Yellow Reign

Rana!

I

It Started With A Bang!

As Natasha squeezed the trigger on her final shot, she was thinking about aromas. The subject had invaded her consciousness from the mix of cordite and tuna, which she had evaluated as inferior to her own favourites, such as the harvest on a typically hot day here in the Midwest, the garlic scented air of Gilroy California, and the smell of her distant neighbour’s barbecues.

As the shot rang out, Tim, her younger brother, and Brett, her ageing uncle, jerked back in disgust exclaiming obscenities in perfectly timed stereo. In-between them, and in stark contrast to their animation, Natasha stood perfectly still in front of the raised, sun bleached porch of her family’s farmhouse, frozen in her amateur firing stance. Until that moment this had been her favourite spot during the early hours of the morning when the heat wasn’t so fierce and the perpetual westerly breeze passed over her father’s cornfield and through her hair. Her motionless, statue-like figure was then overwhelmed by an uncontrollable spasm travelling through her fingers still in contact with her brother’s Winchester rifle. She had been reluctant to take the gun in the first place.

I don’t want to shoot, she had said.

Why? Tim asked.

Tim, though a few years younger than Natasha, had aspired over recent years to become as equally caring and warm-hearted as his sister, and to some extent he had achieved it, but his own nature would always be intertwined with arrogance and selfishness.

Got to learn how to defend yourself, her brother said.

From what? she asked.

The British! he said foolishly.

His uncle had shaken his head at the comment, frustrated at one of Tim’s many humour-defying flaws that irritated him on every occasion - his unnecessary sarcasm.

Idiot! he muttered.

Christ, you’re such a prick! And what the hell are my tuna cans doing up there? she asked him.

He’s an idiot! Brett repeated.

I’m not doing it, she insisted, her eyes focused dead ahead where a long work bench had been placed in front of the family’s barn. Half a dozen of her tuna cans were lined across the top of it.

I don’t like guns.

Never mind that, just relax, he said, trying to reassure her and slowly raising the butt of the rifle against her shoulder, You want to squeeze the trigger, okay, never pull it. Focus on the target and nothing else. Concentrate on slowing your breathing, and force your heart to slow.

Natasha focussed on the first can and squeezed the trigger, wincing as the rifle jarred her shoulder. The pain was substantial and her accuracy poor. The bullet hit a scuff of dirt yards from the target and she grunted in frustration.

Don’t worry about it, Tim assured her, and reloaded for her, Set your balance again and take aim.

It’s uncomfortable, she complained, but he simply ignored her and adjusted her stance. During her moment of concentration, her young tabby cat had sprinted out of the nearest barn, disorientated and alarmed from the burst of gunfire. None of the family had seen it and Natasha took aim once more, firing again, this time her shot shaving the can.

Not bad, that was closer. One more try.

She took aim for the third time and rested her index finger calmly on the trigger. Tuna sprayed over the bench and onto the sundried dirt as the can was blown to pieces. Tim and Brett both nodded their heads in approval. Natasha’s focus remained on the spot where the can had been, a clear sense of accomplishment settling in her mind.

Not bad, girl, Brett told her, to which a tiny smile appeared at the corner of her mouth as she reloaded.

We’ll have to set up some more targets around the place, proper ones, and we’ll shoot for bets, Tim suggested.

Her cat’s pupils had been wide and its ears spiked at the sight of food that lay in the morning heat, the scent inducing hunger and excitement amongst its initial fear. Natasha took aim at the next can and slowly brought her finger over the trigger. She had grown in confidence and her open eye stayed fixed on the new target. Tim smiled at her eagerness, and as her finger had moved to squeeze the trigger, her cat sprinted toward the bench, but behind a line of barrels and vegetable crates where it was momentarily out of sight. Her focus had remained channelled on the can and nothing else, and as she squeezed the trigger, flinched in horror as the sound of gunfire and punctured flesh filled her ears. The image of feline matter strewn over the ground induced a level of shock she had never experienced before. It had made her want to vomit then and there.

Shit! Tim and Brett both mumbled, their faces twisted in disgust as they stared down at the bloody mess that was once Natasha’s cat.

II

Cornfields Grow in Summer Glow

The setting sun spread a glaze of golden light through the cornfield and over the high leaves slowly swaying in the gentle westerly breeze as a warm shade of orange stained the sky. Natasha’s German Sheppard was left outside and sniffed at a patch of blood on the ground where the majority of the cat’s body had briefly been. In the summer months Natasha and her mother would enjoy the view of the cornfield from the porch when she was as young as three years old. Mrs. Kayle would insist that her daughter appreciate what a wonderful gift to the earth farmland could be. She would say it was like a national park, land that city buildings could never touch. It had been years since they had shared that view together, side by side, hand in hand. However, as an adult, and the years since she had last seen her mother, her father’s land had gradually become a grave of distant memories and a birth place for many nightmares.

The house was quiet and only a few lights were on, some in the kitchen and a few upstairs. Tim quietly opened his sister’s door and peered inside to check if she was sleeping. She lay there awake on her bed staring into space, the ceiling light capturing the tears in her eyes.

How are you? he asked softly, but Natasha didn’t answer so he moved over to the bed and knelt down to be level with her eyes, I’m sorry.

Natasha jumped up from the bed and swung her arms at her brother’s chest, both fists clenched so that her knuckles would inflict as much pain as possible for all the hurt she was feeling herself, but the last few hours of crying had left her exhausted. Tim grabbed both her wrists and forced her to stop.

Look I’m sorry, it was an accident. Damn cat is dumber than I am, he said, and forced a hug out of her. Brett could hear everything downstairs as he stood by the kitchen sink drying his hands. Several minutes later he watched Natasha shuffle in through the side door with her arms folded and her walking boots tightly fastened. Her eyes looked sore.

How’s it going? he asked, but he got no reply as she left the house via the rear porch. He felt sorry for the girl, and not just for her loss, but because she had very little going for her. Most of her friends had started lives elsewhere and her pets were all she had besides her family. She was a smart girl who could have made a name for herself in the city, yet here she was stuck on a farm learning to shoot rifles.

Richard, the father, a tall and slender looking man with light brown hair and a face rough with stubble, strolled into the kitchen with a newspaper in his hand. He looked at his brother curiously.

What’s going on? he enquired.

Shit, where have you been all day? Natasha shot the cat, Brett answered.

Say what? he replied naively.

Not on purpose you prick!

Richard sat down opposite him at the kitchen table and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Is this decaf?

Nope, Brett replied.

Good, he muttered, and took a sip before resting back in his chair, What the hell was she doing shooting a gun anyway?

Tim, Brett said under his breath.

What did he do to upset her?

What? No, what the hell is wrong with you! He was teaching her to shoot and the fucking cat got in the way as she shot, Brett explained.

Damn, she loved that cat.

Hence why she’s been upstairs crying all afternoon. If you came out of that god-damn basement once in a while you’d know what’s going on around here, said Brett, and before Richard could defend himself, his son entered the kitchen and took a beer out of the fridge.

At least she’s still got the dog! Tim mumbled.

Nice job, ass-wipe! Brett directed at Tim, as if such errors of judgement were not uncommon with his nephew. Tim mouthed the words ‘fuck you’ as he opened the bottle.

Natasha walked along the fence line to the south section of her family’s land - technically her father’s now; her grandparents had made him the beneficiary many years ago. In her hand was a long stick she kept by the rear porch, one she could run along each fence panel she passed. The sound was similar to that of a train running across a bumpy track with a ‘tapping’ sort of noise in rapid succession. It eased her mind, though every now and then it would disturb a group of birds resting in the cornfield and frighten them back into the air with a sudden flurry of feathers. In her other hand was a wicker basket with a blood stained cloth covering the cat’s body. She stopped where the soil softened at the tip of the cornfield and chose a spot for its burial. Her face remained straight, emotionless, yet beneath the surface was a mind tormented by the pain and sorrow of her loss. She was wise enough to see that regardless of what had happened there was nothing she could do about it and she should accept the reality of the situation, move on and be positive. That was her rational side, a voice that spoke reason and laid out the theoretical boundaries and choices in her life, her conscience so to speak. But this conflicted massively with what she would instinctively act upon. How could she move on with the click of her thumb and finger when all she wanted to do was strangle her brother into a shrivelled prune!

Natasha unleashed a scream from the pit of her stomach in an attempt to relieve some stress. She was fed up being at home, fed up now college was over, and pissed off with her brother. Jax, her four year old dog, had followed from the house and was staring up at her, reflecting sadness in his own eyes.

The three men sat quietly around the kitchen table. Tim was the only one not reading something.

Damn cat was dumber than you! Richard said, breaking the silence.

That’s what I said, Tim replied, feeling slightly relieved that a little humour was brought to the table.

You know how much she loves animals. She’ll never get over that, Brett told him.

Tim leant back in his chair and faced that reality with a grimace. He covered his face with his trucker cap and exhaled through his nose to ease some of the frustration sinking in. He was the one who had actually got the cat for her two years ago, knowing very well his sister’s fascination and love for animals. No one in the family ever understood the intensity of the obsession, but then each of them had clear individuality in terms of their hobbies and interests. Tim had his sports and guns, so too did Brett, but the old man was more inclined to solitude whenever he could afford it out in the field. He wanted to be buried out there when the time came and become one with it. The others would laugh at him and try to convince him that he was part Native American or something, but there was a spiritual and tender side to Brett that the others didn’t really understand. Richard certainly didn’t, not with his prolonged absence from the family with so much of his time spent working in the basement. Nobody really cared enough to enquire what that work was exactly; they just tried to counter his unsociable tendencies by ignoring him whenever the opportunity came.

***

The morning sun began its rise over the vast field. Rays of bright light broke through the gaps in the leaves and illuminated the lingering dust. The rear porch was at least two feet off the ground, and standing tall at just shy of five-six, Natasha could often see over the top of the field and follow its breadth toward the horizon without much effort. To her, the crops seemed to line the plain like swaying palm trees stretching as far as the distant tree line that formed the border between her father’s land and their neighbour’s. She would enjoy that view every morning, but not today. Today she remained in bed, mourning.

Tim closed the cereal cupboard above the fridge and placed a box of oatmeal onto the counter. A carton of milk already sat waiting next to his favourite bowl. Large drops of condensation trickled onto his fingers as he gripped the carton and poured the thin, silk-like milk into the small pot resting on the stove. He took a pack of smokes off the top of the microwave and shoved them in the back pocket of his dirty jeans. He gently swirled the pot in his right hand and watched the tiny oats bubble under the heat. Jax appeared from the hallway and rested by his feet.

Hey, boy.

He took some open dog food out from the fridge and placed it in the dog’s bowl next to the rear porch door. He then poured the oatmeal and mixed in some jam to sweeten the flavour. ‘6 am’ his wristwatch read. He yawned and gazed out the nearest window to see Brett already busy with the many chores the land demanded. Tim smiled to himself and grabbed a can of soda out of the fridge before moving over to the breakfast table. Brett had already brought in the pre-early morning post, which they named ‘crazy mail’, delivered by the one and only ‘Mad-man Sam’. He was the town’s conspiracy nut and was convinced that the world would end each and every day. Every citizen treated his flyers as comedy now, but despite public humiliation, Mad-man Sam never gave up. Today’s flyer read ‘World in flames or World in meat grinder?’ Tim felt the need to read on.

Why no media all of a sudden? he read out sarcastically, And why no busses to Marvel City?

Natasha dragged her feet into the kitchen with a drowsy look on her face, the kind that derived from a lack of sleep and a bad temper. She moved straight to the cereal cupboard for her low fat rice cakes and glanced over at Tim drinking the soda.

You shouldn’t drink that crap this early in the morning, she criticised.

Tim slammed the can down on the table with distain and dropped the flyer.

Stay out of my business and I’ll stay out of yours...although that’s hard when I can hear you masturbating at two o’clock in the morning!

That would be you, shit head! Natasha replied.

What is it with you? You’re a real bitch sometimes!

Natasha threw half a rice cake at Tim’s face with surprising speed and accuracy, just missing the top of his head.

Maybe coz I shot my cat into a million pieces, you fucktard!

Morning kids! Richard said cheerfully as he strode up to the table. Jax was happily eating the rice cake off the floor.

Hey, pop, Tim replied, and looked toward his sister. She ignored him. Tim handed his father a cup of coffee and watched him sit down to read his paper.

Thanks, sweetheart! he joked, Do you mind giving me a hand fixing that mower this morning?

Leave it, it’s busted now, Tim replied, and watched Natasha purposely ignore the both of them, I’ll pick one up later in town.

Let me give it one more go, save you driving there all the time, Richard encouraged.

I was going in anyway.

The rear kitchen burst open with a rush of air and a jabbing crack of the handle against the inner wall. Brett jumped in front of Natasha and yelled a childish boo!

What the hell! Tim blurted out, his sister too shocked to even utter a syllable. Brett let a cheeky smile form over his mouth. Natasha couldn’t help smiling and hit him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. Her uncle laughed his head off for successfully scaring the both of them this time - a stunt he performed regularly in the mornings with only ever scaring Natasha.

He waved a hand toward the door with both eyes fixed on his nephew.

Come on, boy, work time!

Tim stood up and slid his chair back against the wall with the back of his knees.

Jesus, you’d think this old-timer would learn by now! Tim sarcastically added, and ran after his uncle to slap the top of his head. They both wrestled each other out the door. Natasha took the rest of her breakfast and left Richard alone to stare into space, disappointed again at the lack of interaction between them.

***

The men attended their chores with enthusiasm. Each and every day the two of them tackled the various jobs around the farm without a second wasted or any integrity faltered. Some days it would be the more important duty of tending to the field, whereas other days it would be shovelling manure for the flower beds at the front of the house, or even fixing the truck that broke down every two minutes.

Tim had learnt the ropes off Brett many years ago and it was evident from the way they worked together that their partnership resembled a master and an apprentice. Brett had little professional schooling as a child and learnt the basics of English, Maths and so on from his parents. His main job was to attend similar chores on the very same farm as he did today; this particular piece of land having been in the Kayle family for years. This sacrifice enabled Richard enough funding to pursue his college education, and later, advanced computer programming.

Even at an early age, Richard was naturally smarter than his brother and had always been more academic, whereas Brett had harboured a more creative and ‘hands on’ nature. It was no surprise to anyone when the two decided to take the land into their own hands when their parents passed away, but under Richard’s name. This was something Brett had difficulty accepting, especially when his brother would never explain his reason for staying on the farm and not moving to the city to pursue a job related to his qualifications, but then much of his life was a mystery to all. He had done much work on data programming with various companies but had never remained in a stable career. The long hours he spent in the basement working with computers and selective materials were strictly private. Everyone had occasionally wondered but wholly ignored his activities. Tim rarely questioned anything.

His concerns usually lay with football fixtures on the TV and when his next Detasseling duty was. This was the core duty these days and he was still in the process of perfecting his skills with the ‘cutter’. This was the huge machine that looks like a giant tractor with a long beam ahead of its front wheels resting horizontally to cut off the top portion of the corn, or ‘maize’ to give it its true title, so that a ‘puller’ can come through and take the tassel out from the corn with its rollers. The process is rather simple when looked at from afar, but like so many things in life, there is a lot more than meets the eye to such procedures. Firstly, the detassling machines are pretty big machines, and unless you are experienced with handling the controls, it’s a dangerous experience to even be near one at work. Secondly, farmers know the very problems that can accumulate with such duties. The machine itself doesn’t always work as accurately as one would hope, especially when it can’t necessarily adapt quickly enough to the various heights that crops can grow at; and the Kayles’ corn grew to grand heights. Usually, this was fairly consistent but even a decent machine can only produce an average of around seventy to eighty percent on its job. This was never really a concern of Tim’s, not when he was still focussing on mastering the controls. The facts and politics of the procedure were left to Brett.

***

Lunch time seemed to come around quickly today. Smokes, sandwiches, and beers were the daily lunchtime routine. The guys never had a moment’s hesitation to stop their work when it came to ‘1 p.m.’. The sandwiches today consisted of pumpkin seed bread for the base, both slices smothered with mayo and seasonal dressing, followed by sliced mustard ham and turkey, ending with a covering of the thin fluffy pieces that form the outer shell of a lettuce. The beer of choice was summer ale for this particular time of year, accompanied by a hand-rolled smoke. It was almost a ritual when one considered the fastidious preferences the boys had, but in truth, they just found comfort in exploring the enjoyment out of such necessities after a hard mornings work.

On her bad days, Natasha usually dealt with other jobs around the farm and tended to stay clear of everyone else. In part, her frustration stemmed from staying put on her father’s farm rather than pursuing a career in the city and the inevitable regret that all of them had foreseen. She had originally studied journalism and English-based courses for many years and had aspirations of working for the Marvel Newsroom in the city, but her plans had been delayed when her mother had left the farm unexpectedly, and found herself providing some stability in the family. The house needed a female figure around for many reasons, especially one that was so similar to the previous; a kind and reassuring woman with a strong heart, but Natasha’s role was indisputably sexist at times with her cooking skills far greater than the men and superior house maintenance skills meant that she tended to those duties. Yet she had a valuable behavioural trait that reassured her that her input wasn’t taken for granted, a ‘give me shit and get bit’ attitude.

Her choice of activity today was seeing to the plants that formed a rather picturesque bed at the front of the house. The land was well maintained by the Kayles - a duty and privilege born of many generations of their family, yet it was one performed with a minimum of fuss and genuine desire, particularly when it came to the plants and flowers, Natasha rarely quarrelled. After all, she believed that flowers were a girl’s best friend, not diamonds!

***

Evening soon enveloped the land and an orange sunset lay beyond the distant hills. The air was humid and sticky and fireflies hovered over the tips of the corn, sparkling in the light between the stems. Richard stood by the door of his daughter’s room and leant his shoulder against the frame. He looked in on her and tried to formulate a plan to somehow dispel the feud that had sought to foil their relationship over the last few years. There was no doubt that it had arisen from the tension surrounding her mother’s departure, but he hadn’t foreseen such dramatic consequences. Many years ago they would both take long walks around the farm and discuss politics, film, and literature - both of them acquiring a more intellectual view of the world than the two working boys, and it had made them very close. At present, they couldn’t be further apart.

Natasha rolled onto her side and saw her father spying from the thin gap between the door and its frame. No words and no light seemed to break the darkness in her eyes as she stared back at him. If Richard didn’t know where he stood in her life, then the way she walked up to the door and closed it in front of his face would have spelt it out for him. Instead of trying to force the situation, he felt it was wiser to play the waiting game and perhaps let Natasha come to him when she was ready.

He reverted to the familiar and private sanctuary of his basement for an evening of peace and solitude. His compulsive tendencies were clear to see in his work area. He had ‘lined up’ rather than ‘placed’ his tools and office items on his work bench. Pencils stayed together in single file, as too did the pens and rulers. He seemed to exhale the disappointment of his daughter’s attitude with one quick exertion of air from his lungs before he turned to a pile of schematics on top of his desk. Next to his computer monitor was a fairly small aluminium box with two computer chips inside and an empty space for a third. Alongside that was a Glock 17 handgun in its foam-padded case. He looked long and hard at the empty spot inside the box and ran a warm finger over the first broken chip.

The room was partially lit by the bright lamp at the corner of the desk and left the rest of the basement in almost complete darkness. The walls were bare of any decorations and were instead lined with various shelves stocked with DIY equipment of various sorts. He leant back in his soft leather chair and breathed through his nostrils. He had promised himself a dozen or more times to quit smoking, yet the box of fine cigars to the right of the lamp were cruel, tightly formed essences of temptation. He placed one between his lips and searched his pockets for a lighter. He had a flip lighter in his top pocket, but that’s not what he wanted - that would ruin the flavour. He searched for a box of matches instead. Footsteps slowly made their way down the tall, wooden steps behind him. The sound had gone unnoticed at first with his attention so focused on the matches he soon found, but it was the footsteps that sounded behind him that caught his attention.

Whoa! he blurted out as he turned in his seat, only to see his Natasha standing with her arms folded and a stern face that told him she was ready for confrontation. She said nothing at first and moved over