{"id":317,"date":"2012-09-14T20:41:12","date_gmt":"2012-09-15T03:41:12","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/?p=317"},"modified":"2021-08-15T17:41:10","modified_gmt":"2021-08-16T00:41:10","slug":"hunting-seasons","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/?p=317","title":{"rendered":"Hunting Seasons"},"content":{"rendered":"

The story by Dan Todd<\/strong> is\u00a0presented here in the original verse format. The book is currently in print in a prose edition published under the pseudonym Lang Gore<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

. . . I went unto the angel, and said unto him, Give me the little book. And he said unto me, Take <\/em>it, and eat it up; and it shall make thy belly bitter, but it shall be in thy mouth sweet as honey. And I <\/em>took the little book out of the angel\u2019s hand, and ate it up; and it was in my mouth sweet as honey; and <\/em>as soon as I had eaten it, my belly was bitter.<\/em><\/h4>\n

-Revelation 10:9, 1<\/strong><\/em><\/h4>\n

Chapter 1<\/h2>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Bay grimaced. \u201cFucking bladder is about to burst;<\/p>\n

I know there is no way in fucking hell<\/p>\n

That I will make it off this goddamn bus<\/p>\n

Before I piss my fucking pants;<\/p>\n

I will piss my fucking pants before we stop,<\/p>\n

I know I will, I know I will,\u201d<\/p>\n

He malevolently muttered beneath his breath.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He squirmed. \u201cI should have pissed<\/p>\n

While we were still out on the freeway<\/p>\n

But am I not the biggest fucking dumbass in the world?<\/p>\n

Is it not appropriate that I should die painfully humiliated<\/p>\n

When my tiny fucking bladder blows up?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Then, though, they were turning into the terminal,<\/p>\n

The Greyhound glided to a stop and, standing,<\/p>\n

Bay struggled to bring down his bag<\/p>\n

From the rack overhead.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Holding it in front of him, he shuffled forward,<\/p>\n

Waiting while a woman with a woven bag and blubbering,<\/p>\n

Barely-wakeful boy backed down through the door,<\/p>\n

The driver helping. Hurry!<\/p>\n

Bay begged silently, longing to be beyond them,<\/p>\n

There, where he could make out the letters M-E-N<\/p>\n

Over a rectangular opening in the wall.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He nearly knocked down a lanky kid<\/p>\n

Crouching to put on his pack, apologized,<\/p>\n

And pushed past. Only a few feet further,<\/p>\n

He thought thankfully, and then he was fumbling with his fly,<\/p>\n

The pressure-pushed stream pouring out painfully<\/p>\n

Until, finally, the flow faltered.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Bay sighed, letting out a deep breath.<\/p>\n

His gaze lingered on the graffiti in front of him:<\/p>\n

Whose love is given over well,<\/address>\n
Shall gaze on Helen\u2019s face in Hell,<\/address>\n
Whilst they whose love is thin and wise<\/address>\n
May view John Knox in Paradise.<\/address>\n

Buoyed by the unexpected pleasure<\/p>\n

Of these archaic couplets, Bay sauntered to the sink,<\/p>\n

Turned on the tap, cupped his hands to catch cold water,<\/p>\n

And splashed it on his face.<\/p>\n

The man he saw in the mirror when he opened his eyes<\/p>\n

Seemed, as always, somehow strange despite familiar features:<\/p>\n

Three thin scars, perfectly parallel,<\/p>\n

Below his left cheekbone; the broken nose;<\/p>\n

The bushy eyebrows going gray, as had his hair,<\/p>\n

Close-cropped now as always.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He frowned and saw the furrows in his forehead deepen.<\/p>\n

Picking up his duffel bag he walked outside and stopped,<\/p>\n

Staring out to sea past Point St. Paul,<\/p>\n

Out where the breakers first formed up.<\/p>\n

He could not see where they crashed in full force<\/p>\n

Against the great rocks beneath the bluffs,<\/p>\n

But he could hear, barely,<\/p>\n

The rumbling roar of this primeval impact<\/p>\n

Under the sounds of the city.<\/p>\n

He held his head back and inhaled<\/p>\n

The pungent, sharp salt air he had missed so much in Walla Walla<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Gradually growing less distinct,<\/p>\n

The drone of a distant airplane<\/p>\n

Put Bay in a melancholic mood;<\/p>\n

He recollected Oscar Wilde\u2019s remark<\/p>\n

That on the day of his release<\/p>\n

He should be merely passing from one prison<\/p>\n

To another, \u201cAnd there are times when the whole world<\/p>\n

Seems to me no larger than my cell<\/p>\n

And as full of terror for me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Bay searched the sky for the source of the sound;<\/p>\n

It was now out of sight. He set off walking.<\/p>\n

Bright sunlight bathed the boulevard; in no hurry,<\/p>\n

He strolled along savoring the heat.<\/p>\n

As the muscles in his legs loosened up<\/p>\n

Little by little, he lengthened his stride.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Passing a sunburned man who seemed shell-shocked,<\/p>\n

In a suit so shabby it had the proverbial shine,<\/p>\n

He heard, \u201cSpare a little change?\u201d<\/p>\n

Stopping, Bay gave the man a couple quarters<\/p>\n

Then looked up. He was by The Barge Inn.<\/p>\n

Copyright 2009\u00a0Lang Gore.<\/h6>\n
The preceding is just a short excerpt from the first chapter. The entire book edition of this amazing alliterative epic novel, Hunting Seasons, <\/strong>itself may be ordered from the author through:<\/address>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n
Unrelenting Press<\/strong><\/address>\n
POB 2626<\/strong><\/address>\n
Tucson, AZ 85702-2626<\/strong><\/address>\n
\u00a0<\/address>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The story by Dan Todd is\u00a0presented here in the original verse format. The book is currently in print in a prose edition published under the pseudonym Lang Gore. . . . I went unto the angel, and said unto him,…<\/p>\n

Read more →<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_s2mail":"yes","footnotes":""},"categories":[8,1,43],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-317","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-issue-1","category-lang-gore"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/317","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=317"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/317\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1252,"href":"https:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/317\/revisions\/1252"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=317"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=317"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=317"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}