Short Story #1 – Thomas Norgang

2 Page Draft #1

He’s back and we’re having that conversation again. I’m in the kitchen and the boy is yelling, again. Telling me I’m stubborn and unreasonable again, again. Telling me I’m crazy. It always comes to this. At first it’s good to see him. He tells of family and the happenings of his life. But eventually he comes to what he is really here to say. He yells and begs and whines and then he leaves. He’s always so angry. I wish I could say I feel something other than relief when he departs. Relieved my own son is leaving.

So he goes, the screen door banging behind him on the way out. A moment later I hear the two-stroke turnover and his dinghy pulls away from the dock. Now I am alone. Well, almost alone. Charlotte lifts her head off the floor and fixes me with a quizzical dog expression, as if asking me if I really forgot to include her in my mental census. I sigh and fix my eyes on the ceiling. My head rests on the back of my chair, bumping gently. Knock, knock, knock.

A decision made I stand slowly. My legs shake. My arms shake more. As I shuffle out of the kitchen I pass the hall mirror and glimpse myself. Wiry gray hair and beard. Matching gray eyes. Loose hanging clothes that hardly fit me anymore. The boy was right about that. I look like shit.

Outside I breathe the cool fall air, regarding the land around me. The foliage looks like a painting even in the dim light. I take the moment to thank the good lord for my eyes. What a gift to witness the season turn. What a pleasure to be a part of it.

My island is small, about 10 acres. I step off the porch and the leaves rustle under my shaking bare feet. I make my way down the path that circles my island. Charlotte follows silently, stopping to sniff the stumps and stones as we make our way. The sun has set and the sky is the color of… well it’s the color of the sky at twilight. There really isn’t anything else like it.

This is my 12th fall here. My 12th since I was reborn at 52. Funny how that works. How the promise of death is the best motivator in existence for living. For truly living. For almost thirty years I rode a desk. Had a “good job.” Paid the bills. Raised a family. Lived in a little suburban utopia. When I was 48 my wife Rebecca passed away. You’d think that might have changed something, the sudden death of your wife. Me? I went back to work for the next four years.

When I reach the lake I stop and look to the southeast. There he is, nothing more than a blurry dot out on the water. I call out to him. I see him turn and I raise my hand in farewell. Perhaps I’m trying to say I’m sorry. The boy turns back to the bow. He doesn’t look back again. I wonder when I stopped thinking of him as my son. I can’t recall.

I can hear Charlotte rustling through the undergrowth somewhere out of site. Another decision made. Slowly I begin to strip off my clothes, a task made simply by their overlarge nature. Now, standing naked before the darkening sky, I hug my arms around my slender wrinkled husk and quake. A few stars wink down on me from the heavens. I lower one shaking foot into the freezing water. The cold is like an old friend welcoming me into her infinite debts. Soon only my head remains above the inky blackness of the lake. I slow my breathing. Bit by bit, the endless quivering that has defined my life for the best 12 years subsides by a barely perceptible margin. I close my eyes and let the cold tighten its grip. I don’t want to leave.

“One more day” I say aloud. “One more day.”

In the morning I decide to eat the last of my bacon. I carefully crack two eggs into the pan and lay a few strips of bacon around them. I throw an extra piece in; for Charlotte. I have never fed Charlotte table food, but today is a special day.

After our breakfast we begin the work of the day. We go around the island, Charlotte bounding her way down the path and then stopping to wait for me to shuffle up to her before taking off again. Work is slow. What once would’ve taken me less than an hour I will spend most of the morning on. But it’s important that I leave my island beautiful. We pile up the dead sticks and I use my pull saw to prune the trees. My island is a place where the dead are cut out and left behind. My island is a place for the living.

By the time I’m done the sun is high overhead. There is no time here but I imagine the day is about halfway done. I’m drenched in sweat and my old bones ache. I begin to shuffle back toward the cabin but my knees buckle and fall onto my hands. My body is raked by the shakes. I roll onto my side and let it consume me: the terrible trembling.

I lay there in the dirt for a long time. Long enough for the shaking to slow and longer. Eventually I drifted off to sleep. The sun soothing my failing body.

I awake to the most unexpected sound I could imagine. Footsteps. Charlotte perks up her head from where she is sleeping against my leg. I listen carefully. Sure enough there it is. The unmistakable crunch of footsteps. A racoon? Too big, perhaps a deer. Then I hear her.

“Hello!” a woman’s voice calls out. I freeze. Well, mentally perhaps, I am not actually capable of holding still.

“Mr. Gagnon?” her voice rings out again. How does she know me? Did the boy send her? I scramble to my feet as fast as my body will allow. My ragged clothes have acquired a fresh layer of dirt after my nap. I attempt to brush myself off, but it’s too late. The approaching footsteps have stopped.

I looked up to see a young woman who couldn’t be older than twenty. She was wearing work worn coveralls. She was shorter than me but looked strong. Her hair was dark, wildly curly and had been fought back into a simple bun. She looked like she probably had more French-Canadian in her blood than even I did. She was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in a long time and for a moment I was numbstruct.

A moment later a fire had been lit in my gut. Rage filled every fiber of my being and my shaking intensified slightly. I spoke and my barely used voice sounded like the grinding of a granite quarry.

“Why are you here?”

Short Story Draft #2, 4 pages

So he goes, the screen door banging behind him on the way out. The room falls silent and his words echo in my mind. Crazy old man, he had called me. A moment later I hear the two-stroke turnover and his dinghy pulls away from the dock. Now I am alone. Well, almost alone. Charlotte lifts her head off the floor and fixes me with a quizzical dog expression, as if asking me if I really forgot to include her in my mental census. I sigh and fix my eyes on the ceiling. My head rests on the back of my chair, bumping gently. Knock, knock, knock.

I can hear Charlotte rustling through the undergrowth somewhere out of site. Another decision made. Slowly I begin to strip off my clothes, a task made simpler by their overlarge nature. Now, standing naked before the darkening sky, I hug my arms around my slender wrinkled husk and quake. A few stars wink down on me from the heavens. I lower one shaking foot into the freezing water. The cold is like an old friend welcoming me into her infinite debts. Soon only my head remains above the inky blackness of the lake. I slow my breathing. Bit by bit, the endless quivering that has defined my life for the best 12 years eases by a barely perceptible margin. I close my eyes and let the cold tighten its grip. I don’t want to leave.

“One more day” I say aloud. “One more day.”

I lay there in the dirt for a long time. Long enough for the shaking to slow and longer. Eventually I drifted off to sleep. The sun soothing my failing body.

“Hello!” a woman’s voice calls out. I freeze. Well, mentally perhaps, I am not actually capable of holding still.

I looked up to see a young woman who couldn’t be older than twenty staring back at me. She was wearing work worn coveralls. She was shorter than me but looked strong. Her hair was dark, wildly curly and had been fought back into a simple bun. She looked like she probably had more French-Canadian in her blood than even I did. She was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in a long time and for a moment I was numbstruct.

A moment later a fire had been lit in my gut. Rage filled every fiber of my being and my shaking intensified slightly. I spoke and my barely used voice sounded like the grinding of a granite quarry.

“Why are you here?”

She looks at me, her expression somewhere between shock and embarrassment.

“I… I’m sorry. Are you Mathew Gagnon?” I stared at her and she charged ahead.

“Of Course you are, what am I saying? Unless there’s more than one old guy who lives alone on the island in the lake. Still, I can’t believe you’re actually here. My friends said you weren’t even real and dad said even if you were real you had probably already…” she trailed off.

“Died by now?” I offered coldly. Had she shown up a few hours later her father may have been right.

“No! He just meant you had probably left the island you know. I mean, it’s been a while since anyones seen you in town and you know how people talk. Either way I’m glad you’re here. I was hoping I could talk to you?” She takes a step forward as she asks the question, her expression hopeful.

“Why?” my voice sounds angrier than I intended.

“I just… I want… I’ve just been hearing my whole life about the hermit on wood island who lives out there even in the winter and barely comes to the mainland and how he, I mean you, how you make everything you need and make your house and catch all your food. Like, I just always thought, now that’s a guy who has it all figured out. Completely independant and in tune with the land. I wanted to see if it was true.” She lets out a little gasp, finally deciding to resume breathing. I’m dumbfounded. Who did this girl think I was? Some kind of profit? Some wise man of the forest?

“I think you should re-examine the lifestyle of a hermit. I’m fairly sure most of us don’t like visitors. I do not like visitors.” She stares back at me, not taking the hint. “I think you should leave… whoever you are.”

“Maia! I’m Maia and I uhh… I can’t leave.” she cringes as she says it.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I can’t leave! It will be dark in a few hours and it took me most of the day to get here. You wouldn’t believe how sore my arms are and I’m out of water and–”

“Your arms? Did you canoe here?!”

“Yes!” she says proudly. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. To canoe here would have taken at least six hours with no wind. She was right, she couldn’t leave today. If the boy were still here his dinghy could take her back in an hour, but my outboard had died and I never bothered to replace it. I never planned to leave.

As I mull this dilemma over Charlotte approaches the stranger. She pads up slowly and the girl raises her hand. Charlotte gives a cautionary sniff. Her tail wags and she presents the side of her neck for scratching. Maia obliges.

“What’s your dog’s name?” she glances up at me now petting Charlotte with both hands.

“She’s not my dog.” I say. “Her name is Charlotte.”

Maia nods knowingly. “Hello Charlotte. Who’s a good girl?” Charlotte’s tail wagging intensifies, well aware that she is in fact the good girl in question. I am suddenly very aware of my shaking. My lip quivers.

A decision made, I begin shuffling down the path, past the pair of new acquaintances, back towards my cabin. Charlotte and the girl follow. We walk in silence. Passing the dock I see a canoe loaded with a travel pack. I slowly climb the steps and pull open the screen door. Charlotte darts past my leg.

“You can put your things in there.” I gesture to the guest room. “There’s water in the kitchen.”

“Thank you Mr. Gagnon.”

I don’t respond. Instead I move into my own bedroom and close the door behind me. Once again, I am dreadfully tired.

I’m sitting on the back porch of my old home. The stillness in my legs tells me I must be dreaming again. It’s a perfect summer night and the plastic picket fence is casting a long evening showing. I feel her before I see her. There’s a clink of ice in the glass and she’s here. She hands me a glass and sits down beside me, leaning her perfect head on my shoulder.

“Is it time my love?” her voice sounds far away. I put my hand to her face and feel her smooth cheek. My hand is steady.

“Soon my love. I’m coming home soon.” She smiles as I say it.

“I’m waiting for you.” her voice is growing more distant.

“I know my love, I know.” My voice cracks in my throat. “I died the day you left me. My body is catching up.” And then the world is burning and we are burning. Smoke fills my lungs and I can barely hear her last words.

I awake with a start, a slick sheen of sweat covering me. My body has resumed shaking. Then I am crying, and then sobbing. I bury my face in my pillow, like a child, and wale. All I know is pain and all I want is for it to be. I need it to be over. To finally end.

When the tears subside I am left feeling hollow. I notice, for the first time, the smell of smoke. I’m out of bed in a flash, or whatever my crippled body’s version is, and making my way to the kitchen. Had I left my burner on? I’m sure I must have but when I arrive everything is as it should be. The light in the kitchen is dim. How long had I slept? Then I see it: a thin wisp of grey floating past the window. I make my way to the front door and the mystery is solved.

She is sitting on one of my stumps, stoking a small burn in my fire pit. I had entirely forgotten she was here.

“Oh good your back!” she says looking up and smiling. She brandishes a steaming sausage skewered on a fork,“Do you want one? I mean, you can have one if you want, they are yours after all. Sorry I took them but I was sick of eating peanuts and raisins.”

Not for the first time that day I am at an utter loss at how to respond. Fortunately, my stomach growls making a decision for me. I approach and take the sausage.

“Thank you.” I manage. The fork quivers in my hand. I take a bite, chewing slowly. I look up and she is eyeing me cautiously.

“You’re not mad I took your food?” she asks. I shake my head.

“Where’s Charlotte?” I ask back. The girl looks around.

“She’s around somewhere, I just saw her.” She stands but I raise my hand.

“Don’t bother looking for her. She is fine. Knows the island better than I do.” There is pride in my voice. I love that dog.

Draft #3, 12 pages

A decision made I stand slowly, my legs shaking. As I shuffle out of the kitchen I pass the hall mirror, glimpse myself. Wiry gray hair and beard. Matching gray eyes. Loose hanging clothes that hardly fit me anymore. The boy was right about that. I look like shit.

My island is small, about 10 acres. I step off the porch and the leaves rustle under my shaking bare feet. I make my way down the path that circles my island, in the direction of the dock. Charlotte follows silently, stopping to sniff the stumps and stones as we make our way. The sun has set and the sky is the color of… well it’s the color of the sky at twilight. There really isn’t anything else like it.

This is my 12th fall here. My 12th since I was reborn at 52. Funny how the promise of death is such an effective motivation for existing. For truly living. Almost thirty years I rode a desk. Had a “good job.” Paid the bills. Raised a family. Lived in a little suburban utopia. When I was 48 my wife Rebecca passed away. You’d think that might have changed something, the sudden death of your wife. But not for me. I’m not sure I even took a day off.

I can hear Charlotte rustling through the undergrowth somewhere out of site. Another decision made. Slowly I begin to strip off my clothes, a task made simpler by their overlarge nature. Now, standing naked before the darkening sky, I hug my arms around my slender wrinkled husk and quake. A few stars wink down on me from the heavens. I lower one shaking foot into the water. The cold is like an old friend welcoming me into her infinite debts. Soon only my head remains above the inky blackness of the lake. I slow my breathing. Bit by bit, the endless quivering that has defined my life for the best 12 years eases by a barely perceptible margin. I close my eyes and let the cold tighten its grip. I don’t want to leave.

In the morning I decide to eat the last of my bacon. I carefully crack two eggs into the pan and lay a few strips around them. I throw in an extra piece; for Charlotte. I have never fed Charlotte table food, but today is a special day.

After our breakfast we begin the work. We go around, Charlotte bounding her way down the path and then stopping to wait for me to shuffle up to her before taking off again. Work is slow. Where once this taskk would’ve taken me less than an hour I will spend most of the morning. But it’s important that my island is beautiful. We pile up the dead sticks and I use my pull saw to prune the trees. My island is a place where the dead are cut out and left behind. My island is a place for the living.

I lay there in the dirt for a long time. Long enough for the shaking to slow and then longer. Eventually I drifted off to sleep. The sun soothing my failing body.

I awake to the most unexpected sound I could imagine. Footsteps. Charlotte perks up her head from where she is sleeping: pressed against my leg. I listen carefully. Sure enough there it is. The unmistakable crunch of footsteps. A racoon? Too big, perhaps a deer. Then I hear her.

“Hello!” a woman’s voice calls out. I freeze. Well, mentally perhaps, I am not actually capable of such a feat.

I looked up to see a young woman who couldn’t be older than twenty staring back at me. She was wearing work-worn coveralls. She was shorter than me but looked strong. Her hair was dark, wildly curly and had been fought back into a simple bun. She looked like she probably had more French-Canadian in her blood than even I did (and as you heard my last name is Gagnon). She was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in a long time and for a moment I was numbstruct.

A moment later a fire had been lit in my gut. Rage filled every fiber of my being and my shaking intensified slightly. I spoke and my voice sounded like the grinding of a granite quarry.

“Why are you here?”

She looks at me, her expression somewhere between shock and embarrassment. Maybe awe.

“I… I’m sorry. Are you Mathew Gagnon?” I stared at her and she charged ahead.

“Of Course you are, what am I saying? Unless there’s more than one old guy who lives alone on the big island in the lake. But you’re actually here! My friends said you weren’t even real and Papa said even if you were real you had probably already…” she trailed off.

“Died by now?” I offered coldly. Had she shown up a day later her father may have been right.

“No! He just meant you had probably left the island you know. I mean, it’s been a while since anyones seen you in town and you know the things people will say. Either way I’m glad you’re here. I was hoping I could talk to you?” She takes a step forward as she asks the question, her expression hopeful.

“Why?” My voice sounds angrier than I intended.

“I just… I want… I’ve just been hearing my whole life about the hermit on wood island who lives out there even in the winter and never leaves and how he, I mean you, how you make everything you need and make your house and catch all your food. Like, I just always thought, ‘now that’s a guy who has it all figured out.’ Completely independant and in tune with the land. I wanted to see if it was true. If you really…” She lets out a little gasp, finally deciding to resume breathing. I’m dumbfounded. Who did this girl think I was? Some kind of profit? Some wise man of the forest?

“I think you should re-familiarize yourself with the lifestyle of a hermit. Most don’t like visitors. I do not like visitors.” She stares back at me, not taking the hint. “I think you should leave… whoever you are.”

“Maia! I’m Maia and I uhh… I can’t leave.” she cringes as she says it, I mixture of desperation and embarrassment washing over her face.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I can’t! It will be dark in a few hours and it took me most of the day to get here. You wouldn’t believe how sore my arms are and I’m out of water and–”

“Your arms? Did you canoe here?!”

“Yes!” she says proudly.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. To canoe here would have taken at least six hours with no wind. She was right, she couldn’t leave today. If the boy were still here his dinghy could take her back in an hour, but my outboard had died and I never bothered to replace it. I never planned to leave.

“What’s your dog’s name?” she glances up at me now petting Charlotte with both hands.

“She’s not my dog.” I say. “Her name is Charlotte.”

A decision made, I begin shuffling down the path, past the pair of new acquaintances, and back towards my cabin. Charlotte and the girl follow. We walk in silence. Passing the dock I see a canoe loaded with a travel pack. I slowly climb the steps and pull open the screen door. Charlotte darts past my leg.

“You can put your things in there.” I gesture to the guest room. “There’s water in the kitchen.”

“Thank you Mr. Gagnon.”

I don’t respond. Instead I move into my own bedroom and close the door behind me. Once again, I am dreadfully tired.

I’m sitting on the back porch of my old home. The stillness in my legs tells me I must be dreaming again. It’s a perfect summer afternoon and the plastic picket fence is casting a long evening showing. I feel her before I see her. There’s a clink of ice in the glass and she’s here. She hands me a drink I don’t look at and sits down beside me, leaning her perfect head on my shoulder.

“Is it time my love?” her voice sounds far away. I put my hand to her face and feel her smooth cheek. My hand is steady. Her cheek is cold.

“Soon my love. I’m coming home soon.” She smiles as I say it.

“I’m waiting for you.” her voice is growing more distant.

“I know my love, I know.” My voice cracks in my throat. “I died the day you left me. My body has almost caught up.” And then the world is burning and we are burning. Smoke fills my lungs and there is a tearing in my chest not from the fire. I start to shake.

I awake with a start, a slick sheen of sweat covering me. My body has resumed shaking. I am crying, and then sobbing. I bury my face in my pillow, like a child, and wale. All I know is pain and all I want is for it to be over. I need it to be over.

When the tears subside I am left feeling hollow. I notice, for the first time, the smell of smoke. I’m out of bed in a flash, or whatever my crippled body’s version of a flash is, and making my way to the kitchen. Had I left my burner on? I’m sure I must have but when I arrive everything is as it should be. The light in the kitchen is dim. How long had I slept? Then I see it: a thin wisp of gray floating past the window. I make my way to the front door and the mystery is solved.

She is sitting on one of my stumps, stoking a small burn in my fire pit. I had entirely forgotten she was here.

“Oh good your back!” she says looking up and smiling. She brandishes a steaming sausage skewered on a stick,“Do you want one? I mean, you can have one if you want, they are yours after all. Sorry I took them but I was sick of eating peanuts and raisins.”

Not for the first time that day I am at an utter loss at how to respond. Fortunately, my stomach growls making a decision for me. I approach and take the sausage.

“Thank you.” I manage. The stick quivers in my hand. I take a bite, chewing slowly. I look up and she is eyeing me cautiously.

“You’re not mad I took your food?” she asks. I shake my head.

“Where’s Charlotte?” I ask back. The girl looks around.

“She’s around somewhere, I just saw her.” She stands but I raise my hand.

“Don’t bother looking for her. She is fine. Knows the island better than I do.” There is pride in my voice. I love that dog. The girl nods knowingly.

For a while we eat in silence as the day catches fire and begins to die. The only sound is the endless rustling of leaves and the gentle lapping of the lake against the island I call home. I finish my sausage, then another. I can’t remember the last time I shared a meal with another person who wasn’t my son. Or Charlotte. Of Course charlotte.

“Why are you out here Mr. Gagnon?” Her voice sounds different, serious in a way she hasn’t been to this point. I stare at my blurred hands. Studying their calluses and scars. Remembering a different pair that were soft and pink instead of gray and worn.

“Why are you here girl?”

“My name is Maia,” she replies, not angrily.

“Maia. Why are you here?” I look up at her. The sun is behind her, painting a silhouette across my vision. I wait as the silence stretches between us.

“My Maman,” she says it the french way MAH-mon. “She isn’t right. She tried to be a Mother but… well she couldn’t. My Papa used to tell me stories about you. He said you were old and wise and could answer any question. One night I asked him if you could tell us how to help Maman. He was quiet for a long time, then he said ‘Maybe he could, my sweet. Maybe he could.’ He left my room and I could hear him crying after that. We haven’t seen her since I was ten.” Maia pauses. I study her face for grief, but she is hard as stone. So young and already her walls are ten feet high and four feet thick.

“Anyway,” she continues, “I always wanted to come see you. To see if you were real I guess. I don’t need to ask about my Maman anymore, I know nothing could’ve helped her. But I was home this weekend and, well, people say your… People say you’re dying. I didn’t want to miss my chance.”

Silence swells. I wonder what she wants me to say. I wonder what she needs me to say. I wonder if I could’ve helped her mother. I’ve never helped anyone. Maybe I–

“Are you really dying Mr. Gagnon?” she blurts.

“My name,” I reply, “Is Matthew. And yes. I am dying. I have been dying for a long time and I will die soon. You asked why I am here? Years ago I was diagnosed with Parkinsons. I didn’t know when I would die but I did know it would be sooner rather than later. I knew it would be slow, that I would lose everything.” My voice doesn’t sound like it’s coming from me, as if I am nothing more than a silent observer eavesdropping on a private conversation.

I continue, “My wife died a few years before that. If she were alive… things would be different. For 18 years I lived for her. She was everything. With her gone, and my life on the timetable, I realized that in all my 52 years I had never lived. Not for a moment. I thought I would spend maybe a year here. To live off the land and learn to accept my disease. That was 12 years ago now.”

Quiet once again until a snapping twig announces Charlotte’s return. She walks up to me and I lay my hand on her head.

“Parkinsons.” says Maia, more to herself than me. “Is that what’s up with all the shaking?”

Something boils up inside me. Leaping and jumping up through my innards before it escapes into the darkening evening air, and I laugh. Head tilted back, mouth open, I laugh like I haven’t in years. My great booming laugh, so unbefitting such a small man.

“What?!” says Maia, a look of deep concern on her face that only enforces my mirth. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” I reply. “No, that was quite funny actually.”

That wasn’t the last time I laughed that night. We talked until the sun died and the stars winked their way into the sky. She told me about her father, and school. About her dreams and visions for her future. I told her about how the season changed and about the year I re-shingled the cabin. If she is bored, she doesn’t show it. Eventually though my body has had all it can take and I retreat back into my room, bidding my guest goodnight. This time there are no dreams waiting for me and I fall asleep as easily as dying.

The next day, we rise early. I brew coffee and we watch the sunrise from the dock. It’s beautiful, but the day is turning overcast and the winds smell of change. Maia has a long canoe ahead of her. I have a long way to go as well.

“Do you have any children Mathew?” she asks suddenly after loading her pack into the canoe.

“I have a son,” I reply. “We… we don’t really get along.”

Maia nods and doesn’t press further. She steps into her canoe. Suddenly a decision is made.

“Will you do something for me? Will you take Charlotte with you to the mainland? I think it would be good for her. She must be bored of me by now and… well, she likes you.”

Maia looks confused. “I don’t understand. How will you get her back?” she asks.

“I’m going to the mainland tomorrow. I can meet you by the boat launch around ten?” I hold my breath.

“Alright,” she says warily. “Will you be okay alone?”

I nod. “I’ve been alone for twelve years. I’ll survive the night.”

I wish her safe travels. She asks again if I really want her to bring Charlotte. I persist. It will be like a sleepover for her. It takes all my strength not to wrap my arms around her neck and bury my face in her fur. But that would be a giveaway. So I give her scratch, tell her she’s a good girl and lead her into the vessel. She watches me as Maia paddles away from the dock. I watch her until she is no more than a speck on the horizon.

What a gift this was? What a gift to have one last visitor and what a blessing for Charlotte to be spared. What a gift to walk back to my cabin under the gray sky. How perfect to sit beneath this sagging mossy roof and breathe the air and listen to the island sounds. Chirping and rustling and the absence of the large, four legged one sniffing about the brush.

Time is speeding up. The morning is gone and the afternoon is spinning by. I am so tired and for once I just sit. No brush to be cleared today. No wood to split or water to haul. I sit. I shake. I listen.

When the stars come out I wonder where I am. Where is Charlotte? A vague memory. A sad realization. A grateful thank you to the first friend I’ve made in 12 years. More than 12 years. I hope she knows that I want Charlotte to stay with her. The boy doesn’t want her. Somehow I trust the Lord will do this one thing for me. Despite my sin: those past and the one to come.

A decision made, I stand. The clouds are gone and the stars are burning up my piece of sky. I am on the dock and then I am in my row boat. I can’t untie the bowline so I cut it with my knife. My shaking hands fit the locks into their slots and quivering oars dip gently into the water. As silently and not unlike a loon across the lake I glide out over the inklike depths. The oars rise up and then slip back down. Drips leave behind perfect rings of reflected starlight. I let the oars slip into the water and my hands release them with two gentle splashes. They drift backward into the abyss as I drift forward.

I stand and unbutton my shirt. I can hear her now, but I can’t make out her words. I tell her It will be okay. I tell her I’m coming. Naked and alone I stand before the heavens. I ask the Lord for mercy and forgiveness. I ask him to understand. This time when I dive into the water I barely feel the cold. I barely feel anything. What bliss to feel nothing. What a gift.

The darkness is swallowing me and a ringing is beginning in my ears. Now I feel the cold and I welcome it for the last time. My body turns and I am looking up towards the surface. I want to see the stars. I hope he understands. I hope he forgives me. I hope he knows I love him and I never meant for us to grow apart like this. As the depths dig into my skin with their freezing fingers my mind becomes cloudy. It’s time. I realize for a moment, as my mind becomes as frozen as my limbs and my thoughts slow to a crawl, that my body has grown as still as stone. I let out a great sigh of relief and closed my eyes.

REFLECTION

This workshop was super helpful for me. Everyone was really helpful and getting to see how everyone interpreted my story differently completely re-defined my relationship with the story. Also, people gave me a bunch of really good ideas about how to deepen and un-clutter my story. I think I had a pretty good story put together before this workshop. But I’ve learned a lot and I think when I return to this story I will be able to make some key plot changes to make it something special. Specifically, I want to add a bit more to Mathew and his son’s relationship. I think it will be revealed that Maia is Mathews granddaughter. I think Mathew will slip a letter to his son into Maia’s bag. We’ll see how that ends up working out but this was a really good experience and I’m excited about where this story can go.