Works of Fiction: Bill and Bel (3/3)

Night Fell. Morning Came. The pounding sounds similar to that of a jack-hammer ripping through firm concrete force Bill out of his frozen sleep. Nearby, a squirrel vigorously chews on an acorn from one of our coniferous friends, ambivalent to the bystander spread across a neighbouring rock. The piercing pain behind his right ear has led to an annoying migraine that refuses to pass with a throbbing tenderness, amplifying all sounds around him, explaining why a critter was confused for a jack-hammer. It’s now morning and the dew has settled on the path and on Bill’s thawed exterior. He surprised that he lived the night, though he has no idea how close to death he really was. Hunger pains begin to envelope his entire body, forcing him to stand and continue his search for something to eat, and more importantly, a way out of this mess. After walking for about an hour, Bill notices for the first time that he hasn’t seen a single runner since he entered the forest days ago with Isobel. Eugene and its surrounding areas have become a hot-bed for runners and fitness enthusiasts. It’s not an uncommon site to find the local trails filled to the brim with long-distance runners attempting to emulate local icon Steve Prefontaine and his brash legacy. Bill realizes that he must be really deep in the forest if there are no runners intersecting the woods. How far must he be from an exit he wonders? Always a shade away from being a full-blown self-defeatist, Bill is now in the depths of despair. He continues to amble along for hours with nothing but the towering trees for company. With death on his mind, its easy to confuse the woods as a massive burial ground where the trees are enormous headstones and the soft-ground a warm final resting place.

Well aware that he had either just completely lost his mind or was in the process of doing so, Bill was uncertain if his eyes were now playing tricks as well. About 100 yards ahead laid a massive spruce enjoying its afterlife horizontally, blocking the winding trail, sticking out about a foot above its barky exterior a fluffy bright red feather duster. How peculiar thought Bill. Intrigued by the misplacement and juxtaposition of a feather duster smack dab in the middle of a dense forest, Bill approached the enormous log apprehensively not knowing what to expect. Using what little energy remained, Bill slowly circled ‘round back of the log to find a startled creature with a telling expression of fear painted on its small visage. It was a fox. The slyest of all animals within the animal kingdom, the fox was thought to be as sharp as it is deceptive. Bill was surprised to find this agile feather duster known for its propensity to appear invisible slumped lazily behind the log with a mouthful of what appeared to be wild berries. The sight of nourishment was clearly too much for Bill, and he fainted at the side of the fox, who now had less reason to be scared then before. Regaining consciousness just minutes later, Bill sat reclined with his head propped up against the sitting spruce as the not-so-sly fox continued to devour the wild berries just feet from where Bill sat. Still a little uncertain that he had yet to completely lose his mind, this essentially was the perfect confirmation that he in fact had. His thoughts were now those that likely inspired a drunk C.S. Lewis. Turning his head slightly to ask a question, the motions are there, but no words will come out. Not a word is spoken between the two forest dwellers, the fox too distracted with his lunch. He passes out once more.

Bill awakes from his slumber to find that it is still daytime, meaning that he must have been out for no more than a couple of hours or that he has completely slept through the night. It was just a couple of hours. The first thing that he notices is that surprisingly his hunger pains have subsided. The stomach groans and pain which shot up his insides towards his bruised noggin have disappeared. He tastes a bitter, tangy residue on his lips and realizes that the fox must have fed him some of those wild berries. Where has the fox run-off to? Where was that massive log? He was now in a section of the forest which was far better lit with a wide, simple trail leading to somewhere he knew he needed to walk towards. Bill was confused. Had this not-so-sly fox fed him before dragging him into this clearing? Bill had several questions that would likely never receive an answer. An animal he had deemed to be deceitful and slick was in fact the reason he was still alive.

A lot can be said about reading a book by its cover. No way in hell would I have passed out alongside that fire-red fox knowing that I’d awake with a full belly and some sense of direction. He didn’t utter a single word, but I have the feeling that this is the way he wanted me to go. He knows this forest better than I do. Perhaps he was trying to lead me towards my beautiful Isobel. Forget the dude that put the ‘Bop’ in the ‘Bop – shu – whatever’. I wanna shake that fox’s hand. Nice guy, decent food.

Bill continued walking. With each step the forest’s tree coverage began to recede, identifying the something, whatever it may be, was just ahead. Anticipating a climatic end to his desperate travels, using what little energy he acquired from those wild berries, Bill begins to run along the ever-widening trail into a sun-drenched opening. Once again, Bill passes out from a combination of things. Night Fell.

Morning Came. The sunlight which blanketed his body and the field where he laid was warming. Using what little identification he had found on Bill, a long-haired and sinewy mustached runner was able to call Isobel from a nearby payphone at a public washroom. Thank god the man who had an uncanny resemblance to Steve Prefontaine always ran with two quarters stashed in a self-made slit in the tongue of his shoes, since carrying Bill any further than he had would have proved to be a rather difficult venture. Faster than physically possible, Isobel arrived at a public park, a hundred or so yards from the field where the runner had stumbled upon an unconscious Bill. Isobel and the man placed Bill in the car, vowing to never again let him out of her sight on Eugene’s challenging trails. As Bill dozed off in the back of the car, Isobel and the runner continued to speak, with the subject changing from Bill and what must have been a miserable few days, to themselves and their frustrations with dating and companionship. After about 10 minutes of banter, Isobel jumped gleefully back into her car with the runner’s phone number written on a small piece of paper. With his head poking slightly through the window of the car, the man, much to her surprise and pleasure, reached forward and kissed her softly on the cheek. She smiled and drove south with one hand on the steering wheel, the other massaging the weary bones and muscles of her sleeping border collie Bill.

Works of Fiction: Bill and Bel (2/3)

Night Fell. Morning Came. The blood which saturated the area behind his right ear had completely coagulated and much of it blended in well with the few auburn leaves which lined the path. Bill looked like shit. Covered with scrapes, knots and twigs from head to toe, there was no part of his entire body that went without pain. Almost immediately he thought of Isobel. For some reason he was confident that she was safe. Maybe it was because it was he who had fallen down the hill while she stood safely stories above. Perhaps the fact that she was an accomplished hiker was reassuring to Bill or maybe it was because she was as comfortable surviving on her own as Bill was at struggling with solitude. He knew she was fine. Now he had to worry about himself. While picking pieces of bark and branches out of his thick skin, Bill began walking slowly in as straight of a line as possible, conscious of his surroundings in hopes that he could find a way out of this forest and into the arms of his love.

Bill had no idea how long he had been walking. He continued to struggle along the trail which varied in width and difficulty as it winded through the dense forest. Though it was likely midday, the tree-coverage blocked most of the sunlight, and despite the fact that many of the trees had shed their leaves as in Eugene, many would not. Bill had some trouble understanding why this happened each and every autumn. There was much he failed to understand about the world around him. While he could barely lift his head as he continued to amble along, amazingly he noticed that he was surrounded by an army of trees, enveloped by Spruces, Firs and Pines so many it would be impossible to count. The coniferous varieties were clinging with great valiance to their cones, almost as if being contained within this vast woodland protected its members from the autumnal stripping until the very last possible moment - when the shaded forest floor would become inundated by an influx of conifer droppings - making the path as indistinguishable as the densely covered ground. These were just a few of the many species cohabiting in this dense forest outside of Eugene, highlighting the virtues of autumn in a way that only the Pacific North-West could. Though distracted by the beauty which lined the path and acres of forest beyond him, his hunger could no longer be ignored. A moan echoed from the cavern of his vacant stomach. Which each passing moment of increasing hunger, Bill’s mind began to play tricks on him, as he continued to walk aimlessly along the path to nowhere in search of his beautiful Isobel.

Hunger is fascinating. At this point I would eat just about anything to drive-off this lightheadedness. There are stages of being hungry, where the desire to eat increases, and in theory so do the options. Upon the first sensation of an empty stomach pronouncing itself, I usually crave my favorite dish. Visions of a poached, yet runny egg perched lightly on an English muffin, wedged between the two a thin slice of smoked salmon, topped with a decadently rich amount of hollandaise sauce. Thinking about this is making me even hungrier. Boy, I would settle for just about anything right now, minus the decaying animal carcass a mile back. Shit I’d eat Indian right now.

With each passing minute the probability of starvation increased. Bill was beginning to lose his mind. He walks for what seems to be forever, the trail becoming blacker by the second. As night falls, the temperature drops well below freezing with a sharp wind darting like a wolf between the forest’s pillars, emitting a high-pitched whistling that did little to alleviate our friend’s hunger-related migraine. The odds were not in Bill’s favour that cold autumn night, starvation and hypothermia wrestling with one another to claim his life, an empty stomach growling against the numbing sensation of frozen extremities, all the while worried not only for himself but for his beautiful Isobel. Had she gotten out of the forest alive, or had she delved deeper into the woods in search of Bill. He hopped that she was safe, but at the same time felt a little disappointed thinking that perhaps Isobel could easily find a replacement. Having very few friends throughout life harbors such feelings of despair and solitude. Can you blame him? The idea of positive thinking is new to Bill, where in years past thinking happy thoughts would have been a clandestine concept, Isobel’s recent influence has been a mentally rewarding one. He was now off-track, both on the trail and in a cerebral sense. He was now playing a game of survival with odds stacked heavily against him. The goal was to stay awake until the next day, when the afternoon temperature would be more conducive to slumber. He continued to walk at an impossibly slow pace. It was now dangerously cold. When the body begins to freeze, the drop in temperature has a hallucinogenic effect on the victim, where the internal thermometer fails to properly reflect the body’s core temperature, giving the person the impression that it’s warmer than it actually is. Many people who freeze to death are found either naked or in various stages of disrobement, identifying the mental damage that hypothermia can cause. Bill was starting to have strange thoughts concerning a whole slew of ideas, one of which was that either it was actually getting warmer or he was losing his mind. In this instance, the latter applies. To make matters worse, carrying nothing more than common identification meant that starting a fire was out of the question.

Were my entire head not absolutely frozen right now I’d have to laugh at the fact that having a fire at this moment would mean the difference between life and death. It seems as if the distance between the two is narrowing rapidly. I obviously do not have the ability to start a fire, so I am forced to stumble along, and hope to stay awake until daybreak. Fire. How amusing. An invention that once changed mankind so drastically only to be overshadowed over time by the likes of Edison, Tesla and Marconi, could go a bloody long way towards saving my frigid ass. Death is near.

Starving and frozen, Bill lied down at the side of the winding trail on a large moss covered rock. The moss was so great that it acted as a pillow of sorts, supporting Bill’s weary melon as he fought to stay awake, eventually giving in with a gasp of frustration. Fighting the urge to fall asleep was a battle lost. Bill was asleep almost instantly. Now the chances of freezing to death had increased two-fold, sprawled unconscious across a chilling rock with all extremities exposed, his core temperature would continue to drop steadily.


(check-back tomorrow for the finale - thanks.)

Works of Fiction: Bill and Bel (1/3)

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.)