Friday Fun Stuff

Author’s note: When reading some of the other blogs here, I’ve noticed that authors have created postings that contain a common thread at times, to break up the continuity of daily individual posts and to give their blogs some structure. Some of these common threads have been Friday Cat Blogging, Open Thread, Blog Whoring, Cheers & Jeers, and there’s probably a host of others that I’ve forgotten.

I do have some common threads here, but the threads are based on ongoing news events—The Tom DeLay Comedy Hour, The Jack Abramoff Show, The F-Files. I really haven’t created a common thread with the likes of Friday Cat Blogging (Although I could if I wanted to, considering that I do own a cat). So why not create a new common thread, something a little out of the ordinary. So say hello to Friday Fun Stuff.

I don’t know what the content of Friday Fun Stuff will be. Perhaps I’ll write a small story, or play with some weird news story, or set up a link to an unusual website. Friday Fun Stuff will be about postings to break up the monotony of the news, analysis, and criticisms that bombard us each week. It will be the equivalent of a brain fart. I’m sure we can all use a brain fart now and then.

And for this first edition of Friday Fun Stuff, I’m posting a small story that I’ve written five years ago. It is sort of a sarcastic story about rabbits. I’m not sure what I can say, except it was an idea that was swirling around in my head for a while, before I decided to place it down in words. So kick back, relax, and enjoy a brain fart here. Welcome to Friday Fun Stuff. EAH

Time: A spring day.
Place: A forest meadow.

He sits quietly to listen to the sounds of nature—birds chirping in the birch and oak trees, bees hum around the wildflowers as the collect honey, wind rustling through the pine trees, the slow babble of a tiny creek flowing over rounded rocks. These sounds are good. These sounds are safe. It is safe for the moment, but that moment is fleeting and quick—as fleeting as the piercing screech of death raining down from the sky, a screech that can paralyze your body in pure fear in an instant before you rush in panic to escape the blackness of death. He looks up into that sky—a mixture of blurred blue and white images. He cannot hear the screech of Black Death in the sky. It is safe for the moment.

He hops through the tall green grass and wildflowers, knowing there is protection in that grass. He wrinkles his nose constantly…smelling the sweet fragrance of the wild flowers. He hops over to a stalk of grass, and then starts to nibble away. Instinct says it is time to eat. He is a creature of instinct. Instinct tells him when it is time to eat….time to sleep…time to procreate…instinct. Time to nibble. He takes two bites of that grass stalk, and then hops over to a wildflower. He tastes the wildflower, and then wrinkles his nose at its bitter taste. He hops over to another wildflower, and then nibbles quickly on the rosy petals. His nose wrinkles as he sniffs the air. He listens for another moment—birds chirping, bees humming, wind rustling, creek babbling. He finishes the petal, then hops over to another patch of green grass, then nibbles on a stalk.

A sudden rustle of grass. He hops into the green grass he was nibbling, then freezes…silently watching…silently listening. He spies the grass ahead of him rustling. He wrinkles his nose. The grass parts. She hops out of the grass, and then nibbles on a stalk. He hops out of the grass to look at her. She freezes for a moment, and then slowly hops over to him. She wrinkles her nose for a moment, then moves closer to him. He sniff her reddish brown fur…exploring her smell. Instinct. She sniffs at him. Their eyes meet. Wrinkled noses. She rubs her nose up against his nose, then turns to hop into the lush grass. Instinct says it is time to chase. He hops into the grass after her. The green grass becomes thick. Crickets fly away from the grass chirping in annoyance. He is ignorant of the crickets. Instinct says to chase her. He cannot see her. He stops for a moment, listening….smelling. He can feel her close. Another rustle of grass….Her smell flows through the grass. He hops towards the rustle.

The grass parts into a small patch of clearing. He sees her nibbling on a partially exposed carrot. She looks up at him, and then hops over to him. She rubs her nose against his nose. She then hops over to the carrot. He moves closer to her, away from the grass and into the clearing.

The air becomes still. He stops, listening. He can hear nothing. The birds no longer chirp in the oak and birch trees, the bees no longer hum in the wildflowers. The creek no longer baubles. Silence in the meadow. He looks up at the sky to see nothing but a bluish-white haze…and a little black dot. He wrinkles his nose. The dot grows in size. Instinct says to run. Instinct says to hide. He looks over to her. She nibbles on the carrot. He looks up in the sky. The black dot becomes larger…it starts to move in the sky.

A piercing screech fills the meadow, sending a spasm of fear inside him. The instinctive urge to run almost overwhelms him. His legs quiver in flighty panic. He looks up at the dot. The dot suddenly changes form, transforming into a hideous creature--a black arrow of death diving down, an arrow with coal-black eyes and a sharp, curved beak. Another screech. He looks over at her. She sits in frozen terror…suspended in that moment of blind panic. He looks up. The arrow of Black Death dives towards her, extending sharp claws. Soon those sharp claws would tear into her reddish brown fur as she would be enveloped into the Black Death, crying in shock and pain. Then that hideous arrow of death would take her up to the sky…to disappear. He would never see her again—his last memory of her would be that final moment of her death.

He hops back a step, then reaches down to pull up an olive-drab colored steel helmet. He places the helmet on his head. The ground rumbles, and then cracks apart. A 40-mm anti-aircraft gun rises from the ground. The dust parts. He hops over to the gun, and then rams a shell up into the breech. He elevates the olive-drab muzzle up into the sky, and then peers into the sight. He sights the black arrow—a war hawk of power and blood. He adjusts the muzzle slightly, the hawk filling his sights as it screams its war cry at him. He pulls the trigger. The muzzle belches fire and smoke in its own screaming boom. He is recoiled by the shock of the gun’s power. He hops over, and then looks into the sights. The hawk is momentarily stunned, and then slowly flies away from the meadow, black smoke trailing from the rear. The blue sky is clear.

He removes his helmet. She hops over to him. She rubs her head up into his furry chest, and then nuzzles her nose for a long moment on his nose. He wrinkles his nose. As the sun slowly dips into the horizon, they hop off together in the golden meadow.