In the spirit of socialism, I have cheerfully ignored intellectual-property claims and pinched the idea for this one from the Comrade Blogger at zum Glänzen bringen: 100-word stories. Only I have added an extra hundred. If I am making an effort to get better at brevity, is this a redoubling of effort?
But skipping philosophical questions, here is our first story. Continuing with our Russian theme (it's not like we ever really stopped), it's inspired by listening to lots of Cossack songs like this one. I must warn those unfamiliar with the Slavic Soul, in all its uncommon depth, soulfulness, Slavicity etcetera that in Cossack songs, people die. A lot. But don't worry, they're Cossacks so they're pretty chill about it.
So: a 199-word stab at a dying man. (Note to self: could have phrased that with more tact.)
There was something unreal about the scene.
He did not know whether he was seeing things as they truly were for the first and only
time, or whether it was just his own rapid loss of blood; but for whatever
reason, everything seemed too stark, too clear, too simple, like a preliminary
sketch.
The snow on the slopes was too smooth,
white, and unbroken. The forest was too silent, too dark, too regular: the
pines stood in their rows, straight and plain as matchsticks, and only sprouted
braches half-way up. And the sky was empty, and so blue that it made his eyes
smart.
A layer of blue, a layer of green, a layer
of black, a layer of white. And, oh dear, a layer of red. With his last
coherent thoughts, he reflected that blood was surely an unpleasant muddy-brown
sort of colour? After all, he’d seen it often enough, plenty of it his own. But
now he watched it dribbling onto the snow and blooming like roses.
With one hand he scrabbled in that same red
snow, as if trying to find purchase and prevent a fall. In a moment, all his
memories dissolved like frightening dreams.
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