Hemingway Tradition by Kristen Butcher

Chapter One
    We had the top down on our old LeBaron and the sun was beating on us from a sky that was nothing but blue. It was my mom’s turn to drive. I was stretched out in the passenger seat, watching Saskatchewan slide by and thinking there must be a couple dozen different ways for a guy to kill himself.
    Hanging was the first thing that popped into my head. It’s so convenient. You can doit almost anywhere with almost anything. A telephone cord, belt, bed sheet. Whatever’s handy. And depending on how much effort you want to put into it, you can break your neck and die instantly or dangle for a while until you suffocate. The cowboys in the Old West had the best idea, though. They just threw a rope over the branch of a tall tree, slipped the noose around the neck of the
hangee
— usually a cattle rustler — and then whacked the rump of his horse so it took off without him.
Slam, bam, rest in peace, Sam
.
    Very effective, but not for everybody. Another popular suicide method is wrist slitting. But that’s way too much blood for me. Of course, walking in front of a bus or diving off a bridge would work too. But I’d want something a little less traumatic. Something like poison maybe, or carbon monoxide, or sleeping pills. Something where you just slip away without realizing you’re going. I know that makes me seem like a chicken, but I think that’s because I don’t want to die. If I did Imight have a whole different take on things. I might even do what my dad did.
    He ate a bullet and blew half his head away. Messy, but it did the job. I ought to know. I’m the one who found him.
    The memory of that afternoon flared inside my head like a match struck in the dark. I flinched. I couldn’t help it. Though it had been months already, my nerves were still raw.
    My dad would’ve been proud.
    â€œExplore your feelings! Sharpen your senses! Harness your emotions to breathe life into your writing!” That’s what he was always telling me. Sometimes he’d get right into my face as he was saying it. I could see the sparks fly from his eyes. I was certain that if they landed on me, I would start to burn with the same fire that was in him.
    I turned to look at the memory that was chasing me. Okay. So how would Dad have described it in one of his books?
    Dylan Sebring, so considerate of others during life, was less so in death. Oh, he’d writtena farewell note. And he’d even covered the bed with heavy plastic before lying on it. But the plastic was no defense against the force of a .45-caliber bullet. His brains were part of the wallpaper before Dylan finished squeezing the trigger. The flies found him first. Then his son. By that time the day had warmed up — after all, it was June. Afterwards, Shaw couldn’t remember whether it was the stench of death or the sight of his father in a million sticky pieces that made his stomach heave
.
    â€œHey, Sleeping Beauty.” Mom’s voice cut through the wind rumbling around my ears. “Wake up. It’s your turn to drive.”
    She slowed down and eased the car over to the side of the highway. I pushed myself up in the seat and stretched.
    â€œWe’ll drive as far as Regina and then call it a day,” she said, slipping the car into park. “I’d say another forty minutes and we should be there.”
    I stepped onto the pavement, yawned and looked around. I decided Saskatchewanhad to be the most boring province in all of Canada. Traveling across it was like running on a treadmill. You never seemed to get anywhere. It was just mile after flat mile of blue flax, yellow sunflowers and waist-high wheat. There weren’t even any curves in the road to jazz things up. You could practically drive all the way from Alberta to Manitoba without ever touching the steering wheel.
    I adjusted the seat and mirror, fastened my seatbelt, stepped on the gas and headed back onto #1 East. Then I grabbed a