Word Count: 293
When he came home he pulled seventeen slivers out of his fingers, making a wish on each one.
His mother had instilled in him a strong bond with Jesus and it held him tight through his teens. He discovered that God didn’t listen to those who drove to church exceeding the speed limit, or those who imbibed in a whole lot of beer.
He searched for someone or something less selective, more tolerant, found some religions that appeared more open to the things he took as his right to enjoy since, after all, it was there as a constant in short skirts and tight jerseys and nipples allowed to form a natural alliance with the weather.
And it wasn’t just women and sex; it was the fact that he didn’t like children, didn’t want any, didn’t feel any need to live on through the ages. It was the element of danger, of walking the edge that some people found suicidal yet was the motivation for getting up every day.
Even the slivers. He cut wood for the winter without wearing gloves. Every nerve drawing breath from the twack! of the axe, his heart beating in sync with the blood flowing through his body, bleeding out his fingers as he pulled out the needles of wood. He winced an odd mixture of pleasure and pain.
This was his balance, his own form of stability. Action, reaction. Negative, positive. Clouds turned inside out to reveal the soft stuffing within.
Each of his seventeen wishes was for something different. He was surprised that he had so many desires. There was Erica at work, and Jocelyn, the manager at the market. And of course, a Harley Davidson to sit in the driveway behind the old pickup truck.
