When I loved her
I should have known
The heart I'd break
Would be my own

HOME ALONE

Hot summer days are the worst! They addle my brain and leave me a little confused. Hot summer days are just great when you're playing with family and friends, I thought as I rushed up the stairs, and through the wide open door on the top floor. Home! Home sweet home, home cool home, home...WAIT! This wasn't home, screamed my brain, as the ball thudded on to the uncarpeted floor, while, mouth wide open, my panicked eyes searched for a single familiar object, a human, even a faintly recognized scent...there was none. I was all alone! All alone amidst unadorned walls, the harsh odour of paint thinner stinging my nostrils, the planks of wood strewn across the floor compelling me to watch my every step. A low moan escaped me as I frantically searched for my cozy bean bag, that was placed across the carpet, near the dining table, just for me. It was my spot, in my home, as I watched the birds flying, blue birds flying, freed from their cage. I'd lie there watching them for hours...WHERE WAS I?

Just as my low moan was about to turn into a mournful howl, I heard the sweetest voice in the world, and it came from the gorgeous girl next door. "ZEUS, you stupid mutt! Why have you gone charging into the neighbour's flat?" Hot summer days are the worst!

The old man and the newspaper

The old man sat at the park bench reading the day's newspaper. He was impeccably  turned out in a crisp, white linen shirt, dark blue suit and a regimental tie. His thinning gray hair was cut very short, showing scalp below; everything about him screamed military. The old man didn't seem interested in reading the newspaper in its entirety, as he kept returning to the front page time and again. He kept rereading the date and the headline, as if unsure whether it was truly today's paper. He kept glancing at his wristwatch, as if awaiting the arrival of someone special.

There was another paper on the park bench,  to the old man's left, which was exactly the same as the one in his hand - the same publication, the same date ... exactly the same except for the headline. Startled by a presence to his right, the old man turned to find a tall, handsome man, dressed entirely in black, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, standing before him. "It's time", said the man in a sonorous voice, that brooked no argument.

Major John Watkins (retd.), of the Royal Fusiliers, having lived a life governed by honour and duty, was used to following orders. He carefully folded and placed the newspaper in his jacket's inner pocket before rising and following the mysterious man, who had begun to walk away. He glanced back at the newspaper he left behind on the park bench, as it started to disappear. He barely finished reading the headline before the newspaper vanished altogether - EX-ARMY MAN KILLS TWIN GRANDCHILDREN IN FREAK CAR ACCIDENT. He could have sworn he had engaged the handbrake before parking his car in his son's driveway, where the twins were playing. He smiled contentedly as he tapped his pocket which contained today's real paper, as he followed the dark man. He'd always said he'd sell his very soul to the Devil to keep his family safe.

Hunters' Moon

The silvery flakes floated gently to the ground, turned to stardust by the light of the full moon, as they settled on the ground, covering the earth in a soft, yet unforgiving carpet, the colour of fresh milk. The blackbird swooped down from her perch on the spruce tree and landed clumsily, as if in pain, atop a small mound, and began pecking away at the fingers of a small hand, that was yet to be shrouded by the falling snow.

Viho, or Viktor, as he was now called by his fellow villagers, stared at the moon through his window, as he drew hard on his unfiltered cigarette, the harsh black Russian tobacco irritating the back of his throat and filling his lungs with fire. Viho was a hunter, descended from a line of wise and fierce Cheyenne warriors. As a young boy, he was taught tracking and hunting, and the ways of the soldier by seasoned fighters, fighters who had fought against other tribes, as well as the paleface, and lived to tell the tale. Shamans, the magic men of the tribe, recounted tales of animal spirits and the afterlife, and he partook of age old wisdom with the wide eyed glee of a young boy. He was told of the Harvest moon, which was the full moon  seen closest to the autumn equinox. The native Americans also had a name for the full moon that came immediately after the Harvest moon; they called it the Hunters' moon or the Blood moon. Viho saw a blackbird, perched on a branch of the silver birch just outside his cottage, silhouetted against the huge Hunters' moon. It looked like she had something red in her beak.

A chequered life and the love of a good woman had seen Viho settle in a small village at the foothill of the Ural mountains, and with his knowledge of the woods and his skill at hunting, Viho (his name meant "chief" in his native Cheyenne) had quickly become an indispensable member of the small community in this remote pocket of the world. He was jerked out of his reverie as the cigarette burnt his fingers, and he returned to the two issues weighing on his mind - one communal and the other personal. A huge brown bear was terrorizing the village, and although Viho had set up bear traps at quite a few places, the bear had managed to elude them all. Also, his son was missing. All thoughts of the bear had been driven from his mind, as he had searched far and wide for his son, but he was nowhere to be found. He was an ill-tempered boy, always quick to anger, treating man and beast with equal disdain. He was only 12, but  no bird was safe from his catapult, and a stone would invariably catch one unawares, usually with a chilling finality. Viho had tried many a times to teach the boy the way of his people, to respect every living creature and to take a life only for food, but neither reason nor leather belt seemed to work.

The blackbird had her nest in a spruce tree and she had just hatched a brood of hungry, young chicks - chicks that she and her mate worked tirelessly to feed. As she took a moment to gaze upon her brood with pride, after a hard day's work, she felt something whizz past, and heard a sickening thud a second later. She heard a cry of anguish from her mate, as he was silenced forever and a young boy's shout of glee. Another whizz and her nest tumbled to the ground. Instinct caused her to flee in distress, as she saw a cruel boy with a catapult, and her whole life trampled beneath his boot.

The blackbird followed the boy home, and remained perched on the silver birch outside his cottage, day and night. She taunted him with her presence, following him incessantly; it was like she was daring him to hit her with his catapult. She kept at this for four weeks, and it drove the boy crazy; he wanted to kill the damn bird! He followed her deeper and deeper into the dark woods, places his father had warned him against going. He shot many a stone but she always managed to elude every stone by just a whisker; it drove him mad! This had never happened before!

It was the first full moon night after the equinox. The boy had followed the blackbird all day, and although he was deep inside the forest, as the full moon rose, he didn't retrace his steps home. He was determined to get her this time, and no beating from his father would change that. He saw her perched on a low branch for the first time in a month; he had his chance, at last! Moving noiselessly, he fitted a perfectly round stone, and took careful aim. He held his breath and let fly. The blackbird took flight at the very last moment but the stone caught her squarely on her left foot, as she tumbled to the ground. The boy let out a loud whoop of joy, as he ran towards her. He stumbled in the soft snow, but he ran with abandon, as the blackbird hopped painfully, hoping to elude his grasp. He closed the gap between them quite effortlessly and nearly had his fingers around her neck, as she suddenly took flight, and the bear trap shut mercilessly around the boy's leg. The large rusty jaws of the bear trap held him firmly, as his life blood spilled onto the snow covered ground. Nobody heard him scream, so deep in the woods, and he finally succumbed painfully to the bitter cold.

Viho continued looking out his window, and the blackbird's tiny silhouette against the gigantic Hunter's moon intrigued him. He was transported to being a young boy, sitting at a bonfire, listening to a story told by the shaman. The shaman was speaking of a blackbird, and he remembered him saying that the blackbird got its name, not from the hue of its wing but from the colour of its soul - vengeful and dark. Viho peered into the dark, and he thought he saw what seemed like a boy's finger in the blackbird's beak.