First draft of another very short one.
This is really just an exercise that I came up with. It was a small bit of dialogue between two people, called Cake, and nothing else; just the dialogue. I rewrote it from a different point of view and made up the plot. I also had to change the dialogue a little to make it fit my plot. I have no idea who the author of “Cake” is. If anyone might know or has come across it before, let me know and I’ll give credit. Anyway, have a look and let me know what you think.
Dessert
Careful to avoid the frosting roses, I reached over and scooped up a big piece of icing with my finger. “Man, this looks great.”
Nora, set the cake down and curled up on the floor next to the couch. “Is it good?” she asked.
Licking my finger, “Oh yeah, I’ll take a big piece. Don’t want to sit up here?”
Touching the edge of the blade with her finger, “No, I’m fine. Listen, we need to talk.”
I knew this was coming. I watched her cut into it, biting her bottom lip while shoving the knife in to slide out a huge chunk of chocolate cake. I didn’t know it was chocolate under the white icing; I hate chocolate. Arching her back she handed the slab of cake up to me and stayed on the floor watching me while I ate. “This is good” I lied as I watched her toying with the knife again while I ate; I couldn’t help thinking of a cat stretching her claws.
“Another piece?”
“Oh I’m good. I don’t think I could eat another.”
“Ok, so now what?”
“I don’t know.” Delaying the inevitable I asked: “Want to see what’s on TV?”
She let a sigh and settled back on her hands without looking up at me “That’s not what I meant. I mean what I asked you to think about.”
“Maybe I will have another piece.”
“I’ll get it for you in a minute.”
Watch out for the claws I thought, as I set the plate on the floor. “Listen Nora, I just can’t see it working out between us with all the traveling that I have to do. It really wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“No?” Pawing her way up on the couch next to me, she pushed that mane of hair to the side to look at me with those biscotti eyes. She took the plate, put it on the floor and with a hand behind my neck pulled my face to hers.
“Never mind about the cake” I said.
Showing posts with label Steve Marshall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Steve Marshall. Show all posts
Friday, February 13, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Deployment
“What was that?’ he asked, still squinting up into the trees.
She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I said I can’t believe how the past six months have flown by. You have everything packed, right?”
He was looking at sun light glistening on ice coating the tree branches above; a thousand diamonds dangling above his head in the January breeze. His shoulders shook from the cold. “This time next month I’ll be sweating in desert sand.”
Her eyes, already red started to well up again. She hooked an arm through his. “Just be careful, I need you back home. You know how much I’m going to miss you.”
His eyes traced a line across the snow, blanketing the field they stood at the edge of when he spoke. “You know I put a lot of work into this farm the past couple of years; both barns needed roofing and the fields were overgrown…” His gaze came to rest on deer tracks that ran toward the fence line he had worked on the past summer, replacing rotted posts and clearing brush that had woven through the rails; a confusion of leaves, branches and function. Now that fence formed a shadow of two parallel lines that ran across the snow. It’s so peaceful out here; he was thinking when she interrupted his thoughts again.
“You are going to miss me, aren’t you?”
He was still looking at the fence “Yeah…yeah I’ll miss you.”
She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I said I can’t believe how the past six months have flown by. You have everything packed, right?”
He was looking at sun light glistening on ice coating the tree branches above; a thousand diamonds dangling above his head in the January breeze. His shoulders shook from the cold. “This time next month I’ll be sweating in desert sand.”
Her eyes, already red started to well up again. She hooked an arm through his. “Just be careful, I need you back home. You know how much I’m going to miss you.”
His eyes traced a line across the snow, blanketing the field they stood at the edge of when he spoke. “You know I put a lot of work into this farm the past couple of years; both barns needed roofing and the fields were overgrown…” His gaze came to rest on deer tracks that ran toward the fence line he had worked on the past summer, replacing rotted posts and clearing brush that had woven through the rails; a confusion of leaves, branches and function. Now that fence formed a shadow of two parallel lines that ran across the snow. It’s so peaceful out here; he was thinking when she interrupted his thoughts again.
“You are going to miss me, aren’t you?”
He was still looking at the fence “Yeah…yeah I’ll miss you.”
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The Bike
Andrew’s house was a couple farms down from mine; near where the pavement ended and the gravel began. Just about every morning all of us would meet up on our bikes at the end of the road and disappear into the woods. We rode bikes in those woods so much that we wore trails through the underbrush; around the biggest trees and on down to the stream. We built a fort there, down near the flood plain of the stream from tree limbs we had picked up. One day Clay brought a shovel from home and we made a jump out of a dirt pile on one of our trails. We would ride those trails all morning; going around, gripping the handle bars as tight as we could to take the jump as fast as each one of us dared.
Andrew never took the jump very fast; he would just ride over it while the rest of us always tried to see how far we could jump our bikes. We always thought he was scared, but after a couple of times we stopped teasing him about it and let it go. One day Clay took the jump a little too fast, or maybe he just forgot to lean back some when he hit it. Anyway, he ended up landing on his front tire, which of course meant that he went right over the handle bars. Brad, Sam and I stood there and laughed at him. Andrew didn’t say anything; he just stood there with his bike and watched. Clay didn’t say anything either for a few minutes. He just kind of laid there and moaned because he had racked himself pretty good when he went over the bars. I straightened Clay’s front wheel by holding it between my knees and twisting the handle bars.
We would spend most of the morning in those woods, just riding the trails and playing in the fort. Later as the heat and humidity of the day would begin to set in we would wade in the stream where the silt from the bottom would ooze up between my toes. We would look for rocks to skip or maybe launch broken branches downstream to see how far they could go before getting hung up on a sand bar or fallen tree limb. Andrew was always kind of quiet; he would wade around, maybe pick up a rock here or there to look at. He never really got excited about anything, even when Clay wiped out on the jump.
Late afternoon we would all start to head home. It would be time for supper soon and we were always dirty, sweaty and hungry. Most days I would head on up to Andrew’s house while everyone else went on home. He would park his bike in the barn where he would wipe all the dust off of it with a rag from his father’s work bench. He would lift it up and spin the wheels to make sure that they were still straight. He would squeeze the brakes to see if the cables were beginning to fray and wipe the dirt off the chain, before oiling it with a squirt can. It was a red Huffy; banana seat, five speeds, cheater slick back tire. I think his parents bought it for him at a garage sale last Christmas. It had a few scratches and some duct tape on the seat but, never the less he seemed to love it. He always parked his bike out of the way of the tractor so his dad wouldn’t have to move it. I never said anything, but I always thought it was kind of funny how he took care of that bike.
Some days I would go on in his house with him for a little while. We would sit in his room and talk about things we could add to the fort or maybe some of the rocks that Andrew had found near the stream. He had a lot of those rocks on his book shelf. Some looked like plain old gravel to me, but there was some shale, some sandstone, and a couple pieces of granite. Andrew didn’t have much else in his room. Besides his rock collection, he had some books and a couple of toy tractors he had made from wooden sewing spools. He or his father had carved notches in both ends of the spools to look like big tractor tires, then put a rubber band through the spool with a couple of match sticks on the ends so he could wind them up. They would scoot across the wood floor pretty good unless they ran into the rug or some thing. I normally didn’t hang around too long because I would get bored. I knew Andrew’s parents didn’t have much; they only had a small television and there were no video games at all in their house.
Today I had stayed longer than usual and was really getting bored. I told Andrew that I needed to get going. He said, “Here I found this one today; you can have it.” He pulled a rock out of his pocket; it was a small piece of granite about half the size of a golf ball. Brushing some of the silt off of it I could see the small crystals imbedded on the surface. “Thanks” I said, “that’s a nice one.” “I already have a couple of these; you can have this one.” He smiled at me. I stuffed the rock into my pocket, “gotta go, see you tomorrow.”
I rode home, leaving Andrew with his sewing spool tractors, rocks, and his red Huffy in the barn. Leaning my bike against the back wall of the house, I went in to sit on the couch and play video games until supper was ready. While I lay on the couch Mom was talking to someone on the phone in the kitchen; I didn’t know if she even knew I was home. She stuck her head around the corner. “Oh, you’re home. What did you do all day?”
“Nothing much; I think Andrew’s parents are poor.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They don’t have anything, a little T.V., no games, no computer.”
“Farming can be hard some years; his father isn’t as lucky as yours to have a good job.”
I was getting my butt kicked at Duke Nukem. “When are we gonna to eat?”
“We’ll eat in a little bit; your dad will be late so he’s going to pick up something on his way home.”
I was still losing at Duke Nukem and getting tired of playing. I tossed the control on the floor and went out the back door. Mom was on the phone again and probably didn’t even hear me leave. I grabbed my bike and headed back down the road as it was just starting to get dark. I didn’t really plan on going back to Andrew’s house; I just wanted to get out for a little bit longer. But, when I rode by I could see the light on in the living room so I turned up his lane, while a couple of chickens scooted out of my way. I dropped my bike and walked through damp grass to the kitchen window. I could see Andrew at the table with his parents as I pushed my chin up to the window sill. Andrew and his Dad were laughing at something while his Mom spooned potatoes onto his plate. I took the rock out of my pocket and looked at it in the light below the window. The crystals caught the light from the window and gleamed like the dew forming on the grass. I placed it on the sill outside their kitchen window.
Andrew never took the jump very fast; he would just ride over it while the rest of us always tried to see how far we could jump our bikes. We always thought he was scared, but after a couple of times we stopped teasing him about it and let it go. One day Clay took the jump a little too fast, or maybe he just forgot to lean back some when he hit it. Anyway, he ended up landing on his front tire, which of course meant that he went right over the handle bars. Brad, Sam and I stood there and laughed at him. Andrew didn’t say anything; he just stood there with his bike and watched. Clay didn’t say anything either for a few minutes. He just kind of laid there and moaned because he had racked himself pretty good when he went over the bars. I straightened Clay’s front wheel by holding it between my knees and twisting the handle bars.
We would spend most of the morning in those woods, just riding the trails and playing in the fort. Later as the heat and humidity of the day would begin to set in we would wade in the stream where the silt from the bottom would ooze up between my toes. We would look for rocks to skip or maybe launch broken branches downstream to see how far they could go before getting hung up on a sand bar or fallen tree limb. Andrew was always kind of quiet; he would wade around, maybe pick up a rock here or there to look at. He never really got excited about anything, even when Clay wiped out on the jump.
Late afternoon we would all start to head home. It would be time for supper soon and we were always dirty, sweaty and hungry. Most days I would head on up to Andrew’s house while everyone else went on home. He would park his bike in the barn where he would wipe all the dust off of it with a rag from his father’s work bench. He would lift it up and spin the wheels to make sure that they were still straight. He would squeeze the brakes to see if the cables were beginning to fray and wipe the dirt off the chain, before oiling it with a squirt can. It was a red Huffy; banana seat, five speeds, cheater slick back tire. I think his parents bought it for him at a garage sale last Christmas. It had a few scratches and some duct tape on the seat but, never the less he seemed to love it. He always parked his bike out of the way of the tractor so his dad wouldn’t have to move it. I never said anything, but I always thought it was kind of funny how he took care of that bike.
Some days I would go on in his house with him for a little while. We would sit in his room and talk about things we could add to the fort or maybe some of the rocks that Andrew had found near the stream. He had a lot of those rocks on his book shelf. Some looked like plain old gravel to me, but there was some shale, some sandstone, and a couple pieces of granite. Andrew didn’t have much else in his room. Besides his rock collection, he had some books and a couple of toy tractors he had made from wooden sewing spools. He or his father had carved notches in both ends of the spools to look like big tractor tires, then put a rubber band through the spool with a couple of match sticks on the ends so he could wind them up. They would scoot across the wood floor pretty good unless they ran into the rug or some thing. I normally didn’t hang around too long because I would get bored. I knew Andrew’s parents didn’t have much; they only had a small television and there were no video games at all in their house.
Today I had stayed longer than usual and was really getting bored. I told Andrew that I needed to get going. He said, “Here I found this one today; you can have it.” He pulled a rock out of his pocket; it was a small piece of granite about half the size of a golf ball. Brushing some of the silt off of it I could see the small crystals imbedded on the surface. “Thanks” I said, “that’s a nice one.” “I already have a couple of these; you can have this one.” He smiled at me. I stuffed the rock into my pocket, “gotta go, see you tomorrow.”
I rode home, leaving Andrew with his sewing spool tractors, rocks, and his red Huffy in the barn. Leaning my bike against the back wall of the house, I went in to sit on the couch and play video games until supper was ready. While I lay on the couch Mom was talking to someone on the phone in the kitchen; I didn’t know if she even knew I was home. She stuck her head around the corner. “Oh, you’re home. What did you do all day?”
“Nothing much; I think Andrew’s parents are poor.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They don’t have anything, a little T.V., no games, no computer.”
“Farming can be hard some years; his father isn’t as lucky as yours to have a good job.”
I was getting my butt kicked at Duke Nukem. “When are we gonna to eat?”
“We’ll eat in a little bit; your dad will be late so he’s going to pick up something on his way home.”
I was still losing at Duke Nukem and getting tired of playing. I tossed the control on the floor and went out the back door. Mom was on the phone again and probably didn’t even hear me leave. I grabbed my bike and headed back down the road as it was just starting to get dark. I didn’t really plan on going back to Andrew’s house; I just wanted to get out for a little bit longer. But, when I rode by I could see the light on in the living room so I turned up his lane, while a couple of chickens scooted out of my way. I dropped my bike and walked through damp grass to the kitchen window. I could see Andrew at the table with his parents as I pushed my chin up to the window sill. Andrew and his Dad were laughing at something while his Mom spooned potatoes onto his plate. I took the rock out of my pocket and looked at it in the light below the window. The crystals caught the light from the window and gleamed like the dew forming on the grass. I placed it on the sill outside their kitchen window.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Fredericktown
This is my first edit of this story…basically just pared it down and tried to tighten it up some. Instead of going through it all I just deleted the first draft and reposted this version. Anyway if you could let me know your ideas.
Thanks, Steve
***************************
The man was sitting at the table waiting. He had been sitting there for quite some time now, although he couldn’t be exactly sure how long. The clock on the stove had stopped running months ago, but still he found he was unable to keep from looking at it. His chair creaked as he leaned back, crossing his legs, and staring out the back window into the night.
It was getting warmer, the days were getting longer; winter was over and soon the frost he found on his truck most mornings would stop. The tiger lilies out back were beginning to turn green again. They would be in bloom before long with their orange and red flowers lining both sides of the walk that led from the back door to where his truck was parked.
He had been home from work for hours now and hadn’t even changed his clothes. He had walked into the house and just sat down at the kitchen table. He was still wearing his blue work shirt and slacks. He should really clean up he thought. He looked down at his hands, turning them over and studying his fingers; there was dirt caked under his nails that had been there for days. Something caught his eye; it was a thread sticking out from his shirt above his left pocket. It was where the patch with his name had been. It had been ripped off some time ago and he hadn’t bothered to replace it. He really should get a shower and change before she came home.
The lights of her car cut through the back window as she pulled into the drive. Every night it was later; soon she would not come home for days, just as she had done the other times. He had lost track of how many times it had been now, but once was too many. Every time he went through this it never got any easier.
The woman walked in and set her purse by the door. She looked up at him sitting by the table while bending down to take off her shoes. He asked her “did you have to stay over today Janine?” She smiled without really looking at him.
“Oh yeah, it was terrible, I just couldn’t get out of there.”
“That busy huh?”
“Busy from the time I got there; never really let up you know.” She answered while putting her shoes in the corner by the door; she rarely ever looked at him anymore.
She went into the bathroom and he heard the shower turn on. Maybe he would go fishing tomorrow. He sighed; he had only been out once so far this season. He could go fish the lake just north of town. He always went back to the same spot and sat on the bank to fish. He had fished from a boat a couple of times when he was young but he never really liked it. The boat always seemed to be suspended over an unending darkness as he looked down into the water. Not knowing what was below the surface unnerved him. On the bank he could relax and enjoy the day. Fishing would be a good way to spend Saturday he thought as he leaned back again in the chair.
He heard the water shut off, the bathroom door opened and then the bedroom door closed. Janine had gone to bed. He would get up before she did, in fact he would probably have his line in the water before she even got out of bed. And, she would be gone when he got back. She would be off doing whatever it was that she always did. Its ok he thought tomorrow will be nice.
Like most nights he slept in the living room recliner while Janine was either gone or in bed alone. As he slept in the chair he dreamed he was standing in water; it was dark and he had waded out into the water because he thought he had seen something bobbing around in the water that he needed to bring back to shore. In that strange way that dreams can be he didn’t know what it was floating out there, but he had to get it. As he waded out to retrieve what ever it was, it had kept drifting farther away and the faster he moved, the faster it seemed to move away from him. Finally tired from wading so far he gave up, watching the object that had brought him out here grow smaller and drift away. He turned back to shore.
The water was only chest deep, but he had waded out so far that he couldn’t see the bank in the darkness. He waded back in the direction he had come from when he stepped off a ledge into deep water. He thrashed and swam back to where he had been, but couldn’t touch the bottom there either. He stayed there, treading water and turning in circles, afraid to go in any direction. Trying to decide what to do with the weight of his clothes pulling him toward the darkness below, he would kick his feet, careful not to extend his legs too far as he didn’t know what was below him.
As a child he had this dream many times. He would wake up turning from side to side in bed, so wet with sweat, that in the those first moments between sleep and fully awake he really thought he was in the water. When he had first met Janine the dream had stopped, but as the years went by the dream had returned.
He got up and went into the bathroom to relieve himself. He came out and stood in front of the bedroom door for a moment, it was nearly morning. Reaching out his hand, his fingers blurred together as he focused on the wood grain of the door. Behind it in the darkness she would be asleep on her stomach; she always slept that way, with her hair spilling across her face, hiding her eyes. It would be daylight soon; he would let her sleep. She had worked late. He would just stay up and get ready to go. He would catch some fish today and that was always something to look forward to.
Driving up through Fredericktown the sun came up. He was heading northeast and he could see the large red orb through the right side of the windshield. Slowly it changed from red to orange and then as it brightened the inside of the truck, the windshield turned opaque from the dirt and splattered bugs on the glass. He had turned off of the county road onto an unpaved township road to get to the lake. It wasn’t a large lake but there were some parts of it that were quite remote. The fishing was best in these areas where the trees and brush came down to the water’s edge.
He parked the truck, grabbed his pole and tackle box, and started down a path. The brush along the path was greening up more since he had been here a couple of weeks ago. Soon spring would yield to the muggy days of a mid western summer and the fish would move out to the cooler water in the deep parts of the lake. Those were parts that you could only fish from a boat, but he would still come out here. He would sit and drink beer and look at his line in the water and think of her. Then he would go home with no fish to sit and drink beer and think of her. Today he didn’t bring any beer because he knew the fish would be biting and he was here to fish. He would drink tonight, as he did every Saturday night.
The path down to the water was damp from the heavy dew during the night; slick in some spots where the top soil had eroded off exposing clay and sand stone. It wasn’t a steep path, sloping gently down to the water’s edge where the weeds angled over the water and a small clump of cat tails stuck out of a shallow marshy area like brown needles.
He laid down his rod and took a small plastic bag from the tackle box. Opening the bag he shook a number two split shot into his hand. That should do it he thought. He crimped the weight onto the line with his teeth just above the hook and added a bobber about three feet above that. When he baited the hook, piercing the worm, it curled itself tightly. He wrapped it around the hook twice and pierced it again. The worm squirmed and wrapped itself even tighter around the shaft of the hook. It seemed as though it wanted to grasp hold of the very thing that would lead to its death, not knowing that if it had any way to escape the sharp point of the barb it could have lived.
The first cast broke the smooth surface of the water. The man reeled in some of the line, just enough to take in the slack and stood there watching. The bobber sent ripples out that disappeared under the tangled willow roots along the bank. One by one they went out to be swallowed up by the darkness of that overhanging tangle of roots; leaving his bobber standing alone in the water.
He stood there holding the rod and thought how this is a good spot for blue gills, maybe even a bass or two. But, a couple of nice blue gills would be fine. His thoughts drifted to Janine. He could leave her, he thought. It would be nice to be free of it all. What is it that drives her? He had asked himself this question many times since they had been together; he still didn’t know. Maybe he wouldn’t go home tonight. Maybe he would go to a motel for the night. He could pick up some beer and watch T.V.
The bobber moved a little on the water. It went to the side as though it were being pushed then stopped. He took a turn on his reel to tighten up the line a little. He’s teasing me, he thought. The bobber went down but came right back up as he held the rod with both hands now to be ready to set the hook. The bobber went down again, stayed down slightly longer this time, but then came back up. Come on take the bait he thought, as he tightened the line another half turn. Then it did. With a heavy jerk the end of the rod bowed down as the fish took the bait and tried to return down to the weeds on the bottom. The reel sang as the line ran out against the drag. The man pulled back and cranked, knowing the hook was set. The fish was strong; the rod thumping in the man’s hand as the line cut the surface.
He stepped down to the edge of the water to grab the line just above the hook. It was a small mouth bass and a nice one too. He held it up to look at it. The fish with its gills open and exposed, blood red on the inside, was suffocating out of the water. It had a large hole under the jaw on one side of its mouth. The fish had been caught before he noticed and the hook had left a wound that never really healed. He removed his hook from its mouth, bait still intact. He stooped down to release it back into the water and watched its tail flick to the side as it disappeared back to deeper water and swam away, with yet another wound that would not heal.
Thanks, Steve
***************************
The man was sitting at the table waiting. He had been sitting there for quite some time now, although he couldn’t be exactly sure how long. The clock on the stove had stopped running months ago, but still he found he was unable to keep from looking at it. His chair creaked as he leaned back, crossing his legs, and staring out the back window into the night.
It was getting warmer, the days were getting longer; winter was over and soon the frost he found on his truck most mornings would stop. The tiger lilies out back were beginning to turn green again. They would be in bloom before long with their orange and red flowers lining both sides of the walk that led from the back door to where his truck was parked.
He had been home from work for hours now and hadn’t even changed his clothes. He had walked into the house and just sat down at the kitchen table. He was still wearing his blue work shirt and slacks. He should really clean up he thought. He looked down at his hands, turning them over and studying his fingers; there was dirt caked under his nails that had been there for days. Something caught his eye; it was a thread sticking out from his shirt above his left pocket. It was where the patch with his name had been. It had been ripped off some time ago and he hadn’t bothered to replace it. He really should get a shower and change before she came home.
The lights of her car cut through the back window as she pulled into the drive. Every night it was later; soon she would not come home for days, just as she had done the other times. He had lost track of how many times it had been now, but once was too many. Every time he went through this it never got any easier.
The woman walked in and set her purse by the door. She looked up at him sitting by the table while bending down to take off her shoes. He asked her “did you have to stay over today Janine?” She smiled without really looking at him.
“Oh yeah, it was terrible, I just couldn’t get out of there.”
“That busy huh?”
“Busy from the time I got there; never really let up you know.” She answered while putting her shoes in the corner by the door; she rarely ever looked at him anymore.
She went into the bathroom and he heard the shower turn on. Maybe he would go fishing tomorrow. He sighed; he had only been out once so far this season. He could go fish the lake just north of town. He always went back to the same spot and sat on the bank to fish. He had fished from a boat a couple of times when he was young but he never really liked it. The boat always seemed to be suspended over an unending darkness as he looked down into the water. Not knowing what was below the surface unnerved him. On the bank he could relax and enjoy the day. Fishing would be a good way to spend Saturday he thought as he leaned back again in the chair.
He heard the water shut off, the bathroom door opened and then the bedroom door closed. Janine had gone to bed. He would get up before she did, in fact he would probably have his line in the water before she even got out of bed. And, she would be gone when he got back. She would be off doing whatever it was that she always did. Its ok he thought tomorrow will be nice.
Like most nights he slept in the living room recliner while Janine was either gone or in bed alone. As he slept in the chair he dreamed he was standing in water; it was dark and he had waded out into the water because he thought he had seen something bobbing around in the water that he needed to bring back to shore. In that strange way that dreams can be he didn’t know what it was floating out there, but he had to get it. As he waded out to retrieve what ever it was, it had kept drifting farther away and the faster he moved, the faster it seemed to move away from him. Finally tired from wading so far he gave up, watching the object that had brought him out here grow smaller and drift away. He turned back to shore.
The water was only chest deep, but he had waded out so far that he couldn’t see the bank in the darkness. He waded back in the direction he had come from when he stepped off a ledge into deep water. He thrashed and swam back to where he had been, but couldn’t touch the bottom there either. He stayed there, treading water and turning in circles, afraid to go in any direction. Trying to decide what to do with the weight of his clothes pulling him toward the darkness below, he would kick his feet, careful not to extend his legs too far as he didn’t know what was below him.
As a child he had this dream many times. He would wake up turning from side to side in bed, so wet with sweat, that in the those first moments between sleep and fully awake he really thought he was in the water. When he had first met Janine the dream had stopped, but as the years went by the dream had returned.
He got up and went into the bathroom to relieve himself. He came out and stood in front of the bedroom door for a moment, it was nearly morning. Reaching out his hand, his fingers blurred together as he focused on the wood grain of the door. Behind it in the darkness she would be asleep on her stomach; she always slept that way, with her hair spilling across her face, hiding her eyes. It would be daylight soon; he would let her sleep. She had worked late. He would just stay up and get ready to go. He would catch some fish today and that was always something to look forward to.
Driving up through Fredericktown the sun came up. He was heading northeast and he could see the large red orb through the right side of the windshield. Slowly it changed from red to orange and then as it brightened the inside of the truck, the windshield turned opaque from the dirt and splattered bugs on the glass. He had turned off of the county road onto an unpaved township road to get to the lake. It wasn’t a large lake but there were some parts of it that were quite remote. The fishing was best in these areas where the trees and brush came down to the water’s edge.
He parked the truck, grabbed his pole and tackle box, and started down a path. The brush along the path was greening up more since he had been here a couple of weeks ago. Soon spring would yield to the muggy days of a mid western summer and the fish would move out to the cooler water in the deep parts of the lake. Those were parts that you could only fish from a boat, but he would still come out here. He would sit and drink beer and look at his line in the water and think of her. Then he would go home with no fish to sit and drink beer and think of her. Today he didn’t bring any beer because he knew the fish would be biting and he was here to fish. He would drink tonight, as he did every Saturday night.
The path down to the water was damp from the heavy dew during the night; slick in some spots where the top soil had eroded off exposing clay and sand stone. It wasn’t a steep path, sloping gently down to the water’s edge where the weeds angled over the water and a small clump of cat tails stuck out of a shallow marshy area like brown needles.
He laid down his rod and took a small plastic bag from the tackle box. Opening the bag he shook a number two split shot into his hand. That should do it he thought. He crimped the weight onto the line with his teeth just above the hook and added a bobber about three feet above that. When he baited the hook, piercing the worm, it curled itself tightly. He wrapped it around the hook twice and pierced it again. The worm squirmed and wrapped itself even tighter around the shaft of the hook. It seemed as though it wanted to grasp hold of the very thing that would lead to its death, not knowing that if it had any way to escape the sharp point of the barb it could have lived.
The first cast broke the smooth surface of the water. The man reeled in some of the line, just enough to take in the slack and stood there watching. The bobber sent ripples out that disappeared under the tangled willow roots along the bank. One by one they went out to be swallowed up by the darkness of that overhanging tangle of roots; leaving his bobber standing alone in the water.
He stood there holding the rod and thought how this is a good spot for blue gills, maybe even a bass or two. But, a couple of nice blue gills would be fine. His thoughts drifted to Janine. He could leave her, he thought. It would be nice to be free of it all. What is it that drives her? He had asked himself this question many times since they had been together; he still didn’t know. Maybe he wouldn’t go home tonight. Maybe he would go to a motel for the night. He could pick up some beer and watch T.V.
The bobber moved a little on the water. It went to the side as though it were being pushed then stopped. He took a turn on his reel to tighten up the line a little. He’s teasing me, he thought. The bobber went down but came right back up as he held the rod with both hands now to be ready to set the hook. The bobber went down again, stayed down slightly longer this time, but then came back up. Come on take the bait he thought, as he tightened the line another half turn. Then it did. With a heavy jerk the end of the rod bowed down as the fish took the bait and tried to return down to the weeds on the bottom. The reel sang as the line ran out against the drag. The man pulled back and cranked, knowing the hook was set. The fish was strong; the rod thumping in the man’s hand as the line cut the surface.
He stepped down to the edge of the water to grab the line just above the hook. It was a small mouth bass and a nice one too. He held it up to look at it. The fish with its gills open and exposed, blood red on the inside, was suffocating out of the water. It had a large hole under the jaw on one side of its mouth. The fish had been caught before he noticed and the hook had left a wound that never really healed. He removed his hook from its mouth, bait still intact. He stooped down to release it back into the water and watched its tail flick to the side as it disappeared back to deeper water and swam away, with yet another wound that would not heal.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Allure
I .
I can’t remember exactly when it was now, but I remember when I first saw her. At least I think it was the first time I had ever seen her, maybe not.
I was in that little bar that I used to eat at several times a week; the one where I would sit and listen to the miners who would come in for lunch and sit and smoke while they talked and bitched about whatever topic one of them would bring up. I would sit and listen, pretending to read the paper, or stare at the spilled ring of coffee on my table while playing out their stories in my mind. I could see the one in the dirty carhart jeans. The one that held his cigarette between his middle and ring finger because his index finger was missing; listening as he said how fucked up he had been the night before and how he felt like shit now. I could see without looking the one that sat across from him. He wore a frayed flannel shirt that was worn so thin that you could almost see right through it. He ate his bacon cheeseburger leaning over his plate with grease glistening on both hands. He would mutter an occasional “no shit” and continue eating without looking up at his buddy.
I sat there until I knew it was time to go. The waitress had asked me twice if I wanted anything else. She looked at me as if to say: either order something or get the hell out of here. I paid and left.
She was standing with her back to me. I couldn’t tell what she was doing, I couldn’t even see her face, but for some reason her presence stopped me. Perhaps it was a certain allure in the way she just stood there. Her body had a nice shape. She wasn’t a knockout, but better than average for around here. She had her arms folded in front of her as she leaned against the awning post and just stood there. I lit a cigarette and coughed hoping the sound of some one behind her might cause her to turn around, but she didn’t. So I stood there smoking and she stood there with her back to me. I studied the back of her upper arms and the curve of her hips without trying to be too obvious; the bare skin at the small of her back where her black tank top didn’t quite reach the waist of her jeans. I looked at her hair that came down to the middle of her back, tangled and the color of dry straw, no, more like sand, but smooth. As I said, from what I could see she wasn’t bad looking and I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her. After a minute the miners began coming out so I thought I better go. Maybe she was waiting for one of them. Maybe she was waiting for the one that got so “fucked up” the night before. Maybe she was pissed off and was going to let him have it right there. No idea. I wanted to see her face. I really wanted to see her face.
II .
I was in my second year of college. I don’t really remember why I was in college except that I had this overwhelming desire to do something after high school. The idea of going to college intrigued me. I ended up hating it. Oh, I started out fine with my general education requirements. I took the calculus, technical writing, anthropology; all these courses seemed easy to me. I hate to say it, but they were almost boring. I sat in lectures and just could not focus. I would think about the weekend I had just had, going fishing, getting drunk, or my bank statement; anything except the lecture. I never took notes.
The trouble started my junior year. Up until then I had not decided on my major; engineering had to be more challenging than most of the other majors offered. I chose mechanical and this is when I had to get serious about school. It’s also when my grades began to drop. I didn’t know any mechanical engineers at the time; I only knew the reputation that the program had. It’s funny though, the harder it got for me, the more determined I became. I was going to become a mechanical engineer. I no longer day dreamed about the weekend, getting drunk, going fishing, or much else. Instead I saw myself working in research, writing papers, and much acclaim for the new engineer. The reality though was that I worked like a dog, barely graduated and ended up with a twenty five thousand dollar a year job doing clerical work for a mining company. No one would hire me as an engineer with my grade point average.
I sat in an office every day staring at spreadsheets on a thirteen inch monitor. I had a round grey metal waste basket and one of those grey metal desks, you know, the kind that you can find in your typical government office with some rude civil servant behind it that won’t look at you. I didn’t have a window in my office, but that’s probably good because if I had I wouldn’t have got much done. I’m not exactly sure what color the tile on the floor was. I don’t think it was every really white, it was just sort of a dull beige color; or maybe it was sand. I wanted to see white.
Once again I did think about my bank statement a lot. With student loans to pay off and a twenty five thousand dollar salary it was on my mind quite a bit. You know, I really would have liked to see white.
III .
The Staff Sergeant was tired, so was I. I could see it through the dust on his face as he as he took a drink from his camel back. We had been lying in a filthy stinking ditch along the road for nearly twelve hours. My platoon was on its fifth mission that month to grab insurgent leadership from a town twenty five miles from our forward operating base. Two miles from the town the lead Stryker hit an I.E.D., and then everything went to hell. We are severely outnumbered and the Apaches were not available to provide support for another two hours. At first the fighting was heavy; R.P.G.s took out two of the hummvees while we took cover and returned fire. Then the fighting was sporadic, mostly they were just harassing us with small arms fire while we waited for air support.
The Army was a way to pay off my student loans. At least that’s what I told everyone. The truth is I just had to get out of that office with no window. I wanted something else; there has to be something better than this. So I went through OCS, was commissioned a Second Lieutenant, and soon after left for Iraq. The first four missions such as this went smooth, but this one was pretty much a text book example of what you don’t want to happen.
I reloaded one of my spent magazines and looked over at my sergeant. He was lying on his back with his hands folded on his 16 across his chest. He turned his head toward me and although he didn’t say anything, the look on his face, that sand in the corners of his eyes told me everything. I’d really like to see an Apache right about now.
IV .
I couldn’t go. I took a few steps away on the sidewalk, lit a cigarette and took out my cell phone. While I stood there pretending to look at messages I kept looking up at her back and her sand colored hair. The two miners were standing right outside of the door. Nine fingers lit another cigarette while the other one stuffed a big wad of dip into his mouth. She kept leaning against that post; she obviously wasn’t waiting on the miners and they hardly seemed to notice her. They were talking but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I was sure they weren’t talking about her. I had to see her face; find some way to get her to turn around. The miners weren’t helping much and I couldn’t stand there thumbing my phone, sneaking looks at her much longer.
My phone rang. She turned around. She looked at me as though she saw nothing else - only me, with blue eyes that drilled right through me. That hair framing her face, she smiled as though she recognized me. She ran both of her hands up through that beautifully tangled sand colored hair. Her eyes never left me as she lowered her chin a little, still smiling, and swayed a little with her hands behind her head. I swallowed, shut off my phone and put it back into my pocket, dropped my cigarette, turned and left. She smiled again, then turned back to leaning on her post. I really wanted to see her face.
He Always Does – Allure
Spinning around
arms outstretched
grinning and giddy like a
child you once were.
It’s your dance Janine
the same dance you always do
to music that only the both
of you can hear
- he always stands
over there - smoking
you see him and stop
wavering just a little
unbalanced fingers entwined
behind your tangles.
Janine you know he can’t
avoid your eyes
inviting, vibrant and
deep, oh how deep.
How could he turn away?
But he does turn away
Janine
- he always does.
He steps on his
cigarette and leaves.
Oh well, just a little shrug
then a laugh as you
begin turning
it’s your dance again
Janine, but you know
he’ll come back
- he always does.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Five Minute Break
What is this, my tenth cup of coffee tonight? It’s only 9:30; feels like I’ve been here for hours already. My eyes feel like they’re about to drop out. Hmm, how would I find them if they fell out and rolled under my desk? That would be a sight, my eyes drop out and I have to crawl around looking for them. I guess I wouldn’t really be looking for them, so to speak anyway. Maybe I could just sit here in front of the computer and no one would notice. Of course, someone would have to tell me when its time to go home. I wish someone would tell me to go home now. I’d grab my eyes and be out the door.
Ugh, it’s 9:32. It’s going to be a long night. What is he doing? Oh, he’s on the internet looking for Big-foot again. I swear all that guy does at work is surf the net looking for evidence of Big-foot. He looks like he’s in some drug induced trance; slouched back in his chair, glasses slid down on his nose, staring straight ahead with that blank look on his face again. In fact, I don’t think he’s moved in an hour. I wonder if he’s breathing. Yeah, there, he just blinked. He must have just come across some thing interesting like sasquatch mating calls, or their dietary habits. Damn, some really interesting stuff there. At least he isn’t talking to me; I’m getting tired of hearing about his Viagra addiction.
Alright, 9:34; another coffee? No, I better not. Any more coffee and I’ll probably overdose. I wonder if someone could overdose on coffee. What would happen if you did? Would it be like you were stuck in fast forward; maybe run around at warp factor three until the caffeine wore off? Maybe you would talk like those people on the cell phone commercials that don’t want to use up all their minutes, so they blurt everything out like an auctioneer at an estate sale. That could be fun. Hey, did I ever tell you about my Viagra addiction? Did I hear nine? I have nine, how about ten, can I get ten…no, that would be bad. Maybe I’ll cutback on the coffee.
Hmm, 9:35; lets see, no nothing new on Hungry Writers tonight. That’s too bad. I could have used something new to read from Tiger, Sam or PB. Then I wouldn’t be sitting here with my eyes falling out and rolling under my desk, listening to the sasquatch hugger in the next cube tell me about his love affair with wood, while I get ready to set a new overland speed record because I drank too much coffee.
“Huh?”
“What’s that captain?”
“No, you don’t depart for another hour.”
“Oh yeah, I was just getting ready to release the aircraft.”
“No, the problem with the garbled HF transmissions was a high resistance in the ground from the para-amplifier and…”
Ugh, it’s 9:32. It’s going to be a long night. What is he doing? Oh, he’s on the internet looking for Big-foot again. I swear all that guy does at work is surf the net looking for evidence of Big-foot. He looks like he’s in some drug induced trance; slouched back in his chair, glasses slid down on his nose, staring straight ahead with that blank look on his face again. In fact, I don’t think he’s moved in an hour. I wonder if he’s breathing. Yeah, there, he just blinked. He must have just come across some thing interesting like sasquatch mating calls, or their dietary habits. Damn, some really interesting stuff there. At least he isn’t talking to me; I’m getting tired of hearing about his Viagra addiction.
Alright, 9:34; another coffee? No, I better not. Any more coffee and I’ll probably overdose. I wonder if someone could overdose on coffee. What would happen if you did? Would it be like you were stuck in fast forward; maybe run around at warp factor three until the caffeine wore off? Maybe you would talk like those people on the cell phone commercials that don’t want to use up all their minutes, so they blurt everything out like an auctioneer at an estate sale. That could be fun. Hey, did I ever tell you about my Viagra addiction? Did I hear nine? I have nine, how about ten, can I get ten…no, that would be bad. Maybe I’ll cutback on the coffee.
Hmm, 9:35; lets see, no nothing new on Hungry Writers tonight. That’s too bad. I could have used something new to read from Tiger, Sam or PB. Then I wouldn’t be sitting here with my eyes falling out and rolling under my desk, listening to the sasquatch hugger in the next cube tell me about his love affair with wood, while I get ready to set a new overland speed record because I drank too much coffee.
“Huh?”
“What’s that captain?”
“No, you don’t depart for another hour.”
“Oh yeah, I was just getting ready to release the aircraft.”
“No, the problem with the garbled HF transmissions was a high resistance in the ground from the para-amplifier and…”
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Two Roads
“What’s the sign say?”
“Aspen.”
“This one say’s McKee.”
“Well, which way?”
“How about right on Aspen?”
“I don’t know where Aspen goes. What about left on McKee?”
“I don’t know where McKee goes.”
“Do you have any idea where we are?”
“No, not really.”
“Great. I’ll take McKee, you take Aspen. If I find the truck, I’ll come back to get you. If you find he truck, you come and get me.”
“What if neither of us finds the truck?”
“Then I’d say we’re fucked.” Looking at his watch, he said “It’s going to get dark in a couple hours, we need to get back”. Then he pulled out his wallet and handed over his spare key.
Swallowing, then putting the cap back on a half gone pint of Jim Beam, Bill smiled at him, took the key and said “Well let’s get going”.
“Alright, see ya.”
Jim shifted the Mossburg to his other hand and started walking, looking over his shoulder at Bill he saw him waver a little, then start on up the road on the right without looking back. Jim shook his head and, as he walked he thought how he had been out hunting with Bill since morning. They had hunted together every deer season since they were in high school. Some years they did well, this year they hadn’t. They had seen one buck, a nice twelve point at least. He was an old one; there was a lot of gray in his coat. Bill had taken a shot at him but missed. It was that damn Jim Beam he’s been drinking all day he thought, and maybe its better we didn’t get that one; I’d hate to still be dragging him. He kicked a piece of gravel with his boot as he stated walking; this road was recently paved, the ditches along side were mowed. It must be a county road he thought, also looks like it gets more traffic. If I can’t find the truck, he thought, maybe I can get a ride and come back to get him.
The sun was just beginning to come up when they had parked the truck along a road and went into some woods that Bill said he knew. They had walked for awhile hoping to drive some deer. They saw a couple of scrapes, but no deer, so they sat for awhile. That was when they spotted the buck. They both had heard him coming through some briars that bent then snapped back as he walked. They saw him stop to rub his head on some low hanging branches close to where they were sitting. Bill was sitting closest, so he raised a hand to let him know that he was going to take a shot. The buck had sensed them and stopped almost right in front of them, bent down, then lifted his head, snorted and looked back in the direction he had come from. Bill put the butt of the Remington into his shoulder, clicked off the safety - and then jerked the trigger; he never saw where the slug went. The buck turned and ran leaping over a fallen tree trunk and Jim thought, how in the hell did you miss that shot?
They had sat in the woods awhile longer. Jim had sat and mostly thought about the buck that Bill had missed, knowing he probably wouldn’t see another that day, while Bill had fallen asleep sitting on the ground with his back against a hickory. After a couple of hours it became obvious he was right, they weren’t going to see any more deer. All Jim saw were a couple of squirrels that ran up an oak, and then jumped overhead from branch to branch. He had thought about taking a shot at one of the squirrels, just so he could at least fire one shot today. But, with twelve gauge sabot rounds loaded in the Mossburg; there wouldn’t have been much squirrel left. So he woke up Bill and they started out of the woods. They had walked through the woods, not talking to each other, with Bill in the lead. Jim walked cradling his Mossburg in his arms, watching where he stepped so as not to trip over any fallen branches, occasionally reaching out to push a branch out of his way. Bill just seemed to plod on in front of him, the blaze orange hat on his head bobbing up and down, smiling and looking all around as he took in the late autumn.
Somehow they had become lost. Jim first suspected it when they had come up out of a ravine; there was an outcropping of limestone near the ridge, grey and covered with moss that had begun to turn brown as winter approached. He had thought how he should have noticed that outcropping earlier as they went into the woods, but didn’t. He was walking fast trying to keep up with Bill who seemed to move through the trees as easily as the buck he had shot at earlier. What Jim did notice though was when they came out to the road; his truck wasn’t anywhere to be seen along the road. In fact to Jim, it didn’t even look like the same road. Now here he was, walking down some county with no idea where he was-and he was starting to get cold. He pulled the collar of his hunting jacket a little tighter and shifted the Mossburg to his other hand. He was getting tired of walking; his feet were cold, his ears were cold, and his hands were cold and beginning to turn red. He could see his breath now every time he exhaled as he walked. Where the hell am I he thought, shivering a little.
Jim thought how he used to enjoy hunting more when he was younger. Now every year it seemed like more of a chore than anything else. When he was younger, he would hunt with Bill once or twice every week, now he would only go out once or twice a year. He just didn’t enjoy it as much anymore. He would sit in the woods and think about work, what his wife was doing; not really noticing much around him and thinking about what he had to do when he got home. He did still enjoy telling the guys he worked with about his hunts though. In fact, although he wouldn’t admit it, he seemed to enjoy talking about hunting more than actually going hunting.
As Jim walked, he could see the sun getting lower, closer to the trees along the road. He looked at his watch; five thirty. The sun will go down in about a half hour he thought. He shook his shoulders and shifted the Mossburg back to his other hand. He thought how not one car had come by yet; God, I hope Bill found the truck. His fatigue was starting to get the best of him and he began to lean forward some as he walked. He thought about Bill, it was funny how they had grown up together, and essentially had the same background, but then their lives had taken different paths. He had been successful, he thought, while Bill seemed to be headed further downhill with every year. Now he knew they were as different as two friends could be. He thought about how he had a good job; yeah it was a pain in the ass, but it paid well, a nice house, a new truck-that he couldn’t find now, and a good looking wife. He took a couple of short steps and stomped his feet that were getting cold, and then picked his pace back up. Bill had worked construction and was out of work almost as often as he had a job. He had been divorced twice, drank too much, and drove a ratty, rusted out truck that was parked back at the trailer he lived in; since his last wife had his house. He thought, if the guy doesn’t soon get his act together and grow up, he’ll have a miserable life; why would anyone want to live like that?
Bill figured that he had been walking for over an hour now. He didn’t have a watch, so he couldn’t really be sure. It was cold, but the bottle of Jim Beam in the pocket of his field jacket warmed him a little as it went down. He had almost finished it off a few minutes ago when he had stopped to take a sip, but thought he should save some for later in case he needed it. He shifted the old Remington pump to his other hand and pulled the collar of his jacket a little tighter around his neck as he kept on.
As he walked he kicked a stone off into weeds along the road. He smiled to himself; he loved to be out here. He had got up early, grabbed some coffee and was out the door on his way to Jim’s house by five. It was rare that he got up before nine or ten, but he looked forward to hunting. He liked sitting in the woods; truth is, although he wouldn’t tell Jim, he really didn’t even care that much if he didn’t get a buck. He loved the hunt and the outdoors more than he liked field dressing deer.
The road Bill was on hadn’t been paved in years. Must be a township road he thought, the pavement was cracked and patched, with loose gravel everywhere across the surface; it probably doesn’t get much traffic either. He wasn’t too cold though. He didn’t know if it was the whiskey or the exertion of walking. He felt good, just a little bit of a chill from the wind was all, but that really didn’t bother him. He enjoyed being out here, the cool air felt good and he could smell the late autumn in the air.
He wondered if Jim had found the truck. It will be dark soon he thought, and I really don’t want to be out here all night. He thought about the buck he had seen earlier when they were in the woods. It was a nice buck alright; beautiful rack. He had signaled Jim that he would take it. He had clicked off the safety, slowly lowered the barrel until the bead was on its neck, exhaled, and held his breath out. Then he raised the barrel slightly, and fired the slug right over the buck’s head. He just couldn’t shoot that one he thought as he kept walking. Jim hadn’t said a word. He had just looked at him as if to say “what the fuck?”, and then shook his head. He was probably thinking about all that venison he watched running off through the woods, not slowing a bit as it leaped over a fallen tree.
As he kept walking he thought about Jim. The guy needed to relax and get out here more; all he ever did was work. He knew that Jim must have to work so much because of bills; he had a new truck, a nice house and a wife that seemed to want the best of everything. Bill was breathing a little harder as he was going up a rise in the road, the gravel crunching under his feet. He thought about Jim’s wife, she always seemed kind of snooty to him and he knew she argued a lot with Jim. She might a good lay but, I’d still dump her he thought, oh well, he’s the one that has to live with her. The guy really does need to slow down and learn to relax he thought; why would anyone want to live like that? He stopped and held the Remington under one arm while he finished off the last of the whiskey. He put the cap back on the empty bottle and stuck it back in his pocket. Shifting the shotgun to his other hand, he started off again. It’s not that bad out here now he thought, but one of us had better find that truck soon, it really is getting dark.
Dusk was setting in and Jim had been walking for nearly two hours now. He thought, for a county road, why had not one car come by? It had been an easy walk, the road was smooth and generally flat, but he was cold and tired; he just wanted to get back to the truck. He raised his head and looked up the road; he could see an intersection just up a little further. He picked up his pace; he could see a sign and hoped he would recognize the road.
“Shit.” Jim just couldn’t believe it as he looked up at the sign. He stood there shivering, holding the Mossburg by the end of the barrel with the stock resting on the pavement. He shook his head and looked at the sign again in disbelief, “Shit”. Jim looked at the figure wearing a blaze orange hat and a faded field jacket, holding a shotgun in one hand, smiling as he walked up to him. Jim looked up at the sign again, “Shit, Aspen Rd”.
“Aspen.”
“This one say’s McKee.”
“Well, which way?”
“How about right on Aspen?”
“I don’t know where Aspen goes. What about left on McKee?”
“I don’t know where McKee goes.”
“Do you have any idea where we are?”
“No, not really.”
“Great. I’ll take McKee, you take Aspen. If I find the truck, I’ll come back to get you. If you find he truck, you come and get me.”
“What if neither of us finds the truck?”
“Then I’d say we’re fucked.” Looking at his watch, he said “It’s going to get dark in a couple hours, we need to get back”. Then he pulled out his wallet and handed over his spare key.
Swallowing, then putting the cap back on a half gone pint of Jim Beam, Bill smiled at him, took the key and said “Well let’s get going”.
“Alright, see ya.”
Jim shifted the Mossburg to his other hand and started walking, looking over his shoulder at Bill he saw him waver a little, then start on up the road on the right without looking back. Jim shook his head and, as he walked he thought how he had been out hunting with Bill since morning. They had hunted together every deer season since they were in high school. Some years they did well, this year they hadn’t. They had seen one buck, a nice twelve point at least. He was an old one; there was a lot of gray in his coat. Bill had taken a shot at him but missed. It was that damn Jim Beam he’s been drinking all day he thought, and maybe its better we didn’t get that one; I’d hate to still be dragging him. He kicked a piece of gravel with his boot as he stated walking; this road was recently paved, the ditches along side were mowed. It must be a county road he thought, also looks like it gets more traffic. If I can’t find the truck, he thought, maybe I can get a ride and come back to get him.
The sun was just beginning to come up when they had parked the truck along a road and went into some woods that Bill said he knew. They had walked for awhile hoping to drive some deer. They saw a couple of scrapes, but no deer, so they sat for awhile. That was when they spotted the buck. They both had heard him coming through some briars that bent then snapped back as he walked. They saw him stop to rub his head on some low hanging branches close to where they were sitting. Bill was sitting closest, so he raised a hand to let him know that he was going to take a shot. The buck had sensed them and stopped almost right in front of them, bent down, then lifted his head, snorted and looked back in the direction he had come from. Bill put the butt of the Remington into his shoulder, clicked off the safety - and then jerked the trigger; he never saw where the slug went. The buck turned and ran leaping over a fallen tree trunk and Jim thought, how in the hell did you miss that shot?
They had sat in the woods awhile longer. Jim had sat and mostly thought about the buck that Bill had missed, knowing he probably wouldn’t see another that day, while Bill had fallen asleep sitting on the ground with his back against a hickory. After a couple of hours it became obvious he was right, they weren’t going to see any more deer. All Jim saw were a couple of squirrels that ran up an oak, and then jumped overhead from branch to branch. He had thought about taking a shot at one of the squirrels, just so he could at least fire one shot today. But, with twelve gauge sabot rounds loaded in the Mossburg; there wouldn’t have been much squirrel left. So he woke up Bill and they started out of the woods. They had walked through the woods, not talking to each other, with Bill in the lead. Jim walked cradling his Mossburg in his arms, watching where he stepped so as not to trip over any fallen branches, occasionally reaching out to push a branch out of his way. Bill just seemed to plod on in front of him, the blaze orange hat on his head bobbing up and down, smiling and looking all around as he took in the late autumn.
Somehow they had become lost. Jim first suspected it when they had come up out of a ravine; there was an outcropping of limestone near the ridge, grey and covered with moss that had begun to turn brown as winter approached. He had thought how he should have noticed that outcropping earlier as they went into the woods, but didn’t. He was walking fast trying to keep up with Bill who seemed to move through the trees as easily as the buck he had shot at earlier. What Jim did notice though was when they came out to the road; his truck wasn’t anywhere to be seen along the road. In fact to Jim, it didn’t even look like the same road. Now here he was, walking down some county with no idea where he was-and he was starting to get cold. He pulled the collar of his hunting jacket a little tighter and shifted the Mossburg to his other hand. He was getting tired of walking; his feet were cold, his ears were cold, and his hands were cold and beginning to turn red. He could see his breath now every time he exhaled as he walked. Where the hell am I he thought, shivering a little.
Jim thought how he used to enjoy hunting more when he was younger. Now every year it seemed like more of a chore than anything else. When he was younger, he would hunt with Bill once or twice every week, now he would only go out once or twice a year. He just didn’t enjoy it as much anymore. He would sit in the woods and think about work, what his wife was doing; not really noticing much around him and thinking about what he had to do when he got home. He did still enjoy telling the guys he worked with about his hunts though. In fact, although he wouldn’t admit it, he seemed to enjoy talking about hunting more than actually going hunting.
As Jim walked, he could see the sun getting lower, closer to the trees along the road. He looked at his watch; five thirty. The sun will go down in about a half hour he thought. He shook his shoulders and shifted the Mossburg back to his other hand. He thought how not one car had come by yet; God, I hope Bill found the truck. His fatigue was starting to get the best of him and he began to lean forward some as he walked. He thought about Bill, it was funny how they had grown up together, and essentially had the same background, but then their lives had taken different paths. He had been successful, he thought, while Bill seemed to be headed further downhill with every year. Now he knew they were as different as two friends could be. He thought about how he had a good job; yeah it was a pain in the ass, but it paid well, a nice house, a new truck-that he couldn’t find now, and a good looking wife. He took a couple of short steps and stomped his feet that were getting cold, and then picked his pace back up. Bill had worked construction and was out of work almost as often as he had a job. He had been divorced twice, drank too much, and drove a ratty, rusted out truck that was parked back at the trailer he lived in; since his last wife had his house. He thought, if the guy doesn’t soon get his act together and grow up, he’ll have a miserable life; why would anyone want to live like that?
Bill figured that he had been walking for over an hour now. He didn’t have a watch, so he couldn’t really be sure. It was cold, but the bottle of Jim Beam in the pocket of his field jacket warmed him a little as it went down. He had almost finished it off a few minutes ago when he had stopped to take a sip, but thought he should save some for later in case he needed it. He shifted the old Remington pump to his other hand and pulled the collar of his jacket a little tighter around his neck as he kept on.
As he walked he kicked a stone off into weeds along the road. He smiled to himself; he loved to be out here. He had got up early, grabbed some coffee and was out the door on his way to Jim’s house by five. It was rare that he got up before nine or ten, but he looked forward to hunting. He liked sitting in the woods; truth is, although he wouldn’t tell Jim, he really didn’t even care that much if he didn’t get a buck. He loved the hunt and the outdoors more than he liked field dressing deer.
The road Bill was on hadn’t been paved in years. Must be a township road he thought, the pavement was cracked and patched, with loose gravel everywhere across the surface; it probably doesn’t get much traffic either. He wasn’t too cold though. He didn’t know if it was the whiskey or the exertion of walking. He felt good, just a little bit of a chill from the wind was all, but that really didn’t bother him. He enjoyed being out here, the cool air felt good and he could smell the late autumn in the air.
He wondered if Jim had found the truck. It will be dark soon he thought, and I really don’t want to be out here all night. He thought about the buck he had seen earlier when they were in the woods. It was a nice buck alright; beautiful rack. He had signaled Jim that he would take it. He had clicked off the safety, slowly lowered the barrel until the bead was on its neck, exhaled, and held his breath out. Then he raised the barrel slightly, and fired the slug right over the buck’s head. He just couldn’t shoot that one he thought as he kept walking. Jim hadn’t said a word. He had just looked at him as if to say “what the fuck?”, and then shook his head. He was probably thinking about all that venison he watched running off through the woods, not slowing a bit as it leaped over a fallen tree.
As he kept walking he thought about Jim. The guy needed to relax and get out here more; all he ever did was work. He knew that Jim must have to work so much because of bills; he had a new truck, a nice house and a wife that seemed to want the best of everything. Bill was breathing a little harder as he was going up a rise in the road, the gravel crunching under his feet. He thought about Jim’s wife, she always seemed kind of snooty to him and he knew she argued a lot with Jim. She might a good lay but, I’d still dump her he thought, oh well, he’s the one that has to live with her. The guy really does need to slow down and learn to relax he thought; why would anyone want to live like that? He stopped and held the Remington under one arm while he finished off the last of the whiskey. He put the cap back on the empty bottle and stuck it back in his pocket. Shifting the shotgun to his other hand, he started off again. It’s not that bad out here now he thought, but one of us had better find that truck soon, it really is getting dark.
Dusk was setting in and Jim had been walking for nearly two hours now. He thought, for a county road, why had not one car come by? It had been an easy walk, the road was smooth and generally flat, but he was cold and tired; he just wanted to get back to the truck. He raised his head and looked up the road; he could see an intersection just up a little further. He picked up his pace; he could see a sign and hoped he would recognize the road.
“Shit.” Jim just couldn’t believe it as he looked up at the sign. He stood there shivering, holding the Mossburg by the end of the barrel with the stock resting on the pavement. He shook his head and looked at the sign again in disbelief, “Shit”. Jim looked at the figure wearing a blaze orange hat and a faded field jacket, holding a shotgun in one hand, smiling as he walked up to him. Jim looked up at the sign again, “Shit, Aspen Rd”.
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