Allen Seward
A young boy walks through the bleach white trees, followed close behind by a shaggy dog wagging its tail, trotting almost on the boy’s heels, its mouth hanging open almost as if it were smiling.
The sky above is green and the few splotches of clouds present are gray—they look like cotton swabs that have been pulled apart and left on the floor behind the trashcan for too long. They’ve gone dirty. They’ve taken on the color of death.
A fish flaps its fins and skates through the air above the boy and his dog, hardly taking notice of them. The boy always found these fish very intriguing. He used to throw rocks at them to try to knock one out of the air. He always missed, and he always knew he would miss, even before he threw. His father would shoot the things, clean them, and bring them home, and then the boy’s mother would take them and cook them. The fish always tasted better to the boy than those ugly feathered creatures his father would scoop out of the water.
One of the trees moans as a breeze passes through. The yellowed grass bends. It looks almost like Missy’s hair, the boy thought. Missy was a schoolmate of his. The yellowed grass looked like Missy’s yellowed hair. If the grass had hazel eyes then it might look just like Missy.
The boy keeps walking.
The dog keeps following.
“We’ve got a couple hours before supper,” the boy tells the dog. “We’ll keep walking for a bit.”
The dog wags its tail and smiles.
The two of them continue on, out through the trees and up the hill.
The dirty gray cotton clouds move about the sky and the sun shifts. The boy looks at it. It’s getting closer to suppertime. Another fish skates overhead, the sun rays catching on its scales and fins.
On some days the clouds in the sky aren’t so dirty looking, aren’t so pulled cotton looking. Sometimes they’re almost white. Sometimes the clouds take on shapes, or rough shapes, and some of the boy’s schoolmates will sit outside, or lie on the ground, and stare up at them to see what shapes they can make out. Sometimes a cloud might look like a rabbit, or a dog, a cat, a giraffe… Missy once told the boy that the clouds take on the shapes of animals because of all the kites that get pulled up there. The boy didn’t believe it.
“What about the balloons?” asked the boy.
“No,” said Missy, “they just float up and stay balloons.”
A bit further, maybe? No. Best head back.
The boy pats the dog on the head. Mother will want me to wash up before dinner, he thinks, and I’ll need a few minutes for that. Father won’t want to be delayed, he’ll want his meal and then his aftermeal cigar. He works in the morning, so he might not have his glass of scotch after supper—he likes to save that for the weekends, a true relaxation—but he always has his cigar.
Father’s fork will scrape the plate, and his lips will smack, and he will slurp whatever juices there are to slurp. He will have a second plate. He will compliment Mother’s cooking. He will have a glass of sweet tea with his meal—perhaps two.
The dog will sit under the table, its head on the boy’s knees, and the boy will sneak whatever meaty bits he can to the dog. His parents will pretend they don’t notice. He’ll feel like the most clever boy in the world.
The boy pats the dog’s head again. “We’d better head back,” he says.
“Yes,” says the dog. “Yes, indeed.”
ALLEN SEWARD is a writer from the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia. His work has appeared in Scapegoat Review, The Charleston Anvil, Bizarrchitecture, Skyway Journal, Moth Eaten Mag, and Eucalyptus Lit, among others. He currently resides in WV with his partner and four cats. @AllenSeward1 on Twitter, @allenseward0 on Instagram. Check out more at allenseward.wordpress.com.