chase "chip" bell

Gordon Bell, "Chip" Bell. 8/8/26

The brush is still full this time of year. Thickets blooming in a crowded tandem. With only a slight breeze to parry each branch, the woods are quiet this time of day. Chip knows this only because he’d much rather stare up into the houses of leaves than look forward.

“Yer mother oughta make a beaut outta this one,” His voice carries thick and low. Vibrating in his chest before grinding out between his teeth. He hums, pleased with himself. “Stew ‘nd haggis with ah miller tuh boot. How’s that sound, boy?”

Chip pulls his sling closer to his chest. Clutching the leather there where it loops over his shoulder. The weight of his rifle is a heavy burden, burning into the knobs of his spine and pressing into his back.

The blade slips in easily, sliding down the furry backlegs til it hits ankle. A slow stream of blood oozes from the incision, spilling out as though you were to cut into a balloon. “Oh, don’t go quiet on me,”

Gordon chews the tobacco between his teeth before spitting tar into the earth. “Everything with a beating heart has got tuh eat. Thuh bugs, thuh vermin, and mankind,” He slots thick fingers under the skin, thumbing the wound apart until he can peel the layers south. Like shedding a pair of socks or peeling a fruit. “Thuh runts who starve are runts who die.”

He flips the hide in on itself til the shiny, raw lining faces the light. He angles his knife just so, carving out the intricacies of joint and bone. Careful not to knick its fur. Chip can’t help but flinch and squeeze his eyes shut at the wet squelch it emits.

“Don’t tell me ye were planning on keepin it,” Gordon tosses the boy a sidelong glance. “Aye? Name it snowball and keep it as a pet?”He laughs, though it’s hard to consider the noise as anything but a gargle. Thick and bubbling up in his throat before he can cough it back out. “Is that what we do now?”

Chip folds his fingers over one another, scratching at his knuckles in nervous habit. “It’s just kind of…”

“Kind of what?” Gordon doesn’t miss a beat.

Chip hesitates. He swallows hard, “It’s gross,”

“Squeamish wee thing.” Another gurgle imitating laughter. This time, Gordon’s chest heaves with it, and his shoulders shudder. Wracking his voice raw. “Ye act just like yer father,”

Finally, he’s wrung the hide up to the poor beast’s shoulders. He makes it look so easy, shuffling down slices of meat as though the thing weren’t living and breathing only moments prior. Like this, strewn across Gordon’s knee, it’s hard to believe it was ever alive. Looks more like a prop, or a piece of taxidermy bound by wire and felt.

It’s hard to believe that it had died. That one moment it was blinking and beating just as Chip does staring down at it. He feels like gagging. “Watch,”

It’s all the command Chip needs. The blade presses into the rabbit’s throat. Slick with viscera and gleaming in the forest light. Chip reserves the urge to whine and stagger backwards, training his eyes on Gordon’s hands. The aging spots there, the veins bulging behind thin layers of pale skin. The subtle tremor in his muscles.

“This’ll prove useful to ye one day,” Gordon mutters. He brings the blade down. Once. A harsh thwack wracks through the ground and cleaves through the rabbit’s thorax. Twice. Chip can feel salt beading at his eyes. Threatening to well over. Three times. The head clatters to the earth with a dull knocking of skull to dirt.

Chip can feel the light splatter of iron misery against his hands. Gordon’s are covered in it. “Thas how ye do it. Throw it with thuh rest, won’t ye?”

The boy stares forward with big, dumb eyes. Wordlessly, he takes the carcass from between his grandfather’s palms and slots it into a wicker basket. The meat falls in with a wet noise. Dirt and blood cake his hands like a second, heavy skin. Chip feels dirty.

“Can we… go back now?”

Gordon surveys the woods, then kicks the discarded head into some brush. “...aye. We’ve got our fill. Help me get up,”

Chip hooks his arm under Gordan’s, helping him heave himself up by the shoulders. Gordon’s legs are trembling, his breathing labored from the exertion of finding his balance. The imprint of Chip’s palms leave a crimson stain across Gordon’s back.

“Are ye okay, pops?”

“I oughta be asking ye thuh same thing,” Gordon spits, swatting Chip off of him. “How many times have ye seen me do that?”

Chip looks down towards his own feet. “Too many,”

“Hah,” It’s hardly comedic. “And ye still shake like a leaf in rain. Must’ve accidentally took my granddaughter for a trip,”

“I’m not-” Chip starts, suddenly. More bark to his voice than he’d intended. “I… I ain’t like them,”

“What, like yer mother? Yer sister?” Gordon snorts. “Beg tuh differ, boy. Maybe I’ll give Oakley yer ol’ girl, let ya stir whatever she brings back,”

“Pops,” Chip swallows. “I can handle this,”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” The latter wipes at his nose with his thumb. No regard for the stain it drags across his skin. “If ye don’t straighten out here real soon, I’ll have another use for that ol’ girl,”

Gordon slips a tin container from his pocket, twisting the cap with ease. Inside, little paper packets litter to the top. He plucks one between his fingers and rips it open.

“If ye turn out like one o’ them, I’ll kill you.” Gordon presses the tobacco between his lip and teeth. “I’ll shoot ye.” He chews, and twists the tin shut. “Y’know that, boy, don’t ya?”

Chip nods- it’s all he can do, really. “I know,”

He chews, then spits. “So ye should know tuh get yer act together.”

“I know,”

“And ye should know-” Gordon’s voice arches on the word, stopping in his tracks as his knees threaten to give out. He grunts, hands gesturing wildly for air to hold onto. Chip practically springs into action; jerking forward and bracing his chest against Gordon’s back. Hoisting him up from below his shoulders.

“Pops-”

“Get thuh damn thing. Get my fucking-”

Chip lunges for the cane leaned up against the tree bark. Practically shoving it into Gordan’s hands and planting it into the ground. Gordon grunts, heaves, and groans, but he finds his footing.

“Are ye okay? Are ye in pain? Did something-”

“Christ have mercy! Shut yer trap!” Gordon snaps, pushing Chip away from him and stalking forward. “I heard something. Branches breaking. There’s something out here,”

Chip blinks, senses heightening at the prospect. Eyes darting across the thicket of wood and forest. “Like what?”

“This way,” Gordon steps ahead, practically pounding his cane into the dirt as his boots follow suit. “Keep up, Chip,”

It’s not exactly a difficult task. Chip snatches up their basket of valor and begins to march in toe, fingers hooked into the strap across his chest. It’s green for miles, lined in leaf and thorn. Branches crumble beneath his steps, parting a path of indented earth.

In the midst of bark and brush lies a clearing. Small, obsolete to the lesser trained eye. Illuminated only by the tender cast of the setting sun. A slight breeze cards through the wild grass; and there, amongst it all, is her.

A doe. White tailed and young, still spotted in her youth. Large pupils with a pale, white underbelly. In ways he can’t pin down, she reminds him of something warm and bright eyed. Something smaller than all this.

“Would ye look at that,” Gordon sounds breathless, inching towards the clearing with all the grace and poise of a boulder. “Chip, boy,”

He screws his eyes shut. “Yes?”

“Get thuh ol’ girl,”

Chip squeezes the strap across his chest hard enough to leave a leather imprint in his palm. It’s never felt so heavy on his back, let alone in his hands. The rifle is cold, metallic and too large for his fingers at this age. He sucks a breath in, then out. “Okay, pops,”

Gordon stalks closer to the doe, calculating exactly how near he can draw before it spooks and scurries away. Chip pulls down the strap and slides the lasso behind his neck. Suspending the gun from his shoulders, passing one arm through the loop, and gripping the underside. Practice did make perfect.

One hand cups the head of the gun, whilst the other holds its trigger taut. He angles it, then raises the weapon to his face. Squinting and peering out through the rear sight.

Through the crosshairs, he finds Gordon’s backside. He pulls it up, slipping his spine into view. Then his shoulders, then his neck. In the eye of his rifle- is the back of Gordon’s head.

His hands seem to lock into place, his breath catching on the inhale. The stretch of bald spots and aging sores, tethered skin and ugly cruelty. All anger and the heat of molten misery. Undeniably, ineffably his grandfather; all staring back at him from the circular interface of a rifle.

Chip clicks off the safety.

It rings out with a metallic noise, and it renders his bones to wax. Chip isn’t sure why he does it, but his index lingers over the hook of the trigger for longer than he’d ever be able to sleep with. It’d be so easy. One moment he’d be breathing, blinking, beating. Yelling, hurting, killing. Then he would not- and it would be difficult to imagine he was ever alive.

Chip imagines peeling the thin, pale skin back like a sheet. Sliding his hands under aging scars and residue before lifting it up to the viscera underneath. Would he be just as docile, limp and aimless from the inside out?

His heart hammers in his chest, pounding against the expanse of his ribs like a beast to its enclosure. The safety, the trigger, and the back of Gordon’s head. They all flash across his mind like a series of poor decisions he’ll live to regret.

He aims. Chip grinds his teeth.

“Goddamnit!” Gordon groans out, hurling a fist into a tree. The doe had scared, fleeing before Chip got the chance he wouldn’t take. Skittering away into the dark of the forest where they had no chance of retrieving her.

“Ye had a clear shot, didn’t ye?!”

Chip stares down, but he nods. He did. He still did.

“Could’ve ate real good tonight, know that? Could’ve brung home something tuh be proud of. Could’ve given yer poor mother something to talk about,”

He clicks the safety back on and feeds his arm through the noose, slinging the rifle back over his spine.

“Thas thuh thing about ye, boy,” Gordon grunts, spitting into the ground. “Always obedient. Never fuckin following. ‘Yes sir’ means jackshite when ye don’t actually do what I’m asking ya,”

Gordon staggers forward, jabbing an accusatory finger into Chip’s direction. Simmering with anger, flushing his face red.

“This ain’t yer world, Chip. It’s gonna eat ye alive,” Gordon plants a heavy hand on Chip’s shoulder. Anchoring his weight into the muscle there. “This life is gonna kill ya, and you’d be lucky if I did it for ya,”

Chip nods. “I know, pops,”

“Don’t ye call me that. Ya ain’t my kin,”

“I’m sorry, sir,”

russel ray / skinner orville / chip bell. 6/5/26 .

The breeze is cool against his skin. Fleeting across his face and sending chills throughout him. There’s sand between his toes, Chip can feel the way the grain sinks under him. Perched here, by the lip of the shore, the world sounds so much sweeter in instrumental.

The riverbank pulls through the surf, rolling against the beach and cupping the rockface there. Chip’s tent perches on the outskirts of the woods, harboring the cusp where the coast licks the land.

Skinner is yelling elsewhere. Chip isn’t quite sure what he’s on about, but there’s a comfort in the knowledge that he’s talking. That he’s still running his mouth. That he’s around. His voice drones off into a white noise as Chip watches him pass. Balancing on a limestone before bracing himself for the next jump. He steadies, he yelps, and Skinner lands evenly on the next rock with minimal damage. Russel cheers.

The latter has got both feet situated on a rock, cowering into himself. He won’t make the jump, he’ll surely slip and fall and regret trying. But Skinner steadies, yelps, and meets him halfway. Extending an open palm to Russel. Chip doesn’t know why he does it, but Russel takes him. Clasps their hands over one another, locks his fingers over Skinner’s knuckles, steadies himself, yelps –

And falls. They both drop unceremoniously into the running stream with a gust of water. Kicking and thrashing about as they scramble for their bearings. Skinner’s laughing, and strangely, Russel is too. Sheepish and stifled, but he’s laughing. Drenched and shivering against the wind, his shorts soaked and shirt damp. Sandals long forgotten by now, his hair dripping against his features. Skinner splashes at him, and Russel is laughing.

“Come on in!” Skinner shouts, waving wildly against the current. “Thought you wanted to be a marine!”

“I don’t remember saying that,” Chip pulls an awkward face, “These are new boots, anyway,”

“So take ‘em off!” Skinner says, like it’s easy.

Russel squeals and shields himself when Skinner flicks water at his face. “It’s– ah! Haha! It’s not that bad!”

“Don’t need tuh be,” Chip plants his palms firmly into the shore. “Ain’t getting in,”

“Boo, buzzkill,” Skinner pulls himself up, encouraging Russel to leverage the rockface. He draws his hair into his palms and wrings it of the riverwater. Strangely, the strands fill out his palms. Leading down his shoulders. He trudges onto the riverbank, and meets Chip at his perch. “Hey,”

“...Hey,”

Skinner’s voice is thick against the seaside quiet, and it knocks Chip off his guard. “Are we okay?”

Chip snorts. “Have we ever been?”

“Sometimes,” Skinner blows air into his cheek, but his lips pinch with a smile. “When you’re not acting like a total dick,”

“I do not,”

Skinner hums at that, only. Unaffected. Chip can’t help the way he looks up, watching Skinner settle beside him and hover his feet into the water. Eyes half-lidded, a steady smile pulling at his lips. Like this was the easiest thing in the world. To exist without rhyme or reason. To breathe in the world around himself without cause for concern. What a way to live.

His lip catches between his teeth. Chip looks back to the shore. “Holler him back before he gets himself sick,”

“Russel? Nah, man,” Skinner shrugs, lashes flitting against the glare of the sun sliding through the greenery. The leaves have begun to turn auburn in their age, but it feels like they had just turned green. “He’s having fun. Never hurt anybody,”

The idea of Russel having fun would’ve sent Chip cackling. But here, right now, it’s right in front of him. Wading through the current and holding his breath. “Until he loses a tooth on that boulder,”

“Hey, then we’ll be matching,” Skinner laughs. “Little man, little me,”

“Yer not exactly a role model,”

“And you are?”

“Sure,” Chip glares, “Gave him my shoes tuh fill, didn’t I?”

“Did you tell him about Santa, too?” A little swarm of tadpoles brush against his ankles, but Skinner doesn’t flinch.

“What?”

“Oh, well since we’re lying to him, might as well,” Skinner doesn’t look up. “You don’t seriously expect him to be anything like you, do you?”

“He could try,” Chip brings his elbow to his mouth and coughs. He's a bad actor, Skinner knows. He’s an even worse liar. “Every man in his right mind should,”

“That’s no man,” Skinner fits a palm against the small of Chip’s back, laughing. “A man would look a little something more like me. Russel’s just a boy,”

Chip doesn’t pull away. He isn’t sure why he doesn’t. Rooted in place like the sand below him had turned to cement and swallowed him into posture. But it isn’t. It’s still sand, and Skinner’s hand is still pressed into him. “Yer worse for him, y’know. Having no expectations like that? If nobody holds him right, then he’ll stay content bein mediocre,”

Skinner hums. “I’m content,”

“What, like this?” Chip blinks. Once, then twice, like he’s expecting Skinner to laugh and slap him and knock it off.

“I wouldn’t wanna be any other way, or any other guy. Hell, certainly not a guy like you,”

Chip stares at him with big eyes, and Skinner cringes. “But yer…”

“Handsome? Athletic? Totally charming?”

The word ‘weak’ balances on Chip’s tongue. Lying in wait to spring off and strike the bastard right where he knows it true. But Chip doesn’t have his voice, and Russel is getting his feet back under himself.

“Guys! Guys!” His feet patter and pad across the shore to where the older two sit, cradling something between his palms. “Luh-look! Look what I found!”

Huh, funny that. Chip’s eyes catch on the slight scruff of a mustache across Russel’s upper lip, and has to hold himself back from snorting. It was bold to assume that Russel was even capable of growing such a thing, but there it was, stretched over his emboldened smile.

“Give it here, don’t leave us waiting!” Skinner gestures him over, leaning his weight further into Chip. His head lolls against Chip’s shoulder, weighing his cheek against the hard bone there. The ball of his shoulder fits into the curve of Skinner’s temple, and Chip can’t urge himself to shake him off. Skinner’s head fits against the muscle like they were made in tandem.

“Be-Be careful. Don’t scare, um, him…?” Russel opens his palms, crouching down to offer them both a view. “...Her? I, ah, don’t really know how to check,”

With a huff, Chip wills himself to entertain the little show, peering into the cup of Russel’s hands. To his surprise, there lies a little critter clinging to the skin of Russel’s palms. Webbed and pronged, with a dull blue coating that tinted it nearly luminescent.

“Holy shit!” Skinner barks out a laugh, bracing his hand against Chip’s spine. “A starfish! How the hell did you pick that up!?”

“I-I don’t know!” Russel nearly squeals, cradling the poor thing, “I just- saw it! Lying there in the stream, and I-.. I thought you might, um, wanna see it!”

“Sure we do,” Skinner flexes his hand into a fist, nudging Chip in the back, “Don’t we?”

Chip groans, but he finds himself nodding regardless. “Never seen one of ‘em in person,”

“Ruh- Really?” Russel breathes. The water must’ve drenched his hair, because it looks longer like this. “I… I showed you something? For the first time? I did?!”

“Aye,” Chip waves him off, grinding his teeth.

Russel blinks down at him. “Does it remind you of anything?”

Chip blinks. “What?”

“The starfish,” He repeats, easily, “Doesn’t it remind you of someone?”

The breeze is cool against Chip’s skin, and the air feels dry against his mouth. Clammy where it blows against the skin of his lips. Skinner cackles. “Sure does! You’re looking at a star right now!”

Chip pinches the space between his eyes and grunts. “Why don’t ye go find another thing then, yeah? Off ye get,”

“And put that back where you found it, Russ,” Skinner snorts, and Russel doesn’t need to be told twice. Clasping his fingers back over the animal before steadying himself, yelping, and jumping onto the nearest stone.

“Don’t ye see? Thas what happens when ye don’t keep yer boys in line,”

“I thought it was just fine,” Skinner rolls his knuckles against Chip’s back, tapping along the stretch of his shoulders. “C’mon, Chase. You can’t expect a guy like Russel to turn macho-man and wind up like you,”

“So I’ve been told,”

Skinner rolls his eyes, but he leans into Chip regardless. Glancing up at him through the umber of his eyelashes. “Hey,”

“...Hey,”

“So, we’re okay?”

Chip hisses. “Ya think this is okay?”

“Well you’re not yelling, or cursing, or throwing a fit, so…” Skinner trails off, “Yeah, I’d say so,”

He grunts. “I can’t imagine what you must think of me,”

“Only bad things, don’t worry,” The latter shrugs, “You wouldn’t have it any other way,”

“Hah,” Chips says outright. “If I had it my way, ye wouldn’t be here tuh cling tuh me,”

“Then how come you’re still here?”

A huff. “Got nothin better tuh do,”

“I think I deserve a bit more than just being ‘something to do,” Skinner laughs at that, and props himself up. The stream slows to a stop, and the whole world does, too.

“Do ya, though?”

Skinner threads a hand through Chip’s hair, and the world comes back in color. “Yeah. A whole lot more,”

The land thrums, the earth beneath them trembles in real-time. The earth stops spinning. His lips are on Chase’s.

Chip chokes on a swear, low in his throat and whipped from his chest; and Skinner breathes it in, mouthing him wholly. Chip can feel the minute it gets good; because Skinner stops latching onto him, and loves him fully. Cupping a hand behind his neck for leverage and kissing up into Chip like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Skinner pulls back, giggling to nobody but himself, and his breath is warm against Chip’s mouth.

“What?” Chip breathes, but Skinner keeps laughing. He can’t remember the last time his voice shook like this. “What? Did I do something?”

“No, no. I just thought of something funny,” Skinner reaches for the dips in Chip’s body, and holds him there. Chip shudders when the waves hit his feet.

“Yeah?” Chip swallows. “What’s that?”

“There’s no starfish in Eltingville,” He’s still giggling, mouthing laughter into Chip’s skin. “Why would Russel find one here?”

His mouth hangs open slightly. “Because… Because it was lost. It was lost, and he found it,”

“And what did he do with it then?”

“He… Russel put it back. He put it back where he found it,”

“Oh, Chase,” Skinner chuckles, eyes softening where his smile creases them. “Then where is he now?”

“He’s still in the stream,” Chip pulls himself away, suddenly, staring towards where the riverbank would’ve been. But there’s nothing. Not light, not darkness. Just empty space and white noise and the breeze against him. The breeze is cool.

“Where are we, Chase?”

“I… I don’t…” The syllables scrape against his throat, pulling against his tongue. “I don’t remember,”

“I wanted this so bad,” Skinner starts, sobered. His hair is so much longer now, it’s threading between Chip’s fingers and swelling in the space between them. “Didn’t you know that?”

“This isn’t… thas not right. That’s not how this goes,”

“But it could’ve been,” Skinner’s voice cracks, sweat and salt collecting in stubble Chip doesn’t remember him growing.

Chip pulls forward. Presses against Skinner’s lips and kisses into the seam of his mouth. Chase shudders, hard, breathing down like he’s grasping at control. He can feel Skinner’s hands reach up to meet him, wrapping around him and holding him taut. Keeping him there, in the sand, in his arms. With him. And then Chip wakes up.