Accountability
Stafford describes chilly nights on the outside of taverns in Wyoming, where large pickup trucks and semis are left idle, letting off puffs of powdered snow every now and then. Those who own these vehicles remain inside for hours on end, trying to forget how many miles they have travelled, and how many they still must. They aim to forget the circular plains; the dreary, empty town that lies silent with no connections to anywhere but empty space, the cold and a few random sidewalks. These pavements lead to nowhere except larger towns with similar taverns waiting there for them, such as in Denver or Cheyenne.
Hard stars gaze briefly upon recruitment posters for the military, that accompany folders filled with research on energy, as well as literature by Thomas Aquinas, Saint Teresa and Alfred North Whitehead, all tucked away and hiding in the school library. The doors of the school bus creak and move in the wind, although the yellow mass is empty. The absent students are counted and disintegrate, being blown across the icy ground.
Bess
Bess got cancer in Stafford's streets. She passed the houses each day on her way to work at the library, where she made improved flower arrangements and willingly helped students find the books they were looking for. In the final year before she died, Bess refrained from telling her friends how happy they actually were, despite listening to their complaints surrounding food, their jobs or the mundane weather. National events were discussed, but were of little real significance to her.
Pain moved along with her all the time. When she tried to escape it, it caught up with her and when she decided to hide, it always found her. There was never a more dedicated servant or a more hateful enemy. It seems as though the space for her on earth had slowly dwindled away and disappeared. Yet she could remember joy and its place in the world. She straightened joy's flowers and stopped herself from crying as she went by its houses. When she passed away, relieved from her pain, she opened her hand, causing the streets to open. She has only well wishes for all.
In the Deep Channel
Going out after the sun set sometimes allowed a glimpse of a secretive channel cat, arising out of the deep when one waits long enough into the night. Its eyes still functioned in the dark, as senses that worked in the black. Its bones within each fin were dagger-like and sharp, and one pierced upwards from its back.
In the day, Stafford and his companion would arrive to find the fishing line sagging, with the bellies of fish turned upright towards the sun, glimmering in its light. They would feel the swell of the current and its movement, which pulled on the roots below the river's surface.
