Week #4
(D is for destiny and dolmen)
Gingerly, Chris used his weight to push against the rock that held his foot but stopped with a yelp of pain. The left ankle seemed sprained. He was in a double bind: a trapped right foot and a bum left one. Is this my destiny? That I die on this lonely scrap of earth? He shook his head and laughed out loud. “Get a grip, Chris.” He pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and called the B&B.
“Pam, it’s Chris, your guest.” He described the rocky ridge, the boulders, hoping the details would help her – or her husband – find him. “I’m almost out of water, too. I just didn’t think it’d be this dry.”
But Pam, despite her earlier concern, was tied up with other guests, and Roger, the husband, was out on an errand.
“Don’t you understand?” Chris held up his water bottle, eyeing the dwindling contents. His voice bounced and echoed against the granite that penned him in. “I can’t get out of here. I’m stuck. I need help.” He hung up and called 911. Once again, he tried to describe his surroundings, which seemed more remote and forbidding with each added detail. Panicky that rescuers might be hours away, he repeatedly jerked his right foot to free it, but the boot would not give. If the boot wouldn’t fit back through the crevice, perhaps the foot without the boot would. He worked to loosen the laces. Now able wiggle his ankle slightly, he took a breath, said a silent prayer, and pulled. “Yes!” His foot was free.
Satisfaction turned to dismay when he saw his feet side by side. The right ankle was swollen, and the left, still in the hiking boot, felt as fat as a loaf of bologna. He could not walk out of there. He pulled himself upright and yelled for help. He cupped his hands and shouted for several minutes, then listened to the silence that settled back down around him. He slumped against the boulder that still held his boot and drank the last of his water. He remembered the sense of unease he’d felt just before he slipped. Absurdly, what he now felt was peace. The rocks would form his tomb, a dolmen of sorts for the buzzards to discover.
He was dozing, with his pack behind his head, when he heard the helicopter. It was distant but coming closer.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Walk on the Wild Side
Week #3
(C is for continental, chiaroscuro, and captive)
Chris tightened the laces on his hiking boots and mentally reviewed his checklist: pack, lunch, binoculars, camera. He smiled. I am so ready. He had planned this outing for more than seven months, as a deserved break after three long days of conference sessions and networking and talking up his company. He would end his business trip to Colorado with a walk along the Continental Divide – and if he could, he would straddle the line, with one foot in the east and the other in the west. He had rented a car and driven more than two hours southwest from his Colorado Springs hotel to this spot.
“Do you want Dan to come along?” Last night, the B&B owner had offered her husband as a hiking partner. She worried that Chris would get lost, fall into a culvert, get eaten by a bear – Chris wasn’t sure exactly what she feared.
He had no second thoughts. “I’ve been hiking for years. Every trail has its adventures. I’ll be careful.”
He set out as the sun was cresting the Sangre de Cristos to the east. The B&B, really a camp, was set high up the valley. The bright horizon cast the valley in deep shadow, and the nearside was a study in chiaroscuro.
Chris walked quickly, following a path he guessed was used by goats or deer. The trees were stubby, and the brush was dry. He stopped often for water breaks, surprised at how thirsty he was. The altitude and the low humidity seemed to suck moisture from him.
A little after noon, he reached the top of a rise that looked out over a stretch of boulders. He unfolded a small map the B&B owner had given him. By his guess, he was at nine thousand feet, give or take a couple of hundred. The real trail, the one that ran along the Divide, was still several miles ahead. He took some snapshots of the view. It was quiet and serene. He saw nothing moving except for a few buzzards coasting on the thermals. He was utterly alone.
Shrugging off a slight unease, he started into the rocky area, careful to watch his step. Within a few minutes, his mouth felt parched again. He glanced down to reach for his water bottle, and his ankle twisted sharply, sending him off balance. He was tumbling and sliding then. When he stopped, his right foot, the one that hadn’t turned, was stuck. He was a captive with no one but the wind to demand ransom.
(to be continued)
(C is for continental, chiaroscuro, and captive)
Chris tightened the laces on his hiking boots and mentally reviewed his checklist: pack, lunch, binoculars, camera. He smiled. I am so ready. He had planned this outing for more than seven months, as a deserved break after three long days of conference sessions and networking and talking up his company. He would end his business trip to Colorado with a walk along the Continental Divide – and if he could, he would straddle the line, with one foot in the east and the other in the west. He had rented a car and driven more than two hours southwest from his Colorado Springs hotel to this spot.
“Do you want Dan to come along?” Last night, the B&B owner had offered her husband as a hiking partner. She worried that Chris would get lost, fall into a culvert, get eaten by a bear – Chris wasn’t sure exactly what she feared.
He had no second thoughts. “I’ve been hiking for years. Every trail has its adventures. I’ll be careful.”
He set out as the sun was cresting the Sangre de Cristos to the east. The B&B, really a camp, was set high up the valley. The bright horizon cast the valley in deep shadow, and the nearside was a study in chiaroscuro.
Chris walked quickly, following a path he guessed was used by goats or deer. The trees were stubby, and the brush was dry. He stopped often for water breaks, surprised at how thirsty he was. The altitude and the low humidity seemed to suck moisture from him.
A little after noon, he reached the top of a rise that looked out over a stretch of boulders. He unfolded a small map the B&B owner had given him. By his guess, he was at nine thousand feet, give or take a couple of hundred. The real trail, the one that ran along the Divide, was still several miles ahead. He took some snapshots of the view. It was quiet and serene. He saw nothing moving except for a few buzzards coasting on the thermals. He was utterly alone.
Shrugging off a slight unease, he started into the rocky area, careful to watch his step. Within a few minutes, his mouth felt parched again. He glanced down to reach for his water bottle, and his ankle twisted sharply, sending him off balance. He was tumbling and sliding then. When he stopped, his right foot, the one that hadn’t turned, was stuck. He was a captive with no one but the wind to demand ransom.
(to be continued)
Thursday, January 14, 2010
In Bloom
Week #2
(B is for bougainvillea, boomerang and bifurcate)
Sprinkled with papery scarlet blooms, the bougainvillea formed the lintel of the garden gate. The gate itself was wood, roughened and cracked after years of harsh sun and driving rain. It screeched in complaint whenever the caretaker bothered to close it, so he didn’t often. It was his way of encouraging others – mostly the kids – to enjoy the garden. Jake’s employer, the landowner, lived in California and rarely visited. Jake was paid to keep the grounds neat, the trees pruned, and the garden lush. The day he fished the boomerang down from the sweet gum, he knew the garden had uninvited guests. From that point, he left the garden gate ajar. Nearly every day since, he noticed footprints in the moist dirt by the fountain. A jacket might get left beside one of the apple trees, their low-lying branches perfect for young climbers. Or he might find an empty water bottle stashed in the crook of the dogwood. Jake placed these objects beside the gate when he left for the day, and they were always gone by the time he returned.
One September, when Jake had been caretaker for four years, the California owner called to say he was selling the property. He was sorry, but Jake had one more week on the payroll. That’s all the notice he could give. Stunned, Jake walked the garden, circling the fountain again and again and alternating between the left and right fork of the path. He felt grafted to the place. By leaving, he would be ripping out a piece of himself – would it grow back?
On his last day, Jake pushed the gate open as wide as it could go. His jacket sleeve brushed the woody bougainvillea stock, and the thorns tore a small hole in the fabric. The threads caught by the plant rippled in the breeze.
(B is for bougainvillea, boomerang and bifurcate)
Sprinkled with papery scarlet blooms, the bougainvillea formed the lintel of the garden gate. The gate itself was wood, roughened and cracked after years of harsh sun and driving rain. It screeched in complaint whenever the caretaker bothered to close it, so he didn’t often. It was his way of encouraging others – mostly the kids – to enjoy the garden. Jake’s employer, the landowner, lived in California and rarely visited. Jake was paid to keep the grounds neat, the trees pruned, and the garden lush. The day he fished the boomerang down from the sweet gum, he knew the garden had uninvited guests. From that point, he left the garden gate ajar. Nearly every day since, he noticed footprints in the moist dirt by the fountain. A jacket might get left beside one of the apple trees, their low-lying branches perfect for young climbers. Or he might find an empty water bottle stashed in the crook of the dogwood. Jake placed these objects beside the gate when he left for the day, and they were always gone by the time he returned.
One September, when Jake had been caretaker for four years, the California owner called to say he was selling the property. He was sorry, but Jake had one more week on the payroll. That’s all the notice he could give. Stunned, Jake walked the garden, circling the fountain again and again and alternating between the left and right fork of the path. He felt grafted to the place. By leaving, he would be ripping out a piece of himself – would it grow back?
On his last day, Jake pushed the gate open as wide as it could go. His jacket sleeve brushed the woody bougainvillea stock, and the thorns tore a small hole in the fabric. The threads caught by the plant rippled in the breeze.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Purple Prose
(Week #1 - A is for auberine and abominable)
Melinda was pleased to see that the produce section of the Giant was well stocked. She picked her way down the aisle, filling her basket with a head of Romaine, a cluster of tomatoes, three yellow onions, and a medium eggplant. She turned back for a handful of Granny Smiths. She would bake a pie; it was cold out and the smell of pie in the oven would impress Patrick. She hoped, anyway. That and a bowlful of ratatouille. But maybe he was a meat-and-potatoes man? She tried to remember what she’d seen him eating for lunch at his desk: hoagies, chips, Snickers. She sighed. She could always wear something sexy, which would short-circuit any complaints about her menu.
She was expecting him at seven o’clock, and it was four now. They planned to eat first, then watch an old episode or two of Doctor Who. She was astonished to find someone else who loved the show as much as she did, someone who not only worked in the same office, but in a cubicle on the same floor. His calendar, with stills from the show, caught her eye several weeks ago when she passed by on her way to a department meeting. Patrick had also decorated his workspace with a two-foot-high replica of the blue police box that served as the Doctor’s vehicle through space and time.
Danny, her old boyfriend, had laughed at her obsession and refused to watch the show with her. He hated science fiction – whether in movies or books – and they hadn’t lasted long as a couple.
At the checkout, the clerk wrinkled her nose at the eggplant. “I’ll eat salad, but I draw the line at purple food.” She slipped the vegetables into a plastic bag, and Melinda swiped her debit card through the reader.
“It’s not purple through and through, you know.” Melinda was amused. The clerk looked all of seventeen, and her fingernails were the same violet shade.
“Oh, I know, I know. But the thought of actually taking a bite of it...” She shuddered. “Abominable.”
Melinda was pleased to see that the produce section of the Giant was well stocked. She picked her way down the aisle, filling her basket with a head of Romaine, a cluster of tomatoes, three yellow onions, and a medium eggplant. She turned back for a handful of Granny Smiths. She would bake a pie; it was cold out and the smell of pie in the oven would impress Patrick. She hoped, anyway. That and a bowlful of ratatouille. But maybe he was a meat-and-potatoes man? She tried to remember what she’d seen him eating for lunch at his desk: hoagies, chips, Snickers. She sighed. She could always wear something sexy, which would short-circuit any complaints about her menu.
She was expecting him at seven o’clock, and it was four now. They planned to eat first, then watch an old episode or two of Doctor Who. She was astonished to find someone else who loved the show as much as she did, someone who not only worked in the same office, but in a cubicle on the same floor. His calendar, with stills from the show, caught her eye several weeks ago when she passed by on her way to a department meeting. Patrick had also decorated his workspace with a two-foot-high replica of the blue police box that served as the Doctor’s vehicle through space and time.
Danny, her old boyfriend, had laughed at her obsession and refused to watch the show with her. He hated science fiction – whether in movies or books – and they hadn’t lasted long as a couple.
At the checkout, the clerk wrinkled her nose at the eggplant. “I’ll eat salad, but I draw the line at purple food.” She slipped the vegetables into a plastic bag, and Melinda swiped her debit card through the reader.
“It’s not purple through and through, you know.” Melinda was amused. The clerk looked all of seventeen, and her fingernails were the same violet shade.
“Oh, I know, I know. But the thought of actually taking a bite of it...” She shuddered. “Abominable.”
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