“Crock Pot Chant”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

A solitary son of Appalachia

Now given to hours, spent living alone

With voices from afar, calling out

In a plea to bring me swiftly home

I might be tempted hard at times

To embrace thoughts of an early escape

But the work continues, daring daily

At my desk and on this rural landscape

I have no cause to end this run

It is natural to think that the sun will rise

When I sit at my table, to pray and sup

On grits and greens, and compromise

This is the habit I took from those

Who came before, with a purpose to build

In their footsteps, I still tread

They bestowed a knack for holding the quill

And another gift, given with the first

A taste for vittles, rare and raw

Smokehouse cuts, salted away

Earthy delights, hidden in the straw

Country ham dropped in the pot

With cut potatoes, upon the pork fat

Ramps arranged as a garnish, grand

Sprinkled with a water bath

I’ll cook that mess of edible parts

Until it blends out a flavor base

One which fills the belly with hope

For eternity in a better place

Grandma still stands over my shoulder

Her advice a constant help to guide

I remember when she spoke of duty

While in the kitchen, keeping stride

Never did her spirit fade

It has lasted more than a hundred years

For generations who heard and held

Those lessons of love within their ears

Now I chant her recipes

As an indication of faith at the sink

It offers a moment without affliction

A chance to pause, reflect, and think

Also at the keys, do I project

The essence of generations, come and gone

Their wisdom wandering through the mountains

Delivered both in sermons and song

If I might stand in a pulpit

It would be no different than at my stove

The choice to cook or ruminate

Is one that unlocks a treasure trove

Right hand, left hand, both will serve

To prepare what the soul needs, to survive

A meal sat upon the dinner table

A feast given from the lectern, live

I cannot decide on a path

When the hills are split with furrows, deep

Driven into the loam that lingers

Packed by the patter of traveling feet

Here were those who first arrived

From lands that I knew not by name

Their benevolence made me whole and strong

I am the one who grew to gain

A son so surely as the rest

My face is carved from stone and soil

A character conjured in the nick of time

While my kettle sits, upon the boil

Whatever language echoes in between

The holler and its walls of moss

I’ll repeat their lingo, while on the march

To find rural stations of the cross

With a slope of dirt, behind the shack

My plow turned up what was revealed

A rut to hold the seedlings safely

A place to nurture the budding meal

My heart will hold the deeds performed

As a tribute to, an age that passed

And when I also leave this orb

Those remembrances will surely last

Hail, hail, hear the cry

Of Mountaineers who haunt this place

Their memories fixed, forevermore

On the firm foundation of saving grace

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “My Pater, Explained”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

“Father Time is not always a hard parent and though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigor. With such people the gray head is but the impression of the old fellow’s hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.” – Charles Dickens

 

As a younger man, I often pondered the slow plodding of my sire with curiosity and a measure of confusion. Because of course, I was at a point in my own earthly journey too early for the broad perspective necessary to comprehend his patient pace of movement. I knew from stories retold at family gatherings and such, that he had once been active, ambitious, and even aggressive in pursuing his personal goals. A fellow of education, experiences, and faith. But when I had reached an age advanced enough to appreciate his place in the order of things, he was a different man. Slouching and stooped by cares and woes, hobbled by physical ailments that I did not fully understand, and wallowing in the midst of reorganizing his personal priorities.

 

As a mere offshoot of the grand oak himself, I questioned how that metamorphosis could occur. He would spend long hours working at his desk, reading books, and listening to music, pausing only to refill a coffee mug which had once been a measuring vessel in an earlier life. When he sometimes became nostalgic about childhood days in eastern Kentucky, and central Ohio, I struggled to identify the person portrayed in his recollections. He spoke about traveling, playing a variety of instruments including the piano, banjo, guitar, and fiddle, while also laboring as a mechanic and later, adopting the mantle of a scholar.

 

I reckoned that some sort of divine intervention must have robbed him of inertia. Because the old soul I beheld every morning was less adventurous and more careful in his daily routine.

 

When I chose the craft of creative writing as a worthy pursuit, my early manuscripts were centered on themes of motorcycles and rebellion. This caused him to gently reflect on having owned a vintage, Harley-Davidson VL-series flathead of 74 cubic inches. An iron steed manufactured in the early 1930s. I remembered its presence in a garage barn at our homestead in Columbus, as a kid. He confessed to having sold the machine to someone who was interested in locating the metal bones for a restoration project. Apparently, photographs followed when this endeavor had been completed, to document the resurrection, and pay tribute to my father as a benefactor. Though no one in our brood saw them, directly.

 

In the moment, I was offended at not being chosen to receive the twin-wheeled beast, myself. With a careless attitude of indifference, I protested the surrender of this treasure, instead of passing it down as my logical birthright.

 

“Dad, couldn’t you have kept that bike for me? I deserved it more than a stranger in another state. I would have cherished it as part of our heritage, and traditions! I could have written a dozen stories about that old hawg! What an opportunity that would have been!”

 

My progenitor smiled and nodded without becoming emotional over this raw complaint. He knew that my firsthand knowledge about antique motors was lacking, and that I did not have the required skill to bring a valuable relic, so long neglected, back to life.

 

“Rodney, that was some time ago. You were probably about ten years old...”

 

In the years that followed, I watched his competence decline, along with other infirmities that hindered his ability to cope. He complained of sore knees and fatigue. I noted that he and my mother stopped visiting familiar sites during the summer, and became more isolated socially with their neighbors. Maintenance chores around the home were neglected until I came to visit. In general, their tempo of living gradually shifted to one governed more by necessity than personal desire.

 

A familiar quote in professional sports, sometimes attributed to the athlete Michael Irvin, says that ‘Father Time is undefeated.’ That wise expression was top of mind as I reached my own point of reference for the aging process recently, nearing the mark of 65 years. With both parents and my sister all departed to a higher plane of existence, I have felt at times somewhat abandoned in my own condition of seniority. Yet now, I am able to connect with the unspoken message so often communicated by my bloodline contributor.

 

At last, the epiphany of his own experiences has fallen upon my cerebrum, with meaning.

 

Were we able to converse directly, I might admit my guilt, face-to-face. Perhaps I would offer an apology for being impatient and willfully naïve. But instead of passing judgment, his reaction to this plea for forgiveness might come in the form of a wink, and a grin of acceptance.

 

“It’s all part of the journey, my son. As you are, I once was. As I am, you shall be...”

 

I am moved to reconsider his perspective while sitting at my own desk, here in the rural township where I reside. As with his habits, I have jettisoned anything capricious and impulsive from my regular plan of action. I move deliberately and with some effort, throughout the day. There are no frills to enjoy, any longer. No random escapades in leisure hours. No wild wandering in the dead of night, long after civilized folk have gone to bed. No retracing my steps without a justified cause making it imperative. No running, jumping, or bending my knees.

 

What I feel is gratitude, for still being a sentient member of the community. Awake, alive, and able to endure. A condition described artfully in song, by George Jones – ‘I’m Ragged But I’m Right.’ That statement of confidence is now a mantra on which I depend.

 

My sire cleared the path which I tread, today. I am simply following his lead, toward whatever finality awaits, in the great beyond.

“Contrarian Confession”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

It came with a slip of the tongue

After answering a call in the afternoon

A query lightly landed in my ear

And predictably, I spoke too soon

I might have paused there to think

More carefully than was the case

But when I had said my piece

There was a glow of red taking place

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

My bloodline contact asked about

Health concerns that were on her mind

And instead of giving it a passing nod

I responded rightly, in real time

With an honest retort, a bad decision

It only took a second to regret

That I had confessed my need aloud

And revealed secrets I should protect

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

I truly wanted to stay aloof

But my stumble came with a single step

If I had made a silent stand

It would have been better yet

Somehow though, my contact knew

That what I said was not a trick

She sighed and dropped her telephone

I clutched my belly, feeling sick

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

Seeking sorrow is not my thing

I need no sympathy to soar

My best days come when clouds arise

And discovery is my reward

But a tangle of shoelaces brings

The sideways fall that I must avoid

And when I hit the ground too hard

It’s an fate that makes me feel annoyed

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

Numbness in my mind and heart

A consequence of living long

I’ve been here on this boardwalk path

Feeling weak but staying strong

When my mouth betrays the slog

That I have been upon for years

I turn away to hide the loss

And a shedding of, snakeskin and tears

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

Somewhere in the conversation

The message shared was left unheard

I tried to stitch together thoughts

With a gentle cloth of proffered words

But my family friend did not abate

Her question time was bold and brave

I had to conjure a spell of magic

The inquisition left me afraid

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

I am a man of age and dreams

Someone who traveled far away

But at the end of every sojourn

There was a similar lump of clay

Unformed and in the sun, exposed

Which seems amazing with this in mind

I went a thousand miles on hope

But landed short of the finish line

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

When I heard the gentle wisp

Of a goodbye wish intoned with grace

I knew that my interrogation had ended

An unspoken arrival at a lonely space

I did take heart in being free

No longer under a glaring light

But the darkening dare that was preceded

Held a burden of the lingering night

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

No matter that my ruse was ruined

I guessed that the revelation would rot

What I said was no surprise

My senior state, a gift of thought

Every mortal coil unwinds

A promenade into the ashtray

Just as I am, I come before thee

I take my bow, and fade to gray

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

Farewell is a final term

A spark of light before the dip

Of a golden orb below the horizon

A blind spot on a sailing ship

That is where I have progressed

While bobbing on the sea, adrift

A buoy that bargained to have its place

In the hollow of a paper clip

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

“Darkness Petition”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

A petition given, on bended knee

This is the prayer of a soul, set free

Too many times, I have loved and lost

But this is the hour, to settle that cost

I know too well where the road may lead

For a jester jumping, bowed with need

I made my choices, knowing all

And turned to hear the rooster’s call

A better plan might have made my bed

But I chose a wandering life instead

The price to pay was not included

For one so sadly duped and deluded

Late in this game I saw the truth

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth

The roll was written with my name

But I erased it, succumbing to shame

 

Ommmmmm...

 

Under cover of darkness

I will greet the night

This crazy moment is justified

We have already died

Under cover of darkness

I will cheat the light

This wayward walk is not a sin

It is the seed inside

And if you want to wait

While I pause to pray

If you want to wait

I’m standing at heaven’s gate

If you want to wait

While I pause to pray

If you want to wait

I’m standing at heaven’s gate, gate, gate

 

A petition purposed for the divine

An entreaty entrusted to the ruler of time

I state my case and wait for the verdict

But the answer is not, a poke or a pinprick

The sky turns gray, above my head

I find a place among the quick and dead

Strolling bones, they age and bend

But inside that shell, the heart will mend

If I cry out, for righteous relief

And plea for mercy, boasting of belief

That simple act may fail to impress

And I will only extol my excess

But if by chance I find the way

Illuminated by the glow, of a glorious day

That will be my fortune to win

A seat at the table, when feasting begins

 

Ommmmmm...

 

Under cover of darkness

I will greet the night

This crazy moment is justified

We have already died

Under cover of darkness

I will cheat the light

This wayward walk is not a sin

It is the seed inside

And if you want to wait

While I pause to pray

If you want to wait

I’m standing at heaven’s gate

If you want to wait

While I pause to pray

If you want to wait

I’m standing at heaven’s gate, gate, gate

 

A petition made of pieces arranged

Like shards of glass that pierce the brain

Each sliver that sparkles is a testament said

A wordsmith’s document of fear and dread

I must confess what lies in the heart

The things that I carry, when friends depart

The matter of which my flesh is made

The stuff of certainty, cradle to grave

Regardless of the of the season’s change

And however random the realm and range

I still locate my place by birth

A tenant born upon the earth

Here for a moment, and gone in the morrow

A fleeting flash of joy and sorrow

My memories meld in the rutted row

As above, so here, below

 

Ommmmmm...

 

Under cover of darkness

I will greet the night

This crazy moment is justified

We have already died

Under cover of darkness

I will cheat the light

This wayward walk is not a sin

It is the seed inside

And if you want to wait

While I pause to pray

If you want to wait

I’m standing at heaven’s gate

If you want to wait

While I pause to pray

If you want to wait

I’m standing at heaven’s gate, gate, gate

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Sunset Too Soon” (Part Four)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had survived many surreal experiences after coming to Evergreen Estates as an unwilling, yet desperate resident-in-waiting. He entered the community of mobile homes knowing little about what it was like to exist in the environment of a boxcar on wheels. At first, he felt belittled and humiliated by this shift in his living arrangement. But after the passage of many years, he no longer bowed his head with shame when going to visit relatives and associates in the outside world. He had become accustomed to living as a rural refugee. Someone who had been banished from mainstream society as a result of his own poor decisions, chaotic marriages, and confrontational career escapades.

 

Failure had been his ticket to enter the rustic oasis. Now, it was the most important component of his personal identity.

 

After twice being at the point of death, the contrarian hermit had a new perspective on living alone, in a distant neighborhood. One that made him realize his ability to endure was dependent on having resources for rescue close at hand. But he chafed at the idea of being needy. It was not in his nature to seek help or kindness from anyone. He preferred the solitude of being distant from civilization. Artificial guidelines and routines made him more than uncomfortable. They stiffened his resolve to remain defiant, and independent. With the onset of drastic health issues, however, this tendency to go against the grain had been negated out of necessity.

 

Predictably, he chose to deal with the situation in a similar fashion to everything else. He stayed drunk throughout the day, until fatigue and excess finally found him falling in bed, on his sofa, or tumbling to the carpeted floor in his living room, for the night.

 

When he canceled appointments with doctors, counselors, and advisers, that brief act of rebellion gave him renewed vigor. But it also intensified the push to have him participate in some sort of supervisory regimen. Eventually, he accepted a face-time conference with his regular physician in Geneva. Dr. Zeltany Mahindra used a P2P app that gave them real-time connectivity. It provided a convenient alternative to traveling north to her office at the hospital, in person. A service that he greatly appreciated.

He had just managed to make coffee in the kitchen, and was still groggy from a restless night on his threadbare mattress. After struggling to his chair, he sat down with a noisy thud of body mass, and took the wireless device in hand.

 

Her cheerful smile appeared on his cell phone display, with stunning immediacy.

 

“Link, how are you feeling today? Your report indicates some trauma from falling, and also the cardiac events. Yet I see that you’ve bounced back with resilience. I’d say you must have good genes at work there. Most men of your age group would have been sent to a skilled-care facility after such a frightening turn of events...”

 

Lincoln frowned while sipping his java. But nodded in agreement.

 

“Yeah, the bloodline of my family must be strong, I guess. Or maybe hell doesn’t want me so soon? Either way, I’m still here for the moment. If nothing else, that’ll piss off some of the folks here at my park!”

 

The medical professional grimaced at this note of sarcasm. But maintained her positive attitude.

 

“I want to ask about your dietary habits. Are you staying socially active, exercising, eating low-fat foods, and abstaining from tobacco and alcohol?”

 

The shaggy misanthrope chortled until drool had soaked his gray beard.

 

“EXERCISE? JUST GETTING OUT OF BED IN THE MORNING IS A DAMN WORKOUT! I QUIT CIGARETTES OVER 40 YEARS AGO, SO THERE’S THAT. BUT AS FOR THE REST, WELL, YOU DON’T WANT TO HEAR THE TRUTH! AND I HAVE NEVER BEEN SOCIABLE WITH ANYONE!”

 

Dr. Mahindra tilted her head to one side, and shrugged.

 

“Yes, I actually do want to hear the truth...”

 

Her senior patient took a deep breath before answering, honestly.

 

“I live on potato chips, cheese sticks, pickled sausages, brined okra, hot peppers, and pork rinds. How’s that for a combination?”

 

The care advocate shuddered visibly. She had expected some sort of extreme response.

 

“Link, all of those choices will contribute to problems such as you are experiencing right now...”

 

Her client nodded once again.

 

“I wash it down with whiskey and brew. I figure that ought to kill any of the bad stuff, right?”

 

Mahindra clenched her tiny fists. A fit of bad temper flushed her cheeks bright red.

 

“Don’t you want to live a long life? It is important that you take my advice to heart. Otherwise, you are going to expire long before you are ready! Doesn’t that make you afraid?”

 

Lincoln exhaled forcefully, and then leaned forward in his chair.

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but no, I’m not afraid of the Grim Reaper. He’d be doing me a favor by swinging his scythe! That’d mean one less day of living in this junkyard by the county line. One less day of hearing stray dogs barking, one less day of hearing fist-fights and police sirens, rusty trucks with bad mufflers, awful music blaring from cheap speakers, and gunfire in the woods. It’d mean one less day of wondering how I screwed up my life enough that a singlewide shack became my home. I would mean one less day of feeling like my brain died years ago, and my body hasn’t figured it out just yet!”

 

The young physician sighed loudly, and crossed her arms.

 

“You’re an ornery old man, Townshend Lincoln! But I know that deep down, you really want to keep on living. And I will do my best to make that happen...”

 

There was a moment of silence as he pondered this candid observation. Then, the weary boozer clapped his hands and yowled.

 

“Yes, yes, that’s it! I do want to keep going. I actually do! If for no other reason than to be a nuisance for my neighbors. Some of those bastards would be happy to see me gone, so they could empty my storage barn, and strip all the extra wood off of my trailer. But I’m not quite done with living, yet. Not yet, dammit! Not yet!”

 

Their conversation ended with a pledge to meet at the main office in Geneva, after a decent interval. Temporarily, the minimum requirements for his care had been satisfied. But the reclusive bum knew that sooner or later, he would have to do better.

 

Unfortunately, that change would not arrive, today.

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Sunset Too Soon” (Part Three)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

Despite numerous issues that seemed to deepen his disability on a regular basis, and a social climate of desperation and conspiracy theories, T. C. Lincoln was content with his existence at the mobile-home community of Evergreen Estates. Though he would not describe himself as a cheerful, or happy person, this mood of patient acceptance was one that had developed over years of inhabiting his narrow lot in the rural development. While his singlewide home offered few comforts for living, it did efficiently meet his needs. Things were arranged conveniently for someone who suffered from physical handicaps. And the limited floorplan fit well with his tendency not to spend much time on housekeeping chores and maintenance.

 

He had settled on a libertarian outlook regarding life. One that let him enjoy the time left on his personal chronometer, without fretting over details that he could not control. His neighborhood was rife with unregistered firearms, talismans of fallen empires, and symbols of extremist philosophies. In a sense, his own presence in the park was a risky act that might indicate a paucity of proper judgment to those of a more sober intellect. Yet he was used to being in the rural environment, after a quarter-century. Sounds of diesel motors, bullets and buckshot being fired, and Country ballads, no longer caused him to flinch. When marital disputes erupted, up and down his street, he simply shrugged off any fear over mayhem that might transpire. Visits from the local sheriff were common. He reckoned that a balance needed to be maintained, between the insanity of their private oasis, and rules of law that still existed in the outside world.

 

Everything sat upon a foundation of drunkenness and disinterest. So long as he was able to stay perpetually inebriated and alone, the perplexing riddle of his own life did not become overwhelming. Though his spirit had perished in this backwoods landscape, long ago, what remained of his body continued to go forward. Much like a mindless vagabond scouring scorched earth and sand for sustenance, after the advent of a global apocalypse.

 

For all of these reasons and more, the graybeard misanthrope did not alter his habits after having suffered a cardiac event, on the front porch. He feared longevity more than an early demise. In a sense, every swallow of Kentucky bourbon brought him closer to his moment of finality, and a blessed release. But as the hours of a Wednesday afternoon elapsed, he again felt a tightness in his chest. Heat glowed from his face, and caused sweat to drip freely. He became dizzy and disoriented. Then, a bout of vertigo felled him, once more.

 

This time, there were no spectators nearby to provide rescue. His neighbors to the east had left on a camping adventure, early in the morning. Those on the opposite flank were stoned from smoking homegrown weed, and taking CBD gummies. Almost everyone else on their rustic boulevard was away at work. Laboring hopelessly for Dollar General, Walmart, or some other employer of unskilled individuals who were willing to work for minimum-wage compensation.

 

Lincoln sputtered phlegm and saliva, as he rolled on the floorboards. The daylight seemed to fade as his consciousness ebbed. Finally, darkness eclipsed all of his perceptions. His heart was stilled by this episode of woe. His last breath came with a groan of surrender.

 

This time, there were no family members or deceased companions waiting for his arrival beyond the veil. He lingered in a fog of oblivion, until arriving in a chasm hewn from solid rock. Natural wildfires were burning all around this craggy chamber. He stood before a grisly throne made from skeletal remains and cinders.

 

A peal of laughter announced his arrival in vocal terms.

 

“MISTER TOWNSHEND! YOU STAND HERE BEFORE ME TODAY, AS ANOTHER VANQUISHED MORTAL, HUMBLED BY DEATH. HOW DO YOU PLEAD YOUR CASE?”

 

The shaggy hermit was somewhat confused by this formal scene in the realm of Hades.

 

“Plead my case? What, I get to make an argument about damnation and suffering?”

 

The menacing Lord of Abbadon had an appearance of someone wearing goat horns and a robe of bloody jewels on a cord of string.

 

“I PERSONALLY HATE THIS PART OF THE PROCESS! BUT IT HAS BEEN DECREED BY THAT WHITE-HAIRED FOOL IN THE UPPER TIER! HE IS THE MASTER OF ALL, AT LEAST FOR NOW. UNLESS I AM ABLE TO MOUNT ANOTHER INSURRECTION WITH MY MINIONS! ANYWAY, MAKE YOUR PLEA AND LET US BE QUICK WITH THIS PART OF THE RITUAL! I WANT TO PASS SENTENCE, AND BE DONE WITH YOU!”

 

Lincoln raised his eyebrows, and huffed in disbelief.

 

“This is what mankind can expect on the other side? A hothouse buried in a cavern, and you looking like something out of a grindhouse, foreign film?”

 

The evil emperor was not amused by this candid description.

 

“YOU THINK THIS IS A MOVIE SET? MERELY A JOKE FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT? LET ME SHOW YOU HOW ERRONEOUS THIS ASSESSMENT IS, MY SAD FRIEND!”

 

The alcoholic loner clutched his belly, as a swarm of mealworms feasted inside. He began to writhe in pain, and toppled on the slate floor.

 

“What the friggggggg! I was having a snort of whiskey on my bench at the trailer park, and all of a sudden, here I am with a stand-in for Lucifer, himself! I didn’t know anything about having another heart attack, or landing on my ass in eternity! I just wanted to get drunk! So far as sins go, that has to be pretty far down on the list!”

 

The malevolent figure held a fiery staff, carved from bone. He was apparently running out of patience.

 

“THAT IS YOUR PLEA? A SIMPLE FORM OF IGNORANCE? I PUNISH ALL KINDS OF SIN, YOU IMBECILE! THEY ARE MY TOOLS FOR RULING OVER THE RUIN OF HUMANITY!”

 

Lincoln slouched on his spot. A stale odor of decomposing corpses filled his nostrils. He was intensely thirsty for a swig of brown liquor.

 

“Yeah, I get that you’re a busy fellow. But there are plenty of miscreants and misbehavers all around the known world. Crooked politicians, warmaking generals, serial killers, predators who prey on women and children... plenty of targets for your claws and horns. I’d think those kinds of people would keep you busy, claiming souls. You really want to snag an old bum like me, when there are all those crazies running loose in the asylum?”

 

The demon-in-charge shook his head as if someone had placed a spotlight on his withered face.

 

“TAKE CARE NOT TO ANGER ME WITH YOUR PETTY INSULTS, MORTAL MAN! I CAN DO MANY THINGS ALL AT ONCE! BELIEVE ME, IT ISN’T DIFFICULT TO HERD MEMBERS OF YOUR HUMAN RACE LIKE CATTLE! IT IS A CINCH FOR ME!”

 

The contrarian loner gestured as if he was unconvinced by this boast of supremacy.

 

“We’ve got holy wars and ethnic cleansing going on right now, invasions and injustices, pollution and catastrophes, torture and poverty and exploitation. Take your pick! There are plenty of reasons to go ransack the earth, if that’s your thing. Gather your victims and wreak havoc! But come on now, don’t waste time with a booze-hound from the Buckeye State. Are you for real? I’m a nobody. My life matters little to anyone, not even myself, to be blunt. You’ve got bigger foes to defeat. Why waste your time with a guy who can’t even walk straight? If anything, that really makes you look weak...”

 

The demonic king lost his cool, at last. He burst into a pall of sulfur smoke and scattering ashes.

 

“ENOUGH! ENOUGH! I HAVE HEARD ENOUGH! I BANISH YOU FROM THIS REALM! BE GONE FROM MY SIGHT BEFORE I CHANGE THIS VERDICT! GO BACK TO THAT DUMP BY LAKE ERIE! GO BACK TO YOUR RATHOLE IN THE WOODS! GO BACK TO YOUR PITIFUL LIFE SUCKING DOWN SHOTS OF WHISKEY AND COLD BEER AMONG THE WEEDS AND WASTE, AND JAGGED PIECES OF BROKEN CONCRETE! GO BACK, I COMDEMN YOU TO LIVE A HUNDRED YEARS IN THAT JUNKYARD PIT! GO BACK, GO BACK, GO BACK!”

 

Lincoln awakened on the floor of his living room. He had carpet scraps embedded in his teeth. Somehow, he must have crawled inside, after tumbling on the porch. But none of that mattered now, as he gently fell back to sleep where he had landed.

 

Hell would have to wait for another day in the pines.

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Sunset Too Soon” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

Health journals across the North American continent were filled with stories of senior men who suffered cardiac emergencies, and fell into bouts of depression as a result. Or, who were driven into extreme regimens of fitness and endurance, to bolster themselves against having such episodes in the future. But for Townshend Carr Lincoln, there was no change in his daily routine after surviving a near-death experience. Instead of fretting over his age and physical condition, he simply caught a ride home from the hospital with one of his nephews. Then, took a seat on the wooden bench that was his favored spot for drinking in the afternoon hours, and began to indulge in the household reserve of Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond Bourbon.

 

It did not take long to reach a point of tipsy detachment from his environment. As notifications filled the Messenger app on his cell phone, he swooned in between swallows of the brown liquor. His niece, who was still on duty with her employer, sent a humble plea for sanity as he continued to imbibe.

 

“Uncle Link, I hope you didn’t go home and start boozing it up again! You need to take it easy for a while. I am guessing you were told to check with your regular doctor in a week or so, to monitor your heart rhythm. Stay clear of the pickled sausages and pork rinds...”

 

The shaggy hermit laughed to himself while guzzling his high-proof swill. He was glad she could not hear his terse response.

 

“They wanted me to wear a home monitor, but I won’t tell you that of course!”

 

Another line of text appeared on his wireless device as the drinking continued.

 

“This is really serious! You’ve got to buckle down and pay attention! If my mom were still alive, she’d grab you by the ear! We can’t handle another funeral in the family right now. Do you understand?”

 

Lincoln belched and passed wind in a dual show of gastronomic defiance. He did not have any intention of surrendering his liberties in the name of staying alive and independent.

 

“Girl, when the time comes, I want to be right here, with a whiskey tumbler in my hand! Not stuck in a bed with tubes in both arms and wires attached to my skull. I’ve seen too many other people in this family expire in that fashion. It’s a kind of ending I refuse to write for myself. Let me go with a blast of moonshine and a hand-rolled cigar! They can bury my carcass in the yard here, next to a Black Lab, Golden Retriever, and a half-dozen cats...”

 

His courage was stalled for a moment, upon realizing it was at just such a point in the normal arc of his weekly timeline that the first cardiac event had occurred. This sobering realization made him pause and take inventory of his faculties. His bones ached, his head throbbed, and he felt woozy with fatigue. Yet all of these symptoms were quite normal, and did not concern him in the least. So, with a tip of his bottle, he began to swallow the potent distillation again.

 

His eyes watered freely. A burning sensation filled his throat. Everything was as it should be, on a typical day in the rustic, trailer village.

 

As this ritual grew more intense, another message appeared on his phone. This time from a younger nephew.

 

“Uncle Link, I worry about you living alone. Did you ever think of getting a place in our neighborhood? I think it would be better to have you right on this street, like everybody else. We want to help you stay safe. You matter to us!”

 

The contrarian loner shuddered at the thought of being visited every day. His privacy was a benefit of being separated by a buffer zone of miles, at a remote park in the pines. He answered by talking to himself, on the porch.

 

“Nah, thanks buddy! Your sister would be hounding me about how much I eat and drink over here. She’d be bringing me hummus and salads and all kinds of fancy, vegetarian horseshit! I don’t need that prissy kind of chicken scratch, I want real, down-home vittles! The kind of meals they serve in God’s country, not a college cafeteria! With a stiff beverage afterward, to calm my damn nerves! That’s the grub that’ll get me saying halleluiah, and amen!”

 

As he emptied the container of Kentucky spirits, a neighbor to the east appeared in his gravel driveway. Darby Stronelli stood nervously at the foot of his access ramp, fearing to come any closer. But her canine companions did not feel the same need to maintain their distance. Both young, spotted pooches came running to offer affection.

 

“Link, how are you doin’ buddy? I really figured you were gone this time, and I did! My husband said you were white as a ghost. They made a big scene gettin’ you outta here. That was off the hook, bruh! I figured they’d be sizin’ your ass up for a coffin!”

 

Lincoln shrugged while maintaining the tempo of his libation.

 

“Honestly, I don’t remember much about it. I faded out in the middle of getting blitzed. The EMT crew said I fell on my porch, and landed against the storm door. All I remember is being sore as hell when I woke up in the Intensive Care Unit. Those nurses were going wild. It’s the most female attention I’ve had in years...”

 

Darby frowned and stomped her work boots. A sheen of sweat glistened in her spiky hair.

 

“You dumb old bastard! That was a wake-up call and here you are gettin’ loaded again! Look at you, it’s like nothing bad ever happened!”

 

The solitary bum shrugged for a second time, and wheezed phlegm from deep in his lungs.

 

“Look, everybody has a timer ticking away. You only get so much on the clock. That’s how it goes for everybody. When it’s my turn to make an exit, I won’t shed any tears. Screw that kind of weakness! Let me die holding a glass in my hand!”

 

His neighbor winced with a visible amount of concern. But stifled a desire to lecture him about having such a careless attitude.

 

“Okay, buddy. I get it. You don’t care about livin’ or dyin’ right now. It’s all good. But just remember you’ve got friends in this park. People who actually care about you being well and happy!”

 

Lincoln burst into a fit of raucous chortling. Both of his middle fingers raised, in unison.

 

“HAPPY? IN THIS AWFUL RATHOLE? THAT’S FREAKING HILARIOUS! BUT TO QUOTE ELVIS PRESLEY, ‘THANK YOU! THANK YOU VERY MUCH!’”