I Am Me is a two-way book that contains twenty short stories, divided into ten individual pairs. Each story in a pair has a corresponding "mate" on the other side, which shares the same title, theme, and to an extent the same concept, but is presented in an entirely different way. One half of the book examines reality, while the other half explores the realms of fantasy. The stories examine various aspects of life, from birth to friendship, love, desire, ambition, prejudice, spirituality, death and the afterlife. Through the two-way structure of the book, I Am Me depicts each tale in two distinct ways, offering a reader a choice between residing in a realistic world, or being lost within the labyrinths of fantasy. The stories are populated by an eclectic group of characters, ranging from a lonely boy who attempts to determine the value of friendship, to two birds named Max and Macs that fight for territory on an apple tree. I Am Me attempts to challenge the segregation of literature into "fact" and "fiction" as well as life into "reality" and "fantasy." These labels are not mutually exclusive, for there is as much truth to every lie, as there are lies in every truth. It is perception that paints the difference between these concepts.

I Am Me

A Collection of Short StoriesBy Ram Sundaram

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Ram Sundaram
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-7273-6

Contents

Prologue: Dreamless......................xiEarth's Child............................1Fifty Cents..............................10At First Sight...........................22Reality's Dream..........................36Reflection...............................43An Apple Branch..........................55Touch of Reality.........................61Soul Mate................................73Hangman..................................79Immortal in Death........................87Epilogue: Absolution.....................101

Chapter One

Earth's Child

The events of that night precipitated from an incident that occurred two days prior, when I was separated from my company by a snowstorm. The winds destroyed any tracks they may have left behind. The storm raged relentlessly for two days and only slackened on the third. When the winds subsided, I left my shelter and made my way north, hoping to reunite with my company. It was then that I reached the canyon. Long and narrow, it was a mere cleft between two mountains, and our camp was to its north. I would have to pass through it to reach them.

I slid down the side of the hill as noiselessly as I could. Using the rifle butt for support, I edged down to the western side of the gorge, behind a large slab of rock. I dropped my rucksack and lay on my back, facing the mountain. The rifle sat on my chest and my finger tightened around the trigger, while my gaze drifted to the skies. It was snowing again and the wind began to howl. I readjusted my helmet and mopped the sweat off my face. I marvelled at the absurdity of sweating in the middle of winter—war did crazy things to men.

It was very quiet. My thoughts felt somewhat disjointed and I could discern no particular pattern to them. I pondered the snow first, but then my thoughts wandered towards my family back home, and suddenly I found myself thinking of food. I thought of steak and potatoes, of meatloaf and gravy, of the thousands of dinners I'd had, without ever pausing to relish every bite and every morsel. I promised myself that if I made it out of here alive, I would learn to celebrate every moment of my existence, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem.

"I'm starting to think like a dying man," I said aloud and chuckled wryly.

I held my breath for a few seconds, straining to listen for any sounds in the ravine. I knew there might have been dozens, maybe even hundreds of enemy soldiers scattered through these mountains at that very minute. But how many were in this canyon, and how many were near me?

I got to my feet and edged around the rock to peer out. It was then, by sheer chance, that I looked down in my stride and saw pink skin searing through the pale earth. The colour, so strange and out of place amid this miserable, decaying battlefield, filled me with a sense of hope. I assumed it was some kind of small animal, long dead and claimed by the frozen depths of the earth. But then I realised that the snow covering the carcass was fresh, so the animal had probably died recently, perhaps even a mere few hours ago. It most likely wasn't edible, but after two days of eating nothing but jerky, even the thought of frozen meat was appealing. I knew I wouldn't be able to eat it right away, for I would have to thaw it out first. And even after it thawed, cooking it would require lighting a fire, and that would be a dangerous thing to do in the middle of this gorge, with enemy soldiers all around. But I decided to dig it out anyway, and strap the carcass onto my rucksack, if only as a reward for when I made it out alive.

I began brushing some of the snow aside, to assess how large the animal was, and how deeply it had been buried. As I cleared a bit of the snow, I found five tiny fingers lying in the earth, attached to a small, stubby hand. It didn't look like the hand of a man ... no, it was smaller, hairless, and delicate. I began digging further, tugging at the earth's stubborn grip on it, before extracting a tiny, baby boy into my arms. I knelt in the snow, holding him against my chest, shocked and confused. Coupled with remorse for the fate of this child, I was enraged at the thought that he had died here in the middle of nowhere, alone and unheeded. I wondered how he'd ended up in this gorge, and why he had been abandoned. Had he been left here after he'd died or had he been buried alive? Even as these questions encircled my head, his tiny fingers stirred slightly, his head turned towards me, and his beautiful eyes opened wide.

I stared at his lovely face, dumbfounded by this absurdity. He was dead ... He had to be. He'd been buried naked in the snow for hours at the very least. He shouldn't have survived, and he shouldn't have been looking up at me right now, enchanting me with his presence. I am not too proud a man to admit I felt weakness then, and had tears lurking within my eyes.

I sat down behind the slab of rock and examined him. He didn't look frostbitten, pale, or even cold; he was pink, full of colour and vitality. He appeared unharmed, calm, and surprisingly happy. I estimated that he was about six or seven weeks old.

"Jesus, they're starting the draft early these days," I said, and gently tipped his head up so his eyes could meet mine. "Did they draft ya? You come out here to fight a war?" He cocked his head to one side. "I'm Sergeant Connor," I said, and gently shook his tiny hand with my own, "Pleased to meet you." I imagined how ludicrous this scene must have seemed to an observer—a soldier, saddled with a rifle, a pistol, grenades, knives, and other tools that were designed to take lives, sitting cross-legged in a snow-covered canyon, cradling a baby in his arms.

I smiled at the little tyke with as much warmth as I could muster. "What platoon you from, marine?" I asked, poking him gently in the belly and then blowing a raspberry—that made him giggle. "You know a Jacobs? Surly fellow he is—smokes a lot of cigars and likes his women. He ever show you a picture of Annette? That's his girl ... She's beautiful. Never understood what she saw in a washed-up loser like Jacobs. But they say love's blind. You hear that before?" I could have sworn he shrugged just then. "You ever been told that love's blind?" I asked again. "If not, you remember me telling you, `cause it'll take you a long way in life. That and knowing that a woman will rip your heart out and eat it for dinner if you let her. Them's the two things you've gotta remember if you wanna survive this world."

He shivered. "Where's my head?" I said, giving my helmet a reproachful slap. "Here you are shivering your tiny fingers off and I'm yammering on about Jacobs and cannibalistic women." I pulled a rolled-up blanket from my rucksack. "But that's what war does to you. It makes you forget yourself, know what I mean?" He didn't seem to follow. "War makes you forget who you are, what you ought to be doing and even where you belong," I explained and spread the blanket out next to him. I gently placed his body in it. "War's a damn curse."

I looked into his face, which was radiant with youthful colour. His eyes, wide and expressive, regarded me attentively. I reckon I'd never seen anything more beautiful in my life than him. "What's your story?" I asked him. "I wish you could talk, so you could tell me just what happened to ya. Because you shouldn't be here,...