WADE LIPHAM has been published previously on The Harrow, Your Words and Fuzzynet. He is currently working on a novel in Fort Worth, Texas.

                                                               the field


I died here in this field.

I died here in this field ten years ago. The corn still sways like it did back then. It still moves with the same quiet authority, the same seal which nature has given it.

The only thing which it lacks today is the fallen bodies, the shattered bones, the puddles of blood spilled by the rusted blades and the uneven bullets, the stench of death and the sight of disgust. The commanders are not here now, not standing on their hill staring through their scope, not listening to the sound of men being killed callously. The soldiers are not here upon this day, they are not peering out at their enemies fearfully, praying, wanting to be home.

All of this is gone.

But the memories remain.

Oh yes, the memories stay, even in death. I remember every smell, every taste, every sound, every feel and sight I ever knew. And particularly that sweet releasing pain of death, that sting and then the feeling as the claws of the body finally let go of the soul.

It is freedom.

Why did I die here in this field? Why did so many others have to die here beside me that day? I do not know. Perhaps the commanders should be looked to, those who arranged this bloodshed; but they are silent, and they shift the blame to the past, to posterity, to history.

As I lied in the field, rifle on its tripod, peering out at the others, I remembered home. I remembered home as though it were right there before me. All of the sweet smells, all of the beautiful sights. I felt my lover's kiss and my mother's embrace, my father's smile and my brother's laugh. It was all their as my finger laid poised upon the trigger, ready to be squeezed.

Then the trumpet signaled and we were sent to our doom. I believe I was the first to fire, the first to squeeze the iron trigger and release a slug of solid metal toward the others. I watched man fall due to my simple action. Then they washed against us. Men fell beside me, I fell blades cutting in me, bullets whizzing past and exploding into me.

I heard laughing, and I heard crying. There was nothing left to do, however, as the bullet struck my neck. My fingers clawed into the earth, but there was no hope. Feeling disappeared from my body like a light going out in a building; then a sting, then a release, and then this.

This is the field where I died.

I died in this field ten years ago.

And I am the same.

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© 2002 Wade Lipham