Since I have written quite a few short stories, I thought I would post some of them on the site. I have chosen to share some of the older ones to appease my fandom's voracious appetite for brilliant writing, while saving some of my newer, more polished work for a collection of short stories I plan on shopping.
I wrote the following short story in 2007 as a Christmas gift for my father, who when asked what he wanted that year chose a short story. A belt or sweater would have been far-less labour intensive.
The following story will be broken-up into three parts - with each part revealed today and the two days which follow. Enjoy.
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Bill & Bel (1/3)
The brittle auburn leaves and distant smell of an intentional, arson-free fire signal the advent of fall, a season suited for a town like Eugene. Fall is the most aesthetically pleasing season for those fortunate enough to avoid the confines of urban squalor, where nature’s palette is substituted for with insipid grays, creating a banausic environment that sucks the life out of its inhabitants. Over-run by concrete and brick, America’s metropolises have sucked every last ounce of joie du vivre out of its people, where grass and soil is replaced by uninspired boxes stacked one on top of the other. Not enough can be said about the benefits of living in a town where man and nature cohabitate without conflict. Places like Eugene offer a visual treat during the fall months when the town’s trees begin to prepare for the winter freeze by shedding their leaves, creating random arrangements of brilliant colours plastering the vast spread of parks and pathways. And fall they do. Concourses and outdoor markets are covered with broad brush strokes of warm hues, allowing nature’s litter to contrast the coming cold. The leaves are thin, at times even translucent, so that they crack involuntarily when you step on them. Fall is a fitting title, but autumn is a better word.
Autumn’s warming scenes and chilling air are best served with a side of romance. There’s something about the colours that demand accompaniment by a beautiful woman. Warm hues like those of the fallen leaves encourage people to consume in excess, an idea that relates well to love. Many restaurants subscribe to this logic, using reds and oranges to create a congenial atmosphere that persuades it’s customers to eat and be merry. The same way a bronze sun and bright-blue sky can raise the lowest of spirits on a balmy summer’s day, a typical autumn afternoon can help even the loneliest find some form of love. After countless years of uncertainty and despair, Bill had finally found his autumn beauty. Isobel stumbled upon Bill by accident about a year ago in one of Eugene’s lush parks, and for a lack of conversation, it’s amazing how quickly a bond developed. The pair became inseparable, using the Pacific North-West as their playground. It was not uncommon to find the two trailblazing the most remote of wooded areas, with Isobel leading the way and Bill keeping pace alongside, face painted with an expression of curiosity and anticipation. Regardless of the setting, the two grew closer with each passing day.
At first, so as not to rush into things to quickly, I slept on the floor, Isobel in her bed. It made perfect sense to me, and I was willing to take things slow to ensure that nothing jeopardized our perfect pairing. This is assuming that I had any say in that matter, which of course is assuming a fair bit. What’s that they say about making assumptions? Shit I’ve been waiting long enough to even get in a woman’s room, let alone her bed - was I ever eager to fall asleep next to Isobel. Patience is a virtue - this may be true, but having low expectations makes life easier, that way even the smallest things feel monumental.
He was so infatuated by this woman that if asked what he most admired about her, an extensive list of qualities would immediately spring to mind, with both examples of the common; she’s so smart, funny, beautiful, etc, with those sentiments he found to be something a little more unique, something that reflects how well he knew her. Questions like these are not typical. Generally those around him don’t ask such questions, in place posing rather banal queries on the condition of the gardens or the location of the remote. Regardless of these judgmental stiffs and the way they looked down their noses at Bill, his feelings for Isobel were deep-seated, and only a few shades from fanatical. Healthy/Safe? Yes. Normal? Not so much. She was certainly a catch. Any member of the opposite sex lucky enough to have five minutes of Isobel’s time would agree. A woman whose virtues were as profound and as many as the brilliance of autumn, Bill recognized how ‘soft’ he had become with Isobel by his side and he loved every minute of it. Shoulder length-cut a deep shade similar to that of freshly brewed Colombian, Isobel’s hair added value to her physical appearance like a coat of a neutral eggshell hue the night before an Open-House. Somewhere in her late 20’s, age was certainly a friend of Isobel’s rather than an enemy, with a face that hasn’t changed a bit since her junior year in high school. Her olive skin was a blemish free palette that is best suited for as little coverage as possible. Isobel looked even better naked then clothed, a secret Bill enjoyed keeping to himself. Long-story short; Isobel was a gorgeous woman who for some reason had many struggles with the opposite sex, something Bill was confused by, and at the same time relished as an opportunity to finally find any form of companionship where previous suitors have included a river and a hockey stick. Generally love tends to be a messier venture than eating an egg-salad sandwich on the subway, however in the case of Bill and Isobel things could not have been more peaceful. Bill knew very well that he could not let the best thing in an otherwise monotonous life pass him by.
On that cold Tuesday, one of autumn’s last days of the calendar year, Isobel drove about 10 minutes northeast of Eugene towards Roote National Park, an enormously large protected area of foothills, streams and forests which epitomized the beauty of the Pacific North-West. Winding roads pierced massive rock formations that outdate every living species on the planet, separating the driver from towering forests as dense as the laws of nature will allow. This was Bill’s favorite place in the entire world. He didn’t have to say it, Isobel knew. A combination of possibly the cleanest air in the continental United States and the remarkably random symmetry of the wooded areas had meditative effects on both Isobel and Bill, as they basked in isolation from the evil world which surrounded them. At the mouth of the massive forest, long, wild grass that bled the darkest greens shook furiously at its roots, almost as if it was fighting to flee towards the welcoming forest. If you were to bend over and somehow grasp a blade of the raging reeds, it would likely cover the hand in a decadent green pigment that would stain much like those bright –blue security fluids attached to valuable items at the mall in order to dissuade thieves. Perhaps these precious blades have an equivalent mechanism, marking those who dare tear the planet’s shag carpet for their own twisted pleasure – which of course nobody does. The grass was very green. The two had walked for about 20 minutes when both realized that it was probably far too cold and increasingly windy to be out on the trail, though Bill was eager to stay out. He refrained from arguing his point, instead agreeing with his Isobel to make a run for the car. Doubling back along the route would likely have been the best option, so instead Isobel led Bill towards the general direction of the dusty field/carpark by way of some challenging terrain. Never before had the woman’s adventurous nature put the two in harm’s way, so why would it now? Between the two of them, Isobel generally made most of the decisions, many of which worked out for the better. Bill can be a pretty accommodating guy.
If hiking was intended for pussies, the forests and trails would be littered with drinking fountains, first-aid kits and topographic maps depicting the location of the nearest public washroom facilities. Obviously the closest distance between point a) and point b) is a straight line, but what if that line intersects a monumentally large expanse of steaming mounds of shit? Do you still take the shortest route? Barefoot? This trail was far more difficult to traverse, with mossy stumps and broken branches strewn throughout the passage and an increasing elevation that could quickly change the day’s activities from a hike to a climb. Bill had run ahead roughly twenty yards to stoop behind a large pine and take a leak. Though Isobel had nary a problem with Bill peeing in front of her while out on a hike, Bill was a gentleman and chose privacy over exhibition every time. The wind’s torrential pace had picked up, reducing visibility on the path so that once Bill had sprinted ahead for nature’s calling, Isobel could barely see his silhouette in the distance. The darkness showed no hesitation in blanketing the forest, with the sun ducking behind a slew of dark gray clouds and the terrain becoming more hazardous by the inch. Unable to see more than a couple of yards in front of him, Bill soon realizes that he’s pissing on his leg. Steam escapes his soaked leg blanketing his torso and head with vapor clouds of urine. Embarrassed and in obvious discomfort because of his piss saturated right leg, Bill’s head rotated rapidly at the sound of Isobel’s voice, only to find that not only could he see his love, he had no bearing on where she was with her voice bouncing off the trees, distorting its origin. Almost instantly, an immense sense of fear consumed Bill. He was lost. Panic ensues. His immediate impulse was to run, and after but a few seconds, running at full steam for dread of the unknown, Bill struck a massive tree headfirst, with the impact propelling him down a steep hill littered with jagged branches and sharp boulders. Falling head over heels down a dangerous slope is one thing; doing so while completely bewildered and disoriented by the darkness is a shade more terrifying. Somewhere between the top of the hill and the place where Bill came to rest, he had smacked his head once more, this time off of a triangular shaped rock jutting out of the slanted hillside, creating a gash about the size of a quarter behind his left ear. He passes out.
(check tomorrow's post for part 2 of 3 - thanks.)
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