Transfiguration

A shadow shifted in a corner where a rusting wood stove tilted precariously on rough-hewn blocks of hemlock. It moved into the opaque light of a hanging lantern that expelled wisps of oily smoke from a blackened wick. The lighting was murky but Teddy saw clearly the outline of a human form he judged to be at least six-foot-six tall because the head brushed the ceiling of the lean-to cabin. A coarse checkered shirt and wool bush trousers could not conceal a wiry frame pulled tight by thin hard muscles. Silver-white hair fell like bridal falls over the shoulders and down the long back. The skin of the face was taut and weathered brown, yet it was oddly young and fresh, a soft setting for a disturbing pair of eyes. Both eyes were brilliantly clear and piercing, one a steel blue gray, the other a reddish hazel.  "Who the hell are you supposed to be, Mother Nature?" Teddy whispered, half-barked, the usual bellow held back by exhaustion.

Crazy 7s

Dozens of slot handles being yanked and released sing a metallic baritone. Will the Crazy 7s show straight across the payline and cancel Larry's appointment with grief? Or will the numbers stay cold, as cold as the floater in the river running behind the casino?

Coup de Grace

   Ross sat a very long time, mind boiling in a head still held between his hands. Only the night sounds of the forest, awakened by the rising moon, yanked him from his stupor. It was a November moon, full but smaller and colder than the early autumn moons. Its icy glare transmitted a warning that the viciousness of winter was as close as the nearest storm cloud. He stood, chin raised and face full to the moonlight, allowing it to create a halo of madness around the exaggerated whiteness of his fair hair and skin. He stood for much of the night, one ragged silhouette among the smooth-trunk beeches, as if standing and staring was the best way to hold back the beast wanting to chase him screaming through the forest.

The Cabin at Ghostly Point

   The open door revealed a scene like nothing Shainie had ever seen. Shafts of sunlight entering the broken windows and cracks in the walls sliced the smoky dimness of the interior, highlighting once normal cottage contents now succumbing to years of neglect and decay. She could taste on the tip of her tongue the sour-sweet smell of damp rot.
    Puffs of dust rose around her feet as she moved in slow motion through the cabin. A couch along one wall looked like a cartoon sketch, springs protruding through a faded floral fabric that had been scratched, chewed and soiled by mice and other forest creatures seeking protection from winter storms. A kitchen table and chairs stood beside the side window, plates, knives and forks set out in the dust and animal droppings as if waiting for a family of ghosts to arrive for an evening meal.

The Emma Dog

It was one of those evenings when only the real hunters go to hunt. A north wind played an icy melody across the broken reeds surrounding our duck blind at the lake’s edge. The sky was a cold charcoal, the same color as the lakeside trees now mere skeletons of their summer selves. Flight after flight of ducks passed in the failing light. Dad’s old pump-action shotgun rose and exploded time and again. Each time Emma, eyes blazing in a hollow face, watched for a duck to fold in the sky then bolted down her ramp and into the freezing water.

Flight from Fort Despair

The first minutes after an air crash are like an awakening. A stirring breaks the silence followed by a shifting, then a rustle and perhaps, if God has been willing, a low moan. In the case of the Beaver floatplane snatched by the mountain, the stirring was followed by the cry of the baby.

Shaman's Rock

Breathtaking chest pain, the dizziness and the nausea converged in an explosion of blackness. A storm raged in that blackness, tossing a frosted moon back and forth across a pewter sky like one huge ice pellet. The wind tore through bare brittle branches in the forest, making the naked trees scream in pain. Shadows danced in the moon’s streaking light. He heard voices gurgling a language that was guttural and nasal.  Inexplicably, he understood the words. "Thank you Great Spirit. For everything you give us. And for another day. For the sun rising again. Thank you for giving us life." Faces chanting the words drifted into view. Emaciated faces of bone sprouting undernourished strands of brown hair, not just on the chin and cheeks but on the high cheekbones and the narrow foreheads. Flashes of moonlight, or was it lightning, contorted the faces and exaggerated their fierceness. Hollis imagined himself screaming and running straight up the rock wall and across the lake but his arms and legs just lay there unconnected and helpless. He did scream until his face bulged but no words flew from his mouth. Fingers like maple saplings - knuckles brown growth knots but covered with that same brown hair - pawed at him. He stopped his silent screaming long enough to watch horrified as one of the hands touched his chest through the wet down jacket. Incredibly the hand was inside his chest, the dirty fingers on his heart, squeezing once, twice, three times. He screamed again, this time screaming his way into a dreamless blackness.

Sniffy

The church door creaked open and the minister’s voice trailed off as his eyes left the congregation and focused on the boy walking unsteadily down the aisle toward him. The boy was about 11 with hair the color and texture of wet coal dust and eyes that were deeper black and would have been striking if not for their wet bleariness. He wore the uniform of winter kids everywhere, a brightly colored nylon ski jacket, but his was frayed at the elbows and cuffs and dirty and stained, not with spots but with the zipper length splotches of siphoning spills. He weaved down the aisle, feet clumping in oversize snowmobile moon boots, sometimes bumping into a pew side. Gas fumes floated in his crooked wake causing people to raise hands to their mouths.

Walks with My Grandfather

I visited my grandfather many times at the lake. He taught me how to walk in the forest with my mind wide open to absorb the pure sounds, smells and sights of the natural world. Sometimes we would stop at a creek, or on a rocky outcrop overlooking a valley, and he would tell me a story. His stories always related to the seasons. These are the stories I remember best.