Unfortunately, those thoughts inadvertently cast me into the "hole" from which I write (see more about "the hole" at an old posting). My fall pretty much defeated the day as an unnamed character dictated his tale about a life in hell. I have the rough structure down, but that story is far from ready to be shared.
Putting some words down today make me think back about fifteen or so years, and I remembered a shorty I wrote that is a little scary, but in a Twilight Zone sort of way.
As a forward, you should know that this began as a memoire of a childhood event. The first inexplicable death really happened, but the rest is just my weird imagination and some literary license.
The Recoil of an Imaginary Gun
Indian summer was struggling to stand its ground against
the onset of seasonal change. The old
man had predicted cold and snowy weather by November, and he was hardly ever
wrong. This would be their final fishing
trip of the year. It would be the last
time the sun’s warmth would suffice to raise the bass and perch from the
lethargy of their deep holes. The
brothers, anxious to take advantage of the waning season, set their skiff onto
the water behind the Mill dam.
They planned on spending the whole day on the water and had
spent the bulk of the prior week preparing for this day. Afternoons were spent racing carelessly through
homework and chores, and later whining at Pop’s rule about supper being eaten at
the table with the family. Their later evenings
were busy oiling reels, re-spooling line, organizing spinners and spoons, and mentally
mapping this summer’s final assault on the Rancocas.
The brothers preferred to fish between the dams. The creek was stopped in two places where
generations ago, New England wood was sawn and Southern cotton woven. The water between the dams flowed with years
of quiet innocence, undaunted by the tides and flood waters that could not
breech the antique barriers. The dark,
serene, cedar water carried the brothers on adventurous expeditions past mysterious
neighborhoods of frugally constructed summer cottages and expansive creek front
manors. The younger brother always wondering
what road led those unseen privileged inhabitants to this secret haven. He never asked, because on the creek, talk
was discouraged, in fact, all unnecessary noise was considered the worst kind
of sin. Even the sound of water dripping
from a retracted oar seemed an affront to this Eden. Here, Nature demanded silent respect.
The brothers scurried back and forth from the car to the
water as the poles and tackle were stowed aboard. With the boat loaded, the older brother lit a
cigarette and puffed great clouds of smoke that would one day carry him off
into the next life. The younger brother stood
watching, holding their lunch cooler and two thermoses of coffee. One was sugared; one was not. The younger never understood how the older
could endure the bitter taste of that unsweetened swill.
The empyrean sky would be the last of the year. In a week, the world would don its gray, wintry hood and the rods and reels would be replaced by shotguns. Weekend suppers would change from the flaky,
sweet taste of pan-fish, to rich, musky game-meat. Even on this last fishing day, the brothers'
blood ran warm with the anticipation of the start of hunting season. Mother Earth always provided. Eat
what you kill. Kill what you eat. Remember,
it's a sin to waste a life.
The younger stood beside the boat and inhaled deep. "Smells like hunting season already."
"Yeah," came the reply from behind a pillow of
smoke. "Tomorrow we’ll check the
basement and see what we've got. Maybe
we'll load a box or two of shells."
The younger pulled his arms up like he was carrying his
twelve gauge and took aim on a morning dove that was flitting right to
left. "I can't wait." He steadied his imaginary gun, and led the
speeding fowl with a practiced eye.
"Bang!" He gave his gun
a sound.
The dove crumpled, shuttered, and fell into the water.
"What the hell?" the older snickered.
"Killed it!
I'm so damned good, I don't even need my gun."
"Yeah, right! Ain't
dead," declared the astonished, older brother. "Come on, I'll show you."
They released the boat from its mooring and rowed to the
middle of the cove.
The dove was dead.
It floated just below the surface.
A broken wing jutted above the water; its damp feathers fluttering like
a flaccid sail.
"Grab it before it sinks."
"Can't take it, dipshit. Season ain't open. We'd sure to get busted by the warden."
"We can't waste it!"
"Can't take it, man.
Besides, we don't even know what killed it."
"What-da-ya-mean?
I killed it!"
"Right. Ya
can't kill somethin' just by thinking about it." The older pushed the dove under the water
with his oar. "Leave it for the
turtles."
"But that ain't right," the younger
muttered. It's a sin to waste a life.
The boat turned and the brothers pushed their oars against
the dark current of the ancient water. The
younger worried at the aqueous grave until its ripples dissolved into a
miscellany of memory.
In the years since, the younger brother had given away his
guns and told friends that he was done shooting things. He had moved on from a life of subsistence to
the inanimate plastic wrapped meats of Shop Rite. With age his memory changed, that dove was
the only kill he could ever remember. Bang!
With an imaginary gun. He
never gave thought to the hundreds of rabbits and quail he had killed and
eaten. He didn’t think about the
pheasants or squirrels or ducks over which he had said Grace and then fed his
family. He forgot about the hours standing
numb-toed in a tree-stand, waiting in ambush for a venison meal. There was only one kill that he ever thought
about. The imaginary kill. And for
the last two days, it was the only thing that he thought about. The
wasted kill. The sinful kill. It was not something he wanted to think
about, but it was better than the alternative.
"Coffee!” he groaned, talking to the empty room, “I
forgot to make the damned coffee."
He rolled onto his back in a bed that was too big and too cold for one
person. Coincidence; it had to be. You
can kill with your imagination. He
hated making coffee and knew that the pot was sour with yesterday's stale
grinds. He also knew that to wash the
pot, he would have to clear the sink of dirty dishes.
"Forgot to feed the dog, too. Damn, I’ve got to get it together!" He scissored his legs wide feeling the cold
sheets and wondering when or even how often they would need to be
laundered. The dove just died. I didn’t kill it.
"Got to get moving," he stretched and
yawned. "Oh shit, no!" He shuttered at the thought of his kids
arriving this morning. "Shit, shit,
shit, this is not going to be good."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. There was no way to explain what had
happened. He couldn’t even explain it to
himself.
He pulled on the jeans that he had left on the floor. His dog appeared at the door with a nervous
look. "You need to go out, don’t ya? Come on, boy.
Potty outside and I'll get you something to eat." The dog cowed with his tail between his
legs. "Better watch out,
Buddy. It might be you the next
time."
He scuffed his bare feet into the hallway lined with
decades of family pictures. The memories
washed over him in a sudden wave that buckled his knees. His body contracted defensively. He fell to the floor and wept in convulsions.
Buddy crept down the hall and peed on the leg of the
dining room table.
"Are you watching
that grill! Don’t let it catch
fire. I hate it when you burn the
chicken."
"Oh drop dead,
honey! The chicken 'll be fine. I'm jus’ gettin’ another beer."
Bang.
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