The Boring Warrior

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
where poems and short stories meet, this story is replete with both

Submitted: June 07, 2017

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Submitted: June 07, 2017





He strides carefully, brown pupils on falling cherry blossoms. Pink dancers in decaying light, an old and weathered warrior strode forth amidst the Fall evening; covered in his petal rain, our Samurai laughed again. "This blade of mine, to cut beauty now would be hell. Better off cautious or surprised by the fell." Seconds passed as he mused a practical violence, striking falling flowers would be like cutting flies. From the bows of trees bending to their knees, the Old Warrior collected himself and strode. The pain from old battles was weathering now, freeze. Warm autumn wind drew him near, joints greased.

From the roots of an oak, appeared a man, bold and soaked. The cool river behind him hid the steps of his bathing din, but he croaked. "Do you have a robe, a towel for one sober?" (Pleading eyes hiding a soul noble) The Old Samurai paused, hand on blade and cautious. "To kill me now would be vicious, and an eternity of callous." Those soft black eyes, of a naked man, grew large with merciful quip. "Do what you must, but know it will be a trip." Arms spread open and pale skin covered in dew, the Samurai knew. He spoke of what he foresaw, obvious and new.

"You must be a devil, wearing the skin on a beveled whim, what did you do to him?" His sword unsheathed, hands steady and awaiting to act, the Samurai slacked. "Peace be upon you." Then he backed, away, lewd. Shining steel held sway as he furtively fled through blossoms bled. An retching roar echoed defeat and implored, "RELEASEEE MEEEE..." The Old Samurai was floored, fearful but free. He looked at the glittering chipped sword he carried, one he had married years ago, in battle's flow. Grasping the hilt, he knelt and began to weep, like a flower wilt in winter's sleep. "Nothing but madness has this blade grown and sewn, but not today." Casting the blade to the blossomed floor, the Warrior fell to fore, frayed.

A slight wisp took notice of a rasping lisp, a begging and pleading man bereft of his prouder-than. Shushing with the wind's blowing, the fairy flew with strength and grew, turning into an image shrewd. The Old Warrior looked up from his cries, only to see the laughter in her old eyes.



© Copyright 2017 James Peña. All rights reserved.

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