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Hemingway in the Van  

Hemingway in the Van
by Rita Ractliffe



Well, based on Hill's fearless charge into uncharted waters, thought I would give this a shot.  Now it has been YEARS since I read Hemingway, so forgive less than perfect similarities.

rita

 
 

LIFE

The van was small, far smaller than the needs of the men inside.  Their needs could fill a stadium, but all they had was the
van.

The white haired soldier caressed the cigar lovingly in his palm.  The cigar was life, his life.  Only he could bring it to do
what it had been created for.  Only he.

The tall man sat crookedly on his seat, staring at the white haired man.  His chief, his leader.  The leader of men, his men.
He'd given the custody of his soul to this man.  His trust was given seldom, but he had given it to this man.

The burly black man sat at the wheel, seeing the road before him, yet not.  The pulsating cadence of the white and yellow lines
went flashing by his eyes, yet were not seen.  His mind was elsewhere, a happier place.  A place where the white haired man, the tall man and the blonde man had worked together, as a team, in unison and by their combined efforts, brought peace to a bad time.  Peace.  How they longed for it.  The white haired man felt he would die before he found it.  The black man sighed, the world was not as it should be, but he had no plans to offer.  That was the white-haired man's job.

The blonde man leaned back in his seat, casually watching the others.  He was at peace, as much as he could be given his life.  The white haired man had given him a place of honor, had become his father.  He would earn that accolade until the day he died, trying to please the older man.  Noticing the unlit cigar and how longingly the old man looked at it, he reached into the pocket of his tan jacket to pull out a slender, cylindrical lighter.  Flicking the switch, a  flame came into being, and was strong.  Leaning toward the old man, the blonde man indicated the cigar lying useless in his palm.  "Want a light, Hannibal?"

The white haired man nodded, took the dank tobacco into his mouth, seated it, accustomed himself to the feel of it, then leaned
forward toward the flame.

"Thanks, Face."

Life was good after all.

Fin

 

 


Hemingway in the Van by Rita Ractliffe

 

 


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