Driftwood
By Patrick D. Hume
I didn’t want to become one of those aimless drifters wandering the Oregon coast. Nor did I want to be hunted and captured, only to find myself in one of those cannibal slaughterhouses with all those foreign men and immigrant women, cut up and tossed aside with the veal, dark meat, breaded up and served to the elite with a white wine and dark rye toast. I wanted a wife. I wanted to work for a modest living in between the piano keys and dark coffee. I wanted to burn the midnight oil, the candle at both ends, into the future of old age and happy children singing my praises. I wanted Ashley to run away with me to the western sea, to watch her fall asleep under the setting sun, as I played her my most recent masterpiece that would’ve carried her away into dreams. But in the end I got nothing I wanted, and now I want nothing. I am a dead man.
I left after the cannibals had taken over the cities. They took over cable TV, the USDA, the Attorney General, they polluted the minds of children with their text books, and they put their religion in schools. Apparently, it is healthy to eat human meat at least three times a day. It’s a dog eat mad world that I no longer understand, and I’m not even sure if I ever did. What choice did I have? I never could have consumed human flesh! I alone, chose to believe in the morality of my youth: that all men are created equal, etc. etc... That there is not some divine will, some supreme being, who, based on the whims of fate, decides which men live and which are to be lunch meat. My only choice was to run away.
I thought I could convince Ashley to follow me, to ignore what they said about me, to go against the very tenets of modern society; but instead she stayed behind to listen to the war drums beat on. Ashley had a job working in the daycare industry, she had her cat, she had her family; and even though deep down she loved me, she knew I was a fool to leave. Even then I understood her decision. I know it is hard to uproot the Midwest life, go against the grain, and proclaim yourself a free thinker, because only a madman is truly free. And after all, when the poverty took hold and I became a beggar, a drifter, a loner by the Pacific sea; I would still salivate whenever I thought of steak. I don’t blame her for anything.
One by one the cannibals came for us with papers in their hands. To drift is illegal, to be a deserter of society is mad, to leave your home and family for a unique set of morality is to be a coward punished by death. So I hid and avoided authority as much as I could. I befriended other illegals and we whispered about revolution. Sometimes, in the distant remote woods, I would think about Ashley and I know sometimes she thought of me. Then one day, when following the folly of my most recent fantasies: that maybe I would be the one to make into Canada alive, that Ashley got my letters and would cross that border too, and into the sunset of high hopes we would finally be together. That is the day when those cannibals finally caught me.
I thought I was clever. I played the fool. I lied. I pretended I was one of them, and only that I had lost my way, but I had finally seen the light and found righteousness outside myself. I told them I understood why I should be condemned, I told them I loved God and all His children. I told them I was being honest, and that if only they would forgive me for my sins, then I would eat the flesh of men. I said I would cut up women for them, that I would lick the youth off the bones of children, and fry up the hearts of babies to prove that I meant it! I said I would kill someone to show them that I was a good citizen, and that I was just like them. But, they had heard it all before.
In my final moments, standing single file in a line forever deep on a long metal plank, I did not reach out to Jesus or ponder the insanity of it all. I stood quietly listening to the weeping of all the other expatriates around me, and to the faint horrible screams coming from the distant slaughterhouse. All I could do, to ignore that salty metallic air, was to think about the way Ashley’s hair smelled in the summertime. I imagined outrageous things, that maybe we would all be set free by some freak natural disaster. I imagined my head upon her breast in the lazy days of autumn. I thought about all the cowards like me, that maybe we were wrong after all. That maybe dying for a dietary decision was not the path to glory. Because all roads lead to death anyway, so why stray from the beaten path? However, in the end, I thought of Ashley. I thought of Ashley’s lips, her eyes, and the way she looked at me when we were in love...
Right now a radio is playing classic rock songs somewhere in the Midwest; the crickets are singing, the sunlight is fading, and the grill is cooling off from another long Saturday afternoon.
Ashley sits on the front porch swing with her sweetheart holding her tight. They are both thinking about marriage. He is a strong man, with a level head, and a good job; and Ashley knows she can count on him to always be there for her. For in this perfect moment, they are truly in love. And as they drift into sleep with their bellies full of meat, she slowly digests what is left of my humanity.
- - -
Patrick D. Hume (b. 1982) is a professional musician in Louisville, KY where he is a music instructor and performer. In 2005 he graduated from Bellarmine University with a bachelor's degree in Music Technology. Patrick Hume is also a composer, a songwriter, and a devote listener of music. As well as an amateur writer and a reader of books.
By Patrick D. Hume
I didn’t want to become one of those aimless drifters wandering the Oregon coast. Nor did I want to be hunted and captured, only to find myself in one of those cannibal slaughterhouses with all those foreign men and immigrant women, cut up and tossed aside with the veal, dark meat, breaded up and served to the elite with a white wine and dark rye toast. I wanted a wife. I wanted to work for a modest living in between the piano keys and dark coffee. I wanted to burn the midnight oil, the candle at both ends, into the future of old age and happy children singing my praises. I wanted Ashley to run away with me to the western sea, to watch her fall asleep under the setting sun, as I played her my most recent masterpiece that would’ve carried her away into dreams. But in the end I got nothing I wanted, and now I want nothing. I am a dead man.
I left after the cannibals had taken over the cities. They took over cable TV, the USDA, the Attorney General, they polluted the minds of children with their text books, and they put their religion in schools. Apparently, it is healthy to eat human meat at least three times a day. It’s a dog eat mad world that I no longer understand, and I’m not even sure if I ever did. What choice did I have? I never could have consumed human flesh! I alone, chose to believe in the morality of my youth: that all men are created equal, etc. etc... That there is not some divine will, some supreme being, who, based on the whims of fate, decides which men live and which are to be lunch meat. My only choice was to run away.
I thought I could convince Ashley to follow me, to ignore what they said about me, to go against the very tenets of modern society; but instead she stayed behind to listen to the war drums beat on. Ashley had a job working in the daycare industry, she had her cat, she had her family; and even though deep down she loved me, she knew I was a fool to leave. Even then I understood her decision. I know it is hard to uproot the Midwest life, go against the grain, and proclaim yourself a free thinker, because only a madman is truly free. And after all, when the poverty took hold and I became a beggar, a drifter, a loner by the Pacific sea; I would still salivate whenever I thought of steak. I don’t blame her for anything.
One by one the cannibals came for us with papers in their hands. To drift is illegal, to be a deserter of society is mad, to leave your home and family for a unique set of morality is to be a coward punished by death. So I hid and avoided authority as much as I could. I befriended other illegals and we whispered about revolution. Sometimes, in the distant remote woods, I would think about Ashley and I know sometimes she thought of me. Then one day, when following the folly of my most recent fantasies: that maybe I would be the one to make into Canada alive, that Ashley got my letters and would cross that border too, and into the sunset of high hopes we would finally be together. That is the day when those cannibals finally caught me.
I thought I was clever. I played the fool. I lied. I pretended I was one of them, and only that I had lost my way, but I had finally seen the light and found righteousness outside myself. I told them I understood why I should be condemned, I told them I loved God and all His children. I told them I was being honest, and that if only they would forgive me for my sins, then I would eat the flesh of men. I said I would cut up women for them, that I would lick the youth off the bones of children, and fry up the hearts of babies to prove that I meant it! I said I would kill someone to show them that I was a good citizen, and that I was just like them. But, they had heard it all before.
In my final moments, standing single file in a line forever deep on a long metal plank, I did not reach out to Jesus or ponder the insanity of it all. I stood quietly listening to the weeping of all the other expatriates around me, and to the faint horrible screams coming from the distant slaughterhouse. All I could do, to ignore that salty metallic air, was to think about the way Ashley’s hair smelled in the summertime. I imagined outrageous things, that maybe we would all be set free by some freak natural disaster. I imagined my head upon her breast in the lazy days of autumn. I thought about all the cowards like me, that maybe we were wrong after all. That maybe dying for a dietary decision was not the path to glory. Because all roads lead to death anyway, so why stray from the beaten path? However, in the end, I thought of Ashley. I thought of Ashley’s lips, her eyes, and the way she looked at me when we were in love...
Right now a radio is playing classic rock songs somewhere in the Midwest; the crickets are singing, the sunlight is fading, and the grill is cooling off from another long Saturday afternoon.
Ashley sits on the front porch swing with her sweetheart holding her tight. They are both thinking about marriage. He is a strong man, with a level head, and a good job; and Ashley knows she can count on him to always be there for her. For in this perfect moment, they are truly in love. And as they drift into sleep with their bellies full of meat, she slowly digests what is left of my humanity.
- - -
Patrick D. Hume (b. 1982) is a professional musician in Louisville, KY where he is a music instructor and performer. In 2005 he graduated from Bellarmine University with a bachelor's degree in Music Technology. Patrick Hume is also a composer, a songwriter, and a devote listener of music. As well as an amateur writer and a reader of books.
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Very creative Patrick. Just as strange as life is, sometimes.
Kelly