RE: Entry 13
(Note: What follows is an old standard from 2009--a failed submission to win a free beanbag chair--called a Lovesack--in a radio contest. Another example of "overwrought" writing style)
The Rime of the Ancient Lovesack
The woods were angry that day, my friends, like a toothless squirrel in a peanut factory. And I sat, ensconced in my blaze orange trimmed in berber plaid, atop my tree stand on that glorious Barbour County morning, waiting, watching, dreaming, hoping.
The sun, that geezer of the sky, throwing off its tantrum of heat like an armpit bitten by fireants, had just arose--a blazing, blaring, old lady screaming in the vegetable aisle for 10 cents off. 10 cents more. Only 10. It was then, in that juvenile light of that hate-filled day, I first saw it. Walking, stepping, creep, creep, creeping--stopping to look, to listen for the click clack bang boom air-ripping travel of the bullet to its brain. The Lovesack stepped gingerly on the dewy meadow. Ever vigilent, looking, looking, not knowing that its death had drawn nigh.
I lifted my 45 ought 6 tenderly to my shoulder, clutching the cold steel of the foregrip like a guy cooking chinese food with a cheap wok. It was with agony, a rebellion of my mortal soul, that I put the cross of the crosshairs across the very beating heart of the Lovesack. I pulled on the trigger and, in that instant before the powder could ignite, a thought bore through my head like a freight train passing a hobo: "No!".
Alas, the Lovesack was staggered, stumbled, felled...lying there, pink and perfect and dead as George Washington's pinky toe, oozing its Lovesack innards over that hallowed ground. I climbed down from the tree stand, bawling like a dairy cow taken of her calf in the cool of a summer night. Wailing. I resolved to wail my words from then on in repentence of my unforgivable sin. "I have shot the Lovesack....I have killed the Lovesack...humanity has foresaken me...agony beguiles me" and on I wailed until the light of the geezer sun died in the West.
It was with no memory I gutted the Lovesack, dragging its hopeless carcass three miles over stem and stone. Wailing. My soul had gone out of me, it had left me that day, like that flea bitten neighbor cat that you feed that brings you no comfort on the chill of the January eve. Even that flea-bitten comfort could not mollify a Lovesack killing soul. I had died but was not dead.
Time went on, as it has a way of doing, ticking ticking, cleansing your heart like the new Loufa you got for Christmas. And the Lovesack found its way to my parlor great room, mounted in a pose by a skilled taxidermist, a man who looked and smelled of guts--mounted much as in life, hanging from my parlor wall, keeping company with the antelope aardvards and the ruminating tiger cows of the Serengetti. The Lovesack had with them, the trophies of a life burned crispy on their killings, reached its apex: I had forgotten the sheer horror of that wailing sun loved day.
And then I realized...I have no where to sit.