The men step through the crushed leaves underfoot, flatten the browns and reds into a muddy woven carpet stretching across what used to be a trail before the seasonal rain shot through the bedrock and washed away the definition. Clumps of dirt once bound into the mountainside with a lattice of roots now break free with each bootstep. The path erases itself behind the men in their flannel shirts and filthy blue jeans.
Watch your step, says the old one.
I got eyes. I ain't blind, says the young one.
He has eyes: oh, what eyes he has. Hazel the color of ditchwater, but with an oily sheen that melts into the whites, his pupils follow the indefinite winding of the path. He watches the old man find perfect footing and wonders why his feet falter where his father's do not. His boots squelch in the eddies of glittering hazel ditchwater below him. He pulls against its pull and falls behind, stuck in the unforgiving mess. Wet leaves stick to his denim cuffs and the old one walks ahead.
Check your pace, old man, he says.
The old one doesn't look back, but trudges up the hill with his split shotgun in the crook of his withered arm. The boy with the ditchwater eyes tugs and tugs at his boots and, almost losing balance, places his own gun gingerly against the closest elm. He curses the ground, curses his god, and curses his father who rounds the bend before him. Mostly he just curses.
A few silent steps behind the cursing, a girl stares at the young one. While his feet stick in the earth, her tiny bare feet skip lightly over the brilliant reds of the dead leaves.The girl's name is Autumn, and she follows him. She has followed him for some time, for when she saw him she could not turn away. She looked deep into the ditchwater and it did not stare back, and so she wanted him even more. Autumn longs for his eyes, as she longs for the rest of him, for all his supple anger and beauty. She longs to feel his heart beat next to hers, to commit her lips to him. And he stands in the mud, oblivious to her and oblivious to the desire that radiates from her, betrays her position even as she trails him like a phantom.
Pa, you better stop, he says, I'm caught.
And his foot pulls free from the muck but leaves the boot behind. He curses again and topples back into the elm where his gun waits. His head collides with the smooth bark and he crashes to the mud, bringing the firearm down with him. It discharges and buckshot snaps into the undergrowth.
Watch your step, says the old one.
I got eyes. I ain't blind, says the young one.
He has eyes: oh, what eyes he has. Hazel the color of ditchwater, but with an oily sheen that melts into the whites, his pupils follow the indefinite winding of the path. He watches the old man find perfect footing and wonders why his feet falter where his father's do not. His boots squelch in the eddies of glittering hazel ditchwater below him. He pulls against its pull and falls behind, stuck in the unforgiving mess. Wet leaves stick to his denim cuffs and the old one walks ahead.
Check your pace, old man, he says.
The old one doesn't look back, but trudges up the hill with his split shotgun in the crook of his withered arm. The boy with the ditchwater eyes tugs and tugs at his boots and, almost losing balance, places his own gun gingerly against the closest elm. He curses the ground, curses his god, and curses his father who rounds the bend before him. Mostly he just curses.
A few silent steps behind the cursing, a girl stares at the young one. While his feet stick in the earth, her tiny bare feet skip lightly over the brilliant reds of the dead leaves.The girl's name is Autumn, and she follows him. She has followed him for some time, for when she saw him she could not turn away. She looked deep into the ditchwater and it did not stare back, and so she wanted him even more. Autumn longs for his eyes, as she longs for the rest of him, for all his supple anger and beauty. She longs to feel his heart beat next to hers, to commit her lips to him. And he stands in the mud, oblivious to her and oblivious to the desire that radiates from her, betrays her position even as she trails him like a phantom.
Pa, you better stop, he says, I'm caught.
And his foot pulls free from the muck but leaves the boot behind. He curses again and topples back into the elm where his gun waits. His head collides with the smooth bark and he crashes to the mud, bringing the firearm down with him. It discharges and buckshot snaps into the undergrowth.
