Chicken (34 page)

And here we are. Always this. This part where I am supposed to argue. This part where I am supposed to cry and plead with her to believe that I had no choice. I was a victim of screwed-up hormones, a slave to my carnal flesh, an unwilling vessel carrying out the perverted demands of some invasive evil spirit. I didn’t know what I was doing. I would have stopped it if I could. They tell us over and over and over again the thing they most desperately don’t want to hear.

I couldn’t call Brant Mitchell my boyfriend when I had him, and we’ll never get to argue over whether to call each other partner, lover, husband. But I can call him what he was—my choice, my first choice. Not just the first person I picked, but the first real decision I made for myself.  He was my double entendre. They can have everything else, but they’re not getting this. 

“I know.” I look into her eyes. “And I still choose him.”

 She covers her mouth and shakes her head. She backs away from me, but I follow. I follow and I wrap her in my arms and hug her for Brant. I hug her because as awful as it’s been to miss my friend who died, how much worse it must be to miss a son who never existed.

She wrenches out of my arms and shuffles back to the truck as fast as her denim skirt will allow. We make eye contact through the windshield one last time, and I see her eyes turn toward Heaven and her lips flutter as she prays for my soul. She backs out of my driveway, and I watch Brant’s tail lights disappear for the last time down the dirt road.

I take the bag back inside the trailer, all the way back to my room. I turn it upside down and let the belt fall onto my bed. It’s perfectly coiled, held together on two sides of the circle with little black threads. It’s the color of my old saddle, and there’s my name burnt onto the back in blocky western letters: CASPER QUINN.

I bite one thread and then the other. The belt uncoils like a snake in my hands. But it’s not the belt I picked out. No, this is the belt Brant dreamed up for himself.

On one side, there’s a valley ringed by pine trees and hickories, rolling hills dotted with grazing horses. The other side shows a rock jutting off a mountain and a cougar climbing that rock. His body curved and graceful, his tail lashing even as it lies there perfectly still, just a burn scar on a belt. 

I reach into my nightstand drawer and pull out the picture of the awkward teenage mountain lion.  Do you think a werewolf is the same thing as a demoniac?

I said yes. But he loved me anyway.

I press the picture over my heart. Since I moved to Hickory Ditch, I have been told to believe that water can be walked on and turned into wine. I have been told to believe that storms can be calmed with a word and five thousand people can be fed with five fish and two loaves of bread. I have been told to believe that a woman can give birth to a God who is human enough to weep when he loses his best friend. I have been told to believe all this, and yet if I told anyone who told me those things that the lion in this picture is the boy that I love—

Holy Shit.

Holy Shit Holy Shit Holy Shit.

It comes up through my legs and suddenly my boots are on and I’m running, thundering through my house, buckling the belt as I fly across my yard and into the woods. Briars claw at my jeans and limbs slap my face, but I am laughing, laughing, laughing like a maniac. 

I don’t know where I’ll find him, but I know where to start, and when I do I will remind him there is only one unforgivable sin under Heaven—calling something a curse that God intended for a miracle.

I will tell him I forgive him.

I will beg him to forgive me.

That is all the redemption I’ll ever want or need. 

My legs carry me down the slope, through the pines and the hickories, beneath the chattering squirrels and singing birds,  faster and faster until I see the tangle of upturned roots, but I don’t slow down. The Ditch opens up beneath me, and when I land on the other side—I swear to God—even the mountains tremble under my feet.

A N
OTE
F
ROM
THE
A
UTHOR

Reader, now that you’ve finished, there are a few things you should know.

First, Chicken is neither the beginning nor the end of this story—it is the middle. I had been working on another novel, The Natural State, for several years when Casper interrupted with such urgency that I had no choice but to let him speak first. And although it was not my original intention, in time, I realized these two stories were connected, and as that connection deepened, I realized a third book, Demoniac, would be required to answer lingering questions. And so it came to pass that my debut novel is the second book in a trilogy. Weird.

Second, Chicken is a musical novel. You do not need to know the music to understand the novel, but every song was picked for a specific reason and listening may add to your overall experience. So for interested readers, I have provided a playlist on my website (unbridledexistence.net/playlists/chicken) that includes every song named or alluded to in these pages, as well as many songs that are not mentioned but served as inspiration.

Third, Chicken is a work of fiction, but it is based on a reality that thousands of flesh-and-blood children continue to live in every single day. If you are one of those children, I promise you it is possible to make that leap to the other side, but if you are a friend, sibling, parent, cousin, pastor, teacher, anything to one of those children, I promise you it will make their life a hell of a lot easier if you take the initiative to build a bridge. 

Chase Night

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to acknowledge …

Alexa, who has to live with me while I write, who has to remind me to take my vitamins after dinner, who has to shorten the grocery list when I don’t make enough money, who has to listen when the world makes me angry and hold me when I make myself cry, who has to stay up ’til dawn proofreading before my 37th deadline, and who has to tell me ever-so-gently when I’ve had a really stupid idea. Because she does not have to do any of those things, or any of the other things, too numerous and weirdly specific to mention, that come with being this particular writer’s wife. Without her, this book would be ten abandoned paged in my computer’s recycled bin, and I don’t even want to think about where I’d be. 

Joshua Fields Millburn, who read my weird blog and decided to give my fiction a chance, and then another, and then another, and then another, and then—basically, I tried really hard to screw this thing up, but he wouldn’t let me. May his patience, as an editor and a friend, go down in the annals of literary history.

Ryan Nicodemus, who went along with JFM’s terrible idea to do business with me, and who must have been frustrated but never offered anything but kindness and support. 

Colin Wright, who designed the beautiful cover that saved this book from a terrible ending. Seriously. It sucked. If you enjoyed this book at all, please go thank him.

Shawn Mihalik, who provided invaluable feedback and moral support through this process, and who made the inside of this book look so pretty. Let it also be known that he published three of his own novels in the three years it took me to write mine, which means either he is younger and still a tremendously better writer than I, or that I am older and smart enough to let him be the guinea pig.

Everyone else at Asymmetrical Press: my fellow authors Robert Isaac Brown, Robyn Devine, and Josh Wagner, who encouraged me a lot only teased me a little about being the last horse across the finish line, and my proofreaders, Lorraine, Sam, Tahlia, and Trisha, who will hopefully never tell anyone how many weird mistakes I make. 

My professors at the University of Central Arkansas, who guided, encouraged, and supported me while I recklessly crammed an entire creative writing major into four semesters, but especially Dr. Stephanie Vanderslice, who taught a class on Writing for Children and Young Adults that destroyed my pretensions and set a new course for my literary life.

Aaron Hartzler, who took an interest in this project that revitalized my own when I was really getting sick of it, and whose memoir Rapture Practice made me cry in the middle of Five Guys Burgers and Fries but also reminded me that some parts of a religious adolescence are so weird all you can do is laugh.  

My parents and grandmothers, who made it possible for me to go back to college and remain only partially employed while I wrote this novel they aren’t allowed read because awkward. 

My in-laws, who also helped make that possible, and who have made it clear they are definitely going to read this novel, no matter what I say. Yay.

My sister, who does all the things a sister should do, including threaten to kill me if I ever write a book and forget to mention her in it.

My cousins, who co-wrote all my earliest adventures and believed I would be a writer long before anyone else took me seriously.

Vanessa, who is always there to appreciates a good character arc. 

Diane, who has been my friend for fifteen years though we’ve never met in person, and who is living proof that the hand that reaches out doesn’t have to be physical.

My high-school best friend, who forced me to listen to Les Miserables, watch Dawson’s Creek, and read Harry Potter, which honestly, made all the difference. 

My other best friend from back then, who did not let me drown under a stupid canoe.

Thank you all.

And finally, last but not least, I would like to acknowledge… 

Mike Huckabee, who governed Arkansas during my own adolescence, who sounded the call that inspired this book, and who won’t stop running for President … I don’t need the gift of prophecy to know that you lose.

A
BOUT
THE
A
UTHOR

Chase Night was born and raised in Arkansas, which he claims is both far better and worse than everything that has been said. He graduated from the University of Central Arkansas with a B.A. in Creative Writing, a mere thirteen years after first enrolling. He lives in Arkansas with his wife, three dogs, one cat, and an immortal garden snail. 

For everyone who’s been to the enemy’s camp.

And for anyone who still needs to go.

Published by Asymmetrical Press, Missoula, Montana. 

Copyright © 2015 by Chase Night. All rights reserved of course, though if you really can’t afford the few dollars to pay for the book, go ahead and read it anyway; life’s too short for DRM. It would be rad if you’d tell other people about this work if you enjoy it, whether you paid or not. All profits from this book allow our authors to continue pursuing their passions and producing their work, and if you did pay for it (despite the overwhelming desire to find a torrent somewhere), you’re our fave.

Feel free to take pieces of this book and replicate them online or in print, but please link back to www.asymmetrical.co. If you want to use more than a few paragraphs, please email [email protected].

The following scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version: I Corinthians 13:2, Psalms 90:17, and Matthew 7:13. All other scripture quotations are from the King James Version. 

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-In-Publication Data 

Chicken / Chase Night — 1st ed.

ISBN: 978-1-938793-91-2

eISBN: 978-1-938793-92-9 

WC: 89,394

1. Young Adult. 2. Magical Realism. 3. Werewolves. 4. LGBTQ. 5. Gay Fiction.

Cover design by Colin Wright

Typeset in Garamond

Formatted in beautiful Montana

Printed in the U.S.A.

Publisher info:

Website: www.asymmetrical.co

Email:  [email protected]

Twitter: @asympress