Sawed Farewell

Ralph the woodman's son, whose mother was killed by a bear and his father mauled by the same monster, lived with his sister, a year older but not much bigger than the lean boy. A half and a quarter between five and six feet, with a share of muscle strong but not bulk. His body neither outmatched nor fell behind his age. He was no child, but he was not yet quite a man. He cut wood and he cut forest creatures, all for sustenance and sale. It was hard work, and home uneasily silent, drawing out the short hours at supper and before bed. Lately he has been more tired and bored of his life than before. 

His sister and himself were able to support themselves, but each day was the same-- each morning, each breakfast, each snow-covered tree seemed the same to him now. The only variety was the action of the electric saw his father had left behind. Ralph still feared its handling somewhat, but he was drawn to its pleasant vibrations and sounds, the only noise to break the forest silence. 

One winter evening, as the sun was close to setting, and his work close to ending; he swung the saw and as it bit into the wood it came back at him. The snarling, kind blades snapped at the hand and fell upon the leg. Ralph fell back in the snow with a noise-- not a scream or a shriek, but a cough like a laugh. He cradled the hand, watching colors swirl-- crimson and white. His life painting, he watched the art converge. 

A fragile, crooked heart. He smiled at the chance art and let his mind register the rapidly fading light.