Arik’s hands shook with anticipation. For three weeks he’d been stranded without support, trapped on a ridge overlooking a small encampment below. The world’s harsh climate had claimed many things in the past twenty-one days, including Arik’s targeter, whose name he could no longer remember, his rifle’s sensitive auto correction scope, and his sanity.

Throughout his training as a scout sniper, Arik had only two ideals forced into his young and impressionable mind. The first was the superiority and purity of Rulerism, knowing that every bullet would martyr another being whose purpose it was to further the cause. Rulerist snipers needed only one thing; devotion. It was in no way like being a foot soldier. You did not have a platoon to count on. All you had was another soldier, with whom the bond was unbreakable, with whom you shared the desire to see the ‘pink mist’. That was the second. Envisioning the perfect shot. Making the perfect shot your only goal. In training, they called it the JFK shot. It was the pink mist, that single most gratifying moment. It also drove the marksmen mad more often than not.

The already dense foliage was heavily dampened with constant rainfall. Thick shrubs and their insectoid inhabitants were the most congenial company Arik had left. His sanity had far abandoned him, and the single factor keeping him alive was cold and bitter determination.

“Day 22.” he said to himself, chattering and twitching like a madman. He lay face down in the mud for the sixth consecutive day, his rifle fixated to the spot. His rations rotted in their packs, but the taste had far from left his tongue. Light had been hidden behind an impenetrable wall of storm cloud and torrential rain for nearly four months, as the spongy soil and moss absorbed the foul liquid as it fell. Jabiim had only two seasons. The wet season and the more wet season. It had been the peak of the more wet season, which occupied the better part of a year. Arik’s startling blue eyes peered down the barrel of a high powered rifle, nearly as tall as a man. One thousand meters below, a small hamlet of stark white structures rose from the tropical jungle canopy. Lean, blue skinned creatures patrolled along the edges of catwalks surrounding the structures, as a twenty foot wall kept intruders at bay. These blue skinned creatures were not Arik’s target. They were faceless, soulless drones, carvings that only served as distraction. His target had a face, a soul, neither of which could be put out of his mind.

The rain was bitter and cold, but the stagnant mud beneath Arik’s breast was warm and contoured comfortably against his faded uniform, the salty, doused greys and blues hidden beneath a thick layer of filth and grime. His bronzed face was veiled with a shroud of muck, his bald head shaved ruggedly with a knife not meant for the purpose. Scars and red wounds still seeped pus and slowly became infectious. His arm muscles contorted in spasms at unpredictable intervals from lethargy. His legs had gone numb some days before, but the pain remained, which only served to sharpen his focus. He had never viewed life through a more clear lens, through a more honed vantage.

“C’mon c’mon c’mon.” he whispered to himself, his eye twitching and his shoulder rotating of it’s own accord. “Come out to play.” he strained at holding back laughter. “Stay focused, focused.” he said quickly. “Come out.” His finger slid up and down the trigger with a caress more fit for a lover than warrior, but the distinction had lost it’s contrast. Night was only minutes away, which only meant intensified rainstorms, more putrid thunder that would dull the senses, and more flashes of sickening sulfur that would clog the throat. As his breathing quickened, Arik quickly honed in on another blue skinned creature that came out onto the platform. Shock and disappointment nearly swallowed him whole as he deduced it was merely another carving, a gargoyle sent to disturb his purpose. He left the crosshairs to drift up and down it’s body, imagining how good it would feel to finally depress the trigger, that kick sending a shockwave through his body more satisfying than any activity known to man. Bang. He thought aloud, his words drowned by the stone-like hail from above. Just Bang. He mouthed the word a dozen more times before his eyes began to drift closed, his raw skinned cheek resting upon the stock of his rifle, which began to squeal quietly as he leaned up against it. It was too late. Four days without any form of sleep had overcome him, and he drifted into the black abyss of dream and nightmare to the sound of falling drops.

***

“Bejn, wake up.” his mother said, as he arose from a blissful coma. His room was quiet, and the wind blowing through his window only served to relax the atmosphere even further.

“Mom?” he said, his young voice chirping pleasantly. “It’s early still.” The clock hanging on his baby blue wall read five in the morning. His mother, who had tousled short brown-black hair was sitting on the edge of his bed, smiling gently. Her glasses hung slightly down on her nose, as she viewed her son carefully.

“I know, honey. You remember what today is?” she said, leaning closer to her black haired son. She smiled, unsure if he would actually remember. Bejn thought for a moment, his mind still unsharpened from a lack of sleep. His eyes lit up with excitement as he nearly leapt off the small mattress, his loose fitting pajamas inflating and deflating.

“The fair’s today!” he shouted. “You’ll wake your sisters, shh.” his mother uttered, grounding him with her chopstick fingers wrapped about his midsection. Bejn squirmed mildly, taking a discomfort to being held aloft.

“Yes, today’s the fair. If you want to get there first for the rides, you’d best hurry and get dressed.” Bejn froze. His birthday was four days ago, he could finally go on the what he considered the ‘big kid’ rides, the ones that had loops and tight turns. For too long, he had been used to the mild rides, the gentle curves and slants. For Bejn, it was plenty. He had never craved adventure like the other little human boys and girls. He was quiet, never wanting to push the envelope for any reason. Finally, though, he was eight years old, and he could go and experience the thrill of maturity.

“Ok, mom.” he said, with a lack of exuberance. His mother’s face contorted worriedly, her spectacles slipping further off her nose. She slanted her head.

“Is something wrong, Bejn?” she asked with her hands tucked into her lap. “I thought you were excited to go on the rides.” Bejn merely hugged his mother, his short black hair pushing into her olive colored khaki pant leg.

“Yeah, I am.” Bejn said, faking enthusiasm. Deciding he was just a little nervous, his mother ignored it. She ruffled his hair with both hands until it stood up on end.

“Alright. Come on, you need to get ready. The traffic is going to be murder.” She said, quickly leaving the room, turning to wave once more before closing the door on her way into the hallway beyond. Bejn sighed heartily as he began to dress. Sheila, Bejn’s mother, was secretly concerned for her child. He was reclusive for most eight year olds, but that would pass, she thought to herself. Crossing a hallway mirror in the cramped and scattered apartment, she stopped and straightened her tight fitting black t shirt, thinking, “For the mother of three children, I look good.” Letting her air out, she proceeded to the small kitchen, with space for no more than two adults. She removed her scarf from the hook that protruded from the oaken post that connected the counter and the overhang behind the cutting board, where the remnants of a diced pepper still lay. She wrapped the piece of cloth around her neck and inhaled deeply, her chest popping pleasantly. Placing her hands upon her hips indecisively, she stood tapping her bare foot against the polished woodgrain floorboards. Without intending to, she began to examine her toenails, which were unusually bare and unornamented. Letting out a cynical, “hmm!” she heard the traipse of feet across the floor.

“I’m ready!” Bejn said, storming into the kitchen in his sandals and white button down shirt that clung neatly to his thin frame.

“Alright! Let’s go.” Sheila said to her son, leading him to the front door. “Your uncle will be here to take care of your sisters.” she said, smiling. “Like you care, huh?” she gave a funny face and Bejn feigned a chuckle, which was more convincing than he had intended.

“Ok.” he said, as they went into the door lined hall beyond. “Don’t worry, you’ll have fun.” Sheila said, as she closed the door quietly behind her.



It was midday, the sun settling on the tree lined horizon in the distance. The fair had been an exciting time for Bejn, who still had yet to enjoy the larger, thrill seeking rides. Sheila hadn’t said anything. She figured he would speak up when he was ready. The boy was only eight years old, there was no need to push him, she thought.

“There’s the Ferris wheel!” She said, patting Bejn on the head. The wind was blowing slightly, as the scarf calmly kicked into her face. She shooed it away with a puff, and Bejn laughed. “Real funny.” Smirking sarcastically, she ran toward the queue line. “Betcha can’t beat me there!” Bejn gave chase. The two of them wove in between and around the occasional stranger.

“Oh yeah?” Bejn shouted back, running. Letting him win, Sheila arrived a moment later, nearly knocking over the nikitak that swayed gleefully before her.

“Pardon me, sir” she apologized. The nikitak turned, and with a disarming smile, stated it was ‘no problem’ and turned back to his mate, who leaned against his top most set of shoulders. “You beat me!” she said, still playing along.

“Yeah, I did.” Bejn said, knowing full well she had let him win. If it put her mind at ease, he would lie through his teeth as much as he needed. “The line isn’t even that long.” he observed, the midday sun casting a shadow over his nose. Lifting her hand to her brow, Sheila looked ahead, no more than ten others waiting casually for their opportunity. “Yep, short wait.” She leaned back, her elbows holding her against the orange and white rails that caged the queue line. A few minutes passed in silence, the sparse crowds barely rising above a gentle whisper in the distance.

“I wonder what Meir and Ellie are up to.” Bejn said. Snapping out of a mild fantasy, Sheila shook her head and looked down at her son.

“I bet they’re probably at Friese’s house. They go every Saturday.” she said. “You know how they get.”

“Yeah.” Bejn replied. An awkward silence took over, as the Ferris wheel came to a stop. “Our turn.” he said flatly. They advanced forward, being the last ones in the line to enter a small car which began to dangle as they sat. A whirr of gears and machinery indicated the ride was to start. A creak and a grind later, they began to rise into the air. A few minutes passed as they sat beside one another. The ride groaned to a halt suddenly, jarring Sheila forward. She strained to hold back a rather verbose string of curse words.

“I guess they’re having some problems, huh?” Bejn said, now standing on his tip toes to see the ground below. The height did not scare him, to his elation.

“Come sit down, Bejn. You don’t want to fall over the edge, do you?” Heeding his mother’s advice, he came to sit beside her once again, wriggling beneath her arm, now resting upon his opposite shoulder.

“Are we going to be here for a while?” Bejn asked. “We might be.” Sheila said, sighing. “What a pretty sunset.” she noted, the hazel, amber, and oranges absorbing through her lenses.

“Yeah.” Bejn noted with sincerity. “It is.” He felt oddly at peace staring into the warm colored horizon. “Mom?”

“What?” Sheila asked in response.

“Can you sing me a song?” Bejn requested, remembering the songs she would sing to him ever since he was a baby.

“Sure, kiddo.” She cleared her throat, starting to let forth a melodic harmony. It was beautiful yet unrefined.

“Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road. Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go.” she began, the sunset and the moment formulating a livid scene. “So make the best of this test and don’t ask why. It’s not a question, but a lesson learned in time. It’s something unpredictable, but in the end is right, I hope you had the time of your life.” Bejn leaned closer in towards his mother.

“I am.” he silently whispered. Sheila whistled a chorus without words, which took only a few moments.

“So take the photographs and still frames in your mind. Hang them on a shelf in good health and good time. Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial. For what it’s worth, it was worth all the while.” She swallowed with difficulty. “It’s something unpredictable, but in the end is right, I hope you had the time of your life.” Another chorus whistled through the red stroked air, in between breaths and tears that began to gently well behind her eyes. “It’s something unpredictable, but in the end is right. I hope you had the time of your life. It’s something unpredictable, but in the end is right. I hope... y-you had the time of y-your,” she stumbled, almost in tears. “L-life.” She bent her face into her palms, as the tears flowed freely. The moment had overtaken her, her tears neither of joy nor sorrow. She heaved, crying without shame or in bad taste.

Bejn understood. “Can you tell me the story of Arik the wolf?” he asked, half asleep, his mother’s soothing song relaxing his every muscle. “Please?” Removing her face from her hands and wiping her glasses clean of tears, she began to settle, still puffing gently.

“Just a minute, kiddo. Just a minute.” She began to cry once more, a gentle smile on her face. Her glasses hung from her fingertips precariously. They slipped free, and clattered harmlessly to the metal platform at Bejn’s feet.

“Ok.” Bejn said, as his eyes slowly closed. On the back of his eyelids, he saw himself standing atop the cab, looking out over the city beyond, like a giant jungle, with towers rising from it’s surface like bulbous ivory statues and meandering wooden carvings. He drifted towards blissful rest, to the gentle sound of his mother’s tears spilling on steel, to the tempo of a finely crafted bullet. Bang, the perfect shot.

Bang.