The man wakes and blinks a few times, like one normally does when one first awakes. He runs one hand through his hair and with the other (the pointer finger and the thumb specifically) rubs rheum from the corner of his eyes.
“Mother,” a young female voice calls out. “There is a man near the igloo and he looks weird.”
A sigh is heard, from someone either accustomed to those of the nature akin to strangeness or exasperated by an uncouth assessment of a man lying in front of a fiberglass igloo.
“Gwen that is not how we act. Now go back to the camper,” More noises are heard as the woman tromps across the small section of green lawn situated near the main road of Bruce Peninsula National Park.
“Sir,” she queries, “Are you in need of assistance?”
He looks at her, blinks some more, and rubs his beard.
“Are you at all aware of who or where you are?”
“Check your pockets, sir.”
The man’s hands disappear inside his cargo pockets as Gwen purses her lips and checks her watch, obviously very bored and very put-out that she cannot visit the igloo. As the man’s fingers resurface four one dollar bills and a sandstone, iron oxide banded rock are clutched in his right hand while a sickly yellow toothbrush (like the kind they give out in the hospital) lays in his left. The contents drop into his lap.
The man rubs the back of his neck, Gwen checks her watch, and the woman ‘tsk’s.
“Well, we should probably get you to the Mounties,” the woman helps the man up. “Though it’s a wonder they haven’t found you yet. But no matter— we have a friend that runs the question kiosk. He’ll help us out, get an ambulance, whatever.”
As the man stands up to follow he stretches his back and the articles from in his lap fall onto the path in front of the igloo. He does not even look at them, and Gwen and the woman do not notice.
The man, Gwen, and the woman file into the car, drive up the road, and get out.
The man is gunned down, Gwen notices the blood splattered on her brand-new watch, and the woman screams.
The friend rushes up while blood pools around the man. “Jen! Oh, Jen. What were you thinking letting that lunatic into your camper?! Haven’t you seen the news? He killed women and children up in Toronto, stole a change of clothes and shot his way down here.”
The man bled out, Gwen cried, and Jen thought.
Artist: Cassidy Kavanagh
School: North Allegheny
For Advanced Creative Writing. Flash Fiction Prompt.