A Hit by NATURE

A HIT by NATURE

   A SHORT STORY
—by—
A James Hindle

 “Sometimes when I’m writing and suffer a block or lack of inspiration—which is all too often—I scribble out a bit of ‘Ridiculous’  in an  attempt to fire up my imagination.
Short and silly, but here’s a sample.”

There was a knock at the door. The dog barked — the cat meowed. When I went to the door and opened it, no one was there. I closed it—confused.  I went back to whatever it was I was doing. There was another knock at the door. The dog barked, again The cat meowed, and I once more went and opened the door. Still nobody. Were we being tricked?  Was this a case of, ‘Knock-A-Door-Ginger?’

As I stood in the open doorway, a foul smelling scent suddenly wafted past. The stench was horrible; shivers ran through me while the cat and dog shook themselves in fear. Strangely, curiosity beckoned us, and we all left our safe, cozy cottage and went into the forest, where we were immediately cornered by a large wolf that had just burped, after apparently finishing a satiating meal. Bad breath? OMG!

On the ground before him, lie a red cloak-n-hoody sort of thing and my interest was tweaked. Was this the cape of Little Bo Peep?  Surely not! She was still in the hospital after giving birth to a little ba-a-a-a-stard after she was sexually assaulted by a rogue ram while tending her sheep in a meadow somewhere up the mountain. Sad story, but getting back to this one—No! This must have been Little Rrrr . . .  Little Rrrr. I couldn’t bring myself to say her name.

My thoughts were interrupted when the wolf, feeling comfortably full and not overly aggressive, asked if I happened to have a cigarette.  I knew I didn’t, because I’m allergic to all tobacco products, alcohol, sex and vulgar words, ever since my mother told me that I was allergic to all tobacco products, alcohol, sex and vulgar words. She said if I ever were to use any of them, I’d turn into a dog or cat molester . . .  Uh! . . .  Never mind about that.  Just because I love my dog and cat doesn’t mean I . . . . .  . I really don’t want to talk about that right now!

I knew I had to think fast, so I told the wolf about a stash of funny grass that the cat was hiding in her bed, back at the cabin, and that it could be smoked if one were so inclined. I knew it was just dog hair because when you rolled it in paper and lit it there was a funny smell, kind of like when you roll dog hair in paper and light it.  You’re probably curious why there’s dog hair in my . . .  , I mean, the cat’s bed.  I’m not certain, but I think they’re having a kinky affair. But that’s another story. Anyway, I thought if I told him about it—if he took the bait—it would give me a chance to come up with a better plan to save us from the wolf.  We all walked back to the shack.

I’m sure my plan would have worked, but just as we were leaving the edge of the forest, heading back toward the shed, it happened . . . like ketchup from a bottle when you shake it, thinking the caps on tight but it’s not and ketchup flies all over the room—well, kind of like that—blood was flying everywhere.

Like a blaze of fire from the barrel of a gun, the large birds attacked.  Legs outstretched, mouths so big they could swallow a Cocker Spaniel whole . . . (Pause) . . . . . .

“Rex?  Here Rex!”  Where was Rex?  Oh, my Gawd!  He had been such a good dog.

They came from the treetops at the edge of the forest. Streaking down on us in a voracious fury; their fiery-emblazoned eyes locking on their prey; their ear-piercing screeches wreaking fear and horror, as razor-sharp talons and slashing beaks, tore into their prey in a rampage of ravenous energy.

Then, just as they had come, they were gone.

I was lying, cut and bruised on the ground — certain I had to be seriously injured because I was lying cut and bruised on the ground. I’m repeating myself, I know, but I was certain I’d been hurt.

It had happened so fast I wasn’t even sure where I was wounded. I looked around and noticed the wolf was dead—bits and pieces of him here and there: legs, chunks of fur, a big paw, a wolf head. Yeah! That was the clincher: a severed, mutilated head. He was dead all right. Somehow, it could have just been luck, but I was alive and I had all my parts.

I gathered what energy I had and lifted myself to my feet, surveying the area, turning slowly, soaking in the carnage that had just happened. Suddenly, a rush of pleasure overcame me. Well, not the kind of pleasure one would feel during certain ‘rush-of-pleasure’ circumstances. Say no more. Umm! Well, anyway . . .
More of a rush-of-happiness. There she was, Freckles the cat. I called her freckles because she was jet black with one little white spot between her eyes; kind of a freckle.  Made me think of a target bulls-eye. Not that I’d ever . . .  . Anyway, as I was about to say, Freckles was alive, hiding in a hole under a log, her hair standing straight up, looking like a large puffer fish with hair. She was staring up at me and I could tell she wanted to come out and leap into my arms, claws outstretched in a fit of excited relief and celebration.
Gads! I thought. This could turn out almost as bad as the birds had been.

Then, more elation.There, gazing up at me was another set of eyes, shining in the darkness from behind Freckles. It was Rex! He was alive! The three of us had survived. Only the wolf had bought it, in that venomous wrath of assault and carnage.

Had it been a strange, hit by nature?  Could the wolf have been singled out for annihilation for killing and eating, the owner of the red cape? Was that person Little Rrrr . . . . Little Rrrr . . . ? I still couldn’t bring myself to say it.  Perhaps she been coming to us for a visit? We all so enjoyed her visits. She so loved Freckles and Rex. And, she always brought such good cookies. Damn wolf; must have eaten the cookies too!

But, was it really her that had been devoured by the wolf? Or had he just had his lunch wrapped up in a red cape to keep it warm? I knew I would be pondering this for some time to come. We all headed back to the hut.

I couldn’t help thinking, ’who were those pecksey—get it, pecksey, not pic . . . oh, never mind—who were those pecksey birds?
What was their driving force . . . .  , I mean besides their wings
.’
Were they Special Agents of Creation? Natures “Assassins of Control?”

But, that’s another tail . . . , ah . . .  , tale . . . , no . . .  , tail . . .  .
But, that’s another story, when I get it all figured out.

The end . . . . . . . for now.

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