Pluralized
September 1st, 2014, 05:55 PM
Old Hank
by Ewe Noe Hooo
When the blast of the train’s horn rang in his ears, Albertino cringed and nearly dropped his bottle. He and Hank had been living under the overpass, tucked up in the windless alcove between girders for the past ninety-eight months, according to the scrapes he'd made on the pylon each full moon. The divot where the dog slept seemed natural, like a cleft in the earth that would be there anyway, if it weren't for the tufts of white hair stuck in the dirt.
“You’re a good boy,” said Albertino, his voice cracking.
The dead Pyrenees just lay there, not moving. Albertino drank from his bottle and bit back a wave of sorrow, scratching Hank’s ears, then looked up at the underside of the bridge as if looking to the dog heavens. That big old dog had been his only companion for almost twenty years, even since before they’d lost it all.
That evening, when the train finally came to a stop and he’d waited out the watchmen, he lifted Hank’s body into an empty boxcar. The train creaked and a chain of booms echoed down the valley as the slack came out, then the train chuffed slowly away toward Mexico.
Stuck under that bridge, Albertino had never felt so alone. He took a slow, thoughtful swallow from the whiskey, and turned his tired eyes north, watching for the next train, making his plans. Preparing for his own voyage south. He exhaled and said, “I’m coming, boy.”
by Ewe Noe Hooo
When the blast of the train’s horn rang in his ears, Albertino cringed and nearly dropped his bottle. He and Hank had been living under the overpass, tucked up in the windless alcove between girders for the past ninety-eight months, according to the scrapes he'd made on the pylon each full moon. The divot where the dog slept seemed natural, like a cleft in the earth that would be there anyway, if it weren't for the tufts of white hair stuck in the dirt.
“You’re a good boy,” said Albertino, his voice cracking.
The dead Pyrenees just lay there, not moving. Albertino drank from his bottle and bit back a wave of sorrow, scratching Hank’s ears, then looked up at the underside of the bridge as if looking to the dog heavens. That big old dog had been his only companion for almost twenty years, even since before they’d lost it all.
That evening, when the train finally came to a stop and he’d waited out the watchmen, he lifted Hank’s body into an empty boxcar. The train creaked and a chain of booms echoed down the valley as the slack came out, then the train chuffed slowly away toward Mexico.
Stuck under that bridge, Albertino had never felt so alone. He took a slow, thoughtful swallow from the whiskey, and turned his tired eyes north, watching for the next train, making his plans. Preparing for his own voyage south. He exhaled and said, “I’m coming, boy.”