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Human beings have always crafted stories. Through stories, they expressed fears, instructed the young, and shared their hopes.

Recently, I heard a story about a man I knew. The story did not seem to do justice to the man I knew him to be. Not all good men are pious; not all pious men are good.

I crafted this story to share a hope.

The songs of birds finally called him to wakefulness. He lay in bed, under the covers, and stared up at the rough-hewn ceiling. Not the ceiling he remembered, flat and white and far away. He turned his head to look around.

Rough wood walls, antlers, an antique rifle mounted on the wall. Several disorderly chairs around a table. In one corner, a stove. In the air, the smell of bacon.

He began to roll out of bed, and without thinking about it, winced. He was in no pain. Why did he wince? Reflex? He slowly and deliberately stood up. No pain.

“Hello?” we called out, first in a whisper, and then more loudly. “Hello? “

“Leave the old man in bed, huh? I’m not going to spot any deer that way!” he called out. Nothing responded.

He shrugged and quickly pulled on pants and a shirt, and then went over to the table. He helped himself to what eggs, bacon, and coffee were left.Â

Through the meal, he continued to look around. Several other unmade beds lined the walls, and there was a couch and several easy chairs arranged in a semi-circle around a fireplace. The more he looked around, the less sure he knew where he was. In a hunting camp, to be sure, but whose?Â

Standing back up, he retrieved his rifle and his cleaning kit from it’s bag next to his bed. This, at least, he recognized. Without having to think much about it, he pulled apart his rifle and began to carefully clean it. “Missed daybreak, so might as well spend some time…” he murmured.Â

Before he was consciously aware of it, he had reassembled his rifle. He held it in his hands. “It’s been too long,” he thought – and then confusedly wondered why it’d been so long.  Confusion faded away as he put the rifle back in it’s bag, threw on his orange jacket, and slipped some ammo into his pockets.Â

“Well, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have permission to hunt,” he said, reasoning out loud, as he opened the door and stepped into the sunlight.

This entry was posted on Monday, October 13th, 2008 at 9:24 pm and is filed under Dreams. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.