Free Our Love Will Go the Way of the Salmon by Cameron Pierce

which remained still, as if it were made of stone. But he knew that if they’d hit it, they would have spilled blood. The elk’s, and also some of theirs. Llewellyn wasn’t at all shaken by the near-miss. Instead, she laughed.
    Now they were in his tent, undressing out of their wet clothes. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his. He didn’t kiss her back. He wasn’t ready for that, not after what he left behind.
    He turned his head into his shoulder, breaking her lips from his. She leaned back and looked at him in the dark. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
    He flipped her around so she faced away from him. She made a confused sound as he pushed her onto all fours. Then a surprised sound as he slid up behind her and pushed his way inside. From that point forward she remained silent, right up until he collapsed on top of her. Then she said: “Now it’s my turn.”
    She wriggled out from under him and turned over on her back. She grabbed a fistful of his long dark hair. “You gonna do what I say?” she said.
    He nodded, wincing at the pain.
    “I didn’t hear you,” she said.
    “Yes,” he said.
    “Then scootch down there and let me fuck your babyface.”
    She spread her legs wide and he moved himself between them. She pushed his face into her crotch without ever letting go of his hair. His cum leaked out of her, coating his tongue as he licked. He found it hard to breathe with his face mashed into her like that. He tried to sit up to take a breath, but she twisted his hair so hard he cried out in pain. “Lick it, bitch,” she said. He buried his face again, slick with both their juices. For a while he lost himself in the smothering darkness. When he came to, he found that she was crying. Her head remained in her hands. Then he realized it was him who was crying, and she was no longer forcing his face into her crotch. She was soothing him. She was singing: “Hush little baby don’t you cry…”
     
     
     
     
    VIII. Catostomus
     
    And the small town on the big river slept.
    On the hill that overlooked the river, the houses were dark, except for one Victorian brightly lit by golden pale Christmas lights that had not been taken down or turned off since the day they were stapled to the awning.
    Anchored out on the Columbia, a young sailor shared a final cigarette with his captain. They passed the cigarette back and forth, watching the Christmas lights on the house on the hill, while miles away on the opposite shore, the forests of Washington stood dark.
     
     
     
    IX. Cutthroat
     
    She woke up cold, the tent empty. She drew her knees into her stomach and grabbed her bare feet, which were freezing, but warmth did not come. Finally the cold won out. She dressed in yesterday’s clothes while remaining under blankets. She unzipped the tent. She expected rain, and yet it was a clear and blinding day. The sun provided no warmth. Not even the frost on the grass had thawed. She had trouble focusing her eyes in all the brightness. The sharp pangs of an oncoming headache licked at the back of her skull. She hadn’t been awake long enough to know if she was tired or hungover.
    An eagle soared high above, carried by an updraft.
    The campground was empty with the exception of a gray-haired man working under the hood of an RV raised on cinderblocks. The man paused from his work to drink from a thermos. He saw her and waved. She smiled at him, or tried to anyway. Her face didn’t always form the expressions she wanted and she’d given up on worrying about it long ago. She waved to the man just in case. She could be sure of her hands.
    For some reason, the man reminded her of her great-great uncle, a man named Harvey Van Norman. Or at least a photo she once saw of him. He’d been Mulholland’s right-hand man, taking over for him when the St. Francis Dam Disaster ruined Mulholland’s career. Llewellyn’s father once remarked that Harvey had been the only success the family ever