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Cornflower Summer (rough first draft) by RCW copyright August 2026

“If I am worth anything later, I am worth something now. For wheat is wheat, even if people think it is grass in the beginning.”

i. Truce

August 13th, 3:35PM

Dark purple stains my fingers.

Overripe, warm berry falls onto the ground from my hand. Too ripe to be enjoyable to eat. I bend down to reach the one’s lower in the shade, a good amount already sitting tucked in the bottom of my shirt. There’s a diner around here, the bus driver mentioned it being the only one in the town. Not that I’ve seen it or even looked yet. I purposefully took a right turn on a dirt path off of the paved road leading to town when I got here.

The grass is grown up between the tire tracks, tiny white flowers sprinkled throughout the greenery. A bird sings a tune from somewhere in the treetops. Sunlight scatters throughout the woods and somewhere the sound of running water can be heard, from a book or from some pipe system.

Peaceful, for once in the last twenty hours plus of travel.

“Afternoon.”

A low voice cuts through the birdsong and wind, my hair standing on end before I turn.

It's not just some person on a walk, I can tell because this man is standing in front of me, and got on some burly-man jacket. The type to wear flannel shirts if it weren't summer. He’s wearing a dirty shirt and jeans with large boots.

No hiking garb.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle ya,” He clears his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets, which are dirty, and his pants are dirty too.

“You on a walk?” He looks up into the trees when he asks as a bird calls and doesn't see me nod.

“You can pick those if you want. I’m not gonna.” Burly Man gestures at the berries.

“This whole path is full of ‘em. You can pick as many as you want. You have a container?”

I press my lips together. Maybe I cringe.I can't tell. I'd rather sink into the ground than continue this conversation. He takes his hand out of his pocket and raises it, gestures behind me.

“A container? In your pack?” He drops his hand, putting it back into his pocket.

I shake my head no.

“What you got in there?” He squints slightly.

It’s got three days worth of clothes, barely. Four pairs of socks, one pair of jeans, two shirts, a pair of sweatpants, and five pairs of underwear. Shoved inside the pack with a half eaten pack of peach rings, a half empty plastic water bottle, and wired earbuds tangled somewhere inside.

I stare at him with a straight face.

“Knives. A lot of knives.”

I think his jaw might’ve slacked slightly but I can't tell because of his huge beard.

“You have knives?”

I nod. “Yeah. A lot of them. Every Leatherman. The Blazer. And Glider, Rustle and I also have the Skeletool KBX, and all the rest too. My backpack is just so heavy and full of freshly sharpened knives and various mult-tools.”

He stares back.

“What?”

I make a face at him. “What? It's true.”

“I have no idea any of the words you just said. You named your knives?”

I grimace at Burly Man again.

“What? No. I didn’t name them. Have you not heard of a Leatherman?”

He clears his throat roughly. “No.”

“It’s a knife brand. They make knives and multitools.”

“And your bag is full of them?”

I shake my head. “Yep.”

He nods. “Okay.” After a few moments he speaks again. “Are the blackberries any good?”

I mirror his casual nod. “Yeah. They’re good.”

He gives a half smile and another short nod. “Good.”

I copy his half smile and nod. “It is good.”

Burly Man stands with his hands shoved in his jeans pockets, looking up at the sky. “Well, sorry to bother, guess I’ll leave ya to —”

“Do you ever make blackberry jam.” I stare at him straight on.

He sniffs in slightly, rubbing his beard and nodding once. “Yes. I do.”

“You just asked me if they were any good, so don’t you know already? And you said you’re not gonna pick them. Did you already make the jam or did you just find a different patch?”

He stares back at me. “I already made it. I have a patch by my place.”

It’s silent except for bird call as I count to twenty in my head. He shifts his feet.

“You like asking questions?”

“I like getting answers.” I stare back at him.

He nods. “Right.”

I clear my throat like he does. “Do you like nodding?”

A short breath leaves his mouth. “Yeah. Guess I do. And you like staring?”

“Yeah, and also, I tell how much you like nodding, because of how often you’ve nodded so far.”

He stares at me. “Do you like blackberries?”

I nod. “Yeah. That’s why I’m here picking them.”

“Right. And you didn’t bring a container, and your backpack is full of… knives.”

I nod once at him. “Yeah. And you asked me how your own blackberries taste.”

“They taste different in different areas.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And those are good?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m eating them.”

“And you didn't bring a container? In your pack?”

“I couldn't fit it with all the knives. I prioritized.”

“So you planned on coming out here to pick blackberries, and you chose to bring knives instead of a container? How did you find out about this spot?”

“I found it. I wasn’t planning on picking berries.”

“But you were planning for using a backpack full of knives?”

I clear my throat. “Yeah. I call it my Knife Backpack. Carry it with me at all times in case I run into some burly man questioning me about my berry picking habits.”

“Right. And your Knife…Pack has a special anti-slice liner in it, to make sure you don't get hurt?”

I nod. “Exactly, good eye.”

“And what brand is it? I’m interested in one for myself.”

“AntiStab.”

“AntiStab?”

“Right. But it doesn't matter anyway because they’re all in sheaths.”

“So, you couldn't bring a container because it didn’t fit? A pack of that size, that would hold, maybe 200 sheathed knives? The way it’s sitting on your shoulders doesn't look heavy.”

“Are you Doctor Who?”

“Who?”

“You don't know Doctor Who?”

“I do not.”

“Well that’s what you sound like. He’s a detective.”

“I am not a detective.”

“Well, you're acting like one.”

He puts a hand up. “Not a detective. I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“Mhm.”

“You don’t believe me?

“You talk too much to be a farmer. Or whatever you are. Woodworker.”

“You think I talk too much?”

“To be a farmer and woodworker?”

“Yeah.”

He looks down at the ground. “I do carve wood.”

“What. like deer and bucks?”

He doesn't respond.

“Turtles?”

A short breath leaves his mouth. “No. Not turtles. Deer. Sometimes bucks. The antlers take the longest.”

“Do you glue them on?”

His eyebrows raise slightly.

“No, that would be cheating. I carve from large tree trunks. I find the wood around here.”

“You carve deer out of giant pieces of wood?”

He nods.

“Do you do anything else, like watch TV?”

“What?”

“You know what TV is right? You’re not living in the 1950’s.”

“Yes, I know what TV is.”

“So, do you?”

“Do I what.”

“Do anything besides carve deer?”

“I grow a few variety of tomato. Green beans.”

“So your diet consists of venison, green beans, and tomato?”

“I have hot cocoa in the winter. Sometimes.”

“Oh, do you? Is it some kind of organic all natural raw cocoa whatchasomething?”

“A ‘Whatchamacallit’?”

“A What?”

“It’s candy.”

“Candy?”

“Yeah. Old candy. From when I was a kid.”

“So you eat tomato, old person candy, venison, and green beans." I stare at him “OH! How could I forget. And blackberry jam. Obviously.”

“I also tap syrup.”

“Well there you go, get some riboflavin in so your nails don’t fall off.”

His eyebrows pull together.

“Pure maple syrup does have nutritional benefits.”

“And you’d need all the nutrition where you can get it, considering how few foods you eat.”

He lifts a hand. “Yeah.”

“You ever try anything else?”

“Not really.”

“Gummy candy?”

“Gummy?”

“Peach rings?”

“Never heard of them.”

“Well you can have one if you want. I have a half a pack.”

“They taste like peaches?”

“No. But it does taste like inverted sugar and artificial flavoring that causes cancer in the state of California. But only in California, and we’re not in California so we should be all good.”

He stares back at me.

“What?”

“On the back it says ‘Known to cause Cancer in the state of California.’ But we’re not in California. So we’re good.”

“You eat that? You chose to eat that?”

I shrug. “Yeah. The gas station didn’t have many options.”

“There must’ve been something more nutritious than pure sugar.”

“Maybe. But I chose peach rings.”

“Maybe choose an apple next time.”

“Apples didn’t look good. Peach rings looked good.”

“Hm."

“Yeah, ‘hm’.”

“You eat fiber?”

“Sometimes.”

“Fresh fruit?”

“Not since before the bus ride.”

“How far have you traveled?”

“About two days. I had enough for a night in a air b and b but I’m trying to save so I can stay somewhere a few weeks until I get a job.”

“Well, you’re not gonna find either of those here. Maybe a job. Depends on where they need work.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not many folks need a worker around here, unless you wanna be a farmhand? You ever hold a pitchfork or herd cattle?”

I shake my head no.

“Not many will hire a kid with no experience. You’re trying to find a place to stay?”

My eyes must’ve squinted because he puts his hands up.

“Sorry. Wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I have a loft in my barn. It’s empty.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“You’re not old, you still have a whole life ahead of you.”

“So do you, you don’t look old.”

“I’m not looking for any more loud life. Trust me, kid. I’ve had enough of that stuff.”

“What ‘stuff’?

“Living in cities. Affording groceries. Messaging my boss. Calling out sick. Scheduling time off.”

“That just sounds like regular stuff.”

“Was regular. Not anymore.”

“So what do you do now?”

“Wake up with the sun. Chop firewood. Gather eggs from my chickens. Hunt. Fish. Cure meat.”

“Hm. Sounds peaceful. Do you get lonely or bored?”

“If I got either of those I wouldn’t have chosen this life.”

“Then why did you invite me to stay in your loft?”

“I wasn’t inviting you, I was stating a fact. I have a loft.”

My face falters slightly.

“I’m just kidding. It’s your space if you want it.”

..

“You want it?”

“No. I haven’t even seen it yet, and I don’t know you.”

“Yeah. Right. You don’t know me.”

“Jeez, no need to get all emo. I’m just stating facts. Plus for general safety.”

“Thought you said you had a pack of knives?”

“I do. Still best be safe and not sleep in a random man’s barn loft. Especially not a man that has a deer slaughter barn.”

“Emo?”

“Yeah. You got all self deprecating when you said “you don’t know me.” We’ve only been talking five minutes.”

“It’s been more than that. Look at the placement of the Sun.” He gestures behind me.

I almost turn my head around immediately but pause when I realize I don't want to face my back to him and stand to my side instead and turn my head. The Sun is lower in the sky, dipping below the tree-line.

“Hey.” He puts his hands up. “I have camping gear. You can stay out here, won’t be as nice without a bathroom but you don’t need to sleep near me.”

“That’s not why — “

“I get it, you don’t need to explain. And I don’t slaughter the deer. I buy the venison jerky from a friend here.”

“Yeah, really. I’ve never slaughtered a deer.”

“Other animals?”

“No, I don’t slaughter.”

“Bet you kill spiders though.”

“Not unless I have to. I consider them roommates.”

‘They’d be in the loft too, then.”

“They would, but I’d tell them to move somewhere else in the barn. If you did decide to stay. If not I’ll let them stay where they are.”

“How long have you been a burly man for?”

“What?”

“A barn man, I mean. With spider roommates.”

“I said I’ve lived here my whole life. I got my own place when I was sixteen.”

“You can do that here?”

“Yeah. My parents never really gave a crap about me. Started saving when I was fourteen.”

“For the barn?”

“No, for rent in someone’s extra room. They do that here, someone’s kid moves out to someplace better.”

“But you stayed?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. But why?”

“I like the solitude. The quiet. I don’t like change. Rather stay put than to pull up the roots.”

“Are you Mr. Metaphorical?”

“I make art.”

“The deer carvings?”

“I also draw. Charcoal.”

“What of?”

“The forest. Plants. Or birds. Other animals.”

“Deer?”

He laughs slightly. “Yeah. Deer too.”

“You ever get bored?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“No, I don’t get bored. There’s enough to do around.”

“Like what?”

“Chop wood. Make jam, turn sap into syrup.”

“And you draw?”

“Yeah. And I draw.”

“Sounds peaceful.”

“It is.”

A bird calls in the silence.

“You carve deer?”

“I’ve done about a hundred so far.”

“Since when?”

“I’ve only been really doing it about a decade.”

“So you must be good?”

“Not nearly as I want to be. Can never get the eyes how I want them.”

Another bird calls in the distance.

“Can I see?”

He shrugs. “Sure. And you know what, I’ll walk 20 paces ahead so you can stab me in the back if need be.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not doing that.”

“I’ll still walk ahead. In case you change your mind and want to walk away.”

“Fine, but just know I have a backpack of knives.”

“Your Knife Backpack. I know.”

He starts walking ahead with his arms raised. He doesn’t ask if I’m following, and he doesn’t look back.

When he’s about 30 paces ahead I step out of the brush and watch him walk down the dirt path, arms still raised. The Sun is dipping lower still in the sky. My phone is dead so I can’t even check the time. At this point I can’t even trust myself to be able to guess the accurate time of day, my internal clock is off by two hours. Burly Man’s figure starts to get blurry as he steps into the shadows.

He still hasn’t turned around.

—