The Hero in Autumn

(The prompt was "Orange" and Zee left paint chips of many shades of orange to inspire. She also left bits of text for the more textual writer. As some of my admirers know, autumn is the setting of nearly all my stories. One of the clips of text listed adjectives like hopeful, courageous, longing, and such, and I could not help but think of the Knight. I'd promised myself to explore the other genres, but I indulged myself and wrote this piece as my first piece for the writing circles.)

The Hero in Autumn

            The girl’s marigold skirt tossed in the cool October breeze. A crown of daisies adorned her brown, and when the petals tickled her skin, the Queen of Flowers giggled. She rose from her throne of golden foliage and danced to her brother’s side.

            “Justin,” she cheered in her sing-song voice, “look what I made!”

            Her brother, nearly a man and already a Knight of the Realm, smiled to the girl. His calloused hand patted her copper curls, careful to spare the flowers. Justin was a handsome lad, somewhat short but as dexterous a mountain lion. His hazelnut eyes glowed in the belighted horizon.

            “It’s time!” a voice called from below. The fires of the sky reflected off chainmail suits. “Justin, let’s go!”

            The girl hugged him with all of her young might. “Wait,” she beckoned. “I’m scared I’ll never see you again.”

            He kissed her forehead beneath the ring of flowers and knelt. “It’s only a month, sister,” he said in his soft honey voice. He lifted one of the frills of her skirts. “Try not to ruin this one in the meanwhile, and find us the best pumpkins for carving.”

            Her chin quivered, and Justin held it between two fingers. No words would set her breaking heart. The girl clenched her eyes.

            “Come back safe!” she demanded.

            “I promise.” Justin stood and started down the slope. “Be good!”

            “I promise,” she whispered.

            His face became a silhouette against the amber sky. His shadow joined those of the other soldiers, and together, they journeyed into the fiery horizon.

            The girl hugged her belly and lay on the hill. A cool breeze raised the hairs on her neck and arms, and one by one, her flowers wilted. Day turned to night. She sang softly to herself:

                        Be brave, Daughters and Sons of the Land,

                        When you hear the thundering war band,

                        Trust in the Knight of the Just King,

                        Set aside your trifles and your longing,

                        For wrongs must be righted by nobler blood,

                        And so they march through haunted wood.

            The girl slept in a bed of crimson and gold. She opened her eyes to the harvest moon and a sky lit by golden stars. She thought of her brother; he was beneath this same moon, somewhere. The cold embraced her, and she slept among red foxes and ancient owls.

            For thirty nights and twenty fiery horizons she slept, until the first snow. The leaves crumbled under the weight of whiteness, and the cold breeze became an arctic chill.

            Justin looked up the snowy hill and climbed to the little cottage. He could already smell pumpkin pie. He could barely touch the door before it slammed open, and a skinnier sister clung to him. He threaded the last lily of the valley into her mottled hair and kissed her brow again.

At a Table in Tom's Corner Tavern

(The prompt was "hands" and Zee had a table with pictures of hands. The one that caught my eye was an image of a hand wearing a gold and blue ring. It looked antique, and I thought of heirlooms. What is earned, and what is gained through love and familial connection? I thought of a boy that would not gamble his family heirloom, and the idea of gambling came to mind. I combined both in this tale. I spent about 40ish minutes writing this, so it's unpolished to say the least. I did not edit it in transcribing it.)

At a Table in Tom’s Corner Tavern

            It’s Friday again, but it’s a December Friday, and in a busy old town like Dodger’s Cove, no one person stays for long. All these new faces – mostly young, some a little older – roam the antique shops and taverns. I’m still here, though. I swing open the tavern doors, and a chorus of already-drunken men cheer. Most don’t know who they’re so happy to see.

            Tom, an old friend with a beard as wild as his new drinks, offered me a cold beer and caught me up with the week’s news. Dr. Parker got married and left. James is off to the Navy soon. Jane might go back with David. I nod my head and quench my thirst. Same news, but with different names.

            My interest instead is the poker table. Three new faces and one familiar sit around the hobble-legged, half-chewed relic. I take my seat at the end on the three-legged stool no one likes, but I like it; nothing keeps you quite so aware as a wobbling stool on its last splinter.

            The first fellow on my left is a young lad, sixteen at oldest, wearing a grey jacket he’s already grown out of. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but he’s a lively kid – can’t even sit still.

            The second is a heart-breaker: Blond, fair, silk white shirt, cologne too fancy for a night of gambling. He centers his grey eyes and greets me. His names is Peter, he says. He offers his hand and feeds me a tale taller than Tom about how he ended up in Dodger’s Cove.

            Beside Peter the Liar is a familiar man. He’s quiet and frowns. His name is James if my memory serves me correctly. James the Reverent nods a greeting and finishes the last game.

            The last player is a bulky man built like a bear – square build, hulking chest, dark hair all over his sweating body. He greets me as Jeremy, but he’s took bear-like for such a small name. No, he shall be Bear.

            The game is Texas hold-em, and the starting lot is $50. I’m too broke for these stakes for now. I sit out for the first round and work my magic. See, my father was in the War, and he learned this trick from the Gypsies. A man’s fortune is in his hand, they said, and because my father was handsomer and a better liar than Peter, they taught him this trick.

            The Kid is playing the round. His soft hands are tender silk still, and his short square fingers tell me he’s brash, unpredictable. He probably has a good hand, and it’s a good thing I didn’t waste $50. So eager to win and such an honest lad. He doesn’t stand a chance.

            Peter is dangerous. His fingers are long, and his ring finger is even longer. He’s a man that thinks of everything, can read every detail, can see a move ten steps ahead. He is waiting to trounce the Kid.

            The Reverent is sitting this out. His cards are on the table still. He has burned hands with a long forefinger and a narrow wrist. He has led others to happiness or death, and they trusted him.

            The Bear is drinking as he looks down at the kid. He has square hands with thick tanned knuckles and blisters. He’s a practical man. He’ll lose the first three games he sees through, but when he gets momentum, this beast will take more home than any of us.

            The Kid loses, and Peter the Liar takes his parents’ money. A new round begins, and I play.

            The first rounds is promising, and I have a pair of 8’s. I trust 8 – infinity on its side – and I play. The Kid is out, distraught after losing three big ones to the Liar. So are the Bear and the Reverent.

            The Liar is hard to see through. His thoughts mask any hesitation or hope. I see him through a raise, and another. I win and take 50 of the Kid’s dollars.

            Round three begins, and by the stars, I have a pair of Kings already. The Reverent plays, too, and I know he wouldn’t play if he didn’t have something. The Kid has gained some courage and plays, too. The Liar, too, is in, as the Bear waits.

            The first cards are down – 2, 6 -. I hold my ground, and 5 appears. The Kid is not worried. His hands are quaking. The Liar folds his fingers neatly, and the Reverent crosses his arms. The cards burn and unravel. A queen appears, and then, with no one settling, a king follows as well.

            Everyone stays in. They raise, one by one, and the pot is heavy. I am all in, and I watch my rent money sink into the bottom of this treasure chest. $600 each, and they’re all still in.

            The Liar reveals two queens. The Reverent had thought his 10’s would carry him through. Then, with a jovial burst of energy, the Kid reveals a full house. He’s won, by house rules, and takes all of the money.

            A lesson is to be learned, I decide, walking sober and broke home. Brains will get us far, but Lady Luck has tender affection for kids in ill-fitting jackets.