Season of Death

As the rising sun labored to drive frost from the fields and warm the Vermont hillside, he knew he was dying. The blaze of death was erupting everywhere in flashes of vermilion, slashes of orange, and splinters of yellow. The breeze stirring the grove of trees where he lay carried the odor of smoke. Was this also a part of death, a trick of his mind, or just a coincidence of the day?

 

Oddly he had always thought of death as an intruder which attacked, destroyed defenses, and invaded from without. He now realized it was more of an inner wasting, as though life was caught in a vortex of decay. It made sense really, nature abhorred vacuums. Life and death, two scenarios of existence, were inherently separated by a barrier. Death could not invade and overcome life anymore than darkness could invade and overcome light. Life as a higher force had to abdicate its position to death.  Life had to be spent on death, even as the force of a bullet was spent by the body which it hit.

 

He lay where he had fallen, among his comrades in their brightly colored uniforms each spotted with the stains of death. Some stirred in denial of their fate, but most were as he was, quiet and resigned. As he lay dying, he studied the scene around him. Death as a shadow dodged among the trees moved from place to place sapped life here, drained life there, withdrew, came close, nestled at a breast suckled life like a famished infant and then smiled, mocking life's willingness to feed its hunger.

He was young, in a first season of life, and had never entertained the possibility of death. His life was vibrant and energetic, reaching up and out taking in all the heavens had to offer.  In flights of fancy high as the trees, he had envisioned himself living forever. Now that death was upon him, he was taken by surprise.  He thought death would be sudden and climatic.  Instead, it was a drawn out process, an unrestrained, constant bleeding into the earth.

 

His demise was cold, tinged with frost at the edges, and as it spread through his being, the last warmth of life drained out.  The stamina and sheen of life passed from him as death held him in a final embrace.  His last awareness was a fearful question, "What if death holds nothing of its own and is simply an end of life?"

          

           ----------------------------

 

Dear Diary,

Today was such a pretty fall day. Mama had the wood stove jumping and I just had to get outside and cool down. I went to the grove on the hill above the house. The color of the leaves there is so beautiful. I found one that looks like it's on fire, all red, orange, and yellow mixed up together. I brought it home and Mama helped me press it in wax paper so I can keep it  always.  I'm so glad I went to the grove today; it made me feel like I could live forever. - Jenna

Author's Note

First draft, appreciate any help in wording, punctuation, imagery, etc.

Reviews

[Richard🖌]

"Life had to be spent on death, even as the force of a bullet was spent by the body which it hit." Simply brilliant, Carl … KUDOS!

From the locale, one could assume this poignant tale takes place during the American Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, or any number of other area wars. But, when death has hold its darkening grip, does it really matter? Death is death, after all … still, the reason one has laid down their life can make all the difference to the dying and survivors in honor and homage to the ultimate price paid and to they who've paid it.
Fraught with vivid imagery, emotion, and metaphor, I'd tag "Season Of Death" deeply palpable to one's heart touching senses.
Though, I read few stories, I'm truly pleased this of yours was undertaken, if for no other reason than enjoying an excellently rendered, creative, and realistic tale that touched the soul of this olde vet.
Spotted a number of punctuation, diction, and syntactic issues that could be edited, but overall, an excellent work (if you'd like my input, just message me).

That Jenna was free to stroll the cool air amongst Fall's kaleidoscope of colors and enter her thoughts and feelings in her diary is the epitome of grace, gratitude, and payment for a life given for her right to do so.

Extremely felt, wonderfully spieled … thank you, Carl, for sharing! ⁓ Richard🖌

Side Note:
The juxtaposition of "his" death and Jenna's feeling of living forever has a palpable impact on one's soulfully heartfelt senses.
As you know, Carl, I'm no expert on stories, but seems to me the reader could more deeply and completely relate with the main character if "he" had a name, ie:
"As the rising sun labored to drive frost from the fields and warm the Vermont hillside, Jubal/Jed/Johnny/Caleb/Will, etc; knew he was dying." The word he, his, or him was used about 20 times, and we don't know anything about him or even his name.

[AYVID N]

Cruel death doesn't discriminate. It takes away young and old, as nonchalantly. I felt strongly for the dying young man. His expectations held an innocence that touches the reader to the core. Indeed, youth has such innocence, such innate faith and therefore, it hurts more when that trust and confidence is betrayed by life, by fate, by God. Brilliant story and so finely written

[Troy Dean]

What a beautifully tender inspection of death. The way you bring that peaceful embrace to such a devastating scene within this story has the fragrance to me of deaths true nature. Very grateful for you posting this, thank you

[Tasakoko Tenkanen]

This is some powerful stuff. You set the scene up really well. I could imagine reading something like this on r/militarystories.

I like, that you mentioned the bright uniforms. Immediately I knew the ball park era the story takes place in.

There are two things I sort missed. Sound and thoughts. In my mind I can only hear a the breeze, but what other sounds are there? Are they all drowned out by the coming death? Did the silence come all of a sudden in flash or slowly creep in?

Even though you touch on the final thoughts of the character, I would like to know more. I would imagine him thinking of family and friends in his final moments. Something familiar that the reader could catch on to. I think it could emphasize how alone the character is in his final moments. Even if he is surrounded by his comrades they don't bring him any closeness. It could also tie in the diary entry at the end.

[carl]

thanks for the review and the encouragement. I like the idea about close comrades and lack of close feelings, will consider that closely. Will also consider the lack of sound you mentioned, thanks again. -carl

[Coyote Poetry]

A amazing story written.
"Instead, it was a drawn out process, an unrestrained, constant bleeding into the earth."
The above lines are true. Dying men are looking for a miracle and they know. There is no miracles. I enjoyed your writing and I return later and read more. Thank you Carl for sharing the powerful and worthwhile words.
Coyote

[m.s.early]

This is the most articulated conception of death I have experienced. I once heard a rock journalist talk about Jimi Hendrix's death as if it were just another experience that Jimi felt interested in having.
I've always thought of it as an internal decision of the soul to cross over, but your depiction was an enlightenment. That we are diseased with death from birth. Like the song "Time" by Pink Floyd.
"And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death"

The bullet, an external catalyst, propels our character's mortality. Death is always with us, in us. There are a finite number of breaths we will take. Breathe slowly.

[carl]

Thank you so much for the read and review, greatly appreciated. Big fan of Pink Floyd by the way.