And the nominees are:
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Author
and story
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Nominator
and motivation
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There is a fragile
point at the end of each day when light balances on a thin rim of gold
before dissolving into memory. The last rays of the day had begun to fade
over the rooftops, the lengthening shadows below already reaching for
tomorrow. The town had quieted and drawn its shutters. Soon the houses
would draw a contented breath and settle in for the night. One by one
the windows would color with an amber glow and those behind them would
also begin to lean toward tomorrow. |
*bright |
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Under a merciless
summer sun, the common man began to dig, finding an unlikely fraternity
amongst themselves. The ground had been too trampled, too abused to yield
easily. Nor was it consecrated to this purpose and seemed to raise its
objection at every plunge of the spade. Soil that had once nourished tobacco
into healthy stalks would now be planted with the mangled remnants of
men. Rather than feed tender green shoots of new growth, spring rains
might wash up a bit of blood crusted cloth or expose the tip of a decomposed
foot. Future tenants of the property might unknowingly desecrate the burial
place and rake up whole skeletons with the tines of their plow. The bodies
seemed reluctant to be moved into the shallow trenches passing as graves
as if they might understand the unsoundness of their resting place. Uniforms
snagged on the slightest obstacle in an effort to hold their wearer's
place above ground. Deteriorating bodies simply fell apart, requiring
the assorted pieces be snagged by a hook and dragged across the field
like cuts of meat in a slaughter house. Those already stiffened were the
worst. No matter the amount of respectful prodding, extremities frozen
at unnatural angles would not fit into the narrow graves. The sound of
bones breaking, straightening rigid limbs back into alignment, echoed
across the field. |
Charla | |
| He had stooped to fill the canteens when all at once, he was overcome by exhaustion, overcome and overwhelmed. He dropped to his knees beside the rocky stream, and there, surrounded by a nature so pure and perfect it would have made him take notice, even if he had been racing to deliver a pouch, he began to pray to a God that he barely believed in, but surely must exist if a place as wondrous and perfect as this existed. He had no hope and that was what he asked for, let me fill my canteen with water, and my heart with hope. Kid was going to die, and although he hadn’t found that possibility to be devastating before, when he had started this search, now that he had Kid alive, beside him, he couldn’t bear the thoughts of losing his friend, even if it meant that he might lose Lou. It wasn’t a price he was willing to pay, not even for her. |
*Bright |
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| Rifle
fire at point blank range sent a spray of blood and bone spewing out of
the trench. With no time to reload, rifles became clubs and sane men became
something less. Kid grabbed hold of the Enfield's barrel and swung level
as if the rifle were his bat and the Yankee boy's head the pitch. The walnut
stock crashed against the soldier's skull and Kid felt the bone give way under the blow. He turned to strike out at another thinking what a strange variation of the game this was. Well, wasn't that how war was played? You kill mine. I'll kill yours. Last man standing wins. Kid felt a tug on his trouser leg and tried to kick himself loose, but the Yankee boy was insistent and twisted the fabric tighter in his grip. A bayonet slice to his middle had cut him wide open. A mass of entrails had crawled out of the wound and lay across his belly like a pile of worms. The boy was baby-faced, sixteen maybe, and cried out for his mama, his god and a host of others who couldn't help him. When his list of aid-givers finally wound down to the rebel standing over him, Kid obliged the soldier's request, whether out of mercy or just to quiet the Yankee's crying, Kid couldn't say and it didn't matter. There were no rules and he had no need to explain himself. |
Jeanette |
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