Not His Side of the Mountain, Actually – Short Story

Nate buried his face in his pillow and resurfaced only when death by suffocation became imminent. The new baby sister, oblivious to Nate’s discomfort, wailed plaintively on. He frowned. Today was the first day of the summer holidays too, and that baby had to spoil his morning.  His mother bustled in as he was washing his face and shouted at him for ignoring the crying baby. She was unruffled by the icy glare he pointed at her. Nate made his decision at breakfast when his father insisted that he, Nate, would have to share the last remnants of jam with his brother, Toby. The half spoonful of jam Nate had left would hardly suffice for a single slice of toast, and he coldly passed the spoon to Toby, who took it without even a thank you. It was settled.  Nate had decided to run away. He had read enough literature to be naïve about supplies needed. Doubtless, a kind old woman would give him food and a rich widow’s son would give him money. He need only walk out the door and never come back; he supposed that he would make his fortune at the gold mines. Nate had made it to the end of the street by the time he realized that he was already hungry and there was nary an old woman in sight, much less a kind one with a covered basket. By lunch time, Nate’s wanderlust and his temper had disappeared. He looked at the mountain looming over his small town. He turned back. Perhaps, he thought, another day he’d make his fortune as a runaway. Right now, he was ready for potatoes and bread.