Sunset Over a Poppy Field

By Dylan Kull 

The wind whipped the tall poppies, causing the field to sway like crimson tides. The sun sunk over the mountains to the east, its golden rays cascading over miles of land untouched, save for the dual trails left behind by the opposing warriors, who now stood face to face. One man, deceptively young, dressed in an all white kimono. Wrinkles stained his once innocent visage. At his hip a modest blade, hilt fitted with tattered cloth that extended and danced in the air against peach skies. The other man, directly opposite him, sported a long black kimono and a rice paddy hat that shielded his eyes in shadow. He carried a blade of his own which rested at his low back inside a gold and ebony sheath.

The young man took a breath, his heart trembled but his body remained still. He gripped the handle of his katana with the opposite hand. 20 paces in the distance, his dark foe drew his weapon as if he were pulling it from within, an extension of himself. He held its tip in the direction of his enemy, a single arm extended. In synchronized movements the two swordsmen shifted their feet, cocking their knees and holding their breath. The man in black retracted his sword such that the butt of the handle sat next to his ear, never letting the blade’s point waver from the direction of its target. The wind calmed for a moment, the air sat still in anticipation, and the sun vanished behind the mountain tops, taking its golden rays with it.

The warrior in white belted out a cry that carried the fury of a lineage exterminated. As if by command, the wind kicked up in bedlam and the swordsmen charged at one another. Grimy footwraps and pristine geta crushed poppies in their ferocious rush towards one another. With the swiftness of a jungle cat, the man in white drew his sword, feinted left, shifted right and glided his blade through black cloth and flesh of his opponent. Blood spattered in the field, disappearing among red poppies. The two men stood perfectly still for a moment, their backs to one another now. The adrenaline boiled over and blood flowed back into the man in white’s knuckles. The man in black fell to his knees, not making a sound. Taking a step backward, the man-in-white faced his slain enemy. He removed the rice paddy hat and searched his foe’s eyes for all the stolen souls he thought he had just freed. His heart shattered when he only saw one, and in a moment, that one was gone too, and the man in black fell limp into the field of crimson poppies.