Prose of Prodigious Proportions

The teacher's droning, monotonous diatribe reminded Josh of the delightful hum of a box fan on a summer evening. Perfect conditions for sleep. But not now. Today Josh was writing a story. He struggled with the plot for his only inspiration was the overwhelming desire to ignore the instructor. Josh was unaware that he was, in a matter of 48 hours, going to be faced with an examination of his knowledge about topics concerning Advanced Operating Systems that would rock his world. He diligently tapped the characters onto the screen as the monsters of procrastination, neglect, and undisciplined-ness crept out of the shadows of his past and of his mind. There would be a showdown and something or someone was going to get hurt.

As his imagination drifted, Josh's desk became a bus seat and the wall a beautiful countryside. His classmates became passengers and the teacher a washed-up radio program rambling over the bus speakers. He realized he was chained to his seat and to the man next to him as the bus bounced down the gravel road, making the ride much less pleasant than it could be. The man next to him appeared to be of Central Asian descent, most likely Indian. He glanced around the bus noticing that many of the passengers or prisoners seemed to be of the same ethnicity. He wondered if he had somehow been captured to work at some sort of research laboratory camp. But why would they pick him? He hadn't been a diligent student. On the rare occasions that he attended class, he barely paid attention. He definitely didn't feel like a good candidate for such work. The bus came to a sliding halt at an unexpected stop sign and derailed his train of thought. In the silence, he noticed that the program had changed on the radio, though it sounded like more of the same uninteresting garbage. The bus rolled on a few more miles and finally turned into a farm-like complex with several metal buildings and storage structures.

A man in olive drab green fatigues commanded them off the bus which proved to be difficult with chains connecting every other person to the seats. Another man came along to free them from the seat as others pushed and shoved them towards the door. Josh came to the bus door and was shoved down the stairs and onto the dusty ground below. He felt the chain tense up and then slacken as his chained mate came tumbling down on top of him. Both were yanked to their feet by a large, burly man in a robe-like garment. With consideration to his now acutely obvious plight, Josh noticed that the countryside didn't appear to be as beautiful now. Though the sun spilled its brightness between thick, fluffy clouds with brilliance, the ground now appeared scraggly and unkempt. It looked more like a wilderness that symbolized hopeless captivity.

The bus passengers were herded toward one of the various metal structures before them. As they reached it a large, overhead door scrolled up and the prisoners were herded into a room full of tables and chairs and ordered to take a seat. Papers were scattered about the tables. The men in green commanded them to answer the questionnaires before them as pencils were handed out. Josh felt ill-prepared for many of the inquiries on the paper. As he studied the sheet, he vaguely recalled hearing bits and pieces of the information over the bus speakers that he was now being demanded to produce. But it made no sense. Why would they capture him, chain him to some random people, force them onto a bus and out here into this barren wasteland just to demand answers that had been given to them during the miserable trip? One of the green-clad villains snatched the paper from him and snorted at the lack of answers that he had written. Suddenly, he was released from his Indian partner and dragged out of the room. He struggled to kick free but escape appeared impossible.

Outside, he was slammed against the wall and again chained. He now faced a row of half a dozen men holding large stones of various shapes. Before he could protest, one of the men in broken English began scolding him for his poor performance on the questionnaire. Josh now knew that he was coming face to face with his end because he hadn't listened to the sorry excuse for a radio program on the bus. In his peripheral vision, he noticed the other prisoners walking freely away from the complex, unbound. They must have been listening on that bus ride, he thought. He focus was yanked back to the half-dozen men as he felt a rock hit him in the ribs.

His end was not pretty.

Suddenly a shot rang out. Gregor ran for his life. Little did he know, he was actually running toward a near-death experience. His every step could impact whether Gregor's life would blossom as those of his ancestors or whether he would die in a pool of pitiful shame like his brother Chris. As Gregor ran, he contemplated the last moments of his brother's life. He could think of much better ways to die than underneath a wooly bison.

Gregor's mind was flung back to reality as he glimpsed a glint of gleaming galvanization glistening like glass in the glowing green grass. It was the end of a garden hoe. Gregor screamed as his right foot came down on the instrument of pure evil. Not because it hurt but because he knew what was about to happen. With a power that defied all the forces of nature, the handle of the garden hoe braved the frontier beyond the speed of light as it arced toward Gregor's forehead. Of a sudden, Gregor realized that everything in this story was happening way too fast to alter except the composition of it. He realized in that very nano-instant that the only person in the whole world who could do anything about this terrible head-splitting tragedy was the person writing it. Gregor appealed with all the desperate and heartfelt anguishment he could mustard. The handle of the now infamous garden tool suddenly became a column of sparkling, cool water. Gregor was launched into the air by something that was never explained. Up and up he went, toward a perfect formation of Canadian geese. He squawked with ferocious delight as he realized how well his plan had worked. At roughly the same time he reached the peak of his launch and started back down. Gregor had complete trust in his author. Surely nothing would happen now. As he neared the ground, a sudden blast of warm Mediterranean air shot upward toward him and softened his already improbable landing among the bales of harvested cotton. Gregor laughed gleefully and realized that it was only thirteen days until the first Saturday of football season. 'Thank goodness' he thought.

Then he died of a massive coronary.

I decided to create this blog so I would have somewhere to write stories and ideas for stories. Perhaps no one will find it.














Perhaps...

He hated his name. It reminded him of bananas. Not the ripe bananas, the green ones. And he definitely didn’t like bananas. When he was only 6 his parents had left for Bogotá, seemingly forgetting him completely. Wasn’t life just grand? His aunt and uncle were nice enough but they were just a little goofy. Every Sunday morning they dressed him in plaid pants, white shirt, and a red bowtie and took him to Mass. It wouldn’t be so bad if only he knew Latin or Greek or French. Whatever language it was the priest spoke. But he didn’t. The speech never lasted longer than one quarter of football. And if they could somehow manage to get to early Mass his uncle wouldn’t miss a single down unless the guy next door brought his robotic lawn mower over so they could watch it mow the lawn…again. No, life wasn’t all that bad for an 11-year-old kid growing up in Miami, but it wasn’t too awful good either. He had hatched plans to run away from his aunt and uncle many times but no plan seemed to be a sure-fire method. So all he could do was wait. Wait for Theodore to get back. No one knew where he went but everyone heard him say he would be back. And Theo didn’t lie. If Theo were ever caught lying it would be because he was dead. Theo even stood when he slept. Just the thought of Theo being dead caused deep sorrow to flood the young boy’s heart. He walked out onto the tiny front stoop of the old house and sat down. ‘This house has probably been here for almost a century now,’ he thought as bent down to watch a tiny ant scurry across the concrete toward some far away morsel of sustenance. He glanced down the street at the boys playing basketball. The old lady across the street with the wrinkled brow sat gently swaying in her porch swing. A dog drifted along the sidewalk as if it didn’t matter where he stopped for the night. Everything around him seemed so free and yet he felt confined, locked up, restricted. By something or someone that he couldn’t even see. He almost couldn’t resist the urge to just take off running. It didn’t matter where to. Just somewhere. But he had to wait on Theodore. “How many more months will it be?” he wondered to himself. As he sat he counted the days one by one, all the way back. Every single one was significant in its own way. It had been four years and thirty-six days. And seven hours. And twelve minutes. As vivid as the memory was, he could hardly remember it and couldn’t bear to think of it. He rose meticulously and started toward the street only a few feet away. “Its no better over here,” he mumbled and he kicked a stone across the heated pavement. The lazy dog managed a half-hearted bark, turned to lumber after the stone and then fell over, dead. The distant sound of a train passing by mingled with the not-so-distant melody of the ice cream truck. The boy put a hand in his pocket for some change but it was empty. The blazing sun was burning a hole in his neck, it seemed. The sweat on his back was as dense as the loneliness in his heart. And Theo was not back.

Henry stepped out on the boardwalk. He could smell the distinct odor of horses. He walked over and leaned against the hitching rail. It broke without prior notice and unexpectedly. He fell over in the street on his face. When he came to he was lying in the street on his face. Didn't anyone care about him? He struggled to get to his feet. As he was getting up his hand instinctively went to his gun. As he stood up he came face to face with a man he had never seen before.
"I ain't seen you around these parts before." Henry said.
"Me neither." The stranger replied.
"Well, you just ride on outta here cause my hand went instinctively to my gun when I sensed your presence."
"I ain't got no horse."
The stranger had a hot, soft stare. Or maybe it was a cold, hard stare. Henry couldn't really tell. His head was still spinning.
"You better find one or you'll be walking out through the desert."
"I've decided to just sleep here tonight." The stranger said indignantly.
"I don't like your indignant attitude." Henry replied forcefully.
"You can't force me to do nothing." Said the stranger.
Just then the Sheriff walked by.
"Sheriff, this here feller is causin' trouble." Henry called out.
"Come and get me if he shoots anybody, I'm thirsty right now." Sheriff Willie answered.
With that the Sheriff strode into the saloon and ordered a large barrel of whiskey. Henry became infuriated. He turned around and stalked off in the direction of the stable. He never saw it coming. It smacked him right in the kidney. Ow! What was it? It was a persimmon! The little red haired culprit took off running. Henry fired a quick shot. As soon as he had completed this task he knew that something had gone terribly wrong. His felt a horrendous pain in his right foot. Then he remembered the famous immortalized words. "Draw your gun and squeeze the trigger." He had forgotten the first step. The pain in his foot was a .45 caliber bullet. Henry promptly dropped to his knees. Then he quickly fell over sideways and started screaming in a particularly audible way. As he lay there in the middle of the street he began to ponder his miserable existence. How could he stop the dreadful cycle of mishaps. He ruled out taking his own life because that was against the law. As he lay there, a raindrop fell directly into his eye. That gave him an idea. He struggled to his foot and hopped down the street in the direction of the hotel. He hopped in the front door and up to the counter.
"I need a room." Henry said.
"You already have one, sir." The clerk replied.
"Oh yeah never mind."
Henry hopped over to the stairs and began the painful ascent to the second floor. As he reached the top step he noticed a gold coin lying on the carpet of the second floor hallway. As he reached down to grasp the coin his gun belt caught on the handrail and threw him off balance. Henry desperately reached for the rail for support. But he missed the mark and tumbled all the way down to the lobby. He pulled out his canteen and drank. He gave some to his horse and then drank again. Then Henry remembered something. Not only was his horse not supposed to be in the hotel lobby, his horse was supposed to be headed to San Antonio with him in the saddle. Henry clambered to his knees and then he clambered to his healthy foot. Henry reached for his thesaurus. He wanted to look up the word 'clamber.' "Give my room to someone else." he told the clerk as he and 'Mudflap' hopped and walked respectively out into the warm, night air. Little did Henry know that it was actually the cool, afternoon air that he and Mudflap felt.