Sheltered Path

Here is the short story that won second place in the Fort Bend Writers Guild Spring 2007 Competition. I hope you enjoy it.

SHELTERED PATH

“Keep walking and don’t turn around.”

The man’s voice was thin and nasal with a country twang that made April think of chainsaw horror movies. She pushed the images from her mind and tried to concentrate on her footing, but her hands tied behind her back made balance tricky. Light and shadow filtered through the blindfold that pulled at the edges of her eyes, and if she tilted her head back too far, tiny blossoms of light bloomed into a blinding white sheet of pain.

“The path leads down some stone stairs,” he said from behind her, “so move real slow and don’t fall, cause I ain’t picking you up again if you do; and keep quiet.”

April placed each foot deliberately and carefully. Oh God, please don’t let me fall again, she thought. He jerked her back upright last time, and his hands felt rough and knobby against her bare arms. She didn’t want him that close to her again, she didn’t want him to touch her again; she didn’t want him to have control over her again.

April could tell the path was turning downward, and soon she felt the sharp edge of the first stone through the sole of her shoe. She stepped down and placed both feet on each stair as she went. She tried to control her breathing, but the gag was so tight she had to breathe around the edges of it. Her lips were dry and cracked.

She could smell his combination of cheap after-shave and musty summer sweat. He was right behind her. Not close enough for her to turn and kick, but close enough to feel the shadow of his tall lanky frame, pressing her forward. She felt a sharp stab just under her right shoulder blade. He must have picked up a stick somewhere she guessed, and he’s using it to poke me in the back. He did it again now. Hard. This time it was lower, and the knife-edge pain lingered near the soft, tender area above the waistline of her jogging shorts.

April managed the next several unevenly spaced stairs, but when she reached for the next step, her foot found nothing but space. She tumbled sideways, and pain shot up her right hip as she crashed into a wood structure. Its support was indifferent to her, but she was grateful it was there. Like a sturdy old friend, it had kept her from falling. She propped herself against it, and her quick breaths hissed in and out around the gag.

She heard him laugh - an ignorant wheezing sound that was almost too high-pitched to be a man’s laugh. “Not bad girl,” he said. “I thought you were going down the hard way that time. Shoot, I was hoping you wouldn’t find the side rail. That makes it too easy.” There was a loud whiplash sound as he swung the stick through the air near her head. She ducked and nearly lost her balance again. His weird laugh was louder this time. Was he getting closer? “Oh well, there’s a bridge coming up on the right,” he said. “Let’s see if you can manage to get across it.”

A bridge? she thought. She smelled magnolias and honey suckle when he first pulled her out of the back of the van, and she could hear the distant rumble of trucks away to her left. A bridge…A tiny little bridge that crosses over a shallow creek. Suddenly her surroundings became clear to her, and in her mind, the blindfold was gone.

She knew where she was.

She was in the park behind the World War II memorial.

This past year was incredibly difficult for her, and the park was the place she came when she was lonely, disturbed or just flat out frustrated. She would walk along the path, climb down the stone steps and linger for a while at the bridge. She never quite released all of her tensions, but the thick foliage and heavy canopy of trees gave her a sense of shelter. This was where she felt serene, this was where she felt calm, this was where she felt safe.

This was her park.

She began to move a little faster but then realized she was getting ahead of herself. Not yet, she thought and slowed her pace.

Her shoes made contact with the wood timbers of the bridge, and she could hear the water gently rolling over the smooth rocks below. She remembered the bridge curved slightly to the right before it straightened out over the creek. She moved steadily along and let the rough wood of the railing brush against her arm.

“There you go. Keep it steady,” he said. “Just a little further there’s a spot where we can stop for a nice rest. You’d like that wouldn’t you - a little rest?” He was closer now, and she could smell his coffee-stained teeth. “I’ll just let you lay there on the grass. Heck, I might even join you. Wouldn’t that be nice? Yeah, I think a rest will do us both some good.” He laughed again and poked her with the stick. This time it struck hard tensed muscles along her spine. He pulled it away fast, and then she heard it whip through the air as it passed over her head again.

She ducked, spun her body around, then bent forward, and thrust herself toward him.

“What the… ,” he managed before the top of her head came crashing into his midsection. He exhaled with a loud “Huh!”, and she felt him crumple over her back. She managed to get her whole body under him and pushed up with both legs. He was heavier than she would have thought, but she managed to lift him off the ground. April let her backside lean against the railing, and with a power lifter’s grunt, she stood straight up. His body rolled off her back, and the suffocating pressure of his form slipped away. In a moment, she heard a heavy thud below the bridge followed by a small splash.

The long sinews of her legs seared with pain but she turned and ran as fast as she could toward the other end of the bridge. She tried to scream through the gag and managed to get out a ragged horrible sound, but just as her feet hit the loose gravel of the path, two strong hands grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Whoa! Hold it!” said a deep, resonant voice.

The man pushed her back slightly, and his grip bit into her arms.
“Now, just a minute, calm down!” he said. “Let me get this blindfold off.” His hands reached around her head and fumbled with the knot. He jerked the fabric free, and she squinted in the piercing light.

In front of her stood a burly uniformed police officer.

“Damn it,” he said. “What are you trying to do? Kill someone?” He roughly pulled at the sides of the gag around her mouth. “Cockrell!” he called out over his shoulder. “Go check on Palmer. See if he’s OK.” A sandy-haired, young police officer came from behind him and ran to the bridge.

Finally, the gag was loose. She breathed in a gasping lungful of air and bent over. She spit out small pieces of lint and tried to work the stiffness out of her jaw.

The burly police officer stood in front of her with his hands on his hips.

“Sergeant Harmon,” April said. She took a moment to breathe and smooth out her dry lips with her tongue. “I thought it was….the best option…to make an escape attempt.”

“Awfully risky, don’t you think?” Harmon tried to make her feel smaller with his gaze, but she met it with her own and did not blink. He broke off first and kicked at some of the loose gravel in the path, then looked up at the young officer who was leaning over the bridge. “Don’t just stand there gawking, Cockrell!” Harmon said. “Get him out of there!”

A tall thin man stood up in the middle of the creek. He was drenched; his light blue T-shirt stained with creek water and his lank hair hung in his eyes. “Are you alright, Palmer?” asked Harmon. “You look like a drowned cat.”

“Yeah, I’m okay!” Palmer said in his drawling nasal voice. He looked directly at April with narrowed slits. “Just what the heck are you trying to prove, Weller? I coulda’ broke my back falling over that rail! That wasn’t part of the exercise.”

Officer April Weller shook the gag further down onto her neck. “Poking me in the back and swinging a stick at my head wasn’t part of it either, Officer Palmer.” She spat on the ground and pulled with her shoulders as Harmon freed her hands from the nylon rope. She massaged her wrists, and fixed her intense gaze on her Sergeant. “Pass or fail?” she asked.

Harmon shrugged his shoulders and his frown pulled up at one side. “Pass. But take it easy during the next phase, will you? It’s your turn to be the assailant.”

April spun around and stood on her toes. “You hear that Palmer?” she yelled down at him as he retrieved a baseball cap from the creek bed. “You get to be the victim next time!”

“I’m already a victim,” he said, and slapped the wet cap against his thigh; his nasal tone slightly muted by a bloody nose. “Now somebody help me out of this damned creek.”

THE END

Taking Second...

Yipeeee!

I just got word that I won second place in the Fort Bend Writers Guild short story contest!

I'm very happy about it, and I want to thank all of my friends in the Humble Writers group for encouraging me and for helping refine the story into something that actually doesn't make judges violently ill, as apparently other submissions of mine have in the past.

I submitted a story called "Sheltered Path" which is the same story I'm submitting to my local writing group for our group publishing effort entitled "Split." "Split" is a collection of dichotomies- stories with vastly different subjects but common themes such as War and Peace, or Night and Day. My individual story deals with the dichotomy of Victim/Offender and I was very happy to get a second place nod for it.
....Well, sort of....

When it comes to writing contest, there is a lot left to interpretation. If you manage to win a slot in the top 3, then it's usually a given that your story was good, but didn't quite meet the expectations of the judges, or it just isn't the type of story that appeals to them. In effect, coming in second or third is as good as a win in my book.

....except that it isn't first.....

I watched part of "Taladega Nights: The legend of Ricky Bobby" last night, and the main character lived by a misguided philosophy that if "you're not first- you're last." The emphasis of always winning or coming in first can be a real emotionally crippling disease, and I'm afraid that I might just have to go and get myself fitted for some emotional crutches, because I know that coming in second is as good as a win.... but it sure ain't FIRST!

Okay. I need to get over it. I'm honored that I placed as well as I did. Two other writers from my group also placed in the short, short story contest. The story had to be less than 5 hundred words, and, (can you believe it?) they tied for 3rd. I'm very happy for them also, but I know they are secretly wondering "why wasn't mine just that much better than hers?" They won't admit it.....oh, but I know....it goes through your mind.

At least I don't have to share my honor with someone else, so coming in second is starting to look pretty good right now. Besides, who goes back for "firsts?" You go back for "seconds." And sometimes you go back for "Thirds," ...but not when anyone is looking. So, don't worry. I'm good. Second place is just fine.

- but it still isn't first....

Gary


PS. I'll post the story in a future blog. I hope you enjoy it, and that you can see for yourself the incredible genius of my prose and wonder aloud, as I have, why it didn't merit first place. Then, I want you to write your congressman, and plead for him to revoke the charter for the Fort Bend Writers Guild.
...what a bunch of hacks.

Confidence Game

“Do you feel like you have enough confidence?” my wife asked in the waning hours of the afternoon as we lay on our two-person hammock.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” I replied. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t have enough, and sometimes I have too much, but it all evens out.”

“Do you ever think it comes across as arrogance, or self-righteousness?”

“Of course not,” I said looking down at her from a great height. “No one would ever say that about me, and by the way, you’re not fanning me fast enough with that palm frond. Could you speed it up a little?”

Well, no- I didn’t actually say that. If I had, then I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be sitting at all.
But, even more absurd than my possible list of smart-aleck replies is the question of why my wife has an issue with confidence in the first place.

Our fifteenth wedding anniversary is next week. That alone should convince her that she is an amazing woman. I did the math a few days ago- my mother was married twice and both relationships lasted just over ten years. My wife’s parents were married about ten years before they split up, and while both of them have remarried, they are still only twenty years into their second relationships. We’ve almost caught up to them, but this is our FIRST marriage. I’d say that gives us a good five year handicap so the next time any of our parents decide to dish out marital advice I’m going to ask to see their counselor’s license and a list of references.

Then there is the issue of being married to ME for fifteen years, which is its own accomplishment. No matter what perspective I come from, my wife is an amazing woman.

She graduated from college, has two beautiful well behaved children, mentors women is substance abuse programs, and works outside the home. She is well respected in her church, she is considering going back to work on her masters degree, and, if I may say so- she’s a hot babe. I mean it.
Gorgeous.
So what reason does she have to lack confidence?

I stayed outside on the hammock by myself longer than I should have, and as I entered the house a little groggy from “resting my eyes” my wife was sitting on the couch combing our eight-year old daughter’s hair. The TV was on and I realized they were watching “Age of Love,” the new reality show where a group of young women compete against a group of “seasoned” older women for the affections of some dashing bachelor with a weird Kathleen Turner accent. I watched as the women competitors ran a grueling race that ended with them paddling a surfboard out to a yacht were their suitor stood waiting at the railing to give them a hand as they crawled aboard.

“There it is,” I thought. No wonder women like my wife lack confidence in themselves and their abilities. Reduced to cheep circus entertainment, these women deserve to be kicked in their silicone enhanced backsides. And while that statement doesn’t even make proper medical sense, I know that they are not totally to blame. Media is part of the problem, but it appears to me that many of the women I know lack confidence in themselves and their abilities. Those that have confidence and some sense of pride are often thought of in very negative terms by their female peers. I do not pretend to have the ability to shift through the last century of cultural flotsam and jetsam to present to you the single defining moment of the female inferiority complex, but doggone it- this kind of television program can’t be helping. And then part of me takes a step back and wonders if I am the problem. If I think less of these women for making fools out of themselves, then am I contributing to the overall decline in feminine confidence? Am I?

Nah, never mind that, I am going to judge them. In two words-
How pathetic.
And that may come across as arrogant or self-righteous, but… I’m okay with that. As I told my wife today after rattling off a list of the things she has accomplished that make me so very proud of her, maybe I have too much confidence because she has so little.

“But isn’t that co-dependant?” She asked.

Remind me to find the person who invented that phase.
More backsides need a good kicking.