Heidi Slowinski

Guest Post: My Back for a Bridge, a Short Story by Leon Moss

Posted on February 15, 2021     Leave a Comment

Thank you to everyone who submitted work for the January Short Story Contest. The 3rd selected featured entry is:

My Back for a Bridge by Leon Moss

Leon Moss is a retired engineer. He enjoys writing and painting in his retirement. Enjoy his musings on aging at his website: exceedinglysenior.com. This is his second featured short story on this site.

Leon’s entry was based on this writing prompt:

Please Enjoy

My Back for a Bridge

It’s Sunday, my day of rest and a great day. I’m sitting back in my old rocking chair on the front porch looking out over the fields in front of me. Vegetables, fruit trees, strawberries and in the far distance, cattle grazing peacefully. The sun is shining, there’s a gentle breeze and the sky is bright blue and it doesn’t get much better than this.  

A red pickup comes screeching and sliding around the corner of the house and my son, Jeff jumps out.

“Hey Dad! There’s a cow stuck in the grating! Come and help! Quick!”

No questions. We both pile into the pick-up, the wheels spin on the sand and we shoot along the rutted pathway to the entrance gates. There it is. A large brown and white cow with one withered leg so thin that it has passed through the gap between the bars of the cattle grid. Joe, our handyman, is standing next to the animal. No doubt soothing the poor animal and telling her we will fix the problem?  We splash our way through the rainwater channel I had made years ago and reach the cow, who looks completely disinterested.

“Lift the leg, Joe! Jeff and I will give it a push from behind!” In a few seconds the cow is free and wanders off. No sign of damage.

I sit down on a rock and look around. The ground slopes all the way from the house at the top to the lowest point, the road past the property. Every time it rains the water rushes down the hill, finds its way under the fence and out into the road. The problem is that the water has cut a deep gorge in the soil and is eating away at the dirt road as well. Odd cars that come down this road have to slow down when they cross the trench. It’s time to do something before a cow falls into the stormwater ditch and the 3 of us can’t get her out.

The cow with the bad leg seemed to be the last straw in my ongoing procrastination to the rainwater problem. I consulted with Ed down at the General Store. He listened, thought and finally said, “You must build a bridge”.

“A bridge for the water to go over?”

“A bridge for the cars to go over,” he replied.  “Something simple. Concrete and iron bars will do the trick.”

At home I made a few crude sketches that helped me understand the solution better.  I took one of my diagrams back to Ed and asked him to deliver enough materials for the job.

“Dump it all at a point where you think the bridge should be.”   I own a mini tractor, a small item that comes in very useful on a large farm. I move soil. I carry large loads of feed for the cattle; I pick fruit and strawberries and drive them up to the house. I

have a lawnmower attachment. The tractor works almost every day at many different jobs. I haven’t strained my back since I bought the tractor. But bridge-building is a different ball game. And there is little for the tractor to do. It didn’t take long for me to understand why I am so exhausted at the end of every day and why I have developed a permanent aching back.

I started by digging trenches for the foundations. Halfway done and Ed arrived to see what I was doing.

“That’s all wrong, Pete. You have to first build a protection wall in case it rains while you are in the middle of things and washes it all away. Start again. And those foundation trenches? Make ‘em deeper boy!”

With such encouragement behind me, I dug new trenches so deep that I could walk along without being seen. Then I used the soil from the trenches to build a Great Wall of China to prevent a flood.  And then it was winter and the rains came. I rested.

After 4 months and feeling recovered I looked forward to more bridge building, I mixed concrete for the foundations. No concrete mixer for me. I made a huge pile of stone and sand next the bridge-to-be, made a hole in the middle like Vesuvius, poured water in, picked up the spade and mixed. Have you ever mixed concrete by hand? It is not called concrete for nothing… And the tractor couldn’t help with this. And my back…

I forgot to place the steel reinforcing bars before I poured the concrete but Ed said it didn’t matter because the foundations were not subject to tension, only compression. I sighed deeply in relief. Must say that 2 days later when I stood on the edge of the trench and looked down, the concrete foundations looked great. Strong too! I felt proud. I rested because I knew that the concrete had to set until it was hard. And my back had to rest awhile. 

A month passed and I cut wood planks to make shutters for the upper concrete. I remembered the steel reinforcing bars this time before I filled the shuttering with my special brand of hand-mixed concrete. Everything went well, except for my back. And then it was winter and heavy rains came. My half-built bridge stood firm. It didn’t wash away. The concrete didn’t dissolve. I was proud again. The winter was long and I rested well. When summer arrived, I added walls at both sides of the bridge to keep any stray cars falling off in midstream.

Ed came, stood and looked. “Good job, Pete. Never thought I would see this day!”

“Thank you for all your encouragement, Ed. Couldn’t have done this without you!”

“I’d like to make a suggestion, Pete, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, Ed. Go ahead.”

“You still have to cast the concrete floor. It has to be cast in one continuous shot to avoid cracks and you don’t want cracks in the floor of the bridge, do you? And you can’t possibly mix enough concrete by hand to do that, can you?”

“So?”

“I suggest we measure how much concrete you need and then call the Readymix crowd. They’ll send some of those giant mixer trucks full of concrete and pour the whole floor. All you’ll have to do is get all that steel mesh reinforcement in place, spread the concrete out as they pour and float the wet concrete smooth before it dries. Maybe they will even spread it for you. Don’t forget to ask them. Save you buying a pair of gumboots. Save your back too. How do you like that?”

“I love it Ed! Hey, how come you never told me about them before I started the job?”

“Sorry, Pete. Must have forgot.”  

I was ready to strangle him. He knew and he didn’t tell?

I made calculations for the size of the bridge and drove the 20 miles to the General Store so Ed could check them.

“You need about 20 or 30 cubic yards of concrete, Pete. That’s 4 or 5 mixer trucks. Ask them to spread it. It’s a terrible job. Stuff comes pouring out of the mixer truck. It’s wet and heavy. It’ll wreck what’s left of your back.” 

And that’s what I did. What a pleasure it was to stand and watch other men wrecking their backs! Now the bridge looked great. They trowelled the top surface smooth, finished the corners properly and left with my check in hand and smiling with satisfaction. I smiled too. What was left for me to do was to adjust the levels of the road with the bridge. I used the tractor for that.

I bought sturdy pipes from Ed, drilled holes into the tops of both side walls and cemented the pipes in as posts and then welded horizontal pipes across the top of the poles, forming crude balustrades. This is to prevent any pedestrians, sober or drunk, falling off the bridge and into the water below. 

In a final act I bought 2 poles from Ed and painted then white. At the tops I screwed on reflective warning plates for drivers. I didn’t want any careless drivers wrecking my hard-earned bridge.

It’s all done! The bridge stands proudly over rushing water, the road is safe, the cattle grid has gone and everyone is happy! My back? It will take time, the doctor says…      

 

More by this Author

Enter the Contest

Each month, my site hosts a contest. The contest is unique in that it is based on a visual writing prompt. For this month’s writing prompt and full contest rules, visit Contests.

Previous Winning Stories:

Guest Post: The Path to the Lovers Bridge, a Short Story by Corinne Rae

Posted on February 8, 2021     Leave a Comment

Thank you to everyone who submitted work for the January Short Story Contest. The 2nd selected featured entry is:

The Path to the Lovers Bridge by Corinne Rae

Corinne Rae is an avid runner, writer and reader. She continues to share her short stories with the Storytelling Project and various story slam competitions. Her work has been published in magazines and in short story zines. Corinne continues to share her short stories on Wattpad, and all social media platforms, at Storytelling With Corinne Rae. 

Corinne’s entry was based on this writing prompt:

Please Enjoy

The Path to the Lovers Bridge

The snow crunches under Jamie’s boots as she steps out onto the snow-covered deck. The sun is slowly rising for the day, but there is enough sunshine for Jamie to not need a flashlight. Jamie’s ears and the back of her neck are hit with cold air, causing her to cover her braided long blog hair with her bright yellow beanie. Jamie tightens the blue scarf wrapped around her neck to retain her body heat from the crisp morning air.

Jamie places a single red rose on the glass table that is coated with fresh snow, in order to quickly pull on her dark purple mittens. She zips up her waterproof grey jacket, completing her efforts to bundle up for her annual trek to the Lovers Bridge. She picks up the single red rose by its long stem, attempting to not damage the bright red rose petals before reaching the Lovers Bridge.

Jamie’s breaths are visible puffs of air, as she carefully walks down the deck stairs, leaving boot sized footprints in her wake. At the bottom of the stairs, her journey begins by following the dirt trail. The dirt trail in Jamie’s backyard weaves through the lawn, with medium sized rocks outlining the sides of the trail. The intentional formation of the rocks end before the woods, but the dirt trail stretches out through the trees.

The strange dirt trail came with the house, according to Jamie’s parents. Jamie’s parents did question their realtor about the trail, but she apparently claimed that the dirt trail was built years ago. Every family the realtor has seen live in the house prior to Jamie’s parents, have not removed or paved over the mysterious dirt trail. Oddly enough, Jamie’s father habitually rakes the dead leaves off the dirt trail in their backyard in the fall, and also sprinkles salt to keep snow off the dirt trail in the winter.

Beth, Jamie’s best friend since preschool, claimed that the dirt trail must have been forged by magic. “It must be, as it leads directly to the Lovers Bridge,” is an argument Beth always made. The Lovers Bridge is, in Jamie’s opinion, an overrated hometown attraction. ‘A Bridge Where Lovers Reunite’, was annoyingly quoted in a pamphlet about their hometown that Jamie found in her father’s home office.

The Lovers Bridge is beloved among the locals. It is rumored that the single car bridge was built in the 19^th century by Horace the Great. Apparently, Horace fell in love with a fair maiden living in the local town, but could not marry her because of her lower-class status. Horace’s passion was architecture, and he built famous bridges around the world. He was a respectable bridge builder, expected to marry royalty, and raise decent heirs. Horace built The Lovers Bridge as a secret meeting place, where Horace and his fair maiden supposedly met at to be together.

Beth loved the Lovers Bridge, and all the lore about the magic within the bridge.

Beth believed the bridge is enchanted with true love, despite Jamie believing that the bridge was just a bridge. At the beginning of every new year, Beth and Jamie hiked to the Lovers Bridge. It was a ritual for them.

Jamie’s parents built an iron gate to fence in their backyard before Jamie was born. The iron gate door screeches loudly as Jamie pulls it open to continue to follow the dirt trail through the dense woods. The woods behind Jamie’s house are comforting for her, and where she spent her time while growing up. It is the most peaceful place when Jamie wants time to herself. The tall oak trees have a network of thick branches to provide shade for Jamie on hot summer days, and the branches capture the snow, leaving none on the forest floor on cold days.

Jamie recalls the many afternoon tea parties with her teddy bears and dollies, sitting on a checkered picnic blanket, and eating the peanut butter sandwiches Jamie’s mother packed for her. When she grew older, Jamie carried that same checkered picnic blanket and several books to read in the woods. Her favorite thing about the woods happened when she sat still, waiting patiently until the woods came alive around her.

Packs of deer silently walked around. All types of birds flew from tree to tree. She once witnessed a small orange fox scurrying through the trees a few feet from her. Jamie shared the woods and her checkered blanket with Beth, after they became best friends when Beth shared her pink fuzzy blanket with Jamie during naptime. They would spend hours reading side by side, or gossiping about whatever or whomever, or telling stories about the animals they watched while lounging on their backs.  

The woods are where Jamie is able to write her poetry. The compact woods are a silent backdrop against the scratching sounds of her pen on the notebook paper in her worn out leather journal. The woods generally spike inspiration for Jamie. Her poems are usually odes to nature, to the oak trees, to the critters, and to the small rays of sunshine that peak through the trees.

Beth’s favorite request was for Jamie to read her poems aloud. During those times on the checkered picnic blanket, Jamie would read out her poems, as Beth listened with her head resting in Jamie’s lap. Jamie would often find herself subconsciously running her fingers through Beth’s curly red hair, unsure how much time had passed.

The dirt trail remains barren from the fresh snow the further Jamie follows it through the woods. Beth proposed the farfetched belief that the branches were specifically tasked to trap the snow, ensuring that the dirt trail in the woods is clear for all those seeking the Lovers Bridge. Jamie countered with her belief that the trees just naturally and conveniently grew close to each other.

Beth and Jamie would have graduated in six months from Valley High School together, but Jamie will be graduating alone. Beth’s family moved away during the winter break, because Beth’s dad was offered a better job in a few towns over.

Jamie will finish her senior year solo, a time when Beth and Jamie used to spend hours talking about. Both were excited to graduate, and possibly attend the same college out of their hometown. Now all plans have been altered, and both are unsure what the future holds.

Jamie feels she is carrying a heavy heart through the serene woods to the Lovers Bridge.

She is panting from hiking the uneven terrain as cold sweat slides down her back. She knows she is close once the oak trees are further apart.

She steps out of the woods, only to shield her eyes from the bright rays of sunshine reflecting off of the fresh snow powder. After blinking a few times to allow her eyes to adjust, she begins to carefully make her way down the icy hillside towards the Lovers Bridge. Jamie is thankful she is wearing her snow boots, as the trip down the snow-covered hillside tends to be slippery.

After stopping at the bottom of the hillside, she glances both ways before stepping out onto the paved street that cuts through the Lovers Bridge. This street leads to downtown, and can be busy at times.

There are rusting rail lines outlining the street on both sides of the bridge. On Jamie’s left side of the bridge there is a concrete wall, and on her right, there is a makeshift rail. ‘Lovers Bridge’ is inscribed in colorful graffiti art on the thick concrete wall. ‘Frank + Cindy’ and ‘Samantha + Jake’ and many more pairs of names, have been written in black sharpie, circling the Lovers Bridge words.

Those who learn about the Lovers Bridge, stop at this bridge to profess their love, by writing their name and their partner’s name on the concrete wall. Many believe that the magic that lies within the Lovers Bridge was created by the love between Horace and his fair maiden. They empowered the bridge with the true love they shared, and for every pair of names written in black sharpie, are blessed with good luck.

Jamie walks up to the railing on the right side of the bridge, overlooking the rushing water below. The bridge cuts through a large pond. The larger part of the pond partly freezes every winter season, and when the snow starts to melt, the overfilled pond will cause the water to rush under the Lovers Bridge.

Jamie places her forearms on the wet rail, and looks down at the rushing water. The single red rose rests lazily in her hand, until she raises the flower to her nose. She breathes deeply to fill her nose with the calming flowery smell.

The red rose signifies Jamie’s mourning of not having Beth at her side. Every year since the 4^th grade, Beth convinced Jamie for them to each write the name of their crush on a piece of paper, and toss it into the rushing water below the Lovers Bridge. Beth argued that the magic believed to be within the bridge would tie Jamie and her crush together. Jamie rolled her eyes each time Beth claimed that the Lovers Bridge is capable of bringing future lovers together.

Jamie did not believe in all these tall tales about the Lovers Bridge, but Beth did.

Jamie crushes the single red rose in her hand, watching the petals flutter into the rushing water, leaving the stem barren. She then tosses the stem into the water. Red petals float away from the Lovers Bridge, out past the rushing water. Jamie reaches into her coat pocket, and pulls out a piece of notebook paper. She unfolds the piece of paper, and rereads the name of her crush. While writing the name of her crush, Jamie’s hand was shaking, causing the letters to blend together. Jamie finally wrote down the name of a person she has been crushing on for some time.

Never before did Jamie write a name down when she did this with Beth, as she simply threw in a blank piece of paper, with the intention to only humor Beth.

Jamie knows that no one other than her will know the name of her crush, but she has been too afraid to accept it. It is this acceptance of her romantic feelings towards this person that really terrifies her. Once she throws the notebook paper into the rushing water, Jamie is casting the name of her crush out into the world, finally making it real for her.

She refolds the notebook paper, raises it to her lips to kiss it, and tosses the piece of paper into the rushing water. Jamie watches the notebook paper drift away by the current. A gust of wind suddenly hits Jamie, causing her to shiver, but not entirely due to the chilly breeze. She feels as if a weight has been lifted off her shoulders. Jamie smiles and lifts her head for a second to bask in the warm sunshine.

Jamie still feels lonely without Beth. Standing on the Lovers Bridge, aware of all the loving couples that have visited this bridge together, causes Jamie to feel as if she is an interloper. It is time for her to leave.

Jamie turns to hike back up the icy hillside, and make her trek back home. She walks a few steps on the paved road, passing the concrete wall, only to come to a sudden halt. There are two names written in black sharpie in the upper left-hand corner that catch her eye.

Beth + Jamie is written on the concrete wall. Jamie walks closer, bends down on her knees, and traces her name. Jamie’s name is written in Beth’s bubbly handwriting. A wide smile breaks out on Jamie’s face, as she comes to realize two things simultaneously. One being that the magic within the Lovers Bridge finally made an appearance for Jamie, meaning that the magic within the bridge must be real.Two being that by writing Beth’s name on the notebook paper Jamie casted over the Lovers bridge, there is still hope for Beth and Jamie after all.

A new optimism towards her future after high school grows in Jamie’s heart. She monetarily rests her open palm on the plus sign between her name and Beth’s. She rises to her feet, her boots squeaking on the wet pavement, as she starts her journey up the hillside back home.

 

Enter the Contest

Each month, my site hosts a contest. The contest is unique in that it is based on a visual writing prompt. For this month’s writing prompt and full contest rules, visit Contests.

Previous Winning Stories:

Guest Post: Stick It Out, a Short Story by Spero Bell

Posted on February 1, 2021     Leave a Comment

Thank you to everyone who submitted work for the January Short Story Contest. The 1st selected featured entry is:

Stick It Out by Spero Bell

Spero Bell is a current university student, spiritual advocate, and aspiring major league writer. In 2020, she self-published her first psychological thriller entitled Keeping A Minnow on Amazon. Spero resides in Wisconsin where she continues to be inspired by the kindness of others and the beauty of the Great Lakes.

Spero’s entry was based on this writing prompt:

Please Enjoy

Stick It Out

My failure to move on a certain unfortunate January day granted my unblemished face a lasting
scar on the left side of my forehead.
Its shape resembles an oblong boomerang, which makes the scar impossible to miss, just inches
away from my eyeball. Thankfully, the scar ends directly where my eyelashes begin their
beauteous growth. If the slice behind the scar had traveled any farther along my face, I might
have been permanently blinded. Permanently unable to perceive the world.
I was greatly blessed (and cursed, in a sense) after that rueful day to maintain my sight in the
affected eye. I say cursed because, believe me, the visual carnage of the bridge incident is not a
pretty sight. Every morning when I wake up, I am sorely reminded of that day and all its
stupidity from my wincing reflection.
My friends, like all good, quality chumps of a football star, never fail to taunt and tease me about
that flashy mark, or about its tapering presence over my left eyebrow. To them, it’s like a visible
sign of their safety and wellbeing, a reminder of their kept promises to protective mothers and
fathers that they haven’t acted reckless enough to get injured like me. My dipping scar is their
greatest comfort, since it affirms their careful, comfortable, and in my opinion, stale,
personalities.
“What did you do, James? Knife miss the cutting board, James?”
“Did a farmer’s scythe mistake your face for a grain, James?”
“Did you fail to duck under the door frame, James?”
“Are you a spy, James? What kind of work do you do, James? Are you a hitman, James? You
probably are; I’d bet you could kill someone with your bare hands, James. A quarterback killer,
James. Was someone defending themselves from your attack, James?”
Those questions about the unfortunate history of my facial mark rapidly grew old to me. Who
would circumvent a static vegetable laying atop a cutting board so badly that their entire
forehead would become maimed? A farmer mistaking me for a grain? Phooey. Doors, spies,
hitmen…all the bland creativity of a few standard coloring books wove into their silly questions
about the scar’s existence…and none of the guesses were even close to the truth of the matter.
“No,” I always tell them, “This scar was from the guardrail of a bridge. I slipped on ice and cut
my face on the sharp edge of the guardrail.”
Nothing more, and nothing less.
And although that isn’t the truest answer I could have given them, it’s within the ballpark of what
happened. It closes their mouths, shuts them up temporarily until they can construe another
idiotic question wondering, how did James slip into a guardrail face-first unless he was right
alongside it? Was James perhaps making out with the guardrail to fill that missing portion of his
empty love life? Photographing it for some obscene, metallic collection of curved, sensual
images? Was he poorly reenacting the balcony scene of Romeo and Juliet, casting himself as the
fair Jamesliet in need of a Romeo—reaching out to the water bodies on either side of the bridge
to fulfill some dreamy, amorous obsession?
No, pigskin friends, I was doing no such thing.
But that does not mean I wasn’t making a fool of myself in another way. Perhaps the event was
not as embarrassing as reenacting a cursed scene from a dusty and overused playwright, but it
was still immensely embarrassing.
The truth is, I was trying to save something that didn’t require saving. I was attempting to be a
hero, to be helpful. I was acting risky, sure—channeling (instead of the courageous Superman) a
mimicry of a thoughtless Deadpool. Someone who acts on impulse and does not think twice
about their plans.
I may have set myself up for failure by doing so, but at the time I fully stood by my valorous
deed. And quite literally, too. I stood there dumbly, and it was from this glued position in my
heroic vision that I did not see the fate awaiting me.
Alas, out comes the truth.
The crime against my face began on a cold, blustery night.
In the midst of one of Mother Nature’s grand snowstorms, I decided, rather rashly, to venture out
along a relatively quiet footpath near the school I attended.
Like a desolate, white river, the trail wound for miles through private, wooded areas, perfectly
designed in their privacy for the many illicit and whimsical activities of youth. However, I was
not privy to those kinds of activities, as participation in them meant the risk of losing my
quarterback position.
Yes, far from those activities was my purpose for going out. Snowstorms to me have always
been therapeutic, reminiscent of the gentle rocking in a creamy crib, a trance meant to be
plunged into, a gradual falling of not just snow, but of the logical, meandering mind. A time to

get lost, to lose oneself in the ongoing trickle of God’s dandruff shaking onto the Earth.
Snowstorms were like this to me. They were, for lack of better words, my bright, listening
therapists sitting in pure thrones of white crystals.
So I ventured. And my mind grew euphorically numb. No mathematics problems solving
themselves on repeat in my head. No touchdown throws settling under my skin. No more, ‘You
gonna be a serial killer, James? That’d be funny if you were James. I totally would’ve called it,
James.’
And then, I arrived at the bridge.
See, this bridge was the connection between two wildly different trails. On my half of the trails,
there was thick tree cover, smooth navigating—the occasional graffiti of genitalia on rocks
lingering by the path. Perfectly safe.
But on the other side of the bridge, it was lost. Sure, there was a path to amble on, and sure, you
could even follow it if you so desired. But surely, it meant tempting the uneven landscape to
grant you a nice, twisted (or broken) ankle to walk upon for the remainder of the four miles to
the closest hospital. Not ideal, and definitely not in the midst of a white-out.
Because of these adverse conditions, I generally turned around at the bridge during my path
excursions for a safe trip back. It was my turnaround point. The place where I usually faced the
invisible trail devil and politely told him, ‘no thank you, today I will not tempt you, sir,’ before
forcing my booted feet to face my already trodden path for the journey home.
But that January day, something caught my watery, wind-whipped eyes, and made me second
guess that decision.
A tree.
A tree had fallen—a toppled tree that must have been dragged down by the tempest’s tyrannical
touch, blown to its death and left to suffer.
It lay on its side, forlorn amidst the white curtain bespeckling it, too tired to remove itself from
blocking the bridge’s entrance on the far side.
About to selfishly turn around and leave the tree alone in its speedy frozen burial, a new,
disturbing thought dawned upon me. As I moved closer to the prone plant, I thought I spotted a
trail of footprints on the opposite side of its splayed branches. Yes, there they were, imprints of
another lifeform hopelessly isolated on the much more dangerous half of the trail.
How, how would they be able to return with this beast in their path? I thought to myself. What if
they were young…or old, completely feeble? What if they could not navigate around the bulky,
organic barrier? What if they attempted to do that, fell over the guardrail screaming, and plopped
straight into the icy river?
All of these unnerving thoughts and more seized me at the time, prompting me to move forward.
Blooming freshly in my troubled conscience was a hatching plan to utilize the musculature of my
build to prevent others from harm’s path. Justified by my winner’s mindset and horrid
invincibility complex, the plan slowly took form. I had the brute strength of an ox, was taller
than most, and was known to persevere in school and on the field. I would be successful in
moving the tree, and I would help others while doing so.
As a quarterback of my high school team, I liked to believe I was the theoretical offspring of
Hercules, an unstoppable powerhorse blessed with the extra responsibilities of a quarterback due
to my keen wit. I was responsible, cool-headed; no ice, snow, or startling weight of the tree
would hamper my ability to handle the problem and help whomever was stuck on the path’s far
side. This bolstered my confidence and my boots proceeded forward, leading me to the base of
the monstrous tree trunk.
Seconds later and my assured hands were gripping the sappy base of the fallen tree. Great care
went into the proper positioning of my boots to ensure a firm, balanced base for moving. I
avoided all ice patches when tugging on the plant, and gradually, the soft sliding of branches
against snow and gravel greeted my straining ears.
I was moving the tree—I was freeing the incapable.
Snow continued to flit into my face as I maneuvered the tree about halfway over the side of a
sloping hill, hanging over a slanting area of land where the rocks gradually declined into a creek.
Blinking and flexing my facial muscles worked to keep my eyesight steady despite the increasing
snowfall. My planty cadaver proceeded to drag against the ground, nearly unblocking the bridge
path I had sought to open up again.
But I abruptly stopped my task when I saw a person stranded in the water.
The weak outline of someone marooned in the middle of the river stole all words from my throat.
The unlucky individual had their freezing arm in the air, reaching out for me, begging for rescue.
This was the person who had failed to navigate the tree! I realized.

This was the person I had arrived in time to save! This was the person I had to grant another
chance at a warm-bodied life instead of facing the same fate as the tree I was desperately
wrangling with next to the path! Oh, Herculean blood and steady heart, I prayed, aid me in
saving this waterborne innocent!
Quicker than lightning I moved towards the arm waving me down, towards the hapless victim of
an untimely snowstorm slip.
I released the tree trunk on the top of the hill. My boots rushed me down the bank where I was to
proceed with my lifesaving duty. The person was helplessly wiggling in the middle of the river,
caught against a large, jagged rock that they clung to for dear life. They were stranded,
shipwrecked upon a tough, frigid isle, and I had to dispatch my mind and body for their
imminent rescue.
“I’m coming!” I passionately shouted to the mystery person, but understood my voice likely did
not reach them, “I’m going to help you!”
Their lack of response did not pique me as odd; the taste of death on the horizon was a perfect
reason behind their wordless struggle. At least, I thought so at the time.
“Listen! I’m going to wade out and toss in a long branch!” I shrieked, hoping they’d catch
enough syllables to fill in the gaps. “I’ll get the branch now!”
Hurriedly, I backtracked to the teetering tree on the top of the hill. One long branch from this tree
would be well suited to the task; all I had to do was wade out into the shallow and extend a piece
of this tree out like a ropey lifesaver, reeling in my poor catch. Energized by the release of
adrenaline in my body, I attempted to tear off a branch from the freshly fallen tree, failing to
realize that the half-alive, partially frozen appendages would never break off without some sort
of cutting device.
I tugged and jerked in vain for some time before I turned to alternatives. I’d have to scavenge the
surroundings for a workable lifesaver. Luckily (or maybe not, given the closure of this event) I
spotted a lengthy, dry branch that seemed durable enough for my mission. It was wedged
between some nearby rocks, jutting out in plain sight. I lighted upon this branch, and proceeded
to lug my thick Excalibur out of the rock pile like King Arthur himself.
A soft rustling behind me did not strike me as suspicious at the time, since I was so focused on
finishing the rescue. I brushed it off while I carried my stick to the creek’s edge, holding it out in
front of me. Louder, that dragging sound raised above the howl of the wind, and at some point I
peered behind me. The tree that I had wrenched so hard was slipping down the hill little by little.
For whatever reason, my mind did not process that I was directly in the projected path of this
falling object. It did not click in my brain that this tree would head straight down the steep hill
for my person if it continued. And with this failure to comprehend anything other than the person
who needed my help, I turned my back on my greatest foe of the night.
“I’m coming!” I yelled, thrusting the branch into the frozen stew of ice chunks and rocks.
My boots carried me a few feet into the shallows, and I instantly experienced the painfully cold
liquid soaking through my thick socks. Even though my toes were rapidly numbing, snot was
pouring into my stinging lips, and my hands were shaking with the weight of the branch, the
poor person’s waving arm reminded me of the great rescue at hand. The creaking sound behind
me was entirely forgotten.
“Here! Grab on!” I blinked the snow from my eyes and tried my absolute best to send the branch
towards the helpless form clinging to the rock. “Grab on!”
Then it hit me.
The tree hit me.
A blunt force to the backs of my thighs launched me sidewards. I cried miserably as my body
was launched, Excalibur splashing into the water as it flew free from my grip. Gritting my teeth,
I reached blindly out in front of me, expecting to feel the impact of cold water and nothing more.
However, fate did not have only cold water for me.
A jagged stone larger than my torso met my face as I flopped into the water. The sensation was
akin to an MLB player batting a metal ball straight into my face, albeit with a spike or two
gracing the ball’s outer coating. It was worse than any rotten tackle on the football field. It was a
slam meant to kill. But I’m grateful that it didn’t.
Somehow, I dragged myself from the water, dripping wet and half-crazy with the smarting of my
face. A glance to the side revealed the tree had slid down the hill at full speed, and its trunk was
a few steps away from me in the water. I grimaced at my stupidity—leaving the tree to take me
out like that was my own doing—but it was nothing compared to the utter uselessness I felt when
I turned my head to the person I had failed to save.
The person’s form was floating away down the river, stiff and unresponsive.

The person was a piece of driftwood.
A stick.
Now profusely bleeding from the face, fully exhausted, entirely deadened, and numbed beyond
any possible setting of an industrial freezer, I removed myself from the creek and blindly
wandered back up the hill to the path. My visibility was close to nothing, with invasive
snowflakes and blood droplets muddying up my vision, but I could still see the truth of the
matter.
I was not a hero. Not even close. I had pointlessly injured myself. Wasted time trying to rescue a
stick. I had fooled myself. I was not a grand Hercules or King Arthur or even Deadpool. I was no
savior. I was just an unlucky, bleeding quarterback.
The walk home was horrible. Between a bleeding face and freezing body, I felt like I was going
to keel over and never play football again. But I kept telling myself, ‘you have to stick it out,
James, just stick it out,’ which brought hysterical tears to my eyes.
I tried to save a stick, mind you. A waving, anthropomorphic stick. A tree had assaulted me, the
able quarterback of the football team. Plus, I knew I would be scarred for life with this clumsy
fault. The only thing pushing me onward was the fact that I had successfully removed the tree
from the bridge’s path, aiming to help whatever specter resided the other side (I never saw a
person pass by, and to this day I’m convinced those footsteps were imagined, too).
And that’s all there is to it. I went home bloody and tired, cleaned myself up, and avoided the
questions that my parents asked me about the event. The bridge’s evil guardrail it was, and the
bridge’s evil guardrail it has always been.
Unsatisfactory for an explanation, but sufficient nonetheless.
And so…despite the constant teasings and proddings into the story behind that scar, to this day,
I’m still sticking it out.

 

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