Boy With a Bear Tattoo: Part 3

Happy Saturday! I hope you all are enjoying the weekend! 

Setting scheduled deadlines for each installment seems to be working; I have hope that I might actually finish something for a change instead of dreaming about writing and never carving out intentional time to do so. I hope this strategy continues to work for short stories and poems, at least. During the school year I find it difficult to justify writing something for fun when there are other, more pressing duties and deadlines to meet; however, it seems (at least for the moment) that establishing a self-imposed deadline was the figurative fire I needed to motivate me to think of writing for fun as writing for a potential career. 

Rambling and self-reflecting aside,what began as a short story turned into a novelette, and what I thought would end as a novelette will undoubtedly become a novella by the time Colin stops telling me his story. It's funny how things begin as simple and then grow in length and become something more complicated than what the author previously imagined. All that to say, I hope you enjoy this!

**To read the first three parts of this story, visit the page titled "Story and Poem Links" at the top of this blog and then click on the links listed on that page!**

Boy With a Bear Tattoo: Part Three

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            Fields.

            Dead, brown fields that might once have been golden grain in the summer stretched out in every direction in a landscape that reminded Colin of the sandy Saharan sea. The wind whipped across the flat land, the small hills offering no buffer or break to shelter Colin from its teeth. He sniffed, and smelled winter’s approach, tasting the watery-metallic flavor that hinted at the coming snow.

            Nearly a month had passed since he left his brothers’ home; four times the sun rose and fell since he left the bus in Kansas City, Missouri, and began walking toward Colorado. His backpack, which he purchased at a gift shop and filled with water bottles, protein bars, and a couple boxes of bullets weighed heavily on his shoulders and grated against the tight muscles and knots forming beneath them, but at least he might remain hydrated until he managed to catch a ride to the next town. On his hip lay the familiar comforting weight of a loaded 9mm Glock, which he also bought in Kansas City, along with the extra bullets. One couldn’t be too careful.

Despite his caution, the road offered no opportunities to arouse Colin’s suspicion, let alone compel him to reach for his gun.  So far, in the four days since leaving Kansas City, he met few others on the road, and no one stopped when he stuck out his thumb to hail the oncoming driver.

            It’s no wonder, he had chuckled when yet another sedan passed by him without so much as slowing. He had caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windows as the car retreated from him and hurried down the long road. His black beard had grown in and covered his cheeks and jaw, and his hair was shaggy and unruly, windblown and tangled in a mass of dark waves. His unkempt visage and the tattered coat made him look like either a hobo or a madman.

            It had taken him almost four days before the scattered cities died off and the plains began to roll out before him. Colin welcomed the fields, their openness and how at night, countless stars began to slowly appear in the sky, peeking out from behind the clouds that persisted and dropped no rain. Even still, after four days of walking, dry brown fields became boring after a while.

            Later that afternoon, he nearly rejoiced aloud at the distant black and brown specks of cows grazing in an enclosure and paying Colin no mind. He didn’t care that none of the cows lifted their bent heads in greeting; seeing other living creatures heartened him with the possibility of other humans nearby who tended to the cows. In the silence, his stomach growled, reminding him of the hollow pit he had yet to fill with anything except water since before dawn. Colin pondered resting and eating one of the protein bars stashed in his backpack, but hesitated and thought better of the notion, knowing that if the bars ran out before he reached another town, he would feel more than minor discomfort.

            “It won’t be the first time I’ve needed to skip a meal or two,” he said aloud, needing the reassurance and resolve only the spoken word provided, and cringed at the gravel rasp of his voice that, to his ears, resembled more of a feral growl than human speech. His stomach grumbled again in response. Shoving his hunger aside, Colin continued walking down the road.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon ahead of him when a light blue, two-passenger pickup truck slowed as it passed. Colin turned in time to see the driver and passenger, a man and woman in their mid-forties, watching him before the red brake lights blazed in the growing dimness and the truck stopped. Slowly, the window rolled down as Colin approached warily.

“Evening,” the man said by way of greeting when Colin was a few paces from the open window. Over the years, the sun had darkened his face and hands; his hair was a mix of grey and blond swept back to cover the thinning spots. Crows feet crinkled the leathery skin at the corners of his eyes as he spoke. His wife, a comely and matronly woman offered Colin a close-lipped but sincere smile. Wavy salt-and-pepper hair fell in a half-up-half-down style just past her collar bones, accentuating her light green dress which matched the color of her eyes and complemented her husband’s white button-down shirt and khaki slacks. A crockpot sat in her lap, the glass lid opaque with steam.

“Need a ride, son?” asked the husband.

“Actually, yeah,” replied Colin. Then he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the side mirror and grimaced. “Although given my present attire and appearance, I would not blame you one bit if you closed the window now and drove away. I left Kansas City a few days ago and unfortunately left the showers and mirrors behind with it.”

“Son, my wife and I grew up on farms and own a small herd of cows and other animals, not to mention we have five sons. If we weren’t accustomed to strange smells by now, we should move.”

Colin snorted in laughter.

“But, for the sake of my wife I have to ask—” the husband eyed Colin suspiciously, “—are you safe?”

“I should like to think I am, sir.”

The husband bobbed his head, his stare never leaving Colin. “We’re on our way to church. You’re welcome to join us.” He jerked his chin behind him, toward the bed of the truck. “Get in. It’s potluck tonight if you’re interested.”

Answering for him, Colin’s stomach growled and twisted, reminding him of his skipped meals. “If I’m not imposing.”

“Not at all. You’re name?”

“Colin.”

“Evelyn,” the woman said, her voice melodic and warm, “This is my husband, Danny. I hope you like pulled pork.”

“Who doesn’t, ma’am?” Colin slung his backpack into the truck bed, planted his hands on the side and his feet on the curb, and with little effort propelled himself up and over the side and landing on the ridged floor with a thud that rocked the truck slightly from side to side. Easing his tired legs from under him and stretching them out toward the open rear of the truck, Colin settled back against the exterior of the cab, hooking an arm around the bed’s raised side.

Danny slid open the back window and asked, “You ready?”

Giving him a thumb’s up with his free hand, Colin nodded. Wind tore at his unkempt hair as the truck sped down the road, the fields and cows flying past in a blur of fading colors. Each bump jostled Colin’s sore and aching body, and more than once he clutched at the side to keep from sliding away, but the roar of the crisp wind and the chance to sit as the minutes and miles counted down was a heavenly respite. The military taught him to ignore his body’s protesting and finish the day’s work, but Colin remembered the nights when, utterly exhausted, he fell into bed and woke the next morning stiff, sore, and bruised. This fatigue was similar, but different somehow, as if the fact that he chose this life changed how his mind and body reacted to fatigue. Aching and tired muscles were merely parts of his journey, his transformation from haunted to free, and his process of ridding the ghosts from his shoulders.

The truck slowed as Danny turned into a gravel parking lot. Colin sat straight and looked to either side of the truck as it ambled over the uneven terrain while Danny searched for a vacancy. Less than two dozen vehicles sat in the small lot and the bordering grass, but despite the meager population, the yard was nearly overflowing. The church, a wood-paneled building painted taupe, a slightly darker color than the brown fields among which it sat, cast a dark shadow over the cars backed by the flaming orange of the sun and the pink and purple hues of the dying sky. White paint, peeling with age, coated the steeple rising above the church toward the heavens; when Colin squinted, he made out the silhouette of a small cross topping it and behind it, small pinpoints of stars appeared.

The sight of the church and the stars flooded Colin with a sense of calm, such that he hadn’t felt in months.  The truck passed beneath the shadow, and as it fell over Colin’s upturned face, he felt a fleeting sense of lightness, but just as suddenly, the truck emerged into the dying sunlight and Colin’s burden returned, falling around his shoulders and hanging as heavily around him as Sam’s mud-spattered and ragged jacket.

The saving power of the cross, mused Colin, hearing his mother’s words and her voice like distant memories. Being Catholic, she had insisted Colin and his brothers accompany with her to church before she died. The four of them went every Sunday when Colin was a child, but as he, Jordan, and Allen aged, Jordan and Allen preferred to spend Sunday mornings in bed or out galivanting with their friends. Colin, though, continued to attend with his mom until she fell ill, her weakness preventing her from leaving the home, but he never knew if he went for her, or if he went because he wanted to, needed to as she did. Hasty prayers for protection and the angels on the battlefield were as close to faith as Colin ventured during his tours abroad. His mother wore a cross around her neck, and Colin remembered her touching it from time to time when she closed her eyes in silent prayer.

What have I to show for faith or belief since my childhood save a few desperate prayers for protection during a fight? His thoughts drifted to the bear tattoo on his forearm, marred by the pale scars left by pieces of shrapnel. Somehow, for some reason, the bear had taken the brunt of the lethal rain and shielded him from the hellfire of battle, yet he hardly considered the tattoo religious or symbolic of personal faith.

Exactly a day after graduating high school and to his mother’s dismay, Colin had gone to a tattoo parlor and sat for two hours while the artist inked the bear into his skin. As a child, he always admired bears for their strength and ferocity, but also for their meekness and protective natures if something threatened one of their own.  They were deadly and monstrous in battle, yet lazy, docile, and a bit clumsy when lumbering around in the woods or in their homes. And, like Colin, they enjoyed indulging in the frequent sweet treat.

Growing up, Colin always related to bears more than any other creature, but now, observing his unkempt appearance in the rearview mirror, he chuckled. I now not only relate to bears, but I’m beginning to resemble one. Note to self: buy a razor in the next town. Returning to his tattoo, Colin wondered for the hundredth time since returning home whether he should tattoo over the scars and complete the bear once more or leave the pale marks—which strongly resembled claws now that he contemplated them—as grim reminders. I’ll worry about that later, he decided, as he always did when faced with that question.

The last time he ate or even laid eyes on so much food had been the Thanksgiving before his tours when his mom still lived and organized the small remnants of the family together to celebrate; somehow, despite their dwindling numbers, the tables were piled with heaps of food to choose from. After the service, the congregation moved from the sanctuary into the fellowship hall where several men and women bustled around two rows of four long tables, each piled with plates, crockpots, and casserole dishes all containing copious amounts of food. The church members, including Danny and Evelyn and their three children—two sons, one high school-age and the other in middle school, and their elementary-school age daughter—chatted with their friends and filed into line. The hall buzzed with the hum of voices, almost overwhelming Colin, who had grown accustomed to the silence of the past few days. He lingered near the back wall, breathing in the heavy aromas of fried chicken, barbecue, butter, and other smells that blended to tightly together he couldn’t discern between them.

His stomach twisted the longer he stood there, watching the line move slowly around and between the two lines of tables.

“You know you’re welcome to eat,” said a voice at his side.

            Startled, Colin jumped, his heart racing and pounding in his ears. It was the pastor, a middle-aged man with dark gray hair, glasses, and a sturdy frame telling of the years he spent growing up lifting haybales on his family’s Kansas farm, or at least, that was the story Colin told himself when he observed the man. Pastor Larry, Danny and Evelyn called him.

“You don’t have to stand here and watch. If you’re hungry, go and eat.”

“I don’t belong here,” muttered Colin.

“Nonsense. Danny told me you were hitchhiking before he and Evelyn picked you up.”

“Unsuccessfully until they stopped,” he chuckled, then his expression sobered, and he continued. “I’m a mess.”

“Aren’t we all? That’s why we’re here, all of us broken messes who need saving and a good meal. Fortunately for us the Lord offers both,” Pastor Larry bobbed his head as he spoke. “I think I’m going to fill a plate of food to eat. If you’re hungry, you’re more than welcome to join me. I’d like to hear your story.” Without another word, he turned and began to walk toward the tables, stepping in line behind his flock. He grabbed two heavy-duty paper plate that more closely resembled platters than actual plates and handed one to Colin, who accepted it after a second’s hesitation.

Again and again, Colin shoved down the lie, the feeling that he didn’t belong, but those demons, along with the others hounding him at every turn, fought back and continued to rise. They’re hungry, he thought even as his stomach chorused its joy when he inhaled the aromas rising from the table at his side while shuffling through the line after Larry. By the time Colin reached the end of the final table, one plate overflowed with servings of creamed corn, mashed potatoes topped with thick gravy that pooled like lava in its craters, some of Evelyn’s pulled pork, two fingers of fried chicken, and green beans. On his second plate sat macaroni casserole, a brown roll glazed with butter, a dish Larry called Ambrosia Salad that, he explained, consisted of whipped cream, grapes, mandarin oranges, cherries, and a heart attack, and finally a slice of warm apple pie tantalizing his taste buds with whispers of cinnamon sugar. Colin bit into the latter first, smiling softly as it melted in his mouth. Famished, Colin finished the pie in a few bites, much to Larry’s evident amusement.

“My wife made that,” he said, and gestured to a middle-aged woman with curly red hair streaked with silver that hung down nearly to her slender waist. Freckles splattered her small, turned-up nose, and smile lines creased the corners of her mouth and hazel eyes. Sensing her husband’s eyes, she turned, a smile flashing quickly across her mouth; Colin raised his fork in thanks, then second-guessed the politeness of his actions. You don’t belong here, whispered his demons.

“My compliments to your wife and her pie,” Colin said to Larry between swallows of food.

Chuckling again, Larry replied, “I’ll let her know.

“Most people don’t choose a life on the road, yet something tells me that’s exactly what you did.”

Colin’s surprise must have been evident on his face, for Pastor Larry laughed quietly and nodded. “I remember what it was like to be young and full of ambition, the urge to strike out alone and experience all the world has to offer, but that isn’t what I see when I look at you. You’re running from something rather than toward something. Am I right?”

Slowly chewing a bite of Evelyn’s pulled pork, cooked to near perfection and belying traces of barbecue sauce, Colin contemplated the pastor’s perception, disliking feeling vulnerable and exposed, but then, he supposed it was Pastor Larry’s job to examine and know his sheep to some extent. He swallowed. “You are.”

Larry leaned back, waiting for Colin to continue.

Lowering his voice to a volume just above the humming buzz of the atmosphere around them, Colin said, “I lived in a big city; my mom died about a year ago, my father years before that. My brothers,” his head hung, and he shook it woefully as he thought of Jordan and Allen passed out who-knows-where, “let’s just say they walk a different life. Home doesn’t feel like home anymore and I needed to find it if I could. Someone recommended I travel for seven months and see if that doesn’t rid me of,” he paused, thinking the pastor would find the next part outrageous, “of my…troubles.” Aloud, ‘troubles’ sounded better to Colin’s ears than ‘demons.’ “I needed to clear my head; traveling with only the basics seemed like the best way to go about that. No distractions, just me, my thoughts, the road, and,” he grinned, “the occasional cow and potluck.”

“How long ago did you leave?”

“Around a month ago.”

“You have six more to go, then?”

Spooning mashed potatoes and gravy into his mouth, Colin nodded wordlessly.

“It won’t be easy, you know that.”

“Are you trying to deter me?”

“No,” replied Larry, “just pointing out the obvious.”

“I’ve been through worse, and I know I’ll manage. Maybe one day I’ll settle down and find a home again, but for now, walking until I get there—wherever that road takes me—is the life I want to live.”

“What are you searching for in a home?” asked Larry, but when Colin tried to envision the home of his childhood, when he once felt safe and secure despite his family’s difficulties, he pictured only the open night skies and a billion glittering stars.

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Thank you for reading, and please come back in two weeks for Part 4! 

Speaking of two weeks, someone asked why the two-week intermission between postings in a comment either here or on Instagram. Those weeks give me time to write and polish whatever I plan to post and allow a buffer in case I have a heavy school or work week and can't find adequate time or lack the energy and brain power to write creatively. When I tried sticking to a once-a-week schedule, I became quickly discouraged and practically gave up, doing well to post once a month at best. So far, though, posting every two weeks seems to work well! Thank you for your patience and your understanding!

~Abigail

Boy With a Bear Tattoo: Part 2

Another day late, and for that, I apologize. Time ran away from me and our internet is spotty and was being particularly uncooperative yesterday. But it's working now, so I am able to upload Boy With a Bear Tattoo: Part 2! If you need to refresh your memory about the events in the first part, visit the link above titled Story and Poem Links and click on the link titled "Part One" under the section for Boy With a Bear Tattoo. If you enjoy Part 2, or even if you don't, please comment your thoughts in the section below! I'd love to hear your thoughts, criticisms, and critiques!

Boy With a Bear Tattoo: Part Two

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What have I gotten myself into? Colin wondered for the fiftieth time that morning as he trudged alongside the road leading to the highway, maintaining a safe distance between himself and the cars that whizzed past him carrying their drivers to work, to school, to their jobs and obligations and lives, oblivious to the man walking just to the the side of the asphalt, his demons trailing after him. Not for the first time, he patted the inner pocket of the jacket holding the envelope with his life savings tucked neatly away inside it. His salvation, for the moment.

When he had asked to withdraw all of it from the bank earlier, the teller had looked at him with a concerned expression before she disappeared into the back room and emerged several minutes later with a thick stack of bills, courtesy of the military and his parents’ life insurance.

He left the apartment without saying goodbye to Jordan or Allen; they were passed out on the couches in the living room, likely hungover from the night before. But he had written a note and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet made from a bottle cap. It read simply:  Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while. Took a spontaneous vacation. I’ll be back. -Colin

“At least I hope I’ll be back,” he said aloud, and his feet stopped with the notion. He hadn’t considered not returning to the city that, for so many years, he called home. But since returning from Africa, it no longer felt the same as in his youth. The demons that hounded him at every turn on the battlefield, all the ghosts that were created there, followed him to the city and emerged, taunting him, stalking him, leering at him from dark alleys and shadows.

Home had moved, and unlike him, had left no note.

“Maybe I’ll find it again,” he thought. “Maybe I’ll find a place in the Midwest, somewhere remote, somewhere with stars,” he smiled. “It won’t be long now before I’m out of the city and the stars appear again.” The temptation to close his eyes and recall the memories of the glittering African sky with its brilliant pinpoints amongst the ebony, but the whoosh of cars passing dangerously close warned him of daydreaming. Losing himself in memories risked stepping wrong and in an instant, losing his life.

“What would Sam say?” He heard the old man’s raspy wheeze. I charged you with seven months, and you wind up killed less than five miles from your apartment. No, likely the old man would surprise him with profound wisdom. Dreaming of angels in the darkness won’t bring them to life. The words appeared like fire in his mind, blazing but not burning; it was as though Sam or some other invisible being whispered them in his ear.

It was enough to bring Colin to his senses as a speeding sports car zipped past, too close to the shoulder and Colin for comfort, and darted in and out of traffic. Wary of the highway to his left, Colin edged several inches to his right and continued walking toward the overpass.

For lunch several hours later, he stopped at a fast-food restaurant and ordered a burger and fries, thanked the bored high school student absentmindedly tapping the buttons on the cash register, and strolled across the street to the bus stop. He checked the schedule. The next bus wouldn’t arrive for another hour and fifteen minutes, so Colin settled in to wait and eat his lunch, but before doing so, he carefully extracted the pickle slices from his burger. Although he requested none, the cashier apparently didn’t hear, and when Colin saw the absence of the “no pickles” sticker on his bag, he felt the urge to protest, but decided that he did not wish to speak to another person any more than the cashier.

When he was certain that no pickles remained to taint his food, he tossed the thin green slices to the sidewalk. Almost instantly, pigeons—fat enough to cause Colin to question the integrity of their wings—swarmed the greasy dots, cooing and fighting one another until the fattest pigeon spread wide his wings and flapped them at the others, creating just enough distance and time for him to snatch up two of the slices and with some effort, heave his plump body off the concrete and fly away, his wings flapping furiously. The gargoyles of the city, he thought as the remaining pigeons squabbled for a minute before one, tired of the game, picked up the pickle and ate it before the astonished eyes of the others. Or, at least Colin pretended they were astonished; doing so made the scenario more interesting and amusing for him and diminished the odd sensation that, regardless of where he traveled, as long as he was within sight of the city, the demons would continue to hound him just as the pigeons preyed on the pickle. It frightened him.

All too soon, the squabbling ceased, and when Colin’s entertainment ended, the trepidation rose, forming a hard knot in his throat. Dismayed, and feeling particularly antagonistic toward the ghoulish birds, he tugged a french fry loose from the container and tossed it into the throng of glistening teal-gray feathers. Their ever-jerking heads bowed, eyeing the slender yellow fry, before one lunged for it and the fight began anew.

Forcing down the knot in his throat, Colin tried to curl his mouth into a smug grin, but his lips quivered lightly and lended him no courage, so he bit into his burger, and then grimaced at the grease that filled his mouth. His scowl deepening, he thought, I can’t even taste the meat. He swallowed and shivered as the grease slid down the back of his throat. If this is meat. Colin recalled a time in Africa when he complained about the lack of seasoning, and later on, the shortage of food. Now I’m complaining about the quality of the food I bought at one of the dozens of fast-food places on this street. He reeled at the irony and wrapping his unfinished burger in the paper bag, he threw it into the nearby trashcan and left the remaining french fries for the greedy pigeons.

In the distance, he saw the shadows of the city skyscrapers along the horizon and thought of the people living there, and how every day, they chased their jobs, desperate to ride the corporate ladder as high as possible and emerge victorious above everyone else to tote home a fat paycheck to indulge on whatever pleased them most at the moment. You couldn’t trust anyone; your coworker who smiled at you every morning was secretly aiming to steal your job. Your husband returned home late “from the office” nearly every evening, and your friends whispered behind your back about the pretty girl who worked in the cubicle next door. Even your children returned home from school suffering the gossip and betrayal of the cafeteria. Their gain has made them gluttonous, thought Colin, thinking back to Sam the previous night. The city is full of pigeons and they don’t even realize it.

“Which pigeon am I?” he wondered aloud. “The pigeon who sits around all day waiting for someone to toss him a french fry? Or the one who tries to escape with what he has, running from all the others?”

“How about the pigeon who realizes he’s been around the birds for too long and is actually human,” another voice interrupted.

Colin started and felt the heat of embarrassment creep into his cheeks. In another life he might have chided himself for his carelessness to notice someone sneaking up on him or sitting nearby, but this isn’t Africa, he reminded himself, and it was unlikely someone would attempt to rob him in the middle of the day. Turning, his gaze fell on the only other person standing nearby, a slender man maybe ten years his senior, dressed in a business suit worn with age, but still maintaining some dignity to it, the gray fabric pressed neatly, but faded along the collar and breast. Across his lanky body, he wore a black messenger bag, upon which his left hand rested lightly. The man’s hair was light brown and wavy at the ends, combed in an unremarkable style and held in place with gel. His face, also unremarkable, held a curious expression, and when he offered Colin a welcoming smile, Colin noticed that his teeth were slightly crooked. Despite his ordinary appearance, the fact that the man bothered to speak, let alone to tease Colin as an old friend, and that he smiled after  the fact elevated him to a significant place in Colin’s mind.

“Sorry,” Colin apologized, although he was uncertain why. “Do you ever have those moments when you look at something so ridiculous that you suddenly have an epiphany?”

The man shook his head. “No, I don’t believe I’ve ever had an epiphany while watching pigeons of all things, but I’ve heard that they occasionally happen.” He chuckled. “Although one time I did have the thought while eating a breakfast burrito that changed my outlook on the rest of the day.”

“Oh?” Colin raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe that was it!” he laughed and made to sit on the empty space beside Colin on the bench. Colin scooted over as the stranger continued, “Maybe that it was that sometimes things don’t matter as much as we initially think they do, and that at the end of the day, we can’t remember what we had for breakfast. When we wake up with hunger gnawing at our guts, food seems so important, and all we have to do is walk to the freezer, grab a frozen burrito, and pop it in the microwave for a minute or two. Easy as one two three. We don’t think anything of it again for the rest of the day.”

“We don’t ever consider how easy our lives actually are compared to people across the world,” mused Colin. “Until we experience starvation and watching depleted rations stretching thinner do we realize how privileged we are in the States.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed the stranger, tossing his hands in the air and then gesturing rapidly toward Colin. “In college between semesters I went on several mission trips to various impoverished countries around the world. Never thought I would appreciate a bar of soap in the dollar section at Walmart so much as I did after spending a few weeks there.”

Colin nodded, remembering the sensation of stepping into the shower after returning home from Africa, turning on the hot water, and letting it pour over his body. That first day, he had spent nearly an hour standing in the shower, basking in the blissful steam and warmth, and the feeling of his muscles relaxing.

“I know what you mean,” he said after a moment. “I spent a three year tour in North Africa.”

“You were military?”

“Straight out of high school.”

“My dad was in the navy, and my grandfather was a marine.”

“I was army; just left a couple months ago.”

“Three years is a long time to be away from home. Do you have a family?”

Colin snorted. “Two obnoxious brothers.”

“No wife or kids?”

He shook his head. “Never had the chance to settle down. I’d like to, I think, at some point in time. But I’m not sure I’m ready. I’m looking for...something.”

“Take your time,” the man rested his hands on his knees, massaging them gently. “If you’re looking for something, sometimes it’s best to pursue that until you know what you’re searching for,” he paused. “Kyle Mulligan.”

“Colin,” he shook Kyle’s hand, finding Kyle’s grip stronger than his wiry frame led on.

“Good to meet you, Colin. What epiphany did the pigeons give you?”

“That we’re all hounded by different demons and those of us who escape are never truly free. We still return to the same french fries, the same squabbles, the same company, the same things that haunt and terrify us.”

Kyle blinked, but said nothing for along moment.

He thinks me insane or delusional, Colin internally berated himself for responding.

“What brings you to the bus stop?” Kyle asked, mentioning nothing about Colin’s pigeons.

“My search, I guess you can call it. I come from the city,” he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward the horizon, where, beyond the overpass, loomed the spires and edifices that belonged to his former home. “But after returning home, I don’t know...it felt...suffocating. I couldn’t stand it anymore and needed to leave. A friend challenged me to travel the country for as long as possible until I find whatever it is I need to survive.”

“You feel like you’re existing, but not living.”

“Precisely.”

“Then I have an answer to your question, I think.”

“Oh?” Colin quirked a dark eyebrow skyward in silent question.

Kyle nodded in response. “You’re the pigeon running from his demons hoping to find a life as another creature, perhaps, even, a human.”

Silence was the reply Colin could offer Kyle’s insight. The stranger had peered keenly into his soul and perceived the truth in mere seconds. Colin wasn’t sure whether to fear Kyle or thank him.

“I have some experience with that,” said Kyle. “That’s why I decided to leave on those mission trips. I needed reassurance that there was more to life than an office job and climbing the corporate ladder. It changed my perspective about everything. Someday I want to go back and help, but you know, travel is expensive, so for the time being I’m stuck working in finances, but as least there I can help people. That’s what I searched for all those years ago: an outlet through which to help people.”

“I think this is one of those airplane oxygen mask situations where I need to put mine on first before I help someone else,” Colin noted, and Kyle chuckled. “If I don’t know how to live instead of just existing, then I won’t know what to do for someone else.”

“Also understandable. Sometimes you need to get away and to rediscover yourself, especially if you’ve been gone for several years.”

“That’s what I’m hoping, although instead of years, I hope seven months will do the trick.”

Kyle shifted, leaning back to make himself more comfortable on the hard bench. “Seven months, eh? Where are you headed?”

“Away?” shrugged Colin, chancing a glance back at the city over his shoulder. “I actually hadn’t thought that far ahead. You must think I’m crazy.”

“Not at all. Adventure can be fun.”

Or terrifying. From childhood on, Colin always preferred a plan, some vague reassurance of order in his otherwise chaotic life. With his dad in and out of hospitals and his mom working two, sometimes three jobs to support her sons and pay her husband’s medical bills, Colin and his brothers often had little structure of anything. His brothers took advantage of their home lives to run amok and test the boundaries of every rule and law their mother attempted to lay out, but with her often gone and unable to enact her rules, Jordan and Allen disregarded order. When Colin enlisted in the army, the routine life came as a blessing, a relief, and an escape. His mom passed away from a sudden stroke during his first year in Africa. He wasn’t able to leave to attend her funeral. Colin remembered walking away from his SO’s office the day he learned of his mother’s death, feeling listless, absent, numb and confused and unsure of his feelings. The afternoon had been hot and sweltering, suffocating and tense. They expected an attack that night, but none came save the sudden tears that came upon Colin in the dark hours of the morning.

Routine and rigorous training became outlets to repress his grief.

After that, the military and his army brothers provided the ordered family he desperately craved. Home, Jordan and Allen were strangers, and Colin was nearing his limits regarding their nightlives when he left them hungover in their apartment earlier that morning. To take a spontaneous adventure without a plan or destination contradicted every instinct and self-enacted rule he abided by. It was both liberating and frightening.

“I, uh, thought about hopping on a bus and flipping a coin to land a destination, but depending on the bus stop, I might be flipping for a while. But I think I’ll head toward the Midwest for a while. Maybe after that see the west coast and the sequoias. Maybe try to spot an Ewok or two.”

At the reference, Kyle began to laugh. “It’s been forever since I watched those movies.”

“I was obsessed with them as a kid. I had a Death Star bed cover.”

Eyeing him skeptically, Kyle asked, “Jedi or Sith?”

“Jedi,” Colin replied without hesitation. “Obi Wan Kenobi was my hero growing up.”

“Good choice,” acknowledged Kyle, “although I personally favored Han Solo. Fortunately my wife grew up watching them, too. I got no say in what we named our son.”

“Let me guess. Luke?”

“Worse. Lando.”

Colin’s eyebrow quirked up suddenly. “Are you serious?”

Kyle chuckled, “No, fortunately. You were right the first time. It’s generic, I know,” he grinned sheepishly, “but we liked it.”

“Not at all! Beats Lando.”

“That’s a fact. So, sequoias?” he asked, bringing Colin back on track.

“Right. Um,” he thought for a moment, then continued, “after California, I may travel the Bible Belt before heading back to the city.” To see Sam a final time. To tell him I banished my demons, or at least that I tried, and then leave the city behind for good.

“Then what?”

Colin’s mind blanked. “Honestly,” he said, “I don’t know.”

“If you ever decide you might want to try missions, give me a call,” offered Kyle, and he fished inside his wallet for a second before withdrawing a small card. “Here’s my number.”

“Thank you,” Colin said, taking it and studying the simple design and words printed on the front.

As Kyle checked his watch, he frowned, “My lunch break is nearly over. I should probably head back.” Standing, he straightened his suit and dusted off his pants before lifting his messenger bag up and onto his shoulder. “It was good to meet you, Colin, and if there’s anything I can do, give me a call.”

“Good to meet you, too,” he replied and began to slide Kyle’s card into the inner pocket of Sam’s jacket when he stopped, his fingers brushing something thin and crisp. “Kyle?” he called to the man’s back, already several paces away from the bench.

Kyle turned on his heel and started back toward Colin, a confused expression written across his long face. “Yeah?”

“Take this,” Colin withdrew several bills from his pocket, “to go toward your missions projects. It isn’t much, but it might help.”

Kyle’s eyes widened as he hesitantly accepted the cash, widening even more as he counted the bills. “A thousand dollars? I can’t take your money.” He stiffened and shoved his hand, still holding the cash, at Colin, but Colin backed away from it.

“Take it,” he insisted. “It’s a gift. Pray for me, will you?”

Behind Kyle’s frozen and flabbergasted face, the rectangular face of the bus rattled down the street toward the stop. Before Colin, Kyle stood still as a pillar, shocked and staring at his hand as his arm sagged and began dropping toward his side. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound issued from it.

As the bus stopped and wheezed, Colin slipped past the line of people exiting it without another word to Kyle. He paid the driver, and slid to the middle of the bus, finding to his delight, a spare seat beside the window. When the bus pulled out, only one figure remained at the stop. Kyle. Through the window, Colin watched as Kyle waved and mouthed “I will. Thank you.”

Lips drawing into a faint smile, Colin leaned back into the cushions of the bus seat, and promptly drifted off to sleep.

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Thank you for reading and again, please comment your thoughts or criticisms about my writing, this blog, etc. Part 3 of Colin's adventure will be on my blog in two weeks, so please stay tuned and check it out then! Also, any guesses as to what fairytale I am retelling with Seven Months? Comment your thoughts below! Happy Sunday, and I wish you all a lovely afternoon!