Gunther and Soren (character sketches)

       “Dani’s in the woods, again,” Soren said, a brittle smile plastered on his face, eternal caring still thriving in his eyes. “She’s out fighting the monsters.”

       “With her sword?” Back to the chipping plaster wall, Hunter sat wide-eyed, a grin of admiration shining brightly under the fluorescent lights. His sparkling gaze, however, was looking past soren; instead, he was watching the woods, how it swayed in the light breeze, and how the birds chattered so eloquently from within. He could see her now: warrior, survivalist, powerful Danielle with eyes just as brown-green as his. In this, his imagination transcended that of Soren, who saw nothing but towering trees and dying grass before him.

       “No,” Soren continued, gaze drifting away from the darkened inlet to the woods, now overgrown with blackberry vines and nettles. “She’s fighting with her bare hands.”

       “Even the ones with the gi-nor-mous claws?”

       “Even those.” Summer was ending. The noxious humidity had quickly been replaced by the blowing of wind and a rather poignant freezing of the air in general. Gunther didn’t have a shirt on, anyways, since - according to him - that’s what boys his age did, and he was not one to deny himself.

       “I wanna do that!” Gunther exclaimed, fists - pudgy like his cheeks and toes - curling in excitement. For a boy barely of schooling age, sinking a dagger or his nails into the backs of beasts as fearsome as those Danielle had faced would be an experience beyond any other.

       Soren’s nostrils flared at Gunther’s words, his eyebrows angling inward, reminding Gunther immediately of his father when he would be angered. “No,” he said coldly, the volume of his voice growing to break the soothing hush of rustling leaves, “No, you don’t!” He rose to his knees, face red behind curled-back lips like those of an angry dog’s; Gunther sank back, wringing his hands. Soren took a breath, a deep, slow one that sounded like he was sucking the entire forest in with it, and then relented in an anxious, twitching movement, relaxing to his original crosslegged position. “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping his face of an invisible tear, “Forget that happened.” Flustered with the workings of his own speech, Soren stood, exhaling the forest back into its staid tranquility, dragging his feet as he left Gunther on the porch, idly watching.

       At that point for Gunther, his next goal was automatically decided upon. He, too, rose to his feet, stepping carefully on the softened wood porch to avoid getting splinters in his feet, his attempt at dexterity dashed when he began hopping on one foot, then the other, pulling on bright rubber boots that rose to the middle of his calves. The birdsong was once again prevalent now that Soren had quieted down, easy noticed as it was the only sound against the whistling breeze. Turning away from the house, Gunther began his journey, monsters or not.