The dog’s black eyes shined with joy as each bound of his short legs brought him closer to the lakeshore. When his owner’s voice called his name, the dog flopped onto the dewy grass beside the dock to wait. He closed his eyes and relaxed as the breeze coming off the water rustled his short and scraggly grey fur.
“Good boy,” said the man, when he caught up. The dog opened his eyes as the man knelt beside him and began scratching his ears; the man had learned early in their years together what made the dog happy; “ro-rowl,” was the dog's appreciative reply. When the man smiled, sunlight reflected in his dark blue eyes and played on his beige skin. Tension returned to his face, however, when he looked toward a tiny shed at the water's edge. "Ro-rowl." It worked - the man looked at the dog with a luminous smile; the dog had learned early in their years together what made the man happy. "I'm sorry there won't be fishing today, boy," he said, patting the dog's head and scratching his ears before standing up. The man ran a hand through his short wavy dark brown hair and sighed, then put on gloves and strode to the shed. By the time he had unlocked it, the dog had already begun to stare longingly at the glimmering lake. While he watched the lake, the dog heard the man emerge from the shed. He glanced over to see him pushing the familiar cart loaded with two large wooden boxes; a three and a seven were painted in black numbers on the outermost box. After hours of walking in the sweltering heat, with vehicles speeding past ignoring his sign and tires spinning ever more dust into the hazy air, the guy had reached a forest. He ducked beneath tree branches hoping for relief from the sun’s piercing rays. Sunlight speckled the leaves around his feet and stubbornly ignored his attempt to seek shelter. In the meagre shade, he could feel heat radiating from his light beige skin and knew it meant a developing sunburn. He breathed in heavy air which clogged his throat and made him cough. Retrieving his water bottle, he plopped the tablespoon of liquid it contained onto his parched tongue, then dropped it into his sweat-drenched backpack.
At the sound of a car approaching, he emerged from the trees. His sign, a tattered piece of cardboard, was perched against his duffle. The driver spared not a glimpse and sped by. The guy tossed his backpack beside his duffle and stared at the empty expanse of asphalt stretching on either side of him. A breeze fluttered damp strands of light brown hair in front of his light hazel eyes; he pushed them away and sighed, then trudged into the forest. A thicket of blackberries and raspberries overtook the path a short way in and he greedily emptied the nearest branches. Maneuvering around the thorns, he ate until he was full and then eased himself from the bushes. On his way back toward the road he felt less restless, his hunger temporarily satisfied. The sun dappled the maple leaves and the pine boughs, then fell onto a cracked box beside the trail. The sun reflected off the water and danced on the young woman's light beige skin as she canoed to the stream's edge. Though tired, she was enjoying the peaceful music of birds in the trees arching over her head. When she pulled the canoe out of the water, her foot caught on something hard and she tumbled into a nearby tree. She regained her footing, got her canoe ashore, then shimmied free from her life vest. Catching her breath, she removed twigs from her long brown hair and looked around to see if she could spot what she had tripped over. In a clump of ferns between her and the stream, she noticed a tan rectangle peeking through the greenery. Tires crunched on gravel in the distance as she walked closer to the stream. A wooden slat box, two feet wide, sat on bent and broken ferns. The box smelled of pine and its metal hinges were shiny grey. The young woman's dark green eyes sparkled as she imagined all the possible things the box could contain. Twigs snapping made her glance up; her sister stood a few feet away in a navy blue windbreaker, its hood pulled up against the light breeze. "Look," said the young woman, as she turned to the box. She pushed aside ferns and revealed the tan slats; painted on them in thick fresh black strokes was a six and a four. A related short fiction piece which provided roots for the serial boxes world. May contain Volume One spoilers |