In keeping with the output, I figured I'd give you a glimpse of Traveling Tales that I've been working on since time out of mind. I handed this in for workshop a few years ago and had my arch-nemesis read it, BOTH to a wonky array of critiques.
Again, this is very beginning of my creative life (though new) and I'd have trouble giving up this piece, word-for-word. I have since added more, clipped more, and have a bit of a different take than I had previously. Even stuff here is making its way to the end, but maybe more on that later.
He
knelt at the fireplace, however briefly, jittery in anticipation of the day—if
not for the need to make pee before he wet himself. He poked absently at the snuggling fire coals
with their white-ash night caps, transfixed by the glowering glowing warmth as
they came to life, almost angry for being woken from their ember sleep. Struggling in the hearth, they sputtered and
spit in their irritation, voicing their concern for the morning chill. Reds and yellows played across his face as he
peered into the widening gyre of the hearth’s hellish depths. Throwing one final log into position kicked
sparks up the chimney, winking towards finality as the wind sucked them outward
into the early morning sky.
He
took the stewpot from its fireplace hook, making his way through basement
quarters to the garden to fill the pot from the rainwater gutterbucket. Like a ghost, he glided silently along the
rows, crops tickling the tops of his feet with dew. He’d been out here mere hours ago, trying to
go, staring up between the branches next to the tree where he marked his
territory. He hadn’t done a thing,
though, shaking his head as he shook the few little dribbles he’d managed to
squeeze out. Back through the yard, eyes
to the stars, a near-silent night offering up a near silent prayer to God up
there. Barry waited for an answer, not
really expecting to hear one. The stars
twinkled and shone, heaven’s angels silently laughing at him in the multitude
of the expansive night.
Barry
Carlson thought about this as he made water.
He was not a praying man. He paid
his respects in church, silent saint amid the motions—sit down, stand up,
kneel, ad nauseum—the repetition boring him, taking him farther from what he
believed church could give him. He was
tired of giving and sacrificing, and now he wanted a little back for his time
and effort offered. He knew that wasn’t
how it worked, and he believed, truly he did, but why in this wide world wasn’t
there a place for him?
It
had been a dry spring thus far, but there would be more than enough water to
get his pappy along until harvest, should the caravan not be back by then. Stewpot filled to the brim, Barry hefted it
and waddled back inside to replace it above the fire that had caught. What little heat it was making would be
plenty to get the shower water hot. In
the meantime, Barry would nap, if just for a little bit; knowing full well there was no chance that
sleep could overtake him with such little time left to go, he lay down just the
same, excitement veiling the threat of oversleep to keep him stranded in this
town for another summer.
It
wasn’t that he loathed the place, far from it.
Truth be told, Barry loved Haven, and it had grown on him the way no
other city in the county. Except…like a
toenail gone rogue, the whole of Clint had been poking and prodding just below
the surface of the skin. Like the
infestation that it always proved itself to be, that pesky little bugger hurt
like the dickens—and sent him home packing, limping back along the path.
But
sleep he did, or so he believed, restless as it was. Caught between waking dreams and nightmares
putting up another gruesome stand at the forefront of his mind, fireworks
whistled and howled their incoherencies at he and his pappy, watching from the
porch. The cacophony city-side lit up
the sky and echoed down the Sus’kenny River Valley. It was a song Barry longed to hear, leaping
from his sitting place and racing to the road, following in short bursts as
each barrage of the spectacle reached the heavens. The farther he made it from the house,
however, the more intermittent the display of lights became. He knew the road well, even in the dead of
night, but now, as the dark assaulted his senses, enveloping him, crashing down
around him and bringing him to his knees.
This
is the exact moment in time which something on the horizon has been waiting,
the formless and empty darkness chooses to release Barry from his kneeling
posture. The glorious rays grasping at
the treeline, inching above the mountaintops as the dawn pokes its head for
what may very well be the first time ever.
Barry tries to look upon the colors radiating from the corona, the crown
of the sun bleeding out another victory, shouting from the rooftop across the
morning sky. The brief testament that
proved to be the fireworks’ finale stands in only for another beginning. The calamity which has ensued, awoken the
light, and the tendrils of night dissipate as a silent fog from around the
boy’s heart, and in a still, small voice weaving its way into his head
“Barry. Hey, Barry…”
The voice of the big man upstairs shook the foundations in Barry’s
bedroom, snatching him from dreams that proved to be as out of place as he
was. Harsh sunlight coursed through the
garden doorway, displacing Barry some two hours later than when he lay his
head, patient, waiting. The clock chimed
upon an ominous eight-fifteen, gears grinding as his brain pondered this,
squinting in incomprehension.
Calculations muddled his thoughts, making miscalculations, and then righting
themselves with the realization he was going to be late.
Lack
of sleep and the abruptness of his call to being awoken had left him with one
big headache, pain making its good ol’ time from the base of his skull where it
met bunching at the neck, up over the top of his head to his eyeballs. Along with this came the smells of breakfast,
easing their way towards him, Barry’s stomach queased in emptiness of belly and
the uncertainty of the day to come. He
doffed his clothes, grabbed at the warm
water waiting and streaked outside to the shower.
As
water cascaded about him, Barry was glad for what little rest he managed. The haste of his lateness spurred him into
action, making it farther in a shorter time than he would have made had he
stayed awake, puttering around. The
urgency the shower placed upon his shoulders also made him more than grateful
for the last warm shower he might have in a while. Either way, it was over sooner than he had
hoped, dragging his bucket and soap, dripping inside.
Barry
got caught up in his pants, trying to maneuver two legs into one of the
homespun wool slacks, falling to the floor.
Yet in his fumblings, he located his missing moccasin that would prove
invaluable for the trip; now he wouldn’t have to buy a new pair. Leather jerkin topped things off, bone
buttons undone, knowing full well the heat of the morning would be coming on
quick.
