Boars, Part 2

No moon tonight.


I come to the path at the edge of the woods. Blackness. I know the path is there but I am staring into nothing. I close my eyes and open them. They adjust? Still nothing.

I step out in front of me. Still gravel under my feet. Still on the path. I swing out my left hand and brush a tree trunk. When walking through the woods after two bottles of wine, tree trunks are welcome friends.

The divets in the ground are not.

I stumble along until I can dimly make out the white body of the caravan in front of me on the path. No water, no electricity, but home sweet home.

I trace my hand along the side of it and my knuckles grind along it's corrugated surface. Suddenly from out of the bushes by my feet comes a sound like a lawn mower roaring to life.

I run madly around the corner of the caravan, throw open the door, slam it close behind me. Lock it just in case. Only the sound of my breath. A pain shoots through the side of my head. In the rush to get in the caravan, I knocked my head.


Wine and boars don't mix.