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cmp.2009.07.14
ed.2009.08.28.04 (Third Draft)

Heavy tattered curtains smothered the living room window; a heavy gust slammed the screen door against the mountain cabin. Hiding from the lightning, a small boy huddled in the corner behind the bed. He wondered when the daylight would be stolen by the storm. Am I afraid of the light? He closed his eyes in the thunder, and then faded into nothingness as his page was thrown away.

A black, cold iron wood stove stood isolated in its corner; a small ash bucket and a spilled wood cradle spotted the clean wooden floor. A young man watched from his stool, peering between the curtains with his rifle in hand. He slid a round into its chamber, turned, and then closed the bolt. Lightning tore through the mountain top, sundering soul from body—a page torn in half; the clouds crumpled, and then he was gone.

Oil paintings and acrylics hung on the cabin's only wall separating the bedroom from the kitchen. The doorway to the kitchen opened to small stacks of dishes—pots on plates, those on bowls; a few glass perched on top. And there he was, an elderly man, with a frying pan in his hand. He lifted the cast iron frying pan, for a moment surprised by its weight; grease spattered his forearm. Lightning flashed through the kitchen window, and he leaned over to close the curtains; the eggs slid into the bacon that had curled itself up along the side. Get a grip, He told himself. He shook his breakfast to the middle, and set the pan down again, wondering at a wine glass perched perilously on top of a breakfast bowl—inside of last night's bean pan, on top of two heavily chipped ceramic plates still covered with steak sauce and grease. His heart weighed down with sorrow, and emptiness rubbed his life away. The bacon popped, and the eggs hardened under speckles of black pepper and salt. Thunder rolled through the mountain; the dishes rattled in its wake.

His orange poncho pulled in the wind as he tried to look into the kitchen window; steam rose fogging the square fitted glass panes of the dull green mountain cabin. Black, freshly dropped shale stretched in a path around the cabin; the little rocks crunched and compressed beneath his boots as he shifted his weight. Two water pipes ran from the house, one pipe reached to a drain further downhill along the back of the cabin, the other along the shale path to the water pump. Electrical wiring had been laced from the pump to a tall wooden post, and then to a collection of chained down dry cell marine batteries; several cleanly wound wires were tacked to another post and drooped to the solar panels on the roof. Tornado weather slung misted rain from the cedars; droplets danced through the heavily mulched lines of mint. For a moment, he turned his head towards the wind, his short greying beard and wild hair collecting the mist into small beads of water.

Before the front door, he leaned over the three wooden steps trying to look into the cabin. He raised his large thickened knuckles to the metal frame of the screen door; but the screen door bounced out, slammed against the frame, and then bounced out again in the wind. His hand caught the door, and he stepped up onto the top of the stairs. The smell of bacon and eggs turned him towards the kitchen where a cast iron pan popped softly; grease dotted around the pan as he took it off the burner. Whose place is this supposed to be? He asked himself.

Lightning flashed through the windows, and he waited for the thunder—I wonder if there is a storm cellar, he thought absently. He felt his form shift, his consciousness going blank. Wait, do I get a choice? Can I choose this place to be mine? Don't I have the freedom to choose to live?

The woman moved her hand a little to the left, blocking the sun glare pouring into her monitor; her right hand twirled a pencil between her fingers while flipping the worn pages of her journal. She sighed, closed her laptop, and pushed her chair away from her glass desk. Her chair rolled smoothly across the bamboo laminate flooring. Beach front sunlight poured through the blinds of her third story studio; she winced in the afternoon heat as she slid the blinds to the side and walked onto her wooden deck. Her flip-flops smacked against her feet, and then she leaned over her balcony, supporting her weight with the palms of her hands. She swung herself up and then straddled the railing and looked down the waterline of the beach. She tucked her felt tipped pen behind her ear, and ran her fingers through her short, highlighted, frenetic beach blond hair. She pulled her sunglasses over her eyes and set her notebook onto the wide cherry stained railing. Blue ocean waves ran to play with sand castles always battling over their territory.

What would you choose if you had free will? She thought.

Perhaps I really do long for the quiet and the power of the mountains, he replied.

So, I will make it your cabin then.

But this really isn't my desire if you made me with this desire, he retorted. If I take this cabin, will it be something you have taken, or something that I have taken? Whose will, will it be a part of?

What does it matter if you share some of my desires? She challenged.

He reached into the pile of dishes, and pulled out a white spotted, blue metal bowl with chunks of chili hardening along the bottom, perhaps the cleanest in the stack. He flung the bits into the trash with a tomato sauce stained wooden spoon and then scooped the eggs and bacon into his bowl—he kept the wooden stirring spoon.

The screen door was still banging every so often, and he pushed the front-room's door closed. He lifted the wet poncho over his head and onto the door hook, careful not to spill his breakfast. Drops of water spilled onto the wooden floor from his hood. Fine, I'll take it; its really not that bad, he chuckled.

He sat on the double bed, and brought the bowl under his chin. He picked up an entire fried egg with his spoon and quickly tossed it into his mouth; yellow orange egg yolk warmly dripped onto his beard. What action can I take, that is free from cost? Where—or how—can I make a decision that doesn't really affect me any more than any other decision would?

He reached over to the bed-side table, and took a small pad and a stubby charcoal pencil. With his spoon in one hand, and the stub in the other, he slowly chewed the egg while he stared at the first blank page that he could find. And then, he began to write:

A frail main listened from within his cell under a barred and open window; outside, the fishermen quietly set their nets before the dawn, and the river rolled gently along its banks. Hurried hands slid sheaves of paper and two pens under the heavy wooden door; the man ran from the window, his trembling, gnarled fingers grabbing in compulsion. With the paper and pens in his hands, he sat with his back to the wall—Will there ever be a time at the river? He wondered hopefully. A rat ran across the stone floor of the candlelit cell, and the morning air coolly washed the sadness away. And then, he thought about what to write—

Oh good grief! She said, as she dismounted the railing. No way are you going to make this—that—obvious. She gazed over the ocean to the storm clouds off southwest of the island. She tore the page from her journal, and the breeze tossed the ball of paper as it danced along the empty but castled beach. Lightning forked out among the rising waves; thunder marched defiantly to the shore.

The man sat in his cell looking at where the rat had ran under his cot. For a moment he tried to run his fingers through his long dark, matted hair. He gazed at the sheaves of paper on his lap, and while he considered the woman's destiny, he massaged his back against the rounded edges of the cell's stone wall. He smiled, then tore the page in half; two crumpled balls of paper danced off the cobbled floor and then into the darkness under his cot. In silence, he looked and considered the brand new page. Then, with a well practiced flourish, he picked up his pen and began to write once more:

After the storm clouds had faded, the man had left the cabin in the morning before dawn; a well worn and familiar path had led him through the mountain woods. As he tried to straighten some stray tangles in his beared, he gazed at the fading morning stars. Then, with a fish stringer hung from his waders, a fly rod in his hand, and a few extra flies stuck to the brim of his cap, he turned, and walked into the stream.