On My Own Time is a regional visual Arts and Literary contest organized by the North Texas Busines Coincil for the Arts and sposored by variousn companies across north Texas like Heritage Auctions . The contest is open to employees and their immediate families, and provides a fun venue for amateur and professional creatives to showcase their work.

This year I was recognized for my short story “A Coyote Well”. Please enjoy.

A Coyote Well

by

Michael Morgan

The Mercedes on the shoulder of the road was dust shrouded like the road itself. Walter almost rode by without a glance, but he pulled up and Horse protested by side-stepping nervously, “Ho, boy. Nothin’ to worry over.”

Walter stepped down and Horse trailed behind at the limit of his reins. His hat brim scraped away the dust caked on the window. The car was unoccupied, but the bundles and boxes mixed with children’s toys told of a family on the move. “Humph. More pilgrims.”

Walter thought about what Grandfather told him. “All over the world people go through life believing in stuff. Somewhere else is better than what they have. Some idiot on TV hustling the secret to happiness for $99.95. All kinds of stupid notions. Ideas that will lead them off the edge of the Earth firmly convinced God or Buddha, or some other some such hogwash is lookin’ out fer ‘em. They’re Pilgrims, and they is all the same. Sick folks waitin’ to die ‘cause they is too afraid to live.”

No tracks lead away from the car. A shattered plastic box with the name Garmin embossed above the cracked screen. Walter turned the device over in his hands. “Guess they believed in GPS…” The box made a new dent in the sand. He stepped up, “Let’s go.” A gentle touch of his heel and slacking of reigns set Horse in motion again. The boxes and suitcases stuffed into the abandoned SUV receded in distance and memory, but the gas cap dangling from the open fuel door stuck in his memory.

Horse hesitated as the soft ground sagged beneath his hooves. “Go on,” Walter coaxed. “Just step on down.” Horse picked his way down the crumbling embankment to the floor of the wadi. Walter headed him upstream. The channel narrowed ahead and Walter leaned in the saddle noting the tracks of Mouse and other locals tracing the sand. Finally, the collapsed bank he sought.

The outside curve of a bend turned below an old cottonwood. Erosion left roots clawing at the air. A few more years and some flash flood would carry this tree away, but for now it stood as a marker to life itself. “Whoa, Horse.”

Walter’s knife shaped the end of a fallen cottonwood limb into chisel point and crouching next to the crumbled bank, he studied the story before him. Coyote came for water two days ago, and dug here. The little creatures came after to drink. Now it was his turn. A stick makes short work of a small hole, and his questing fingers soon found damp and then water started filling the burrow. Walter stood to stretch his back as he studied the horizon, “Horse, where do you think those folks got to?”

Walter’s daughter used to kid him about talking to animals as if they were people. “They are people,” he had explained. “Every creature operates on its own level. Each has thoughts and feelings just as valid as mine. Why shouldn’t I treat them with respect?” She refused to understand. Walter opened a saddlebag and retrieved his steel cup before unlooping the canteen strap from his saddle horn. “Hold on Horse. You’ll get yours too.”

Hot pink and neon yellow. Two and then three specks of colors God never made clumped together under some dead trees. Horse traded the road for packed sand following Walter’s lead. The hard-shell roller bags would have been fine on a paved road. In sand, they would have to be carried as much as dragged. Dead weight either way. “Well, Horse, they made it further than I expected.” A fading black scar and the stubs of burned branches turned the cases into seats around the campfire. “Momma Bear, Papa Bear, and Baby Bears.” Walter alighted and tied Horse off on a tree.

Walter circled the last moments of some family he would never know. Two empty plastic water bottles rolled back and forth with the wind. “Guess this was as far as they could go.” He looked up to study the trees. “Broke off all of the limbs they could reach.” Charred page fragments stirred at the edge of the black. Walter leaned over and picked up a tattered book left too close to the fire. ‘Casting all care upon Him for He careth for you…’ The rest of the verse was lost with the remainders of the charred page. At least their faith kept ‘em warm for a while, he thought. Turning toward Horse, the corner of a cheap synthetic sleeping bag almost lost beneath the drifted sand caught his eye. Another bag was nearby. “They had enough sense to zip them double. The cold probably got ’em.” Walter shook his head, “We didn’t miss them by more than a day or two. More peaceful than the usual alternatives.” He walked back and petted Horse’s neck before swinging up, “Let’s go call the Sheriff.”

“mis…mister?”

Walter almost hung himself in his stirrup trying to dismount. Glassy eyes tried to focus, on his weathered face as Walter lifted her from the huddled remains of her family.

“Hold on,” Walter laid her on the ground. “I’ll get some water.”

He started to rise, but her hand stopped him, “God said you’d come.”