Tomorrow River Publishing
This sit has been set up to offer a platform for presenting written material by David K Wright and others that can be hounded into finishing written projects. This, as of this date of 9/17/16, is just the beginng. Stay tunned.
THe pages below are tests. The first is a direct paste, the 2nd is actually a JPG
The Red Queen and the Feral Child Within
Part 1 The start of my Affair
My old man hinted I had gone feral, but when he said it he didn’t really seem to mind. It was more like he was just making note of it. After he said those words he slowly lifted his pursed lips and squinted as if to concentrate on the possibility that maybe it was really true. Then he posted the question to me, “ Do you know what it is to be feral ?” I let my eyes drift up to him as if I was giving it great thought, but in truth I knew. I knew because I was with him when he emptied has twelve gauge at a terrified ratty cat we had seen in the pheasant marsh. As his Wingmaster came down still engulfed in wisp of gun smoke he had said, “I hate those God damned feral cats.”
Before I answered the question, I hesitated not knowing where this was going. At twelve this didn’t seem to be a question with promise. With a look of hesitation and probably puzzlement, I glanced up at him and with a hesitant sideways grin, responded that I recalled the episode at Ebert’s last week. His head fell backward as he couldn’t hold the chuckle.
“I missed him ‘cause I wanted to. Just wanted to scare the hell outa him. Get ‘em outa my huntin’ spot.” He said with a grin that portrayed maybe a statement of some questionable truthfulness.
“How does that play for me?” I asked with twisted grimace. He laughed again, this time with a little more intent. His well known sly and almost mischievous grin crept over his face as he looked straight at me as if to do a more thorough study of this question asked. He paused, pondering his next move, wanting to know if he should lay down the worthless deuces or try to play the pair of jacks. His mouth fell slightly open with intent, but the touch of humor still trickled from his eyes. “I think,” he said,” if I can use a thin metaphor, that you, as young as you might be, are weaving your way through the these tall grasses and oak forests trying to capture just one more stinking God-damn mouse“
“You ain’t gonna shoot at me, are ya?” “You little fart. There’s no way I could hit you if I tried. I been watching you for years now not really carin’. You’re feral I think, but you’re not after my pheasants or at least not the pheasants I’m after, but you might be after pheasants of a sort.”
I grinned knowing that there were some birds out there I admired.
I think that was the first time I noticed I was heading in a different direction, but probably not the first time he noticed.