The Woods (working title), Part I

The following is the beginning of a story I decided to write this past week. It's come to my attention that I've spent probably over 10 years trying to figure out what it means to grow up -- and this story is me still trying to come to terms with everything that involves. Feedback would be good (Josh?), so feel free to "tear it up" and go nuts.

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Once upon a time, there was a place caught between seasons. It was a place where autumn still lingered when winter was long overdue. It was a place where boys played outside and wore knitted caps, fingerless gloves and handy-down bomber jackets to protect themselves from an always-approaching chill. It was a place where trees changed their colors with unyielding frequency, and where each falling leaf resonated in the wind like a tuning fork – which could strike a chord in even the bitterest and most sensible of hearts. Among this boundless spread of trees, the boys found a place where adventure was equally immeasurable.

Darmy and Middy were waiting for Kaffy to return with new orders. As ritual demanded, they carried out their current game until further instruction arrived. It was a rather sluggish game of marbles. Darmy had drawn the circle in the dirt with a finger and took his time educating Middy on the rules despite Middy’s anxious fidgeting. His apprehension had cost him seven games in a row.

“Again?” cried Middy. “You win every time! Darmy, how’d you get so good at marbles?”

“I’ve played a lot, Middy” stated Darmy. “You have to play a lot to be good.”

Middy was small and the youngest, not a day older than nine. He wore an oversized cap with flaps that went down well past his narrow shoulders. Darmy was maybe fifteen and was the only boy who had an air-powered BB gun. When not hanging at his side, the plastic weapon leaned against a tree stump – the same old tree stump that Darmy had secretly hollowed a notch to hide various knickknacks. The tree stump also acted as the boys’ meeting spot. When one of them was sent out to get instructions, he would return to the stump to find the other boys waiting for him, continuing whatever game they were directed to play, and this was precisely what Darmy and Middy were doing this particular day.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” said Middy. “I want to play a new game.”

“Me too,” said Darmy, “but we got to wait for Kaffy to come back.”

“I know,” muttered Middy as Darmy began to divide the marbles again. “Them’s the rules.”

“One more game?” he asked.

Middy didn’t answer. He pushed back his cap. Out of the corner of his eye and through several layers of gray tree trunks he saw Kaffy, wearing a blue coat with a green hat, emerging from the woods. The sound of his worn-out tennis shoes pounding the leaves as he ran wasn’t as loud as his panting – as he had been running all the way from the hideout on the other side of the woods. Instead of calling out to the other boys, Kaffy took a deep breath and crowed like a rooster – a ritual that Darmy and Middy knew to mimic in response. The three boys’ howls echoed through the tree branches, and for a brief, nearly nonexistent moment Darmy felt the woods come alive with a feeling he knew he had grown numb to – a feeling that, if he had known the word, he would have called ecstasy. Adventure, he thought. It’s about time. He grabbed his gun from the stump and ignored the marbles that he had let scatter among the leaves.

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-B

Jeremy and Rachel

When Jeremy Lambert kissed Rachel Nelson in the kitchen doorway of his two-bedroom apartment, he knew at that precise moment that the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with was not Rachel Nelson.

Jeremy and Rachel had spent most of their evening in and around the shopping center, and in that lively environment lit by icicle lights and teeming with the sounds of the holidays, Rachel made a very astute observation when a skipping girl, no older than ten, flew past them in a bright orange coat.

“Look at her,” she said. “I honestly can’t imagine being so happy that I would actually skip.”

Jeremy didn’t reply and Rachel forced a weak laugh as the girl pranced over to a group of children, presumably her friends and joined them in frantically scooping snow into their gloves. As the children prepared for their friendly battle, Rachel tried a new approach.

“Is that bad?” she asked, linking her arm with Jeremy’s.

“What are you asking?” he replied.

Jeremy’s trite response caught her by surprise. Rachel Nelson was then reminded of something: she was very unhappy that evening. She was unhappy about having lived a quarter of a century with very little to show for it besides a framed piece of paper she now kept in a cardboard moving box. She was unhappy that Jeremy constantly had a cocktail of medication coursing through him. And she was unhappy that her father continued to put several hundred dollars a month onto her debit card. But she was most unhappy that she remained dependent on someone else – someone who wasn’t Rachel Nelson. That someone right now was Jeremy Lambert.

“I’m not even sure,” she replied quickly.

She forced another laugh as Jeremy looked away. He was hiding a violent cringe that had just made its way across his face. He had always found masking his emotions difficult, but thankfully Rachel was someone who didn’t easily pick up on tell-tale subtleties.

It was getting late, indicated by Jeremy referencing his watch. He let out a sigh.

“Should we be going?” she asked. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight,” he replied.

“Time flies,” she said.

Jeremy couldn’t agree more. Had he missed it? All night he was looking for an opening – a brief pause in her barrage of hollow conversation that would allow him to finally speak his mind. So far nothing. Either Rachel had not given him the chance or he wasn’t brave enough to interject. He had found her comment on skipping disturbing, but chose in that moment to not use the statement as a platform for his much-delayed complaints. He feared her response. He feared her making a scene in a public place. He feared losing her. And most of all, he feared knowing that he needed someone like her to feel complete. But he wanted to complain – truly he wanted to interject and proclaim that he too was unhappy just like her. But he wouldn’t tonight.

He would instead return with her to his apartment as the ritual mandated and spend the next two hours lounging alongside her on his couch watching television. It was mid-December, so reruns of classic holiday shows would be playing. She would eventually claim to be too tired to stay awake. He would ask her to spend the night, but she would refuse. He would offer her a ride back. She would politely decline, insisting the walk wasn’t far and that she needed to clear her mind. They would make their way to the apartment door, kiss their goodbyes, and probably start over again tomorrow.