July 15, 2010
July 15, 2010
I have JM Prescott to thank for this inspiration. Check out her website at: http://jmprescott.blogspot.com. Every week she posts a dare and some insightful writing knowledge that fuels me through. Much thanks to her.
Her weekly blog challenge was a dare to write a poem or flash based on a captcha.
This is what inspired me.
It’s all he needs.
His ’62 Chevy, a winding and tattered back road, blue ink and a notebook.
Throw in some Stones tunes and he’s got it made. Sunday is his day; not the Lord’s, not his mother’s, who calls every morning at 6am on the dot. It’s his. Personal and private. He wouldn’t be ashamed if people knew but the secretive act — just for him — makes it so much cooler.
And so he drives until he finds them.
He still remembers his first. He had been 10, walking home from school when something brown caught his eye. Lying in the ditch, so still, so small. It was a raccoon and by the looks of it, a car had taken it out. His hand twitched. The notebook was out and before realizing, he had scribbled: Brown raccoon, hit by a car. Accident. April 6, 1954.
Since then he’s kept tedious record of the broken carcasses on the sides of the roads he’s traveled.
But they’re not always on the side of the road. And they’re not always accidents. The day he found Jimmy Cooper’s dog slashed in the stomach and buried underneath an old oak tree, he knew Jimmy was someone to stay away from. Buster the Beagle, disemboweled. Murder. September 8, 1960.
It wasn’t as thrilling to write as he would have thought. And a year later, he wasn’t surprised when Jimmy got sent to juvie.
Today, he pulls over, seeing what he wants. It’s tan and still graceful, even in death. He writes: Fallen doe, old age. Natural causes. October 20, 1984.
He looks down at his aging hands, not yet covered with the brown of age but one day.
And he sighs, wishing he could document his self.