The Masking of a Parry

Reassuringly I handed them the two longer swords, “Trust me, you can have the best.” I kept the thickest for myself. We headed down toward the spring. This is where they would move in. The day was dry, safer for navigation around landmines and sulfuric acid-laced grass. This was the required condition for our commander to give us a project in this sector. The sky was blue, the desirable blue to stare toward the heavens until the magical white wisps came to give us strength.

At this moment we break from our battle planning, we know our undertaking and as true warriors there is no need to waste any more time. Dashing from the underbrush we surprise our enemies for we must; three against an entire race allows no petty dismissal of situational severity. Our cries reign horror. Our cries claim territory. Our cries are genuine. “Hit them in the guts! When they fold, cut their heads off!” This is the best way to kill them. I dictate this as self-proclaimed leader of the operation. We all know that to rank one of two brothers above the other is only a precursor to internal destruction of the team. This has happened many times in the past. This time we will complete our mission.

As we destroyed the last of the invaders, the pride fluxed in our breast, the victory flitted on the tips of our tongues and we bragged of the individuality behind every kill. We stood free, as an author stands when he captures a moment or a reader who has been handed a metaphor. Allow me to clarify a few terms: swords are mere prunings, commander, mom and the invaders, thistle bushes. You can substitute the remaining as you see fit. And I leave you at rest, for it is my story, my breast is heaving.