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black dogs and boogiemen

I think this may be the start of a fic for a freind.  It's all origanl and he will recognize it (I should have asked him first beofre posting it) It's about 500 words right now.  

From the time I met Wayland Smith we were inseparable.  I should start by saying his name isn’t really Wayland, just like my name isn’t Hal, his name is Christopher and mine is Mary.  I’m called Hal after Halgert, a woman from the Norse sagas, and Wayland is called Wayland after the famous smith.  I don’t know if giving your kids weird ass nicknames is a thing that all ministers do, but our parents did, and both Wayland and I are PK.  That’s preacher’s kid.  From what I understand we are a special breed of crazy, at least that’s what I hear.  I don’t know, you can’t really tell from inside.

       

     Anyway I met Wayland in high school and we’ve known each other ever since.  It’s got to be some kind of record for both of us.  It’s one of those crazy things I mentioned, I’ve seen it time and time again, we just keep moving.  And with each move all our friendships fall behind us.  It’s weird I never really see the same thing with the Army brats, they seem to have friends everywhere, and they seem to talk to friends all the time.  We move – new town – new life, and the old one is gone.  Perpetual outsiders.  I make it sound bad, but the life has its perks.  One of them is the whole ‘I don’t care what you do as long as you are home by Sunday for church’ thing.  It may seem odd to outsiders, but it seems like no matter how liberal or conservative, ministers are completely inattentive parents.  As a result we grow up unruly and wild. 

       

     Anyway it’s three in the morning and Wayland and I have been driving around for hours, listing to music and talking.  Not talking about anything really, just talking.  It’s not unusual for us when neither of us have to work.  I would guess it’s normal for a lot of people our age, we don’t go anywhere, or at least not anywhere purposeful. 

       

     “Left or right?” he asks me.

       

     “Left,” I like left, and it takes us out of state.  We travel up the twisting country road for a time, woods are thick on both sides of the road, beyond the woods are old farms, small and large.  Old farms, with old stonewalls.  I’m watching out the window and see the dog.  It’s running along the side of the road, somehow keeping up with the car.  Just seeing it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.  I mean, how the hell it is keeping up with the car.  And then it is ahead of us cutting across the road, Wayland stomps on the brakes.

      

      And a man is standing in front of us. 

    

        He stands there for three heartbeats and then moves off to the side of the road.  My eyes follow him as he steps off of the road.  Then it’s a dog again.  I turn to Wayland and he turns to me, I can tell by the look in his eyes he saw it too. .

       

     “So,” he says, voice a little shaky, “you want to go get something to eat?”

       

     “Yeah,” I reply, “I think some thing to eat would be good right about now.”

          

  Wayland turns the car around and we head out of the country, back to civilization.  I can’t help but wonder if we will ever speak of this again.