Random stories

I find the man just off the forest trail, sitting by a fire. The smoke and the brittle crack of flames attracted my attention. You can never be too careful about fire in a forest — even on a cold damp night like this. But the man seems to have the fire under control. He sits cross-legged in front of it and scribbles onto a sheet of paper. I watch for a while, not meaning to hide, but not wanting to disturb him.

After five minutes or so, he balls the paper up and tosses it into the fire. Then he takes a new sheet and begins to draw again.

”Hey,” I say, walking out from half-behind an ash.

He looks up. Nods. Then he’s back to his art.

“I noticed the fire,” I say as I approach. “Couldn’t help notice it. I usually walk around here at this time, but there’s not usually a fire, so it kind of stood out, you know?”

He pauses and looks me over. “Cold night. You can sit by it, if you like. Warm up for a while.“

He doesn’t strike me as a killer so I take his offer. Besides, it really is cold tonight and I notice I’m shivering. ”Thanks.” Once seated I start to wonder what a killer would actually look like? Who would strike me as one? This man has an old red sweater on but no coat. A day or two’s worth of stubble. Walking boots.

Killers surely don’t wear walking boots.

“I used to live here,” he says.

There’s not a house around for miles. Mine’s probably the nearest and it’s a long way off. “In the forest?”

He nods. “Here.”

It’s ancient woodlands and although the guy’s hair is grey around the temples, I don’t think he’s older than these trees.

”Except, my home’s not here anymore,” he says. “It’s gone. I come back after forty years and it’s gone. Just like that.” He clicks his fingers together. “Can you imagine?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

”Friends, family — I come back to visit and they’re all gone and instead there’s just this.” He shakes his head and returns to his drawing. “Beautiful, sure. Nature can be that. But it’s vast and lonely. Do you understand what I mean?”

I shrug then watch him silently for a while. He draws a man and woman, very basic stick figures. To their side is a house with four square windows. Soon he scrunches it up and throws it to the flames.

Truth is, I feel bad for him. He wanted to get somewhere and he’s gotten lost along the way. This isn’t a nice place to get lost in, especially at this time of year.

“Maybe you have the wrong place,” I suggest.

”Right place. You never forget where you grew up. They can change it, but you never forget what it should be.”

That’s that, I suppose. He’s made up his mind. ”So, where you been for those forty years?”

“Wrong places. Away. And look what good it’s done! Everything‘s been stolen from me while I stepped out of the room.” He begins a new drawing. It’s similar to the last, except he adds children in front of the parents. Three of them, plus a dog. He fills in a few more details this time on the adults’ faces.

”I guess things do change,” I say. “Everything, I mean. You must have changed, too. Right?“

He pauses and looks me in the eyes. Holds my gaze like a dare. “If I changed, I wouldn’t be back here, would I?”

I’ve no answer to that.

“You can look like you changed — I sure look changed. But really, we don’t. Not fully. We add on new layers but underneath, it’s the same us.“ He tears a sheet of paper out of his pad. “Here,” he says. “The fire’s getting low. Draw something so we can burn it.”

”It’d be better to put wood on than paper. I could collect some?” Although, finding dry wood might be difficult right now.

”We don’t burn wood. That wouldn’t work at all. Haven’t you been listening? You draw something, we burn it.”

”Why the drawing? Why not just throw the paper on?”

He laughs. It‘s so loud it sounds like the earth cracking open and I have a dreadful sense — just for a second — that I’m going to fall down into an endless pit.

“We can’t keep warm from blank paper,” he says. “We have to burn up memories if we want to keep going. That’s the fuel that’ll keep us warm, at least for now.”

The fire is simmering. Just burned wood and blackened paper. Ash. It’ll go out soon if we don’t add to it.

I take a pencil and a sheet of paper from him. His hands are rough and a lot like mine.

“What should I draw?”

”Memories,” he says tapping his head. “You think of something and draw.”

I watch the red of the fire, the plumes of black smoke, and try to think of something.

I close my eyes and remember being in these same woods when I was a kid, with my brother and sister. I think of the dens we’d make, of hiding in them when our parents came searching. I remember one night, we stayed out way too late but it was an irresistible full moon. Our parents came with flashlights, like helicopters searching, their faces slick with tears and sweat. Our dog raced out in front of them, yapping as it found us beneath our roof of twigs.

Our parents are thankful first then angry later. They’re full of love and don’t know how best to show it. We’re full of sorrow and don’t know how to say it.

I’ve not thought of that night in a long time.

I begin to draw. Slowly at first, unsure of the scene exactly. Then faster as it cements itself. The three of us in our den, our dog, our parents. Lights, tears, smiles, hot chocolate, stories until we slept.

”That’s it,” says the man. “It’s the memories we need to burn to keep us warm.”

I left them all a long time ago. Better work for me in the city, better pay in another state.

I left and now they’re all gone. I came back for the final funeral — my brother’s — and now I can’t bring myself to leave.

But it’s not my home anymore. Not without them. Not alone. This is a new place, a different and ice-cold place. A different world, even, and I’m trapped in it. Unable to sell the home as it’s my only connection left to them.

But it’s not my home anymore. Three years I’ve been here. Alone. Walking the forest behind the house at night to avoid lying in the silence. And to avoid the dreams.

”Draw,” he says. “Keep drawing.”

I flesh out the scene bit by bit. Add expressions to the faces, a beard to my father, my mother’s favourite winter coat, the dog’s collar and his long tongue as he finds us and licks my face. I try to add the little details and as I do I can almost feel them. The hot breath of my mother’s kisses, the tight hug of my father. Smiles. Little by little I bring them back to life.

It’s tear-smudged by the time I throw it into the fire. The flames leap back to life to meet it, and I feel a warmth run through me. Like a strong alcohol flowing around my body, melting the ice around my heart.

”Again,” says the voice. It sounds like mine, only with many years of smoke and drink and bitterness scratching it, with decades of work and failed relationships grinding it down to monotone.

“Again,” I say, the voice sounding a little more like my own. “Again.”

I pick a new memory and force myself to start over.

---

Submitted by Rupertfroggington on Mon, Apr 18, 2022 to /r/WritingPrompts/

The prompt

You've lived alone ever since you decided to move out. After years, you decided to go back and visit. Except, no matter what you do, you can't seem to find any record about your hometown or its people. By all accounts, it doesn't seem to exist.