Ferret

“It’s a ferret,” Terry said.

“Looked more like a ground hog to me.”

“If that’s a ground hog, he’d better see a doctor.” Terry was bent double over the hole behind the birch stump. He poked at the hole with a stick.

“Alls I know is there’s ground hogs ’round here and more porcupines than you can count, but I’ve never seen ferret,” Stan said. He turned his back on Terry and pulled a beer from the cooler.

Terry shrugged and took a seat on an upturned log. “Thing reeked. I smelled it when it tried to crawl up my leg. Face like a rat.”

Stan ignored him.

Terry said, “You ever see a ground hog run up someone’s leg?”

Stan said nothing.

“I’ve eaten ground hog,” Terry said. “Makes a pretty good stew, if you got carrots, maybe a little turnip.”

Stan nodded. “My Aunt Marty made a good hog stew. Best one around.”

Terry stuck his chin out, jerked his nose up and said, “You seen it, that brown bugger. Think that little runt would fill a pot?”

Stan breathed deeply and went to take his own look at the hole. He got down on his knees and looked at it, tilting his head from one side to the other, trying to catch the light.

“Take a sniff,” Terry said. “Your Aunt Marty’s stew smell like that?” He picked up Stan’s beer where the other man had left it beside his stool, took a swig, and put it back down. “Her stew smell like month-old laundry?”

Stan had his face right close to the hole, sniffing. “Sure does stink,” he said. “Maybe you’re right. This here ground hog needs to see a doctor.”

Terry stood and put his boot on Stan’s ass, stuck up in the air as he studied the hole. He gave it one good shove and Stan went face first into the den’s entrance. He threw his arms out to either side and pushed himself back up. Then he screamed.

It was the loudest girly-girl scream Terry had ever heard come out of a grown man. Stan lunged to his feet, arms flailing at his face, fingers grasping at the writhing mess of fur that had attached itself firmly to the end of his nose. The more he clawed and pulled, the harder the ferret fought to maintain its hold. It bucked and flipped and contorted itself faster than Stan could react.

Terry pointed, waved, and hooted. He slapped his thigh, gasping.

When Stan finally got hold of the ferret’s hind leg, the beast bent itself in half, scurried down the man’s arm so its leg popped out of his grasp, ran back up to his shoulder and wrapped itself around the crown of his head. It sat there staring at Terry with eyes that said, “Bring it.”

Stan’s nose was a shredded mass of skin and blood, white bone exposed between his eyes wide as golf balls. He panted, breaths shallow, in time with the foot-long animal on his head. “Where is it? Where is the freakin’ prick?” he said.

Terry sniffed and pointed at Stan’s head, his whole body shaking with laughter. He held his arm there, finger extended, grinning ear to ear and said, “You’ve got a fur hat.”

Stan squinted, struggling to understand.

The ferret, seeing his escape route, dove from Stan’s head to Terry’s arm. It scratched its way up to his neck and dove under his shirt, it’s tail wagging in Terry’s face as the man started to dance and scream and rip at his buttons.

Stan shrugged. “It’s a ferret,” he said, and turned to get himself another beer.

"Ferret" was my response to a 40-minute writing challenge on Ksenia Anske's blog.

Always fun when words flow after midnight.

The Ride

One last ride.

That had been the rule for as long as Dirk could remember. It was unwritten, like most things important, but everyone knew it. The motorcycle club was like that. Lots of rules, nothing written down. Everything understood.

Like no one ever worked the other side of the lake. Territory that belonged to the gang out of Oshawa. Made no sense to Dirk. Hell, you could see the western shore from the clubhouse dock, practically smell the barbeques. You could definitely hear the parties. Parties packed with city kids tweaking their summers away, hammering to deep house, howling at the midnight moon. Money to be made. But it was against the rules.

The deal was simple. This side of the lake belonged to the Kawartha crew, that side to the city. Thing is, Dirk needed a little extra. Buy something special for his kid, turning twelve. Didn’t seem to matter how hard he earned, how carefully he saved; he was always behind on support. His wife and her lawyer made sure he knew it.

His boy seemed happy enough the weekends he had him. But twelve years old without a real bike? Riding a hand-me-down with his knees smacking the handlebars?

Rules were made to be broken.

The night he crossed the lake in the fourteen-foot tin boat, the water was like glass. He skimmed the surface flat out and if it wasn’t for the wind shear in his face, he wouldn’t have known he was moving.

He nosed the boat into a cove a quarter mile from the biggest bonfire and found his way through the bush to the road, then walked north to the party.

Fitting in was out of the question. Everyone was decked out in the kind of clothes Dirk only ever saw on television, or in those annoying inserts crammed into the local paper, stuff he could never afford. With their straight teeth and forty-dollar haircuts, they spotted him right away. Dirty jeans and hoody, knapsack slung over his shoulder. And just like at any party anywhere, it only took about two minutes before three guys walked over and asked what he was selling.

He dealt quickly, keeping one eye on the driveway in case some of the Oshawa boys rolled in. This was their turf, no question. Half an hour after arriving, he was cleaned out, walking back to his boat, over a grand in his pocket. Enough to buy his boy the best bike ever.

The rain started as he shoved the boat offshore. A drop or two followed by a sprinkle, it built to a steady downpour, cooling things off nicely. Dirk pulled his hood up, not minding the wet, slowed down just a bit so the raindrops felt less like pellets bouncing off his cheeks.

Somewhere around the middle of the lake, the storm shifted. Warm air blew in from the south, creating a cross-wind that whipped white caps across the bow. The rain got heavy then, falling in sheets, soaking Dirk to the bone. He leaned forward and cranked the motor full on, face down most of the time, not like he could see anything anyway. Thunder boomed but it was distant. For now.

It took longer than he expected to cross the lake and the shore was unfamiliar in the driving rain. Didn’t matter. This mess would pass soon enough. He’d find his way home then. He pulled the boat far enough out of the water that the waves couldn’t take it and lay down alongside, protecting himself from the worst of the wind. The lightning rolled in then and he watched it tear open the sky over and over again, thunder cracking in time, the earth trembling so he felt it in his ribs.

As the storm rolled away, the stars popped back out between the straggling clouds like nothing had happened. Dirk lay there a bit, admiring nature’s force, thinking maybe he’d take his son camping next weekend, give him the bike just before dropping him back to his mom. They could stargaze together. Create a moment.

His clothes plastered to his skin, heavy with leaves and muck, he wrestled to tip the boat onto its side, the weight of the motor making that hard as hell. With a grunt, he got it on edge and watched the water slosh out. He wouldn’t have much to bale.

He had started pushing the boat back into the water before headlights lit up the shore from behind. First one, then two cars pulled up, brights on, blinding him as he turned.

The way they laughed made it worse, getting out of their cars, telling him he looked like a drowned rat, and how appropriate that was. It took a minute for him to realize he’d gotten turned around in the storm, that the shore he’d landed on was not his own. Less than a minute more for him to learn that they knew he’d broken the rules.

Sure, they said, they’d take care of buying a good bike. Even deliver it for him. What were friends for?

They shot holes up and down the boat’s hull while he watched, tied the motor straight on with a couple bungie cords and wrapped him wrist and ankle with duct tape.

As they shoved him off-shore, the boat already filling with water, Dirk lay back for one last look at the stars and hoped his ride would be over soon.

"The Ride" first appeared on Victoria Flynn's classy coffeehouse.

One night in the bush (#5MinuteFiction)

The air was damp with the kind of cold meatiness that is all too familiar to guys in the business. That sweet stickiness that washes over you when you open the trunk at the end of a long ride to the outskirts of town. Only this time, the stench was a tad extra ripe. Jorge–or what was left of him–had been sprawled on the cabin floor for the better part of a week. And there was no shovel, no dirt, just the jerry can full of unleaded and a book of matches.

I preferred burials to burnings. Something satisfying about the dump clump of wet earth. I liked arranging a couple stones on top when I was done. A signature more than a memorial move. Still, a marker that said some guy who crossed some other guy had wound up out here, in a hole, by my hand.

For whatever reason, Jorge was destined to roast, toast, and disappear in a puff of smoke. Those were my orders and following them was what kept me employed.

I grabbed both his ankles and dragged his body out to the fire pit. His arm got stuck on the threshold but one good yank brought him through. He had no more use for the elbow.

Splish splash of gasoline, like a cheap cologne, drop of a match and he burst into bright orange flame. The wind fanned his pyre and I piled on dry branches to help him on his way.

Just one more night in the woods saying farewell to someone I’d never met before. I said the little prayer I always did and watched his soul disappear into the clouds.

Written at nicolewolverton.com

for #5MinuteFiction

(A fun place to hang Tuesday evenings)

Still Life

The motel room door unlocks with a click and I walk into the space behind it. Empty space. There is no smell.

Washing the road-dust from my hands in the bathroom sink, my vacant face stares back at me, stretched white-green across the dull mirror. Even the scuffed porcelain toilet has no odour, exuding a chemical nothingness formulated for its inability to offend.

I lay down on the orange and brown bedspread, a poly-something blend, visited by countless pair of dirty socks before mine. The car smell clinging to my road-weary clothes melts directly into the musty closeness, evaporating.

Bangs, groans, shuffling feet and creaking floorboards beyond my walls are a distant disconnected tremor. Somewhere a television announcer bleats away the day’s final minutes, selling mean joy into overstuffed kitchens in the form of can-bottle-letter openers. Two for the price of one. His hawking bleeds through tires screaming along the highway two hundred feet away, mingling with the echoes of my own wheels, still warm, spinning in my inner ear. My ear adjusting until outside noises lose all ability to intrude.

The stillness so complete, the remembered road sounds grow louder rather than softer. Finally they too fade.

Nothing moves until I open the window and watch the curtains flutter in the breeze created by a now-silent eighteen-wheeler carrying breakfast cereal to
a thousand tables where people will smile more than they did wherever I ate this morning. Or maybe less.

I was careful, moving quickly, when I brought my suitcase in from the car. No bugs flew in with me. There are no plants to stir quietly as they go to sleep for the night.
Every living thing has been shut outside.

With nothing to compare, how can I be certain I am alive myself?

I turn on the television to coax some life into the room. Instead, the life presses flat up against the screen. Trapped. Not unlike my own limited existence inside this $59.95 box-for-a-night.

The announcers delivering the local evening news program look worn out to me, unaccustomed as I am to their late-night mugs.

I take the revolver from my suitcase, check its chamber, and lay it leaden on the clean white pillow.

Water from the bathroom faucet takes on the taste of plastic from the shrink wrapped cup. Still, wet, water is life.

I prop the revolver on the toilet seat where I can see it while I shower, toweling off quickly, feeling clean, far from fresh.

Later, the television silenced, I listen for crickets through the open window. Nothing. All I hear is the highway dust settling on the cooling cars in the parking lot. Until someone flushes a toilet and for three minutes I listen to water coursing through pipes in all the walls of my box.

Pulling down the covers, I face the empty bed. The sheets are cool, if not crisp. The pillow looks puffed but gives way becoming flat under the weight of my head.
I take all my life with me into that bed: every thought, every care, every accomplishment and inaction. All I have ever been, seen, or done will play games with my soul while my body lies inert.

My body. Wrapped in sheets crumpled by a thousand bodies before it. A thousand bodies with histories as full as my own.

Not one of which has left a bit of life in this room.