There’s a man sitting on the floor of a cabin, holding an orange. His right leg is bent at the knee and the sole of his foot is inches from the inside of the other leg’s knee. Back against the couch, he stares into a raging fire.
Pillows on the couch are strewn.
A rocking chair with a back pillow laying flat on the seat sits a few feet away.
There’s a pad of paper on the floor beside the man and a pen on the rug beside the pad.
The pad is empty.
Papers from the pad are crumpled up near the fire.
One of the words can be made out on one of the crumpled pieces of paper. It says “Chocolate lips” with lips crossed out.
He uses his thumb’s long nail to dig into the skin of the orange. At the incision point, the peel embeds itself into the inside of the man’s thumbnail and adds to the orange tint that’s now caked into the nail and along the tip of the finger pad.
Two peeled, uneaten oranges sit on the table beside the rocking chair. Twelve unpeeled oranges sit in a red mesh bag on the counter in the dark kitchen.
Next to the bag is a gun. The magazine’s been removed and is sitting inches away on the counter.
A rectangular box of ‘Big Tony’s’ twenty two caliber bullets rests on it’s long flat side on the counter, sealed.
The man stands up, still peeling the orange, and begins moving his lips.
An airy hissing from the back of the man’s throat conjoins with the crackling of the fire.
The words are too soft to be heard from the kitchen.
The fire casts the man’s shadow on the wall behind him.
Hanging on the wall is a photograph of the man standing exactly where the man is standing now. The man looks younger in the photo.
Beside the wall with the photo is a set of carpeted stairs.
Along the stairs is a railing.
Above the railing along the wall are two photographs.
One of a beach ball on grass and the other of a stick lying on pavement.
Beneath the one of the stick is a phrase in quotes.
It says “Stick on pavement”.
At the top of the steps is another framed image.
It’s a crayon drawing of what looks like the inside of a geode.
Beneath it is a phrase in quotes, written in purple crayon, that says “free will isn’t.”
Next to the picture is a door to a bathroom.
It’s empty and unused and small and dark and the floor in the bathroom is carpeted.
On the edge of the sink is a small shriveled dried piece of orange peel.
Beside the door to the carpeted bathroom is a blank hallway that leads to a bedroom above the fire room where the man is standing and whispering.
The door to the bedroom is ajar just enough for a small person to squeeze through without touching it.
Hanging on the door is a placard that says “His.”.
Through the door sits a quilted bed, the colors of which are muted in the darkness.
Beside the bed is a wooden night stand with a pencil and a pad on it. And an uneaten peeled orange.
The pad has four short sentences written on it:
“Why me? Oh my! Why me? Thank god!”
At the foot of the bed is a bench.
On the bench is an old leather duffel bag, unzipped.
The contents are too dark to be seen.
Light from a waxing gibbous rakes in through a divided light window and illuminates a phrase embroidered into the leather.
It says, “No Touching”.
The panels of the window have frosted edges.
Outside it’s snowing.
There’s snow on the ground. Snow on the trees. Snow on the windshield and roof and bed of the truck parked out front.
There are no tracks behind the truck.
The color of the truck is mustard, but looks beige in the moonlight.
Make and model cannot be made out from the second story bedroom window, but the truck looks aged.
A small black bumper sticker with small white lettering peeks out of the snow dusting on the back right corner of the truck’s tailgate.
In all lowercase letters the bumper sticker says, “mine.”
In the bed of the truck are numerous red mesh bags of now frozen oranges.
Pine Trees and other Conifers surround the house in all directions.
Beyond the trees is total darkness.
The only gap in the wall of trees is the driveway, which is covered in snow.
At this gap is a small sign that says ‘welcome back’.
From this distance the the warm flickering light coming through the cabin’s front facing window and the smoke billowing out of the chimney look nearly like a still life.
The man stands in the window, moving his lips.
Peeling an orange.
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I want chapter 2 of this story
Poetry !