On graduation night we skip out on the dreaded ceremony with its foldable metal chairs and grandparents dabbing sweaty necks with lace handkerchiefs and walk single file along the dirt road to Cormack Beaver\u2019s farmhouse. Ellis walks up front with a BB gun tipped against his bare, tanned shoulder, tobacco spit dribbling down his chin. Every so often he spits to his right and August flinches and curses. August always walks too close behind his twin brother, hovers in his shadow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Ellis can shoot a tin can off a tree stump from thirty paces. He rides horses bareback and sometimes barefoot, too. There\u2019s a rumor that girls will run across the Quebec-Ontario border late at night in their jean shorts and flip flops if they hear Ellis will be at an Ontario party that night. Then Ellis will charm them in his broken French, and they\u2019ll laugh because he has a good-looking face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWe\u2019re going to get killed by Beaver,\u201d moans August. August did not inherit the looks or the charm that his twin brother is graced with but instead an affinity for bugs and no hearing in his right ear. He often squats down in the dust and dirt and sticks his finger in the ground, admiring an ant or a spider or a fat caterpillar. At school people lean into his deaf ear and whisper \u201cfreak\u201d and \u201cqueer\u201d and \u201ccreeper\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 At school people buy Ellis slices of pizza and offer to lend him their dirt bikes. August squats in the dirt and smiles and doesn\u2019t hear what people whisper in his right ear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cShut up, August,\u201d I say. \u201cCormack Beaver\u2019s dead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The sun is almost down but the heat is smothering. Crickets are popping in and out of the dry yellow grass along the road. The sound they make is like a high-pitched whine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Cormack Beaver\u2019s farmhouse is a long walk outside of town. Ellis wanted to shoot out the windows instead of getting his high school diploma. He brought me along because he knows I\u2019m a good shot and I don\u2019t talk much. I have my dad\u2019s hunting rifle with me. The weight of it feels powerful, the butt of the gun bumping against my thighs as I walk. Once Ellis said that he\u2019d want me on his team for the zombie apocalypse. I grinned like an idiot for the rest of the day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cPeople say that if you shoot out the windows on Beaver\u2019s house then he\u2019ll haunt you in your sleep.\u201d August walks with his head down, his glasses nearly sliding off his face. The tips of his ears are sunburnt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThen go home, August.\u201d Ellis doesn\u2019t turn when he speaks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 An old pick-up truck grumbles along the road towards us. It is shiny silver and reflects the late evening sun in white flashes. We all stand and squint at it as it approaches.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThere\u2019s no hunting here, boys,\u201d says an old man\u2019s voice from the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I stand with August as Ellis goes to speak with the driver. August points out a wasp nest a few feet away, nestled in the gnarled branches of a magnolia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThat\u2019s a nice spot,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Ellis walks back to us and the truck drives off, leaving behind a cloud of yellow dust.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cOld asshole,\u201d Ellis says. He spits a wad of black grime and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHe\u2019s reporting us?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHe bought the property beside Beaver\u2019s place. He said he\u2019ll call the cops if we don\u2019t leave.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat the hell are we gonna do?\u201d I dig my shoe into the dirt. This was supposed to be a good time. The old man has ruined everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 August is staring off at the magnolia tree, hypnotized by the lazy hum of wasps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Ellis raises his BB gun and aims in one fluid motion. He fires ten times at the wasp nest and smiles when it hits the ground.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On graduation night we skip out on the dreaded ceremony with its foldable metal chairs and grandparents dabbing sweaty necks with lace handkerchiefs and walk single file along the dirt road to Cormack Beaver\u2019s farmhouse. Ellis walks up front with a BB gun tipped against his bare, tanned shoulder, tobacco spit dribbling down his chin. … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2158","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pa867U-yO","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2158","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2158"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2158\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2161,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2158\/revisions\/2161"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2158"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2158"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2158"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
Issie Patterson is a writer from Toronto. Her fiction and reviews have been featured and are forthcoming in untethered, Prism, Gargoyle Magazine, and Vancouver Weekly. Her stage plays have been performed on both coasts of Canada. She is a recent graduate of the University of British Columbia’s MFA creative writing program. She lives in Nova Scotia.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"