Ruby Red
By London Hatchet

Bells jingled as Thomas made his way into Lily’s Lavender… and Other Flowers, a florist he’s visited dozens of times through the decades. Aching bones made it difficult to get around, but his demeanor perked as soon as Lily greeted him.

“Afternoon, Tom.”

“Hi Lily,” his first smile of the day snuck out.

“Has it already been another year?”

Tom responded in his gravelly voice. “It sure has. And a milestone year, too.”

“How many years has it been?”

“Fifty years to the day.”

“Seems like a dream to be with someone that long. You want your usual dozen red roses?”

“No, no. A big anniversary deserves a big bouquet. Make it 50 roses for 50 years,” Thomas said. But after pondering it further, he revised “make that 49 red, and one pink.”

“So you were married in 1974?”

“No, summer of '68.”

Lily gave a puzzled look, but didn’t say anything. This was, after all, the fall, and the year 2024 making it 56 years since their vows.

“Would you like to put those in a vase as pretty as all those flowers?” Asked Lily.

“No. Wouldn’t want it to break. Charlie would be mad at me.”

“We can find you a nice, thick, sturdy one, so it would be difficult to break. Who’s Charlie?”

Tom waved his hand, dismissively. “I told Ruby I would be there at five. So I really need to get going. Always try to watch the sunset with her on top of Maple Ridge.”

Tom paid and shuffled his way out the door, exchanging pleasantries. The afternoon air had a chill in it, making him appreciate the jacket that used to fit so well, but now it hung on him like something borrowed.

Maple Ridge was close by, but it took longer to walk up the hill these days. Tom ambled his way to their spot, Ruby waiting.

“You’re late. The clouds are already starting to show a hint of yellow.”

“I know, I know. I’m late as usual,” Tom said with a chuckle. Ruby always teased him for his tardiness.

“It’s a beautiful day. Perfect for a sunset.”

“Kinda cold. My skin doesn’t hold in the heat like it used to. Blood ain’t so thick anymore either.”

“Isn’t.”

Tom laughed. She liked to tease him about his language and insisted ain’t wasn’t a word. Tom, the good husband he was, made sure he used it in his daily conversation as much as he could. A joke between spouses that others would quickly tire of hearing, but for them it was endearing. A flirt that no one else would understand. A perfect imperfection that Tom never wanted Ruby to forget. She had hers as well, but was still a little shy about exposing them.

“Are those for me?”

“Oh, these are for my girlfriend. I’m going to see her after we’re finished.”

Ruby’s eyebrow raised as she feigned an angry scowl. His face lit up and they shared a laugh, handing the 49 red roses over, keeping the one pink, rolling in between his fingers.

“Fifty years,” Ruby said.

“Can’t believe how time flies.”

“You’ve gotten old.”

He knew not to say anything about her age, in defense.

“I wish we could have a thousand more sunsets,” Tom replied.

“A million.”

“You’re the only thing in the world more beautiful.”

“Oh Tom,” Ruby put her hands to her cheeks and tilted her head to the side, “you’re going to make me blush.”

“I love you, Ruby.”

Tears started to form at the corners of his eyes when there was a rustling of leaves behind him. Tom quickly wiped his eyes and sniffled. Charlie saw Tom was on top of the hill and wanted to remind him not to stay too late. It could be dangerous for him to be walking around out there when it gets dark.

“See, Charlie? No vase this time. Won’t make an awful mess like last time.” Last year the vase shattered when Charlie was mowing.

“It’s okay, Mr Anderson. I told you it wasn’t your fault. The lawnmower just kicks up rocks sometimes.”

Tom was still rolling the pink rose between his fingers, but now he reached out and set it on top of the gravestone he had been standing in front of. He stooped over and kissed it, unable to hold back his tears any longer. He patted the stone and stepped away with his head bowed.

The stone said:

Evelyn “Ruby” Anderson

April 17, 1946 - November 6, 1974

Loving wife, expectant mother

You went too soon

“I would have loved to have met our son.”

Scott Roche
@blueblazeirregular42
"Fog of War"

They awoke before sunrise and what passed for coffee couldn’t wash the tang of fear from his mouth. They were behind enemy lines. There was a very good chance he’d have his first kill today. The thought made his breakfast rise to the back of his mouth. He focused on the sting of the cold on his face and took another sip of coffee. He couldn’t feel his nose or three of his toes. That meant frostbite wasn’t far behind, right?

They broke camp at sunrise. The squad was walking single file, with Sarge took point and him at the rear. His bones ached and his muscles felt like hardwood until they’d been marching for at least half an hour. He slogged through the snow, cursing (not for the first time) at the supply lines that had failed to give them snow shoes. Not that he was sure they would do any good when some of the drifts were taller than he was.

It made for slow going and wasn’t helped by the gear he had with him. His backpack was heavy with the things he needed to stay alive and to kill other people. It dragged at his body, slowing him more than the snowdrifts and weighing down his soul. But one thing they drilled into him in Basic was, “if you don’t carry it on your back, you don’t own it.”

They had been “marching” for about an hour when the fog rolled in. It was hard to see where his footing would be treacherous, so he kept his eyes down. After what felt like an hour, he realized that not only could he not see the man in front of him, he couldn’t hear the crunch of boots on snow.

He checked his wrist compass and saw that he was heading in the right direction. They were scheduled to meet up with another squad by midday. Even humping it through deep snow, they should be able to make their goal with an hour to spare. According to Sarge, that was. Of course, when they arrived in country five days ago, Sarge had put them on a wrong heading for about four hours. Most of the men didn’t trust their leader. He smelled of whiskey most mornings and wouldn’t share.

He double timed it for a few minutes, his breath pluming out in front of him like cotton candy. After that brief explosion of energy, he almost fell down with exhaustion. He should have caught up to Yonkers by now. That was the only guy in his squad that he knew from Boot. It would get him in trouble if he shouted. They had to maintain radio and operational silence. He’d keep on this heading and sooner or later he’d meet someone.

When he saw the figure in the fog, he thought it was Yonkers. “Damn it. I thought I had lost you guys.” The voice floated to him through the chill air, “You’ve lost so much.”

It was not Yonkers voice. He unshouldered his rifle and flipped off the safety. “Who are you? Identify yourself or I’ll shoot.” He didn’t like the quiver in his voice and decided it was the cold air’s fault.

“You can stay lost. I’ll make sure you get warm and comfortable. You don’t have to be scared anymore.” The voice could have been masculine or feminine. It was hard to tell. The English was unaccented, so it was unlikely to be one of the enemies.

He brought the gun to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. It was a challenge to see this person, whoever they were, and not just because he was trembling. Shooting without knowing who they were was against orders. As was shooting someone who hadn’t threatened him and may not even have a weapon. “Identify yourself and surrender.”

The form gradually resolved into that of a woman about six inches shorter than he was. She had coal black, shoulder length hair and wore a cloak of blue-black feathers. “I am the Morrigan. Soldiers once hoped to see me fly over their ranks.”

He remembered stories about the goddess of war from his Gams. He was shivering now, not from the cold as much as from the fear. Was he hallucinating now? “Am I going to die today?” He noticed his breath no longer frosting the air. “Am I dead?” He lowered his rifle.

She appeared in front of him in the blink of an eye. “You’re at the edge of the Otherworld. I’m here to give you a choice. You can lay down and sleep. I’ll make you warm and your passing gentle.” Her voice was soft and filled with care.

“What’s my other choice?” He didn’t want to die in his sleep in this frozen hell. He wanted to go home. His voice threatened to break.

“You can go on and I will make sure you catch up with your men. You’ll die screaming as an enemy mine blows your legs off and your men are cut down around you.” Her voice had taken on an edge. “There’s no glory in the war mankind fights now. The age of heroes is over.”

“I’m only nineteen.” He fell to his knees. “I don’t want to die so far from home. I don’t want to be a hero.” He threw his rifle away. “Please don’t kill me.”

She put her hand on his head. It was colder than the air around him. “I won’t kill you, my child. You’re innocent. You’ve not taken the life of another. You won’t die a hero’s death, if there is such a thing anymore. Sleep now.”

He was so tired. So far from home and his bed and his Gram. The white blanket spread out in front of him. He lay on the soft surface, his chills of fear and from the bone deep cold gone. His eyelids grew heavy.

As the fog cleared, the body of the young soldier lay still, his lips blue, tears frozen to his cheeks. A crow sat on his rifle, looking from the body to the distance where the sound of screams and gunfire filled the air and back to the body. Soon, it flew off towards the chaos, its work never done.

My Name: Wulfram "Wulf" Lovelace
Title of Piece: Archives of an Unknown Source
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