Robert Miltner teaches at Kent-Stark and visits The University of Akron regularly to speak to writing classes. These two pieces give us a chance to see his work and what is possible within a very short space.
The Dogs of August
It was hot.
He sat on the porch.
His neighbor Wally was complaining to his neighbor Jack that his tree--the new one he got from K-Mart and just planted, a red maple--was casting shade on his just-chemmed lawn.
His neighbor Jack walked away.
His neighbor Wally got out a can of gasoline from his garage and doused the tree. He flicked a Bic lighter. The tree burst into bright flames.
Neighborhood kids gathered, a holiday look on their faces.
His neighbor Jack came out with a shiny new firearm and pointed it at Wally and fired point blank with live ammo.
Neighborhood kids gathered, a documentary look on their faces.
The police came.
The EMS unit came.
A fire truck came.
His neighbor Wally left with the EMS unit.
His neighbor Jack left with the police.
The fire truck left with the neighborhood kids running behind, noisy as tin cans tied to a bumper, their faces glowing with the imprint of fresh news.
Then it got and stayed quiet.
He went back in. His show was coming on on the tv.
It was hot.
He sat on the porch.
His neighbor Wally was complaining to his neighbor Jack that his tree--the new one he got from K-Mart and just planted, a red maple--was casting shade on his just-chemmed lawn.
His neighbor Jack walked away.
His neighbor Wally got out a can of gasoline from his garage and doused the tree. He flicked a Bic lighter. The tree burst into bright flames.
Neighborhood kids gathered, a holiday look on their faces.
His neighbor Jack came out with a shiny new firearm and pointed it at Wally and fired point blank with live ammo.
Neighborhood kids gathered, a documentary look on their faces.
The police came.
The EMS unit came.
A fire truck came.
His neighbor Wally left with the EMS unit.
His neighbor Jack left with the police.
The fire truck left with the neighborhood kids running behind, noisy as tin cans tied to a bumper, their faces glowing with the imprint of fresh news.
Then it got and stayed quiet.
He went back in. His show was coming on on the tv.
True South
Jay took up birding late in life. When he turned fifty, his girlfriend Brenna gave him a Peterson Guide and a nesting box. You’ve got to get out of the house more, she told him, or that cholesterol’s gonna kill you, regardless of how much red wine you drink. Even though Jay thought the whole idea was for bird-brains, he figured he’d give it a try to keep Brenna happy.
Jay took up birding late in life. When he turned fifty, his girlfriend Brenna gave him a Peterson Guide and a nesting box. You’ve got to get out of the house more, she told him, or that cholesterol’s gonna kill you, regardless of how much red wine you drink. Even though Jay thought the whole idea was for bird-brains, he figured he’d give it a try to keep Brenna happy.
That first summer, they had a brood of six tree swallows. By the second summer he’d added five boxes to his trail in the park, and he fledged eleven bluebirds and nine tree swallows. By the fourth year, Jay was going to Pelee Island for the Hawkwatch, to Nebraska for Sandhill Cranes, and the Everglades for cormorants, anhingas, and ospreys.
One August, he was standing with Brenna in a cattail marsh on Presque Isle, watching purple Martins gather. He was pricing out in his head what two weeks in Belize would cost when he began to notice his shoulder blades were bothering him. Brenna’s Oh-oh as she felt his back made him remove his Eddie Bauer all-cotton wilderness shirt so she could have a better look. Looks like you’re sprouting, Jay, she observed, concerned.
His doctor confirmed what he suspected: he had actually grown small wings--white ones, maybe seven inches long--from his shoulder blades! And, his doctor added, they may stay and grow. It’s like those freak kids born with tails now and then. While the doctor recommended surgery, and Brenna suggested larger shirts (she found it all a little sexy, after all), Jay was uncertain.
He stood on his back porch one morning at sunrise, not having slept much during the night. The coffee cup warmed his hands. Facing north, he thought he could scent the coming winter. But the little wings were lifting and falling, turning him around, to the south. Migration time was beginning. He needed to be ready.
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