silver spoon

It was a cold, silver-spoon moon, full of itself, shined the stars out of the sky on a sharp chill gusty night. He lay huddled in a shallow ravine, tucked amongst sparse brush, and pressed hard against the warm clay wall, it’s day spent baking in the sun, now radiating like a brick oven that warmed Ray to the bone. Discovery of the phenomena has significantly altered his daily existence by allowing him to endure the night and relieve his tired sore joints. The wind skimmed the tip top of the wall, blowing sand and tumbleweed overhead, like a surfer in the tube, he tucked down, curling tight  inside the cusp of the swirling mad sandstorm and fell asleep.

“Sleep tight amigo," he could almost hear his old Dad say.

On a gentler day, these same dry desert winds had swiped playful at his curtains and created whispers in the room,  
"Goodnight Buckeroo", 
it hummed low, while coyotes howled at the moon. 
"It’s good to be home.”


...or was the TV on in the other room of his head?

Next thing he knew…he was jarred awake by a noise he did not recognize.  He rose quickly from the depths  to the surface. His brain suffering the bends. His eyes snap open to reveal the moon now fully overhead, itself, hovering like some illuminated eye, in an indigo sky finally grown still, but colder, much colder. The sound? Did he hear what he heard or was it part of his buckeroo dream? He listened hard anticipating it to come again in hopes of recognizing. It did not. He lifted his head above the short ridge and smelled the sulfurous waft of gun smoke drifting by at it’s own pace. Had the wind been up, the smoke would be in Arizona by now, but in desert stillness, things linger, only to fade with time. So fresh, it had come just a short way away, from a brief moment ago.

Someone was out here shooting. But why one shot? Maybe their last round shot off while clearing the chamber. A hunter on his way back from Utah, making sure he did not take a loaded gun back to the family home. Of course there could be another, darker option. He had to resist the thought that perhaps it was the only shot the shooter had needed. Maybe a despondent soul, alone, ....or...worse.
In the darker option, the mission may now be complete. 
Both scenarios were viable explanations. 
Maybe some drunken kids…but still, just that one shot? Why come all the way out here for that? That’s when it struck him. It had to be the darker option. Out here is exactly where that would be. Even in full moon’s light, who was around to see?

 But had he? He thought he heard it, but cannot swear to it. He smelt the residue of the crime…if there was a crime. And there’s no crime without the body. Was it his job to substantiate this? This what? The only thing he was sure of was that he was not out here alone. While ruminating, he heard the rumble of big engine start up and drive off kicking gravel.

If that was the shooter, it was quite possible he left someone behind. He reckoned he’d find out in the morning, early in the morning before the sun bore down. But he knew, wherever they lie, how much remained to bake on the plain tomorrow would be up to the varmints tonight.

a big bunch a' mess

J.J. Pugh never wanted you to know. That’s why he disappeared. He didn’t care to be missed. Didn’t matter. What really mattered is that the ripples he left behind dissipate as quick as possible, any memories of him expunged from theirs. J.J. was through.

Not that it takes that long. Out of sight out of mind, and JJ was gone before he knew it. They didn’t care. No one went looking. No one called his disconnected number. No messages from his past.

He was finally alone and set free from any sense of obligation or responsibility. But it hurt deep.

In a canyon in a desert he screamed his lungs raw, his throat course….for hours…for a night….and still could not expunge the pain. By morning he awoke to a glorious sunrise, watching lavender shadows draw with the light, ripples of wind, and the hoarse croaking of desert birds, and the pungent smell of creosote like a dry crackle about to spark.

Survive the night and face the day. The night will only cool you, but the day will cook you. JJ was in a bunch of Mess. Scorpions danced across the stage in front of him. His head against the sand, he watched them on the horizontal – the angle of his perspective. They danced like a goddam floor show. Close and closer, pinchers rising, tails curling. He was a big problem in their lives, and JJ could take a hint and split.

It was no effort at all until he got to the highway. Once there, he caught his breath. Walked out to the middle of the deserted desert stretch, looked long at nothing, and wept. He was a bit of a weenie.

Pugh knew he was through unless a vehicle came into view. Fair enough a rationalization, and, yes, even a reality. Or was it a hallucination born of desperation? An illusion of disillusion. And if the dream bore fruit would it bore right through him?

He was lost in his own body - witness to his own mind.

He was aware that what mattered to him at this juncture, bore no real effect on everything around him. The vast flat forever. The battered ribbon of an old highway wandering off to nowhere. Himself just a speck. Barely a pixel. Insignificant, and as indistinguishable as road kill or tumbleweed.

"Watch what ya' wish for, Pugh." the voice said.