G.A. risenthwaite

Writer & Photographer

(but mostly writer)

How Mosquito Got His Name

kay. Some love stories make you happy. Some scare the literal crap outta you. And some are the moment you yell at the scared couple in the horror movie, “Don’t run upstairs, dipshits!” This one’s the horror show. Real horror. Its protagonists are Autumn and John. And John didn’t like Autumn at all, not one little bit. And Autumn saw no wedding ring and immediately claimed him as hubby number three. Without his consent. John will tell you he didn’t want a jump, snag, girlfriend, or wife. Autumn will tell you that he needed her and he just didn’t know it. Yet.

So they met at this damn workshop, a four-day training session. His band sent him to bring back ways to teach the kids and not to set a trapline. And he wanted to learn the new and magical way to make kids want to learn. If you think it sounds too good to be true, it was. Hell, and if you don’t, it still was too good to be true. Autumn arrived late on the first day, her face stained from fresh tears and she said, “Don’t mind me, I’m sorry I’m late but I have just received bad news about my son.”

And the session stopped dead. The male facilitator and all thirteen women surrounded her with love and zillions of questions. Not John. The second their eyes locked she fell in love and he cringed in fear. He thought, “That one’s bad news.” And his body screamed, “Run away! Run away.” He turned his full attention to the weekend’s syllabus. Values and virtues sounded ever churchy. Kids don’t want churchy. The band don’t want churchy. Hell, John don’t want churchy and sure as shit didn’t want churchy attached to his name.