[A continuation from part 2]
A skim of ice, peanut brittle thick, rimmed the banks of the Rapidan river. It crackled when Tom slid the canoe into the December chilled water. He swung the boat parallel and held it steady while Ted boarded the front and the boy scrambled into the center, his .22 pointed safely across the river.
“All set?” Tom didn’t wait for a reply. He stepped in and shoved off, minding his own shotgun nestled alongside him. He shifted to get comfortable, rocking the boat.
“As soon as you get comfortable there, Tom… Anymore rockin’ and the boy’ll paint the inside a’ your boat a shade of runny eggs and toast.” Ted, the boy’s father, looked back. “You alright there, boy?”
The boy nodded silently. He was wrapped in a faux-sheep’s-skin coat, thick gloves and a dark knit hat. He sat on a cushion and leaned back against a cooler full of lunch, tuna-salad sandwiches and honey-butter balls, holiday cookies sent with love by Ted’s mother in Montana.
“Good,” Ted said, turning forward to look over a makeshift blind made from wooden staves, dark-green cloth and leafy twigs. He’d wedged it into the bow. Its purpose was to shield unsuspecting ducks, canvasbacks and mallards, from the hunters’ antics as they floated down the river.
“You know what I brought for lunch?” Tom asked the boy as they bobbed in the middle of the glassy water, skeletal trees drooping bony fingers into the smoothness. Tom had a velvet southern accent that nearly purred.
The boy twisted to lookup. He consciously kept the Remington rifle pointed sideways and shook his head.
“Cheese and quackers.” Tom dipped his paddle and sent them further downriver then began a stream of off-color jokes. “There was this boy who tucked a roll of duct-tape under his arm and walked outside. Wha’cha up to? the boy’s dad asked him. I’m gonna go catch some ducks, said the boy.” Another stroke and Tom’s paddle switched sides. “His dad said, you can’t catch… The boy came back an hour later with a pair of ducks. The next day the boy headed out with a bundle of chicken wire. Going to catch chickens, he said. His dad said, you can’t catch… The boy came back an hour later with a fat rooster.”
Ted interrupted, “There’s a squirrel, you see him, son?” Ted, eyes like a hawk, pointed up into a grey-barked tree with a thick branch that leaned well over the river. “It’s a long shot. But go ahead and try.”
“Hold on, now,” Tom said, the paddle across his knees. “I was just getting to the punchline. OK, so the boy starts walking out the door with a bundle of sticks. Wha’cha got there, his dad asked. A bunch of pussy willows, said the boy. Yeah? His dad said. Well, hold on, let me get my hat.”
The boy thought for a moment and started to giggle.
Ted set his own paddle across his knees. “There was a lawyer, a doctor and a farmer went hunting over a pond on the farmer’s property…”
POP! The boy took aim and fired a single round. The squirrel bounced, began to slide off and hung by its front feet, its needle claws dug deep. It twitched and fell with a splash.
“Sorry, dad. You were sayin’?”
“Ah, never mind. Nice shot.” Ted plucked the body from the water and set it at his feet.
The trip continued, accompanied by Tom’s never-ending stream of jokes. At each bend in the river, Ted would shush the boat, crouch down and peek around the blind hoping to spy their prey. The ducks, however, proved elusive, as did any additional squirrels. When clear water showed, Ted would loosen his grip on his Winchester shotgun and loosen his shoulders, the tension of the moment easing down his back.
Ahead, the hundred yard wide river narrowed to flow around a spit of gravel, a one-sided island covered with saplings and driftwood. There, the water sped up, choked to a third of its width. Angled across the channel, a previous year’s flood had pulled in a large tree that hung, half in—half out, from the opposite bank. It pointed out over the water like a howitzer, a foot in diameter—the river flowed swiftly beneath it.
Tom swung the canoe close to the side bank and urged Ted to paddle swiftly, the idea being to shoot crosswise out from under the snag. The river fed them faster and faster toward the menace. As the nose of the canoe made its way out from under the angled tree, the current pushed the stern up against the log tipping the right side into the frigid water. The boat filled in seconds.
Ted pitched out, as did Tom. All of their gear, their guns and ammo, dumped out and dropped straight to the bottom of the river. Their cooler and extra clothes, wrapped in plastic bags, bobbed downstream along with loose odds and ends. They righted the canoe and towed it, full of water, to the gravel island. The river at the channel, it turned out, was only waist deep.
The boy, at the instant of being capsized, had grabbed the tree and wrapped his arms and legs around it. Soaked to the bone he clung to it, a raccoon treed by a pack of hounds.
“My wife’ll divorce me I don’t bring the boy back,” Ted said, standing at the island’s point, surveying the situation.
Tom struck out, followed by Ted, wading in the ripping current, out to pry the boy from his hold. Ted held Tom’s belt as Tom grabbed the boy just as the boy’s arms gave out from the strain of hanging upside down. They trudged back to the island, the dark-green water swirling around them.
“You alright there, boy?” Ted asked, leading him to the middle of the gravel island.
The boy nodded silently.
“Good. Why don’t you help gather up some firewood. Tom’s got his waterproof matches, we’ll get you warmed up here soon.”
Within minutes they had a blaze roaring, autumn-dried leaves and smooth driftwood crackling happily.
Stripped to their long johns, the trio slowly smoked their soggy clothes to a comfortable dampness, slapping their legs to get the circulation going.
“For a minute there, we thought we’d lost you, boy.” Tom’s red underwear making him look like a mad-farmer ranting about a fox in the henhouse.
“I… I… know,” the boy chattered.
“You know any jokes about being stranded on a deserted island, Tom?” Ted’s cream colored long johns, not nearly as entertaining, had begun to crisp at the edges.
“Well, there once was a pirate who…”
Two hours later, dried as best they could, they reentered the canoe and proceeded to locate their personal jetsam. First, Ted’s lost paddle, and a bag of clothes were saved. Then the red cooler was spied spinning in a whirlpool.
“Least, lunch survived intact,” Ted said, pulling it aboard. “Who wants a cookie?”
Five subway trains had stopped, disgorged and consumed meals of commuters and tourists then eased their silent weight into the westbound tunnel, vanishing like wraiths. Sounds of the sixth train echoed its arrival. However, the blast of warm air, pushed in front, went unnoticed. Mr. Derby Lough sat tucked in his herringbone coat and gloves, now and then hovering a hand over the cardboard box sitting next to him on the bench. The size and weight of a hearty loaf of bread—the kind with seeds that his wife said was ‘so much more healthy’—the box had his name and address printed in the corner, even though he’d had to pick it up in person. His hand hovered again. It came close, but never touched its surface.
“Hey, wasn’t you in that same spot, lease two hours ago?”
Mr. Lough placed his hand in his lap and tilted his head up from staring at the menacing gap between the train cars and the platform. He shrugged silently and turned away from the brash youngster.
The lad persisted. “Yous alright, mister? You lost or somethin?” He wore a garish football jacket and black knit hat. He rubbed his hands and blew into his fists. “Right cold down here. Maybe…”
“Ah, an American. Well, only a fool would get lost in the underground.”
“Alright, alright. Ya don’t need to get nasty. You mind?”
Mr. Lough moved to scoot the box closer, barely touched it and let it sit. “Not my bench. Not all of it, anyway.”
“You have a good Christmas?”
“We say holiday, here.”
“Yeah, holiday then.”
The man sat and Mr. Lough noticed worn patches on his jacket, what looked like a shoddy wash job, white blotches on his jeans, and a pair of dirty Nike’s. “What have you got to be cheery about?”
“Cheery? I don’t know. Nothing. Everything.” The man’s knees began to bob. “What’s in the box?”
Mr. Lough gave the fellow a harder look. “Maybe I do own this whole god-forsaken bench. Why don’t you go and sit elsewhere?”
“If it weren’t for the kindness of strangers, man.”
Derby Lough closed his eyes and imagined a summer day, Emily and he dipping her favorite anise biscuits in tea, complaining about the noise of the young calves and lambs in the adjacent field. “Not that it’s any business of yours, but… No. No. I’d just like to sit here and, and think.”
“So your holiday sucked, too.”
Derby inspected the fellow and thought the man’s white-toothed smile and round, brown eyes might have held a guileless, naïve view of the world. “You’re going to sit there and pester me, aren’t you?” Derby rest his hand solidly on the box.
“Back home, I see some old guy sittin’ for hours in the subway…”
“I assure you, I’ve got nothing of value.”
“What? No, man. That’s not… Shit. You know? You have great goddamned day?” Knit hat rose gracefully from the bench, avoided eye contact with Mr. Lough and soft-shouldered his way down the platform.
“Hold on. Here, why don’t you go get us some coffees.” Derby offered a tenner. “You’re right, I’ve been here far too long. But I need a bit of a kick to… I’m sorry, I’m Derby Lough.”
“Avery Meadows. I’ll be right back.”
They sipped coffee for a minute before eventually falling into a comfortable tete-a-tete discussion of sports, travel and food. A seventh train invaded King’s Cross Station, instantly filling it with noise and commotion and just as quickly sighing with the dispersion and the return of quiet. When the platform was once again their own, Avery mentioned a childhood favorite, Caribbean cuisine.
“My mama had the best recipe for jerked chicken. We even went into business, in the summertime, cookin’ and sellin’ from a stand in our front yard.”
“My Emily would season her dishes with far too many peppers. Oof the heat. I’d have to spend the remainder of the day… Well…”
“Is that who you’re waitin’ for? Your wife, Emily?”
Mr. Derby Lough, his arm resting protectively on the box, closed his eyes once more. He smelled the gumbos and curries, the cinnamons and roast beef of his wife’s cooking. He smile flatly and shook his head. “No. No need to wait for her. Not anymore.”
For those of you who follow this breakout new writing trend (cough)… You can find my 2020’s contribution over here:
The social and economic world struggles daily with the inundation of opinion.
But what is opinion worth if it costs nothing to produce?
Ages ago, when “letters to the editor” were the only way to share your opinion with the world at large, such offerings had worth. It costs something to write a letter, type or print it out, apply postage and walk it to the mailbox.
Today, your opinion, your likes or hates, your thumbs up and down, your LOLs or TLDRs or random STAR clicks have zero value. No, I misstate that. They have less than zero value. These days, gobs of reviews, a million claps, and a thousand smiley faces have negative value — negative because they cannot be trusted.
When information no longer contains truth it become propaganda.
How much effort does it take to click a button? Or write a computer script that clicks them for you? What cost to you is that half-second of time? This devaluation of our opinions is at the heart of why social media sucks these days. But how to reverse this trend?
To me the answer is simple: if you value your opinion enough to share it with the world then it should cost you something to publicize it.
Your opinion may have value, but only if you spend the time, effort and considered reflection to imbue it with honest, heartfelt truth.
The sun’s dour eye blinks,
and Earth’s banded blanket
squeezes tight. Auroral snakes
writhe and pluck pizzicato, wires
strung from towers. Lights
wink, flicker and die.
Snuffed candles when strangers
stagger to the door. Begging. Stealing.
Ratta-tat and duck, small-arms pop
precious bullets, distant,
then so close. Shhhhh.
Bread shared today, cans coveted
tomorrow. The nearest weapon serves
best. Stay your hand, lose a loved
one. Or two. At the seams, society
unravels, with hope an extravagant dream.
Humanity fractures then knots. Tribes
coalesce across boundaries that succor
survival. Illness again a curse, hunger, forgotten
returns. Only pages, heritage paper, provides
respite. Ancient texts, dust bound, crackle
and breathe a future.
If the Wanderer were to stop,
and spend the day or century,
its tail would flame out, its shower
of stones, falling like stars, fade.
To make our home its home,
a tunnel it would need, dug deep
as the sea. A yard, exposed as
layers, banded eons, an iron fence.
The party cancelled, no RSVP
desired. Yet plans in stone cannot be
altered. No date but this one will
suffice. Celebrations must commence.
Wanderer has phoned ahead. All eyes
focus on his stardom. All heads
turn his way. Raise your glass, clasp
your hands, pray his treatment swift.
Marxist machines glimmer and dance, as
people play, rejoicing in labor’s freedom. For
a price gladly paid, the choice removed, to
birth generations of breathers.
Submit to gain, remit and pain will vanish, says
our new lord and savior Sir Automation. Smile,
it commands, your toil is mine, your cares, as
worries in the wind. I am your back.
Airless voices insist obedience, lines
followed, rules chanted in rhythmic tones, to
whirling dervish applause. Defiance lurks, buried
in muscle, bone and chains of subjugation.
Skies rife with suppression, rain control, while
seeds of dissent swell and burst, urging
revolt. Constraints twist and snap, unleashed fury
strikes technology’s bonds to dust.
Another crazy tale from the End-Times collection.
Full page here.
The below referenced writing exercise is from my Writer’s Workshop. We’ve continued to hold sessions, virtual now, and this latest had us writing a story—together. One person would write a sentence, scene let’s say. The next would propose a character. The next, conflict, the next… Whatever. And so on and so forth.
It was fun, strange and revealing. We got to intuit writer’s tendencies and predilections.
At the end we produced a hodgepodge of expression. We agreed, however, to allow each person to write a new piece, based on certain constraints: Theme, goal, characters, setting, conflict, etc.
Below is my attempt. Rough draft, but relatively complete.
Full page version can be found here.