While a student at the University, William Furor wrote an essay entitled “Rock Man.” Here is an excerpt:

…and I was a scion of an old established family. Much was expected of me and much did I disappoint. Arguments were many and resolutions few. After each particularly vicious verbal assault, I would flee to my aunt’s estate, a post-agricultural patchwork of field and forest punctuated with numerous vernal pools. A small river delineated the property’s boundary. But the most notable topographical features for me were the great granite outcrops. Large and small, they seemed to grow out of the ground covered with specks of moss and layered with lichen. And I wanted to become them, not in a metaphorical sense, but actually become a rock, sans viscera, bones, blood, flesh. Like a thing apart, like a huge cerebellum, I would hunch in the forest, indomitable, unfeeling, unassailable: I would be Rock Man.

Thirty years later … early spring had begun to unknit its furrowed brows; the snow squalls had all subsided, the sky was mauve-colored in the mornings, and the first Phoebe called from its perch on the stream-side speckled alder. A small river tumbled briskly past a forest and a field of Eastern red cedar surrounded by waist high red-blonde big bluestem. Bluebirds were active in the field and high up among the cream-colored clouds, a red-tailed hawk pirouetted.

Two naturalists intent on examining vernal pools for invertebrates and amphibians stepped lively along a trail leading towards a stream. They crossed a short walkway and were adjusting their packs when a low sort of moaning reached their ears. A man lay prostrate along the path leading to the field of cedar and bluestem. Opposite him on one side of the path, a backpack, camera equipment and clothes were strewn about carelessly. A small white dog sat helplessly beside the groaning man, who was tossing his large ragged head from side to side.

“I do believe the man’s distressed,” observed P.R., one of the naturalists.

L.W., her companion touched his sunglasses, adjusted his fedora, and glanced skeptically over at the man and dog.

“Well, I think we should see if he’s alright,” P.R. offered.

L.W. grimaced inwardly. He was cynical by nature—that was his imperfection—and he knew that situations were not always what they appeared. But he understood that the tone in P.R.’s voice defied resistance.

“Let’s go then,” L. W. said. They stepped up the short incline. The little white dog with the long and dusty mustaches growled in a low peremptory way, but seeing that it could not stop the two inquisitors from approaching, it trundled off to the side of the trail and silently stood watching with sad, yellow eyes.

L.W. leaned over the man. He was lying on his stomach, the sparse stringy hair on the back of his head bristling with bits of leaves and strands of dried winter-killed grass. He was stocky, even a bit paunchy. L.W. interrupted one of his drawn out mutterings and asked, “Do you need help?”

Like tight lids being unscrewed from vacuum-packed bottles, the man opened his eyes with difficulty. He looked up into the faces of L.W. and P.R. with a certain amount of astonishment.

“Are you moose?” he asked with the seriousness of a minister.

“No,” L.W. replied, convinced of his cynicism. They had merely awakened an inebriant.

“Not a moose?” The man rolled onto his back, then struggled to arise mumbling as he did so. “Who are you?” he slurred.

“We’re naturalists, L.W. and P.R.”

“Who are you?” the man repeated belligerently.

L.W. patiently replied, “Naturalists.”

“Who are you?” the man said as if speaking to no one, to the spring air. “What are you doing here? Answer me that—who are you and what are you doing here?”

P.R. spoke up, explaining about the vernal pools.

The man was weaving slightly, and not listening. “Who are you?” The little white dog growled lowly once again, but then stopped and looked up sadly and seemed embarrassed for its master.

“You, you,” the man began, and stood closer to L.W., who tensed up at the movement. “You with your fancy glasses and your hat. Don’t you know that my family owned this land that you’re on? That they gave it over to the trust, just so fancy people like you can traipse all over it? Well, you just better take care. Take care you don’t abuse this place. Who are you and what do you want here anyway? Get out of my sight. Go!”

The man ended his tirade with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Just go, I said. Go! Get out of my sight.”

L.W. and P.R., relieved to be rid of this truculent person walked briskly off in search of their vernal pools. L.W. reached down toward the white dog that slightly wagged its tail before dutifully falling in beside its master’s side.

Then from behind them they heard the inebriant’s final outburst:

“My aunts were Furors. They owned this land. You take care,” he threatened. “Remember who you were talking to. I am Rock Man, and I have no need of you. No need whatsoever.”

L.C.