In A Grove (With You)
By Michael White
In a grove, in a hollow, in a mountain, Paul found a corpse—your corpse. It was facedown and half-buried under scattered leaves, smelling of dried blood and Indian summers. But it was still a handsome corpse. You should be proud. Most are not so fortunate to look so alive in death.
Paul turned your body over, saw a large chest wound in the shape of a dark red well, and vomited on and into it. He apologized to no one, thinking no one saw. Well, I saw. And I can tell you he was broken-heartedly sorry for doing so.
You were wearing your favorite jacket when you died; you know, the snug one which hugs you in the wintertime with the warmth of three bears and a bowl of hot tomato soup.
It did not help you.
Paul walked about the grove, circling your body several times. He kneeled in front of a trio of trees near your feet. There was cut rope and red splattered along its painting of leaves—and a footprint beneath. It was thick and mangled with many horizontal ridges of dirt. Paul set his forward foot beside it and compared the two: they were of similar size. He returned to your corpse, knelt, and surveyed the area around you. Nothing (but you). And me.
Paul left the grove soon after. Now, Paul is a fine name, but it was not his name. It might have been Al or Malcolm or Ozymandias, but not Paul. I only call him this out of simplicity for your sake. All in all, Paul was a fine man from what I knew (and I did not know much). He passed through the hollow and the mountain and later made it as far as the edge of Outer America when I shot him. Yes, I shot him. I apologized and I like to think he forgave me. But I cannot be sure.
I returned to the grove by nightfall—or was it dawn?—and I buried the two of you together. I even set up a nice little cross made of bamboo and cedar to mark your ends; I wrapped your jacket around its base. It was a nasty affair, yes, but I won fair and square and you cannot deny this. When pushed against a wall, a man shoots or he doesn’t shoot. Nothing else matters until after he has made that decision. And I shot first. So I say rest for now. When you awake and after you dig your way through, remember to grab your jacket. It’s a nice jacket—albeit a bit bloodier now. And we will go again next week.
Until then…
Me: 6 You: 4
- - -
Originally from Chicago, IL, Michael White is a current full-time student at Full Sail University in Winter Park, FL. He is working toward his bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing for Entertainment.
By Michael White
In a grove, in a hollow, in a mountain, Paul found a corpse—your corpse. It was facedown and half-buried under scattered leaves, smelling of dried blood and Indian summers. But it was still a handsome corpse. You should be proud. Most are not so fortunate to look so alive in death.
Paul turned your body over, saw a large chest wound in the shape of a dark red well, and vomited on and into it. He apologized to no one, thinking no one saw. Well, I saw. And I can tell you he was broken-heartedly sorry for doing so.
You were wearing your favorite jacket when you died; you know, the snug one which hugs you in the wintertime with the warmth of three bears and a bowl of hot tomato soup.
It did not help you.
Paul walked about the grove, circling your body several times. He kneeled in front of a trio of trees near your feet. There was cut rope and red splattered along its painting of leaves—and a footprint beneath. It was thick and mangled with many horizontal ridges of dirt. Paul set his forward foot beside it and compared the two: they were of similar size. He returned to your corpse, knelt, and surveyed the area around you. Nothing (but you). And me.
Paul left the grove soon after. Now, Paul is a fine name, but it was not his name. It might have been Al or Malcolm or Ozymandias, but not Paul. I only call him this out of simplicity for your sake. All in all, Paul was a fine man from what I knew (and I did not know much). He passed through the hollow and the mountain and later made it as far as the edge of Outer America when I shot him. Yes, I shot him. I apologized and I like to think he forgave me. But I cannot be sure.
I returned to the grove by nightfall—or was it dawn?—and I buried the two of you together. I even set up a nice little cross made of bamboo and cedar to mark your ends; I wrapped your jacket around its base. It was a nasty affair, yes, but I won fair and square and you cannot deny this. When pushed against a wall, a man shoots or he doesn’t shoot. Nothing else matters until after he has made that decision. And I shot first. So I say rest for now. When you awake and after you dig your way through, remember to grab your jacket. It’s a nice jacket—albeit a bit bloodier now. And we will go again next week.
Until then…
Me: 6 You: 4
- - -
Originally from Chicago, IL, Michael White is a current full-time student at Full Sail University in Winter Park, FL. He is working toward his bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing for Entertainment.
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