The Hunter

The Hunter

It strikes,

Silently.

Reaching down to places

That only exist for its pleasure.

Grasping with time-dulled claws.

Darwinism. 

It has adapted to suit its strategy,

Its niche. Gnawing with coarse gums,

Not to maim or kill, just paralyse

Its victim long enough to perform

Its vulgar, grotesque dance. 

It's all for you. It's all for you.

Farewell: A Eulogy to Twenty-Seven

The first hour of my twenty-eight birthday will strike in very short order, and my twenty-seventh year will be coming to a close. Before that happens, I would like to say a few words of farewell to my twenty-seventh year.

My twenty-seventh year was tumultuous, to say the least. Some of my greatest triumphs and crushing failures happened in this year. I was most proud of myself in my twenty-seventh year. It was the year that I finally graduated from college. My collegiate career spanned through many of my years, but this was the culmination, the curtain call, the end. So, with my family watching on, I walked across the stage in the new Arena at Auburn University and became a college graduate. Shortly after, I was able to travel to see my Auburn Tigers win a conference and national championship in football. It was quite a four week period in my 27th year. In those moments, I was happy... for the most part. As far as school goes, I guess it is worth nothing that twenty-seven also brought me graduate school. My feelings on this matter have not yet been fully realized, and the impact it has will be seen more heavily on twenty-eight and beyond. Therefore, I will just mention that I was selected to attend graduate school, pursuing a MA-English degree at the University of Alabama - Huntsville, and I started in August.

Twenty-seven was also a year filled with regret and sadness. One of my grandfathers passed away just days following my birthday last year. It was a solemn way to begin a year. I was also left holding broken pieces of a few more dreams in my twenty-seventh year. Some will most likely be re-glued, retested, and possibly eventually attained. Some, on the other hand, will not. Those which are unable to be epoxied and made whole again were sources for much turmoil during this year, and consequently made this year a difficult one to manage while trying smile.

While there have been many nights of sleep sullied, long bouts of cardiomyopathy and dysautonomia (for various reasons), and a general abundance of rain cloud in my twenty-seventh year, there was also a lot to smile about. I have some really fantastic friends. They have been great this year. Some have risen to new levels in my twenty-seventh year, and it is because of them that it was so enjoyable, despite the obstacles.

This year, my twenty-seventh, was a difficult year, but it played its part. It came, it went, and it left me still standing and still in tact as it relented to twenty-eight. I eagerly look forward to this next year. I have lots of big plans that I want to see through. I also have a series of goals that I want to accomplish. I expect a big year this year. Hopefully, if I work hard and the ball bounces my way, it will be the best yet. With that said, I would like to say thank you to my twenty-seventh year, and bid it adieu. You were 365 days long, you were a bastard for the most part, but you made me smarter, tougher, and stronger. Farewell, twenty-seven!

Jonathon Wilson

PS - If anyone reads this, you probably already know this entire story. There is nothing new here that you didn't know already. However, there is something that I would like to say to you, reader. Thank you for reading what I write. I only wrote one original piece this last year. I am ashamed of that, because I love it so much, and I know people enjoy reading what I write. I let my problems, and my inability to manage my emotions for the better part of the year hinder my writing. Furthermore, I would like to say to you that I will not let it happen again. Not only is this a eulogy to another year gone in my life, but it is a flag that I am raising signifying that a tide has turned. I am writing this less than an hour before my birthday to say that, while twenty-seven had a distinct lack of writing,  twenty-eight will be filled with it. I will write for myself, and I will write for you. Let's all have a big year.

Storm Season

Standing near the corner of a chert parking lot, Jack leaned against an old telephone pole and breathed the hot, moist air. He scanned the horizon and noticed a storm approaching from the northwest. The low clouds broke like a wave as they hit the short mountain range, billowing over like smoke from an oven. Rain began to fall in the distance and he hoped this would soon be over.

 

Suddenly a single headlight crept over the hill down the highway. A streak of lightning raced across the sky, ripping the atmosphere with a thunderous boom, chasing the motorcycle along. Soon the bike pulled into the parking lot.

 

 A girl climbed off the back of the bike, leaving the driver. The engine gurgled deep at idle. She walked towards Jack and they met somewhere in the middle. The wind blew her hair around her face, but he didn't push it back this time. They talked for a minute, or two, or ten. The words didn't keep track and neither did they. The wind kicked up a cloud of dust that passed between them and it began to rain. Her hair no longer drifted in the breeze but stuck to her cheeks. He stepped forward and pushed the hair away from her eyes and said goodbye.

 

Jack stood motionless as she climbed back onto the motorcycle. He seemed to notice an expression on her face, and it appeared her eyes were welled, but he was unsure if it was the rain and blowing dirt or some other factor. She buried her cheek in the new guy's back as he revved the engine and put the bike into gear. He didn't notice her hair, or her eyes. He just complained about getting wet.

New Moses

          So... I've started again. This is just the beginning, and I am working on it. But I thought you'd be pleased. I will post the rest when I finish, which will probably be over the weekend.

 - Jonathon

            Moses woke at exactly 6:27 PM to the very distinct sound of train brakes. The high pitch screech of steel on steel, Moses thought, was enough to roll Hoffa over… wherever he was. He rubbed his eyes and ran his hands through his hazel hair, worn long during the winter, and attempted to look out the window he had been recently using as a pillow. The window, long fogged over with condensation from the clash of his breath against the cold glass, was lit in a fiery glow. Moses wiped the window with the sleeve of his jacket and watched the sun set over some indiscernible town in what he could only guess was either Ohio or Indiana. Having been asleep for several hours now, he had no idea. Looking to his right, he saw an older woman, possibly in her seventies, wearing an outfit that slightly resembled what Moses believed the Queen of England might wear on an afternoon outing. Maybe it was just the small round hat.

            “American women don’t wear enough hats these days,” he muttered aloud.

            The woman looked over at him and smiled. She must have heard him say something, but obviously had no clue as to what. He nodded to her and turned back towards the window. A cracked voice came over the PA system.

            “Waterloo station, next stop,” the voice said.

            Moses began searching the pouch in the seat in front of him. He hoped to find a map, but only retrieved a coloring book undoubtedly left by a child who occupied his seat at another time. He looked across the aisle to the elderly woman and asked, “Excuse me. Do you know where we are?”

            The woman looked back at him and replied, “Excuse me?”

            “Do you know where we are?” he asked.

            “I beg your pardon,” she replied.

            Moses, now getting slightly agitated, raised his voice, gesticulating towards the septuagenarian in hopes of getting his point across. “DO. YOU. KNOW. WHERE. WE. ARE?”

            “Ah, yes,” she answered. “We are in Waterloo. Did you not hear the man on the box?”

            Moses sighed a deep breath of frustration. “Where is Waterloo?” he asked.

            “What?” the woman replied, craning her neck towards him.

            This was quite enough for Moses. “Never mind,” he said to the old woman, squinting and shaking his head.

            “You look like my grandson,” stated the woman, with a smile.

            “Yeah?” Moses asked. “Well you look like the queen!”

Feeling satisfied that he had “showed her,” Moses then turned back to his window and began thumbing through the coloring book. After a several pages of lines that had clearly been colored outside, he tossed the book into the seat beside him. 

“What are they teaching kids these days?” he asked himself. 

Firefly Christmas

Long after the summer was swept away by fall, and fall had run its course, winter frost settled over Canton, Ohio.  Seven-year-old Sebastian Hathaway stood near a window in his parent’s house watching snow fall softly in the front yard. 

            “Mom!” he called out.  “Can I go out and play?”

            “Not now,” Olivia Hathaway replied from the kitchen.  “Your Uncle Randy will be here soon.  We are going to be eating dinner as soon as he and your father get here.”

            Sebastian turned back to the window.  As the sun began to set, people came outside to turn on their Christmas lights.  He watched as his neighbor’s yards lit up, one by one.  Sebastian, like most children, loved Christmas lights.  He especially liked the lights that blinked different colors.  He often thought to himself that they looked like fireflies.  That is why he liked the blinking lights so much.  During the summer, one of his favorite things to do with his father, Jim Hathaway, was chasing fireflies at Meyers Lake.  Sebastian was very disappointed every year when the fireflies went away but was happily reminded of them each Christmas. 

            Twenty minutes later, Uncle Randy arrived, and shortly behind him was Jim.  Sebastian always looked forward to Uncle Randy coming over.  He always told wonderful stories and played with Sebastian.  Entering the kitchen, Randy yelled out “Merry Christmas!” and swept up Sebastian, carrying him around the house upside down and demanding that he be referred to as the king for the rest of the evening.  Sebastian gave in after much giggling, and was gently returned to his upright position.

            After the family finished dinner, which included green beans and spinach, two foods that Sebastian truly hated, they group all gathered in the living room.  This was Sebastian’s favorite room in the whole house because of the blinking lights on the tree, of course.  He crossed the room and sat down beside his uncle. 

            “Uncle Randy,” Sebastian said.  “I think those lights look like fireflies.  Don’t you?”

            Randy smiled at him and rubbed Sebastian’s head.  “They do, don’t they?” he replied.  “Say, Sebastian, did I ever tell you the story about fireflies and Santa Claus?”  Sebastian shook his head no, but seemed very enthused about the story.  “Well, you see, a long time ago, fireflies lived everywhere year round.  You could find them from the North to the South Poles every day of the year.  What most people don’t know, however, is that fireflies love pine trees more than any other tree, especially in the winter.  So, when it would get cold, they would fly into people’s houses and sleep in their Christmas trees.  This made Santa Claus very happy because it made it much easier to find his way from house to house.”  Sebastian smiled at this.  He had always known that fireflies were special, and now he had proof.  “But then something happened to the fireflies,” Randy continued.

            “Oh no!” Sebastian exclaimed.

            “Oh yes!” Randy replied.

            “What happened?”

            “I’m gonna tell you.  So it came to be that the fireflies couldn’t stand the cold weather anymore.  After a few years, there were very few left in the winter.  Santa was having a very hard time finding everyone’s houses.  Something had to be done!”

            “What did he do?” asked Sebastian.

            “Well, Santa made a special trip away from the North Pole.  He actually came right here to this very town, to the very lake where you and your dad catch fireflies in the summer.  He spoke with the King of the Fireflies, and an agreement was made.  A couple fireflies would travel with Santa back to the North Pole so he could study them and try to solve the problem.  Santa worked very hard and studied the fireflies the rest of the summer and fall.  With the help of the fireflies, he created a new invention that would help him find all the little boy’s and girl’s houses.

            “What was it?” Sebastian asked anxiously.

            “Blinking Christmas lights,” Randy replied.

            “Wow!” Sebastian said.

            “I know, right?  I bet you didn’t know that, did you sport?” Randy asked.

            “I sure didn’t, Uncle Randy,” Sebastian replied.

            “Well, now you do,” Randy said.  He looked at his watch and stood up.  “I think that it is time for me to go home.  Sebastian, you make sure you keep those blinking lights on if you want Santa to find your house this year.”

            “I will, Uncle Randy,” Sebastian replied.

            Later that night, Sebastian woke and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.  Through the window, he could see that the lights on the tree had been unplugged.  He crept into the room and crawled behind the tree.  Quickly the tree lit up once more.  Sebastian turned and looked at the tree as he walked of out the room.

           "Goodnight fireflies," he said. "Sleep tight."
 

The Man in the Cape

 At 5:45 AM, the alarm clock on the nightstand let out its petulant cry, begging for attention.  Harold Baggett rolled over and swatted unsuccessfully at the clock.  He tossed back his satin sheets and sat up on the side of his bed before finally reaching for the clock again and silencing it.  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stood up and walked to the bathroom for his daily ritual.  He looked at himself in the mirror and rubbed his chin, frustrated that he was starting to get some gray in his facial hair.  Turning on the hot water and pulling out his razor he remarked, “We’ll take care of that.”  He shaved and then hopped into the shower. 

            Twenty minutes later, Harold, now dressed in a gray suit with a white shirt and black tie, entered the kitchen.  He pulled down a bottle of Jack Daniels from the shelf but it was empty.  “Damn,” he said aloud.  He then reached up and grabbed another bottle, this time Crown Royal.  That bottle was also empty.  Harold sighed and placed the second empty bottle on the counter.  “Looks like it’s going to be vodka today,” Harold thought to himself.  He reached up and grabbed the last bottle, which was Aristocrat vodka.  Harold didn’t particularly like vodka, especially Aristocrat vodka.  The bottle was left over from an office party and only served as a reserve on mornings like these when all of the other bottles had been drained.  He pulled his flask out and filled it up with the clear, pungent alcohol.  After the flask was filled, Baggett left his apartment, locked the door and exited his building onto 15^th Street. 

            Standing alone at the bus stop at 15^th and 6^th, Harold checked his watch.  6:30.  It was already starting to warm up as the sun was beginning to creep through the gaps between the buildings.  New York City can be unbearable in July.  Even at this early hour it didn’t seem like the city was anxious to disappoint.  Harold reached into his bag and pulled out his sunglasses.  His light blue eyes had always been very sensitive to the sun.  Harold checked his watch again and then took a swig from his flask.  The bus was already five minutes late.  He contemplated why he even bothered with the bus instead of taking the train.  He liked the subway. It was generally quicker and the trains don’t smell as bad as the buses normally do.  As Harold was thinking this, he noticed the bus make its wide turn onto 15^th.  Harold took one more drink from his flask and then placed it back in his bag as the bus pulled up to the stop.  He entered through the doors nearest the front and swiped his Metro Card.  The bus driver nodded to him but Harold ignored him, instead choosing to walk to the back of the bus in silence.  Harold preferred the rear of the bus to the front.  He found solace in the back due to the fact that the engine was located in the rear of the bus and there was less of a chance that someone would try to strike up a conversation with him. 

             After claiming the seat against the rear window, Harold leaned his head against the glass and thumbed his wedding ring, wondering when he would see his wife, Susan, again.  He was certain that he would see her at least once more, at the divorce hearing, but wondered if he would see her in a more cordial setting.  They had been separated now for six months and Harold had only seen her once, and the meeting was only by coincidence. He had run into Susan and her boyfriend, or whatever he was, at the video store.  That was awkward.  They had been married 21 years and Harold still loved her but believed she simply got bored with him being on the road all the time.  She claimed it was his drinking that drove her away.  Either way, she was gone.  His only comfort was that he still got to see the kids Jack, who was 18 and a senior in high school, and Melissa, who was 10, occasionally.  Jack would sometimes bring Melissa by to visit, but he never really said much.  Melissa didn’t really understand what was going on between her parents and her innocent questions penetrated Harold deeply.  Harold wondered if he would ever really be happy again.  With all the fighting before Susan left, it was hard to think of a good time.  The one thing that always came to mind was a trip that he took to Yosemite National Park with his father after he graduated college.  He wished for those simpler times.

            That trip to Yosemite was very important to Harold.  In the summer of 1984, a few weeks after Harold graduated college, he and his father loaded up the family’s old Microbus and drove from Kansas City to Yosemite in California.  Ed Baggett, Harold’s father, said that Harold had now become a man and it was time to take the same trip that Ed’s father had taken him on when he was Harold’s age.  It was a glorious two weeks of father and son bonding.  They camped out at Tenaya Lake off Highway 120.  They fished and took turns playing James Taylor songs on the guitar and talked about everything from women to what Harold wanted to do after school.  They would talk until they ran out of beer or the fire went out, whichever came first.  On most nights, the beer relented first. 

            It was on one particular night that a conversation took place that always stuck with Harold.  The two men were talking about ambitions and Harold told Ed that he thought it would be really fun to be a pilot.  Harold liked the idea of being able to fly around the country, or maybe the world, for a living.  It wasn’t like a real job, sitting behind a desk, punching the clock at 5 PM every day.  Ed agreed with him.  He asked Harold if he had ever told him what he wanted to do when he was younger.  Harold shook his head. 

            “I always wanted to be a tiger trainer.  You know, like, in the circus,” Ed said.

            “Are you serious?” Harold asked.  “Why did you want to do that?”

            “There was just something about those big cats,” Ed replied.  “They could be beautiful and terrifying in the same instance.  I was infatuated with them.  Your granddad took me to a circus when I was a kid and they were what stood out.  From the time I was, I don’t know, 8 or 10, I wanted to train tigers.  I almost did, but then I eventually decided I wasn’t going to.”

            “Wow,” Harold replied.  “I can’t believe that you have never told me that.  So, how did you go from wanting to train tigers to becoming a baker?”

            “Well, I finally realized that training tigers was too dangerous,” Ed said.  “Besides, I enjoy baking.”

            “Yeah, but you already knew that they were dangerous,” Harold replied.  “I mean, that was your dream, taming those big cats.  I can totally see you out there in the middle of the big top cracking your whip as the tigers dance around you on their hind legs, jumping through hoops of fire.  Then you just gave it up to bake cakes.  I don’t get it.”

            “It wasn’t that much of a compromise.”

            “Sure it was, Dad.  You gave up on your dream.”

            “Hey, it is a solid job that I enjoy.  People like cakes and they especially like mine.”

            “Yeah, I know they do.  But that was your dream, man.  You said you almost did it.  Why didn’t you just push on through?”

            “You want to know the truth, Harold?”  Ed paused for a moment.  “I was about to go on the road with a circus.  I was going to be an apprentice to the tiger trainer.  Then, just before we were set to leave, I found out that your mother was pregnant with you.  Once I got that news, there was no decision to be made.  I turned the job down and I stayed home.  I chose baking for you.  I knew that me being gone all the time and sticking my head in a tiger’s mouth wasn’t how I wanted you to be brought up.  I wanted to be there for you anytime that you needed me and that life didn’t offer that possibility.  I chose baking, Harold, because I love you.”

            Harold often thought about what his father had said on that trip.  He had never felt like he didn’t love his kids.  He did, however, feel like he betrayed them in the way that his father had chosen to avoid. Following the trip he took with his father, Harold moved to New York City to work as a salesman for a copier company.  It was a very exciting time for him because, although he didn’t become a pilot, he was getting to fly all around the country, and sometimes the world, for a living.  Harold was starting to realize, though, that it was at the expense of his family.  He had been at home more as Melissa was growing up but was gone for the most part during Jack’s youth.  Harold feared that Jack resented him for that.  Even worse, Harold worried that his son would grow up without him noticing.  Harold couldn’t stand the thought of that. 

             A few minutes later the bus came to a stop with a screech of the brakes.  Harold checked his watch once more and it read 6:40.  He shook his head and sighed.  Harold started to lean back against the glass again but something caught his eye.  A very peculiar old man, wearing all black and carrying a cane, had gotten onto the bus.  What made the sight particularly odd was that he was also wearing a large black hat and an equally large black cape.  The only part of his wardrobe that wasn’t black was his shoes.  Oddly enough, they were red leather with white trim.  Harold considered trying to make sense of what he was looking at but decided to close his eyes and lean back against the window again, withdrawing into his thoughts once more.  He couldn’t seem to shake the thought of the man in the cape, however.  Harold opened his eyes and was startled to find the man sitting directly across from him.  Harold was slightly unnerved because he couldn’t tell if the man was staring at him or not.  The man’s glasses were very dark and impossible to see through.  Harold nodded to the old gentleman but there was no response.  “He must not be looking at me,” Harold thought. 

            Fifteen minutes later, the bus came to rest at the intersection of 34^th and Broadway.  The man who had now become the sole object of Harold’s attention stood up and walked towards the front of the bus.  As Harold watched him walk away, he suddenly felt compelled to follow him.  He grabbed his bag and exited the door in the middle of the bus.  The man confidently strolled up 34^th Street with his cape blowing in the breeze.  Harold followed as closely as he could without being detected.  He reached into his bag and retrieved his cell phone.  In the excitement of the moment, Harold didn’t realize that the man had stopped walking.  He almost crashed into the man but narrowly averted the collision with a quick sidestep.  Fearing that his cover had been blown, Harold drifted behind a light pole and tried to act natural.  He dialed his office and after a series of receptionists, Harold finally reached the desk of his boss and explained to him that he wasn’t going to be able to make it to work.  He knew that it didn’t really matter if he was there or not, he could make all the calls that he needed to make today from anywhere, but he felt like it was a common courtesy to call and let him know. 

            By the time Harold has finished his phone call, the caped man was on the move again.  As they passed the Empire State Building, sidewalk traffic was beginning to pick up making following the man more difficult.  Harold managed to keep up with him though.  They passed over 5^th Avenue and then Madison.  By 7:20 the journey had taken them to the corner of 34^th Street and Park Avenue.  Harold watched the man as he approached a bench, threw his cape back and sat down.  If anyone walking by that morning had asked Harold, he would have told them that he was 47 years old and a resident of New York.  However, in this moment, felt as if he was 12 years old again playing detective in his parents’ backyard.  Harold watched the old gentleman for several more minutes before approaching the bench. 

            “Excuse me,” the man said, turning towards Harold.  Harold looked around to see if there was anyone else the man may have been addressing.

            “Are you speaking to me, sir?”  Harold asked.

            “Yes,” the man replied.  The man motioned for Harold to come over.  “Sit down, please.”  Harold sat down cautiously.  “Why are you following me?” the man asked.  

            Harold paused for a moment, trying to think of any reason that made any sense.  “Honestly, because you’re wearing a cape and a giant black hat and I was intrigued,” Harold replied.  “I can’t say that I’ve ever seen anyone wear such an outfit and I wanted to see what you were up to.”  The man nodded and then momentarily took off his glasses to rub his eyes.  It was just long enough for Harold to notice that the gentleman was blind.  Harold reached into his bag and pulled out the flask.  He took a long drink before returning it to the satchel.  “How did you know who I was?” Harold asked.

            “I could smell you,” the man replied.  This statement confused Harold but before he could ask, the man asked, “Do you remember when you almost bumped into me earlier?  I could smell the vodka on your breath.  I first smelled it when we were on the bus.  Aristocrat, right?”

            “That’s exactly right,” Harold responded, becoming more and more impressed with the man as he spoke. 

The man continued, “Then, as I was sitting here, I smelled the vodka again and assumed that it was you.”

“That is amazing,” Harold said.  “What is your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Name’s Bill Miller,” the man said, holding out his hand to shake Harold’s.

“It’s nice to meet you, Bill,” Harold replied, shaking Bill’s hand.  “I’m Harold Baggett.”

The two men began talking and sharing various stories with one another.  Harold thought that it was odd that he was finding it so easy to talk to a complete stranger.  Perhaps it was because he found Bill so interesting. Harold talked about his job and Bill told Harold stories about Vietnam, which led to the story of how he lost his sight.

             “You see, the thing about grenades is this,” Bill started.  “It’s not like that shit that they have in movies where some guy hurls a grenade over a wall and there is a giant explosion and people fly everywhere and all of that.  That’s a bunch of Hollywood bunk.  When I was on my second tour in Vietnam back in ’68, right after Tet, we were patrolling an area near the border of Cambodia and Vietnam.  Real shit hole, that place is.  I mean, why anyone would want to live there I’ll never know.  Anyway, this lil’ bastard came out of nowhere and chucked a grenade right in the middle of our platoon.  I pushed my CO out of the way as it went off and the shrapnel hit me.  Cut me up pretty badly and damn near took my leg but it did get my eyes.  I haven’t been able to see since.”

“Wow,” Harold replied.  “That’s an incredible story.  So, you’ve been blind for over forty years?”

“Sure have,” Bill replied.  “After I got back in ’70, it took me a while to get adjusted.  After a few years I was moving around the city no problem, just like I used to.  I miss being able to see it, though.  New York is such a beautiful city.  I didn’t really take the time to appreciate it when I was younger and now I can’t.” 

Harold didn’t really know what to say to this so he sat in silence.  Thankfully, Bill started telling another story about the war and Harold listened intently.  He couldn’t remember ever meeting such an interesting person.  Over time, the stories shifted from the war to the Yankees.  Bill was a lifetime Yankees fan and Harold was amazed to find out that Bill had been to at least one game in every season since 1955, with the exception of the time that he spent in Vietnam.  Bill confessed to Harold that, despite being a die-hard Yankees fan, he believed that Ted Williams was the greatest baseball player that ever lived.  Bill added that he would never mention it publicly though, because Williams played for the Red Sox. 

After a couple hours of talking, Harold finally had the courage to ask what he really wanted to know.  “So, Bill.  Why do you wear the cape?” 

Bill laughed.  “I was wondering how long it would take for you to ask me that.  When I was a kid, I was really into comic books.  Did you ever read comic books, Harold?”

Harold shook his head and replied, “No.”

“Seriously?” Bill asked.  “Wow, I thought every kid read comic books.  Anyway, I was really into the comics.  Superman, Spiderman, Green Arrow, you name it I read it.  Batman was my favorite though.  Hands down, it was Batman.  There was just something about him, you know?  You’re familiar with Batman, right?”  Harold tried to respond but was cut off.  “Of course you know about Batman,” Bill continued.  “So, Batman was this normal guy who put on a suit and went out and just dominated any foe that dared stand in front of him.  I loved that about him.  He wasn’t Superman or Spiderman or any of that.  He didn’t have special powers.  He was just a man, you know?  So anyway, Batman always wore this cape and I thought that it looked really sharp.”

“So, that’s why you wear the cape?” Harold asked. 

“No,” Bill replied.  “For all I know, this thing could be crooked or backwards or what have you.  I can’t see it.  I don’t know how it looks.  I wear it because it makes me happy.  That’s something that I learned after becoming blind that I wish I knew before I lost my sight.  Before, you see, I was always worried about what people thought about me.  I never could have worn a cape before.  Once I lost my sight, I just didn’t care anymore.  Now I can wear a cape because I want to wear a cape.” 

“I see,” Harold replied.  “So, what about the hat?”

“It keeps the sun out of my face,” Bill answered.  Why else do you think I would wear this gigantic thing?”

Just then a small child stopped and exclaimed, “Look mommy!  It’s Zorro!”  Bill laughed and held out his hand.  “Give me five, little guy!” he said.  The child slapped Bill’s hand before walking off with his mother.

 “That’s another reason why I wear the cape,” Bill added.  “The kids love it.”

Harold nodded.  “I wish there was something that made me that happy,” he said.

“There is nothing in your life that makes you truly happy?” Bill asked.  “No wife, no kids, nothing?”

“I do have a couple of kids,” Harold responded.  “A son and a daughter, and technically I have a wife.  She left me six months ago and the divorce hasn’t finalized yet.”  Harold reached into his bag to get his flask.  As soon as he opened it Bill spoke up.

“That isn’t the way, kid,” Bill said.  “I promise you, that isn’t what is going to fix your problems.  Trust me.  I’ve been down that road.”  Harold put the flask back into his bag.  “Listen, let me tell you one more story,” Bill requested.  “Despite the fact that I lost my eyes over forty years ago, I can still see what happened over there as clear as day.  Every time my mind wanders, I can see every person that I killed in that hell over there.  I can see all of those that fought and died right beside me.  After I got back, I tried everything; alcohol, drugs, whatever.  I did it all.  None of that took what was in my head away.  I had to find something that truly made me happy to make those thoughts go away.  So I started wearing this cape because, like I said, it made me happy.  So far, it’s worked.  You need a cape, son.”

“I’m not sure that buying a cape is really going to help me, though,” Harold responded.  “I really don’t think that it would look good on me.”

Bill just shook his head.  “Not a literal cape, man.  The cape was a metaphor for something that makes you happy.  You need something to make you happy.  Something besides that terrible vodka you are toting around in that flask.”

Harold knew that Bill was right.  He leaned back on the bench and tried to think of anything that made him happy.  Again, he could only think of that trip that he and his father took to Yosemite. 

“What are you thinking about?” Bill asked. 

“It’s nothing really, just this trip that my dad and I took to Yosemite when I graduated from college.  That is last time that I can remember being really happy.  We spent a couple weeks up there just fishing and talking about women and life.  It was the best time of my life.” 

“That’s it then,” Bill said.  “You should call up your old man and take a trip to California; spend some quality time in the woods.” 

“Can’t,” Harold replied.  “My dad died a couple years ago from a heart attack.”             

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bill said.  “But that’s not stopping you from going.”

“I’m not going to go out there by myself.  I don’t really think that me being alone for two weeks in the woods is a good idea.”

“So take someone with you,” Bill said.  Harold sat in silence for a moment, running his hands through his hair.  Suddenly he perked up.

“Wow,” Harold said.  “It’s been there all along and I just didn’t see it.”

“What?” Bill asked.

“My kids are my cape,” Harold replied.  “I should spend more time with them.”  Bill nodded with approval.

“Now you’re getting there,” Bill said.

“My granddad took my dad to Yosemite.  My dad took me to Yosemite.”

“You should take your son,” Bill interrupted. 

“Exactly,” Harold replied.  “I’m afraid that he won’t want to go though.”

“Why not?” Bill asked.

“I’ve been a terrible father and I’ve never really been there for him.  Whenever he brings his sister over, he just ignores me.”

“So what?  That’s how kids are.  Listen, you have two choices here.  You can either make the decision to start being a good dad to these kids or you can let them grow up without being a part of their lives.  I think you know what the right thing to do is.  This trip isn’t going to fix everything, but it’s a start.”  Harold nodded and stood up.

“You’re exactly right, Bill.  Thank you.”  Harold reached out to shake Bill’s hand.

“I’m glad I could help, kid,” Bill replied.  “One more thing before you go.  What about that flask?” 

Harold reached into his bag and pulled out the flask.  He looked at it for a moment and then threw it into a nearby trashcan.

“Good luck, Harold,” Bill said, raising his hand to wave goodbye.

            “Thank you, Bill.”

Never is a Promise

                A slushy mix of rain and snow fell on Blanchard Street as Landon Jennings rode the bus home from school.  From his seat on Bus 47 he could see Mr. Riley’s eyes in the mirror, constantly glancing back at the other children.  When needed, he would scold one of them for being turned around in their seat or yelling or throwing a paper wad; whatever small infraction they may be committing.  This time it was Billy Johnson that was meeting the business end of Mr. Riley’s tongue. 

“Billy Johnson!” He cried out.  “If I see one more piece of paper in the air I’m going to write you up!  You got that!” 

“But Mr. Riley,” Billy replied.  “It wasn’t…” Billy was interrupted by Riley’s booming voice. 

“Ahhh!  Not another word!”  Landon just shook his head.  Despite being 12 years old, he knew that neither party was accomplishing anything with this method of conversation.  Riley knew that Billy would do it again because, well, that’s what Billy did.  And Billy knew that Mr. Riley wasn’t going to write him up because, well, he never did.  Billy did however manage to refrain from instigation for the remainder of the ride and this made it a relatively quiet one.  Landon sat in silence with his head against the cold window and considered possible items for his Christmas list.  He was really hoping to get a new bicycle.  His old one had been recently run over by his father after he had left it in the driveway.  He was also not completely like many of the other kids his age.  Most of them asked for things such as an XBOX or a PS3 or something similar that involved video games.  Landon was more of the adventurous type, a sort of throwback to the days of his father.  That was a characteristic that his father really enjoyed in Landon. 

            Fifteen minutes later, Landon had reached his stop.  He gathered his bag, waved goodbye to Sally Melrose, and walked toward the front of the bus.  Landon had a crush on Sally but he didn’t have the nerve to tell her.  Every time he saw her at school he would try to talk to her but only managed to look awkward and end up scurrying away as quickly as possible.  He often thought about something that his grandfather told him.  “Youth is wasted on the young,” he would say.  Landon wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but he had a pretty good idea.  He nodded to Mr. Riley and Mr. Riley returned the pleasantry.  As Landon stepped out onto the wet street and the bus pulled away, he looked up into the grayish sky and stuck out his tongue.  A few wet snowflakes landed on his warm tongue and he smiled.  They also peppered his face like freckles, adding to the large amount that he already had covering his cheeks.  It rarely snowed in Alabama and while this was far from what anyone would consider a blizzard, it was just as wondrous to the young boy.  His bright blue eyes radiated through his pewter framed glasses amidst the backdrop of white as he looked about, taking in this foreign scenery around him.  He skipped around his front yard for a few moments before he saw the front door open and saw the familiar face of his father, Randall Jennings, and heard a familiar call for him to come inside.  He noticed that something was decidedly different.  His dad shouldn’t be at home.  It was only 3:30 and he normally didn’t get home until 5.  This wasn’t the only thing that he would find unfamiliar about this afternoon.

            When Landon entered the house there were several people that he didn’t recognize and some that he did.  His grandparents, Ralph and Sandy on his father’s side, and Rick and Wilma from his mother’s side were all standing together at the far end of the living room.  He could see his grandmothers crying in the consoling arms of his grandfathers.  Talking to them was a gentleman that he didn’t know.  There was also another man talking to his father.  He heard words such as embolism and blood clot; words that he didn’t really understand.  Landon was very confused and he didn’t know what to do.  He looked at his father and he could see sadness in his eyes.  He looked around the living room frantically and then ran toward his parent’s room.

“MOOOOOOOOOM!!!” he cried.  Landon’s father was right behind him and when they both reached the bedroom, he knelt down beside Landon. 

“Dad, where’s mom?” Landon asked.  Randall just looked at him as a tear trickled down his cheek.  He grabbed Landon and held him tightly against his chest.  “Dad?” Landon asked. 

“Landon, something happened to your mom today,” Randall answered.

“What happened?!” Landon asked nervously. 

“She got really sick today and…” Landon’s father choked up while trying to finish the sentence.  “She died today.”  Landon was absolutely stunned.  He couldn’t think, he couldn’t act; he just stood there.  Tears began to run down his face but he didn’t yet feel sad.  He knew that somewhere in his racing mind there was an appropriate response, but he couldn’t seem to find it.  Then it suddenly came out. 

“NO!” Landon yelled.  “That’s not right!  She said that she’d never leave, that she’d always be with me!” 

Randall, now sitting the floor, shed several more tears before saying, “I know, Landon.  But there was nothing she could do about it.”

 Landon wasn’t satisfied with this and he recalled a memory from when he was younger.  “No, she said it!  One night when I was really scared from a nightmare, Mom came in and she was sitting with me.  I told her that I couldn’t go back to sleep and she rubbed my head and sang a song to me.  Then, she got up to leave and I said, ‘Mom don’t leave me, I’m still scared.’  She said, ‘I’ll never leave you baby, and never is a promise.’  She stayed there until I fell asleep.  I remember it!” 

Randall shook his head and tried to force a smile.  “You’re mother truly loved you, Landon.  She certainly did.  And when she said never, she meant it.  But there was a bigger plan for her, and she had no control over that.  But I promise you she’s watching over you right now, and she will be forever, and as long as you keep your mother in your heart, Landon, she’ll never leave you, never ever ever.  Ok?” 

Landon, still crying, lifted up his head, hugged his father and nodded.  “Ok.” 

Randall ran his fingers through his young son’s hair and said, “I love you, Landon.  I love you so very much.” 

“I love you too,” Landon replied. 

Landon took his father’s hand and they returned into the living room where his grandparents were waiting for him.  Like he had seen his dad do before, Landon tried to put on a forced smile as he crossed the living room to join them.  He was far from being ok with the death of his mother.  He had only started to feel sorrow over the loss.  He did, however, find comfort in the words that his father had said to him earlier.  He knew that when his mother said that she would never leave him and that never was a promise, she meant it.  He was reassured by this and despite being tremendously sad, he had peace in knowing that no matter what happened, his mother would never leave him.  She would be right there with him, in his heart.