porkyandthemob

The sunflowers followed the sun during the long summer days. They did this all summer long until the boys came by with their baseball bats. The oxygen tank had dents in it. Upside down and in the dirt, it was silent. The largest flower was cut in two. The top was now facing down in the street. Others were bent. The rocking chair was in pieces.
No one was there to take care of them. Large shoots came out of the sides, ants, wasps and beetles made their homes in them. When winter came they all died.
The next spring five more came up. They had golden petals and dark brown centers. There is no comparison to sunflowers.

Dillon only slowed when he arrived at the canyon. He first noticed the slight, still breeze that gently blew from within the canyon. The air was cold and sweet. He focused at the pine. It was the first one he had seen in days. Walking up to it he drew out his knife. He cut off a small section of bark followed by a small hole into the flesh of the tree. He sucked as much sap and fluid he could get out of it. Wiping his face with the back of his hand he starred into the mist filled canyon. It was time to move on again.

As they approached the mouth of the canyon the horses intuitively slowed down from their fast pace to a slow trot. The canyon was extremely narrow with jagged rock cliffs on either side. One tall pine stood motionless just off the trail; the wind had stopped. “A tree, we are getting closer,” the one in charge said. The others agreed with short whispers. Looking back to the plain with thin eyes he growled “Move it!” In the distance a large man ran with great agility with a long staff in hand. They charged the canyon at full speed. “Is he gaining?” one asked. “Shut up!” another hissed.

Little more than an hour passed when he came upon the abandoned campsite. A small fire had been made at the top of a small rise. It appeared no one slept. No signs of tents, chairs or lying bodies. Only footprints huddled together in a semicircle around the fire. On one side horses had stood together tied to a dead bush. There were tracks leading away from the camp towards the mountains. He stood still for a moment, listening. Gusts of wind made hearing anything else difficult. Between the gusts of wind there was a bird, a hawk or a falcon, but nothing else. The storm from the South was now almost to him. The wind picked up even more. He started to run, staff in hand, pursuing the tracks before him.

I love writing. I love language. I love learning about origins of words. I like the word ignominious. I like to attempt to hear the difference between someone from London, Sydney, Cape Town and Christchurch. I love to listen to eloquent people. Eloquent, this is a beautiful word, isn’t it? Eloquent – say it with me: El-o-quen-t. YES. That’s it, right there – the way the T sound is made by pushing your tongue against your pallet and bouncing it off with your breath. Eloquent, I wish I was. I love reading. No, I love reading good words, I love reading description, I love reading profound and uplifting thoughts. I love, I love, I love – Say it with me…

Figments of a blue glow started to rise above the mountains to the east, pushing the deep blackness across the sky.  The stars seamed to twinkle even more fervently as if they were not sure when they would be able to be seen again.  The mountains unseen through the night suddenly stood boldly, prominently and full of grandeur.  In the distance, thick, grey clouds to the South started to mount an attack.  They knew he approached.  He groaned, but pushed on.  Traversing a wind swept field, small blades of luminous, green grass emerged beneath his feet through the crisp snow.  Before the last groan escaped, a smile crept up on his face.  The hairs in his moustache cracked again.

In the spring the stalks began to grow high. Originally there was only one, but Pam had five more planted. She loved them. She liked other kinds of flowers, but these were her favorite. The golden petals, the dark brown centers, there was no comparison for Pam. All day long she would take care of them. She would water them and give them plant food. But mostly she would sit and talk to them. She didn’t have a choice, but if she did she would still be there. Pam sat in her rocking chair. Her oxygen tank leaned on the railing. It made soft clicks as it fed the plastic tubes that ran up to Pam’s nose. The stocks by now were large. The flowers on top ranged from 6 inches to 18 inches across. Beautiful, they swayed gently with the wind.

The cold bit sorely. His head throbbed. It was dark and silent. The small sliver of moon gave almost no light, but that did not stop him. The frozen region in which he traveled was vast, dark and almost devoid of life. Determined, he chose to push forward, making his path along the ridge of a small bluff. There was no protection from the howling wind there; however he walked briskly, unencumbered by the immense snow drifts below. His feet sank just an inch or two with a slight crunch at each step. He walked into the night, testing the way before him with his long staff. In the distance a quick flicker of light compelled him on. He walked faster.

The expanse before him shone and glistened. All the way to the horizon a white field lay, freshly fallen from the sky. The clouds had already receded into the East, over the mountains in back of him. Celestial light filled the air, reflecting sweetly on the snow. Pink and orange filled the immediate view. Voluptuous purple loomed above, followed by dark navy blue. Stars would soon appear, twinkling in the heavens. Despite this luminous ray of hope in the West, a cutting wind blew in from the North, stirring up miniscule diamonds of snow. The cold became apparent, slicing right to the bone. His moustache suddenly froze, the short hairs cracked as he wrinkled his upper lip against the wind.

“I know something.”
“What?”
“I know, I know something about the girl they found.”
“What girl.”
“The one they found in the car, the Chevelle.”
“What?” the cop shouted.
Samuel sat in the D.A.’s office. Large law books swamped the bookcase along the wall. A large mahogany desk stood in the middle of the floor. It had a glass top. The D.A. had a pointy nose and wore a toupee. It hung to one side revealing part of his bald head. He had a two button suit, one button was gone, and the other hung, literally by a thread. They had been talking about the events that passed that fateful day. The D.A. questioned him about the pink Cadillac – they had just recovered one with blood stains in the back. The D.A. thought he had the case all wrapped up with Sam’s testimony.
“Samuel, you have to testify. It’s critical to the case, if you don’t these guys could go free and kill more.”
Sam didn’t know what to do. If he testified he would surely be dead – he couldn’t count on this lunatic and his toupee to convict these guys and protect him. If he didn’t testify maybe he could move, to Japan or Tonga – somewhere on the other side of the world – somewhere they couldn’t find him. In his heart, however, he knew he had to testify. Then he had an idea.
“I want to wear the Porky suit.”
“What?”
“The Porky suit.”
The D.A sat in disbelief. “The suit you were wearing when you saw it happen? What, why?”
“It’s the only way to protect my identity.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Are you saying I’ll be placed in witness protection? Buy me a nice house somewhere in Iowa; let me live with enough money for the rest of my life? Safe? Unharmed? For the rest of my life?” Sam had a good point. He knew of the cities financial trouble. He wasn’t educated, but he wasn’t stupid either.
“We don’t have that kind of budget.”
“This is the Mob we’re talking about! No one is going to keep me safe! The only way is if I have the suit, I have to protect my identity.”
“OK, OK. It’s a deal; I let you were the suit. But you testify to everything – the leg, the tattoo, the thugs, everything.”
Sam sat in the chair on the stand, sweating profusely – he was wearing the Porky suit. The court room was full. People of all walks of life were there – they had to know what really happened. Even the pony-tail bus driver and Misty were there – they sat towards the back. The judge was relaxed, he leaned back in his chair. Did he even care?
“And what did you see the morning of the seventeenth?”
Nervously he explained what he saw; the foot, the tattoo, the big guy and the little guy, the Chevelle and the pink Cadillac. Everything.
“And are those two men in the court room?”
“Yes, they are.”
“Will you point them out to me?”
“Yes, it’s them!” Sam cried.
“Objection!”
The crowd was aghast, then it irrupted. Some were jumping up and down in protest, others were crying. A fight broke out in the crowd – the riot police burst through the doors, subduing the masses. One woman shrieked and fainted. The judge slammed his hammer down, breaking it in two – he was paying attention after all. His podium echoed loudly.
“I have no further questions your honor.”

Six years passed. He was now in a comfortable brownstone apartment. He didn’t think much about what he witnessed and the trial anymore. People stopped asking questions and he went about his life. The guilty party went to prison – the two men and many of their known associates. Sam stopped working at the Mexican restaurant long ago. He found a better job and worked his way up. He was now the manager of an upscale restaurant, it was perfectly located in downtown, among all the theaters and museums.
He woke up one morning, stretched and got up. He pulled the curtains back and looked out the window. A very short, broad man, in a brown, seventies style suit stood at the curb. He wore thin, gold chains around his neck. He was staring at Sam.