By: Logan Winsor
The grass field whispered with the gentle fall breeze, bracing itself for a battle that had raged hundreds, if not thousands of times. But the bright-eyed soldiers arrayed on either side showed no sign of the exhaustion warranted by the futility of such a fight.
I stood in the forefront of the eastern army, hand resting on the hilt of my sword, its point driven into the ground. The soldiers under my command rustled, anxious with excitement. They were barely more than children, but there were none else who had answered my call. Even those of my own time had forsaken the fight, content to leave it to the younger generation.
An excited murmur rippled through the ranks as the enemy marshaled on the far side of the field. They were mere lads too, and even their leader was a year younger than I. But that inexperience made them reckless and bold. Dangerous.
They advanced quickly, sparing no thought for tactics or maneuvers. I was almost envious of their endless, youthful energy.
“Prepare to charge,” I said, raising my voice just loud enough to be heard by my men. “We take them at the third tree.”
The enemy passed the first tree, and then the second. As they neared the third tree, my troops shifted, their knuckles whitening on the hilt of their weapons as they glanced at me for direction.
“Hold it,” I warned. “Something’s coming.”
No sooner had I spoken, than a cannonball rocketed across the field and slammed into the ground, skidding to a stop. Several soldiers dressed in unfamiliar uniforms charged after it, throwing the enemy line into disarray.
“Now!” I cried. “Before they regroup!”
The enemy commander looked up, eyes wide with panic, as we stormed across the field. Our rallying battle cries rang out, shaking their morale even before the first swords clashed.
“Stick to the plan!” I cried, weaving around one of the soldiers chasing the cannonball.
Of course, I knew that wouldn’t happen. This was only the third battle of the campaign, and most were fresh off their mother’s apron strings. But that didn’t matter. Even as our line collapsed into confusion, I lunged forward, piercing the back of an enemy soldier. “Dead!”
“What? No!” the girl cried. “No fair!”
Ignoring her dying words, I dove forward, barely avoiding a devastating shot from the cannonball. Were those idiots still here? Couldn’t they go somewhere else? My annoyance vanished the moment I looked up and found myself surrounded by the enemy.
The enemy commander stood proudly before me. “Got you! You’re dead for sure this time!”
I snorted. “Better men have tried.”
As he opened his mouth to retort, I slashed around me, immediately dropping two of them. “Dead and dead.”
“Impossible!” the commander cried. “Get him!”
But it was too late.
Taken aback by the sudden ferocity of my assault, the remaining soldiers scrambled away in confusion. I chased after them, easily blocking their clumsy, inexperienced attacks and killing them one by one.
When the last had fallen, I turned to the commander. He cowered beneath the weight of every single inch I towered over him. With a warcry closer to a bleat than a shout, he ran at me, but I casually batted his sword away and slipped under his guard.
“Better luck next time,” I said with a smirk, driving my sword through the enemy commander’s stomach.
The boy sputtered, but there was nothing he could do. He was officially dead.
As I turned to see the state of the battlefield, the electronic ring of a bell rolled across the field. The battle stopped, all soldiers freezing in place, and the war dissolved, vanishing like fog before the noonday sun. The dead rose, and soldiers became regular boys and girls, just as they had every day for years.
I gazed down at the stick in my hand, swishing it through the air a few times before glancing at the children walking toward the schoolhouse. One kicked a soccer ball, nearly hitting another kid in the back. I snorted. Typical soccer player. Just because recess was over didn’t mean they wouldn’t be getting in anyone’s way.
A few voices drew my attention. My faithful soldiers were stacking their sticks in a pile against the slide. There, they would wait for us, until the morrow, when blood grew hot tempers short. Beyond them were a few older kids, lingering past the bell.
Older.
My age.
One, a girl I’d fancied for some time, shot me a gaze. I grinned at her, and she started to smile back. Then her eyes dropped to the stick in my hand. My stomach twisted as she turned, walking away with a strange look in her eye. I stared at the stick, polished smooth by countless hands. My friends and I had hand-picked them years ago, starting the daily recess war.
But they were gone now, moved on to other, more “mature” things.
My hand tightened around the stick, the familiar nubs and grooves pressing against my palm. The woody grain had never felt so rough, so different than…than steel.
Maybe…maybe they were right. Maybe they found another war to fight, a battle where I didn’t tower a head above everyone else.
The stick dropped from my hand, clattering onto the pile. There was a time when every soldier faced their final battle. Perhaps it was time I braved mine.