The Death of Last Summer
by Shanti Hershenson
When the life of summer began to taper off into the deathly chill of winter, the boy spent his final days of minimal sunlight basking in the reminiscence of a constant no longer.
Just last summer, he’d spent his days in the foothills of the meadow with her—the beautiful girl he loved, whom he couldn’t be with—hand in hand, eyes reaching for the endless stars.
“If I was permitted to,” he whispered softly, “I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”
“Promise?” she questioned as though she didn’t quite believe it herself—as if she knew what her future foretold.
Still, he smiled. “Promise.”
That promise had been shattered into countless bloody pieces when an abominable monster southwest of the mountain ranges claimed her life and stripped away all that he loved; all that he truly loved. The whispers of her death from villages across the river only reached him days after she had perished. The news had been like a knife straight through his heart, a cold, dead reminder of the world's harshness, the truth of what could never have been. He bottled up his grief in solitude, forced to continue his work. No one was permitted to hear what had happened. No one was able to know about his reminiscence of the meadow.
So, when he returned to his cabin in a small border town, a decently tormenting view of the mountain ranges he’d morphed from loving to despising with every bone in his twenty-year-old body, he did not speak of where he had been.
“A hunting trip,” he said instead. “A failed hunting trip.” His stomach did not yearn with the same hunger as his brothers and sisters that civilized the crumbling town.
When the evening came around and the sun began to vanish, he wished his wife—an arranged marriage, sprouted from the poison of grief—a fair goodnight. Once alone, he folded his exhausted arms and sighed.
The sun never shined as bright as it did last summer.
Just last summer, he’d spent his days in the foothills of the meadow with her—the beautiful girl he loved, whom he couldn’t be with—hand in hand, eyes reaching for the endless stars.
“If I was permitted to,” he whispered softly, “I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”
“Promise?” she questioned as though she didn’t quite believe it herself—as if she knew what her future foretold.
Still, he smiled. “Promise.”
That promise had been shattered into countless bloody pieces when an abominable monster southwest of the mountain ranges claimed her life and stripped away all that he loved; all that he truly loved. The whispers of her death from villages across the river only reached him days after she had perished. The news had been like a knife straight through his heart, a cold, dead reminder of the world's harshness, the truth of what could never have been. He bottled up his grief in solitude, forced to continue his work. No one was permitted to hear what had happened. No one was able to know about his reminiscence of the meadow.
So, when he returned to his cabin in a small border town, a decently tormenting view of the mountain ranges he’d morphed from loving to despising with every bone in his twenty-year-old body, he did not speak of where he had been.
“A hunting trip,” he said instead. “A failed hunting trip.” His stomach did not yearn with the same hunger as his brothers and sisters that civilized the crumbling town.
When the evening came around and the sun began to vanish, he wished his wife—an arranged marriage, sprouted from the poison of grief—a fair goodnight. Once alone, he folded his exhausted arms and sighed.
The sun never shined as bright as it did last summer.
Shanti Hershenson’s first two novellas were published when she was in the sixth grade, although her writing journey started long before then. Ever since she could hold a pencil, marker, or crayon, she was creating stories. They started from pictures, mere scribbles, and eventually, turned into captivating tales.