Two Haiku

By Bud Koenemund

Muse
For Lindsay

Her body sates lust;
but her bright green eyes ignite
imagination.


Human
For Lindsay

Lust makes me a fool;
love makes me an idiot.
Both make me human.

Revelation

By Bud Koenemund

  He slouched on a park bench as heavy flakes of snow fell. Forcing his eyes open, he tried to watch them descend through the muted, yellow illumination of gaslights lining the walkway before him. The agony in his chest, however, made it difficult to focus on anything beyond taking the next breath.
  Blood trickled over his stomach in thin rivulets, soaking his shirt and pants. It dripped to the concrete below and quickly froze. Hearing movement behind him, he tried to turn, but a lightning bolt of pain ripped through his upper body.
  “Is that you, Yuri?” he asked the darkness.
  “Da,” a voice answered.
  “I figured it out,” he said. “Just too late.”
  “Always trust your gut,” Yuri said. “This is what you Americans say, is it not?”
  “I’ll remember that next time,” he said, with a laugh that devolved into a choking cough.
  “For you, my friend, I fear there will be no next time,” Yuri replied, taking a seat on the bench opposite his.
  He nodded, but remained silent for nearly a minute.
  “How did you find me?” he asked, finally.
  “This is your favorite place,” Yuri answered.
  His head lifted drunkenly.
  “How do you know that?” he asked.
  “Matthew,” Yuri clucked, “give me some credit, please.”
  He drooped at the sound of his real name.
  “We’ve learned much about you over the years,” Yuri assured him.
  Yuri stood and slowly approached him.
  “Perhaps it is fitting our little game ends here,” Yuri said, removing a pistol from his coat.
  Matt thought of the girl he’d kissed, right here on this bench – the first real kiss for both of them. Her face materialized in his mind: her curly red hair; striking blue eyes. He’d loved her, and told her so. She’d requited the sentiment. It was love before either truly knew what love is.
  “Goodbye…” Yuri began.
  Matt didn’t hear the shot. But, the thud of a large caliber bullet striking a human body, and the sickening sound of the air being forced out of Yuri’s lungs, was unmistakable. For a moment, a confused look twisted Yuri’s face. He staggered backward, his arms went limp, and he crumpled to the ground.
  “Goodbye, Yuri,” Matt wheezed.
  “You are a fool,” a female voice said.
  “I’ve never been accused of being very smart,” he said.
  “Letting him shoot you, though?” she mused.
  “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” he joked.
  The woman stepped out of the shadows.
  “Hello, Lyla,” Matt groaned.
  “You Americans…” she said, “always so foolishly heroic.”
  “That’s us,” he agreed.
  “Hmmm… at least you helped us uncover the traitor,” she admitted.
  “You’re welcome,” he said.
  “You should get to the hospital before you bleed out,” Lyla advised.
  Three men joined them in the light. Without a word, they retrieved Yuri’s gun; then lifted his body and carried it away. Lyla followed them into the gloom.
  “Oh, no; don’t worry,” Matt called out; struggling to stand. “I can make it on my own.”

Last Day

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

  I had to see you walk away. Of course. Fate wouldn’t let me simply go about my day… and you’d just be gone… and I could ignore your absence. My eye was drawn to you like a firefly’s light in the darkness, while memory replayed moments you hurt me.
  We said goodbye already – more than a year ago. I, a fool who thought we’d parted friends, telling you, “I just want you to be happy,” only to find out later how badly trust was misplaced.
  I’ll endure one more dagger to the heart. Luckily, there’s nothing left to cut out.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

  It’s not the money; let’s be clear about that from the start. Though $140 for the special edition, collectible bottle of whiskey she needed to complete her set wasn’t cheap, I had the money… and a desire to please her.
  No, the issue is the glaring example of my continued foolishness; of how – during a global pandemic – I set out upon a quest for this grail: an item she’d mentioned once, months before, during a late-night discussion about things we collect. For me, another lesson in idiocy; thinking that showing I cared for her, and listened to her, mattered.

Dark Dream

There is a storm coming. The sky is dark with clouds. We are running for shelter – some haven I cannot see. I stretch out my hand to you. You take it – hesitantly at first – but then you squeeze tightly.

We run – breathless in the gathering gloom – through tall grass, as the wind rises in our faces.

I turn and try to say your name, but no words emerge. Something in the grass catches my eye. I stop to see and it's already behind me. I release your hand and walk back to find pens on the ground…my pens. I sense you calling out to me. I look at your face, your mouth is moving, but I hear nothing.

I retrieve my pens and see papers spread out on the ground. They are not blowing in the wind, but entangled in the grass.

They are my papers…my words written for you. I feel panic grow within me as I try to grab them, collecting them before they disappear. Schoolboys in gray uniforms stand nearby, laughing at my efforts. They aren't running – only pointing and calling me a fool.

A cold, hard rain begins to fall. I turn to look for you, and you're gone…

A Simple Word Too Easily Said

A sonnet for Kristen Brownell

Lord, how can so small a word cause such pain?
Indeed, the gift becomes too abstract when
Words, easily said, fall like drops of rain
On the ocean, and fool even wise men;
Oh, how the promises the heart believes,
When it dares to hope, break upon the rocks
Of high speech – but feelings only conceived –
Then sink down into the depths of self-mock;
Verses and oaths so quickly lose their worth
When once solemn pledges become dilute
Through casual repetition and dearth
Of the emotion real and absolute.
Even sweet words, spoke too oft’, turn sour,
And kill the root of this precious flower.