Inktober Third. “Roasted.”

Headlights on the curving mountain pass click on all at once. The shadows between the pines grow colder and bluer about Gerald. His bad eyes scan the surroundings from behind aviator eye-glasses. ‘Hunter’s eyes’ the boys use to say, even though Lizzie Beth was always better at drawing a bead. His hands are soft now. His middle fat. In the clearing out between two thin alders turning red from yellow-gold, Gerald sets his gas can down beside someone’s archaic radio: a politician’s tired voice strains the tones of rhetoric. Here, a white porcelain dutch oven. Vinyl strands fall away from the aluminum skeleton of a lawnchair occupied by skeleton leaves. A dirty bedroll turns the color of grime at the edges. And various-many shoes, in every shade of pastel; like scattered crayon pieces in the grass patches. Gerald is so hungry that he cannot help but check inside of the dutch oven for something to eat. -FM