Snow On The Tombstones: A Collection of Flash Fiction and Vignettes

Wanderer

Chip left in the middle of the night.

Some may have said that he was running from something; Chip couldn't deny the burden on his back. In his mind, though, it wasn't what he was running from, but what he was running to.

He planned on taking the train with nothing but a backpack and the clothes on his back. He even left his phone. What was the point of bringing it if he was trying to escape who he used to be?

All that was in his old backpack from his freshman year of high school was his important documents sealed away in a Ziploc bag, a half-eaten chunky peanut butter and red plum jam sandwich on thick white bread, and a change of clothes. It should have been light, but everything felt incredibly heavy to him. The contents of his pockets were just as scarce: a lighter patterned with flowers and leaves that he bought at a dollar store; a survival bracelet with a compass, flint, and steel that he made at Boy Scout camp years ago; his bus card; a locket with a picture he wasn't willing to give up; and less than a bite of a limited-edition lemon meringue-flavored granola bar.

Chip took his bag off of his back, put it on the seat next to him, and leaned back. He was ready to begin his journey.

The bus was empty when it left the station-- empty except for him and the bus driver, who was named Evan. It was hard for Chip to contain his excitement. He drummed his fingers on the back of the seat in front of him. He spoke to Evan.

Evan was tall and broad; he had a thick stomach that bounced when he talked or when the bus went over a pothole. He had two little girls at home and a loving wife that worked at the library in Nebeski City.

When the bus stopped next-- on the side of the road between the city he came from and Nebeski City-- Chip practically hopped off and landed neatly in the dust. He loved the way that the world looked from here. He loved the way that the dust kicked up under his feet and behind the wheels of the bus as it sped away toward its next stop. The cacti in the distance and the scarce grasses waving in a slow breeze that weaved between his ankles made him feel at home in a way that he never had before.

Chip held both straps of his backpack and snapped them like suspenders. This was where his life began, somewhere between Nebeski City and the place he came from. This was where his epic journey was; he was a pilgrim, and this was his progress.

Chip walked on, with a newfound pep in his step.