Friday, June 5, 2015

Moccasins: Size Death

Journal: Memorial Day on the Boredman
I drifted in and out of consciousness unable to move or speak. At one point I was on the ground and later in the tent. Orange and yellow demon tongues flicked at the wall of the tent and me. Maybe it was only firelight. Once, I saw a demon-man putting wood on the campfire. I thought I’d wake up fully at that point. Its angry face turned and looked at me. It was me.

“Wake up wheel boy, wake up. Wake up hon, wake up.”

The voices of two women spoke to me in unison. I couldn’t seem to wake up so I slept while it haunted me. I dreamed of two women, His Favorite Gal and my wife, one fully native the other not. They alternated between loving and pestering me in word and deed. I was glad when they stopped and stood quietly before me. Standing side by side, they leaned against each other and melted into one person with half brown and half pale complexion. 

I dreamed of Clay and I attending school again. We were friends, happy, brothers, tight. Then, still as young boys, we went fishing. We were heading home when an owl soared at us. It slammed into me, ripped my chest with its talons, and took flight. Spiritual poison oozed throughout my soul. Everything went dark and I slept free of dreams or visions.

Pow-Wow’s host drum pounded me awake, well, that’s what my ears and head felt. I was in the tent, fully dressed, bug bitten, and scratching. It was maybe 6 am judging by the sky’s hazy light.

Disoriented, I shoved confusion aside. I sensed disaster nearby, no, it was death. Wearing moccasins, it crept around in silence. Distracted by my brain, I remembered the visions and dreams but struggled to recall where I was and how I got there. A voice outside the tent guided me.

“Get your wrinkly old skin movin’ ya geezer. We’re spose be goin’ fishing.”

It was Clay’s voice. My nose, wiggling like a happy dog’s tail, got excited when it whiffed coffee brewing. Ah yes, camping, Sheriff, and I felt there was more but no memory came up. Crawling from the tent, I saw a small quiet fire making hot, passionate, love to the coffee pot that percolated in response. I didn’t see Clay though.

My eyes, sticky from sleep and nightmares, begged to be rubbed. I obliged just in time to see Clay step out from behind a big Oak. Still shaking dew from his pet snake, he finished and caged it in his underwear. I grimaced at the spectacle and the painful squeezing in my brain as he zipped up.

“Yah, so ya heard me I guess,” said Clay full of cheer. “Coffee should be done so let’s grab a few donuts and eat. There’s a big brookie callin’ me out.”

Almost a migraine, the headache made me queasy but the caffeine would help. I sat down while Clay filled our cups.

“Don’t get comfy Ain’t It. We’re only stayin’ for one cup. Pitiful, you look pitiful by the way.”

“Clay, shut the hell up a minute and let me dose this wicked pain in my melon. Yah, I feel as pitiful as I look.”

Clay sat down with a clear plastic crate of a dozen assorted donuts. The crackling sound the container made as it was opened zapped my brain like lightning strikes. I scowled and moaned.

“Migraine?” asked Clay.

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