Bayonets and Wolves Breath

Ron Koppelberger

Bayonets and Wolves Breath

The crew were run down and uneasy. The clear blue sky was chill and an illusionary attempt at a positive forecast. A pinnacle with the blunt side nearby, Major Bliss picked up the Bayonet and waved it with command. Gray Sully rolled his eyes and moaned, “Can’t we secure the site and head back to the Wire Pine Major?” The Wire Pine was the only token of country repose in the secret struggle called Amatory.
The Major looked at the others with a casual ambiance. The sky called unwaveringly and the turn of a daytime moon sang to them with an unearthly howl. Wolves the major wondered in time with the revolving horizon.
The excavation was rich with the history of liberation. “Freedom!” the Major shouted to the holy taboo of distant dreams and concealed fate.
The seconds had substance and the Major, bordering on margins between delight and madness, commanded the troupe to gather up some kindling for a fire. Gray, breathing in heavy gasping fear, browsed the distant wood and twilight for the habit of wolves and cold wind borne by hunger. The connection between things in precious vanguard and limitless tribes of unshorn fear lay within view. Heedless, murky, a thousand told, trembling by firelight and the attentions of darkness, the men chanced the gentle coquette of the Major’s fancy.
The fire grew as the men heaped timber around the base of the flames. The Major grinned as he ran his tongue along the sharp edge of the bayonet. Thrush flittered in the forest and the sound of wolves approaching filled the air. “A sojourn, a magic fullness of what’s satisfied by the tales of men and wolves,” the Major crooned, “let’s pass our time together in mythic proportion.” the Major whispered to the group.
The Major began, “By books and legend, by beggars and jewels, in a moments breath by the gift of life, in all, in all, a story for the whole.” he sighed as the evening turned dark and the wolves moved closer to the group.