I have begun a new story. I will post it as I write it. Who knows? This could be an interesting thing to watch unfold. It has been far too long since I've posted here.
Enjoy,
Michael R. Walker.
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The boy was awakened by the gruff whisper of his father, leaning into the tent, quietly commanding the boy to rise and dress. Get up boy. We've breakfast to make and then we move. Not until the tent flap had fallen back into place and his father's steps marched away into the darkness did the boy toss the heavy wool blanket back and raise up to his elbows. The itch of the wool had finally grown on him and he enjoyed the weight of the blanket in the cold mornings. Rousing was never easy, but the ordeal of it perceived by the boy was not a concern of his father. Thusly, the boy never complained, for fear of seeming less like the man he wanted to become and the man his father seemed to expect. The boy dressed quickly, noticing the vapor of his breath and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. When he drew back the tent flap, he could smell coffee and hickory smoke and looked into the gray to see their nigger cutting strips of belly from a wild boar that he had not seen the night before. The nigger was washing the strips in brine water and laying them down into a canvas covered in pepper before tossing them onto an iron skillet over the fire, sizzling and popping as they began to transform into food. This always pleased the boy and he grinned just as the nigger noticed him standing there. Mornin sir. Your pa an me, we caught dis he piggy last night after yous asleepin. Makin some right good bacon. That'll be alright. Where's Pa? Reckon he went yon so as to perform he necessaries. Reckon you better had too. I be he cookin when you get a finish. That'll be alright. The boy marched down through the tall grasses toward the creek and felt his belly rumble. Mornings were a perplexing mystery to him even as he had seen more than he could remember. The way in which the earth changed to come alive after sleeping - the temperature, the colors, the smells, all while he slept - was something he could not wrap his mind around, yet trying to figure it was something he enjoyed. In many ways, he wished to emulate the quietude of his father, for he figured that his father must have thought the same kinds of things and, if he was quiet enough, he too could understand the world as his father did. A certain delicacy hovered around the quietness of people and the boy had perceived it at an age younger than most. The awareness of it was settling and helped him to understand people without asking questions. Questions were overbearing and uncouth. He could hear the horses baying and the soft rustle of the creek, dulled only by the quiet whisper of cottonwoods in the faint breeze. The sun was peeking out and the color of things began to change.
Enjoy,
Michael R. Walker.
-----------------
The boy was awakened by the gruff whisper of his father, leaning into the tent, quietly commanding the boy to rise and dress. Get up boy. We've breakfast to make and then we move. Not until the tent flap had fallen back into place and his father's steps marched away into the darkness did the boy toss the heavy wool blanket back and raise up to his elbows. The itch of the wool had finally grown on him and he enjoyed the weight of the blanket in the cold mornings. Rousing was never easy, but the ordeal of it perceived by the boy was not a concern of his father. Thusly, the boy never complained, for fear of seeming less like the man he wanted to become and the man his father seemed to expect. The boy dressed quickly, noticing the vapor of his breath and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. When he drew back the tent flap, he could smell coffee and hickory smoke and looked into the gray to see their nigger cutting strips of belly from a wild boar that he had not seen the night before. The nigger was washing the strips in brine water and laying them down into a canvas covered in pepper before tossing them onto an iron skillet over the fire, sizzling and popping as they began to transform into food. This always pleased the boy and he grinned just as the nigger noticed him standing there. Mornin sir. Your pa an me, we caught dis he piggy last night after yous asleepin. Makin some right good bacon. That'll be alright. Where's Pa? Reckon he went yon so as to perform he necessaries. Reckon you better had too. I be he cookin when you get a finish. That'll be alright. The boy marched down through the tall grasses toward the creek and felt his belly rumble. Mornings were a perplexing mystery to him even as he had seen more than he could remember. The way in which the earth changed to come alive after sleeping - the temperature, the colors, the smells, all while he slept - was something he could not wrap his mind around, yet trying to figure it was something he enjoyed. In many ways, he wished to emulate the quietude of his father, for he figured that his father must have thought the same kinds of things and, if he was quiet enough, he too could understand the world as his father did. A certain delicacy hovered around the quietness of people and the boy had perceived it at an age younger than most. The awareness of it was settling and helped him to understand people without asking questions. Questions were overbearing and uncouth. He could hear the horses baying and the soft rustle of the creek, dulled only by the quiet whisper of cottonwoods in the faint breeze. The sun was peeking out and the color of things began to change.
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