as you, sir,” she politely answered. “I’m sensible enough to know when something is good and when something isn’t.”

“Well, look now, I’ve been there, you see?” I pointed to a picture of the European landscape that the paper had placed on its front page. “I’ve been in battle and it makes a man feel alive.”

“From what I’ve heard, it can also make one very dead,” she said. A hint of a smile curved her lips. She beautiful and full of sass and I was arguing with her.

“Aw, you women are all the same. Scared of death and everything with it,” I said, waving a hand to dismiss her remarks.

“I said war is ugly, not death,” she went on, ignoring my insult. “Fall is my favorite season, yet it’s the season of death. Leaves die and fall to the ground. Flowers shrivel and hide. And still it’s breathtaking. Death can be a beautiful thing, though death on a battlefield isn’t what I have in mind.”

Setting her purse aside, she reached down and picked up a leaf. She held it in cupped hands and looked it over with squinted eyes. A sudden gust of wind snatched it from her hands and carried it off into the park.

“I never really looked at it that way,” I said to her, less arrogant and more intrigued. “Death always seemed so final to me, so grim.”

“Yes, but springtime comes after fall, or before, depending how you look at it. It’s a cycle. Life, death, life, death. There is no ‘final’.” She folded her hands on her lap and looked out in the direction the wind had carried the leaf.

I felt awkward, sitting there in silence. I searched for something to say, but nothing seemed as profound as her words. I was speechless, a rare condition for me in those days, I assure you. Instead, I simply stared into the same distance that she did, wondering what she was looking for.

“Say,” I said at length, “you look like you could use a cup of coffee. I’ll buy it for you. I could use a cup myself.”

She was hesitant. She was that kind of woman. She thought for herself and wouldn’t be swept off her feet by some trigger-happy kid looking to start a fight with some Nazis. I reached over and lightly touched her elbow. “C’mon,” I said, “We can look at the leaves on the way there.”

Cautiously, she stood up and we walked down the same sidewalk that I treaded now. The fall breeze came in a quick burst and the memory was whisked away like the leaves. The bench was empty again, and I walked alone.

I buried my face in my upturned collar, trying to block the wind and forget the past. I passed no one on my way. Every sound was drowned out by the persistent roar of the wind. I was left to my thoughts, and it was best that way. I became so absorbed in them that I nearly passed my destination.

I looked up and Mary was in front of me, here at the end of the park where one lonely bench remained. Like that day so long ago, I sat down and pulled a newspaper from my coat pocket. I turned the pages, seeing words but reading none of them.

After a few moments passed I said, “Hello, Mary.”

She didn’t reply.

“I know you probably don’t want to do this, after what I did. But I thought, maybe, that today, on our anniversary, you would listen.” I creased my newspaper and put it back in my pocket. I folded my hands in front of me and looked at her.

“It’s fall, you know. Your favorite season. I—does it make you happier? I’m not trying to say what I did was right. I know I was wrong.”

She didn’t acknowledge me.

I went on, “I had to leave. You understand that, don’t you? We needed to be apart…I needed to be alone. You’d think that after two people had spent as much time together as we have, they’d know each other inside and out. I guess it just goes to show that everyone has things they keep hidden.

“Do you even remember what we were arguing about? No, I don’t either. It was dumb, I’m sure. These kinds of things always are.”

She still wouldn’t look at me, and I felt a tear running down my cheek. I wiped it away hurriedly. I didn’t want her to see me like that. I needed to show her that I was still the strong one and that I could still be there for her.

“I just wanted time alone, I said. That’s all. And when I came back, we would talk things through. Things would be better then. So I came here to talk and to say I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I would never do anything to hurt you.” I paused. “Maybe my biggest mistake was ever knowing you.”

The wind wrapped its icy fingers around us. It was so cold. Today, fall chose to give us hope of winter.

“I just wanted to talk,” I said again. New tears formed and spilled down my cheeks. They caused my skin to chap and each one stung like salt in an open wound. “I hope you can forgive me some day, Mary.”

I stood up and turned to leave, convinced finally that she did not want to hear my voice, even in the fall, even on our anniversary. I blinked to fight back more tears. I looked back one last time.

Her tombstone was surrounded by leaves. She loved the leaves, too.

“I love you, Mary,” I said one last time. I was alone, and I found now that it was never what I had really wanted.

Two Men Have Words

A story I read recently inspired me to write a short story/conversation between two men. I'm not that great at titles, so I simply called it "Two Men Have Words." I hope you enjoy it and I hope it makes you think a little bit. Comments are welcomed.

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“What’s worth dying for?” he asked.

“Everything,” I said.

“What’s worth a life?”

“Nothing.”

He looked at me with wary eyes. They probed for hidden meaning where there was none. He asked me another question. “Nothing can balance the weight of a life? Do you really mean that? ”

“Do you really think I’d waste words on it if I didn’t?” I replied, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh it’s hard to tell with a man like you, you know.”

“A man like me?”

“Well, yes, a man like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

“Why don’t you tell me? After all, you are your own man, aren’t you?”

“I’m speaking for myself, at any rate.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

I smiled. “Fine. Yes, I am my own man, though what does that actually mean? A man’s person is still his own, even if it’s led down a path that contradicts itself. Some men simply lack the ability to right their own lives and straighten their own course. Me, I’m a man who likes to be his own and know it, if you follow me.”

“I don’t.”

“I like to be in control, friend. That’s what I’m saying. It’s all well and good if a man is his own, but it’s without merit if he can’t make something of it. Live for something, you see. Without purpose there’s not much of a road travel, eh?”

“So it would seem.”

The room was dark and cool, made of stone and mortar. Light was ice, and the shadows were colder still. We faced each other, both of us seated on wooden chairs. Two men, we were. Two men sitting a few feet apart and separated by an infinite reality. That’s how it was meant to be and, I might say, how it should be. The man opposite me spoke again so our conversation would ward off the reaper hiding in the dark.

“What you’re saying,” said the man, “is that you put yourself in every situation of which you’re part.”

“I try.”

“And no matter what anyone around you does, your fate is what you decided?”

“Now, look here, I didn’t say that. I said I try to make myself responsible for my predicaments or whatever you want to call them. It’s as I said: I’m my own man and know it, and a man who knows where he is and what he is knows very well when things aren’t as he would like to have them. A curse and a blessing together, you understand. It’s a paradox, yet the only sensible way to live.”

“A curse to know reality?”

“And a blessing, I said. I am in control, if I know myself. Yet in knowing, I also see where I have lost control.”

“Then do you really know anything at all?” asked the man, perplexed.

“Only that knowledge alone isn’t enough to find your way,” I said.

“Then what is enough?”

“That’s a question with no answer. Unless you’ve actually found your own way? I’d love to hear about that.”

“I made no such claim.”

“And neither did I,” I laughed. “Let me explain it like this. When you were a boy, did you ever throw a stick in the water and try to follow it? I did. There was a stream behind our house that I loved to play in and around. Anyway, I decided one day to throw a little twig in the water and follow it as far as I could. So I did. And at first, the sailing was smooth. The stick bobbled atop the ripples and waves, right down the middle of stream, caught in the strong current. But then it came to a rocky place. All sorts of stony, protruding obstacles blocked its path. It had to float around all the rocks, and sometimes it would get stuck for a few moments, but then would be freed again by the current. Eventually it washed up on a far bank, among dozens of other sticks and debris. See now?”

“Not in the least.”

“Of course you don’t. The stick. That’s you, that’s me. We think we’re something. We travel down this river, down this path and we think that we’ve got it good. It’s all so smooth. Then we hit the rocky area. We’re thrown this way and that and we get sidetracked or thrown off course. But in the end, we end up like everyone else: washed up on the far bank. And from the bank, or, if you’re lucky, even before we got the bank, we can see where we came from. Once we see how we got there, we finally realize the truth: we were never in control.”

The man contemplated this and tapped a finger on his closed lips. He nodded. “I see now. This is what you know?”

“Yes. I’m one of the lucky ones. I see the river behind me, and I know that the whole time, I was never the one who charted the course.”

“Now you’re contradicting yourself,” said the man. “You said that in being your own man you know when you’re not in control and when you are. But apparently you’re not.”

“Wrong, my friend. I do have control. I chose to stay afloat. That’s my purpose. If I can keep my head above the water, I might just see the end of the river.”

“You know, that actually makes sense.”

“A hard fact for you to admit, I’m sure,” I smirked.

“Indeed,” he replied. He scratched his chin and looked off into the shadows, conscious of their presence, then returned his gaze to me. “But, see here, that’s such a broad outlook on life. That whole bit with the river, I mean. What about here? What about now?”

“What about now? Isn’t it obvious?”

“Obviously not.”

“Well, I have my purpose now, don’t I? And purpose requires devotion.”

“Funny that you should speak of devotion.”

I ignored him. “It requires devotion, not to things, not to possessions, but to ideas, concepts, and principles.”

“You’re going to speak to me of principles?”

“No. I’m speaking to you of devotion.”

“What good is devotion if it never leads you anywhere?”

“Impossible.”

“But…”

“Without devotion, you sink beneath the water. Devotion is what drives you to fight the downward-pulling current. As long as you stay above the current, it will lead you somewhere.”

“Yeah, a dead end, eh?” he remarked.

“I never said it would be where you wanted. Most of the time it isn’t. But would you rather reach the end of a journey because you were merely washed there by the tide, or would you like to be able to look back and say I actually did something. Even though everything around me was stronger than I was, I fought back. That’s what makes it worth it.”

“If, as you said, the only thing worth dying for is everything, then what is worth fighting for?”

“What you believe is right. If you’ve done right by yourself, your family, and God, you have nothing to regret. A wise man once said that if you alone among all the nations are the only one to stand proudly for what you believe, then hold up your head. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“A madman would say the same,” remarked the man insinuatingly.

“He would not. I’m sure of that. Can a madman reason? Does he think rationally? Of course not. That’s why he’s mad. A man with radical beliefs does not make him mad. Eccentric, perhaps, but not irrational. Surely you can agree with that,” I said, shifting my weight from one side of the chair to the other.

“I can…and I cannot. Madmen too have radical beliefs. Surely you can agree with that.”

“Completely. But can madman substantiate them? He’s unable to provide a basis for his actions and words. Without a foundation, there is no devotion. There are only loose ideas strung haphazardly together in an incomprehensible strand. A decent man, however, may be labeled radical and possibly even mad simply because his beliefs are different than the beliefs of those around him.”

“And traitors? What do you call traitors?”

“I call none traitor.”

The man stood up suddenly and looked me squarely in the eye. He leaned forward and glared sternly at my face with a thorough gaze. I was unresponsive to his act of intimidation. Straight-faced, I returned the stare.

“How can you say that!” demanded the man.

"Easily," I replied. "A traitor is one who is untrue to himself."

"And what about to country?"

"What about country?"

"I asked you."

"What do you call country?"

"Why, our nation, of course!" exclaimed the man, throwing his hands up into the air. "Our great state! Our government! That is country!" He paced back and forth behind his chair, while I remained seated.

"If that is your view of country, then it's narrower than I thought."

"What do you call, country, then?" scoffed the man.

"People and yourself."

"I don't know what that means."

"I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand."

"Now, listen..."

"No, sir, you listen. A country is only as good as the men and women who live in it."

"So what?"

"So, what is devotion to country? Loyalty to borders or compassion toward brothers? A country must be united if it is to stand. Yet if there is no mercy or sympathy among its inhabitants, where is unity? And without unity, to what is each man devoted? Selfish motives, petty segregation, useless bickering: these things are not country anymore than a deserted island is a sovereign nation.”

“What are you saying then?” asked the man, clearly frustrated. He looked once more at the shadows at the far end of the room. They wavered and shifted from one side to the other like some sort of living mass of darkness. He gave a quick nod, almost unperceivable, yet existent nonetheless.

I followed his gaze and grinned at the shadows. “I submit that there is one nation, one country. The world is man’s country. If nature had meant for there to be divisions among peoples, it would have drawn borders itself. Yet none exist, save for the seas, and even they cannot ward off man.”

“Then I suppose every war is a civil war?”

“War is never civil. But, yes, I suppose so.”

“Ludicrous!” exclaimed the man.

“Utterly fantastic, isn’t it?” I chuckled.

“You equate our enemies with us.”

“No, I count them as part of us.”

“Incredible. Absolutely incredible.”

“Perhaps too much so,” I said, “for you to comprehend fully. Despite what you think, this is nothing radical. Only logical.”

“Then you deny that there is good and there is evil?”

“I said nothing of the sort, friend! I couldn’t do such a thing. For what is one without the other? We use good to define evil and vice versa. What is good? The absence of evil. What is evil? To be without good.”

“I’ll give it to you this time. That’s sensible enough”

I nodded, “It’s as I said before. I’m not irrational. You’ve asked me quite a few questions. Let me ask you this one. Is any man evil?”

“Of course.”

“Is he?”

“I said yes! Murders, burglars, liars, and worse. Surely you don’t call them good?”

“I do not, actually. No, they are misguided.”

“Well, yes,” agreed the man.

“But then, aren’t we also?”

“What?”

“Explain to me how you are any different than that man who killed his fellow man.”

“I think it’s quite obvious! I never killed a man! I didn’t take a life!”

“Of course not. I didn’t suggest that. But tell me this: have you ever held a grudge against another fellow? Surreptitiously, I mean.”

“I’d be lying to say I haven’t, and so you’d be to.”

“Indeed.”

“What’s your point?”

“Another question,” I said. “Who was more honest? You or the murderer?”

“I say, what are you getting at?”

“This. You hide your feelings and your hate, but the murderer brings them out into the open.”

“Good heavens, you can’t say that the murderer is the better man!”

“Not at all. Only that he is no more or less a man than you. He killed a man. I can’t justify that, and I wouldn’t attempt to. Yet he was honest. You, however, hated another man but never confronted him about it.”

“I fail to see the relationship!” yelled the man, visibly disturbed at the notion that he and a murderer were on the same level of humanity.

“My dear fellow, sometimes I wonder if you’re blind. Perhaps we should get brighter lights.”

“This is not a time for levity! Explain yourself!”

I laughed. “As I recall, I was never given a chance at trial.”

“Do I have to repeat myself?”

“No, no. Though you may have handicapped sight, my ears work just fine. Try to see this. Your hate was the same hate that compelled the murderer to kill. Is there any denying that?”

“I should say…”

I cut him off. “No, there isn’t. The murderer simply lacks one crucial characteristic that you possess: self-control.”

“I—I can’t…”

“Don’t bother fighting it,” I said. “If you are an honest man, as you would claim, you’ll know it to be true. And returning to my previous point, grudges and hate are what dissolve unity or prevent it all together, and in doing so, destroy nations.”

“So what does that make me?”

“You would say a traitor. I would say you have misplaced loyalty.”

The man was enraged. He stood up, picked up his chair, and hurled it against the wall. It cracked and snapped and broke into several pieces. He put a hand around my throat and squeezed tightly, but not so tightly as to choke me. His eyes were wide and his nostrils flared. He was anger personified.

“I’ve listened to you for the past hour, sir,” he boomed, “and I’ve heard your remarks on everything from life to country. I don’t agree with it, most of it, at any rate. But I listened, you hear? And I sat by and heard your filth about good and evil. I let you drag me down to the level of murderer. Murderer! The lowest rubbish in all society! I dare you compare me to that again, you scum! What gives you the right? You think you’re better than me? If that were the case, then our positions would be swapped! You have the audacity to speak of loyalty? Loyalty! Do you know what loyalty is, sir?! I mean real loyalty, not this half-baked crock about world unity and whatnot. Of course not! You have your own ideas about that, too, don’t you? And where has it gotten you? You washed up with the rest of us at the end of the river, I’m afraid. All your talk hasn’t gotten you anywhere. So tell me, man, to what are you loyal? Where does your allegiance lie?”

His grip loosened ever so slightly. I didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. I would not give way to his boorish intimidation methods. He knew it, too. I said, quietly, “I do not pledge allegiance to nation, state, country, or government. I do not recognize invisible walls constructed between lands. I do not consider one man enemy and the other friend. I do not believe that anything need cost a man his life, for life is beyond value.”

I paused. The shadows inched forward.

“No, sir,” I said to the man, “My loyalty lies with mankind and with God. Call me traitor, call me betrayer, but know that I do not hold it against you. You see, true loyalty makes you understand. Everything is illuminated. You finally recognize that everyone who does not know true loyalty and devotion is just a lost man searching for a light in the dark, and in our world that means traveling with a gun at his side and war in his heart. True loyalists are peacemakers, and warring men fear peace, for without conflict, they know nothing. And so it is the duty and devotion of every true loyalist to speak out against the fight, and likewise the mission of warmongers to silence them.
“And here we are now, sir. We have followed this formula without deviation. We’ve reached the end now. But, like I said, I hold nothing against you. I’ve done my part, and I suppose you’re doing yours, though I should say that it hardly seems like the right one. We were bound to come to this. Two men have words and then reach a conclusion. It’s the way of the world, and even this loyalist can do little about that.” I looked into the man’s eyes. His hand fell away from my neck. He put both hands in his pocket and turned away from me, walked a few paces, and then turned around to face me again.

When he looked at me, I said to him with a nod, “I’m ready now.”

From his pocket he pulled a handkerchief. He walked toward me, and as he did, the shadows stepped into the light. Twelve men with guns stood in identical positions, each with his gun poised in front of him. Every muzzle was pointed at me; every eye had me targeted.

As the man tied the handkerchief around my head, effectively blinding me, he asked me again, “What’s worth dying for, traitor?”

“Loyalty,” I replied, “and loyalty is everything.”

I heard his footsteps grow fainter and fainter. Silence was a weight in the air.

Twelve hammers cocked.

Twelve triggers tightened.

A crack of gunfire, and then darkness.