St. Cloud State University theRepository at St. Cloud State Culminating Projects in English Department of English 5-2019 The Girl Next Door; Strings Dana Kuntz Follow this and additional works at: https://repository.stcloudstate.edu/engl_etds Recommended Citation Kuntz, Dana, "The Girl Next Door; Strings" (2019). Culminating Projects in English. 152. https://repository.stcloudstate.edu/engl_etds/152 This Creative Work is brought to you for free and open access by the Department of English at theRepository at St. Cloud State. It has been accepted for inclusion in Culminating Projects in English by an authorized administrator of theRepository at St. Cloud State. For more information, please contact [email protected]. The Girl Next Door; Strings by Dana Kuntz A Creative Work Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of St. Cloud State University in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Master of Arts in English May, 2019 Thesis Committee: Shannon Olson, Chairperson Sharon Cogdill Constance Perry 2 Table of Contents Section Page The Girl Next Door ....................................................................................................................... 3 Strings .......................................................................................................................................... 95 3 The Girl Next Door All weekend he’d sat in his tree stand, hour after frozen hour. Out there, even in the cover of trees, the crisp wind reached its icy fingers through his thermal layers and latched onto his bones in a grip he couldn’t shake off. In truth, he’d wanted to be anywhere but out there freezing his ass off; but he’d waited. One voice in his head whispered, “Just leave,” and another answered, “One might come around the bend any second now.” But, one didn’t. In fact, he hadn’t seen a single deer the entire weekend. Sometimes he wondered why he was even out there, his love of hunting waning as it had over the last couple of years. There was a thrill in the past, as he sat silently in hiding, waiting for movement: a snap of twigs or a rustle of leaves. The game of becoming one with his surroundings, not moving, or making a sound so that the deer had no idea he was there until the last second had once been enough for him. The thrill of outsmarting nature and conquering his surroundings a testament to his survival skills. But it had lost its pull somewhere along the way. He wanted something more; he just didn’t know what it was. Most of the time, now, he just watched the woods come alive around him. There were several times on past hunting trips when deer did emerge and he never drew back his bow, arrow already notched and ready as it was, but instead just watched them move through the forest, marveling at their grace and poise. Would he take the shot if a trophy buck wandered into his sights? He wasn’t sure any more. Exactly when it changed, he didn’t know. He still went out every chance he got, still brought his bow and arrows, masked his scent and camouflaged his face to remain undetected, but everything was different now. He was different; at first, he thought going through the same rote motions and getting out there would bring back that old feeling of thrilled anticipation, but it didn’t. He’d hunted since he was a boy, studied the woods 4 and animals until he’d perfected his technique of blending in so well with his surroundings that even the squirrels didn’t know he was there. It had all been a challenge and an adventure back then. Now, though, it all felt a little empty—sitting out there alone for hours—the thrill still came when he caught sight of something moving through without detecting him, but it died quickly. He had no one to share it with, that’s what it was, that exhilaration and awe of nature, he wanted someone to excite in it and love it with him. He’d grown up reveling in his ability to go it alone in the woods. He’d loved every minute of it, until now. The woods hadn’t come alive around him this weekend, a good reminder that a storm was coming. Every creature seemed to have hunkered down in readiness for it and though he, too, knew it was coming, he still waited. No squirrels, no birds and no deer anywhere. He needed to get going too, yet he waited a bit longer, cold, tired yet hopeful as if just one deer, just one would make everything right with his world. But one never appeared, and he reluctantly gave up. He’d be back, the very next weekend, so why he was so adamant and stubborn in his waiting he really didn’t know. Packing his things didn’t take long, but even with the oncoming storm he moved slowly. It never felt right to leave, and he dragged it out every time. He’d only been about fifteen minutes on the road when the animal he’d waited for all weekend sprang out and froze in the middle of his path. Now there was a deer. Now. He’d been driving long enough to leave the gravel road that led from his property behind for the two-lane blacktopped Echo Trail already slick with sleet freezing into a thin coating of ice. It had been long enough for his mind to wander from the task of driving and focus on work and all that was waiting for him when he got back. Lost in thought, awareness dawned at the last second and he reacted like an idiot who’d never been on an icy Minnesota road. 5 He jerked his head and slammed on the brakes. The brakes for God’s sake, the one thing he knew not to do on an ice-slicked road. The realization that he had no control shot through him like a jolt of electricity running through a live wire; there was nothing he could do. The truck slid sideways as he struggled for control. Every muscle tensed as he tried to right his original wrong and turn the wheels gently into the skid while taking his foot off the brake and gas. It worked, somehow, and he straightened with a relieved sigh. But, a split second later, the truck hit a new patch of ice that sent his practically bald tires spinning. “Shit, shit, shit.” The words flew from his mouth as his white knuckled grip gave way to frantic steering. The swearing and steering both came without recognition as he moved instinctively. His life didn’t pass before his eyes, the past didn’t flare up like in the movies as a slideshow laden with profound remembrances of things left undone or words left unsaid; instead he thought of how many times he put off getting the new tires that he knew he needed before winter hit. He was a fool to go all the way into hunting season without getting it done. It wasn’t like he was a newbie; he’d been in September ice storms and October blizzards many times, lived here his whole life, he knew better. Still, the unseasonably warm fall put him at ease. The truck slid off the blacktop and hit a mound of dirt that would’ve been flattened without notice under normal conditions. But, sliding into it sideways caused the truck to tip and then roll. He toppled over and then over again into the wooded ditch. The black wall of trees that silently guarded the highway charged forward to swallow him whole. He loved his forest green ’78 Ford pick-up truck. He loved that there weren’t bright yellow warning signs mocking him from the sun visor like his other car, the respectable sedan he drove to work, which declared the stupidity of human beings all throughout the interior with its 6 warning signs, back-up camera and constant dinging alarms when he didn’t fasten his seatbelt right away or veered too close to the edge of the road. He hated the car, hated its constant nagging. As if he couldn’t do a damn thing on his own. There was no chance he’d ever have bald tires on the company car, it wouldn’t let him. And when his head snapped forward upon impact, there was no annoying airbag to keep him from smashing his face into the steering wheel. He regained consciousness with a start. It wasn’t a slight flutter of lashes or twitch of fingers like in the movies. Instead, his entire body flew backward; his eyes darted about frantically while his mind tried to piece it all together. The silence that enveloped him just didn’t belong. The last thing he remembered was the thunderous roar of the earth ripping up under him and then over him as the truck rolled and he clung to the steering wheel in a death grip. He wasn’t sure if he’d actually heard it, felt it or imagined it but just before he lost consciousness there was a crunching of metal that registered in him with a sickening dread. Such destruction like a tornado ripping through a lazy little town and tearing buildings to shreds as if they were made of paper as it went, should still be rumbling, at least off in the distance. Shouldn’t it? But there was nothing. He shook his head to clear his ears, but the silence stayed. It was thick, almost painful the way it hung in the air all around him. He tried to shake it away once more, but it clung to him, around him and somehow in him.