Ára Bátur

“Ára Bátur”

a short story

Gary Baker, June 2013

Torn hearts echoed under clouded skies, faint breaths of wind caressed cheeks with the loyalty of a weary retriever, lapping at faces encouragingly while keeping quiet enough to respect the moment. Charlie blinked as the chill air drew his eyes down tight. Saline bridged the gaps on either side and rivulets of salt were borne over pale, freckled cheek bones.

Black oblivion held him in place, a color so void of everything else possible that it had become incomprehensible to think that he might dare interrupt such graceful threads in the combined fates of a solitary human life. Not one person could claim this man was alone, yet no one seemed to know him either.

They wept for him, sure, but what was there to show his life other than a casket and a few white and pink orchids lain over his heart, others across the polished black lumber. Charlie watched them all, watching women with veils slowly coming to terms with the end, some with mascara dripping like veins of oil down the sides of their faces, and men who acted stoic as statues with impassive expressions and eyes stricken unto the horizon lest the moisture be let loose by movement.

He recognized a few here and there, not that it mattered; it helped to sit at the back at times like this.

Here the sixth grade teacher whom had cherished Charlie’s wonder for the world, there a coach for the academic decathlon where Charlie had won several awards. He tilted his neck to see a row of