We Are All Crew Read Online Free
the world, marching through the house humming “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” chatting with the help or instructing them on some sort of housekeeping business in his authoritarian, leader-of-men voice. But when the media gives him a black eye, he sulks, insists upon my joining one Young Republicans organization or another, or worse yet, tries talking to me.
And this time, when his personal e-mail floods with incoming bad news that can’t wait, the bad news will include my name, his son’s name, listed as the culprit . . .
I peer into the blue-black crisscrossing lines of branches and weeds. Maybe I can find a house somewhere with a phone, call an ambulance anonymously, tell them roughly where Arthur is, and then run away into the night before anybody knows my identity. But I’m only like 75 percent sure I’ll be able to find Arthur again or be able to tell an ambulance crew how to locate him, so I’ll probably have to wait with him. Then they’ll summon our parents, and I’ll have to answer to His Eminence anyway.
I wander back in what I thought was the direction we’d come from. I don’t get far before I’m wishing I’d waited until morning.
Walking through a black, rain-soaked woods blows. It’s not just a football field with trees sticking up; it’s hills, boulders, rocks, roots, and broken tree limbs. It’s old radial tires full of water, rusted metal, old boxes, and sheets of cardboard. Branches loaded with briars rip you open, and you slip and tear the hell out of your elbows and knees.
I stumble around for about an hour before I realize I’ve twisted and turned around so much I no longer know where I am. I thought I’d eventually reach the river and the canoe because I figured Arthur and I had walked in a straight line, but maybe we’ve been going in circles. I don’t know where the river is, and I don’t know how to get back to Arthur.
I sit on a rock, soaked and bleeding and scared worse than anything. I made things worse. Trotsky’ll tease me. Yeah, front row center , he’ll say. You couldn’t even make it out of the woods . We’ll spend a night in the rain and then find help in the daylight.
But what if we don’t?
Mortimer Brubaker today mourns the loss of his son, who was eaten by wolves after getting lost in the woods during a camping expedition in central PA . . .
The whole thing, I realize, is my fault. If not for me, Arthur and I would be back at camp, and maybe the Moms would have been right: it would have been for my own, stupid good.
The retaining walls of my pain and fear reservoir fail. The rain sounds like footsteps everywhere: cracks and moans and pops all over the place, and each one makes me bug out worse.
the mountain lion
Trees weren’t the only things following the boy.
Hunger had driven the mountain lion from the hills. It was summer, and she had been surviving on mice, which were easy prey.
But she wanted to kill the boy for revenge. She had lost mates and companions to starvation, homelessness, and bullets. She had long wanted to kill one of the creatures responsible, one of the hairless dogs that walk like birds. And now, here was a young one, sitting alone and defenseless.
She waited in the dark, tail swishing back and forth. She waited to see if the boy would stay or move on.
Now she was sure. He’d been sitting on the rock not moving for a long time.
She lifted her haunches and prepared for what she’d been made for: the great rush forward at blinding speeds, every muscle in perfect harmony, every tooth and claw synchronized perfectly to knock her prey over and sever his spinal cord.
Then she saw the light.
Out away from the boy, a man was walking—and glowing. Light meant men. Men meant weapons.
She held her ground.
the blue light
Ahead of me, swaying slowly back and forth, is this pale light. It’s dim, but it’s moving right to left, pausing, and then left to right.
I go toward it, careful not to lose it when a stump or a
And this time, when his personal e-mail floods with incoming bad news that can’t wait, the bad news will include my name, his son’s name, listed as the culprit . . .
I peer into the blue-black crisscrossing lines of branches and weeds. Maybe I can find a house somewhere with a phone, call an ambulance anonymously, tell them roughly where Arthur is, and then run away into the night before anybody knows my identity. But I’m only like 75 percent sure I’ll be able to find Arthur again or be able to tell an ambulance crew how to locate him, so I’ll probably have to wait with him. Then they’ll summon our parents, and I’ll have to answer to His Eminence anyway.
I wander back in what I thought was the direction we’d come from. I don’t get far before I’m wishing I’d waited until morning.
Walking through a black, rain-soaked woods blows. It’s not just a football field with trees sticking up; it’s hills, boulders, rocks, roots, and broken tree limbs. It’s old radial tires full of water, rusted metal, old boxes, and sheets of cardboard. Branches loaded with briars rip you open, and you slip and tear the hell out of your elbows and knees.
I stumble around for about an hour before I realize I’ve twisted and turned around so much I no longer know where I am. I thought I’d eventually reach the river and the canoe because I figured Arthur and I had walked in a straight line, but maybe we’ve been going in circles. I don’t know where the river is, and I don’t know how to get back to Arthur.
I sit on a rock, soaked and bleeding and scared worse than anything. I made things worse. Trotsky’ll tease me. Yeah, front row center , he’ll say. You couldn’t even make it out of the woods . We’ll spend a night in the rain and then find help in the daylight.
But what if we don’t?
Mortimer Brubaker today mourns the loss of his son, who was eaten by wolves after getting lost in the woods during a camping expedition in central PA . . .
The whole thing, I realize, is my fault. If not for me, Arthur and I would be back at camp, and maybe the Moms would have been right: it would have been for my own, stupid good.
The retaining walls of my pain and fear reservoir fail. The rain sounds like footsteps everywhere: cracks and moans and pops all over the place, and each one makes me bug out worse.
the mountain lion
Trees weren’t the only things following the boy.
Hunger had driven the mountain lion from the hills. It was summer, and she had been surviving on mice, which were easy prey.
But she wanted to kill the boy for revenge. She had lost mates and companions to starvation, homelessness, and bullets. She had long wanted to kill one of the creatures responsible, one of the hairless dogs that walk like birds. And now, here was a young one, sitting alone and defenseless.
She waited in the dark, tail swishing back and forth. She waited to see if the boy would stay or move on.
Now she was sure. He’d been sitting on the rock not moving for a long time.
She lifted her haunches and prepared for what she’d been made for: the great rush forward at blinding speeds, every muscle in perfect harmony, every tooth and claw synchronized perfectly to knock her prey over and sever his spinal cord.
Then she saw the light.
Out away from the boy, a man was walking—and glowing. Light meant men. Men meant weapons.
She held her ground.
the blue light
Ahead of me, swaying slowly back and forth, is this pale light. It’s dim, but it’s moving right to left, pausing, and then left to right.
I go toward it, careful not to lose it when a stump or a
Readers choose
B.J. Daniels
Jerry Pournelle
John Gribbin
Alan Sillitoe
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o
Elizabeth Haynes
Mary Pope Osborne
Javier Reinheart
Cari Z.
Selena Laurence