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Cabin Fever by K Larsen, Mara White (1)

One

Tristan

A blue jay settled on a snowy limb of a pine tree. Tristan rose excitedly from his rocking chair.

"There's only been one jay all winter," he said to himself. After a record pileup of snow in Burke Valley and beyond, Tristan could push the door open and step outside. He finally had a view instead of mounds of snow. In the respite between the storm that was, and the one predicted ahead, he slipped a jacket over his sweater and tucked a knit hat over his too long, salt-and-pepper hair that matched his bushy beard. It was a good day when he could step out to share bread with a feathered friend. He stretched his back and grinned as he took the plunge from the front door landing into the shin-deep snow below—yesterday the snow had been up to the landing. A good two days of sun had done its job and whittled it down to something far more manageable to walk in.

He inhaled the crisp, fresh air and reveled at the vista he called home. Outside his solar-powered, woodstove-heated cabin, where he lived alone, five miles from any sign of civilization, and felt at peace. Tristan grew up in Atlantic City but always felt isolated. He watched society tear itself apart over civil rights and greed and finally, he had snapped. He'd packed what he could in a backpack and headed for the mountains. Tristan hadn't had a plan or a concrete destination, but he made the trek. Purchased a plot of land in the remote valley between two mountains and started building what he needed. He had never fit in well. He was socially withdrawn and couldn't imagine a woman putting up with him. It was too bad because a partner was something he'd wanted. Although, not at the expense of giving up his rustic life and he hadn't met a woman yet who'd willingly want to live alongside him so removed from civilization. It was hard work; back-breaking sometimes, with long stretches in the winter where he saw no other people. Where it was dark more than light and bone-chilling temperatures made it nearly impossible to keep the cabin comfortable.

Every other week or so, he would try to get to the nearest town, Bluebell, to haul back provisions on a sled strapped to his back. As weather allowed, he skied more than forty minutes through the sloping canvas to retrieve what he could not provide for himself, - cereal for breakfast, peanut butter and jelly or grilled cheese supplies for the half-sandwich he ate for lunch, and pasta for dinner, complemented with the veggies from the greenhouse he built abutting the cabin. He also brought back cookies, tea or coffee, and books when he could. He always kept sacks of potatoes, rice and beans in the shed to supplement the more perishable foods.

He'd worked for the first few years at a nearby weather observatory to supplement the small nest egg he'd arrived with while building his modest compound. The locals embraced him there and he found he'd built a few solid friendships. Sometimes he'd even stay long enough to play a round of darts and have a beer at the pub. The old mining town had no qualms with him or he with it and it worked out nicely.

The blue jay landed in his weathered palm and pecked at the breadcrumbs. He'd always had a way with wild animals. More so than with people. Tristan laughed as the bird ate what he offered it. Short, quick little movements—awkward. The bird was aware of the great risk it was taking by trusting him. As if sensing being laughed at, the bird peered up at him a moment before taking flight. Tristan plowed through the snow to complete his chores. There was plenty that would need to be done before the next storm rolled in and if the sky could talk...it would tell him he was in for blizzard-like conditions.

His favorite way to pass the time outside of reading were movie nights. He had a small projector and one wall of the cabin covered by a sheet became his movie screen. One night last week as a snowstorm raged, he watched You've Got Mail. He knew it was strange for a grown man to watch such lighthearted romantic nonsense. But he hated violence and horror. Only happy movies made the cut out here. There was enough doom and gloom provided by nature alone, in his life.

He’d made the mistake, over a beer and a game of darts, of admitting his movie preference. It had earned him rolling laughter from the blokes he played with. Sometimes he forgot social norms and graces. Spending so much time alone would do that to a person. The only person he needed to please was himself and he did. Going into town was refreshing but could also make him anxious. He knew the men were laughing at him, but he was late in pinpointing exactly why, which had caused more raucous laughter. At the cabin, there were no others to make him second guess what brought him joy or what made him a man. It struck him as odd that the masses let others’ opinions dictate their own self-worth. He’d laughed alongside the men at the bar that evening but had never been so relieved to finish his beer and game and return to nonjudgmental nature. Isolation afforded him a freedom that society had never graced him with.

He knew he was strong, incredibly fit for his age. Outdoor work had shaped his body over the years into lean muscle. He knew he was smart too—he was still alive and thriving on his own, despite the unrelenting conditions he was subjected to. And he knew that if sappy romantic comedies made him feel good, then he would keep right on watching them. If those men had any good sense, they’d watch too. His cock knew that those movies always had the best sex scenes and the most attractive actors. And every man needed relief that only an orgasm could bring sometimes. He didn’t miss human contact, but he did miss the fire that only a woman’s touch could bring.

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