After Moira and Ranger Oakman settled themselves on the nurses' patio, a cool, shady, screened enclosure with dark green chairs and benches scattered across the concrete floor, Oakman seemed to hesitate. They had the patio to themselves, yet the tall, broad-shouldered ranger stared awkwardly at his boots and remained silent.

Last edited by wf (2009-07-23 17:21:49)

Moira would have called Oakman a hunk if she had only glimpsed him in a magazine. In person, he exuded something more than good looks. He had--Moira thought a moment--he had a clean smell about him, as if the filth of office politics and the taint of messy relationships had never touched him.

"No." Moira wondered what Oakman was fishing for. "The doctor assured me there's no chance of disease. I mean rabies, if that's your concern."

     Oakman's eyes seemed to net Moira up in one sweep, "You look healthy enough."

     "Yes, and now I must pay," groaned Moira.

     "Ms. Langden, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with Sandy. They won't have you arrested if you can't pay now. They will send you whopping bills and sic collectors on you, but that's about it.
     "I wondered, how do you mean to get back to Mulesbutte and retrieve your car? I'm headed back there now, so I can give you a lift, if you want."

Last edited by wf (2009-06-30 17:00:44)

Moira both hoped and feared that the ride to Mulesbutte National Park would jog her memories of the attack. However, no sinister associations spoiled the beauty of the drive down one country road after another, all winding among towering pines, oaks, and elms, as well as skeins and spumes of honeysuckle and sweetpea. Drunk on their fragrances, Moira sat back and closed her eyes. She drifted into a half-sleep. The squeak of suspension springs on uneven surface brought her out of her catnap and announced their arrival at the park station. Moira sat up and smoothed her hair and outfit.

     Oakman eased the truck into its reserved space. He went around to open the passenger door for Moira and carefully helped her out of the truck. She shook off her fog and looked around. Her green Saturn, lightly coated with dust, sat waiting.

     "We have your gear stowed away inside. Stay here and relax. It won't take me a minute to round up your stuff," assured Oakman, as his lean frame swung on his bootheel. He crunched off across the parking lot gravel towards the station, a cottage made of large stones.

Last edited by wf (2009-07-16 16:36:47)

"Here you go. I believe this is all your gear... Johnson! I'm glad you're back. We need to go over the schedule. Ms. Langden, this is Ranger Johnson. Johnson, this is the lady who survived the animal attack some nights ago."

     "Johnson? Are you related to Nurse Teresa Johnson, who was so nice to me at Soliere?

     "She's my mom," the young man proudly assented.

     "Well then, I am especially happy to meet you, Ranger Johnson."

     "Didn't Mom mention me? She likes to brag on me, but she probably referred to me as her baby Jon-Jon," chuckled Ranger Johnson.

     "Jon-Jon?"

     "Yes. You see, my full name is Jonathon John Johnson. I know, I know," Johnson threw up his hands. " Don't ask."

     "Names can make or break us," Moira observed. "By the way, I haven't seen a mule or a butte anywhere around here. How did the park get its name?"

     "Old time trappers and prospectors followed a trail along the present-day northern boundary of the park," Oakman said.

     "Is the butte along there, then?" Moira asked.

     "No, but there's a big rock weathered into the shape of a mule's flanks and tail. When the U.S. government  turned the territory into a park, they changed the name, adding an e."

     "So originally it was called--"

     "Yep," the lanky Ranger interrupted, as he nudged a pebble with his boot.  "Ranger Johnson, I need your report on that vandalized pedestrian bridge as soon as possible, so I can arrange repairs."

Last edited by wf (2009-07-02 13:04:17)

Oakman wryly grinned, "And you'll call me Tim from now on, I hope." He offered her his large, calloused hand.

     Moira smiled and accepted the hand, "I'm very pleased to meet you, Tim." 

     As Tim loaded the camping gear into the Saturn's trunk, Moira noticed an odd scar on his neck. "Well, no one's perfect," she told herself.

Moira yawned as she steered her Saturn into a curbside spot in front of her small home, a one-story, shingled bugalow. Originally a two bedroom house, in the Eighties it became a one bedroom (plus one small home office) establishment, billed by the real estate agent as a "yuppie castle." Moira had picked the place up cheap in 2002 after the stock market panic of 2000 brought home prices down. She wondered how much of a loss she would have to eat when she resold it. She knew she couldn't keep up the payments.
     Depressed, Moira kicked the week's accumulated newspapers aside and unlocked her front door. Darkness, as well as a peculiar sense of loneliness, almost physical, struck her. She felt somehow not quite home yet. The magical drive to and from the park had relaxed and cheered her, but now, fumbling for the light switch, Moira's mood prism twisted around to a less and less rosy point on the spectrum.

Last edited by wf (2009-07-23 17:27:17)

Moira examined the books in the Self-help aisle until she found one whose title announced, "Regressive Self-Hypnosis for the Foolhardy." She grabbed the paperback, quickly paid for it by credit card, and hurried home.

Last edited by wf (2009-07-07 17:45:32)

All the rest of that day, Moira had studied over the self-hypnosis book and tried to regress herself. By dinner time, her brain refused to have anymore to do with the project, not the first time her mind had so rebuked her regarding pop psychology.
     After a light dinner of cheap, excessively salty noodles, Moira trudged back to the bathroom for a sponge bath. For the first time since the attack, she cautiously peeled back the bandages from her chest and shoulder. She held her breath and blinked.
     A cut about fourteen inches long and bristling with self-dissolving stitchery stretched like an angry caterpillar from the area just below her right shoulder to the area just short of the broken ribs on the left side. On the left shoulder, an oval-shaped gouge wound, pricked about with little knots of stitches, plucked at something in Moira's memory. She knew how this mark would look later on. She knew because, healed up, this bite wound would resemble in size and shape the scar Moira had noticed on Tim Oakman's neck.

Last edited by wf (2009-07-08 16:12:05)

She recalled hiking down one path after another, amazed that so much was still so beautifully and insistently alive in the natural world. (Or nearly natural. The gravel path, alternating with the short, arching, wooden bridges, seemed civilized enough.) Not really tempted to stumble through the underbrush, Moira nevertheless peered into it as if caught by some mystical vision, like a scryer whose soul has gone a-travelling through the infinite refractions of a fine crystal ball.
     As the day drew late, Moira stopped to rest by a small lake which rippled and twinkled with gold and orange glints. She thought back to childhood summers at Girl Scout camp. She remembered peanut butter apples and campfire-blackened hot dogs on peeled pine sticks. She thought of silly ghost stories that ended in creepy sayings like, "Bloody bones and black eyes!"  or "X marks the spot!" Sometimes the storyteller would let her voice get softer and softer, just to lull the listeners, for she meant to terrify them by suddenly yelling, "Boo!" The affrighted but delighted faces, glowing in the firelight, would scream and giggle and, of course, beg for another story.
     The sweetness of her memories lulled Moira as surely as the storyteller's murmers once had done. All at once, Moira realized that the sun had dropped behind the trees, that night was coming on. She pulled her flashlight from her backpack and started back to her campsite.

Last edited by wf (2009-07-09 17:26:55)

Moira found herself on the floor by her bed, surrounded by darkness. She scrambled to her feet and clumsily flung out her hand for the bedside lamp. It crashed to the floor. Panicked, Moira sprang for the window. Yanking aside the drapes, she leaned against the night-cooled window sill and willed herself to a precarious calm. The waning moon threw its half-light, like a sweet mother tucking in a blanket, all around Moira. Her breathing and heartbeat approached normal again. She stood at the window and stared out at the silvery, moonlit world for a long while.
     By the time the dawn sun had worked its alchemy and turned the silver to gold, Moira had decided. She knew what she had to do.

Last edited by wf (2009-07-09 17:29:51)

A friend has given me this feedback: (1) The dialogue is so stilted and unvaried that it seems all of the characters are channeling the same librarian. (2) The scanty description leaves the reader puzzled as to the appearance of everyone, including the main character. (3) It is difficult to identify or sympathize with the main character because her emotions are not made clear. (4) The story is of no interest to an adult.

Do you agree with these criticisms?