The Valley - Flash Fiction Story by Nicholas Samuel Stember

 

 

 

 

The Valley

Flash Fiction Story 

by 

Nicholas Samuel Stember 

 

The old man gazed silently at the open empty field. His frayed clothing, tattered like old rags, fluttered around his wrinkled frame as a gentle breeze played across the plush sea of grass. 

He drew a deep breath and sighed with pleasure, his lungs tasting the cool, sweet air. The dandelions tempted him, shining like warm yellow suns amidst a green background. He gazed at their simple beauty and knew he must lie among them for a while. As it was only early dusk, no one would be missing him. He smiled as he lay down on the cushion of yellow. The perfumed smell of multitudes of dandelions filled his nostrils as he closed his eyes and relaxed his weary body. 

All he could hear was the distant chirping of birds, playfully dancing in graceful majesty...and the soft buzzing of the bees as they tirelessly searched for the golden treasure hidden by each flower. The old man chuckled to himself and whispered, “Don’t you fret, bees, there’s plenty of flowers with nectar around here...enough for all of us.” Then, slowly, sleep gracefully took his mind. 

He awoke with a peaceful, calm feeling but didn’t open his eyes yet. He wanted to savour this feeling for as long as he could, knowing that he was probably already quite late. The old man wanted this moment to last forever.  

It was the dead silence that unnerved him enough to finally open his eyes as he sat up. It was still dusk, but the beautiful sea of grass had become a field of rock and dirt. What is this? the old man thought as he stood and looked around in dismay. What happened to my lovely field? 

The glorious sound of trumpets filled the air as the roar of a thousand horses assaulted his ears. Then they came--layer after layer, row after row--two giant armies. One was red, that came from the east, one was blue, that slowly crested the hills to the west. The banners flapped around the spears and the dying sun made their armour and weapons glow a fiery red. 

“This can’t be happening,” the old man whispered as the two titans clashed, forces meeting in the valley with the crash of steel against steel, and steel against bone. He stood, alone, amongst the carnage, a ghost to these forces that lived and fought, and died. 

The armies continued to fight, their battle roaring like thunder. The armours turned from fiery red to crimson as more and more bodies were hewn, hacked, and mutilated. Mixed in the chaos he could hear distant cracks of lightning, as rifles sought their targets...and screams of agony, as cannon balls struck. 

It was then that he spotted them, two majestic figures facing each other on the distant hill. The leaders, glorious in their splendour, confronted each other...sword to sword. 

The old man ran towards them with a sudden strength that he would have felt impossible only a few hours before. He had to know why they were fighting, must stop this bloody deed. He stumbled over bodies as he scrambled up the small hill. But he was getting tired, his old body couldn’t take the strain any longer. The old man collapsed at the feet of the duelling titans and looked up at them. Both seemed as gods in their grandeur and notability, luminously framed by the fires all around them.  

“My lords,” the old man managed through his dry lips, “why use this field for your battle? Why the senseless killing? Why?” 

Then the red leader backed off from the fight, and gazed down at the old man, a tear forming in his majestic eye as he surveyed his losses...the blood-stained price for his actions this day. 

“Why are you crying my lord?” the old man asked. “Why must one hold a land with blood?”  

But the red leader just turned away, and silently walked down away from the hill, as the blue leader turned away as well. 

“Why?” screamed the old man as he closed his eyes and sank to the ground, crying aloud, his voice dwarfed by the battle below. He opened them heavily to see the banners waving proudly overhead, as an eerie silence settled in. Gone was the clanging of the swords, the sharp retort of the firearms, the thunder of the cannons, and the grinding roar of the machines of war. Then the sky lit up as a noiseless explosion filled the valley, consuming all in its final conflagration...the old man’s eyes closed again as blackness settled in. 

Suddenly he was awake again, and gazing over the green field as the last rays of sunlight finally sank beneath the horizon. But it would never seem the same to him again, for now he knew what it took to make this green heaven his...but God it was beautiful, wasn’t it? He felt that he could almost understand how people would be willing to die for such a valley. Then the old man got up and brushed the tears from his eyes. It was dark now, and he would be missed soon. Slowly he turned, allowing himself one last look, then silently, gracefully, he left the field.

Nicholas Samuel Stember - Born in New York City, Nicholas Samuel Stember has lived in Europe and Israel, but spent most of his life growing up in the suburbs of Princeton, NJ. His father, Charles H. Stember, was a published professor of sociology at Rutgers University, and his mother, Sue, was a professional singer and later a portrait photographer. With two creative influences, it wasn’t hard to see the directions he’d take, which started on his thirteenth birthday with his first copy of “The Lord of the Rings”. With a profound love and appreciation of the genres of fantasy, science fiction and horror, the direction his writing took was firmly set. His short stories have appeared in various online magazines over the years and three upcoming anthologies. His love of those genres also found him a wife from across the Pond, and he ended up marrying her and moving to the Faroe Islands, where he resides today.

For more information check out his website at https://nsstember.com or https://www.facebook.com/nicholassamuelstember