– that became a novel called Rocket…

1. TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

Rocket had probably killed once, maybe twice, but the blackouts had been getting worse and she really couldn’t rely on her own memory. There was no one to ask. No one to turn to.

Only a few weeks ago, she had disappeared from T or C, packed the van, tossed in the critters and left that same night. One full moon to another. This morning, the pink moon had dropped over the ridge of pinons as she made coffee, shivering by the Coleman stove, and she tried to practice gratitude. She was alive. There you go. That’s one. Old Dog was snoring. Big, black, white paws, white nose, thick of torso and solid gold of heart. Yes, he was definitely a good thing. Richard Next Door, Dick for short, had threatened to ‘take care’ of the boy and well, that had been the last straw for Sylvie, now self-named as Rocket.

Rocket. A good name. Dramatic. Fierce.

Old Dog woke up with a start, eyes cloudy, nose twitching.

– Here boy, I’m here.

Wag wag.

– Hungry?

Wag wag wag.

Up popped Little Dog, a black and tan 30 # youngster, rescued from Dick’s trashed out yard. She was one of nine girls born to the knackered-out bitch who’d been bred so often her whole body sagged with exhaustion. Killing her had been an act of gentleness. One bullet. And then the world had gone to shit.

Rocket wandered around, picking up logs and kindling, filling her arms with as much as she could hold, and then she strode back to the deserted homestead. She’d been lucky to find it on the dirt county road that night in March. She’d been driving for hours, tired, cranky and scared that someone would follow and find her, make her pay for it, the final act of rage that had depleted her reserves. She knew that she had to hole up somewhere for a while until the dust settled in that old neighborhood. Would anyone notice that she’d gone? Rocket shook her head and focused on not tripping over Little Dog who was trying to grab one of the sticks in her arms, prancing and jumping about, bark bark, wag, wag, play with me.

Rocket grinned, – come on, girl, give me a break! We’ll play in a bit, honest. It’s chilly right? Well, it is for me. I need to make a small fire. Old Dog needs the warmth too, those arthritic hips of his, you saw him struggle to stand this morning, didn’t you?

And so on, Rocket chatted away to her new friend. Littles was silly, she’d make a good dog, eager to learn, held tilted as she listened to Rocket’s monologues, tail happy, eyes attentive, yes a good mutt can’t be beat.

Hey neighbor, yeah, so welcome to Coyote Pass! Come over any time, we like to party here, don’t mind the dogs, they’ll do you no damage unless, well, unless I tell them to.

The kettle whistled. Rocket filled up the red plastic cone with boiling water poured over her French Roast. The aroma mixed with that of the campfire. The sun-filled sky reminded her of working at Ketchikan, Alaska that summer, decades ago. A pink salmon sky. A warehouse full of machines and 2-ton pallets stacked with salmon, heaved by one person at a time from one end to the other, for 18 hours per day, interspersed with five meals of salmon, and the six hours filled with dreams of salmon.

She stretched out her back, her hips and knees crunching in the morning cool air. She’d worked hard jobs her whole life and was suffering for it now. Same with the rest of the decisions she’s made both decades ago and more recently, there were consequences.

Fuck it, Rocket screamed into the deserted mountains.

Look at you, you’re as good as dead, no family, a loner, you’re easy prey, Sylvie.

Rocket muttered reassurances to the pets, – Oh, don’t worry, I’m just letting off steam. I can’t remember, it’s driving me crazy, did I really…? oh god, I don’t know. I don’t know.

Rocket could only move forward each day. Step by step. If she was planning on hiding out here, she’d need to dig an outhouse soon, get the well running, perhaps even move into the shell of the abandoned home. Rocket couldn’t decide. Perhaps it was too early. Too soon after the fight with Dick? Tying up big brown boots, stuffing the felt hat over shorn grey hair, Rocket knocked back her coffee. She assessed herself, and smiled, Gangly awkward, long limbed, sagging tits, thighs to hold lovers in place, smiles that gave way, a softer center, and one eye no longer saw clearly the other did, sort of, Rocket liked who she’d become.

She set to work. Chores to ground herself. With arms full of firewood, she stacked a pile for that night. After that, she emptied out the goat barn, a pole and mud building that stank of animals and she found it comforting. Reminders that someone had once lived here, raising animals, making a life out in this remote corner of the Glorieta Mesa. If they had done that, so could she. No one would find her here. There were no neighbors to see or be seen by. Freedom or loneliness? She didn’t know.

Want some? Artie just got it last night from Albuquerque, good sources. He cut it with something but didn’t tell me what. He don’t know. He forgot. I had some last night, still up

this morning, haha. It is morning, right? Oh, go on, Sylvie. Yeah, why not, eh?

The blackouts had kicked in a few months ago. Nausea, headaches, zoning out, just like when she’d been a kid in Oakland in the Seventies. At that time, they, the nurses and neurologists, had passed it off as puberty. Now the doctors called it perimenopause. Nothing to worry about.

Little Dog ran around, bouncing and tossing herself sticks to chase and tease Old Dog. He barely noticed. Nose twitched, head heavy on paws, a slight wag of acknowledgment. Littles grabbed something from under a trash bag in the goat shed. She trotted back, all proud of the bone in her mouth.

Rocket said, – let me see, kiddo.

She held out her hand. It was a femur, burnt and blackened. Whose bone?

I mean look at me, not bad for 67, eh?

Still got the fire in me, yeah I do, oh go on,

come here girl…

Rocket came too, sitting on the ground, coffee mug tipped but unbroken. Old Dog stood next to her and Littles whimpered in fear. She reached for her pups in relief, buried her nose in the rich comfort of their wriggly furry bodies.

No one had blamed Rocket for how it had ended all those years ago not like they would for this time. A pattern holds no secrets.

She still felt guilty though, eighteen years later, for the smashed face, broken arm, and splitting the family in such a violent – and public – way. Her kids had never forgiven her. As far as Rocket could piece together her memories, it hadn’t been her who’d made such a mess of life. That’s what she thought the doctors said, the clinic, the local sheriffs even, and they hadn’t charged her or anyone. The media had lost interest after that impasse. A quiet disintegration of a home behind closed doors. They, the ‘they’ of small-town dynamics, had forced her out. The kids stayed with their dad. And so, Sylvie had tried again, this time in the backlands of New Mexico.

This hadn’t worked out so well. Obviously.

She shook her head, wondered how long she’d been out this time.

Little Dog skipped around, bouncing, tossing bones and sticks all over the place, messing up the firewood pile and Rocket had laughed. She stood up. Brushed off dusty jeans. Picked up the cowboy hat.

– Three things need to change. Not you, it’s me, my life, kiddo. Dealing with my rage. Or is it age? And then, yes, shelter. In no particular order. First though, I’m hungry. You too? You know what I said, you clever girl. Silly bugger, fine. I’ll feed you. Both of you. Come on.

As she poured out bowls of kibble, she pondered how anxiety had crippled her in the past but to what good? It had in no way prepared her for how life had shifted and shitted on her. It had been a mental loop with her focusing on all that was out of her control. What could she do instead though now that she was starting again? Rocket watched the two dogs eat. She finished the left-over bean burrito from the night before. She rinsed off the mug and plate in a bucket of rainwater.

The media hunt to find out what had happened to Dick was out of her hands, not that she knew if anyone had been looking for someone to blame. There was a thankful lack of cell phone towers, phone lines, or intrusive neighborhood watches. He was a known dealer, perhaps they put it down to in fighting? Was she off the hook this time?

Old Dog, with his fully belly, snored from under the pinon tree that hid her truck from view. She’d parked carefully in case anyone happened along this dirt track leading into the thick woods of dead and down. It was BLM land perhaps, or private, there was no obvious signs either way.

Little Dog hobbled over, her back leg lifted, and her soft voice whimpered. Rocket glanced towards the sound.

– Oh no! Sweet girl, what happened? Not a rattler, oh please no, you didn’t get bit, did you? Let me grab my glasses and see, shall we?

Thirty pounds of a mini-Rottie limped across the dust. The brown and white patches over her eyes made it look she was frowning in concentration and Rocket hid her smile. She knelt down next to her pup and ran gentle hands over legs, thighs, spine, paw with black fur, one paw with white, and she found nothing. No bites. No broken bones. All good but not good because Littles whined and tucked her tail when Rocket stood back up.

– Hush now, hush now. I can’t see anything. Did you pull a muscle? Okay, well, let me put you in the truck, okay? Time out. Rest up, kiddo. Take a nap.

Old Dog watched with cloudy eyes, ears perked. After a very short moment, he lay his head back down with a thump, heavy bodied and satisfied to find that she wasn’t angry, hurt or scared. His job was done.

See this? I’ll give you more if …

This land she’d found was trashed. It was as if a family had left before a great flood. No joke, the land really did appear to have suffered a deep flood, scraps of wood, textiles, and trash were half-covered in mud, especially along the horse fencing. She decided to do something about it even if the land was not hers. She was a squatter with heart.

The meadow offered long open views to the east and west with a horizon filled with mountains and snow caps. The grassland was fed by springs and all around the broken home was the potential for an oasis. Fruit trees, rose bushes, paths, dog houses, fire pit, a swing from the incredible cottonwood. It would be a wonderful challenge. She wandered off to explore more.

Fuck you, that’s not very neighborly, is it? Laughing at me? Fuck you.

I only came to keep you company, you sad ole bitch.

The woods had closed in around her.

A raven squabbled with a red-tailed hawk over some carcass. She didn’t remember how she’d got there. Her mind was blank. Her knees dusty. She pushed herself up to standing and took stock of herself. Nothing broken. Not too hungry or thirsty so it hadn’t been a long stretch of time then. Sun in the mid sky. No clouds. The trees hid her view of what, she couldn’t remember. Rocks stuck out of the scrub land. Dead pine trees crossed a slight path that headed up hill. Something told her that she needed to head downwards though. The woods were silent now. No birds. No dogs. Emptiness surrounded her.

She did not panic.

Rocket was adjusting which probably wasn’t a good sign, not that anyone knew what was really going on. That thought made her smile. Then she thought of her dogs, where were they? What had she done now?

Hey, nice Glock 9mm, let me see.

A blue jay flickered in and out of the junipers and scrub oak. To the north, thick tall pine trees held court for a bunch of swallows, all lifting and settling, depending on the cues from one or two on the highest branches. Rocket wondered what triggered their panicked flights, but she couldn’t see shit. Her breath came in short bursts. She held a rock in one hand, small and jagged. She touched it with her tongue, remembering a friend from years ago. Moises. His baby girl had been having a ‘moment’, hiccupping, and screaming in frustration. Moises calmly told his daughter to take a deep breath, over and over he’d said it until she did, one after another and within five breaths, the little one had calmed and smiled up at her papa.

Rocket took a breath. Counted to four, let it out on a count of four, held empty for another four seconds and breathed in again.

Repeat. In. Out. No change. In. Out.

I said, swallow.

Rocket watched a blue bird, pop from one branch to another in the tallest Pine tree near her. It fluttered in and out of sight, a flash of joy, making her smile. She followed it, scrambling up from one think branch to another through the closely packed pine needles, which scratched at her skin of face and hands. The branches were thick enough to hold the weight of this middle-aged slightly until and cranky woman. She kept squeezing herself upwards. Into the soft sound of bird wings within the calm.

Don’t even think about telling. I’d hear if you did.

I’ll fucking kill you and your little doggies too.

Rocket was thankful that this tree had survived the threat of bark beetle, it had made it, thrived even, the branches bent but didn’t break, and her new friend, the blue bird, watched from a slightly swaying twig, stunning and bright.

The sight of the distant Sangre de Cristos had placed her, the homestead, and gave her a goal. A direction. She would not think about the past. Would not worry about what she had or had not done. She would concentrate on this, the next step, the rocks, the pine needles in her hair, the dust on her boots, the sand below, the blue birds above, and the dogs. Rocket climbed back down to the sandy ground. Alone.

She yipped, human-coyote style.

Two dogs barked.

One deep, a howl. The other lighter, a whine.

Hers.

The relief made her stumble as she began to run towards the sound. Those two dogs were her only friends and family. They were the reason she’d had to fight back, to stop Dick and his threats, to take care of business. She had done that, it’s just that she didn’t know exactly what she’d done to the fucker, her black outs had protected her from knowing.

She stepped out from the trees and stared across the meadow. Her truck stood half in the shade. A window was cracked open, and she heard rather than saw that Little Dog was stuck inside. Fuck. Don’t let her die in there, it’s too hot, it’s too hot. She ran, stumbled, and ran. She waved as she scrambled over rocks and shrubs to get to them both, Old Dog stood, his snout pointing in her direction, his eyes blind and ears deaf to her reassuring gestures and shouts. Little Dog stuck her nose out the window, panting but alive. Rocket tore the door open, muttering to herself, pouring out water for the panting pup. Littles seemed no worse for wear: She drank up the bowl full, saw the old femur bone, and pounced on it with a mock growl. Old Dog turned towards Rocket, stumbling towards her, wag wag wag.

Struck with such deep gratitude for these two, Rocket laughed even as her knees gave out, and in the dirt, the three of them collapsed. Little Dog licked her salty face, Old Dog snuffled and leaned into her, and it was enough.

2. Photos Sleam’s Artwork with new offerings: After years of mostly doing cartoons or text, I’m getting into painting. I didn’t know that watercolors would convey the vibrant colors of Mexico so well. This winter, I focused on capturing the streets, homes, and beaches of Baja California Sur. They’re available as downloadable files to print as well as on various practical things like mugs, totes, wearables, mouse-pads and more! I’m having fun. I hope you like them.

3. Wanderlust Journal: SUBMISSIONS OPEN! We’re taking ideas through the website contact form, just give a sense of what you want to share with our international audience of over 179,000 so far! We focus on personal experiences, approx 1500 words, include a short synopsis and bio please. Thanks, Brianna and Sarah

4. Check out the travel poetry books available through Wild Dog Press

5. Writers: If you are looking for a developmental editor, check out how I can help your writing become what you aim for, building upon your skills and showing you patterns that might or might not like to continue using…I’m working with Tongass Mist Writers in Alaska.

Have a look here: https://www.tongassmist.com/event-details/commit-to-the-page-a-10-month-manuscript-revision-and-publishing-quest

6. Donations really help. Wanderlust Journal is a free online resource for publishing and reading travel essays and photo-stories. Same for Substack. Pretty much for everything I do…! It’s lucky I live in a little caravan (Travel trailer to you) and enjoy nature more than shopping. Anyway, even if you can only give a little, it helps me do what I’m committed to doing, ever since a teenager, and that is documenting other lifestyles, cultures, experiences and then sharing them with you.

Think of these projects next time you are able to give a little, thank you.