The Last Hunt

It was unusually quiet and still along the chalky dirt road where I had been throwing and chasing my one little rock. It was quiet enough today that all I could hear was the tick-tick-click when it landed and rolled in the distance, followed by the rhythmic swishing of my jeans brushing against my boots as I chased after my tumbling rock before it was forever lost. Quiet enough that I paused momentarily to feel the still silence in the warm air, where all around me, puffy bright clouds were growing fatter, painting themselves into the bluest of skies. This was one of God's days.

I always thought this is how it would be if the world ever ended, no warning or anything spectacular, just an odd peaceful silence, a deep breath,  and then you blink into stardust.

I glanced up, squinting at a couple pairs of sleek, elegant doves sitting motionless on the droopy telephone lines above the railroad tracks that ran along our property just beyond the long fence line. There have always been doves on these lines for as long as I can remember. The train tracks sat higher up on an embankment that rose up and stood out in contrast against our empty, flat, long, rectangle hay and cornfields that butted up against them on either side. It looked like a levy or seawall of some kind. I was at the far corner end of our fields where the tracks were only at an arm's reach away from where I stood on the gravel road, or half a stone's throw, as I had come to know by throwing a million chalky rocks at the moving boxcars and crooked telephone poles all along the way.

There’s something uniquely special about railroad tracks that’s hard to define. As much time as we had spent as kids playing on those tracks, they always seemed to be this ominous, mysterious presence, isolated and detached from the normal world, and rightly so, as actually being the longest, narrow sliver of private property on earth.  They sit high and Holy, undisturbed as if a throne. There was always an innate sense of caution when nearing them,  a foreboding reminding us they are off limits, yet we are drawn to them by the uncertainty and risky adventure we search out – They have a lonely, solitary existence, preserved with an independent authority of permanence and unquestionable pure strength, somewhat like that of eagles that are admired and a little feared. We learned how to listen to the haunting echo of a distant whistle and soothing rhythmic click-clack of shifting cars, which I most paid attention to in the silence of night while tucked in my bed, listening for its far away ghostly existence.

The tracks, from where I now stood, were completely hidden from view by towering vines and deep brush along the fence that had clearly flourished over the summer, growing thick and wild as ever despite the long, endless weeks of heat and drought.

I couldn’t help but admire, in awe, the expanse of this myriad of giant weeds, with a billowing, flowery girth, that now seemed tame and harmless, bursting out in this pure, clean happy sunlight with its small chirping sparrows darting in and out in playful flutter, while butterflies and bees landed delicately on its wild white climbing roses. It was colorful, pretty, and fluffy, though I personally knew of it also as a much darker sanctuary, laying like a menacing evil lair,  patiently in wait for anyone foolish enough to try and cross through its thick barrier of wild Mustang vine and sharp thistle that was really an endless weave of thin rope-like tendrils, that grew wild and stretched impenetrable along the fence line way past the sprawling fields of the Swift's Ranch, and way beyond our own, to as far as you could see until it stopped in the far distance just at the base of the high trestle bridge that loomed over the deep limestone creek bed above the sharp ravine below with its jagged rocky edges that halted a dead end to anything that tried to cross below.

Somewhere hidden along this stretch, there actually were a few hollowed places where a small army of us kids, in need of new forts, had spent long grueling sweaty hours and days, sunburned and battling ticks and mosquitoes, to tunnel hidden passages through the thicket, which by now had probably since grown over by the looks of it, but other than that, and even with several intense grass fires started by the grinding of steel wheels and bouncing of flint rocks thrown up from the speeding Am tracks, nothing seemed to pose a threat to this impressive willowy thriving beast that almost appeared unmarked and to breathe at times.

I gazed down at a few small faint scars still visible on my hands and another thin, long one that ran up past my elbow that I got when caught on the barbed wire that hides beneath this river of tangled web that twists and slithers down its center like a sharp rusty spine that had once bit into me like a sea of mad rattlesnakes.

Thinking about that day, I stopped, rock still in hand, not far past the very spot it had happened not so long ago. And though the world had not officially ended back on that day, and nor would it likely end today, it was, nonetheless, a day that had permanently changed and literally scarred part of me forever for the good and bad.

It had been more than a couple years back, much colder than now, on a brisk, uneventful day just after Christmas on those slow Winter days that follow with the empty, quiet lull of holidays passing. I remember it being wet and colder than usual, even for any Winter I could think of. It was a dull Sunday, as Sundays are, with my whole family dispersed in different rooms, all of us disengaged and bored. My father was half asleep in front of the TV that blared enthusiastic commentary of an unmemorable football game that earlier I had scoffed at watching with him.  My mom could only annoy me that day, darting as usual like a bug around a light bulb, singing boisterously from room to room, busying herself while most likely picking up after us messy kids as she would remind us every chance she got.

Everything and everyone annoyed me. I had been in a restless fuss for a while now, hating life and everyone in it that day, which prompted me to make some escape. I kind of knew days before I was going to try and sneak out with a gun at some point, and the time just couldn't be better. I was in a fighting mood, but instead of any foot-stomping march out, I decided it better to leave the house in my own silent internal protest rather than challenge anyone with mutiny and a tantrum. So despite wanting to pick a fight with someone, I more or less cowardly crept out unnoticed except by my dog Lupe, whom I regretfully made stay behind as I slipped through the side door without question despite carrying the hefty double barrel shotgun that I had just gotten for Christmas.

Since the night before and the week leading up to that day, I knew I was waiting and would find the right time to sneak out to go hunting with my new gun. This seemed like the time to go, and regardless of it being a very dreary, cold, wet day outside, it was more inviting compared to being stuck in a lazy bitter feeling house, where tensions rose up and down, with exasperated words escaped and echoed from every room. It was senseless and relentless badgering that aggravated each other at times to the extent of provoking a nearly full-out war with no one to actually blame other than holiday cheer.

Once out that door, I walked briskly as fast as I could, and hopefully unseen, while dodging under the large oaks across our property until I finally reached the far backfields, where, without second hesitation, I bent and dipped quickly through the sagging fence wire, and stepped into the empty treeless pasture on the other side. I had hurried with anxious apprehension, expecting to be halted any second by some authoritative, commanding voice screaming my name, most likely my father. But all was still and quiet on the front so far and was almost far enough out of range to be heard, or so I would say. I was most surprised my dog hadn’t found a way out of the house. It’s rare for me to go anywhere without her, and I’m sure she was back at the house, confused and pacing up and down the hall and between rooms in a panic. I thought about letting her come with me, but even though Lupe was a big, strong German shepherd, she was in no way a hunting dog and was terrified of thunder, so there was no telling how she would be around a loud shotgun blast. I had never shot one around her, and I wasn't going to take the chance she just might run off and never come back after shooting this canon.

Once I was out in the open and clear of the oaks, I stopped for a breath and was mesmerized to watch a low fog come off the tree line and drift slowly over the landscape like a sheer veiled blanket of rolling smoke, an eerie wall of mist drifting toward me in a haunting wave of silence as I blew out puffs of frost.

There was a continuous cold, gray drizzle coming down that left everything gently dripping, including drops falling from the bill of my hat and the end of my cold gun barrel.

I panned in all directions for any sense of life, and other than a lone morning dove on a distant line, it was depressing and lifeless, where nothing much stirred except for a few random sparrows that would swoop and dip and then instantly disappear into the white fog. I listened for the distinct, familiar sound of bobwhites calling out their names, but other than my own smokey breath, there was only an eerie calm and the ruffle of a steady light rain.

As gloomy as it was, though, I was intent on making my way over to the railroad tracks, where I figured I would have my best luck, if any, at hunting anything other than field mice. It didn’t take more than the first step before I realized this was going to be a lot less promising and a more laborious endeavor than expected as my foot immediately sank deep into thick, soft mud almost halfway up my boot. I sighed with my growing displeasure, already feeling a rising regret from the get-go.  The last thing I anticipated was getting this dirty, but I should have foreseen it.  I knew from experience that these fields could become mudflats when there's no growth on them. I had once, while mowing in this exact field, halfway sunk a tractor out here that had huge five-foot tires on it, and that was on a dry day.

 I continued on into the field anyway, despite my waning mood. I was not about to go back home, even if for my own pride. It was apparent that the only way through here was to maneuver with calculated, slow, hesitating, and tentative steps, which was counterproductive to hunting because my focus was now only on the ground at my feet, where it was doubtful I could spot any wildlife or migrating foul.

It was colder than I thought it would be. Not having gloves on, I held the gun clenched to my side, tucking the heavy stock under my arm while warming my hands deep in my pockets. This was about the time I would usually pull out a cigarette I kept hidden in my sock, but it was too much of an added balancing task for the moment, and I would risk dropping my gun into the mud. The weighted barrel was slumped downward, swaying me side to side as I tried to walk. It was just too cold for me to sling it over my shoulder, And being that no one in my family was a hunter, I had no proper hunting attire except for the thin khaki vest I wore underneath my coat that held the shiny new red shotgun shells lined in a single row inside their small elastic bands that I could feel pressed up against my ribs.

It was obvious I didn’t quite know what I was doing and had no real thought-out plans other than the desire to shoot my gun if even that. I really just wanted some space and was more looking for an escape from a brooding, angry sadness that clung to me like a wet blanket.  I needed to shake it loose any way I could, even if to fight, kick, and scream out here with nature, although for the moment, it seemed like I was losing.

I didn’t even know what I was hunting for, anything or nothing. I never really even hunted in the first place other than, at times, not knowing any better, when we would shoot at frogs and lizards and a few birds with our BB guns. I knew it was still dove and quail season, as did everyone, and maybe even deer season for all I knew. I never shot a deer, and most of the deer from around here were all but gone, and I doubt I could shoot a deer anyway. It didn't make sense that I could shoot a rabbit, bird, or mouse if a life is a life. For some reason, it is easier to imagine shooting something smaller, like a dumb bird. Then, there were those around here who took hunting as seriously as if it was in their DNA. It was a macho orgy where they believed all should take part in killing something, and it was a God-given right they defended with such fury as if it's a patriotic and religious duty, having contempt for the sacrilegious communist that oppose them. And it's not that I was ever against hunting, it just didn’t flow in my veins that way. Same as I didn't like watching football with my daddy.

The few times we would take out our 22 rifles or pellet and BB gun, it would be to shoot cans and bottles off fence posts or water moccasins surfacing in our spring well just beyond our house, and though all of us boys were good enough shots to be recruited one day by any military as marksmen and snipers that could split a piece of bailing-wire or send a tin can flying in the air from 50 yards without a scope, we rarely shot at anything moving. We shot at each other at times with our BB guns. We all had bows, guns, knives, machetes, hatchets, axes, and even bullwhips from the time we could ride a bike, but so did every other kid around here. Most arsenals came from the same 'Army, Navy store,' where you could even buy a bazooka in the day if you thought you needed one, but often, the less than proud extent of shooting anything living around here was limited to armadillos so they wouldn’t dig holes on your property that livestock could stumble and break a leg in. I'm not sure if clearing armadillos quite qualifies as a heroic right of passage, though.

The oiled, blue steel barrel had beaded up in the rain but still looked dull, even while wet, compared to how shiny it had looked coming out of its sheep-lined case on the day I got it. I had already polished, oiled, and cleaned it a dozen times, although it had yet to be fired. The stock was a beautiful carved solid maple with a lacquered finish, and the silvery blue barrel was delicately trimmed and engraved in a scrolled inlay and with a tiny little brass bead sight at its tip. I was excited, yet reluctant to shoot it, knowing it was way too much gun for me-maybe too much gun for anybody. It was an extra long double barrel side-by-side 12 gauge with dual triggers and full choke. It was a canon of sorts- almost an elephant gun (as my dad claimed) with only a sliver of a rubber shoulder pad to absorb the impact from its powerful recoil. You didn’t need to be told it wasn’t a toy. Once it was in your hands, the surprisingly incredible weight of the heavy steel alone gave way to caution, feeling a little scary and dangerous as opposed to the flimsy toy-like BB guns with their thin, tinny frame.

As pretty as this shotgun was, it was, strangely, an odd, if not questionable, gift and somewhat unexpected. My Dad, being the most liberal, political, somewhat radical hippie type I knew, this big present just added to his long list of offbeat contradictions. Clearly, an internal battle he was having between his southern German Irish Catholic upbringing where he honed (by my grandfather's stern hand) his country skills as a kid on Tennessee and Kansas farms before breaking away and reshaping into his intellectual alter ego that waged his liberal war against civil liberties and human rights across half the South. Truth is, he most likely just got taken by a good salesman, being convinced he got a great deal while not really having a clue to what he was buying.

I kept moving with my best effort, laboriously plowing my feet in the direction of the tracks, but after what seemed like an eternity of drudgery, I realized I had barely made it through only a quarter of this long 5-acre pasture.

The field all around me was an ocean of wet, thick buffalo grass and dried winter fescue that sucked my boots down into the muddy underneath of dead cornstalks gripping me in a place like bear traps. With each step, the mud clots grew so thick and heavy on my boots that I could, at times, barely lift my legs from the weight, and the clay soil made it almost impossible to shake or scrape off once I pulled them free.

 At one point, I actually got stuck with me teetering helplessly, trying not to fall. It was a little frightening, and for a moment, I was so immobilized to the point that I actually started to panic and wondered if I was going to be left there foolishly screaming for help. It was one of those instances that at any other time, and if I had been there with a companion, we would most likely be hysterically falling down laughing at each other but being alone, it was chilling and lonely. I stood there awkwardly helpless, balancing with this oversized gun that should have made me feel more like a man but instead made me look small and weak and wish I was home watching football with my father.

It was a sad sight as I violently struggled like a drunk to free myself-disturbing any tranquility surrounding me. This was not working out like I expected- whatever that was.

It wasn’t like I had channeled the bold hunter in me, tracking or stalking prey in the wilderness. Instead, I was trudging miserably, lacking any grace, and must have seemed harmless even with this canon in my hands. I’m sure the scarce wildlife was laughing and mocking me from their grassy refuges. It was clearly obvious I had no passion for hunting and never did and should abort this whole idea.  I really did want to shoot my gun, agitating a thrilling, eager impatience in me, the element and passion for danger and uncertainty, but at the same time, I don't think I was cut out to kill anything.

I was only out here because I had no better place to be. There was no primal passion running in my veins, and  I was vulnerable to my own fears and insecurities with nothing to hide behind. 

I, for the life of me, didn’t know why I was feeling so angry, why my house was so angry, and now even the ground under my feet was literally giving way. I for sure wasn’t finding the answers I was looking for and looked damn silly trying to be something I'm not.

I brushed the water off my face and shoulders and could have easily cried in defeat at that point, but I was determined to keep going and would stay out here as long as I could, which, laughably, wasn’t saying much considering that I was really only minutes from my house that was barely out of sight. But first things first, and if I was going to get anywhere other than stuck, I decided it was best to move away from the center and over to the perimeter fence line, which was flanked with scraggly persimmon trees where I should have known from the beginning it would be a little dryer at the root base above this sunken wasteland.  A hint of late sun peeked and glowed from somewhere in the fog but didn’t make it any warmer, yet it did give some promise of stopping this relentless drizzle. It was just enough to make me take a second breath and refocus.

I changed direction by successfully taking large stretching side steps and soon enough, without too much trouble, made it over to the scruffy, straggled tree line that led all the way down to the tracks, and although it wouldn’t provide much shelter for me, it was now easy enough to walk and most likely also used as a rabbit-run path that leads to the safety of the outlying hedge and thistle.

I breathed a small sigh of relief and claimed this as my new starting point. If I was lucky, I might even flush a couple quail along the way that might happen to be feeding on persimmons and leftover winter corn. The only dove around was the same lone one still on the line from when I got here, which I contemplated firing at and calling it a day, knowing I would never hit it from this far anyway. As powerful as this gun was, it was only good for about forty yards before the bird shot spread too far to hit anything, but up close, it could knock a small tree down or blow a hole in a wall you could walk through.

Being out here with so little sign of life made me wonder how it was that my Dad and his friends and the neighbors could go dove hunting in the sunflower patches and come back with literally large piles of countless doves that they dumped out of over-stuffed vests. I can never forget the times they would have us kids spending whole evenings and late into the night, plucking, twisting, and pulling off heads and then thumb breasting and gutting these tiny birds over a trashcan until our knuckles would bleed, and here I can't even find a single fly to swat.

I looked up, hearing the familiar sound of a lumbering freight train approaching from the North, and that’s when I caught my first hopeful glimpse of life stirring just about halfway down the row of trees in front of me. I could tell it was most likely a cottontail by its movement and was clearly too small to be a jackrabbit. I always knew there were rabbits here. You could always see them year-round from the road, especially in the spring when everything is in bloom. We had numerous failed attempts at trying to catch them the old-fashioned way with a box propped up by a stick with a carrot attached to it, like in the cartoons. Even with this cold spell, I guess it wasn’t cold enough for them to hole up in a burrow, and I had figured, if lucky, there might be a few out and about.

                                                                      

 I watched intently up ahead, seeing if it would take off for the cover in the hedge with the train now approaching. I could tell just how close the train was getting. The first sound you hear, well in advance, when the train is still away in the far distance, is the high-pitched metallic hum, buzzing and clinking of the rails themselves as far as a mile ahead of the train that ping, snap, and pop like a steel bullwhip. You can almost gauge the speed by this echo. We used to love playing Indians, putting our ears to the rails, and listening for a train that was nowhere in sight.

As luck would now have it, I could not have timed the arrival better. Something was bound to spook and flush out into the open, and I was poised in the right spot with both barrels loaded.

The nervous anticipation was almost enough to make me turn back home. I was jittery as the train got closer. I tucked myself tight against the trees, hiding my gun while waiting for the lead engine to pass. I felt a little cheerful as it neared. This closeup, these freights are dizzying in size with an impressive, monstrous presence of towering and swaying cars and a thousand wheels, grinding a symphony of moving steel that starts with the churning engines' hollow deep drone followed by the steady click clack of rattling and thumping, mixed and faded by the deafening screech and groan of hydraulic brakes. It's a thousand different parts in a continuous mile of a stretched-out steel fortress of box cars, tanker cars, open coal tops, auto carriers, and grainer’s, all laden with different goods going to some mystery destination, followed and pushed by the happy little caboose. We had come to know most of the freights by name. There was the Union Pacific, The Santa Fe, the Northern Pacific, the Kansas City Southern, and mostly on this main line was the Missouri Pacific (Mopac), so common around here that they were even starting to build west of downtown a new highway named after it.

                                                                 

As soon as I stepped out from the cover of the trees, there it was, a small cotton-tail rabbit directly in front of me, scurrying down the trail lightning fast but still too far away and hugging too close to the trees for me to get a shot off at it. I could feel my heart beating faster the closer I got. I knew any second, the rabbit would break away sideways. My dog Lupe and I used to chase them for fun, and they always did the same thing.  At first, rabbits will freeze, and sometimes, without realizing it, you might even walk right up on top of them without knowing it, but once they knew you spotted them, they would take off running straight and fast for a short distance before zigzagging the exact same way every-time.

It spotted me. I saw the dirt kick up as it bolted sideways like I expected and then back the other way. It was still far enough away that I was sure it would hole up before I got there. It made one more sweeping jolt before high tailing to the hedge, where it paused, frozen for a second as unsure of the giant train as it was of me, and then, in the blink of an eye, darted into the thicket just like in the “Briar Rabbit” story. 

 I got there just in time to wave sheepishly at the passing caboose, wondering if the engineer even questioned someone out here carrying a big gun, although I bet it’s a common sight, even if a bit disconcerting. He waved back without care, sounding his whistle a couple times in approval before fading slowly out of sight. I was glad this train was somewhat fast and relatively shorter than most. I have been out here when a mile of over 150 cars blow through here with seemingly no end in sight, taking forever to pass. I always wonder how it’s even possible for these things to stay upright, with sometimes each car looking as if it's leaning to the point of tipping the whole thing over and off its slender wheelbase.

I was a little disappointed but relieved that the rabbit ditched me. I could be satisfied that there had been just enough excitement already to forget how bad I had been feeling, and I felt the relief warmly flow over me. The lust was lost on a prayer and a desire to really go back home, regardless of admittedly being rebellious at any given window of opportunity, but once it passes, I'm kind of empty and missing my dumb brothers.

That stupid dove was still on the line, and I was now close enough to shoot at it, but I even left it alone. And besides, it’s against the law to shoot them on a high wire, which I’m not sure if that’s written as a sporting law, or so you don’t blow a line in half and knock out telephone service or electricity in half the county.

I figured I would head on back even if I still hadn’t taken a single shot. I decided I was going to just shoot it in the air to see what it was like. First, though, before I shot, and since I had come this far, I had to take a peak inside this huge hedge even though I was pretty wet and all but done with this place by this time. It was starting to rain even harder, but curiosity got the better of me, and what could another minute hurt?

I inched my way up and leaned close enough to get a glimpse inside the cavernous, dark, camouflaged mesh of vines and leaves.  I couldn’t see anything but could hear leafy scurrying. I backed away timidly, getting a fright all of a sudden, fearing the possibility of walking into a pile of rattlesnakes that we had heard stories of dens around here with big fat six-footers being pulled out of, and where there are rabbits or mice and small birds, there’s going to be snakes.

I felt myself getting cautious and jumpy, and just as I cowered back, I was instantly startled when a rabbit that I must have spooked popped out on the other side. I watched as it scampered halfway up the embankment leading up to the tracks before it stopped and stood frozen in place like rabbits do.

I was now shifted into a state of instant, nervous confusion in the face of this new situation that now presented itself right before me- it was almost too easy. I was dumbfounded and bewildered. I froze, just like the rabbit. We might have been staring at each other. What was I going to do now? I waited for it to take off, but it just sat, not moving a hair,  so I instinctively raised my gun and then put it down again, thinking it would for sure run when I moved. I kept hearing myself say rapidly over and over in my head, “What do I do, what do I do”? I could just blast up in the air. I felt my fingers on the cold trigger and slid off the safety with my thumb and then just stood pointing this gun for what seemed like the longest time. I could feel myself shaking from the cold and adrenaline. I quickly went through a dozen rapid, indecisive scenarios and possibilities in my head. If I shot at it, I don’t think there would be much chance of hitting it anyway with as much brush as there was in the way, but I just didn’t know for sure. It was now or never. I kept pointing in the general direction and probably even closed my eyes. I had lost all my nerve-if I had any, to begin with.

It was an unlikely, even impossible, shot, I thought as I shuddered, but like that, I pulled the trigger anyway, shooting blindly into the hill.

To my surprise, it was a mind-blowing, astounding shock to all my senses. I was instantly blindsided hard and was in no way prepared for the sheer force and earth-shattering and world-deafening blast of power and thundering BOOM that sent me reeling backward, causing me to scream out in intense pain as the kickback from the recoil slammed into my shoulder like sled hammer knocking me flat on my ass. A mule might as well have kicked me through a barn wall. I had never felt that kind of violent brute force or pain in my life, and I was sure my shoulder was broken.

 I forgot everything for a brief moment. I lay there shaken and dazed, but regretfully, before I could even gain back my focus, I looked in dismay just in time to frightfully see the rabbit spring straight up into the air doing a spinning full cartwheel so high I could still hear the echo of the gun blast bouncing around in the canyon walls of the creek hollow before the rabbit even fell back and hit the ground. I was more shattered from witnessing this than my shoulder ever could be.

“NO, NO, NO! What did I do? What did I do?” My voice escalated as I heard myself yelling this out loud, still hoping I didn’t hit it, but certain I had even though I watched him land and bolt out of sight just over the hill. Maybe I just grazed him, I thought. He took off awfully fast to be hurt too bad.

I moaned, getting up. My shoulder and arm hung limp, and I used the gun to steady myself back on my feet, and without a thought, I rushed into the heart of the thicket, where I was immediately slapped hard in the face. Bushy limbs lashed at my face and eyes like whips as I plowed headfirst into it like a linebacker using a gun for a battering ram. The bow-like sinewy branches only bent to the ground, causing me to fall forward-pulling me with them deeper in this tangled web. I pulled myself up fighting the snapping twigs that were poking me like small spears from every direction.  My legs were ensnarled, stuck painfully pinched between small saplings that got tighter as I tried to move forward. I raged and kicked and screamed with all my might.  There was no way I couldn’t get through here. I reached for the gun that had been ripped from my hands. It really was as if this thing were alive and devouring me. I began to panic and believe I could be left here tangled up for dead. Breathing hard and sweating, I lunged hard and upward, straining to try and get above the willowy thin top, but then I felt this sharp stabbing pain in my hand. I couldn’t even see the barbed wire that sliced into my palm. I grabbed and squeezed my wound, fearing it worse than it was. I was now in full panic. Panting, I searched for a way out. I decided I would go up over the top of the wire. I held onto the gun, knowing if I dropped it, it would sink down into the underbrush, and I might not ever get it back. I searched and grabbed the top wire with one hand, the other holding the gun, and then I stepped on the middle wire, pushing with all my might to lift up through this jungle that pushed and fought back with its full force and bulk pressing down on my back. But as soon as I stood tall- almost roaring in triumphant agony clearing my head above, my foot slipped out from under me on the wet slick wire, slinging me off balance with the weight of the gun reeling me over, and with no way to grab hold, I spun sideways into the rusty steel post that tore into my flesh from my wrist up to my elbow sliding under my coat and hanging me there like a tattered scarecrow. I was now enraged more than scared. I grabbed the post hard, sunk and clipped both my heals secure on the wire before lifting and prying upward and then viciously, like a wild bull out of a shoot, brazenly, I ferociously dove forward, heedless and blind with my head guarded and tucked. I crashed and fell through to the other side, twisting my body like a mean tornado,  all the while viciously yanking the gun behind me last. I fell again and lay now out in the open, drenched, scraped, and beaten on every part of my body.

This onslaught was not over yet.  I quickly got on my feet, but though I was through to the other side of the thicket, I  now had to jump the water-filled ditch, running along the base of the hill to get on the tracks. I misjudged my jump, sinking knee deep into the marshy growth and nearly face planted into the slope that my chest and hands lay slammed against while still holding onto my gun with its barrel end sunk and packed with mud. I forcibly pulled myself up and out, gripping onto the long sharp Johnson grass.

Once up, I couldn’t slow down, I still had to make it up the steep embankment, which had not been kept up by the railroad in years and was covered by the dry thick thistle and sharp spiny hogweed, hooked cockleburs, and mostly the towering eight-foot ambrosia stalks we used to uproot and throw like spears hurling their mud tips in the air. I scraped my way upward, breaking through the coarse hairy stalks like a madman, snapping and trampling them like twigs.

 Once on top, not slowing for a second, I took a running leap, trying to clear the width of the track bed, only to clip my heel, sending the gun flying in the air and crashing solidly into the far rail while my knees drove hard down into the sharp granite ballast and railroad ties only to slip twice more on the rain-slick creosote oiled ties. The steel rail was freezing cold, wet, and rusty, that I pulled myself up in an attempt to crawl on hands and knees to the other side.

Coming up the hill, I had already seen small tufts of fur and blood and more now visible on the rocks and rails.

Thankfully, there was almost no slope on this side, and it didn’t take me a moment to spot the wounded rabbit. I quickly slid down the loose scree of coal and rock and hastily hurtled the gully, clearing it this time by a long shot.

 I was out of breath and hurting with bleeding, splinter-riddled hands, and deep cuts on my arms, but all I could feel was the panic and horrible pangs of guilt, fearing the truth and wanting to turn and run, pretending it never happened. I had hoped he had run away, but it was lying there in front of me, mortally wounded.  As I approached, it let out a high-pitched shrill in fear while lying on its side frantically kicking with its back legs, trying to escape, but only desperately sliding inches in a half circle, leaving a glistening streak of crimson red blood on the wet grass. The reality was upon me with a weight of sadness I could not have ever imagined. I didn’t even know rabbits made sounds, and now it was a sound I would never forget.

What had I done and why? I cried and cursed as I fell to my knees to pick up the wounded rabbit. My heart was in my throat. To no avail, I had been bargaining with God the moment I pulled the trigger.

He was much smaller than I thought, a little more than just a baby. Everything intensified and became vivid and magnified, lucid and so real. I could see clearly everything that had been precious and beautiful. I stared through the gray-tipped fur with its fluffy white undercoat against the warm pink flesh, where I could even see the tiny, delicate, blue veins under the translucent skin. Beads of cold dripped off the little black nose that snorted out puffs of frosty vapors. I watched its bottom jaw softly quiver, and I could see the tips of two small top teeth each time the mouth opened with a gasp for air. The ears were so delicate and pulled back in fear, blending into the fur. I held his legs from kicking; the tiny nails were sharp, and the paw pads were velvety soft. I could still feel his heart racing. The blood was warm on my hands. Little wispy balls of fur were sticking to me and blowing away in the faint breeze. I screamed as loud as I could to God and no one.

The small rabbit fixed its stare on me. They held no contempt-just confusion. Its innocence was as precious as heaven itself. Scared and alone, we were as one.

I saved any wrenching self plea i might make to God. I was here in all of mother natures Glory and strength that I could feel looking me dead in the eye with judgement and pitying condemnation of my soul. It was too late for me to plead or beg. I couldn't take this back.  I could only cry shaking my head in deep disbelief and sorrow.

It was just a stupid rabbit i tried to tell myself. I now knew what real cruelty looked like. "Come on", I kept fighting,”it’s just a rabbit for Gods sake”. I was seeing the thing I hate the most in anyone. I was making deals with my conscious and begging to turn back time after the fact.

Was it curiosity? What was my cruel pathetic excuse now? My sad self-absorbed pity that thought the universe, God and my family was mounting an assault on me? So damn stupid! I was no victim and this was senseless and mean. It’s now dying painfully in my hands but all I am aware of is my own fragile mortality as if I sacrificed this poor thing to find my soul and it’s pain. A shameful means to any end and an awareness of perhaps all of our arrogant, selfish and pointless desires. And now, to make things worse, I have to even finish it off before it suffers more. Or was I even too weak in my own suffering to stop its suffering? I didn't know if i could.

I was left with no choice. I got up to go retrieve the gun. There was no way I could crush it or break its neck with my hands so i was going to have to cowardly shoot it again. Then just as I stood up, it was as if in an ironic sad twist of fate happened, I was given a small gift of forgiveness if not mercy, when its tiny heart stopped beating while still holding it.

 Life as I knew it had also drained away from me as I placed him gently on the only patch of green grass I could find. I didn't feel welcomed to give any ceremonial ritual, so I shamefully turned without looking back and climbed up to the track.

I was beyond exhaustion and never looked so broken and battered. I winced when I saw the condition my new gun. I would pay heavily for that.

I decided to walk the extra half-mile up to the blacktop at the crossing and then back onto our dirt road. Sometimes the long way is the fastest way home.
It was just at that moment I looked out below and across the fields where I could hear the familiar barking of  my dog Lupe. I stood and watched her running at full blinding speed in my direction as if floating over the mud fields.  Tears welled up in my eyes at the sight of her running to my rescue, running as though she heard me cry out in need....

That dreary awful day now seemed like a lifetime ago. The small scars on my hands are now almost as faded as that day, forever a gentle reminder of the fragile world in which we live. I brushed off the pearly chalk on my hands and pocketed my rock. It was a beautiful, warm day. Before walking on, I waved a humble salute to the row of silky doves that were watching. I felt joyous. It was a perfect day. So perfect, it just might end.

The long walk

 
   Growing up in the country, the long back roads are the defining thread that weaves many of our lives together, and just like those lives, no two are ever quite identical. They are the fingerprints of the land and its boundaries that tell unique stories that run through and amongst us living here, vital as our own veins and arteries, in which we navigate the curves, dips, and contours, the hidden mysterious passages where many a 'No Trespassing" sign hangs rusty and sad, and where not much more than the shadows are all that appear to change, moving like a sundial, bending and stretching with the passing of the long days sun.

  As were most of the roads around here, they were made up of a chalky white caliche - a gravel and powdery mix of crushed limestone that left its dusty signature on every element, crack, and crevice in sight. You could taste it and smell it in the rain.

  Looking down, I could see this pearly chalk had heavily dusted my boots and pant cuff almost up to my knees.
I was on our own private road that wound like a snake through the many acres of our property, so familiar to me in its lonely, soothing, and mundane way, with its defining Constance of sweet sounds and memorable landmarks, where I knew every different,  distinct water-filled pothole and muddy tire track rut, and even the unique shape and order of each and every single, crooked cedar fence post that skirted the road's edge.

  I could have walked this road blindly by now, where even the neighboring dogs would bark on cue, sensing my approach. Cottontail rabbits always scattered on the same turns, and quail and dove would flutter and scare from behind fat bushes like they did countless times before. There was a permanence, a familiarity, that warmed and soothed the heart and home within.

  I was on the last stretch of our private road that hugged up against and parallel to the ominous railroad tracks that ran on for miles in a straight line in both directions for as far as the eye could see.

  Walking alone, I always played this same silly game where I would pick up a single rock and throw it as far as I could onto a stretch in front of me, and while it was still hurling high through the air, I would take off running as fast as I could to try and catch up with it before it landed and got lost amongst infinite others that looked exactly the same, and even though they were each as different, and individual as snowflakes were, I knew not to take my off it for a second.

As soon as I would find mine, I would instantly pick it up and throw it again, making the walk seem to pass much faster, especially the further I threw it. Time would be of no essence between throwing and finding my rock, and quite often, I would actually lose a bunch of time when I would have to stop for minutes searching thoroughly to try and find it, and of course, I could never leave until I did.

With each throw, there was an anxious presence of fear growing in me as it flew from my hand, wondering if it might get lost this time, but looking back over those countless walks, however it be, through determination, luck, or fear,  never once can I remember losing a single one of my rocks.

I would eventually make it to the main paved road, where I would continue on my way, leaving my rock where it had last landed on that final throw, still feeling its sharp-edged imprint on my fingers from the countless repetitious throws I flung from beginning to end of our winding property.  But then, as always, without fail and within only a few steps more, I would always get this sinking, sad feeling as if the rock was sitting there sadly, watching me walk off.
 No matter how stupid it seemed, shame would engulf me as if I was leaving a friend behind for no reason and in a place it didn't want to be.

Feeling completely ridiculous and aware of how foolish this looked to God and the small sparrows and doves on the telephone lines, I would again try to keep walking on, but as always, after a few steps more, I would knowingly turn around and run back to begin frantically searching until I found my exact rock amongst the bright caliche, which I never failed to do, and where I would then, without question, immediately pick my rock up and put it in my pocket, maybe feeling a little self-conscious and silly, but too relieved and happy to care.
Then, with a shy, awkward glance all around and a nod to the birds and the empty sky above me, I would continue on my way with a smile.

I often wonder what ever happened to all those rocks my mom must have found in my pant pockets?...

The flow of Beauty and Blood

...I had almost dozed off while pressing tiny sugar ants into the soft road tar with a stick I still had in my hand from swatting flowers and weeds back along the back roads from where we had just walked these few endless miles in unrelenting scorching heat. The ants had appeared out of nowhere like ants seem to do. Maybe a hundred or so of them passed in a single file, marching to get at the sweet Pepsi Cola that erupted while pouring my peanuts into the bottle.

           
Billy Joe sat right beside me, exhausted and daydreaming. He stared dead-eye looking down at the ground, maybe a little too long and quiet for my own comfort. Feeling bugged, I reached over and nudged him, “You ready to go back?” I said, knowing he was really just quiet, patiently waiting for me to be the one to bounce one way or the other. I watched him methodically wiping the salty sweat off his skin with his wet 'Nehi Grape' soda bottle. The salt stood out, white and chalky on his dark skin. I leaned back once more against the rusty, red gas pump and slowly stretched my tired, aching legs, preparing to get up from the hard, concrete curb.

            The sun was just about in the day when it begins to turn the sky gold. It was uncomfortably still and silent unless you were listening for something in particular or hoping there was more than pure country silence itself.

           
           I watched Billy tilt his head to the side with the third or fourth crow of a rooster that was coming from somewhere back beyond the backside of the sad, old whisky bar next to us. I had also heard them just as many times. I could tell you it was distinctly three completely different roosters out there, that is, if you knew what you were listening to and if you had a country ear like we did. I, unfortunately, had heard them myself quite a ways back on the road. I heard one screech after another and then over again, some were high and squawking, some low and guttural, that if a rooster could growl at all, that would be that sound. But as attuned as I was, I still pretended not to pay it any attention, though I knew, as did Billy, where they were squawking from. Clearly, this was not the normal crowing sound you associate with a morning rooster. This sound was faster and more of a screech and cackle, which meant only one thing around these parts. This was a cock fight. There it went again louder than before. Billy, without another thought, jumped to his feet as if fired up and said, "Come on, let's go and check on ol’ Johnny."

            I knew way back on the road, with that first Rooster sound, we were going to follow it like a beacon.

            I slowly stood up and poured the rest of my peanuts into my mouth. I didn’t want it to look like I jumped every time Billy said so. I still kept thinking to myself, I shouldn’t have come up here in the first place, and Billy knew it too, he knew I didn't care much for being back this side of nowhere after the trouble we always find ourselves in going back there. He could feel my reluctance, and that’s why he went on, decisively walking ahead before I changed my mind. He quipped and mumbled, walking away with his back to me, “Come on, let's go. It will be fun, and you can say hello to Katrina. She'll be back there”.

            Billy knew well enough I was going to follow him if I wanted to or not, even if he didn’t mention Katrina, but I guess the only reason I came at all in this heat was hoping I might see her, even if at a distance. The thought of her alone was enough to take my mind off missing Serena and Cassidy, both of who just up and disappeared the last weeks of this summer.

         Katrina was as sheer opposite of Serena and Cassidy as milk and whiskey.  I loved being with Serena and Cassidy and would spend every day I could with them over anything, but when it came to Katrina, she was by far the hottest mean little Spanish firecracker you will ever come across in a lifetime, pouty and ferocious with the witchy soul of a little gypsy princess. She was, without question, shockingly pretty but also tough and dangerous as hunting rattlesnakes. Her full wine-colored lips, as delicious as they may be, were usually engaged in a heated confrontation with someone, spitting out blistering insults of any and all kinds. You just had to look at her wrong, and she would lash out lightning fast, dismissing and diminishing you to next to nothing while shutting down any type of advance you might be foolishly silly drunk to think about. I, like many, many others, was intimidated by her, and even more so because she was, in fact, Johnny’s little sister, who I dreaded to have to ever answer to. Everyone, though, including him, knew me, and I had a kind of thing for each other, although truthfully, as hard as I tried, I could never get anywhere with her, and I actually got the closest of anyone, for whatever that's worth. It was something akin to a cat-and-mouse game and had been that way since we first caught eyes on day one on the school bus, and from that day on, there was no turning away me from that fiery presence of hers, especially knowing it was me she might have feelings for.  Her beauty was truly toxic. I shuddered every time I saw her gorgeous, breathtaking, sinewy figure and untouchable, dark, almond skin that she tirelessly teased and tormented me and the world with. It was enough to lure anyone into a burning fire or off a cliff, and that is why I came up here at all.  She was a mystery from every angle. Her temper was frustrating as it was confusing. Maybe she was just plain crazy, I can't say. Perhaps it was just that she was the youngest of nine kids that made her fighting mad, or maybe she was protecting her flowered innocence with that hard, impenetrable, tough exterior just to not go down the road of her older sisters. Whatever it was, it kept me coming back just to breathe the air she had just walked through.

 …I followed Billy behind the store, and after crossing through a hole in the fence and ducking under some low-hanging china-berry branches, we went traipsing single file down a footpath that wove through the backs of all the houses amongst the sharp mesquite trees.

            The path was trodden down and bare from mostly little skinny shirtless kids that would run back and forth, barefoot and surefooted, between houses like little messengers and soldiers. They were usually carrying something like a loaf of bread or soda water that they were sent to the store for. Time seemed crucial for them as they darted unstopping as if anticipating a scolding. Their little bare feet navigated like wild lizards over the broken glass, crushed beer cans, and occasional car battery or bumper that littered and lined the trail.

            I instinctively stepped cautiously clear of an old refrigerator lying on its side. I would have bet a million dollars a rattlesnake was hiding in it somewhere.

            The trail quickly came to a sharp end, and Billy and I stepped out from the deep shade of the mesquite, wincing into the blinding brightness of open air and the offensive, sharp, pungent odor that hung in the air like a fog, assaulting all you senses with a stinging offense. It was a sharp contrast to the cool, welcoming shade and the sweet smell of Johnson grass and milkweed that edged the inside trail.

            I recognized the harsh smell of trash smoldering from rusty burning barrels that combined in the air with the oily stench of seasoned cow tripe, boiling in large pots of menudo that were most likely on every stove in a mile radius. It was foul enough to make you annoyed and sick at the same time. I wished I had with me a bandana to cover my nose and mouth.  

             On Sunday, menudo and tamales are as holy as Guadalupe and St. Christopher around here, with each recipe as guarded as the Holy Grail. I loved the taste of both, but I couldn’t stand the smell of the cow's stomach and hated walking into a kitchen to see a pig’s head staring up at you from a pot that was being boiled for the tamale meat.

Passing the familiar houses, I timidly waved at the old widow Luna through her open kitchen door.  I could tell by the motion in which her hands rolled together that she was kneading dough for tortillas. She didn’t return my greeting as I expected. She was just old evil-eye mean. Never got over moving here from Juarez and never tried or cared to learn English and probably wouldn't be surprised if she had killed her husband years back with voodoo and a cast iron frying pan.

We were heading in the direction where the faint sound of scratchy Tejano-am radio and drunken laughter was getting louder and closer.

A scraggly assemblage of spectator cheers could be heard up ahead over the music. They were sounds unmistakably distinct around here on a Sunday at sunset. As festive as it was all sounding, mixed emotions began to set in of both apprehension and excitement.

            Where there is this kind of loud macho laughter, obviously mixed with alcohol, instinctively, it makes you put your guard up simply from past familiarity and experience. Even for people living here, including family members, the situation can be unpredictable. You could either have fun or fight and sometimes both, but rarely anything in between. It was like playing Russian roulette to salsa music. I had some of the best and worst times of my life here, and sometimes both on the same day.

Every youth around here bragged and showed off scars from mostly knife wounds, or so they would say, that they wore like badges of honor or decorated and covered them with prison-style Indian ink tattoos, mostly Holy crosses and initials. I even had a cross on my forearm that came from being over here one night for just an hour too long. The next morning, I tried to wash it off when I got home, but that only made it red and irritated. On another occasion, I got my ear pierced with a fat, dull sewing machine needle. I was told to put fishing string through it to keep the hole open. When I did that, it got so infected within a few days that I thought my ear lobe would fall off. It could have been much worse, though, my knuckles on both hands nearly read LOVE and HATE, which was visible on quite a few others around here, including Johnny, who got it the same time I got my cross.

      I spotted Johnny right away as we approached, but he was too engaged to come over to greet us. We nodded around to other familiar faces as we walked up, but overall, we were ignored in the absorbed commotion. I didn’t have to hear the scared screech of a rooster more than once to be reminded of how much I hated it. I could never understand how someone doesn’t feel the pain and fear in an animal. It was another one of those situations of wondering how I got here. I wanted to be on that other train I could always see running parallel to the one I seemed destined to be on. My distaste was an opinion I could never voice and too often silently left me tortured in situations like this in which I would have to 'grin and bear it,' along with my time, much like a prison sentence.

We had a hard time seeing the roosters through a bunch of scraggly drunk men holding their crumpled dollar bills in a makeshift semi-circle. They stood abreast and swayed like weeds with a frenzied cacophony of deafening chatter and frantic, disorderly, flying hand gestures. Everyone seemed so drunk I couldn’t help but let out a laugh, envisioning the comparison to peasant string puppets hanging in the border town curio shops. But other than that, none of this was going to be fun or funny to me. 

I tried to feebly busy myself in the general vicinity as if I was participating by picking out the lone and drunkest old man I could find and pretending to have small talk like I even knew him. No one paid me much attention, nor could they hear me over the chaos. This one old man just stood there like a stone, with his glazed cross-eyed yellow cataract eyes staring with a frozen glare at nothing. I don’t even know if he spoke English. He was mumbling, but I don’t think it was me he was speaking to. I did whatever it took not to see the little black eyes of the roosters wide with terror about to be thrown at each other in the circle at our feet.

             Some of these guys took cock fighting pretty seriously. You could tell which ones they were by the way they held their birds, stroking them more gently and with more affection than they probably ever did with their own kids. 

            They can call it a tradition and an old art form all they want to, but this was no more than an angry blood sport to gamble on and nothing sacred to it as far as I was concerned. Perhaps in the overall picture, it was just a way to forget your poverty and life, if only for a day, but why not just watch football like the rest of the World?

  There was no big ancient secret to cock fighting at all. The truth is you can always get just about any rooster to fight. A rooster is a proud animal and not just the noisy barn bird you think it is. I would be pretty good at it myself. As much as I hated and was disgusted by it, I pretty much knew everything there was to know about cock fighting, although I couldn’t tell you why and not sure why myself, being I had only been to a few of them. It’s another circumstance where useless knowledge like that just kind of absorbs into you at times: Boring situations where you heard hours of drunks bragging, going on and on about this and that until you knew you had heard it all. Then you repeat it back to yourself as if you were an expert, although all of it was mostly half-truth at best. It reminds me of fishing in a way that even if you have never fished, you somehow know how to. You know the difference between a bass and a perch and a catfish and what it takes to catch them, from bait to hooks and bobbers, and you will hear every kind of mumbo jumbo nonsense in every fish story.

Then, on cue, I heard Carlos holler out to me to get over there, “How much do you want to put on Johnny’s red? Only evens though on his red...” was all he said without as much as a hello.

The best fighting roosters are, hands down, Rhode Island Reds. It’s a big, proud, lean rooster with thick feathers that are hard to penetrate long, strong legs. Johnny had a red. I had no doubt he would win against the other white-speckled Missouri he was about to square up to, even though the Missouri was twice its size. Big roosters are just too heavy to fight. The winners are usually good fliers who can pounce from high. What made these roosters dangerous, though, were the silver spur knives the Mexicans called little machetes or kanetsune. These were two-inch spiked razor knives that were attached with leather to the back of their legs where their natural fighting spur had been partially clipped off. You had to really pay attention to how you held the legs so as not to stick yourself. If you let loose and they start kicking, you could get sliced to the bone, or a spike poked all the way through your palm. The easiest way, though, to spot a real sport rooster, even when they are just running around the yard or in a pen, is by looking at the red leather comb on top of their head that they usually would proudly wear like a crown while prancing and shaking it between pecking for bugs and feed. What you see on a fighting cock, though, is a jagged nub where that crown was cut off at one time by a dull knife or razor and even sometimes by the edge of a torn-in-half beer can. It's what makes a rooster pure, mean, and vengeful. His manhood was ripped off in a torturous manner to where now even the laying hens will peck at him.

I looked over at the heads of both the roosters here that were about to fight. Johnny’s rooster still had its red leather crown intact. The other ones had been removed and were visibly scarred and jagged. Johnny’s older brother Raymond held the rooster for him. To Johnny, his rooster was more of a pet, and he didn’t want to be the one to actually fight him. Raymond knew he could make money with his rooster, and there was nothing much Johnny could do but go along with it.

             The two men were holding their roosters with one hand by the legs between their fingers, with the spurs folded back against them while stroking the top feathers with the other hand.

 Every now and then, they would rub their fingertips gently under the wings, making them flinch and shudder like when you touch the flank of a horse. It made them jumpy and agitated. It was no different than slapping a heavy-weight prizefighter before stepping into the ring.

            Both men then stepped a little closer to each other, now holding their roosters outstretched, being even more careful of the razor spike that now pointed down with their legs hanging free.

Both Raymond and the man got about a foot apart, and each started lowering their birds up and down real slow in a rhythmic pattern, causing their heads and necks to bob up and down and sway back and forth. They would take turns moving closer, speeding up the motion and making the head lurch and stretch until the beaks finally clicked together. Then, the other would do the same, trading dominance. The legs would begin to kick out and flail as the birds became more agitated and panicky from being restrained. After a few more head-butts, they began to start to cackle and peck angrily. On either side, someone poured a shot of whisky into the two men’s mouths, and with a signaling glance and a nod to each other, they lifted their rooster's tail feathers and violently spit the whisky on the exposed tail flesh and then immediately flung their birds at each other into a mid-air collision that exploded into a blind fury of crashing feathers and screeching calls. They both fell and hit the ground in a thud and angrily launched at each other again, this time on their own momentum, with dust and feathers flying everywhere.     

A rooster doesn’t fight with its beak like a chicken. It flies up more like a kangaroo with its feet flying upward and outstretched, causing the spurs to point straight down like daggers, which you are hoping comes straight down and into the other's chest or back. The most lethal is right at the base of the neck.

They flailed around in the air with this flipping action so fast you couldn’t make out what was happening. Twice, the big speckled rooster tried to escape and was hurled back in by the tip of someone’s boot. Too often, these fights ended with a rooster high-tailing it into the cornfields.

Then I saw it happen as if in slow motion. There was sheer utter silence when Johnny’s rooster jumped straight up as high as our shoulders as if to take flight. His wings flew fully stretched wide and back, touching their tips together. The powerful, sinewy legs shot straight out and up while its fanned tail scooped under his belly, he then dropped down with a murderous force, burying its silver spur with fatal accuracy as if guided to the heartbeat. I watched in shock as the blood came fast, spurting in small, beady streams. The crimson red stood out ghastly in shocking contrast to the white feathers. Johnny immediately jumped in and picked up his bird as if swooping up a puppy while the defeated bird continued stumbling forward, flapping its wings, trying to balance itself. It was running in circles, switching its failing legs while tipping onto its wing tips like a seesaw desperate to gain balance. The blood pumped from under the feathers and dripped onto the dusty dirt floor, leaving small puddles of red mud. It then stumbled rapidly forward, looking terrified in all directions before falling onto its neck. A thin cloud of dust and feathers still filled the air, falling slowly as the life was sadly fading. It stared wide-eyed in terror, overwhelmed and still surrounded by beastly men. It was alive and breathing hard. He desperately tried once more to get up. Blood started to bubble and drip from his beak and nostril with each rapid breath, and then, within moments, the blood ran freely in a gentle, glistening stream. He, for the first time, looked like he surrendered to defeat with more sadness than fear in his eyes, lying alone in the dirt while pooling blood mixed with its urine and feces. The legs shook rapidly while the feathers heaved with a convulsing quiver that vibrated a whiffing sound almost like a purr, and then all stopped motionless. The eyes now stared lifeless, frozen, and gray in contrast to the vibrant black that moments before glistened of fear. It was over.

I felt myself involuntarily shaking throughout my whole body and was afraid I would lose control of my emotions and be left standing there in tears and shame, ridiculed and laughed at. I even tried to fake a laugh. No one noticed this except Katrina, who I hadn’t realized until that very moment, had been standing there staring at me this whole time from her porch, seeing right through my disguise. I stood holding her stare that gazed back with unreadable emotion while my frail emotions, though silent, lay bare and exposed in front of her like the phony impostor I was. I couldn’t disguise the lie. All I could think was I just wanted off this train….

Familiar places

...Like a mirage, the cars up ahead looked like they separated and dissolved into the fuzzy heat waves on the horizon but were still there and whole when we got up the hill. We had finally arrived at our destination. I felt beat down and a little worse for wear, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I bent over for a minute with my hands on my knees catching my breath, relieved to not have to walk another step. The whole walk was only a few miles but when it’s 110* outside it might as well have been a hundred miles.

             I stood and stretched my back looking around and thinking, I hate this damn place more than anywhere, but before I could let it get the better of me, I felt a little more optimistic at the possibility that at the least we might be able to get a ride later on downtown to Auditorium Shores for the last of Aqua-Fest. I was reminded of it as we heard the loud jet roar above us as the Air Force Thunderbirds passed over us and headed in that direction. I didn’t care too much to try and get down there to see them perform. Still, I hoped to make it in time to see Bubble Puppy at the 'battle of the bands', and then Willie on the big stage tonight, and then maybe we try to sneak into the Armadillo afterward and see Commander Cody, although Billy will most likely rather hang in the front at Pops skating palace which I refused to go back to because the last time I was there, it was a Saturday night and I was the only white kid in there and Billy's older brother gave me a tiny 22 pistol to put in my back pocket. I thought he was joking. I went ahead and put it in my back pocket but wasn't scared of getting into any trouble but scared as hell of shooting myself in the ass if I fell. I was a good skater but not that good.

             

Billy walked on past me and slapped me hard on the back laughing, “Come on let's get something to drink, you look like you gonna cry”.

            I swung at him to hit his arm but I completely missed and he just laughed again,” Come on, hurry up!” as he landed a punch square in the tender of my arm.

             It was so hot. I followed right on his heels and couldn’t get in that store fast enough. Maybe a soda water would put some gas back in my tank.

            Billy forcefully slid open the door in front of me and instantly I felt the blast of air rush around and through me. I sighed a moan of relief out loud and just stood there like a statue with my eyes closed and arms slightly lifted. I never wanted to move from that spot. The sweat on my neck felt like it turned to hot ice. I lifted my shirt and let it billow out off my back, cooling the beads of sweat rolling down my spine, and just when I was about to take another sigh of relief, Mr. Marks hollered over with authority, “Close that door behind yaw boys before you let all the cold out. - Will, ya?”

            “ Yes sir’ I replied automatically and sheepishly stepped on in.

            We knew Mr. Marks's name, as did everyone, only because the store was 5M grocery for the five Marks brothers that owned it. Even though there were actually six brothers. More than a couple times I have heard my dad and his friends agreeing as to why it was called 5m and not 6 but never actually said what the reason was they were agreeing on. I don't think they really knew anyway.

            I went right to the back of the store where Billy was already standing with the Coke box lid slid open. It was an old top-end box cooler. I lifted the other side letting my arms hang and lay inside, against the cold aluminum sides for a moment before pulling out a tall Pepsi.

            I reached behind it and grabbed an extra long bag of peanuts off the rack and for a moment thought about a cinnamon bun, but they looked ‘day old’.

            Billy, as I figured would, got him a grape Nehi. He always got Nehi or Orange Crush and sometimes Root Beer but mostly grape. I watched him pocket a Snickers from the shelf as he rounded the corner. I hoped Mr. Marks didn’t see him take it. Even from where I stood, I could see down every aisle through the big curved mirror hanging at the back of the store.

            Up at the counter, I kidded Billy about getting some pickled pig feet and hard-boiled eggs that were sunk together in the same fat murky pickle jar, sitting on the counter next to the register.

            Hey Billy,” isn’t that what your people eat” I teased him poking at his belly.

He laughed and leaned back defensively shaking his head,” Oh hell no, I haven’t ever ate that nasty country shit. I may be black but that's for that old negro blood." Then in a quick afterthought, laughing matter-of-factly, “My daddy loves it though. He will gnaw those pig knuckles to bare bone” That made me laugh so hard it almost sucked the wind out of me.

            Mr. Marks, not amused by our humor, broke up our little chuckle by dismissingly saying, “Billy tell your daddy hello for me.”

            “I will, said Billy, and will you just charge this on his bill?”

‘Sure thing if you say he's ok with that”, said Mr. Marks flipping through a brown paper notebook to write it down.

I was looking over Billy’s shoulder to see if he was going to also write down that Snickers bar on the paper, but he didn’t.

            “Y’all stay out of trouble now”, he said, meaning it was time for us to get out.

Even though he knew most of Billy’s family, he still didn’t like kids hanging around too long in his store. We weren’t even kids anymore but I guess he figured if we stayed long enough, we might just steal something although I suspect he knew about that one little candy bar. I felt guilty and disappointed seeing Billy prove Mr. Marks's suspicions right. Then again, I for some reason felt guilty about almost everything these days...

Pretty Pool

A small group of us had made our way down to ‘Pretty Pool', a secret little swimming hole on a lone stretch of Onion Creek that ran through the back of someone's overgrown, uninhabited, private property where we had long since ignored and knocked down all the 'No Trespassing' signs. We were never really sure who actually owned the place, most likely, though, the property belonged to old man Wayne Riddell. Wayne seemed to own every piece of land you stuck your big toe on in this small county. It was a true hidden paradise at the back of San Leanna Estates that was fed by crystal clear spring water, beautifully lined by bright limestone shelves, and shadowed overhead by cliff walls that backed up against steep, dense oak, and cedar-covered hills. It was our Summer's heaven where so many stories took place. It was where hearts were lost and found in the breaths of teenage desires and anxieties, curiosities and rebellion. A hideaway of sorts, a half-kept secret, and we had yet to be run off, so we claimed it as ours.
     

We could be found there on any given day in the summer, and without a doubt, always on weekends, especially knowing Cassidy and her sister would usually show up in the late afternoon with her usual group of pretty girlfriends that always stayed over at their house on long, slumber weekends. We made plans the night before to sneak down in the afternoon. Frank and I, along with Luis, had already been down there for a bit, listening to Summer sounds while throwing rocks, and passing around cigarettes. At that moment, just like tambourine music, they appeared, dancing through the trees. You could hear their giggles echo off the limestone, which they skipped across like mischievous, pretty little hippie fairies, floating single file down the meandering puddle-jumping trail. It was a refreshing delight of denim cutoffs, halter tops, sandals, and flowing hair laced with wild honey-suckle that excited our world and senses forever, or at least these few glorious hours on a hot summer day like today. No one had it better than us misfits, not anyone or anywhere in the world.

It was late in August, just two weeks before we would have to go back to school. We were looking for every, and any way to stretch the minutes of those last hot days.  This was the hottest Saturday yet, sweltering and bright. We barely made it halfway down the hill to the banks before Cassidy enthusiastically dared that we should all go ‘skinny dippin’. She called it like it was nothing, and it didn’t take much coaxing from us to dare her to put up. Yep, Should have known better than to dare her. There was a slight pause, and a contemplating smirk on her face as she panned around, squinting at each of us making her dominating, supreme, and defeating eye contact with each of us one at a time. Then, without another word or thought, she was quick to be the first to take off all her clothes and jumped in so fast you barely had a moment in that blur to realize that she was even naked as she plunged into the water.

             Her devilish bold laugh had so much self-possessed confidence, that it left us no room to chicken out now. There was always a price to pay if you ever called Cassidy’s bluff. All bets were off and time to show our own hand.

           

 Serena on the other hand, was somewhat sweet and shy by comparison and was always a little more reserved. She still went in the water anyway without hesitation, though clearly uncomfortable, her laugh more innocent and apprehensive, and unlike Cassidy’s audacious flair, Serena left her bottoms on and covered her chest with her arms until her body was completely submerged under the water.

            This left me with no other decision. I knew then I had to go in or face relentless humiliation for life and throughout the hallways. So with conviction, I walked in slow and deliberately, like James Dean would like I had done it a hundred times before, which only I truthfully knew I hadn’t. I was shaking.

             I think we were all a little anxious, but before we could give it anger thought, we were all splashing around nervous and silly, staying beyond arms link, not really sure what we were supposed to do now. Kris and Charlotte went and sat cross-legged on the shallow limestone cliff while Karen leaned back taking in all the sun she could.

Yasmina Rossi

            

Cassidy though, giggling, would swim just close enough that I could see light rippling through the water, illuminating almost her entire body in vague flesh-colored waves that stood out in bright contrast under the dark water. She circled and seductively teased until I would dive under towards her making her hysterically chuckle and scream while frantically kicking and playfully splashing to keep me away.

            It was all so wonderfully overwhelming and full of a free wild anxiety. I felt like the luckiest guy in the world at that moment, and could barely believe this was happening. While pretending to be way cooler than I was. This was one of those perfect days. All was innocent and never more beautiful than on this day, and here I was swimming naked under a Texas sky. Their olive skin was so shiny and tan that it was enough to make you crazy with heavenly disbelief.

             It was a heavenly day, and it seemed like nothing could get any better, or so I thought. Then, something happened in an unsuspecting moment that I was not prepared for or would have imagined on such a silly day.

            

It happened when I casually turned to see Serena quietly treading water alone at a distance. Everyone else had drifted into their own little adventures. The vision of her caught me completely off guard. Instantly her stark vulnerable breathtaking beauty possessed me. Entranced and panicked, I cautiously let myself slowly drift closer. I quietly watched her as the light bounced off the water onto her wet shimmering hair and velvet skin, making her eyes sparkle like black-mirrored pearls on fire.  I got just close enough to see her purple full lips were quivering from the cold and her wet exposed skin was covered in tiny delicate goose bumps. I lost all focus on anything around me. I couldn’t take my eyes off how pretty she really was.

             

Seems only moments before, we were all harmlessly splashing around having silly fun, and then in a split second, it all changed as if shot through the heart. In such a brief and subtle unexpected moment, emotions overwhelmed and engulfed me like a tornado. I found myself lost in unknown insecure risky territory.

            I moved even closer, and Serena gazed back at me soft and angelic. In the silence, I was sure my rapidly beating heart could be heard out loud. She timidly raised her large doe eyes with water droplets falling from the tips of her eyelashes and looked straight into me. Our eyes embraced, hers tearing from the dazzling glare, reflecting back her vulnerable innocence that was pulling me in as if we had been bound for centuries.

            She became shy and guarded closing her arms partially back around her. At that moment all I could imagine was kissing her beautiful mouth and warming her cold naked skin. Nervous, with doubt and uncertainty, I swam to her letting my fingers brush her skin causing her to shudder and quietly gasp. Her gentle brown eyes widened but before I could even reach out, her gentle locked gaze shifted with immediate and alarming force, breaking her away in a startled instance with her face frozen in bewildered shock clearly about to scream, she stared wide-eyed while shouting an alarming protective scream, "LOOK OUT!" at the same time raising her arms to shield us both.

            In the blink of an eye, our shared intimate silence literally exploded right in front of us without warning as we were jolted by a loud crazed savage holler only to look up just in the nick of time to see a massive beast hurling in our general direction when my cousin Mike, who had followed us down here on his horse, plunged without warning, horse and all, launching from a three-foot limestone ledge, wearing nothing more than his hat, when he ferociously landed in the water with an enormous mountainous splash, with such force, that it caused us to ride upward and back on an unimaginable wave, while water showered us like pouring rain and washed up and over the shore. We were all a little shocked as we were ready to cheer.

           

Mike then slid and pushed away from his horse, and without missing a single beat in his usual brazen glory, went right into a long-armed rejoicing backstroke, obviously feeling no shame at all.           

            Dumfounded and stunned, I watched as his horse, in a confused fury scampered and flailed to get a footing on a limestone shelf in the shallows before standing patiently and calm.            

            The precise timing though was surely the hand of God throwing us a thunderbolt. Stolen and shattered forever was a secret moment I will never get back. I was left wondering if it was even real or all just my imagination. I might never know. It was gone in a flash, what could have been forever, disappeared and faded as quick as a falling star, as fast as Summer ending.