Part three of our trip takes us through the Middle Rhine.
I write flash fiction, non-fiction, essays and novels. This month’s Tease is from a novel in progress.
He picked at it, looking down and then off at the approaching clouds. “I suppose I owe you guys a better explanation. You’re already guessing anyway. I would. Young guy, clearly messed up. Something pretty shitty must have happened, right?”
“Look kid,” Mann started, “you don’t have to …”
“I think he wants to,” Jessie corrected him.
“I do,” Tumbleweed confirmed her hunch. “Besides, it’s probably better to explain the whole story, rather than have you put in pieces that don’t belong. It might not matter to the dead, but to those of us they leave behind, it should.”
“The dead?” Molly questioned before quickly being hushed by Jessie and Mann.
All three were listening intently, now, with weighted tension, as they anticipated the kid’s disclosure.
“Max, you guessed correctly when you tagged me as a guide. I once was one, a pretty damn good one. For the Rougettes, out of Grants Pass. Problem is, I thought I was even better than I was, better than the river itself. Something happened to change all that. When you picked me up, hitchhiking, over by Grave Creek, I was having a tough time of it.”
“Down on the river?”
“Down on myself, down on life, and had been, for a long time, longer than anyone should be. Drinking into oblivion every night, waking up in strange places, with strange women.”
Jessie and Mollie looked at each other and shrugged. Tumbleweed kept talking, not looking for a reaction, except perhaps, from himself. He was pitched into memory and nothing could pull him back now. It was as if he had dropped an eighty pound pack after a long day on the trail. Suddenly, with virginal clarity, he appreciated the appeal of confession.
“The night before Max stopped to pick me up,” he continued, “I was on a drunk, but the booze ran out. I dried out in the wild, in the dark. Not good. It made for some awful fits in my sleep, horrible dreams. Terrors. Visions. I was pretty confused. The lines between asleep and awake, dream and reality, were all blurred. I woke up in the morning, in the gravel, beside the passer’s cross at Lost Penny. Sometime during the night, I had scratched myself a message in the dirt.”
“A message?” Jessie asked.
“Don’t interrupt,” Molly scolded her. “I don’t think he’s been in this place for a while,” she added, tapping her forehead.
“It’s okay,” Tumbleweed assured her. “I can see it all pretty clear right now. Clearer than I have in quite a while. It wasn’t even a message, really. Just two words …
Fall colors visit the Little Spokane River Valley.
After escorting my daughter back to Washington State University last Easter Sunday, I took some shots on the road home.
Anyone who has wandered through the rolling hills of Southeastern Washington knows the scenery can be hypnotic. Like snowflakes, the mounded loess lumps are all similar, but no two are exactly the same. And so, below, I offer a photographic Aesop’s tale – a topographical reminder of the sanctity of individuality. What a bore life would be if all the world (and all of us) were the same.
Stories and photos from Scotland
Blurring the lines between poetry and prose
"Everyone needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to the soul" -John Muir
Is it destiny, happenstance or stratagem?
Showcasing the beauty of Mother Nature
A dose of fetish. Good friends. An incomparable muse.
Where Fictional Characters Rule
Wandering Soul Writer
reflections on a passing life
Everyone has a story to tell. This is me, telling mine.
I had to find some way to entertain myself, so I made up stories in my mind. One night I started writing them down and never stopped.
I Read To Learn About Others - I Write To Learn About Myself
The Art and Craft of Blogging
Wandering, wondering and writing
Where no one is barred and everyone is grilled.
Death Before Sour Mix
Notes on Seeing, Reading & Writing, Living & Loving in The North