The Distance Travelled By Brett Alexander Savory PDF
Download The Distance Travelled By Brett Alexander Savory PDF book free online – From The Distance Travelled By Brett Alexander Savory PDF: When the pig comes crashing through my kitchen window, I’m not sure what to think. I mean, dig: There I am just hanging out, eating some Boo Berry, waiting for the afternoon rack session (hoping that Stanson and Jonesy are on duty ’cause they usually give me a break–Barnes and Salinger always stretch me till they hear ligaments tear and sockets pop), when lo, what’s this flying through my window? A big, fat, porcine letter bomb. I jump out of my chair and run over to the window to try to get a look at the bastards who launched it, but by the time I get there, all that remain are the shattered window–bits still dropping off, tinkling in the post-apocalyptic silence–flames belching from the Lake of Sorrow (I have a villa on the waterfront), and smoking brimstone as far as the eye can see. The pig scrambles to its feet and dashes into my living room, squealing all the way …
This is how I got here:
Driving on a country road. Nothing but farmland for miles and miles. Gravel spluttering and popping in my wheel wells. Hot day. Not hot as Hell, because I now know how hot Hell can get, but still pretty brutal.
Zoning. Just staring ahead at the heat-shimmering trees to either side of me. Not even sleepy, just caught in that nowhere-land of hazy days and even hazier thoughts.
In my peripheral, a flash of orange and white.
Then a crunch, and the car lifts on the right side, like I’d just barrelled over a speed bump.
My heart slams in my chest. Sweat pops out on my forehead. I cram on the brakes. A plume of dirt rises behind me. The car stops.
In the rearview mirror, a woman—partially obscured by the cloud of dust I’ve created—runs to the edge of the road. She kneels. Screams once.
I open the door, get out of the car, walk toward the kneeling woman and her scream. The dust clears more with every step I take, and I see what she is kneeling over.
White shorts. Orange shirt. Splashes of dark red across them. It is a young girl. She does not move.
The woman screams again, this time much longer. I can’t tell if I’m breathing anymore. I just stand there in the road and blink quickly, maybe waiting to wake up.
I hear a screen door slam, then gravel crunching, look up, see a man with a shotgun. Wet eyes. Determination in his step. He stops in front of me, plants his feet. Two giant oaks rooted in the ground. He takes one deep breath, raises the barrel.
I wonder if he was perhaps at the window, watching his daughter and wife play outside, maybe thinking about how good his life is, how lucky a man he is to have this wonderful family.
Life is like this, I think, my heart settling, slowing. For both of us, friend. It steals things when we’re not looking.
And then I am incapable of thinking anything at all, because my face has been blasted through the back of my skull.
When I open my eyes—these eyes that should no longer open, in my skull that should no longer be anything but splinters I am in a house. Not a house I’ve ever been in before. Someone else’s house.