The Want
by Rick Bylina
In the cold, dark night, I want the
sun to rise, the rain to end, and the clouds to lift. Old Sol needs to burn off
the fog. I want to light a fire, rub my hands in its warmth, and cook a hot
meal. I want to ease my pain. I’d laugh at my list of wants, but it would hurt
too much.
I tongue the blood on my lips then palm
the box. Dry. The mat on top keeps the rain off. I
stretch and tap where the breach is and find the large bough and dense brush still
in place. The scent of pine fills the space. His boots chafe my sore leg--too
bad for me and him. Sore toes beg to get out of their jail. Not yet. Not here.
I must be long gone first.
A dog barks. Fear strikes me still. Can
he see me? Smell me? A door creaks. A gruff voice says, “Here.” Snarls fill the
dark. It is food, not me, the dog wants. My gut wants. I ache. The door slams. In
the night I am as much a ghost to the dog as I was a wraith to him in the day.
I’m still too close to death and so
far from life. Just bark, heel, beg, give up, and then dine on your soul. It’s
a price too steep, and I won’t pay it. I will push on and grab what I can, what
grows, crawls, or swims, and what I can run down. Cross the woods, ford the
stream, and I will be safe.
I doze.
A far off shot rings out. Is it him? Dawn
hints: it’s time. Life stirs in me and in me. I birth from the box. I’m gone.
Nice work, Rick!
ReplyDeleteTough challenge. Great response. Congrats!
ReplyDeleteA good read. Your usual fun piece. A tough one to stick to one syllable and 300 words
ReplyDelete