Here is my contribution to picture prompt #5 of the Flash Fiction Project on Google+
image link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/epidemiks/5841360829/
The Raft Man
By
John Moretz
The old Raft Man, no one could remember his name, spent his days floating up and down the river. His little raft, his miniature sloop, was his home. Nobody could recall ever seeing this fellow on the land.
David, a nineteen-year-old kid, tall, lanky, with eyes mellow and soft from the effects of enjoying one too many ‘jazz’ cigarettes, sat on a bank of the river.
He had decided the week before the session break that he would give up pot. His friends laughed because they knew his sobriety was predicated on David not having any extra cash to buy weed.
He was bored. No wonder he got high all the time, life was dull. At least he was outdoors and this riverbank offered a beautiful view. Large trees on either side of the river framed a large concrete arch bridge. David dug his hands into the grass. He loved the grass – yes, yes, even the non-smoking kind – he loved the Earth. In another life he would have been a farmer.
But he decided not to be bored during this break. All of his life he had heard the legend of the Raft Man and wanted to see the guy for himself.
David heard stories about a reclusive psycho, a likable wacko, a nice old man, a shell-shocked survivor of World War II, World War I, or even the Crimean War, a serial killer.
The Raft Man appeared sporadically throughout the last four decades. No one knew when he’d float by on his makeshift raft.
David decided to simply relax on the river bank and if the Raft Man happened to float by…
David had dozed off. He was groggy. He saw the old man’s raft coming up river. David yawned then stood, carefully removed a chrome and gold plated pocket watch from his front jeans pocket and checked the time. It was two-thirty in the afternoon. He had been asleep for almost two hours.
Li River
David waved. “Hey, hey, raft man!” David shouted. The raft man did not acknowledge David.
David had never been this close to the infamous Raft Man and he wasn’t going to lose an opportunity to see this guy up close, maybe even talk to the guy and find out what the hell his deal was.
David jumped into the water, walked out as far as he could, and then swam out toward the middle of the river.
“Hey!” David waved.
The old man on the raft looked down at David. The old man slowed his raft. He knelt down and laughed.
“You stopped,” David said. “Hey, man, you actually stopped.”
The old man offered David his hand. David was stunned, but he took the old man’s hand, and David was on the raft.
David looked at the Raft Man’s face, which was the face of a man who appeared to be a century old, and whose skin was leathery and dried out by spending decades under the sun. The Raft Man’s eyes were blue gray and warm, inviting. He had no teeth.
David couldn’t believe this frail old man helped him onto the raft. “Thank you,” David said. “You’re very strong, a very strong man to help pull me out of the water like that. You don’t look that strong.”
“Strong from living on the river,” said the old man. His voice was deep and raspy, and sounded like a blend of multiple voices, pitches and timbres. “Working outside. Never spent time inside listening to the radio. Do you listen to the radio?”
“No,” David said. He chose his words carefully because he did not want to offend this legendary man of the river. “No, I’m not a fan of the radio.” That was true because David listened to music on his Android phone. Shit! My phone was still in my pocket, David realized. It was a small price to pay for this opportunity, though.
“Rot your brain it will,” the Raft Man said. “Now, I do like me them recorded discs, what’cha call ‘em, 78s?”
David hadn’t a clue to what a seventy-eight was, perhaps it meant something abstract like “twenty-two skidoo!” or “Tippecanoe and Tyler too”.
“I used to have a record player, right where you sit,” the Raft Man said. “But that was a long time ago. Yep, long time ago…”
David saw the Raft Man straining with the paddle. “Here, let me help you.”
“No,” the Raft Man spat, “this here keeps me strong. Outdoors. The river. Keeps me strong.”
The sun had fallen behind the trees. The sky was a gradient of warm yellow and oranges, and dark blue and purples. The Raft Man had been silent for a long time. David stayed on the raft and did not pester the old man with questions. David did not feel like he was an intruder, he felt more like one of the Raft Man’s objects.
The Raft Man actually had few objects on the raft. He had a small makeshift tent (?) – a sheet held up by a rusted camera tripod – and some canned food stuff.
“Where do you actually live?” David asked. “Are we going to your home?”
“The river makes me strong,” the Raft Man whispered.
David nodded and muttered “river makes me strong…”
“You are on my home,” the Raft Man said. “No house on the land. Don’t like the land. Dirt. Too much dirt on the land. The river keeps me strong. Keeps me clean.”
David didn’t think the Raft Man was that clean.
“What do you have against land?” David asked.
“The land is covered in dirt. Dirt is bad. You get it? Water is strength. Water quenches thirst. You can’t drink dirt. Jesus wasn’t baptized in dirt.”
Then the Raft Man released the paddle. “Ain’t ever gonna set foot on land. Don’t want my feet to be covered by dirt. You heard of holy water, ever hear of holy dirt?”
David watched the wooden paddle float away from the raft. David realized the raft was miles from land.
It was dark and no moonlight.
I fucked up my Android phone because of this!?!
“What are you doing?” David asked. “Seriously, dude, what do you have against dirt? It wipes off. You can used water to wash away the dirt.”
Then David saw that the Raft Man’s eyes glowed with unholy illumination, like two bright silver full moons.
The Raft Man clapped his hands together and danced a jig. “River makes me stronger,” he sang. “Oh, the waters make me smile, the outdoors is fresh air, an’ fresh air keeps ‘em clean.” At one point, the Raft Man slapped his knees while dancing.
David noticed the sinister silver eyes glowed stronger or weaker based upon the rhythm of the Raft Man’s singing.
Naturally, David freaked out. He hadn’t smoked pot in about a week or so, therefore he was not now ‘high’. The shit going down on this raft is for real!
He checked his pocket watch and saw it was near midnight. Then, with the swiftness of a cat preying on a bird, The Raft Man’s thin, leathery fingers quickly wrapped around David’s wrist like possessed vines around a tree.
“Nice, watch.” The Raft Man grabbed the time piece.
“It’s very old.” David wanted to add “be careful” but decided that would sound like he was whining, or simply insulting.
“Old?” The Raft Man cradled the watch. He slowly opened its clamshell lid and admired the clock face, the ticking hands.
“Yes, it belonged to my grandfather, then my father, and…” David let his voice trail off. The pocket watch reflected the nightmarish glow from the Raft Man’s eyes.
“Old?” the Raft Man whispered. “Old don’t mean anything. Old as dirt. Every hear people say that? Old as dirt?”
The Raft Man’s voice was getting more frantic and angry until a howl overtook his words. The howl ripped through the air like the growl of one hundred tigers and the rumble of a herd of out-of-control elephants stampeding through a forest, combined with the sound of an exploded nuclear bomb.
Then all was silent. The Raft Man stared at the pocket watch.
Okay, David thought, stay away from the word ‘old’.
“Keep the watch, ‘cause it is past my bedtime,” David dove off the raft and swam back to where he thought the shoreline was.
The Raft Man’s eyes grew dim, the silver glow replaced by darkness. The pocket watch melted in his hands. Melted metal dribbled off his hand. He clenched his fist, gripping what was left of the watch as if squeezing the last drops of water from a squeegee.
David made it home. His parents were asleep. He went upstairs into his room and changed his clothes. He sat in a small chair by a window. A desk lamp cast a dim orange glow. David stretched his legs and looked out of the window.
He heard a light thump followed by very faint sounds of pops and hisses.
A record player? In this house? David thought.
He looked around his room then stuck his head out into the hallway. Nothing.
But back in his room David could clearly hear a record playing. He took a breath and figured it must be the neighbors because they collect shit like records – vinyl, they call it – and other old junk.
Then he heard a faint voice sing: “Oh, that river keeps me strong, the waters make me smile, the outdoors is fresh air, an’ fresh air keeps ‘em clean, ain’t got no time to walk on land…”
David was alone in his room. He opened a window. He only heard that damned record (just barely) in his room.
David slammed the window shut and saw his own reflection. His eyes were glowing bright silver and behind him, an old Victoria was playing a 78 rpm record and the Raft Man was dancing a jig…
Polychromatic Words 