For battle lines are drawn with pens as swords inside the mind by wicked men with evil plans manipulating time. They wheel the man out to the fence as any other day…a wooded landscape of trees magnificently blooming like light-obsessed manic moths. Confusion sets the mood as he watches his breath contrast with the illusion of spring. He is any mother’s son or any boy’s father or any brother’s brother. It’s cold today, and the cold reminds him of death, but it’s better than being inside. Tiny white flowers blowing past his face, slowly at first, then faster—swirling around and back to nowhere…floating before his eyes. But were they flowers? No, not flowers…snow! That’s it, snow falling gently, steady on his face…white, wet, and cold.
     He knows this cold…freezing his breath, the kind that steals fingers and toes. Clearly, perception is blurred with details in the devil’s weather breeding frostbitten misery. It’s not spring, and these are not cherry trees; there are no scarecrows here; they ran away years before. It’s winter and dead of it, but he’s okay because a coat, scarf, gloves, and hat make all the difference; with the right clothes, the weather is no trouble…his father once told him that. Now it’s snowing harder, and the trees seem to be moving…yes, the trees. They are moving closer in his direction.
One of them steps out ahead of the others and shouts, “YOU THERE! Yes, you…come down here and get in line!” He shouts. Some sort of commander, captain of something. He can’t make out a face through the snow.
     “Did you hear me, JACK ASS!?” He screams.
     “Sir, I can’t walk…I don’t have any legs,” he says and is about to explain further when the captain cuts in,
     “Well then, what the hell are those two stumps hanging off your knees? Now get in line; we’re heading out!”
     He looks down, and there they were…his legs, in fatigues and boots…gun and gear by his side. The fence dissolves into snow and flies away on a breeze. Amazed in the moment and with adrenaline rushing through his brain, he stands and walks, a little shaky at first, but his legs work fine after a few steps. He doesn’t recognize anyone, but it all feels familiar as they move in the direction from where they came. They head into the frostbit forest at dawn…the branches of skeleton trees fan out as crystalline fingers point in all directions as the chill winter air cuts his lungs and his breath heaves in foggy mists.
     “DO YOU KNOW WHAT DAY IT IS?” A voice shouts.
     “SIR—IT’S A GOOD DAY TO DIE—SIR!” They answer back in one thunderous voice.
His legs seem to work fine as they trudge through the ice forest, and his spirit is reborn. The morning light fractures through ice crystals clinging to the trees and filtered through a haze as if it’s heaven-sent. Then, the snow begins again, and for the first time, he notices the cold. The soldiers around him are feeling the effects of the weather.
     “DO YOU KNOW WHAT DAY IT IS?” The voice booms again.
     “SIR…IT’S A GOOD DAY TO DIE—SIR!” They all answer in kind.
     As they plow through the frozen forest, they come to a clearing. Off to the right is a small dirt road…forward and left, there are more woods. The captain holds up his fist, and the Company stops. The captain pulls two soldiers out of the Company and speaks something just above a whisper, and they both flank left through the woods to scout out the situation. A signal is given, and the Company crouches around the clearing’s perimeter, firearms at the ready. The man next to him leans in with a smirk and says, “It’s a good day to die!” He looks forward in silent agreement. The scouts return, and the captain signals all-clear, and they cautiously move forward.  As they are halfway through the field, two men on his right step on a land mine, and then the white snow becomes a canvas for blood and destruction. The enemy, who had remained unseen under snow and camouflaged with the trees, unleash a barrage of bullets. His new legs, which had brought him brief happiness, now collapsed from sudden pain, as his elbow and shoulder hit all at once. Clouds of red burst all around him as blossoms of frozen last breaths as his brothers are shot. Most stand their ground, firing ahead, while others retreat back to the trees to find cover but are mowed down. Someone grabs his arm and tries to pull him to safety, but a bullet opens the man’s head and covers him in blood. Then he’s lifted up and carried about thirty feet out of harm’s way…the person carrying him trips over a body and lands on top of him…it’s the same man with the smirky smile who spoke to him earlier…
     “It’s a good day to die, mate!” The man says, then he disappears into mist.
The pain is unbearable as the sky spins, then he loses consciousness, finding himself floating high above the carnage—he is formless now, almost as if part of the wind. Watching as the crimson stains in the snow-covered landscape vanish, dried by warmth from a magnificent sun with incredible flowers sprouting up from the earth, blooming in unusual colors with tall green grass all around.
Now he shapeshifts into a white bird high above what looks to be the Garden of Eden or something equally beautiful. No longer in North Korea, he senses a time shift and knows instinctively that he is now in Vietnam. Plush jungle tropics spilling onto lush green landscapes against a picture-perfect sky…enchantment for a mindless eye.
     As he flies, he spies soldiers exiting the jungle, ready to strike down whoever enters their path. The tall swaying grasses create the sense of an ocean of green reaching up towards a hill region. He flies over to the back of the hill, and there are enemy forces encroached and ready for battle as if a swarm of wasps. Several troops appear from the jungle’s tree line…they are stretched across several hundred feet, stopping and holding their positions. Flying against the backdrop of a red serpent horizon, the bird now witnesses hundreds of black crows screeching as one voice…repetitive…pulsing like a chainsaw cutting the brilliant blue sky in two. Suddenly, the crows turn into helicopters as they flank right and left, bearing down on the hill stronghold, taking on fire and raining down pain with bullets of shock and awe. Several helicopters are shot out of the sky while others scatter the wasp army, which begins swarming down the hill shooting in all directions. There are hundreds of them.
     No battle lines are visible to be crossed as the soldiers from both sides push forward, firing at each other…all of them are wearing the face of death—masks they will exchange today in this field of misery. One by one, they fall and feed the hungry earth with the blood of wars past, present, and future. Within minutes, the two forces are reduced to a handful of dangerous killing machines raging into the jungle. The bird follows through the treetops and watches as one of the soldiers takes cover behind a tree…this is his son James in the future. He senses this as he watches an enemy soldier rushing towards James, and he shoots the enemy in the face. James becomes a moving target, running to find a place to attack, when he suddenly trips over one of his brothers’ bodies. The bird watches and listens from a tree.
     “It’s okay—go…leave me here!” The soldier moans.
     “No fucking way!” James shouts as he attempts to drag him to safety.
     At that moment, a Vietnamese voice screams from behind him and tries to shoot, but his gun jams; before James can fire, the enemy knocks his gun to the ground, and they each pull knives. They crash into each other, and James is stabbed in his shoulder as he thrusts his blade into the enemy’s throat. He wants to pull the knife out but leaves it in his shoulder so he does not do more damage and bleed out. The soldier that James was trying to help is now dead—he picks up his rifle and suddenly hears enemy voices from the opposite direction and heads back toward the clearing. He runs through the tall grasses toward the hill, jumping over the bodies of enemies and brothers, and then he feels the bullets splinter his bones, and he falls to the ground. The madness continues a never-ending battle from the days of Cain to futures unknown.
     The bird watches as the scene dissolves back into a field of swaying green grass…all bodies have vanished. The bird is now in the future. Traces of death disintegrate, fragment, and are carried away as dandelion wishes on a wind of sorrow. The only one left is James lying on his back, looking to the sky. He sees the bird and senses it as his father…and the bird sees James perceiving this is his son who has not been born yet. They both know instinctively.
     Now, as the bird flies, the sky turns back to winter’s blight, and James lies alone in a field of snow and blood. The father’s spirit is still in the bird as it flies higher and sees a man and two boys coming out of the woods. He recognizes an older version of himself…in the future. He senses the boys to be his sons, and they are hunting. The man points to the bird, and the boys do the same…then the man hands a gun to the younger boy and positions him…helps him take aim, and the boy shoots. The bird feels the bullet rip through his body, and then he is falling..falling back into the soldier’s body…back into himself. Now, the man is once again inside the hell of frozen blood and death somewhere in North Korea. He wakes on his back, freezing, while looking up at the clouds, imagining them to be animals morphing into the faces of women. He’s in heaven or in shock, numb to the reality of the moment.
     He watches the sky as the soothing voice of a woman cuts through the deathly silence, “See the clouds above you? What do they remind you of?” The clouds form into doves flying, and then they descend on his face as they become snow…to rain…to tears, and then shooting pain. His right arm is functional, but his left arm is shot, as is his leg. There is a length of twine in his pocket saved for a time such as this. He ties off his leg with a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. His left arm has been shot at the elbow, and he’s bleeding from his shoulder. Then he leans on his good side and starts to move, little by little, through the bloodied snow towards the road. He is quiet, fearing the enemy is still around.
     “It’s a good day to die? Fuck, no!” He mutters under his breath.
After what seemed like hours of crawling, passing out from the pain, eating snow, and keeping a vision of life in the center of his mind, he makes it to the side of the road and passes out again. He wakes to the sound of a voice…an army truck is parked ten feet in front of him on the road. Two soldiers are surveying the situation…one of which is on a radio calling for backup. He tries to speak, but he can’t, so he keeps moving forward towards the truck. The soldiers get back in the truck, ready to drive away, but at the last second, he grabs the bumper. They drag him about fifty feet, and the adrenaline rush from the pain enables him to scream so loudly that the truck stops. With one final scream, he loses consciousness.
      He wakes in an Army hospital five days later with his leg in traction and his arm in a cast. An older nurse is sitting in the corner of the room writing in a notebook, and after noticing him awake, she speaks,       “You kept saying today is a good day to die…I guess it’s not your day,” the lady says with a smile.
     “What happened to my Company?” he asked.
     “You and one other are all that made it,” she says sadly.
     “What’s the damage? He asked, eyes welling from pain…
     “You’re missing an elbow…left leg was saved, but there’s lots of damage…right shoulder bullet went through, clean. Another grazed off the top of your head. You’re so lucky, dear,” she says.
     He closes his eyes, and the scene keeps playing in his mind on an endless loop…endless loop…endless…

TM DiSarro

©2025 TM DiSarro/ MindScapes Publishing
From my first book, THE BUSHMAN