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
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