Return to Sherwood

The first half of a story I am trying to finish now...I figured if I posted this part again it might motivate me.

Return to Sherwood

 

By

 

Corey Rowley

 

 

     Herman Acerniak’s breathing was irregular, coming in the sort of half hitches of a dying man searching for release from the burden of physical existence.  Herman was in the final stages of a devastating bout with pancreatic cancer, the breathing just one of a long line of indicators that the end was very near. Instead of being surrounded by the usual host of loved ones weeping and praying for a swift and peaceful ending, the only living loved one he had left, his son Craig, was fast asleep on the living room couch, emotionally and physically spent from caring for his father seven days a week.

     His breathing slowed, gasps of air being drawn into his body once every ten seconds. His facial features were slack and sallow, the shape of his mouth and the gray-blue color of his skin reminiscent of the face of the figure in Moncks’s Scream. Occasionally a limb or facial muscle would twitch giving the scene a surreal quality as if at any minute his eyes were going to fly open and he would sit up and call for a glass of water.  But, there would be no more water for Herman.

     The curtains in the dingy gray bedroom were closed. The only light filtering in came from around the edges of the once white curtains, giving the room a quality of light and feeling of oppression rivaled only by the atmosphere usually attributed to Russian political novels.  The small nightstand next to the bed was stereotypical of a nightstand of a dying person.  Besides the thirty or forty bottles of pills, there were ointments, salves, syringes, bed pans, plastic drinking cups, tubes, and a copy of the King James version of the New Testament, Craig’s contribution, insisting that Herman become a Christian prior to passing because, you know…..what if.

     Herman would often remark to his son that he should move the stuff on the night stand somewhere else, some place where he wouldn’t be reminded every second of every waking day,  that he was a sickly and dying old man. 

     “Put some pictures or some flowers there, liven it up a little, it’s so dreary.”

     Craig somewhat resentful about his nursing duties would dismiss Herman’s pleas and tell him that it was just easier for him if everything was within reach. 

     Herman didn’t think that Craig was a bad boy.  He actually understood his resentment.  All kinds of resentments seem to come to the surface when a loved one is dying.  The resentment of spending every waking moment waiting on them hand and foot. The resentment that they would be gone soon leaving you to hold down the fort. The resentment of the fact that you were never going to see or talk to them again. In Craig’s case, the resentment that he was the last. There would be no family to console him, no mother, no brother or sister there to lend an ear or a shoulder. No one to soak up his weakness when it poured into a puddle in the middle of the kitchen floor. Added pressure would fill his mind that if he didn’t get married and have kids, the lineage stopped. The clan would simply cease to exist, blink out like a dying star.

     Herman had watched his mother take care of his sister when she was dying from heart problems when he was a boy.  He had observed the resentments first hand. The sense of duty always kicked into full gear, replacing the sense of loving and caring.  Duty was paramount. Only through duty could we physically prove our love for our family, or more likely, prove that we pulled our fair share of the burden when the time came.  We would be the good kid, the good brother or the good parent. 

     Although from the outside, there appeared to be a battle to hang on to the last remnants of life, a war waged and lost months earlier, the scene inside the battleground, Herman’s mind, was different.  In his mind, the dreams of dying, the overwhelming and panicky feeling that he always seemed to have, telling him that he needed to get up and milk the cows or get to work, all faded and disappeared with an audible buzz.  The only thing that Herman could see now was a gray-yellow mist billowing up around his arms, shoulders and head.  The mist was pleasantly warm, the constant coldness in his arms and legs was suddenly gone.  It was almost like the sickening sweet warm feeling of peeing in the cold pool as a boy, knowing full well it was disgusting, but enjoying the momentary warm rush of urine inside your swimming trunks.

 

     Herman was floating.  He was heading in one direction, which direction he didn’t know, but, he had the distinct feeling that he was moving with purpose.  Up until that point, he saw only the mist and enjoyed no other sensory perceptions, no smell, no sound.  Then he heard it. A muffled shout, barely audible and not understandable, but familiar just the same. He was floating toward it, and the shout became louder, taking on a wispy, willowy quality, like he was dreaming only he was pretty sure that this was not a dream.  As the sound became louder, he seemed to speed up and he grew closer until he could finally make out what was being shouted.  The voice was shouting the word “Ace.”

     Herman knew the voice well, it was that of his childhood friend Dean “Dino” Patrelli.  It was at this point that the thought first entered Herman’s head that he was dying.  He thought that this must be the bright light thing and the loved ones helping you into heaven and all that jazz that he had always considered a little too mystical to his liking.

     “Ace…….atta boy Ace,  I’ve been right here waiting buddy,” Dino was saying over and over again excitedly, his voice crystal clear now and sounded exactly as Herman had remembered.  Dino had been killed in a farm accident when he was nineteen, when a wooden plank that he had been standing on over a grain silo gave way and he was buried alive by several thousand tons of feed.  It took workers two solid days to dig out his body after they figured out what had happened. But, even as Herman was hearing Dino’s voice again, he sounded like he was still twelve years old.

     The mist lifted instantaneously and Herman found himself standing at the edge of a thick stand of oak and cottonwood trees that he recognized as the small forest located about a half-mile south and east of the house that he had lived in all his life. The woods were what his parents called “The Stand” but, to Dino and Herman, that stand of trees was enchanted, allowing two boys to explore a multitude of fabulous worlds from medieval castles, to starship exploration and probably best of all as they had gotten older, a place to take Amanda and Sarah Gelman, the Gelman twins, to experiment in the matters of the flesh. So fond were they of the magic of the stand of woods, Dino and Herman named it Sherwood after the tales of Robin Hood and the Merry Men, a game that they had enjoyed well over a hundred times in the span of his childhood.

     Herman stood staring at the woods, a smile automatically lighting on his face before he was even able to realize it.  He was stunned and felt a deep longing and nostalgia for his childhood. Just minutes before he was a sickly and dying old man in a dingy bedroom on the west side of Manchester, and now he felt like he was twelve again.  The sun was warm on his face, it was the first time he had felt it in nearly six months, with the exception of twice being wheeled into an ambulance and whisked to the hospital because of complications or reactions to new medications. But here he was, standing firmly on his own two feet, no sign of the demon cancer, his strength like that of a strapping forty year old man.  He looked at his hands, they were his, wrinkles and all, a plain gold wedding ring on his left hand glinted in the sunlight.  He looked at his house in the distance and then back at Sherwood. He heard the birds and the soft rustle of the wind as it blew through the trees. His heart was full and aching and he felt a wave of nostalgia overtake him.  He turned his face toward the sky again, squinted his eyes, felt the wind and the warmth and a tear trickled down his cheek.

Author's Note

Hopefully will have the rest finished shortly, I know, sucks to read a half done work, but I am posting it for me to get my ass moving....its a big ass.

Reviews

[A.A.Romanczuk]

I cannot wait for the finished work! Wow. Just Wow. It kept me on my toes from line to line waiting for Herman to die. I wonder how you shall portray that :D can't wait.

[Jūdan FyreHeart]

This is really well done, I'm sure I read this ages ago no idea why I didn't review it then! The descriptions of the weight on the son's shoulders and the knowledge of everything - it's all great!

[OT]

ahh you're a brilliant prose writer too!! this is just great - the descriptions spot on - I felt like I was watching him - but also your writing style makes for a very natural read with me - it's familiar in some ways to other stuff I've read - that same pool of greatness! the story is strong - and I won't begrudge it being half done... (if you do the rest soon!!) haha!! brilliant writing - nice, nice, nice!!

[Amanda Dawn Sanderson-G..]

I don't mind reading an unfinished piece of work- just give me something to look forward to and I am indeed looking forward to the remainder of your story. I hope death is as peaceful as it seems to be with Herman... I'd like the thought of that... and I have Craig in my thoughts, hoping that he won't let himself fall into a puddle of misery and that he will find happiness and keep the family name running... :)

[E. A. Fielder]

Why is it that people always point to Christianity at the end? Why does what if have to be the Christian God? Why not Budda? I know that has nothing to do with the story but it got me thinking. Craig is a bit of a selfish prick. It's almost like he may as well have said "your about to die so it does matter what the place looks like." I understand resentment but you think he could have had a bit more pity for his father. This was a really good story. It's one of those that slaps you upside the head with emotion and makes it hard to finish. If this is half done I can't wait to read the rest!

[Fabian G. Franklin]

You have a great talent for writing. This is as professional a story as I have read anywhere. Your sentences are clean and crisp and your characters are fully realized and believable (although the circumstances surrounding them may seem a bit bizarre)...hell, that's what makes it wonderful! I truly enjoyed reading this! 100% from me and I think you should be writing short stories for a living. I'd buy your book.

[Alicante lullaby]

this was awesome...FINISH IT...now get started..

[luciddreamer]

This was fantastic...enjoyed it tremendously and am so looking forward to the next part....

[Nobody.]

damn good dude! feeling it!