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June 14, 2005
A little something different
Just a little fiction I'm messing around with. I have a pretty good idea of where it's going, I think. It gets a lot darker.
When his ostriches broke free Tom Miller was 15 miles away in Clareton eating a plate of eggs and bacon. He was sitting in Verlene’s Cafe, a little diner across the street from the courthouse, and flirting with Becky the waitress. The bacon was perfect; crispy while still retaining a subtle chewiness and the eggs were fresh from Verlene’s farm. He didn’t really care about the eggs. He’d never really liked them. They were just a convenient way for him to stomach the dry whole-wheat toast his doctor ordered him to eat. He had conveniently forgotten the warning against bacon. Some things a man just couldn’t do, he thought as he watched Becky wiggle back toward the counter.
Miller was actually thinking about his ostriches right around the time they all went rushing through a newly discovered hole in the fence put there late the night before by a couple of local teenagers out cruising the backroads with a twelve of Old Mil stowed in the console between them. Miller was envisioning the money rolling in. The stupid birds were breeding, which he’d heard was the hardest thing to get them to do. He wondered if Verlene would be interested in selling ostrich burgers. He shook his head at the thought as he shoveled gleaming, golden egg yolk into his mouth. He could barely taste the toast. No, he’d sell the ostrich to the high-class restaurant in Lewisburg. The city people would pay much more for ostrich steaks. He smiled and thought about his ostriches some more.
The first person to notice the ostriches running free was Mark Bendel. At the time he was heading south on Highway 89 in his Dodge Ram on his way to a livestock sale in Lewisburg. The first ostrich ran directly in front of his truck as he was gazing into the pasture to the west wondering who owned it. There was a heavily wooded dry creek bed running along the south side of it and a decent-sized pond far up in the southwest corner. He envisioned himself huddled in a tree stand late next fall waiting for a big buck as it headed up the creek bed to drink from the pond covered with an almost invisible sheet of ice.
The first thing Mark felt was the impact. The 300 pound bird didn’t stand a chance. Mark was shaken out of his daydreaming just in time to see the gangly neck disappearing under the front of his truck. He slammed on his brakes and watched in awe as at least 20 six-foot tall birds trotted helter-skelter across the highway in front of him. He caught a glimpse of a couple dashing up the highway behind him headed toward Clareton. Miller and his goddamn freak birds, he thought. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
Posted by Half-Cocked at June 14, 2005 07:40 PM
Comments
I like it. The curiousity of raising birds in a traditional rural setting is interesting. Are you looking for constructive criticism?
Posted by: Sarah at June 22, 2005 11:00 AM