I feel excited today and very blessed to have had a good year. A good year to report that the family is healthy and that I've been able to string together a few dollars and pay some bills. Aside from the obvious fact that we are living and breathing, I think we all have much to be thankful for. I'm sure, you--dear reader will agree. Today, most of us will sit around with family and talk and eat, and eat, and eat and eat. Then we'll break for awhile and watch the Macy's parade (for sure) and of course, the men will be in their caves shouting at the T.V.'s --"Catch the damn ball man; see, see--that's why they can't win a bowl game!" The women will be in the kitchen laughing, talking, dancing and enjoying the peace and harmony that comes so rare in all of our day to day walk. And at some point we will all wind down and opine on the meaning of Thanksgiving; some will do it together and others will meditate individually. However you do it is okay, so long as its done. Life has many meanings for all of us and its up to us to find out its translation. For me its through the writing. And yes, it took me awhile to understand why putting words on page could give me a satisfaction like it does. But I finally got it, the expression of oneself in art is part of life and it allows us to trigger more creative and self fulfilling clusters of being.
Below is an excerpt that I have been tinkering with for some time. It was once a part of my novel entitled "Grand Rouge" but I am still contemplating its place in the story(Kind of like how we try to find our place in the world). But this will be a first read and my gift to you for reading this blog. "Grand Rouge," is a Thriller/Supernatural story and this is the antagonists first kill in the dreary, cursed Bonne Idee woods. . .
A killers first
As he traipsed past tall pine trees, and brushed through the wavering willow fronds covered in early morning dew, Wesley Waters wondered if he were the world’s first homeless, millionaire. He grinned and then continued along under the soft gaze of a freshly rising sun. His long unkempt hair, his unbrushed teeth, his three month old beard scraping away at the skin beneath, all served as a reminder of his own selfishness.
He glanced around and thought, any bush would be good--preferably one without the thorns. He found one sitting amidst a group of second growth trees. He dropped his knapsack off to the left and yanked his pants down.
Nearby toads croaked and Wesley felt Grand Rouges morning breath against the hair on his exposed legs; it sent cold slivers up his back. He’d always preferred the natural music of the south versus the gas guzzling, air polluting noise of the city. But he supposed they both were there own jungle in many ways.
It had been a year since distancing himself from his old life. Distancing himself from friends and family. But more importantly was distancing himself from his father, Kelvin Waters, a big time Wall Street tycoon. His millionaire father who thought he could say or do anything he wanted. He thought that money could solve all problems. And the part that Wesley hated the most, the part that made him just want to throw up when he thought of it, was that he had been just like his dad.
“I’m nothing like you!” he shouted, his voice resonating in the misty morning air.
He was squat beneath the trees and could now see the sun pinch through some of its orange and brown leaves. Charcoal-green moss hung from its branches and he heard a low howling sound. But it sounded more guttural, more menacing than a wild dog or raccoon. No, this sound emanated from somewhere deeper, bigger. He thought about wolves or bobcats. He’d heard that bobcats were well known to be aggressive in the wilderness. But would a bobcat, howl? He snorted. Come on ol’ boy don’t let your imagination get the best of you. Daddy sure as hell wouldn’t like that would he? He’d be pissed if he even thought he smelled fear or anything that he considered weak. But daddy aint here is he? If he were . . . Wesley thought, he’d walk right up to the motherfucker and tell him to stick it where the sun don’t glow.
Somewhere off to his right, but near, Wesley heard the crackle of dried leaves. He gathered himself, pulling his pants up and he had begun to close his zipper when something moved behind the tree startling him and caused him to catch the bare skin of his testicles.
“Shit!” he screeched, his voice stretching into more of a salivated whistle. His eyes filled with tears and he managed to loosen the catch, but he kept his gaze in the direction of the sound.
For an absurd second, he thought about how much he truly disliked those damn pants. They were too hot and clammy to the legs, but he didn’t have much choice. It was get them from the dumpster he’d pilfered through in Atlanta, or keep the same ones he’d had on for God knew how long.
There was an ominous whisper in the air and as he peered up, a white glow past through the trees and disappeared--somewhere distant he heard a sort of maniacal, mocking laughter.
“What the hell,” he said in a low voice. He stared horrified at the space where the glow vanished and the direction of the laughter. Wesley stumbled back and planted his foot in his own excrement. But he didn’t take notice, nor had he seen the light traces of blood, now leaking from the zippers locked teeth.
Another crackle of leaves, but this time he saw what made the sound. A shadow stood at the base of the tree, a figure, its shoulders rising and falling in the blackened haze of the woods.
He started to run towards the highway from which he’d come. He bumped a metal sign that read, “Entering: The Bonne Idee Trail”, and knocked it from its warbled nail causing it to fall to the Timothy grass below. Wait…my knapsack, he thought. He turned awkwardly, looking behind him and tripped, landing painfully on one knee. He winced and then got up.
The next thing he felt was like being hit in the face with a Louisville slugger. White light sprayed his vision, sparkling stars corkscrewed through his head and he tasted the salty stench of blood on his tongue.
Something grabbed him tight around the neck. And as his vision, a blurred mixture of light and dark, cleared, he saw that a man stood over him. Not a man, but a thing. Some-thing, its face was hideous.
“What do you want?” Wesley garbled through a mouthful of broken teeth and blood. “Please, please . . . I’ve got a lot of money. . .” He felt his voice fleeing away, choked off by the monsters beastly hands. One of the things eyes was swollen, almost shut, but with the other it gazed at him in the swallow of the trees.
Behind the thing, slivers of sunlight shot through in all directions, but it was enough to see its intention. In its hand--an axe--chipped at the edge, drawn back and glinting in one of the slivers of light. Then, Wesley saw his life, both rich and homeless—flash, and then fade.
