everyadventure
02-13-2011, 01:58 PM
My brother and I were poking around the wood pile outside, searching for the perfect log or stick. He'd received a Swiss Army pocket knife for his tenth birthday, and had been enthusiastically whittling away ever since. He'd squint at a piece of wood with the critical eye of a sculptor, and announce, "This will be a grizzly bear!" Or a gargoyle. Or a panther. But in the end, all of his carving attempts were ultimately dubbed "walking sticks," with the exception of the one he gave to Dad for Father's Day: that was a "paper weight."
We both spotted the rat at the same time. It skittered out of the wood pile, then stood on its hind legs, sniffing the air. Its brown fur was glossy and shimmered in the morning light. My brother grabbed my arm. "Let's kill it," Matt whispered. I said nothing. I didn't think he could catch it, much less kill it. Matt pried open the largest blade on his pocket knife and skulked towards the rat. The rat swirled around on its fat haunches and darted into the wood pile. With a yell hi-ya! Matt leapt onto the wood pile and began stabbing his knife through the gaps in the stacked logs. I rolled my eyes. We both knew there was no way he would impale the rat.
Matt lost his footing, and frantically tried to regain his balance. His knife fell into a crevice, and his whirring feet kicked a log loose, creating an avalanche of wood. Loosened logs rolled, and the pile collapsed. I couldn't help laughing as Matt, stunned and coughing, stood up and rubbed his bruised tailbone. He glared at me.
"I lost my knife!" he whined. "Help me find it." We began throwing logs to the side (darn it, Matt, we're gonna hafta restack the whole pile!). Matt hoisted a log and then froze.
"Didja find it?" I asked. He shook his head. Carefully balancing on the fallen logs, I made my way to where he was standing. There was the rat, deader than dead, skull crushed and oozing. "Guess you killed it after all," I said with a shrug. Matt's lip trembled and he gently placed the log back on top of the rat.
"Come on," he said gruffly, "We gotta find my knife." We worked in silence as the morning sun grew hot, coughing in the dust and dirt. Two small logs had crossed here, forming a tepee. I lifted them both and screamed. Matt bounded to my side and we stared down at the rat's nest, filled with writhing pink babies. They were gruesome, hairless embryos, round sightless eyes encased in a layer of skin. They made tiny sounds, like sneakers squeaking on a linoleum floor. They waggled their bald heads in the air and their little mouths gaped, searching for their mother's tit.
"What do we do?" I asked.
"Crap," said Matt, then turned his head and puked. He collapsed dejectedly on a nearby log, hanging his head between his knees. I didn't know what to do. Maybe he'd feel better if I found his knife? I renewed my search and finally found it, blade pointing downward in the dirt. I handed it to Matt silently.
"Thanks," he said. He took a shuddery breath and stood. He bent over the nest of pink babies, and with tears streaming down his face, stabbed each one.
We both spotted the rat at the same time. It skittered out of the wood pile, then stood on its hind legs, sniffing the air. Its brown fur was glossy and shimmered in the morning light. My brother grabbed my arm. "Let's kill it," Matt whispered. I said nothing. I didn't think he could catch it, much less kill it. Matt pried open the largest blade on his pocket knife and skulked towards the rat. The rat swirled around on its fat haunches and darted into the wood pile. With a yell hi-ya! Matt leapt onto the wood pile and began stabbing his knife through the gaps in the stacked logs. I rolled my eyes. We both knew there was no way he would impale the rat.
Matt lost his footing, and frantically tried to regain his balance. His knife fell into a crevice, and his whirring feet kicked a log loose, creating an avalanche of wood. Loosened logs rolled, and the pile collapsed. I couldn't help laughing as Matt, stunned and coughing, stood up and rubbed his bruised tailbone. He glared at me.
"I lost my knife!" he whined. "Help me find it." We began throwing logs to the side (darn it, Matt, we're gonna hafta restack the whole pile!). Matt hoisted a log and then froze.
"Didja find it?" I asked. He shook his head. Carefully balancing on the fallen logs, I made my way to where he was standing. There was the rat, deader than dead, skull crushed and oozing. "Guess you killed it after all," I said with a shrug. Matt's lip trembled and he gently placed the log back on top of the rat.
"Come on," he said gruffly, "We gotta find my knife." We worked in silence as the morning sun grew hot, coughing in the dust and dirt. Two small logs had crossed here, forming a tepee. I lifted them both and screamed. Matt bounded to my side and we stared down at the rat's nest, filled with writhing pink babies. They were gruesome, hairless embryos, round sightless eyes encased in a layer of skin. They made tiny sounds, like sneakers squeaking on a linoleum floor. They waggled their bald heads in the air and their little mouths gaped, searching for their mother's tit.
"What do we do?" I asked.
"Crap," said Matt, then turned his head and puked. He collapsed dejectedly on a nearby log, hanging his head between his knees. I didn't know what to do. Maybe he'd feel better if I found his knife? I renewed my search and finally found it, blade pointing downward in the dirt. I handed it to Matt silently.
"Thanks," he said. He took a shuddery breath and stood. He bent over the nest of pink babies, and with tears streaming down his face, stabbed each one.