Mark Allan Gunnells

         Every Sunday evening I go for a walk.  Not a long walk, just down to the end of Grace Street and back.  Two and a half blocks each way.  For three years I have done this, since the death of my wife.  It is more than mere habit; ritual seems a more appropriate word.

         The walk is good for me.  At sixty-eight years of age, I am in fine health; my ticker is topnotch, cholesterol and blood pressure all within normal range.  I sometimes get the impression that my young doctor is offended by a geezer like myself in such fine condition.

         It is not just my physical health that benefits from these walks.  My brain gets a workout as well.  The walks allow me time to think, to mull, to ponder without the interruptions of the modern world.  No phones ringing, no television buzzing, no mysterious Internet with its realm of electronic witchery.  Just me, the cracked sidewalk, and the inner workings of my mind.

         The folks who live on Grace Street have grown accustomed to seeing me on Sunday evenings.  They smile and wave, and I smile back.  They do not ask me about the weather, however, or try to engage me in idle chitchat as I pass.  They have learned that when I walk down Grace Street, I am seeking solitude.  It is not my intention to be rude or unsociable, but my walks are my time, my little bubble of peace and sanity.

         At five-thirty this afternoon, I began to prepare for my walk.  It had been raining earlier in the day, a steady drizzle that painted the world gray, but the clouds had packed up and left town at around three forty-five.  Color had slowly crept back into the world, made somehow more vibrant after the rain.  I put on a light jacket and my most comfortable shoes.  After a momentary consideration, I also grabbed my wooden walking stick with the curved handle.  One of the few ailments I can claim is a slight case of arthritis in my left knee, which always flares up something awful after a rain.  This would not prevent me from my walk, however.  In fact, the exercise often seemed to work out the stiffness in my knee, loosening up the joints and soothing the soreness.

         The sun was balanced on the edge of the horizon by the time I stepped out onto my porch, locking the door behind me.  There was a golden hue to the air that made me think of the lazy days of my childhood, eternal summers of bicycles and baseball cards.  During the twilight hour, when there is a quality of magic about the world that is absent all other times, that adventurous little boy does not seem so far removed from the old man now clutching a cane for support.

         I turned left at the sidewalk, the cane clopping like a heartbeat on the pavement.  I passed the pecan tree on the edge of my property, providing nothing more than shade these past several years, and nodded politely at Ms. Poole as she relaxed on the porch swing next door.  The house next to Ms. Poole's was empty, evidenced by the weeds that overgrew the lawn and the "FOR SALE" sign out front.  But there was something more, something indefinable, that indicated the house was unoccupied.  Much as I could sometimes tell a pecan was bad just by looking at its shell.  A house has no personality on its own; it is those who live in it that provide a home with its warmth and charm.

         As I reached the first intersection, I paused and checked the streets for traffic.  This area of town was not very busy, not since the elementary school on Montgomery Street closed, but one could never be too careful.  Good as my health may be, I do not move as quickly as I once did.  Seeing that the streets were deserted, I ambled across.  Grace Street angled off to the left, and I followed, passing the chain-link fence with the small, yapping dogs on the other side.  I allowed the tip of my cane to tap repeatedly against the fence, inciting a riot among the canines that I found amusing.

         Halfway to the next intersection, I paused again.  I squinted my eyes and looked around me.  Something was different; I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but after three years I had come to know the geography of Grace Street like I knew my own backyard.  Something was different.  Then it came to me—there was more foliage—more trees, more bushes, more flowers.  Hell, across the street in the Wicht's yard was a flower as tall as a man, great yellow head bobbing in the slight breeze.

         Hmm, I thought and walked on.  I passed over a patch of newly lain sidewalk, and I noticed that a handful of clever children had managed to scrawl messages into the cement before it had dried.  "BOBBY WAS HERE 4/4/02."  "SEBRINA + MICHAEL FOREVER."  "FELICIA COLLINS IS THE COOLEST."  I smiled at the messages, feeling the hope of the children who left them, their striving for immortality through this innocently rebellious act.  They probably thought they were pulling off something new with this stunt, but kids have been writing their names in sidewalk cement since my day.

         My first indication that something was truly wrong on Grace Street was the monkey.  The increase of foliage was curious, but the monkey was downright impossible.  It was the small kind with the long tail, the kind that flings its own feces at the gawkers at the zoo.  It was perched on one of the branches in the Heron's maple tree, eating a banana and scratching itself.  Such an exotic creature to be hanging out on Grace Street.  I stared at the monkey for several moments, and he stared back, my interest in him seemingly matched by his disinterest in me.  My furry friend ended the standoff by discarding the banana peel, screeching once, then scrambling up the tree and swinging onto the branch of another, disappearing in the thick leaves.

         "Hmm," I said aloud and walked on.  The monkey had disconcerted me, certainly, and raised countless questions in my mind, but I would not let that interfere with my walk.  I would walk to the end of Grace Street and back, just as I did every Sunday evening.

         The pavement beneath my feet became buckled and broken, strange weeds sprouting up in the gaps, weeds that seemed to tug at my feet like living creatures.  The familiar houses of Grace Street were now hidden from view by the dense shrubbery and thick trees, or perhaps the houses no longer existed at all.  Soon the sidewalk petered out altogether, and I found myself following a narrow dirt path that threaded through a dark forest.  The sky overhead was obscured by the ceiling of branches, and I heard guttural growls in the distance.  At times I thought I saw sinister red eyes in the shadows, tracking my passage.

         I gripped the handle of my cane and walked on.

         As I walked, I scanned the forest for something familiar, some landmark that would help me orient myself, but there was nothing.  I had no idea where I was exactly, but I had no doubt I was still on Grace Street.  Not the Grace Street I was used to: another Grace Street, a darker Grace Street, the Grace Street underneath the one I knew.  I had stumbled onto it somehow, and I would continue on until I found my way out again.

         I stopped as a resonant roar split the air, and I heard a crashing from the foliage to my right.  Turning in that direction, I barely had time to register a flash of blurred color before I was knocked off my feet.  Hot pain shot up my back like mercury in a thermometer, and I cried out.  More movement from the corner of my eye, and a deep snarling that reminded me of a movie I'd watched on television the day before, Cujo.

         I turned my head to see a lion, large and magnificent—-tangled mane the color of melted gold, teeth shining like beacons in the darkness, tail whipping behind it.  Before this, I had only seen lions at the zoo, from a safe distance.  Seeing one up close now, I understood why they were called Kings of the Forest; there was definitely something regal and savagely beautiful about this creature.  I felt awe as well as fear as I watched it prepare to attack me.

         Bellowing with the sound of a universe imploding, the beast charged.  I knew it was moving rapidly, but it all seemed to be happening in slow motion.  I saw the muscles of its hide rippling as it moved, saw its jaws open to receive my tender throat.  I felt paralyzed, but I managed to raise the cane and swing it forward with all the strength I could muster.  The cane connected with the side of the lion's head with a reverberating thwump.  The lion stumbled, shook its head, and looked at me.  I was almost certain I saw disbelief and a little indignation in its eyes.

         I raised the cane again, holding it out in a threatening gesture.  The beast growled deep in its throat but slowly backed away.  I rose to my feet, keeping the cane raised all the while, and said, "Get, now.  I don't want to hurt you again."

         For a moment I thought the lion was going to attack, but instead it roared once more then ran off into the forest, its tail slapping me in the face as it went.  Only when the lion's roars faded into the distance did I lower the cane.

         I dusted off my clothes and walked on.

         I don't know how long I walked through the forest.  I was not wearing a watch, and the passage of time seemed more of a suggestion than a law in this place.  I continued to follow the dirt path, which had become so narrow that branches brushed my sides as I walked.  Up ahead I could see more trees, rocks, a few of those tall flowers with the yellow heads, and a bright red fire hydrant.

         A few feet after I passed the hydrant, the sidewalk reappeared.  The sound of my cane clopping on the pavement was reassuring.  The trees began to thin out, and I could see lights shining in the windows of the houses on Grace Street.  I paused again at the intersection of Grace and Montgomery, and when I was sure no cars were coming, I hurried across.  It was full dark outside by this time, and Ms. Poole was no longer on her porch swing.

         As I unlocked my front door, I heard my telephone begin to ring inside the house.  I picked up the receiver on the fourth ring.

         "Hi, Dad."  It was my daughter, Kasey.

         "Hello, dear.  Nice to hear your voice.  How are you?"

         "Fine.  I just wanted to call and check on you.  What's been going on?"

         "Oh, the usual.  Just in from my walk."

         "Really, it's after eight.  Aren't you usually back long before now?"

         "Yes, well, I took an unexpected detour tonight."

         "Oh, any problems?"

         "Nothing I couldn't handle, dear, but I am a bit drained.  I will call you in the morning."

         "Sure thing.  Talk to you tomorrow.  Love you, Dad."

         "I love you, Kasey."

         I hung up the phone and went to my bedroom, placing my jacket and cane in the closet.  It was a bit early for bed, but I changed into my pajamas and crawled under the covers.  It had been a tiring walk tonight, and I needed some rest.  Strange as the night had been, however, I knew that next Sunday, come twilight, I would walk out my door and head down Grace Street.

         In my sixty-eight years on this planet, I have learned that life is often filled with unexpected turns and treacherous twists in the road.  I do not fear this; I face it the way I face everything.

         I walk on.

 

 

Copyright 2006, Mark Allan Gunnells

Mark Allan Gunnells is thirty-one years old and still lives in his hometown of Gaffney, SC.  He holds a degree in English and Psychology.  While he has held an eclectic variety of jobs, writing remains his true passion and ambition. 

 

 

Cover: "Viking Funeral"

Copyright 2006, Karl Eschenbach

Karl Eschenbach was born in 1950, right in the middle of the last century. He was raised in a military family and traveled throughout the United States. He survived college in the 60's and 70's, and is now a grandfather in Albuquerque, NM. 

He has had 15 illustrations, 15 short stories, two essays and one poem published.