The familiar letters swam across the paper forming familiar words… T…H…. E space Q…U…I…C…K space, until the familiar sentence morphed into view. The quick red fox jumped over the lazy brown dog, rendering it helpless, ineffective, and inert, the hapless creature that it was. Grade 10 typing practice…a shadow fell over the watery words as the paper spun out of the typewriter and into the garbage. Mr. Quagmire’s stern voice admonished him, fading into a tinny tunnel and dissipating into a barrage of bullets. Trapped between the flaming inferno of his demolished 18- wheeler and the eighteen members of the Badland Banditos, who were sniping at him from the protective humps of blowing sand dunes, Harry slithered, belly to the ground, into the satin lining of his traditional English pram and snuggled up to his velveteen rabbit.
“Goo goo, gaa ga”, he burbled up at his mother’s sweet face. His little pink fist dashed the last grain of sand from the corner of his lustrous baby blues.
“I nearly got my just desert. Yuk Yuk Yuk”, he punned. His deep laughter slide from his mouth and melted into the scorching desert sand. The blazing sun scaled his lips into a pair of deep-fried anchovies. He yearned for his baby bottle and cried for his Mommy.
Betsy thundered onward, even as the sands of time seemed to be running out in the egg-timer of his existence, Harry watched the images of his life dance across the black-red screen of his eyelids.
To be continued…
No comments:
Post a Comment