Welcome
to The Spot Writers. This
month’s prompt is to use the following words or images in a story:
whirlwind of leaves, wizened old man, lonely call of an owl,
crackling fire.
This
week’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES
DON’T KNOCK,
a psychological drama, is available from her locally or on Amazon.
MISTER
WOLFE,
the sequel, coming early 2020. Watch for it!
***
We’re
in this Together
by Cathy MacKenzie
Walter
rubs his hands and shivers. Night is drawing to a close, and morning
will soon be upon him.
He
throws another log on the fire, humming
a sorrowful tune that came to mind. He can’t remember the name—or
the words—so he sings his own. Nonsensical phrases he’ll never
repeat even if he had a friend.
Loneliness.
Grief. Sadness. Where’s the happiness he once enjoyed?
“Silly
me,” he mumbles, knowing darn well where his joy went. The way of
everything good: a wife, kids. A home. A job.
Not
that he needs a job at his age. His meagre pension covers his
expenses. He’s thrifty. Has to be. Enjoys it, actually, as if
proving he can overcome any obstacle.
He
tosses another log into the fiery mass. The resulting sparks remind
him of autumn leaves blown about by the wind. He’s careful to keep
the fire contained within the metal rim. Mustn’t play with fire: a
haunting refrain from his childhood. He didn’t know much about
fires then and never played with matches, but his parents still
spewed the words.
He
stares into the crackling pit. Flames rise, higher and higher. Out of
control. In the distance—the far distance—he hears screams.
Shrieks. Smells burning flesh. Oddly familiar. But no, he’s never
smelled anyone burning. That would do him in, for he’s read that
burning flesh is an odour one never ceases smelling. His sense of
smell remains intact even though the rest of him’s gone to crap.
Despite
that, he inhales. A huge deep breath that relaxes him.
No
horrific smell; nothing but the smoky pine of the campfire.
And
the screams? A lonely owl crying in the night.
The
vision? Gotta keep that out of his mind. Nothing exists around him
but his tent and trees. The moon. And darkness except for the
hypnotic fire that’ll die if he neglects it. That’s what happens
with neglect: death and heartache.
The
fire is fine. Contained in its container. Nowhere for it to go. He
should never have lit the fool thing, but every time he camps, he
feels compelled to do so. A mysterious force that commands, “Light
me, light me.”
And he does. His penance, he figures.
He’s
never enjoyed camping, but the dark shrouds him from himself. He can
pretend he’s twenty-five when his life stretched before him. He can
ignore the white hair, the mottled skin, the discoloured fingernails.
Nasty yellowed toenails, too, but his feet are hidden in his haggard
hiking boots.
It’s
impossible not to feel close to ninety when glimpsing a wizened face
in a mirror. A stranger—no one he knows. He sighs and rubs his
palms against his dungarees. Who’s he kidding?
He
doesn’t consciously look at himself except for shaving, but
sometimes the bathroom mirror draws him in, forcing him to shout at
the invisible person behind it. “I’m alive! Foxed you, eh?”
He
stares into the darkness, somewhere behind the trees. “Hey, God, I
cheated death, didn’t I? Or was that your plan all along?”
God
shouldn’t take the innocent, but He doesn’t care. Too many gone
too soon. Too many too young.
The
fire dances. He blinks, swearing he can see his wife. Yes, there she
is! For a second.
Then
gone.
His
son and daughter. Sees them, too, but for a lesser instant if it’s
possible to cut an instant in half. He didn’t have his children as
long as he had his wife and barely remembers what they look like.
But, no, there they are. Their faces rise with the flame, and they
screech, “Daddy,
save us. Save us.”
His wife’s arms wrap them close. “Hush,
my babies, hush. Everything will be okay,”
she says. “We’re
in this together.”
He’s
positive she’d have said those last four words. She used to comfort
him with the same words when life didn’t go quite as planned—minor
blips on life’s stage now. We’re
in this together.
Yes,
she would have said those words when she comforted the children. When
he wasn’t there to save them. When they must have called out to
him, “Save
us, save us.”
He should have been there.
They
thought he was.
But
he wasn’t.
He
returned home to an inferno, the flames devouring their home.
Firetrucks surrounded the house. Firemen with hoses battled an
undefeatable rival. Helplessly, he stood. Hopelessly, he fell.
Despite
fisticuffs with everyone blocking his way, too many stronger arms
held him back.
He
heard no screams. Smelled no burning flesh. He couldn’t even form
the horrid images of what transpired. Their deaths. What must have
been in their minds?
Their
charred remains were found, the three entwined together as if seeking
warmth from the cold. We’re
in this together.
Would the words have comforted their children as they’d once
comforted him?
He
leans back. “We’re in this together,” he yells to Heaven.
He
prays his family heard.
“I’m
sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m so sorry. We should have been in this
together.”
***
The
Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val
Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine
A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil
Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara
De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/
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