THORNS AND ROSES
A Novel by T. E. Daniels Published by Ashleigh
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PROLOGUE
The winter darkness stood serenely still outside the hospital walls when suddenly her nervous beckoning filled the calm. The night nurse’s panicked-stricken voice rampaged past the subdued lighting, saturated the corridor halls, and overflowed the sills of sick bay prior to running off into midnight’s silence.
Her ping-ponging vocals against the smooth, sanitary surfaces of the walls and white ceramic flooring added a cacophonous effect to the bellows emanating from her petite stature when she cried: “Doctor, Doctor, the head is crowning! The head is crowning!”
Her ping-ponging vocals against the smooth, sanitary surfaces of the walls and white ceramic flooring added a cacophonous effect to the bellows emanating from her petite stature when she cried: “Doctor, Doctor, the head is crowning! The head is crowning!”
Meanwhile, at the front, he laid tending his rifle, holding it at the ready. But, his mind was often adrift, removed from his ascribed duty there. Suddenly, commandingly, the sergeant ordered him, in a shouted whisper and with a shoulder nudge, to, “Look alive! Or you’ll never hear ’em ’til they’re right up on you, son.”
Oh, God! I’ll make my own way in this world, but only with your help … I pray you’ll wake me tomorrow in another place.
The distractions, which abounded there, would often result in deadly consequences. Yet, still, he often dared to indulge in his fixated compulsion to fantasize about her. He would sometimes imagine her whispering into his ear the words he so desperately needed to read from her absent letters. And, because he was often deprived of sleep, he soon realized it was not a necessary state of existence to be in elative to dreaming of her, seeing her face, hearing her voice, or to catch a glimpse of her doting when she coquettishly smiled his way.
She was his easy chair, his kindred spirit; she was. His wish was to be with her always. And, if this day, tomorrow, or the next worked out to be his last, his single and most heartfelt desire would be to see her face one more time.
And while he understood that his final intake of life sustaining oxygen would necessarily be followed by an ultimate, involuntary exhale, he was resolved to have it so the faint, perfumed scent of e gifted handkerchief, he kept stowed away in his camouflaged-fatigue pocket, over his heart, would somehow forever be held captive by his concluding breath.
How spirited she was. Hers was a kind and tender heart amongst hearts, and he had long longed for the words inspired by the rhythm of its beating. His heart was her heart, but it was a heart parched by the dryness of time away from her. And, in her absence, its thirst could only be quenched by the liquid words flowing from the thistle shaped tip of her pen.
Oh, God! I’ll make my own way in this world, but only with your help … I pray you’ll wake me tomorrow in another place.
The distractions, which abounded there, would often result in deadly consequences. Yet, still, he often dared to indulge in his fixated compulsion to fantasize about her. He would sometimes imagine her whispering into his ear the words he so desperately needed to read from her absent letters. And, because he was often deprived of sleep, he soon realized it was not a necessary state of existence to be in elative to dreaming of her, seeing her face, hearing her voice, or to catch a glimpse of her doting when she coquettishly smiled his way.
She was his easy chair, his kindred spirit; she was. His wish was to be with her always. And, if this day, tomorrow, or the next worked out to be his last, his single and most heartfelt desire would be to see her face one more time.
And while he understood that his final intake of life sustaining oxygen would necessarily be followed by an ultimate, involuntary exhale, he was resolved to have it so the faint, perfumed scent of e gifted handkerchief, he kept stowed away in his camouflaged-fatigue pocket, over his heart, would somehow forever be held captive by his concluding breath.
How spirited she was. Hers was a kind and tender heart amongst hearts, and he had long longed for the words inspired by the rhythm of its beating. His heart was her heart, but it was a heart parched by the dryness of time away from her. And, in her absence, its thirst could only be quenched by the liquid words flowing from the thistle shaped tip of her pen.
She sat there writing the heartfelt words that came to her mind down onto the paper. She wrote them as though she were etching energy into a platter to feed his empty spirit.
Her intent was to fill the heart of her beloved with her thoughts of him, so he would know just how much. … And, so it was, she had begun the letter to her dislocated sweetheart with the salutation: “My dearest darling”.
They had suddenly become separated due to his unexpected transfer to a new tour of duty station. So she was routinely heavy hearted whenever sitting there with her pen in hand, pressed to the parchment, scribing eloquent combinations of words, ultimately reflecting her feelings of melancholy.
Suddenly, he was far removed from Honshu Island, and she dreaded the thought of his never being reunited with her arms.
Once completed, with tender dexterity, she folded the tear-tracked epistle, tucked it neatly and snugly away, and sealed it. Then, with a gentle deliberateness, she pressed her soft, pursed, warm, wanton lips against the pastel pink envelope, leaving her moist, impassioned and precision-centered, red stain there upon its exterior.
She meant this as an obvious sign of affection to her soldier whose touch she coveted and was there to receive; however, for some reason unclear to her, he was absent to provide.
On her way out the door, to run an errand, she raised her register to carry the sound of her voice on through into the adjacent bedroom where her father, the general, was preparing to start his day.
“Dad, would you drop this letter off for me when you stop to pick up the mail today? I’m leaving it on the desk. … Please?”
“Of course, I will, honey,” he replied. Now her father hadn’t viewed himself as a racist; he simply didn’t approve of the “mixing of colors”.
After all, he had “negri” friends and felt himself to be “very tolerant, indeed”. “Why” he had never entered a challenge when her gentleman caller happened by or when the two of them would sometimes slip f together to “God knows where”. He could only have imagined what the two of them had been up to. That is, until watching them on the porch that night provided him with an indelible notion.
Her father was a powerful army base general, but he was keenly aware of his daughter’s resolve and restive Scorpio will. She was designed after her deceased mother. And, over the years, he had watched her grow into the spitting image of her. And now, as was her mother before her, she was bold, bright, brassy, and just as passionate as she was beautiful.
The general grimaced but held his peace. He had not interfered when he accidentally bore witness to their embrace, as the dim moonlight lit the unfolding rhapsody as it sprang forth from the porch, revealing itself to him that night. He stood there, an agape voyeur, watching their tenderness evolve and unfurl like a glistening, rain soaked bud’s slow motion transformation into a delicate flower.
But their display was the prelude to a deep, lingering and impassioned kiss goodnight. However, to the general’s way of thinking, the kiss was the seal to the young soldier’s unfortunate, soon to be, departure. In the general’s mind, the kiss was not a goodnight kiss at all, but, rather, one of an unwitting farewell.
Earlier that afternoon, the soldier had stopped by bearing a birthday gift: Attempting to buy into my favor, no doubt. Why else would he bestow such an extravagance upon me?
It was a beautiful, pearl handled revolver. Of course, the soldier’s generosity did not lighten the general’s heart toward him, nor did it sway his steadfastly, negative attitude toward favoring this perceived interloper's continuing courtship of his precious daughter.
In fact, as a means to discourage himself from acting in an overt fashion to divide and conquer, the general labored, in a psychological way, to convince himself that the relationship could not possibly flourish.
He often found it difficult to restrain himself, but he understood his daughter’s temperament well and knew that interfering directly would summon her ire, sparking her rebellious nature to rise. That would surely lead to an even deeper commitment from her and affect the young man falling more firmly into her arms.
But his thought process had been flawed and incongruous as to the scope of the couple’s deep commitment. Either he was blithely indifferent, in the deepest denial possible, or exceedingly naïve to have been so unaware of the gross miscalculation he was making.
He was her father; however, in seeing their relationship as but a passing fancy, he had failed to factor in the already deep and growing regard that the two held for each other.
It will run its course, and then it will be over. … “But, I’ll not leave this thing up to chance, or God, to make it so.”
And so he set his course. Just to make sure, on each occasion that she would place a letter on the cherry wood desktop to be mailed off to her Nubian lover, her father would covertly betray her trust in him by failing to fulfill any of the routine promises that he would make to forward them.
And, just to make sure, her father, who happened to be the base commander, had clandestinely called on one of his many markers and arranged to have the “negri” abruptly transferred across the big pond, to the dank and heated front, where so many others’ of his ilk had bravely fought and died.
They had bled there just as others’ had. Their blood became just as crimson a mist, just as solute with the tide, and just as wet a saturant of the sand. Their lot did not differ from that of their — so called — counterparts.
The indistinguishable blood pulsating from their mortally ruptured veins validated that fact of life on a daily basis there. Yet, still, notwithstanding an untimely demise, the general most assuredly would have found favor in one of them relative to the courtship of his daughter.
There, each and every day, battle fatigued and weary men provided irrefutable evidence of race as but an evil construct crafted by wicked, often powerful men, for purposes of divisiveness... divisiveness achieved by confusing the feeble minds of useful idiots.
But, despite their success in manifesting racial divide in their world, that success was not transferable to a place where valor was reflected in the blood soaked dirt, resulting from many thousands of dead and wounded warriors.
There were no supermen there, just men. And valor was not determined by ilk, either. Indeed, valor had no regard for it, nor did the daily barrage of RPGs.
Her intent was to fill the heart of her beloved with her thoughts of him, so he would know just how much. … And, so it was, she had begun the letter to her dislocated sweetheart with the salutation: “My dearest darling”.
They had suddenly become separated due to his unexpected transfer to a new tour of duty station. So she was routinely heavy hearted whenever sitting there with her pen in hand, pressed to the parchment, scribing eloquent combinations of words, ultimately reflecting her feelings of melancholy.
Suddenly, he was far removed from Honshu Island, and she dreaded the thought of his never being reunited with her arms.
Once completed, with tender dexterity, she folded the tear-tracked epistle, tucked it neatly and snugly away, and sealed it. Then, with a gentle deliberateness, she pressed her soft, pursed, warm, wanton lips against the pastel pink envelope, leaving her moist, impassioned and precision-centered, red stain there upon its exterior.
She meant this as an obvious sign of affection to her soldier whose touch she coveted and was there to receive; however, for some reason unclear to her, he was absent to provide.
On her way out the door, to run an errand, she raised her register to carry the sound of her voice on through into the adjacent bedroom where her father, the general, was preparing to start his day.
“Dad, would you drop this letter off for me when you stop to pick up the mail today? I’m leaving it on the desk. … Please?”
“Of course, I will, honey,” he replied. Now her father hadn’t viewed himself as a racist; he simply didn’t approve of the “mixing of colors”.
After all, he had “negri” friends and felt himself to be “very tolerant, indeed”. “Why” he had never entered a challenge when her gentleman caller happened by or when the two of them would sometimes slip f together to “God knows where”. He could only have imagined what the two of them had been up to. That is, until watching them on the porch that night provided him with an indelible notion.
Her father was a powerful army base general, but he was keenly aware of his daughter’s resolve and restive Scorpio will. She was designed after her deceased mother. And, over the years, he had watched her grow into the spitting image of her. And now, as was her mother before her, she was bold, bright, brassy, and just as passionate as she was beautiful.
The general grimaced but held his peace. He had not interfered when he accidentally bore witness to their embrace, as the dim moonlight lit the unfolding rhapsody as it sprang forth from the porch, revealing itself to him that night. He stood there, an agape voyeur, watching their tenderness evolve and unfurl like a glistening, rain soaked bud’s slow motion transformation into a delicate flower.
But their display was the prelude to a deep, lingering and impassioned kiss goodnight. However, to the general’s way of thinking, the kiss was the seal to the young soldier’s unfortunate, soon to be, departure. In the general’s mind, the kiss was not a goodnight kiss at all, but, rather, one of an unwitting farewell.
Earlier that afternoon, the soldier had stopped by bearing a birthday gift: Attempting to buy into my favor, no doubt. Why else would he bestow such an extravagance upon me?
It was a beautiful, pearl handled revolver. Of course, the soldier’s generosity did not lighten the general’s heart toward him, nor did it sway his steadfastly, negative attitude toward favoring this perceived interloper's continuing courtship of his precious daughter.
In fact, as a means to discourage himself from acting in an overt fashion to divide and conquer, the general labored, in a psychological way, to convince himself that the relationship could not possibly flourish.
He often found it difficult to restrain himself, but he understood his daughter’s temperament well and knew that interfering directly would summon her ire, sparking her rebellious nature to rise. That would surely lead to an even deeper commitment from her and affect the young man falling more firmly into her arms.
But his thought process had been flawed and incongruous as to the scope of the couple’s deep commitment. Either he was blithely indifferent, in the deepest denial possible, or exceedingly naïve to have been so unaware of the gross miscalculation he was making.
He was her father; however, in seeing their relationship as but a passing fancy, he had failed to factor in the already deep and growing regard that the two held for each other.
It will run its course, and then it will be over. … “But, I’ll not leave this thing up to chance, or God, to make it so.”
And so he set his course. Just to make sure, on each occasion that she would place a letter on the cherry wood desktop to be mailed off to her Nubian lover, her father would covertly betray her trust in him by failing to fulfill any of the routine promises that he would make to forward them.
And, just to make sure, her father, who happened to be the base commander, had clandestinely called on one of his many markers and arranged to have the “negri” abruptly transferred across the big pond, to the dank and heated front, where so many others’ of his ilk had bravely fought and died.
They had bled there just as others’ had. Their blood became just as crimson a mist, just as solute with the tide, and just as wet a saturant of the sand. Their lot did not differ from that of their — so called — counterparts.
The indistinguishable blood pulsating from their mortally ruptured veins validated that fact of life on a daily basis there. Yet, still, notwithstanding an untimely demise, the general most assuredly would have found favor in one of them relative to the courtship of his daughter.
There, each and every day, battle fatigued and weary men provided irrefutable evidence of race as but an evil construct crafted by wicked, often powerful men, for purposes of divisiveness... divisiveness achieved by confusing the feeble minds of useful idiots.
But, despite their success in manifesting racial divide in their world, that success was not transferable to a place where valor was reflected in the blood soaked dirt, resulting from many thousands of dead and wounded warriors.
There were no supermen there, just men. And valor was not determined by ilk, either. Indeed, valor had no regard for it, nor did the daily barrage of RPGs.