Part 1

PUBLISHED IN AUG.2023

by John Westrick

Little Sammy Nicholson fell off the bike for the third and final time. He scraped his knees and peeled the top layer of skin off his palms. The boy looked down at the miniscule spots of blood beginning to form, shock plastered on his post-baby face. His piggy eyes watched in paralytic fascination as the blood ran the track formed by the grooves in his hands. A winding river of blood in his palms.

"Red River, Red River fresh blood please deliver."

The tubby kid began to cry. Yes, from the pain; but more so from the invasive thought. It was an interloper; not belonging to the boy, yet it was definitely voiced in his mind. It hinted that not all would be the same. Things change, and a tiny child is powerless to the inevitability of it all. Ideas come and go, yet this one lingered. It taunted the boy, teasing secrets beyond his understanding. Hidden fruit, just out of reach.

Sammy, now, all too aware of how far from the house he was, picked up his bike, nervously glancing around. The sun was quickly setting, with each second the day got darker. He wished he would've stayed with his little sister and mom, the idea of riding alone, a grave mistake.

Forgetting about his grazed knee and bleeding hands, a fear unidentifiable grasping for his attention. His eyes darted back and forth into the pools of shadows expecting to see cat eyes peering back at any moment. No figures, no creatures, no blood sucking vampires, no brain eating zombies; just blackness. This didn't put his mind at ease, in fact, young Sammy became more scared with each glance.

A tickling sensation on his arm.

With a start the boy looked down only to see the forgotten stream of blood. It ran halfway down his forearm only to pool into pregnant drops and splatter onto the ragged pavement. Glancing behind him he noticed a trail of blood droplets leading from the scene of the accident.

The boy turned back to continue his long trek home; his heart skipped a beat. A man was standing in his path. The figure stood on the bridge peering unblinkingly at the murky waters down below his feet. The boy, knowing he ought not approach, yet seeing no way past; gritted himself for the encounter that must be.

As the boy approached, he noticed more about the man. He was oddly dressed. The old timer wore khaki shorts, what seemed to be a Hawaiian shirt, and flip flops. He was the spitting image of his grandfather.

The unusual apparel reminded the boy of summers spent by the beach, skipping shells on the endless water. The boy's mood turned from downright fear to outright nostalgia.

He missed his grandpa, who died the previous year from something his mom called cancer. Sammy doesn't quite know what cancer is, but he is old enough to hate it. He wished he could feel his grandpa's rough hand ruffle his hair one more time. The boy abhorred it when he was alive, but now there was nothing he wanted more.

No longer scared, mind entirely occupied and immune to the stingy pain from his accident, Sammy marched directly up to the stranger without a care in the world.

The old timer, not looking up from the bloated, rushing waters, was seemingly unaware of the boy's presence.

Sammy stood next to the doppelgänger of his deceased grandpa, peering down into the river. The two, a mirror image of each other. A moment passed. Then two, still the pair had yet to speak. Without a word exchanged, a bond formed. A kid standing with his grandpa. At that moment, the boy had him back. No cancer, no funeral, no tears shed; just the comforting presence of a loved one.

In a small voice the boy said, "Excuse me sir, what exactly are you looking at?"

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