The exercise:
Write about: the legend.
Enjoyed a nice family day today. Max took us all by surprise by sleeping in until 9:30 this morning, which almost sort of makes up for all of the lack of sleep last week. Once we got ourselves sorted out we went into town to do some shopping, have some iced tea at a new cafe, and get Max an overdue haircut.
We came prepared for this one, with a little container of blueberries meant to help keep him content. It wasn't really needed though, as he was very calm and cooperative throughout the process. The hairdresser was great with him once again, and he seemed quite pleased with his new word as he kept saying haircut at random intervals. He didn't even want to leave when all was said and done!
This evening I went out to the garden with Becky to get started on our raspberry pick for tomorrow's boxes and managed to get our first two pints of blackberries of the season as well. It's meant to be another hot one tomorrow, so we're aiming for an early start.
After this morning's unexpected sleep in, that means setting the alarm.
Mine:
There were so very many stories surrounding the old man who lived in the house at the end of the road. They cannot possibly be true, not all of them. It would take three lifetimes to live them all.
So I, like all the other children in our neighborhood, did what was necessary: I picked and chose which ones were true and which were false, to me at least.
Most everyone believed he fought in World War II, but I was one of the few who was sure that he had killed Hitler with his own two hands. If you'd just looked at them closely enough you'd see the Fuhrer's teethmarks.
Not that I ever got that close. I didn't need to.
Back home he caught the largest lobster in the world, in a trap he crafted himself, and then ate it all in one sitting. He burned a church to the ground, he drove a race car from one end of the country to the other and back again and wasn't issued a single speeding ticket. I always said it wasn't that the cops didn't see him, it was just that they couldn't catch him.
I never believed the stuff about him having four wives at the same time. He didn't seem the type. Nor did I trust any fool who claimed that his basement was a high tech vault which contained stolen valuables from around the world.
Obviously the only thing down there was the original copy of the bible.
Our parents thought us kids were silly, playing make believe games about a harmless old gentleman that never bothered nobody. But I'd put good money on the table that said they had their own myths and legends about him.
Because no matter what the truth might have actually been, the stories were far superior.
At least, I'd always thought so. Right up until my phone rang last night.
3 comments:
Fastest shot in the West,
Notorious for keeping the peace --
Shooting first and asking questions later.
Now I'm getting old,
I think they're coming for me.
@Morganna: that's a great little poem, though I confess I hunted for an acrostic in it twice!
@Marc: Sounds like Max is getting happier with his haircuts then! That's good though, it makes getting them that much easier for you (and you don't really want the hassle of doing it yourself :) )
Wow, your legend really is a legend isn't he! I love the details that you've sprinkled throughout, and the way that they don't necessarily prove anything but make perfect sense when you're wanting to believe. I think I liked the teethmarks detail best :)
Legend
Isabella Bonfontaine sniffed. She had a cold and it was making her nose run and it was annoying her intensely. She had a tissue stuffed in her back pocket, but she was equally aware that any Lara-Croft style treasure-hunter just did not blow their nose while out on an adventure. She was also aware that the stroke that had paralysed the left-side of her face wasn't very Lara-Croft either, and the fact that she was much shorter and far less busty than her probably didn't advertise well either.
But then advertising was for television franchises. The last thing she wanted was people to recognise her and wonder what she was doing wherever she was. Hunting down relics and legends was tricky enough without having half-a-dozen wannabes racing after her with shovels, pick-axes and ropes. Or worse, panama hats and bullwhips.
She sniffed again and adjusted her position. The bushes were prickly, wet, and let draughts through to places she'd rather have kept warm. She could barely feel her toes any more, and her hands were a disturbing white colour. But when the two women across the clearing had finally finished plaiting grass she would have a clear shot at liberating the book that rested in the hollow tree stump they were decorating.
The Book of Miracles, a legend to the kind of bibliophile that valued books bound in skins that were probably illegal to obtain or were written in codes than no-one had yet broken. A legend to various churches who were very much hoping that it was just a myth. A legend that she's finally located, after nearly thirty years of searching.
The Book performed no Miracles of its own, it was just a record of what Miracles had happened and the exact circumstances they'd happened under. The ultimate opportunity to scientifically prove or disprove their worth.
She sniffed, and tried not to sneeze.
Morganna - fully agree with Greg, on both counts. You've gotten us too used to acrostics I think!
Greg - thank you!
Fascinating scene with some wonderful details. The mind boggles at the idea of Isabella getting her hands on such a find...
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