The Good-Bye Garden (Part One)
Ryan Everett Felton
Five weeks after I swore an oath I’d never go back, I jumped a wild ass and kicked it in the haunches until it pointed its dripping snout toward home. I cursed and spat and told the beast it was a stupid, stubborn thing, but that from here on out – between the pair of us – I’d be the stupider, stubborner one. It brayed and kept moving, which I took to mean that the beast agreed to do the walking from here on out. That suited me fine. I might’ve grown up in the desert, but I never really took to it, nor it to me.
Slung across my back were my only possessions: a pair of sandals; a cloth to wrap around my head in the day and curl up under at night; and three waterskins – one full of water, the other two brimming with wine. One of the wine ones I grabbed now and took a pull. Fine, just fine. My cousin’s wife smashed the grapes with her own two feet and I never took a sip of the stuff without imagining those perfect little toes of hers, fleshy flawless grapes themselves. What a pretty thing she is.
“Damn it, Dashel,” I said to myself. “Don’t think, just drink.” Continue reading “The Good-Bye Garden: Part One”