Post by redjasper on Oct 11, 2007 0:04:00 GMT -5
Here's a story I started about 18 months ago. I haven't had time to work on it - it needs to be finished and it also some rearranging. I thought I'd post it in sections here to try to get the nerve to work on it again. I'd love to hear any and all feedback.
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Dislocated - first installment
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I drew the zipper down towards the tent floor, feeling its resistance. It bit against my brittle thumbs and knuckles. Mean-spirited wind fingers were reaching into the tent, impatient and tugging at the tent flaps. Suddenly, the zipper stopped resisting and with one more tug it was all the way down to the tent floor. My hands buzzed and stung up to the wrists. I pulled on snow-crusted mitts, crossed my arms, stuffing my hands into my armpits. I turned my head up towards the roof, searching for a miracle, waiting for a sign. All I saw was vibrating tent canvas, visual proof to go with the wailing and moaning around us. Wind - like death, advancing and protesting too much. My mind escaped by rewinding to the start of the day.
Things had looked a lot less ominous at ten o’clock that morning at the half-way cabin with a steaming cup of cocoa in my mitts and a clear, blue sky overhead. John was a steadfast buddy, a twenty-year friendship and counting. Michelle was his latest adornment, fresh evidence of his weakness for blondes. Meesh, bless her blonde, spiky hair and oversized nose ring, had been my ticket to Tim. He was gorgeous, distractingly enigmatic, and the guru of this trail. John and Michelle had come along for Tim’s highlight hike of the year – to Robarts Pass or bust. I tossed my dread to the side, and agreed to make it a foursome. Both John and Michelle were experienced hikers. Which is why I was surprised when I heard John telling Tim that we should just do a shorter day hike. All reports were talking fierce snow squalls in the pass.
My early panic was smoothly coated with my faith in Tim and his mountain man prowess. I pretended not to hear John tell Tim to f**k off when Tim called him a major wimp. No reply from Tim as he casually checked his backpack and gear. His ignoring of John was classic T. John grunted and fumed at the defiant silent treatment. I chose not to worry when I saw Michelle’s eyes locking their gaze of awe and lust at Tim. John’s last words as we split our hiking party in two pieces and left them behind: “Yeah, so we’ll see you guys back here at sundown for brandy and strip poker.” Defiance dealt back from John, with a hearty and smug laugh. These were old, familiar bits of reality. John had won back Michelle’s attention. Tim was immune to John’s controlling behaviour. And I had Tim all to myself now. Win-win, as they say.
“Al?” A faint voice from behind me. I cringed and ignored it. There were no clues to tell me what to do. It felt safe to just stay crouched there, on my knees, arms tucked in, eyes to the sky. Turning around would make this real. “Allison!” The weak voice strained for more volume, it was a bit more urgent, with a hint of scared. I blinked slowly and then shuddered into a response. “We’re good, T, we’re good.” Did I sound convincing enough? Would this all go away now, please? I closed my eyes and summoned answers. My mouth felt like it was stuffed with a wool sock. My neck was stiffening up and giving me grief, so I eased my chin down into my parka collar. Wait for the sign, my mind began to loop in a serene voice. I lacked intuition and experience, so it felt right to wait.
A rustling sound from behind me broke my trance. I came up from my crouch and pressed one arm back behind me and torqued around to my right side. Oh god, this was real. Tim, a long, lean bundle in his sleeping bag, had raised himself up on his elbows. Only his head was visible, adorned with a make-shift and now blood-soaked bandage on his left cheek. He was a bit off kilter because he was being extra guarded about his right leg. My splint job was amateur at best. Tim’s eyes were wide and sickly bright. I exhaled a short, hoarse breath and hitched it right back in once I had a good look at his face. “Hey, I found your camera bag. The snow swirled off the top of it at just the right moment” I blurted. Then added “Bit of good luck, hunh? …” My voice trailed off at the mocking cruelty of mentioning good luck.
So, when had the bad luck kicked in. Did I start it with my change of heart – with my loss of faith in Tim? My whining found its voice an hour or so after we broke off from John and Meesh and started up the trail. I fell behind a couple of times and Tim, the icon of strength and sanity, gleefully chided me about the need to toughen up. Snow-laden clouds had cruised into our line of vision. It formed an ominous, titanium layer over us as we came out from the trees into an open bowl. “Spectacular! This is what we’re here for, Al. This is what makes it worth living!” Meanwhile, I’m thinking a little differently – I’m thinking about dying. My brain is sending a nervous code that says I am not up to this hike to Robart’s Pass.
***********************
Dislocated - first installment
***********************
I drew the zipper down towards the tent floor, feeling its resistance. It bit against my brittle thumbs and knuckles. Mean-spirited wind fingers were reaching into the tent, impatient and tugging at the tent flaps. Suddenly, the zipper stopped resisting and with one more tug it was all the way down to the tent floor. My hands buzzed and stung up to the wrists. I pulled on snow-crusted mitts, crossed my arms, stuffing my hands into my armpits. I turned my head up towards the roof, searching for a miracle, waiting for a sign. All I saw was vibrating tent canvas, visual proof to go with the wailing and moaning around us. Wind - like death, advancing and protesting too much. My mind escaped by rewinding to the start of the day.
Things had looked a lot less ominous at ten o’clock that morning at the half-way cabin with a steaming cup of cocoa in my mitts and a clear, blue sky overhead. John was a steadfast buddy, a twenty-year friendship and counting. Michelle was his latest adornment, fresh evidence of his weakness for blondes. Meesh, bless her blonde, spiky hair and oversized nose ring, had been my ticket to Tim. He was gorgeous, distractingly enigmatic, and the guru of this trail. John and Michelle had come along for Tim’s highlight hike of the year – to Robarts Pass or bust. I tossed my dread to the side, and agreed to make it a foursome. Both John and Michelle were experienced hikers. Which is why I was surprised when I heard John telling Tim that we should just do a shorter day hike. All reports were talking fierce snow squalls in the pass.
My early panic was smoothly coated with my faith in Tim and his mountain man prowess. I pretended not to hear John tell Tim to f**k off when Tim called him a major wimp. No reply from Tim as he casually checked his backpack and gear. His ignoring of John was classic T. John grunted and fumed at the defiant silent treatment. I chose not to worry when I saw Michelle’s eyes locking their gaze of awe and lust at Tim. John’s last words as we split our hiking party in two pieces and left them behind: “Yeah, so we’ll see you guys back here at sundown for brandy and strip poker.” Defiance dealt back from John, with a hearty and smug laugh. These were old, familiar bits of reality. John had won back Michelle’s attention. Tim was immune to John’s controlling behaviour. And I had Tim all to myself now. Win-win, as they say.
“Al?” A faint voice from behind me. I cringed and ignored it. There were no clues to tell me what to do. It felt safe to just stay crouched there, on my knees, arms tucked in, eyes to the sky. Turning around would make this real. “Allison!” The weak voice strained for more volume, it was a bit more urgent, with a hint of scared. I blinked slowly and then shuddered into a response. “We’re good, T, we’re good.” Did I sound convincing enough? Would this all go away now, please? I closed my eyes and summoned answers. My mouth felt like it was stuffed with a wool sock. My neck was stiffening up and giving me grief, so I eased my chin down into my parka collar. Wait for the sign, my mind began to loop in a serene voice. I lacked intuition and experience, so it felt right to wait.
A rustling sound from behind me broke my trance. I came up from my crouch and pressed one arm back behind me and torqued around to my right side. Oh god, this was real. Tim, a long, lean bundle in his sleeping bag, had raised himself up on his elbows. Only his head was visible, adorned with a make-shift and now blood-soaked bandage on his left cheek. He was a bit off kilter because he was being extra guarded about his right leg. My splint job was amateur at best. Tim’s eyes were wide and sickly bright. I exhaled a short, hoarse breath and hitched it right back in once I had a good look at his face. “Hey, I found your camera bag. The snow swirled off the top of it at just the right moment” I blurted. Then added “Bit of good luck, hunh? …” My voice trailed off at the mocking cruelty of mentioning good luck.
So, when had the bad luck kicked in. Did I start it with my change of heart – with my loss of faith in Tim? My whining found its voice an hour or so after we broke off from John and Meesh and started up the trail. I fell behind a couple of times and Tim, the icon of strength and sanity, gleefully chided me about the need to toughen up. Snow-laden clouds had cruised into our line of vision. It formed an ominous, titanium layer over us as we came out from the trees into an open bowl. “Spectacular! This is what we’re here for, Al. This is what makes it worth living!” Meanwhile, I’m thinking a little differently – I’m thinking about dying. My brain is sending a nervous code that says I am not up to this hike to Robart’s Pass.
