The Wilderness

The Wilderness.

*) Put two characters in the wilderness and let one find traces of the other along the way.

Bert swilled the last bit of beer in his mouth like a bitter mouthwash. The act provided little use for Robert but to just make the alcohol last a smidgen longer. He even looked to the bottom of the bottle in the hopes that some drink had escaped him.
The bottle was empty.
Bert released the brake but did not but the engine back on. He listened to the strum of the sand and dirt on the duster’s underside as she slid into a parking space at the bottom of the small slope. There was little else to look at but the black truck of Ronnie’s, positioned parallel. The parking area was empty, a surprise for a Friday night.
As Bert pulled the parking brake, several bottles rolled forward clanking in the foot-well on the passenger side. Robert swore and looked up towards the truck.
No movement.
Bert was surprised by this. He had rehearsed the entire drunken drive to the lover’s lane on what he was going to say. He knew that Ronnie had seen him talk to Melanie several occasions at the school. Ronnie even questioned once if they had some kind of relationship, or were planning to, but walked away before Bertie could answer. Melanie, this chilly evening, was going to be his respite. He figured it was best to just say she had jilted him and walked away from the date. But then, as he exited, he would be the victim. Maybe he should say that he decided to cancel the date because she was so mean. That did not work for him either. So he elected to see Ronnie, play up the drunk part, and see how Ronnie responded.
And how Ronnie’s date responded as well.
He knew Margie from his one first period. I thought about asking her about homework or why she was always running into class late but chose, again, just to see how Ronnie was doing.
He saw the moisture in the inside of the glass and was relieved. He would not have to spend this Friday night alone again.
“Hey RONNIE!” He yelled, “Surprising to see you here!” He feigned a belch that was audible to several deer a few yards away.
No answer.
Bert rapped on the glass several times and squinted. Some humor might be derived from seeing one or both of them in a state of undress, but he noticed the steam was only on one side. Books from school were thrown on the passenger side.
Bert realized the wet earth below him was contaminated by his only playacting of drunkenness. He stood upright and looked down.
Ronnie’s tennis soles were as huge as his feet and led away from the immediate area and into the woods. Bert reached into the Duster and pulled out a flashlight, his laser pointer and a Colt from the back seat. He placed the gun in the small of his back, turned on the light and was about to yell when the situation took the better of him. He started to trek into woods.
The cold nights and the uncut trail left many branches sticking out into path and easy to break. Most were just muddy, stepped on by someone without a flashlight but not completely a bother.
He found his track easily. It was the sound of tears that he was not ready for.
Bert smiled at the opportunity.

Chaos Follows

Create a small story where chaos follows your protagonist:

Tyler was impressed as he rounded out the moping on the floor of the shop. He had opened the front door and propped it with a cleaning bin to let the evening's air flow a bit more freely. The clouds were rolling in and he had hoped to finish his chores a bit prior to the storm's impending arrival. Besides, the open door dried the floor a bit faster then he could with the heat from the just finished kitchen.

What impressed Tyler were the three drops of water that had landed on his forearm. The parking lot was beginning to fill with the black dots of first rainfall. Three had some how found their way into his workplace and flew all the way to his blond fur on right arm. He smirked.

His smile grew as he noticed a majority of the floor was truly dry.

He wheeled the bucket to teh back of the back of kitchen and thought about what he could do with the rest of the evening.

"Ayeeeeeeeflabuuushamasssssshhhh!"

The smile did not leave his face. That scream was too fake. He rounded the doorway.

There was an arm on the counter. The rest of the arm's keeper was somewhere lower, out of view.

"Oh-my-Jesus, I'm sorry!"

The floor must not have been dry.

He curbed the edge of the counter like a pro. He had loved this job at the store, luckly to find it on such hard times and short notice. There was a young gentlemen, of similar age, tshirt horked up to a nail jutting out of the wood paneling and his shoes sideways.

"Nah, it's cool. Most people see wet floors and decide not to cross them."

"I am so, so sor..." Tyler's left leg did not clear the counter's edge and twirled him downwards, towards the first victim. He landed on top of the young man, pulling him away from the old nail and tearing his shirt into two. Tyler did not have time to stop the collison.

Tyler looked down and shook his head. The vistor did not open his eyes.

"Is it over?"

"I hope so, sir. I guess it's too late to tell you we're closed?"

The falling man popped his eyes open at Tyler. They were in kissing range and Tyler found it comfortable.

And it scared him. He stood abruptly and held out a hand.

The young man on the floor took stock with his right hand to the back of his head.

"Ah, good, no blood. This," he tried to piece his shirt back together over his torso, "however, is a goner."

"Oh no, my boss is going to kill me for not putting a sign out! Oh, no, no, no..."

"Relax, Tyler, it's Tyler right? We go to the same school, you're alright, it's alright. I have a sweatshirt out in my gym back in the car."

"OH! Okay, yeah, yeah, I've seen you! Lemme get, some, ice? Maybe? Oh! I have a shirt that might fit..." Tyler feld to the back of the store.

"Just wait..there's..."the falling victim stepped forward and put both arms on the counter to balance himself. He looked back at the floor. Not a single skidmark was there. He was impressed with his bad luck.

"Here!" Tyler jutted the tshirt into his face.

"I'm Mike. I work next door. I just wanted to say your front door," he gestured in the general direction," was open and a storm was coming in."

"Hey, hi, yeah, Mike, and I'm really sorry." Mike had removed the remanants of the shirt and begun to replace it with the new black duds the youth had handed him. It fit perfectly, if slightly tight.

"No worries. I know your boss, he's a friend of mine," Mike stated as he pulled down.

"Oh crap."

"And he's not going to find out, unless," Mike started to scratch his chest, "unless you tell him your...um, is it warm in here?"

"No, not with the door open!"

"True, but I have, oh no, you use Tide, don't you!"

"Yeah, why?"

"I'm allergic!" Mike tore off the shirt.

Writing activity "goodness"

Write about a Good person.

I had known Kent since fall. How could I have missed something who I would later recall as one of my first crushes? He did please the eye, as young gay men are fond of noticing in their first crushes. He didn't do much. I knew he played football, only because he had to wear the required jerseys for game days and pep rallies. But I never saw him play. And I would watch too. Queer guys get a bad rap. Everyone thinks we hate sports. It is not that. It is that we hate to have to play sports that might ruin our hair or further scar us by showing together.

So I would sneak out to the football games that I could. There was Kent, on the sidelines. He was obvious even under all of his armor, a piece of meat with a thick neck. I would watch him and not the gruntmakers on the field.

And I would make a note of saying "good job" to him come Monday. My theatre friends were never the wiser.

I always felt bad for him. I noticed that spring semester that his neck had been badly burned one Monday. I calculated that he probably had been doing yard work with some recently, severely shaved hair.

He even looked more like a marine.

Now my time at high school was short. I hated the place, as most gay guys do. We're not ourselves and no one will allow us to express. Mine was complicated by the fact that I was too smart. I kept scoring too high in the advanced courses. This was not met with more applause outside of my family. Instead, I had various aide positions that senior year.

And I remember once, grading papers, seeing that Kent was not doing what the other kids were. Math, that year, was more then work for him. After the third homework that fall, I decided it was time to, at least, find a reason to sit close to Kent. I was so self-serviant.

"Dude, hey, I'm Bri. I work for Mrs. Kendall, your math teacher. I know I'm kinda overstepping my boundaries here, but I noticed, well, let's just say she's a hard teacher."

"I know you, you're the guy in all the plays. Brian Steves. We had a few classes together last year. You also do choir. I thought about trying out for that."

I was impressed. Apparently, he had his eyes open too.

"Yeah, that's me! You should, you should try out," I was probably more emotional then I needed to be, but the thought of seeing Kent was a bit more was giving me an eternal energy I'd not ever felt before," but I was wondering, do you need help with math? I am offering tutoring to several people who might need help with her class and I thought I'd ask."

Kent looked down at the ground, his hulking frame slightly dejected. I assure you, insult was not my goal. Maybe someone to go see a movie was. I realized at this point his pants had a slap of duct tape on the back side and his tshirt was slightly ripped on the back portion, arcing to the front. I realized that he had it on last year and it had fit.

"It's no problem, I can work around your schedule. I didn't mean to insult--"

"No, dude, dude, you didn't insult. I kinda already have tutoring. I didn't realize I was doing so poorly in Mrs. Kendall's. Crap. I gotta talk to someone."

I immediately wanted to take back everything I had said and just continue to admire this athlete from afar. I was hit with guilt and fell back on what I knew.

Food.

"Well, okay, um, Kent, do you want to go get some food? I have my car just back from the shop and, well, there's Mickey D's across the way."

"I am not supposed to leave campus."

He had turned and was talking to me sideways.

"You're not supposed to leave campus?"

He shrugged his shoulders. My first thought was paranoia. He was a felon. I didn't see any lock on his leg. But he used his chin as a pointer at a nearby classroom.

Room #225.

Special education resources.

For all my glances at Kent, he had kept his true identity secret. He had a learning disability, but only after some time, did I know it.

But I glued my heels to the ground. My family was a crazy sort of wackos, weirdos and annoyances. They never, ever, however, would put a person down for being different. I remembered this for my brother once was suspended for beating up his friend--after the friend had teased some students coming out of that classroom. It was overkill, grant you, but the point was made.

"Cool. Do you need to ask your teacher if you can come with for lunch? You need me to go with you?"

He swivelled around full bore and stood standing at me like a gunslinger at high noon.

He never had to deal with this kind of situation. I suddenly was angry with the entire football team for never calling him to games or activites or playing the friend bit.

"Would you go in there with me?"

The more severe cases of students were in there--and though Kent did not seem to fit in with them on a physical level, he knew them all by name and smiled and nodded to each one.

....that's all I had to write for tonight. More on Kent's story later.

Writing activity

Dear all,

I seem to have killed the Writers' Block I've been suffering from. I've decided to continue Bertie's tale here in part, but if I feel the need to write about it elsewhere...if it has legs, in other words, might write about it in my journals. In the meanwhile, I'll be posting some more segments from my 3AM Epiphany text. Today just happens to be about Bert, but more often, I doubt it will.

Keep reading....

Friends?

Ronnie hated having a mobile phone. For with it, he knew that, even if he did not answer it, the pains of knowing that someone was trying to contact him would grow and grow until it would obscure all other thoughts.

When the phone rang, he saw it was Bert, again, wondering where he was. Their childhood was unimpressive. They met in daycare, their parents kept mentioning. Ronnie always wondered how this would equal friendship. Their parents just put them together. No infant has the concept of friends. It just has the concept of companiship, a complicated way of saying there is another person is sitting nearby and he or she is not bothering you.

Ronnie was sure that if he cried because Bertie had bit him or hit him, the parents would quibble for a few moments, make hush-hush sounds and set them back on the floor or in the playpen. In fact, since they did not talk any more, Ronnie decided that, in fact, his mother detested Bertie’s mother. Ronnie’s mom never invited her over for coffee, even if the java was being served on a special occasion. Bertie’s mom did little towards Ronnie or his mother either.

Ronnie pondered this in a matter of moments, seeking a reason to not answer the phone.

But something inside his chest pounded a bit harder. When he was a freshman in college, he denounced dating all together and could not understand why all concepts of love focused on his chest. His sociology major illustrated for him that love was a feeling, but it happened through various reactions of chemicals in the brain. He would later realize that his was borne from leaving his longest girlfriend yet right after high school graduation. His newer college buddies would emphasize this and point out that he was just telling himself stories to keep from being upset.

His chest hurt, however, when the young lady he met in his junior year finally rebuffed him after a bad day of finals.

Then he knew why the chest was the reference and Hallmark made so many pink and red hearts every February. For all of his education, something in his chest moved when he loved or wanted, it also burned when emotions ran high.

His chest had a similar ache now.

The fact was, he knew Bertie probably better then Bert knew himself. He knew that when he fell and skinned his knee in grammar school—he not accident prone, but avoiding taking quarters from his mother; Ronnie knew that the invite to have coffee this evening was not out of curiousity for Ronnie’s recent past events and college. It was so Bert can see if he was truly alone.

Ronnie did not recognize his friend at the supermarket earlier this very day. The weeks of basic training had slimmed down an already frail physique to a pencil thick frame. But his arms and legs had meat that was honed. But the cheeks were more sullen then ever before.

And Ronnie’s chest hurt.

He picked up the phone and confirmed that he was on his way to the coffeehouse.

Continued...

Bertie came to his mother, his shoulder high in fear.

He paused and took a deep breath.

"Mother, what are you talking about?"

"That!" She pointed with her trowel. As he waited for his response, she used the metal tool to scratch her left knee behind the pad. Bertie knelt to get a closer look, knodding deeply and dramatically. His mother stepped back and took a quick mental inventory of her new flowers. All were healthy, bright and ready to be planted. She reviewed her plan of attack. She had new soil; she had the new duds. But the sun was ratching high up into the sky and she knew her time outside was limited to begin with at her age.

A huge cheer echoed from the nearby living room. She moved her view back to Bertie. The back of his neck also had joined in the chorus of the temperature-beads of sweat had started to form and drag down the sides of his throat.

"Pulled me away from my game for..."

"What?"

"Nothing, I'm not sure what it is."

"Did we have an animal die here? Did we bury it here? I can't remember. Maybe your father killed something like a ground hog with you boys?"

"No, that's not it, that's not it at all. Looks like that 'coon we found a few years back."

"Raccoon? I don't remember any raccoon."

"No, you didn't. It was a secret. Me and Ronnie found it. Limbing back up in the woods behind...."

"Ronnie and I," she demanded, pointing again with the trowel."

"Behind Pete's house. Took it to Ronnie's shed and put it out of it's misery."

Bert declined to elaborate.

"Ah, okay. Now get yourself back in to that house. And get me something to drink," Bert nodded without looking at his mother. He held out a hand and she placed the trowel in it. He quickly dig up several other sets of bones. Mrs. Castle looked on.

"That was just one 'coon?"

Bertie kept digging, looking at a bone here and there, as it they were magical or weighted.

"I said, was that just one??"

"No, well, no, looks like there might be some other bones. They are small. Probably just died here trying to dig up the racoon," he looked to the street and could only see a small piece--the shade of the nearby oak held off a full view.

"Let me get you that water," he stood.

"Can I still finish my work?" his mother inquired.

"I think so. But you might want to separate out some of those bones. Can't help thinking that it won't help anything grow much. There might be some fur in there too."

Bert went into the house and forgot about the water. He positioned himself on the end of the divan so he could see his mother finish her work.

More stuff from Bert's life

Mrs. Castle had time to garden. The rains had subsided two days prior and the ground had held onto the moisture well. She had treated herself many years ago to a pair of knee supports, but time was never available for her to dig them out of the garage.

Work had finally died down and time opened for her to find those pads, her trowel and some old soil in a green bag in the back, near her recycling bin. She felt slightly giddy, like discovering a five dollar bill in her winter jacket a year later. she threw everything intot her son's old, old, red wagon and headed out to the front yard.

Bert was responsible enough to keep the lawn mowed. She had aske dhim to week as well, but noticed he mere edged the weedaacker a bit closer to dandelions in response. He liked the outdoors, or so it appeared, for he took off his shirt during the time finishing his duties and seemed to like the schedule she proffered.

He had finished early this Saturday. He had fallen into baseball season and was treating himself to the time in front of the television.

She figured she'd work along the front of the house. A quick trip to the store had yielded simple, bright colored flowers to dot the black soil with purple, yellow and pink-red. They still were in their cheap plastic housing, waiting to enjoy a new home with their cousins, planted two years ago.

Mrs. Castle felt content with the memory of planting the flowers those days ago. Same feeling, but her knees bothered her. They continued to survive. She had not planted more, but instead fed them the right amount of fertizlier and water, all by hand, when the days became weary.

Still one patch, a place she knew things would find purchase, was empty. It was to the side of the house, behind a hedge, but in perfect sunlight. No one could see it from the street, but it was obvious from the dining room and the television room, so its enjoyment would not go unnoticed. That patch was today's goal.

She slipped on her kneepads and knelt exhaling further contentment.

She ceremonisiously put her trowel in for the firt scoop of the day. She had lain out her newspaper, so as not to mix up the different kinds of soil and replaced aleadhy the dry earth with the moist, white flecked style.

She surveyed and figured the yellow, a cautionary color, would go best in this corner.

The trowel tinked when it sank into the soil.

She grumbled, thinking she had dug to far down in her first scoop. She lifted and the earth moved before her in a larger heap.

The stone was the size of a small baseball and completely out of character for this area. She used the trowel as a lever and move it farther out.

It was a small skull. The shape was round, not oblong. This gave her small comfort, for her cat was buried much farther back behind the house, not beside it. This skull was not a cat skull or a human skull.

She could not place it. The flesh had warn away by many moons and was a dirty tan.

"Bert! Bert! Can you come here for a second?"

She felt her heart sink. She was trying to remember which pet had found it's final resting place in this side garden. She could not remember for the life of herself.

A window above her gaped open.

"WHAT!?!!" The anger was obvious. The cheers from the nearby tv chimed in accord. She could tell by the sound of his voice, Bert was looking forward at the game and not out to her.

"I found something here in the garden!" She responded, "Did we bury, ah, I'm not sure it is a cat or not, out here?"

"Bury? Bury? What are you talk..." Bert turned his head to this new ponderance and saw his mother's wide brim at and short overalls kneeling beside a black patch of earth.

"Hold on..."

He exited out the back of the house.

Ronnie's Flashback continued

Ronnie began to twirl his keys. They were attached to small bizarre picture some ex-girlfriend had given him. It was ment as a good luck charm, a standard cross embelished with knots and details from a trip she had made on a mission to Eastern Europe. He felt that, with all that went on his life, this was a simple piece of constancy he could hold onto. He switched hands but kept the momentum going, something positive in this awkward dialogue.

He leaned forward on the barren wood of the picnic table. Not the seat. Who knows what haed happened there. Instead they opted to the stereotypical drinking stance of young men, elbows on knees rearends hoisted to, but not fully on, the top part of the table. The creak from his movement could have easily been made from a bad back.

Bertie lay back on the flecked green table, carefully placing his hand behind his head so as to not gain splinters in his scalp. The easement stopped his head from spinning and he squinted at the stars just peering out from the light of town. Lying back had eased the pressure on the front of his jeans and a new pack of smokes slid towards the table. He fumbled to get the hard covering open.

"Since when did you take up smoking?" Ronnie asked, fliping his keys back to his other hand.

"I've smoked forever," and to prove a point, the red tip glowed and he did not vomit. "See?"

"Well, keep it down. My dad smells smoke on me, my ass is toast," he swigged a bit of beer. He guessed he would never understand which tasted worse, the beer, the smoke or saying good bye to his old friend. As he sat there and stared at his friend, he realized how far they had come and how, despite everything, nothing had changed for Bertie. Here they were, the night a bit chill from the edge of spring, and he had no jacket on. He saw two holes on his friend's clothes. One, oddly placed near his left armpit and another between the seam and brim of his underwear. He only knew that because his pants were too big and he did not have a belt on.

He looked at this own slacks, leftover from the day's brunch.

Bertie was always like this.

Always had been.

"I've joined the army."

"What?"

"I said, I've joined the army."

"No," Ronnie pointed out, "I heard you, I mean, I know, but that was an interjection because, I, oh wow, dude." He looked to the grove of trees nearby. It made sense, really. In a world that Bert could never seem to cope with, he might do well where the structure was so profound.

"Don't jump up and congratulate me at once, Mr. College-Bound."

Ronnie did not realize he had paused. And that it had been noted. Bertie sat up and flicked the unfinished smoke to the dark grass.

"Well, then congratulations. You don't seem to excited, I must admit."

"I'm not, really, but what other choice to I have. I can't do anything like you. Never could," the last two words spoken away from Ronnie. Bertie swigged a large chuck of alcohol. "But this might make for something better. Get some money. Get in shape."

"Get some clothes."

"Yeah, that too, asshole."

"Sorry, just noticing."

"Bertie, I don't know what to say. You should have come to my party. We could have said something to everyone. Something big! Mom would have loved it."

"My mom wouldn't have. She's been bitching at me since I told her last week."

"Is that why you've been drinking?"

"Something like that."

"I'm sorry, ah, I really am," he put his arm around his friend land used his elbow bend to bring him closer. He could not remember a time when they both had sat so close together. Perhaps some Saturday night at the local theatre, but nothing beyond that. Bert was not just warm, he radiated heat in waves from between his shoulder blades. The temperature, however, dropped when he patted Bertie's back and he felt his friend's neck relax.

"The fact is, joining the military is a great thing, and, no matter what your mom says, I think it is way cool. It'll give us something to chat about on emails for the next few months. When do you ship out?"

"Two weeks," Bert did not look at Ronnie. He did not believe his sincerity at all. But he did appreciate the attempt.

"I'll drive ya over. You gotta tell me when."

"No, that's okay."

"Seriously, I'll drive," Bertie shrugged hard, using his left arm to push Ronnie's touch away.

"You don't have to. Got it?" He turned to face his friends.

In the dark, Ronnie detected tears with the sudden tension. He stood up. He did not come here for this.

"Okay, well, you let me know."

"No, it's just that..."

"...I didn't realize it was so late," Ronnie mocked looking for his car.

"...I, wait, Ron, Ronnie," he stood up so quickly, his pants almost fell down.

Ronnie walked out to his car, "you want a ride back, at least, to your house?"

"Yeah, Ronnie, wait, I, I..."

The ride was quiet back to Bertie's house. All the tension of the past few years piled high dissolved on that ride back to his friend's home. After uneventful good-byes, he realized he did not want to play this game anymore, the one where he had to guess his friend's reaction prior to every comment and word. So he watched him go back into his house, without saying a word, only smiling. A wave seemed to be adding too much.

He drove away.

And now he had to see him again. It was not so much that he had to, but Bertie had become a symbol for Ronnie's past, a kept secret that was never fully resolved and that only the maturity of time could help it come to pass.

They met at the coffeehouse.