WIP - Neverchangeable

The Premise: I've been struggling with this story for close to a year now. It was inspired by a customer who told me a story about his friend doing something illegal, even though he'd just become a father. The customer shook his head and said, "People never change. Not really."

This interaction stuck with me until I got home, so I started writing. I wanted to take this concept of "people never change" and somehow make it a positive one.

I felt like I was in the creative flow of things, when suddenly my laptop died and I realized it was 3 in the morning. Whenever I've tried to come back to it since, though, I've felt stuck.

I then remembered the "Critique" community existed. I figured, what better way to get through writer's block than by turning to my fellow writers for advice, feedback, and critique?

One of the best pieces of advice I ever received in regards to writer's block was, "If something isn't working, it means there's something that doesn't work further back." I'm trying to figure out what that something is in my currently available "further back" (included below.)

Please help me! All critique welcomed. This thing has been lodged in my noodle for too long now and I need help banging it out of there.

All I know for certain is that the knife referenced in this story at the beginning needs to come out again (and be used) by the end. I also know that I want for there to be a happy ending where Farley learns to re-connect with his friends and family; "neverchangeable" is at first presented as a bad thing, but it's revealed that the truly "neverchangeable" thing about Farley is his big heart, even though trauma and hard-times have boarded it up, slightly. The idea is that our actions, behaviours, and habits may change over time, but our intentions might not, both bad and good.

There's a saying that sticks with me while writing this, "We judge ourselves by our intentions and others by their actions." I think that the more you love someone, the more it's possible to stretch ourselves the opposite way, to empathize, to have grace. Sometimes the people that take a moment to empathize are the ones who save us in the end.

Let me know: What might not work here? How might I get the knife back out in a way that does work?

The WIP (Work In Progress), "Neverchangeable:"

Farley won't stop fucking around with his hunting knife. The sound sets my teeth on edge.

Our bridge isn't as quiet as last time. There are too many people. I can see it in Farley's eyes. This isn't what he signed up for.

I shrug, "We can go somewhere else."

Farley shakes his head, "It's fine."

I tell him there's a hiking trail on the other side.

He shrugs, "It's fine."

But I see him put the hunting knife away. That's enough for me. I stuff my hands in my pockets.

It's colder than last time but Farley doesn't notice. He pulls out a pack of Marlboro Reds and lights one. His hands are mangled. Thick scars slash across red-purple, reptilian skin. His nails are yellow at the tips. When he looks away, I can see lines from years of living outdoors spread across his face.

I offer, "It's been a while. What's new?"

Farley doesn't ease in.

"I've been better. Work is killing me. Van's good, though. Becca had twins."

"Your twins?"

"Yeah," He chews on the word.

"My twins."

I tell him congratulations and he offers me a drag of his cigarette. I tell him, if I'd known, I would've brought cigars. He laughs but I'm serious. Farley doesn't pay attention to that. I can tell he wants to move on, but I can't.

I take the cigarette, "Van's good, though?"

"Van's always good."

"Better than home?"

Farley looks at me sideways. "The van is home."

I pass the cigarette back, "I didn't realize the van could fit that many people. Hell, it barely fit us two back in the day."

Farley shakes his head, "Don't do this to me, Mutt."

I don't tell him I go by Matthew now. I let him continue.

"I visit Becca and the girls sometimes. Weekends, mostly. They don't need me. Besides, Becca knows: van's home. Always will be. You know how it is. I can't live choked up in the suburbs. But the 'burbs are good for the kids and all that, you know."

He tosses the cigarette butt over the bridge, "I tried it for a bit. Becca says I'm neverchangeable, whatever that means. I tried. I keep money in the account for them. I'm around. I try."

He doesn't give me room to butt in. He asks, "You still talk to your old man?"

"Oh, fuck off."

He says, "I'm serious."

I look over at Farley. I tell him, "Dad died last year."

Before he can say anything, I jump in for him, "It was when you were off-grid for a bit. We tried to get ahold of you, but didn't know how."

Farley looks sideways at me, "Is that why we're here now?"

His eyes are the same as fifteen years ago, always scanning for a trap.

He continues, "I got enough people hounding me for how I live my life. Not you too. Hell, your old man is the one who taught me how to live like this in the first place."

He snorts, "He'd probably be proud you couldn't get ahold of me."

Farley has walked ahead of me. I can't see his face, but I see his hands fondling the hunting knife in his coat pocket. His shoulders are tight. he says, "Might've been prouder of you too, you'd been out there with me."

"You didn't know him at the end."

"Knew him all the other years, didn't I?"

My father's burly figure from when Farley and I were teens contrasts darkly with the skeletal man whose ass I wiped as an adult. Farley didn't know that Dad, though. He never would. Dad was forever the explosive outdoorsman in Farley's mind... the one who taught him how to hunt, skin, and prepare a deer for his family; the man who abandoned them in the wilderness at two in the morning when they were fourteen, after he caught them partying to, "teach them how to be."

In a way, Farley's right too. Even at the end, Dad kept his shotgun next to his wheelchair. On his final day, he shot a rodent from his deathbed. He kept his finger on the trigger until his last breath.

But he didn't see that Dad.

Farley and I reach the end of the bridge, now a tourist attraction these days instead of an afternoon hazard. We look into the woods that raised us. For a moment, we don't talk anymore about the man who did.

It isn't long before we see the first marker.

To be continued

Thank you in advance for your suggestions!

Please be sure to check out Judey Kalchik's series on writer's block, if you haven't already. Judey's series is what made me feel brave enough to ask for some help. Why face writer's block alone when we're on a platform full of wonderful writers? Thanks, Judey!