(WW19) Wednesday Wonder, Week Nineteen
Continuation from WW17
I decided to create a short story that uses the vivid text from last time.
It could be a 10-minute read. 1,424 words in the short story.
Let me know what you think!
I went in a slightly different direction in this story, which is set in a troubled, dark place with nightmarish military roots.
One day, I may explain how this story came about.
But for now, I hope you enjoy reading it.
I hope you feel the pain, the emotion, and the relief.
LAST INSTALLMENT:
Right now, I am thinking about a southern plantation-style house, it just appeared in my mind, and I have no reason why or how. The house sits on a hill with a beautiful backdrop of blue sky and puffy white clouds. A dirt driveway leading from a two-lane paved road runs upward to the front of the house in the circular driveway. A spiderweb clothesline with freshly cleaned laundry can be seen on the left in the backyard. Rocking chairs, a table, a picture of lemonade, and a smoking cigar in an ashtray on the table can be seen on the front porch. But there are no people.
The serenity of that scene is broken by lightning, hail, rain, and wind as the storm starts, approaches, lands on the home, and passes, leaving the scene as it was found, but there is a difference. The laundry is stuck in the fence, the chairs are toppled over and pushed to one end of the porch, and the cigar is gone, leaving the ashtray, not clean, alone on the table next to the lemonade.
Title: SHEP
Thomas Pearson returned to a place he knew well—where his life began. He was going home. The trip took him more than a week, several months longer than a week. He had numerous stops along the way. Doctors, nurses, shrinks. They finally said he had adjusted to his condition. Right. Adjusted. For the last time, he was wearing his dress uniform.
Several months ago, he was in the desert, happy and content on the peacekeeping force with his best friend since birth. They were born a few days apart, and their families were like one extended family. Fighting for his life amid an enemy he could not identify on sight—an enemy who used children, pets, and women to do their dirty work. He spent the past five months in the hospital recovering from the injuries he sustained when he could not shoot and kill a young girl. She ran toward them in the heat of summer, wearing a coat. It was an obvious sign that she had explosives attached to her body, and she was trying to conceal them from view or suspicion. It was too late when Thomas’s lieutenant gave the order. She was too close, and when she died from the single bullet entering her brain, her hand relaxed on the dead man switch, and she exploded. The plastic explosive was laced with a variety of lethal items. Ball bearings, nails, screws, shards of glass, and to Thomas’s end, metal rods.
When the girl detonated, three of those rods entered the left side of his body. His arm at the elbow joint, his leg just below his knee, and his hip. His arm was too shattered to save. His leg was all there, but the usefulness was well diminished. His hip stopped the rod completely, and part of it was still embedded in the bone of his hip joint. Thankfully, it was surgical steel and did not cause an infection. The portion that remained in his body was removed, cleaned, sterilized, and returned because it fit perfectly into the hole, and the field hospital had nothing on station that could also fill that role. He was the only member of his team that survived, barely.
As the taxi approached his childhood home, it was dark. Pitch dark. He loves the darkness, his work medium for the past four years. Before the incident, new people were afraid of the dark. He would tell them there is nothing there that ain’t in the light like that made them feel better.
He saw the tree across from his driveway or half a tree where he his best friend experimented with explosives while in high school. The house was dark, with no lights except a single porch light. He and his uncle installed that light a few weeks before he turned 18. Late in the season, before the snow came. It was the first time his uncle let him drink some beer.
When he left a lifetime ago, he remembered the dirt driveway leading from the two-lane paved road that runs upward to the front of the house in the circular driveway. He remembered the spiderweb clothesline his mother liked to use on sunny afternoons, loading it with freshly cleaned laundry on the left on the left side of the house. Rocking chairs and a table were still on the porch, and in his mind, he saw a woman holding a picture of lemonade. A smoldering cigar usually sat in the amber glass ashtray on the table, which can be seen on the front porch reflecting that single light on the house. He remembered his mother, uncle, sister, and Greta, his faithful dog for the past 15 years.
But now, there are no people. Greta made it to the Rainbow Bridge a year after he joined the military. His uncle Mike and his sister Melinda died in a traffic accident a few months after Greta. His mother died of a broken heart a few months after her baby girl. He knew he would be completely alone when he arrived at the house. He still had the key laced on his keyring in his pocket.
The taxi left, and he stood momentarily looking at the house. Walking up the front steps was a challenge, but he made it. He and his uncle poured eight cement steps to replace the wooden steps that were falling apart. They all put their handprints on the top step, their name under the print, and the date.
He opened the door and smelled cookies. Impossible. But he smelled chocolate chip cookies. He entered the kitchen, flipping the switch out of instinct, and found a plate of cookies and a note.
Tommy, the cookies are from us. There is milk in the fridge and something stronger next to it. Call in the morning, and breakfast is on us. We are family.
Gladyse and Rufus Sheppard signed it. His neighbors since before he could remember. Thomas Pearson and his best friend, Thomas Sheppard, got in trouble together as kids. Lots of trouble, fun trouble. They called themselves T2 or T-Squared. He and his best friend joined the military as a team. The Sheppards knew their son died in an explosion. He was buried a mile down the road. The funeral took place before he woke up after the incident. He had no intention of telling them he died from a steel rod that destroyed his arm and continued its journey, its flight, into his left eye and the brain of his best friend in the universe.
He poured a glass of milk, grabbed a few cookies, and put them on a plate. In the fridge, he saw eggs, bacon, and OJ. He also saw that Mr. S left a bottle of scotch. He did not feel like that at the moment. Maybe later. He walked out, turning off the light.
He flipped on the lights in the living room and saw everything as he remembered it. It was a clean house. Mrs S must have cleaned it yesterday. What could he tell them? Their son, his brother, died instantly and felt no pain. That’s what he would say if asked. But the tragic truth, well, that is locked away in a deep corner of his mind.
When that explosion hit, something he has relived every night for months, he knew he died. The nurse told him he died three times before he woke up 63 days after he arrived at the field hospital, 63 days after the explosion, 63 days after Lieutenant Hannah Morrow, Sergeant Ron Bixly, Sergeant Thomas Sheppard, Corporal Melissa Marks, and Corporal Andrea Binks lost their lives. He, Staff Sergeant Thomas Pearson, lost an arm, part of a leg, and a family in that same instant. Brothers and sisters.
He looked above the fireplace, directly in front of his seat. His father’s Winchester shotgun was there in its place. It was loaded and ready to use if it was true to form. Dad always said it was his coyote deterrent. 12 gauge and loaded with three rounds of slugs, one shot, and the first round, sitting in the chamber, is bird shot. Dad always said Scare – Injure – Kill. Kill is always the last resort. So different from his previous four years. It was so different from how he felt at that moment. He was having trouble coming to grips with the fact that he was alone. Not family alone, but squad alone. Why did he survive? He sat back in the chair and yelled. “WHY?” It went on for a breath.
He sipped on the milk and dipped the cookie in the glass. He considered getting the scotch when he heard a sound. He left the front door open, heard the porch boards creaking, and reached for his sidearm. He was no longer wearing a sidearm and turned to see a small orange kitten walking into the house.
The kitten walked over to him and climbed up his leg. He shared the milk with it, putting some of the milk on the small plate that held the cookies a few minutes ago. The kitten drank the milk and hopped into his lap. Soft purrs and the kitten fell asleep.
“Well, if you are going to live here, you need a name,” he said to it, “I have no idea if you are a boy or a girl.”
The kitten opened an eye and looked at him, a meow and a stare. “Then SHEP, Shep is your new name.”
The kitten opened both eyes, crawled to his neck, and snuggled. The purring and affection were easy to see and hear. For the first time, it has been a very long time, but he felt at peace. He felt happy. He smiled.
“Thank you, Shep. I think you saved me.” He looked at the shotgun again. This time, he winked at it. That thought left his mind. Shep needed him.
They slept on the couch together that night. He loved sleeping on the couch. It was long enough for him and wide enough for the both of them, but Shep curled up on his chest. That motor was calming. He brought Shep to meet his new grandparents next door in the morning for breakfast. They would understand and appreciate the name. Thomas dreamt of playing in the north field with his best friend as a kid, and the new kitten, Shep, was there too, as was Greta. It was by far the best night’s sleep he has had in a long time.
Thank you for reading,
Thank you for subscribing,
Chris Cancilla