Looking for Minnows - stories by Ray Bonneville

A Wandering Mind

I’m in the kitchen of my long 1957 Spartan trailer, with its turquoise stove top. My chef’s knife makes a swishing sound going through the strong onion flesh, as I dice it up into pieces about a half inch in size. I chop up a clove of garlic, then slice up half a red and half a green pepper. I put the onions in a big cast iron skillet and turn on the propane burner to a little under medium. I add olive oil to drench the onions and stir it up with a wooden…

The Woods Behind My House

I put on my well-worn rubber boots that have a faded red stripe along the bottom. I have the tops folded down and over a few inches. The inside canvas shows and is frayed, like my Uncle Red’s boots. They remind me of the times when he takes us looking for minnows. Red drives us from camp in his car, with its oblong steering wheel and three-speed transmission, down a dirt road to a farmer’s field to get the minnows. We usually catch three or four…

Runaways

Copyright Ray Bonneville 2022

Runaways

There were four of us: Leo, Bill, Michael and me.

I was closest with Leo, the first boy I met at the beginning of the eighth grade a few years back, when I only knew some basic words and phrases in English. At the beginning of the summer of 1962, my family had moved from Quebec City to a town some ten miles north of Boston. Before then, I had only spoken French.

(photo: Ray's house on Cliff Street, Winchester, MA)

I had been roaming the junior high school halls on…

Killing Fog Part II

KILLING FOG – PART II

The cloud cover started pushing us back down into the treetops like some heavy god-like hand.

I knew I’d made a deadly mistake taking off when I did, as the visibility in the low fog not only denied me the option to turn back to the river, but also shut the door on making any kind of approach to land anywhere, period. I had no other choice but to try and claw my way toward Clova through the unforgiving bleakness.

I was bad-scared, and if the kid had…

Killing Fog

I worked as a bush pilot in the Canadian wilderness for two seasons in 1989 and 1990...

KILLING FOG

The heading indicator swings wild in the panel as I desperately try to fight my way through and around the blinding cloud cover that has suddenly dropped down from above as I climbed out of the shallow river basin. I know right off that I’ve made a deadly mistake. The back of my throat is suddenly filled with the acidic taste of fear, reminiscent of the incoming rocket and…